Up with the dawn, Connor helped himself to a breakfast of Mrs. Duncan’s black pudding, sausage, eggs, beans, and tattie scones. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed such hearty Scottish fare? He’d endured too much damn time away from the Highlands, breathing air heavy with fog and factory smoke under relentlessly gray skies.
As sunrise cast shades of gold and rose over the garden beyond the window, Johanna joined him in the dining room. She’d swept her hair back with a black ribbon. Tendrils framed her face. He hadn’t noticed the softly rounded curve of her face the night before. Or the rosy flush over her high cheekbones. Even in the dowdy tent of a dress Mrs. Duncan had found for her—a stark brown garment last worn by the matron’s dearly departed sister—she was a beauty.
He’d expected her to pick at her meal, pretending a ladylike lack of appetite, but she’d let a little sigh of pleasure escape after taking her first bite of scone with berry jam. She might not have been a Scottish lass by birth, but she’d quickly developed a taste for Mrs. Duncan’s cooking. The sight pleased him beyond reason.
“We will leave for Dunnhaven this morn,” he said as she spread jam on the biscuit.
Her feathered brows shot up. “Dunnhaven?”
“My home. Ye’ll be welcome there.”
Color drained from her face. “But my niece…time is of the essence. I must find her.”
“If Cranston is where we believe him to be, he’s no more than a day’s journey from the castle.”
She placed her half-eaten scone on a plate. “Castle?”
“Aye. A fortress, in truth.”
“And if we’re seen traveling together? Isn’t that risky?”
“Harrison has developed a plan, a ruse to deflect unwanted interest in our journey.”
Her lips thinned, as if she’d held back her reaction to his words, then curved into a wan imitation of a smile. “How clever. Are there more like you there… More MacMasters?”
Clever? The lass had grown cooperative. Too much so, truth be told. Were her placid responses a ruse of her own?
“Aye. We’ll formulate our strategy once we know what ye’ve got.”
She tapped a fingernail against the plate. “You truly believe there’s something else, something more valuable than the book?”
“That, Miss Templeton, is what we need to find out.”
…
Attired in a scratchy wool jacket and a stiff-collared shirt, Connor tugged at the linen constricting his throat. At least he hadn’t been forced into tailored trousers. Instead, a kilt in the clan MacMasters’ plaid allowed his bollocks some breathing room. His disguise was simple enough. He’d escort Johanna Templeton—cloaked in mourning garb that concealed her face and shrouded her figure—to his family’s estate. Few would question the grieving widow of a long-lost, albeit purely imaginary, MacMasters cousin.
The thought of Dunnhaven tugged a smile to his lips. The castle had been constructed long before Elizabeth sat on the throne. Rumor had it Queen Victoria had become so enamored with the rugged landscape and the MacMasters’ brick and stone family seat, she’d seen to the construction of her own Highland retreat, Balmoral. Ah, the memories of his family’s grand old place… As boys, he and his brothers had had their fair share of adventures in the rugged countryside surrounding the castle, and he couldn’t number the scoldings he’d received for sliding down the banister of the massive staircase in the main hall.
With the clock ticking toward mid-morning and breakfast long past, he paced the floor, his boots pounding the creaky wood. This was no time to sit around with his thumb up his arse. Where was the bluidy carriage Harrison had arranged? His brother insisted Fergus Royce was the best driver around. The fact that the man was as hard drinking as he was craggy faced hadn’t been a concern. With any luck, the old sot could be trusted to be more loyal than he was punctual.
Johanna strolled into the parlor. She’d traded the mud-brown dress for widow’s weeds. Even shrouded in ebony silk, Johanna possessed a loveliness that couldn’t be muted. Despite the lack of color or ornate design, the soft drape of the fabric emphasized her curves and her fresh-picked-peach complexion. Fiery intelligence lit her wide blue eyes. A rush of awareness hit him square in the gut. Elemental. Primitive. The hunger set his cock on alert like a rooster at first dawn.
Damnation. He shoved his body’s demands to the recesses of his weary brain. He had a mission to complete. Seducing the woman who held the key to his pursuit wasn’t a part of his plan. God above, she’d want no part of him by the time he was finished with that infernal book she treasured.
He wanted her in his bed. He couldn’t lie to himself about that. She’d felt good in his arms. Too bloody good. Blast it all, he knew better than to allow his bollocks to take the reins. He could resist the temptation to discover for himself the beauty she concealed beneath all those yards of fabric, the prim and proper layers of clothing she favored even when she wasn’t cloaked in mourning black. He’d find a way to resist the enticement of her silken skin and the soft, subtle sway of her hips. He’d learned long ago how to control his carnal urges.