The wail of bagpipes wrenched Johanna from a fitful sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, her dreams of mayhem and distress jarring her awake again and again. Now, as the first high-pitched notes drifted to her ears, she opened her eyes. Was this yet another nightmare? Beyond the drawn curtains, not so much as a sliver of light streamed into the chamber. The sun had not yet shown itself. Surely, no one had risen for the day.
Flopping onto her side, she thumped her pillow. The quest might be futile, but she’d still struggle for some much needed rest. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself she was in the midst of some bizarre dream. The piper’s notes were lower now. Mournful. Quiet, yet penetrating her consciousness. How very odd that she’d hear bagpipes in her restless slumber. And more so, why couldn’t she force the blasted sounds to end?
She shook her head to clear cobwebs of sleep from her brain. Pushing up on her elbows, she cocked her head toward the door. The unmistakable cry of the pipes penetrated the walls, each note filled with sadness borne of loss.
Good heavens, she wasn’t dreaming.
Moments later, silence fell. Glorious, pristine, not-even-crickets-chirping silence. Johanna plopped back onto the pillow and let her lids flutter shut. Her relief was short-lived. With what seemed a renewed vigor, the piper’s hearty notes intruded through the sturdy wall. The gloomy tones were gone, replaced with a boisterous bellow, one part battle cry, one part celebration.
She pounded the pillow harder and pulled it over her ears. Was this some diabolical plot to weaken her resolve by depriving her of rest? Who could possibly believe a serenade would be welcomed at this ungodly hour?
Drat, drat, and drat. She pushed herself up, gave the pillow another wallop with her balled hand for good measure, and swung her legs off the bed. The piper’s melody slowed. Pensive now. Lovely, in fact, as though welcoming the morning with a musical interlude.
She pressed her feet to the cool wooden planks. Shivering, she dashed onto a rug by the hearth. She’d always been a bit of a ninny when it came to being chilled. If only she had strong arms to enfold her, the strong, daring man she’d dreamt of—the man who’d played the hero in her turbulent dreams. If only he did not look so very much like Connor MacMasters.
That man was not her hero. Oh, she believed he’d protect her. Heaven knew he’d proven that. He was courageous and confident and bold. He’d defended her against the brutal louts who might well have left her for dead. But he was neither noble nor chivalrous. She held no such delusions. Everything the Highlander had done to defend her had been motivated by his own agenda. He sought a treasure, while she wanted one thing alone—her niece’s safe return. The book was the key, the ransom her captor had demanded. Would MacMasters hold to his own purposes when a child’s life hung in the balance?
Snatching up a dressing gown, Johanna shrugged into the garment. Even combined with the thick flannel of her nightdress, the thin fabric offered little warmth. She wrapped her arms around her. What had come over her, dreaming of MacMasters? She knew better than to allow her fanciful thoughts to get the better of her judgment. Even so, she’d been so close to surrender. He’d stirred her senses to a frenzy. She’d craved his touch, his heat, his scent. Never in her life had she wanted a man as she wanted him.
Ah, her attraction to the Scot was intense and bone deep, a fierce hunger unlike any she’d ever known. A pure, instinctive wanting. She needed to rally her defenses. There was no disputing that. After all, she was not some whey-faced virgin fresh from the schoolroom.
She was not an innocent—at least, she did not consider herself as such. After all, she’d been engaged, a lifetime ago. Or so it seemed. Young fool that she was, she’d believed herself in love. She’d given her heart, freely and without reservation, never suspecting the man she had adored would leave her illusions of love in jagged shards beneath the heels of his well-polished boots.
Still, she was not unworldly. She’d known the touch of a man, cautious and controlled as it had been. Heaven knew her betrothed had conducted himself with restraint in all matters. Timothy had been reserved, a product of his dignified nature, or so Johanna had told herself at the time.
Of course, that was before she discovered her fiancé had wanted another.
That was another time, so very long ago. She’d been naive. All too trusting. She’d never again make the mistake of surrendering her heart to a man.