Another crackle of electricity rent the sky. Light gleamed against the dagger in Munro’s right hand.
With his left, he caught Johanna’s wrist. She bucked against his hold. No use. She wrenched her arm, fighting his control. A slash of his blade, and pain seared her, quick and razor sharp. Beneath her heavy cloak, a sickening warmth trickled down her sleeve.
She bit back a scream.
“Give me the bag.” He dragged her to him, his arm a brutal manacle. Suddenly, she could scarcely draw breath.
Icy terror washed over her. With his partner dead to the world, Munro had nothing to hold him back.
Could she reach her knife? The slightest movement would jar him. He’d kill her if he realized she was not helpless. She could not chance it. Yet.
“Take yer hands off the woman.” The devil in black’s command was clear. Confident. Without a trace of sotted slurring.
“This is not yer fight.” Munro’s low rumble brushed her ear. “I’ll take the case and be on my way. Or else, I’ll cut her scrawny throat.”
The rough desperation in his voice intensified the threat. Johanna’s pulse thundered in her ears. She eased her fingertips along the opening in her skirt. Her fingers curled around the knife.
Munro’s muscles went taut. She stilled. Her breath hovered in her throat. Had he caught on?
“Ye’re not getting what’s in that bag o’hers.” Was that fear in Munro’s voice?
She slid the knife from its hiding place. She had to free herself before he lashed out.
The devil’s gaze flickered to her clenched hand. His eyes narrowed. He gave a slow shake of his head. Had he realized she was armed? “Ah, ye’ll let her go. I know ye for the coward ye are.” He whipped a long gun from beneath his greatcoat. “Release the lass. Now.”
“Go t’hell.”
The rifle’s click pierced the night. A slow smile lifted the corners of the devil’s mouth.
“Wrong answer.”
Chapter Three
The reeking prison of Munro’s hold fell away. Johanna darted from his reach. Beneath her cloak, wetness pooled against her sleeve and a dull throb radiated the length of her arm. Pulling in a breath, she braced herself against the discomfort and kept her focus on the devil in black. MacMasters, Ross had called him. The rogue now had a name.
Training the long gun on Munro’s barrel chest, he prodded him. “Throw down the knife.”
The big man opened his hand. The jagged blade clattered to the ground. MacMasters kicked it out of reach.
“I know ye’ve got weapons in that pile of rags ye call a coat. Off with it.”
“T’hell with ye.” The words rang hollow given the fear in Munro’s eyes. In the moonlight, Johanna couldn’t see if his brow was beaded with perspiration. But she could see the tremors wracking his massive hands, the way he stood, stiff and unnatural, as if he’d locked his knees to stem their knocking.
Her gaze flickered to the gaslight glinting off the barrel of Ross’s pistol. Pity MacMasters stood between her and the weapon. Edging toward the tavern door, she studied him. His eyes betrayed neither cruelty nor mercy as he leveled the gun at Munro’s gut.
“Ye ready to die tonight?” he asked, each word edged with flint. “Ugly way to do it.”
Munro muttered an unintelligible epithet and shrugged his foul-smelling jacket over his shoulders.
“Put it on the ground.”
The filthy garment fell to the pavement. A dull clang confirmed there’d been at least one knife tucked within the jacket.
MacMasters raked him over with a scrutinizing eye. “What other weapons do ye have on ye?”
Munro fidgeted on his boat-sized feet like a child desperately trying not to soil himself. “None.”
“Ye’re a poor liar.” MacMasters’s eyes seemed to bore through the other man. “Get rid of the sgian dubh. In yer boot.”
“Dinnae be pulling the trigger when I reach fer it.” Munro’s massive shoulders drooped. Crouching, he retrieved the dagger.
“Drop it, Munro, or I’ll put a bullet in yer head.”
The big man pitched the weapon at the devil’s black-booted feet. “So ye know my bluidy name, do ye? Who sent ye? The countess?”
“Ye’ve got more pressing worries.” With a swift step, MacMasters slammed the stock of the long gun against the larger man’s temple. Munro’s eyes rolled up into his head. A groan escaped him as he sank to the ground in a massive heap.
MacMasters whipped around. Johanna took in his movements. Sleek. Graceful. Lethal. Ah, how her readers would swoon over a daring hero such as this man. He came to her, his strides long and sure.
“Did the bastards hurt you?”