Another screech. The owl’s enormous eyes locked with hers. This time, the sound was welcome, a reminder that every creak and groan was not tied to a villain of some sort.
Out of the night, a hand clamped over her mouth. Callused fingers muffled her scream.
She smelled it then, that cloud of spirits that could not entirely disguise the Scotsman’s natural, healthy male scent. His masculine essence surrounded her as his arm coiled around her, pulling her to his long, solid length. He’d slipped into the liquor-soaked greatcoat again. A small blessing, that. The sensations might well have proven all too heady had nothing more than linen cloth offered a barrier between them. As it was, heat radiated through the layers of fabric, infusing her with awareness.
Connor MacMasters held her tight. How very unfair of him to smell so tempting. A man doused in whisky should repulse her. Not spark a desire to soak up his warmth.
“Stop struggling,” he rasped against her ear. “We’ve got company.” MacMasters nudged her chin so she faced the street. A black brougham crept along the road, slowing as it neared the corner. A gilded crest adorned the elegant conveyance.
“Recognize the driver?” MacMasters went on, easing away the hand that had silenced her. “He’s not the charming sort that I am. I’ll wager the man inside the coach is even less hospitable. I’ve got to get you back to my brother’s residence. No one would dare invade that place. It’s a bluidy fortress.”
The physician’s residence a fortress? Harrison MacMasters seemed proper. Civilized. Good heavens, what sort of men had she stumbled upon? What dangerous dealings necessitated a stronghold?
The coach stopped and the driver lumbered off his perch. Munro. Johanna’s heart crept to her throat. Had the hoodlums tracked her to this place? Or were they searching blindly, hoping to stumble upon her? Surely, at this point they did not intend to bargain for her niece’s life. No, they’d simplify their task. How easy would it be to seize her and help themselves to the satchel? She’d be vulnerable to any cruelty they might inflict, to any debauchery they might crave.
She’d be prey. Nothing more.
The door to the coach swung open. The well-dressed man MacMasters had left sprawled on the pavement behind Kincaid’s Pub emerged. Rubbing the heel of his hand against his head as if to soothe an ache, Ross turned to Munro, uttered a few words she could not make out, and surveyed the street.
“I should’ve killed the bastards,” MacMasters muttered.
Shivers trickled along Johanna’s spine, icy splinters against her skin. Blast it, this was no time to allow fear to get the better of her. She squared her shoulders and rose on her toes until her lips were level with the Scotsman’s ear. “I suppose you have a plan.”
“Nae, lass.” He caught her hand in his. “I’ll be making it up as I go.”
Chapter Nine
MacMasters pulled Johanna deeper into the shadows. For such a large and muscular man, he moved with a fluid grace. Sleek. Stealthy as a panther. And every bit as dangerous. His large hand covered hers. The heat of him filled her. How absurd that she should feel a keen awareness of this man. Here she was, creeping through the night like a fugitive, and yet, something deep and primal assured her she’d be safe with him.
Pity the few shreds of logic she still possessed heartily disagreed.
Silencing the nagging harpy in the back of her thoughts, she followed MacMasters through the shadows. Judging from the tension in his frame, skulking around in the darkness chafed her protector’s bold nature. If he’d been on his own, he would’ve confronted the blackguards and eliminated the threat. To himself. And to her. She had no doubt of that.
Good heavens, she was doing it again—romanticizing this man into a hero. Into her hero. Truth be told, she had no inkling of his motives. His actions were not those of a chivalrous defender. More likely than not, he safeguarded his own interests by keeping her alive.
Still, her instincts insisted the Scotsman would not betray her. He could’ve helped himself to the satchel and left her to her own devices. Instead, he was shielding her from the human predators who pursued her. Why?
A flicker of movement jerked her attention from the Scot. A blurred shadow roamed beyond the alley. Was this one of Ross’s cronies?
The shadow stilled. Silent. A stray beam of moonlight glinted off metal. A gun. Or a blade. Whoever lurked in wait had come armed. Fear welled in Johanna’s throat, but she muted it.
MacMasters followed the path of her gaze. His voice was a rough whisper. “Stay here. Keep to the darkness.”
Prowling through the night-shrouded alley, MacMasters crept toward the figure. Soundless. Each stride precise.
The silhouetted figure cocked his head. Listening, perhaps. He entered the alley. A few hesitant steps. Did he sense the threat MacMasters posed?
MacMasters emerged from the shadows. His fist plowed into the man.