A child’s life hung in the balance.
Damn Richard Benedict. Damn the man to hell. What had the man been thinking, hauling his daughter with him to the Highlands? Did he think Cranston wouldn’t know he’d fled London? Had the child been part of his disguise? Benedict was a lot of things, but a blundering fool wasn’t one of them. Was it possible he truly couldn’t bear to leave the girl behind? Had he possessed a single decent quality—devotion to his daughter that would ultimately end in disaster?
For her part, Miss Templeton looked as though she’d been defeated. Revealing the truth had been painful for her. Surely she realized Connor’s knowledge of her circumstances made her even more vulnerable. What had it taken for her to disclose such a crucial part of the puzzle to him—a man she thought of as a potential enemy?
He settled his hand on her forearm, a light touch he intended to be reassuring. She was a bonny one, wasn’t she? But more than that, she had courage. Her spine might not have been lined with steel, but she did an admirable job of pretending it was. This was hard on her, harder than she’d ever admit. The tension edging the corners of her soft, rosy mouth attested to that truth. She wouldn’t abandon the child, no matter how dear the cost. No matter the sacrifice.
No matter that her own life was in danger.
And now, the truth of her quest had made Connor’s task immeasurably more difficult.
He had a mission, and he had a duty to complete it.
But could he endanger a child in his pursuit of the relic? Could he leave an innocent in harm’s way to ensure Cranston never got the supposedly cursed heirloom under his control?
Blast it, why did he have to give a damn?
“Tell me about the child,” he finally said, feeling Johanna’s gaze bore into his soul.
“She’s nine.” Johanna pressed her fingertips to her temples and rubbed the pads of her fingers against her flesh. “Quite precocious. The very image of her mother.”
“You’ve been caring for her?” Christ, why did he ask such a question? It didn’t matter to the Crown whether or not Johanna Templeton had nurtured the missing girl.
But somehow, it did to him.
Her lips pulled tight. A shimmer of moisture intensified the blue of her irises, but she blinked it away.
Ah, hell, he’d upset her. Fool that he was.
“I came to London last year, during my sister’s illness. She’d weakened, and her husband was not well suited to looking after anyone, much less a spirited young girl who was losing her mother.”
“You were aware he planned to take the child to Scotland?”
She nodded. Her eyes filled with regret. “Of course. I thought nothing of it at the time.” She gave her head a little shake. “No, that’s not entirely true. I found it unusual for Mr. Abbott to restrain his activities with a child’s presence. But he loved the girl. Anyone could see that.”
“He gave no indication that he knew he was in danger?”
Again, she shook her head. “None whatsoever. If anything, he seemed excited about the prospect of escaping the clamor of the city. He’d planned to bring Laurel to visit relatives in the Highlands, family I’d never known of before he announced his holiday.”
The bounder was a relentless liar. That much was sure. What the hell had he been thinking, involving a wee lass in his plans? For a heartbeat, Connor debated his next words. “You believe the man had no kin in Scotland?”
“I now suspect that to be the case, but my position in their lives was built on shifting sand. I am Laurel’s aunt, with no true authority over the girl. It was not my place to question her father’s decision. My sister would have seen me appointed the child’s guardian, but…well, that simply couldn’t be done. For all his flaws, Mr. Abbott loved his daughter and doted on her when he was inclined to spend a day with her.”
A copper-tinged curl dangled against Johanna’s cheek. Unable to stop himself, Connor gently swept it behind her ear. He’d half expected her to balk at the small, intimate gesture, but instead, she offered a soft smile the Mona Lisa might have envied. The first sparks of wary trust gleamed in her eyes. The fist in his gut twisted. He didn’t want to shatter the fragile truce forming between them with what might seem an interrogation. But there were questions to be asked. Too much was at stake to waste time sheltering her emotions. He needed to determine what she knew about the book. Did she have any idea what she really had?
“And the book? How did you come to possess it?”
Her mouth firmed as her eyes narrowed, taking him in with a cautious gaze. “You already know the answer to that.” Her flat tone revealed little. “It was a gift from Mr. Abbott.”
“When did he give it to you?”
Her shoulders squared, as if she braced herself for battle. “The night before he departed, if you really must know. He’d offered it with his gratitude for my assistance with the household.”