The Highlander Who Loved Me

By Tara Kingston

Johanna Templeton is on a life-and-death quest. Swept into an intrigue that rivals the tales she pens, she joins forces with a Highland rogue to find the treasure that will save her kidnapped niece—a prize the Scot seeks for reasons that have nothing to do with ransom. Engaging the Highlander in a sizzling battle of the sexes, Johanna shields her heart.

Connor MacMasters, spy for Queen Victoria, is a man on a mission—keep a legendary gemstone from an evil man. Trailing an American novelist who holds the key to the treasure should’ve been simple, but Johanna awakens feelings he’d long thought dead. Torn between duty and desire, he wants her in his bed, but loving her would be a fool’s game. Blasted shame his heart doesn’t agree.

Each book in the Highland Hearts series is STANDALONE:
* The Highlander Who Loved Me
* Lady Evelyn's Highland Protector
* Tempting the Highland Spy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Dec 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633757790

Book preview

To Greg…

With you by my side, I’ve had the courage to chase my dreams. Love you!

Chapter One

London, September 1891

The master of Alardyce Castle was a madman. Or so the whispers warned.

Of course, it went without saying that the mysterious lord of the manor was tall, dark, and handsome, with a flashing gaze that betrayed his desire for the governess in his employ. Pity he’d been driven to the edge of sanity by an unseen evil.

Smiling to herself, Johanna Templeton tapped her pen against the edge of her notebook. Leo Alardyce had proven to be a fascinatingly tortured hero, precisely the sort of man an innocent, utterly devoted governess would save from his own self-destruction. Her London editor would no doubt be pleased with the perils Miss Cavendish braved in the name of true love.

Insistent rapping at the front door drifted along the corridor to her study. Within moments, her ever-efficient housekeeper’s voice carried through the sturdy walls to Johanna’s ears. Muffled as the low tones were, she could only make out a scattering of words. Perhaps Mrs. Mitchell had expected a delivery. With Johanna’s niece and brother-in-law away in Scotland, she had no reason to think a visitor had come to call.

Her attention wandered to the gilt-edged portrait on the wall beside her desk. Her sister had been lovely, her honey-gold hair swept into a loose chignon. Cynthia had been happy then, before the illness that cut short her vibrant life. Johanna’s gaze lingered on her niece, the darling, bright-eyed girl who’d claimed a piece of her heart. Laurel had been away for little more than a fortnight, but it seemed far longer. How Johanna missed the girl’s mischief. How empty the house seemed without the sound of her laughter.

Oh, well, there was nothing to be done about it. The child’s father had taken her on holiday. Surely they’d return soon.

The click of heels against wood preceded the housekeeper’s appearance in the doorway to Johanna’s study. Her mouth stretched taut, the matron seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, perhaps two, before crossing the threshold to present Johanna with an elegantly engraved calling card.

Miss Templeton, there’s someone here to see you.

Johanna glanced at the card. Mrs. John MacInnis. The name was familiar. The widow’s late husband and Johanna’s brother-in-law had once engaged in business. The arrangement had ended badly, though Mrs. MacInnis had offered her condolences following Cynthia’s funeral. Nearly a year had passed since that bleak day. How very odd that the widow had now come to call.

Please send her in, Johanna said, placing the card on her desk.

The lean, dour-faced woman brushed past Mrs. Mitchell. With her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun and a mourning dress that reached to her chin, she might well have been a character from the pages of Johanna’s latest novel. She came to Johanna, leaving a scant arm’s length between them.

Miss Templeton, I have a matter of some urgency to discuss. She slanted Mrs. Mitchell a pointed glance. Privacy is of the utmost importance.

With a curt nod and an icy glare toward Mrs. MacInnis, the housekeeper took her leave. As the door closed soundlessly behind Mrs. Mitchell, Johanna motioned her guest to a plush chair.

Please, take a seat. I’ll pour you a cup of tea.

The widow’s mouth thinned to a slash. There’s no time… I cannot take the chance… She dropped her gaze to the Aubusson carpet for a long moment before meeting Johanna’s eyes. Your brother-in-law…he’s gone out of the country. To Scotland.

Something in the widow’s tone set Johanna’s nerves on edge. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. Indeed, Mr. Abbott has gone on holiday.

Eleanor MacInnis narrowed her piercing gray eyes. He lied to you. He had dealings in the Highlands, matters of a most nefarious nature.

How very peculiar. Where had the widow come by such a bizarre notion? Johanna slowly shook her head. Best to be gentle with the distraught woman. Heaven only knew, after her husband’s tragic accident, that Mrs. MacInnis had good reason to be unsettled. I am afraid you’re mistaken.

