Of course, she’d had reason to suspect something was amiss even before she’d received the message that confirmed her worst fears. She’d had warning of the danger that prowled after her.
In the days after her brother-in-law had departed the city with Laurel in tow, Johanna had often experienced the disconcerting sense that she was being stalked like a fox in a hunter’s sights. In the midst of an afternoon stroll, she’d observed an elegant black coach parked not far from her residence. Its occupant, a blond beauty who’d draped a striking tartan plaid around her throat, had peered between the open curtains. Meeting Johanna’s gaze, she had not turned away. Moments later, the driver had spurred the horses on, and the carriage had disappeared from sight. A quarter hour later, Johanna had spotted the conveyance at a cross street scarcely a mile from home. A flash of plaid through the slender gap between the curtains had confirmed her suspicion that the carriage was the same one she’d noticed on the Strand.
At the time, she’d dismissed the prickle at the back of her neck and the sense of dread that had crept through her. Nothing more than her overly fertile imagination at work, she’d scolded herself.
How very wrong she’d been.
And there was the peculiar call she’d received from the widow MacInnis. She’d arrived at Johanna’s Charing Cross flat in a state of barely leashed panic, insisting she was being followed, that the same scoundrels who’d engineered her husband’s demise were in pursuit. Her husband’s death was tied to Mr. Abbott’s pursuit of antiquities, or so Eleanor MacInnis had claimed, but her cryptic, distraught ramblings had been too vague to be given any credence.
Until the next morning, when Johanna had received word of the widow’s fatal plunge from a fifth floor balcony. An accident, or so the constables had said. Others had whispered the grief-stricken woman had taken her own life. Johanna harbored her own horrible, unspoken suspicions.
Had sinister forces brought about the widow’s death? Had the same dark souls seen to Mr. MacInnis’s tragic end?
Placing the corset aside, she rose and stepped to the window, drew back the curtain, and peered into the starlit sky for a long moment. She turned, and the fabric fell back in place. Crossing the room soundlessly over a thick carpet, she sank onto the bed. Her thoughts besieged her. If only she’d done something to prevent Mr. Abbott from taking his daughter out of London. If only she’d known what he was up to. If only…
Blast it all, she would drive herself mad with doubt.
And what of MacMasters’s role in this ruthless endeavor? Surely his appearance at the tavern where she’d planned to make the exchange had been entirely too convenient. Was he secretly allied with Cranston, intent on eliminating the scoundrel’s henchmen in hopes of claiming a substantial bounty?
Or was MacMasters one of Cranston’s rivals? The Scotsman believed she possessed something far more valuable than the book. He’d made no secret of that. To what lengths would he go to claim the treasure?
Connor MacMasters was a dangerous man. There was no denying that. The skills he’d employed against his adversaries had not been learned in a classroom. He’d met every threat without so much as a flinch. This was a man accustomed to violence, to bloodshed. He’d acted as her protector. But she harbored no illusion that the Scot’s actions had been motivated by chivalry.
No, MacMasters needed her. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, the man needed her alive and at his side. What would he do when her presence no longer served a purpose?
Her chest tightened. Her breath hovered in her throat. Somehow, she had to use this forced alliance with the devil to further her quest.
She would bring Laurel home—no matter the cost.
Surely, MacMasters knew more about the prize he believed she possessed than he let on. The book was indeed valuable. But even she could scarcely believe that so many would pursue the tome and that ruthless bastards would be willing to kill for it.
There had to be something else. Something more than paper and ink, no matter how pristine those pages might be.
MacMasters might be the key to discovering the truth.
He believed her to be an adversary. And a weak one at that. A foolish American immersed in a dull, orderly existence.
And that would work to her benefit.
He’d never suspect she could manipulate him. The brazen Scot’s pride wouldn’t permit him to see the truth. She’d convince him to trust her with what he knew. After all, she was no innocent. He was not the only one capable of seducing an unwary soul breathless.
She’d wait her chance.
And then, she’d romance the truth out of his arrogant mouth.
Chapter Twelve