The occasional creak of the boards beneath Johanna’s feet offered the only break in the oppressive silence of her bedchamber. She paced the floor restlessly, merciless tension energizing her exhausted body. By all rights, the plump feather bed should have beckoned her. But the notion of slumber seemed only slightly less preposterous than the prospect of dancing over the gleaming crescent moon.
The revelation that MacMasters had observed her comings and goings for days—if not weeks—before he showed his face at the tavern set her off-kilter. How long had he been spying on her? God above, the Highlander even knew about Mrs. MacInnis’s death. From the moment Johanna had first learned of the widow’s fatal plunge, she’d sensed the tragedy had been no accident.
MacMasters knew who bore responsibility for the unfortunate woman’s demise, or so he claimed. He’d refused to elaborate, but he’d made one thing clear—Eleanor MacInnis and her husband had died because they’d known too much about what Cranston coveted.
And now, MacMasters held that very object. Since he’d confiscated the volume, he’d hidden it away, out of sight. As if uttering a vow, he’d assured her he would indeed surrender the book to ransom Laurel. Pity Johanna did not believe the man could be trusted to give up his prize. Indeed, whoever had first made the claim of honor among thieves was either a trusting dull-wit or a liar.
Johanna’s bare toes dug into the plush carpet. Soft fibers cushioned her feet. She’d bathed in soothing hot water in a claw tub tucked away in a small, adjoining chamber and slipped into a nightdress Maggie left on the bed, a garment so modest, even Johanna’s grandmother would have approved. Despite the flannel’s warmth, a chill crept along her spine and spread through her core to her limbs.
She hugged her arms across her chest. The shiver had little to do with the night air and more to do with the apprehension swirling deep within her. Losing control of Laurel’s ransom was unacceptable. She had to get that book from MacMasters. Where could the Scotsman have stashed it?
His chamber would be a logical place to begin her search. He’d entered the room only two doors from her sleeping quarters, but she’d heard the door open and close with a thud, minutes later. Had he headed to his father’s study? Given the time he’d spent with the laird of the MacMasters clan while Johanna had readied herself for dinner, it seemed a reasonable conclusion. The two men were most likely warming themselves inside and out with a blazing fire and fine Scotch.
With any luck, she’d be able to sneak an exploration of his chamber. In even a few minutes in his quarters, she might uncover the book. After all, he’d had no time to put anything beyond a cursory effort into concealing the tome.
Taking a small lamp from a bedside table in hand, she tiptoed to her door. The squawk of hinges prickled her flesh. Loud as a gong, or so it seemed. Surely her senses exaggerated the reverberation. Peculiar how she’d paid no notice to the blasted noise when she’d entered the room.
Her awareness heightened, she scanned the corridor for MacMasters or his family. Satisfied that she was indeed alone, Johanna crept along the carpeted hallway. She pressed her ear to his door. No hint of snoring. No sounds of slumber. Not even the faint ticking of a clock. No sign of the Scot.
Her fingers curved around the latch. Unlike her contrary chamber door, the mechanism lifted with no more than a quiet snick. She slipped inside and closed the oak panel behind her.
Lifting the lamp, she swept her gaze over the chamber. Her attention hovered over the bed, as if some secret part of her had expected—no, hoped—to find Connor MacMasters splayed over the mattress in all his masculine glory. She banished the carnal image, even as a peculiar hollowness twisted low in her belly. She’d gone daft since she’d left London. Absolutely, positively daft. That was the only explanation for the scandalous and shockingly pleasant path of her thoughts.
The heavy curtains over the far window shimmied. Icy fingers of warning skittered over her skin, but she marched to the window. A cool night breeze touched her face and brushed against the drapes. No villain there, lying in wait. She let out a sigh of relief.
Still, the sensation that she was being watched prickled gooseflesh over her arms.
She shot a glance behind her.
Nothing there. Yet, the feeling that someone had her in his sights refused to be banished.
She tiptoed to the massive armoire by the window. Intricately carved and polished oak, smooth beneath her fingertips. She pulled open the door, shining the oil lamp’s dim light on the contents of the immense wardrobe.
Empty.
The blasted chest contained not a single shirt nor trousers. Not even a kilt. Had she stolen into a room other than the one she would’ve sworn MacMasters entered?
The protest of unoiled hinges behind her set off an internal alarm. Blast the luck! In her desperation to locate the book, she’d grown careless. How had she failed to notice the shadowed door on the side wall—the door to MacMasters’s bathing chamber? Had he been there all the while she fumbled about like an inept burglar?
“My, lass, this is a surprise.” His husky burr was slow and deliberate and so very male.
Johanna lowered the lamp and slowly pivoted to face him. Oh my!