Munro looked ready to pounce, an alley cat sizing up a mouse. He thought her entirely vulnerable. Foolish brute.
She did possess one advantage. As men often did, they’d underestimated her. With the briefest flick of her wrist, she slid one hand along the seam of her skirt, over the folding knife she’d concealed in her pocket. If she needed to defend herself, the element of surprise would work in her favor.
Crash! The rear door slammed into the stone and mortar of the tavern wall. Suddenly, they were no longer alone. A shadowed figure filled the portal, then staggered to the cobbles below.
The devil in the black greatcoat. Bloody perfect. The epithet she’d adopted during her months in London sprang to the tip of her tongue.
As the door creaked shut behind him, he stumbled and pressed a hand to the wall, seeming to steady himself against the rough stones. The pungent aroma of whisky surrounded him like an alcohol-laden fog. His dark mane flopped over his brow, shading his features as effectively as a disguise.
He swatted a handful of renegade strands from his face. His gaze caught Johanna’s.
Eyes bright with surprising clarity met hers. “My love, why are ye leaving me?”
Johanna stared, speechless. This simply could not be happening. With the kidnapper’s henchman ogling her like a tasty morsel, she’d all she could do to keep her wits about her. An amorous drunk was a complication even her cagiest heroine could not have foreseen.
The sot cocked his head, as if awaiting her reply. Eyeing her with the look of a man who’d discovered a long-lost treasure, he lurched toward her, his legs far less steady than the intention behind his pleading gaze. “Come to me, my bonny lass.”
Ross closed one hand over her forearm in an iron grip. No pain, but undeniable power in that hold. “You were instructed to come alone.”
“I do not know this man.” She kept her voice even and controlled, even as her knees threatened to quake. Pity she wasn’t one of her intrepid heroines. Any of her adventurous governesses would know what to do in this situation. But penning villains had not prepared Johanna to face men of this ilk. Still, she had to remain strong. Any show of weakness would bring out their cruelty.
“My employer does not like complications.” Ross gritted the words between his teeth.
A wave of panic rippled through her. He was nearing the end of his patience. If that slender thread did indeed snap, the aftermath would prove disastrous. She steadied her tone, praying the tiny waver in the notes did not betray her fear. “I assure you, I’ve never seen this man before tonight.”
“Give me the case.” Each syllable was clipped and brutal.
“No.” Her fingers dug into the handle of her satchel.
“Mo cridhe.” My heart. Slurring the endearment, the drunk consumed the ground between them, one slow, clumsy step at a time. “Ye dinnae have t’leave.”
“Quiet him.” Ross flashed a gleaming revolver for emphasis.
God above, the inebriated devil was going to get them both killed. Johanna sucked air into her lungs and slowly exhaled. Frustration and fear fueled her heart’s rapid beat.
“My darlin’, where—” The Scot teetered on his feet. If only he would collapse into a heap and be done with it.
“Hush.” She lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “I am not the woman you’re looking for.”
“Aye, but ye are, lass.” He drew out the words, stilted and unnatural. But his gaze was clear. Without a trace of intoxicated haze. Yet, he staggered on legs as unsteady as reeds in a storm.
Ross nudged her corseted ribs with his pistol. She swallowed hard against a fresh jolt of fear.
“Go inside and have another drink,” she said to the drunk, more forceful now. “I am not the one you seek.”
“I willnae let ye leave me.” Beneath the swath of dark hair shading his features, his gaze flickered to Ross. “Not with that bluidy bastard.”
Ross crooked his arm, aiming the gun at the sot’s broad chest. “Step away or I’ll kill you.”
“Ye willnae take the lass. Ye cannae have her.” The brawny Highlander eyed the men. Alert. Aware. Seeming to track their movements. Yet, he’d braced his legs wide, as if to steady himself.
Johanna pulled in a breath. She had to coax him back into the tavern. “Go…back in—”
Lightning sizzled in the mist-shrouded sky. Ross jerked his attention toward the jagged bolt. He cocked his head. “Bloody hell.” Recognition flared in his eyes. “MacMasters. You’ll die tonight, you bastard.”
Quick as a viper, the Scot struck.
The flesh and bone of his fist plowed into Ross’s throat with a sickening thud. The Englishman sank to his knees, wildly clutching the point of impact. A grotesque gurgling sound escaped his lips.
Thwack. The drunk’s boot plowed into Ross’s gun hand. The pistol clattered to the ground.
Another kick. The gun skidded over the cobbles, out of reach. As Ross sprawled over the pavement, still as a toppled statue, his partner let out a sound that seemed more growl than words.