Johanna hadn’t believed it possible, but the widow’s lips drew even more taut as her attention darted over the bookshelves. My husband was a collector of antiquities. Those relics were his life…and his death.

Mrs. MacInnis, I don’t understand—

The widow caught Johanna’s hand in hers. It must be here. In this house. It has to be. Her voice was low, controlled, yet tinged with desperation. Had she gone mad with grief?

What is it you seek? Please, you must explain.

Mrs. MacInnis moved to the window. Going pale as fresh washed linen, she made a little gasp. Dear God, they know…they know I’ve come to warn you.

Notes of dread in the widow’s voice propelled a shiver along Johanna’s spine. Warn me? You must tell me what this is about.

You are in grave danger. Her words were the merest of whispers. It’s too late now…too late for me.

With that, Mrs. MacInnis hurried from the room, leaving only her calling card and questions in her wake. The sound of the entry door thudding closed echoed to the study, followed by the clatter of carriage hooves as the widow’s driver set her coach in motion.

An unsettled feeling overtook Johanna, a chill that skittered from her scalp all the way to her toes. Good heavens, she was letting her imagination get the better of her. She’d no cause to spin this odd incident into something sinister. Mrs. MacInnis was most likely overwrought. Given the circumstances of her husband’s recent demise, that seemed hardly surprising.

Rubbing her hands over her arms to banish the coolness that had seemed to invade the room, Johanna walked slowly back to her writing desk and settled into her chair. She lifted her pen, but the words would not come. The clock on the bookshelf taunted her, its pendulum swinging in a relentless rhythm, marking seconds that turned into minutes.

Giving in to her mind’s wanderings, she opened a drawer and retrieved her latest correspondence from Mr. Abbott. She reread the letter, then swept her gaze over it again. When she’d received the note, nothing had appeared amiss. His words had been terse, in contrast to her brother-in-law’s generally effusive personality, and his usually precise script had gone a bit unruly, but she’d thought little of it. Now, a shiver traced an icy path over her nape. Had the missive borne a hidden warning?

She folded the letter and placed it inside the desk. With a turn of the lock, she latched the drawer, then stashed the key between two books on the shelf. She paused. She’d no cause to worry that Mrs. Mitchell would betray her trust. Why had she felt the need to secure the letter?

The expression on Mrs. MacInnis’s drawn features played in her thoughts. Johanna had seen desperation there. But another emotion had darkened the widow’s gray irises as she’d turned away from the window.

Fear.

…

Inverness, Scotland, Two Weeks Later

The devil strode into Kincaid’s Pub in a flash of swirling black wool and polished leather. Lightning crackled and thunder boomed as if to herald the dark lord’s arrival. His massive greatcoat, open down the front and clinging to powerful shoulders, exposed a long, lean-muscled body. Gaslight cast rays of silver over hair the color of a raven’s wing while the roaring fire in the tavern’s massive hearth gleamed gold and amber against his ebony boots.

Johanna’s heartbeat stuttered. Was this the man who’d summoned her to the Highlands? Seated in the shadows, she studied his every move.

His forest green eyes fixed on her. Intense. Penetrating. Seeming to strip her of her defenses.

Rubbish.

Good heavens, what had come over her? Had she truly gone daft? This stranger was not one of her literary concoctions come to life. In truth, he was handsome. Very much so. In another time, another place, she might have allowed her gaze to linger on the chiseled contours of his face while she speculated on the taste of his kiss. But there, the fantasy ended. He was neither Lucifer incarnate nor a daring desperado transplanted from the pages of one of her novels.

He was merely a man.

And from the looks of his off-kilter strides, a drunken one, at that.

He met her appraisal with unreadable eyes. Hungry, perhaps. Or more to the point, thirsty for yet another ale. She looked past him, searching the dimly lit pub for the blackguard who’d commanded her to come here. Obviously, the sotted devil was far too concerned with steadying his swaying legs to be the villain who’d come to negotiate a trade—Johanna’s most treasured physical possession for one far more precious.

This was not a fantasy, nor fodder for a story. This was a nightmare she’d never dreamt could become reality. She was a stranger in a foreign land, the man she’d fixed on was a drunk, and what happened in the next few minutes might well prove a matter of life and death.

Around her, men hoisted tankards of ale and downed tumblers of whisky. A man who might’ve been a pirate in a prior existence, eye patch and all, ogled her with his one good—if bleary—eye. He grinned, displaying a mouth full of darkened stumps as he lifted his glass to her as if in tribute.

