“Do ye think it’s trying to tell us something?” Gerard’s cheeky tone did not counter the alarm in his eyes.
“At this point, I cannae say that I give a damn. I’m getting the stone.” Connor caught Johanna’s hand in his. “Stay with Gerard. One of us getting bashed in the skull will be enough.”
“Perhaps this is unwise.” Johanna managed to keep the words steady despite her racing pulse.
“Concerned for me, are ye?” Connor quirked a brow. “Ye can think of a way to reward my bravery after this is over.”
“Highly unlikely,” she said, forcing a prim tone. The man was audacious. There was no disputing that. After all the discord between them, to even suggest such a thing—and with his brother there, drinking in every word.
“We’ll see about that.”
Ignoring the challenge in his tone, Johanna focused herself on the task at hand. Her mind raced, searching for some bit of research that might be of use. An image appeared at the forefront. A ring of sorts, marked with what seemed an ogre’s eye, encircled by a centuries-old scar. She’d read the description in a dusty tome. Now, it came vividly to life in her thoughts.
“I think…I know how to find it,” she said, banishing her hesitation. “My research indicated that the stone’s resting place bears a distinctive mark, burned into the trunk by a lightning bolt.”
“These trees have been here for many a year and withstood any number of storms,” Gerard spoke up. No trace of derision marked his tone. Rather, a somber recognition of the task that lay ahead. “Tell us, lass—what might this mark look like?” Gerard asked.
“An eye,” she said. “Surrounded by a scar.”
As Connor gave a grunt of acknowledgment, the bird fluttered to another tree, a massive, gnarled oak. Suddenly, what might’ve been a smile touched his features. Johanna followed the path of his gaze to the limb where the crow sat, now eerily silent.
“It seems we’ve found the eye,” he said.
“Good heavens,” Johanna gasped. A few branches below the blackbird, what seemed an ancient eye peered back at her.
“Bluidy hell.” Gerard moved toward the weathered tree. He reached out to touch the mark that had been etched into the tree long before any of them had taken their first breaths. The crow stared down at him for a long moment before abandoning its temporary resting spot, squawking as it flew into the thick grove. Turning to Johanna, Gerard nodded. “I think she’s found it.”
Moving to the ancient oak, Connor inspected its base. He tapped at the roots with a shovel he’d taken from the carriage. His attention flicked to a twisted length of root. Peculiar, how the fibers had bulged and contorted, as if something had interfered with its development.
“Something’s there. Whatever it is, it obstructed the growth.” Gerard said. “But what?”
“That remains to be seen.” Connor dug the shovel into the earth surrounding the tree. Again, and again. He paused to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. “This is a bluidy waste of time.”
Another plunge of the shovel, and a metallic clank rang out.
“It’s there,” Gerard said, stilling his brother’s actions. Crouching low, he used his hands to retrieve the object. Grunting, he lifted a slab the size of his head from the ground.
Gerard stared down at the dirt-encrusted rock. “Worthless.”
“Wait.” Connor maneuvered the shovel into the small crater left behind by the stone’s removal. “There’s something else.”
Carefully shifting earth from the hole, he reached into the opening. “There’s something here. Come, help me lift this out.”
Kneeling at the side of the crevice, the brothers retrieved their discovery. A metal chest—iron, most likely, judging from the effort it took the men to haul it up. Half-dragging their find away from the tree and its wildly swaying branches, they lowered it to the ground with a thud.
“Good God, what’s in that thing? Cannonballs?” Gerard muttered, rubbing his back as if it ached.
Connor scowled. “It’s damned obvious whoever buried this didn’t want it recovered.”
Johanna moved closer to the box. Perhaps half the size of her traveling case, and built to safeguard an object. Good heavens, the stone must be encased in that formidable trunk. Had the MacMasters ancestors foreseen the ruthless danger that would surround the pursuit of the Demon’s Heart?
Gooseflesh slithered over her body, an instinctive warning, and a part of her wanted to flee, leaving the legend and the ruby that inspired it far behind. She pulled in a long, calming breath. Then another. She’d never been such a skittish mouse. All this talk of curses and such had taken its toll. Rubbish, plain and simple. The stone was a valuable gem stored to protect it from thieves. Nothing more.
“Whoever hid this bluidy thing expected it to stay that way.” Gerard pointed to the elaborate system of latches securing the chest, each attached to a clockwork gear. “Damn shame they didn’t trust chains and a bolt.”