Damn shame it wasn’t that simple.
There was something about Johanna that he craved, something that had nothing to do with her beauty. Was it the spirit that glimmered in her eyes? Her quiet strength? Or the conviction in her voice when she spoke of the quest that meant everything to her?
Deep within him, he wanted her trust. He didn’t deserve it. God above, he couldn’t be the noble hero she needed. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter if she believed him a hero or a villain. He’d do what he’d come to do. If that meant she detested him, so be it. There was no choice in the matter. His mission could not be compromised, regardless of how his gut twisted at the thought of deceiving her.
Why did he give a weasel’s arse if the lass had faith in him? He must complete his task. If Johanna sought the priceless ruby his ancestors had dubbed Deamhan’s Cridhe, he’d determine what she knew. If necessary, he’d track down the gem himself and ensure its protection. Geoffrey Cranston and those of his ilk, collectors who sought the stone’s rumored powers, could not be allowed to take possession of the Demon’s Heart.
He’d see to his duty. Of that, there was no question. So why did it feel like a punch in the gut when she looked at him with doubt in her eyes? Just as she was doing now.
Her skirt swished against her high-topped shoes as she crossed the room.
“Stay clear of the windows and doors,” he warned. “We’ve no way to know who’s followed us here. The brick walls provide protection.”
She regarded him with the same dismissal he’d shown the governess who’d warned him of the risk to life and limb when he had coasted down that winding banister.
“If you believe we’ve been followed, why are we traveling in daylight? Wouldn’t it be more sensible to wait until dark?”
“These bastards are night predators. They may creep out of their holes when the sun is shining, but it’s not likely. If they do, we’ll have fair warning.”
She slipped into a high back chair nestled in a far corner of the room. Her gaze flickered to the lace edging the cuffs of her mourning blouse. She gave a little sniff of disdain. “A bit macabre, isn’t it?”
“We need a plausible explanation for ye to be making yer way to the castle. From the moment we leave this place to the time we step foot on MacMasters’ land, ye’ll act the part of the grieving bride of some long-lost relative. God knows there are enough reckless MacMasters men scattered throughout the Highlands. No one will question that one met an untimely demise.”
“And this?” She dangled the lace mourning veil Harrison had handed her as if it were tatted from cobwebs. “Something about this doesn’t feel right. Are we tempting fate?”
“Nay, lass. Your brother-in-law did that when he tangled with the likes of Geoffrey Cranston.”
“Perhaps we should make inquiries in the city. Surely Cranston is near.”
“If the bastard was close, I’d know.”
Her eyes narrowed in distrust she didn’t try to hide. “How is it that you’re so certain of that, Mr. MacMasters?”
“I know the man and his ways.”
Anguish marked Johanna’s face. Damn shame he couldn’t offer gentle words to silence her apprehension. The truth of the matter was brutal, more foul than she could have imagined. Cranston’s motives were malevolent. Cold-blooded. And at their heart, unholy.
Rumors of Cranston’s pursuit of a wicked treasure had swirled from London to Aberdeen. Centuries old, the vile prize he sought had been hidden by elders of the MacMasters clan days after Queen Elizabeth had condemned her Scottish rival, Mary Stuart, to the executioner’s ax. Legend told of a cursed gem, the Deamhan’s Cridhe—a ruby the color of blood that brought tragedy to innocents. Like so many before her, the Queen of Scots had fallen victim to the Demon Heart’s evil. Or so the whispers alleged.
Tasked with securing the jewel where its powers could do no further harm, Laird Dougall MacMasters and his men had done a damn fine job of it. To this day, the cursed ruby’s hiding place remained a secret they’d taken to their graves.
Connor put no stock in the ramblings of uneducated men who blamed witches and omens of doom for their misfortune. There was no curse. No inherent evil in a blasted bit of rock.
But Geoffrey Cranston believed in the gem’s power and sought to harness its dark strength. By all accounts, he had been a brilliant businessman before a mad pursuit for power, not of this world, had consumed him. He’d become obsessed with arcane rituals and relics. The Demon’s Heart would be the crown jewel in his collection.