Johanna dug her fingers into her leather valise. Where was the scoundrel who’d demanded she leave London and travel to this heaven-forsaken place? The ruthless cur who’d abducted her young niece had been precise and brutally direct in his instructions. He’d already demonstrated the depths to which he’d sink to obtain what he wanted. She held little doubt the man had killed her brother-in-law. She could only pray he’d honor his word and release the child once he had his damnable prize.

Johanna’s attention flickered to the man in black who’d now staggered to the bar. He’d propped himself against the edge, leaning lazily on an elbow. One hand held a tumbler of amber liquid. Curiously, he seemed in no hurry to down the bitter swill.

She felt his gaze on her again. Nonsense. The sot had no cause to observe her, and she certainly would not draw a man’s eye while several lip-rouged doxies sashayed about, looking to ply their wares. Still, she sensed his interest in her. Discreet glances cast beneath hooded lids. Was that recognition flaring in his eyes?

Blast her overly vivid writer’s imagination. Johanna jerked her attention away and set her sights on the well-dressed man who strode past. Classically handsome, save for the slight crook in an otherwise perfectly carved nose, he wore a meticulously tailored suit that stood out of place in this workmen’s establishment. His indigo waistcoat gave his eyes a stormy cast, while immaculately trimmed dark hair added to his air of sophistication. With his refined clothing and demeanor, he might well have been a barrister or member of Parliament.

He met her gaze and cocked his chin, as if acknowledging her. His expression bland as a gentleman choosing the color of a cravat, he offered a subtle flick of his wrist. Between his fingers, a linen pocket square bearing her brother-in-law’s family crest confirmed his identity.

Her heart seemed to skip a beat, even as her stomach twisted into a knot. So, this was the bastard who’d come to arrange a trade—the contents of her satchel for a child’s life.

With a slight movement of his hand, he beckoned her again. Invisible talons clawed her insides. She’d spent so many hours writing of heartless cads, but now she faced one in the flesh. Shocking how very much this one looked the part of a gentleman. If she’d been writing a novel, he might well have been the hero. Only the hardened glint in his eyes gave any clue to his true nature.

She came to her feet. If only her limbs would cooperate. They’d picked a fine time to grow heavy, as if lead weights had been tethered to her ankles. One step at a time, she forced her legs to move.

The gentleman kept his attention fixed on her. The satchel weighed heavy in her hand. Cotton seemed to fill her throat. As she grew close enough to discern the man’s features, she made out the impatient stretch of his full mouth and the creases edging his eyes.

Mr. Ross, I presume. She infused as much steel into her voice as she could muster. An instinctive alarm sounded deep within, but she could not afford to display the merest trace of fear. The ice in this man’s expression revealed no shred of compassion. To the contrary, a stiletto-sharp brutality hardened his features into an impenetrable mask.

He gave a curt nod as confirmation and led her to a small table in a shadowed corner of the pub.

Please join me, Miss Templeton. His voice bore no trace of a brogue. Rather, it carried the inflections Johanna had come to know during her time in London.

Without venturing a reply, she settled herself into a chair. Whoever this man truly was, he eyed her with a predator’s gleam, as if eager for any sign of weakness. Her hand tensed around the handle of her valise.

You’ve come alone. His words were a statement, not a question.

Yes.

Good. Steepling his fingers, he watched her over clean, even nails that confirmed Johanna’s suspicion—this was not a man who labored with his hands. If we are to achieve our mutual goals, it is imperative that you avoid any attempt to deceive me.

I would not be so foolish.

He inclined his head, a subtle gesture. You’ve brought the item?

Johanna met his piercing gaze. Was it possible he could actually hear her heart thudding against her breastbone? She held the eye contact. Anything less would betray vulnerability she could ill afford.

Of course.

Very good. He studied her again, seeming to search for some hint of trickery. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against the tabletop in a maddeningly even rhythm. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She pulled in a breath, slow and easy, and released it. You offered my niece’s safe return. I am prepared to make the exchange. But first, I must see that she is unharmed.

Something that resembled a smile quirked one corner of his mouth. You are in no position to be setting terms. Your willingness to comply with my instructions will determine my actions from this point forward. Rest assured, I am willing to do whatever it takes to procure the object the girl’s father stole from my employer. No harm will come to the child…for now.

And her father?

His head moved slowly from side to side. He is no longer a concern.

Her stomach lurched. Bile rose to her throat. She choked it back. You did this?

He met her question with narrowed eyes that revealed neither a confession nor a denial. My employer does not tolerate disloyalty. The blighter knew what he was doing when he violated the trust we’d placed in him.

Johanna continued to hold his intent gaze. All this…for a book.

A treasure, Miss Templeton. Surely you realize the value of a first edition of such quality.

