The jackal had already demonstrated the lengths to which he’d go to acquire the wretched stone. Already, treasure seekers and museum curators—anyone unfortunate enough to possess the slightest crumb of knowledge—had been slaughtered in Cranston’s ruthless quest. Anyone who might block his possession of the Demon’s Heart was an obstacle to be eliminated.
Johanna was in Cranston’s path. Did she truly believe she could charge into Cranston’s realm unscathed? Her spirit intrigued him, but Connor had to rein her in. She was brave, but too damn naive to envision the evil that lay ahead. He’d protect her, whether she desired his assistance or not.
He caught her gloved hand. Through the soft velvet, her heat blended with his. His eyes snapped to her mouth. She’d relaxed against his touch, her lips forming a plump pout he longed to taste. Blast it to hell, this hunger was a distraction he didn’t need.
Forcing his thoughts away from the temptation of that gorgeous mouth, he met her gaze. “Cranston wants the book. I’ll not argue that. But the book is not his ultimate prize. He’s already got blood on his hands to possess it. He’ll kill again if we don’t get to the artifact he is seeking first.”
Connor watched her throat constrict. Her lower lip trembled. The single tear trickling down her cheek was like a punch to the gut.
Her blue eyes darkened to the color of a stormy sea. “How can I be certain you’re not after whatever bounty he’s offering?”
He didn’t blame her for doubting him. Hell, aside from those who bore the name MacMasters, Connor didn’t trust a damn soul.
His fingers firmed around hers. Pretty words would not reassure her. Honesty would have to do.
“The truth is simple. But hard to stomach. At this point, ye can only be sure of one thing. Ye’re in danger, as is the bairn. There’s no way to know if I’m a villain. Not yet. But I give my word I will protect ye. I will bring the child back to yer arms. That’ll be all the proof ye need.”
…
The truth was not only simple. It was ugly. And jagged edged. The reality clawed at Johanna’s insides. No one could guarantee her niece’s safety. Not until the bastard who held the child prisoner got what he wanted.
Heaven knew she longed to believe MacMasters’s vow. She desperately needed to trust him, to have faith he would bring Laurel back to her. But she’d heard her share of promises that meant nothing. Meaningless words, discarded as carelessly as one might forget a drunken boast. Words that had left scars on her heart as deep as any blade could wield.
He released her, putting an arm’s length between their bodies. Had he also sensed the heat between them, the innate response of her female body to his?
He stood before her, every inch the Highlander. For a heartbeat, she drank him in.
Every powerful inch.
A precisely tailored black jacket clung to his broad shoulders, while his sage cravat lent an air of formality. From the waist up, he might have been any well-dressed gentleman, smartly attired in keeping with London fashion. But from the waist down…oh my. A hint of rebellion lurked beneath the strikingly masculine garb. Rather than staid, properly-pressed trousers, he’d donned a kilt of vibrant red, green, and black tartan plaid. The colors of his clan, most likely. A white sporran hung from a leather belt around his hips, while his legs, strong and solid as tree trunks, were sheathed to the knee in black hose. The fine knit clung to hard-muscled calves and sinewy shins. He’d tucked a small dagger within his right stocking, the carved bone handle of the sgian dubh within easy reach. Connor MacMasters seemed a warrior come to life, the danger in his eyes leashed by the slenderest of threads.
Astonishing, how the tartan draping his lean hips brought out such undeniable manliness. As a girl in America, she’d giggled at drawings of men wearing garments that left their legs—and heaven only knew what else—exposed. The very idea of the male of the species wearing so very little had seemed scandalous. Had tailors devised drawers that could be worn beneath that length of plaid?
Heat rushed to her face. Flushed bright as a strawberry, she bet. The rowdy twinkle in his eye only confirmed her suspicions. Devil take it.
“I appreciate your willingness to assist me, Mr. MacMasters.” Johanna forced her gaze to the thick Aubusson carpet beneath her feet. Pulling in a breath to compose herself, she lifted her gaze, careful not to drop her attention below his perfectly tied cravat. “But I cannot help but wonder why you are putting yourself at risk.”
One dark brow arched. “Ye dinnae believe I’m moved by yer niece’s plight?”
“No, it’s not that. After all, who but the foulest of humanity would not be concerned about a child in danger? But there is a substantial difference between concern and the willingness to put one’s life on the line.”
His jaw twitched, as if he’d felt a twinge of indignation. “I’ve stuck my neck out for far less worthy quests.”
“Even so, a question continues to nag at me.”
“And what might that be?”
“I am not a fool. I know there must be some reward you expect from this endeavor. What precisely do you hope to gain?”
His eyes locked with hers. His response came without emotion, as though the pronouncement was the most rudimentary of conversation. “Revenge.”
Chapter Thirteen