Damn it to Hades, he was an operative who’d dedicated years of his life to recovering Scotland’s ancient treasures. The child’s well-being should be a secondary concern. But it wasn’t. He felt a driving urgency to rescue the girl, to see her safe within Johanna’s arms. To see the worry erased from Johanna’s lovely face.
He’d left Johanna in the study after instructing her to prepare to depart immediately after the noon meal. They’d get food in their bellies, and then, they’d leave for the familiar location indicated on that map. If his interpretation of the faded symbols was correct, his forefathers had hidden the Demon’s Heart somewhere around Loch Ness.
Within the stables, he prepared the horses for their journey. His brother pushed open the door. The panel swung hard on its hinges, crashing into the wall behind it.
“What’s got yer blood boilin’?” Gerard was surly as ever.
“Not a damn thing.” Placing the saddle blanket over Phantom’s broad back, Connor shot his brother a glance.
“I’d sooner believe Uncle Archie’s tales of shagging the queen than that heap of manure.”
“Believe what ye want. This is nothing to ye.”
Gerard rubbed his jaw. “I deserve to know why my brother looked ready to take my bluidy head off because I looked at a pretty lass.”
“Ye eyed her like a starving wolf sizing up a rabbit.”
“What’s she to ye?”
“Nothing. A mission, ’tis all.” Strange, how false the words sounded on his tongue.
“Ye’ve never been much of a liar. In any case, we need to get this settled between us.” Gerard stepped closer and swept a gentling hand over the horse’s withers.
“I’ll be gone soon enough. There’s no need to pretend a kinship that has never been without its strain.”
“Bluidy hell, ye can be a stubborn arse. Harrison has information ye need to know. He sent me to convey it to ye.”
Connor stilled. “What has Harrison learned that’s so blasted urgent that he needed to tear ye from some young widow’s bed?”
“Aye, ye know me too well, brother.” Gerard’s wry grin did nothing to improve Connor’s foul mood.
“Out with it,” Connor bit the words between his teeth. “Why are ye here?”
“Harrison sent a communiqué to our source in London. According to the records she obtained, a resident of Mayfair by the name of Cynthia Templeton Abbott died several months ago. The American wife of an English businessman, Mrs. Abbott was the mother of a daughter, aged nine, and sister of Johanna Templeton. Cynthia Abbott was survived by her husband, Richard Abbott, an art dealer with wealthy friends who funded his way of life.”
“So, Miss Templeton’s account of her relationship with Abbott has been verified. I assume Abbott has been confirmed to be the actual birth name.”
Gerard nodded. “According to our source, Richard Benedict Abbott had been born to a much simpler existence on a Yorkshire Farm in 1856. He left England for America at the age of eighteen, returning several years later with a wife.”
“Johanna has been telling the truth. Even the name she used is genuine.”
“It would appear Miss Templeton’s motives are sincere. The lass has been thrust into a situation not of her own choosing.”
“Very well.” Connor allowed this newly garnered intelligence to settle into his weary brain. “Now that ye’ve delivered the message, yer presence is not needed or wanted.”
“Not so fast.” Gerard’s gaze went flinty. “I’ve been sent here on a mission. I’ve no intention of turning from my duty. Ye’re going to need my assistance.”
“Bluidy hell I will.”
“Ah, when are ye going to get past the fact that I stole that doxy from yer arms? She’d lifted her skirts for half of Edinburgh. It wasna as if ye cared for her beyond where ye were going to sleep that night.” Gerard flashed a scowl. “Bollocks, mon, we were randy young fools then.”
Connor waved away his brother’s words. “I dinnae give a piper’s damn about that light-skirted miss. But that doesna change a thing—ye’re not needed on this mission.”
“As usual, ye’re wrong, brother. Ye’re going to need a driver,” Gerard went on. “Cranston will be expecting Miss Templeton to arrive in a coach, not on horseback.”
“I’ve already considered that. Johanna has assured me she is a competent rider. She’ll do well enough on Arabella for the first leg of the journey. After that, I’ll secure a carriage.”
“No need. I’m yer man for the job.”
Lifting his gaze to meet his brother’s, Connor gripped the saddle’s pommel. “What the hell are ye talking about?”
“I’m yer backup on this mission. The Director gave the order. I’ll be driving Miss Templeton to the rendezvous with Cranston.” No trace of cockiness there. Just a matter-of-fact statement.
By the grave of Robert Burns, why had the head of the Antiquities Guild gotten involved? Had the Director lost faith in Connor’s ability to get the job done?
“Ye’re not needed,” Connor said, equally matter-of-fact.
“Ye’re wrong, brother. Ye can’t do this alone.”