“Andrew was young. Naive. I’m nae so easily fooled.”
“Is that so? What of that thieving tart in Edinburgh, the one who damn near danced a jig out of the inn with the Stuart brooch tucked in her bosom? Good thing ye had Harrison along to keep a level head. That bonny harlot sure as hell had yer cock do the thinking.”
“One couldnae say that about Miss Templeton. Ye willnae find a colder fish on ice in a fishmonger’s shop.”
Da eyed him in the dim light. Eyes narrowed, the hard set of his jaw eased. “Ye believe she’s in danger, do ye?”
“Aye. Cranston won’t let her live after he gets his hands on that stone. And there’s a wee lass’s life at stake. Richard Benedict’s daughter.”
Da scratched his chin. “Benedict? That unscrupulous son-of-a-bitch has a bairn?”
“It seems the bastard’s had a wife and child in London all these years. Even his name’s a lie, though damned if I know which one he was born with and which one he snatched out of the air. Miss Templeton knew him as Richard Abbott.”
Da slowly shook his head. “Bluidy hell. Living two lives with his wife none the wiser.”
“Now, the man’s dead. Suffice it to say his dealings with Cranston didnae go well for him. Now Cranston has his child.”
Da rubbed his chin the way he always did when he puzzled out a riddle. “Ye’re sure of this? It could be a trap, meant to play on yer good nature.”
Connor considered his father’s words. He’d mulled the possibility himself. Johanna Templeton had not revealed the girl’s existence until she’d been pressed to the breaking point. She’d kept that bit of intelligence held close until she’d had little choice but to reveal the nature of her arrangement with Cranston. Had she feared her desperation to free the child would be leveraged against her? Or had she conjured the tale of a child in peril to play on Connor’s sympathy and garner his cooperation?
“It is possible.” The words were bitter on his tongue. “She could be a fine actress. But I dinnae think that’s the case.”
“Ye believe her?”
“Aye. The task that lies ahead would be a hell of a lot simpler if I didn’t.”
Lifting the lamp again, Da met Connor’s gaze. Eyes so much like his own flickered with understanding and the strength of conviction.
“We’ll do what we can to protect her.” Da’s voice was quiet yet strong. “Whatever ye need of us, consider it done.”
Chapter Sixteen
Johanna followed Maggie into the kitchen. Indulging her senses in the blend of aromas, she drank in the savory scent of hot stew. The family’s cook turned from the kettle she’d been stirring. Mrs. Bailey’s pleasant features brightened as Maggie introduced Johanna as their guest.
“Pleased t’be making yer acquaintance.” The cook offered a small curtsy, all the while scanning Johanna from head to toe. Her keen blue eyes narrowed, and she gave her head a slow, rueful shake. “Maggie MacMasters, this has t’be yer doin’. Do ye intend t’corrupt the lass?”
Maggie offered a cheeky, unrepentant smile. “Miss Templeton was in need of attire. This suits her.”
Mrs. Bailey’s lips pursed tight as a drumskin. “Trousers…on a woman. ’Twas bad enough when ye started wearin’ that get-up, but now ye’ve gone and done it. ’Tis unseemly for a well-bred lass.”
“It’s quite an improvement over that scratchy black shroud she was wearing.” Maggie’s eyes glimmered with rebellion. “She’ll be comfortable, at least for this night. Heaven only knows Connor willnae permit such a thing once they depart Dunnhaven. No whiff of scandal for my brother.”
A twinkle lightened Mrs. Bailey’s eyes. And then she laughed. No trace of decorum there. “Unless he’s the one causing the ruckus, I’d say.”
“Scandal?” Connor MacMasters appeared in the doorway. “Why, I’ve never allowed gossip to tarnish the sheen on the family name.”
Another laugh—softer, gentler—escaped the cook’s lips. “Perhaps ye can convince yer lady ye’re unsullied as new snow. But ye won’t erase this old woman’s memories.”
He strode into the kitchen, marching to the source of the tempting aroma. “My favorite stew. Ye might be a cranky old crow, but ye’re the finest cook in the land.”
Mrs. Bailey hiked her chin. “Cranky old crow, is it? Just for that, I won’t whip up a batch of my shortbread.”
A look of contrition, no doubt feigned, fell over MacMasters’s features. “Och, yer hearing must be fading. I merely remarked on the bird that followed our coach along the way. Black as night it was.”
The cook cocked her head. “Ye expect me t’believe that malarkey?”
He cracked a broad grin. “I’d hoped ye might, but my luck has run out. At least where shortbread is concerned.”