Johanna blinked back tears she refused to shed. “You cannot expect me to abandon a child…to that scoundrel.”
Serena gave her head a long, slow shake. “Of course not. We will find a way to bring the bairn back to ye. But first, we must find a way to cut the bastard off at the knees.”
Connor came to Johanna, settling his big hands on her upper arms. His nearness brought a sense of reassurance she didn’t entirely understand.
“Ye must be strong, Johanna.” His husky burr was quiet yet firm. “Ye’ll need courage in yer heart, more than ye’ve ever had to summon in yer life. We will bring the bairn home. Mark my word, lass. I will nae let ye down.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Connor MacMasters was not a man to make promises he did not intend to keep. Bluidy hell, he wouldn’t consider the possibility he might fail in his quest to rescue the child. But the map and the stone could not fall into Cranston’s blood-stained hands.
The stricken look on Johanna’s face had nearly gutted Connor’s resolve. If something happened to the bairn, she would never be the same. The depth of her love for her niece was clear on her countenance. Her complexion had paled to the stark white of limestone, her dark blue eyes wide with distress at the prospect of denying Cranston the ransom he demanded. She still didn’t understand that any attempt to bargain with Cranston would be as futile as dealing with the devil himself. Bugger it, Old Nick himself might well be more worthy of trust than the English bastard.
Inhaling a gulp of clean, mountain air, Connor cut a direct path from the main house to the stables. He took up a brush, grooming his trusted gelding with vigorous strokes. A soft whiffle of pleasure met his efforts. As always, Phantom relaxed beneath the bristles, seeming to appreciate the care. Each sweep of the brush against the horse’s flanks eased the kinks in Connor’s shoulder muscles, even as they soothed the magnificent beast that had never failed him. Indeed, the animal seemed a truer friend than most men.
He ran the brush over the beast in an even, steady rhythm. His mind raced as he tended to the horse. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. If only he’d known about the child before they left Inverness, he would have taken a different tack. Agents would have been dispatched to intercept the girl before Johanna ever met with Ross and Munro. But Richard Abbott had managed to outsmart the operatives, concealing his daughter’s existence with surprising skill. Damn shame the conniving sot hadn’t kept that secret from Cranston.
Now, the child was a pawn. Even if Cranston got what he wanted, there was little chance he’d release the girl unharmed. Connor needed to buy time. He needed to convince Cranston that Johanna possessed the means to the stone.
A clever reproduction of the map might throw the blackguard off the scent. The Highland Agency boasted the most skilled forgers in Scotland. Arranging a duplication of the map with a few key details set askew would not pose a challenge. But Cranston would not settle for the map without the codes concealed in the volume’s pages. A wealth of secrets could be concealed within the book.
Decoding the cipher was a task for Serena. Younger than Connor by a half-dozen years, his sister had demonstrated a keen ability to detect patterns and construct elaborate codes before she was out of the schoolroom. As an adult, her ability to detect messages depicted by cryptic symbols was unparalleled. But the process was painstaking, and time was of the essence. With any luck, Serena would have the answers Connor needed by the next sundown.
But he couldn’t wait that long to go after the child. Soon, Johanna would take off in pursuit of the girl on her own. She was brave, that lass. Damnable shame she still didn’t grasp the truth of what she was dealing with where Cranston was concerned. The filthy jackal relished cruelty that far surpassed the violence of the battlefield. Misery for misery’s sake. That was Cranston’s stock in trade. Fear and intimidation and pain, brutal and merciless.
It was Connor’s duty to ensure Johanna never encountered the bastard. A woman like her would intrigue Cranston. He’d add her to his vile collection. Even if she meekly cooperated—and by hellfire, that was unlikely—he’d tire of her soon enough. And then, her suffering would truly begin.