His eyes continued to pierce her defenses, as if reading her deepest fears. Pity she’d done such a poor job of hiding the way her insides twisted at the truth of her brother-in-law’s fate. The unseen talons dug deeper when she pictured her niece. Laurel would be terrified. Grieving. Trapped by brutal men who’d murdered her father.

If only she could mask her fear, perhaps the bastard would stop looking at her and get on with this ugly business. But even an actress of Sarah Bernhardt’s talents could not offer such a convincing performance.

A foul odor drifted to her nostrils. She shifted a glance to the source of the stench. A mammoth man thundered toward the table. He looked and reeked as if he hadn’t seen the inside of a tub in months. A mop of hair that might have been blond beneath a coating of filth brushed his pale, unruly brows. His stained jacket hung from a body as formidable as the trunk of an oak.

Ross gave a disdainful sniff. His upper lip curled. Bloody hell, Munro, did you fall into a trough of manure?

Ye think I give a rat’s arse about your opinion? The behemoth moved closer to Johanna, effectively trapping her in the corner. He licked a thick tongue over blubbery lips. So this is the lass his highness is waitin’ on.

Ross offered a nod in confirmation. He pinned Johanna with his gaze. I need to see it—the book.

Of course. She placed the valise on the table and removed a leather-bound volume. Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus. Mrs. Shelley’s masterpiece, embellished in the author’s own hand more than seventy years prior.

Johanna’s brother-in-law had given her the pristine first edition before he left London for what he’d dubbed a holiday in Scotland. A token of his appreciation, or so he’d said. She hadn’t questioned his motives. After all, she’d left her home in Philadelphia at the first inkling of her sister’s illness. Some eighteen months later, her beloved, even-tempered older sister had taken her last breath on a rainy Sunday morning. After the funeral, Johanna had remained in London, determined to provide her sister’s child with the nurturing the girl’s father was ill-equipped to provide.

Now, her brother-in-law’s intentions had taken on an entirely new meaning. Had the gift been far more than a thoughtful gesture? Had he left the book with her to shield his ill-gotten gain until he could retrieve it?

The thought wrenched Johanna’s stomach anew. In her heart, she’d long questioned the man’s character, but his devotion during her sister’s illness had gone a long way toward redeeming her opinion of Cynthia’s mate. But now she’d discovered how very mistaken her renewed faith in Richard Abbott’s good nature had been.

Presenting the book like an offering, Johanna kept her gloved fingers firmly on the tome. She was not about to surrender it, not until she had Laurel safely at her side. I believe this is the item you’ve come to claim.

Ross offered a cursory examination. He brushed a fingertip over hers. His eyes narrowed. He seemed to sense her aversion to his touch, even as he traced a slow path over the back of her velvet-sheathed hand. Final judgment on that matter belongs to my employer.

You can have the book. Despite her words, Johanna tightened her hold on the leather cover. Blast it all, she would not meekly surrender the volume to this scoundrel. I’ll take the girl and be on my way.

I’m afraid that’s not possible, he said, infuriatingly civilized. You’ll need to come with us. After the book is determined to be authentic, the child will be released.

The talons in her belly moved higher, digging into her heart. Johanna wanted to curl into a miserable ball, but she forced iron into her spine and met his gaze. This is unacceptable. I was promised an exchange—the book for my niece. Where is she?

His lips quirked again. The bastard was actually amused with her show of spirit. Johanna itched to slap the hint of a smile off his handsome face.

Eyes cold and flat as a viper’s met hers. She is not here.

Fear welled in her throat, bitter as poison. She choked it back. I believed we had an arrangement.

Ross’s mouth hardened, flat and cruel. I must advise against making demands. Given the chit is the offspring of a man who foolishly betrayed my employer, I would not try his patience. What happens to the child is up to you.

I fully understand. But I must insist that you bring my niece to me before I hand over the ransom. I have a driver waiting—

Munro sent the gent on his way. He can be…persuasive. Ross nodded to his odious associate. See Miss Templeton to the coach.

The big man clamped his paw on Johanna’s shoulder. A leering grin marked the man’s ruddy face, his grotesque smile proudly displaying festering nubs. Come with me, lass.

She jerked away. I assure you, it is not necessary to put your hands on me.

Leave her be, Ross said in a tone of quiet command. You know how I feel about theatrics.

Johanna kept an iron-clad hold on her valise. Pulling in a slow inhalation, she came to her feet. When you are ready to make the exchange, you may contact me at the MacBride Hotel.

Ross slowly shook his head. An ill-considered choice, Miss Templeton. Perhaps, you don’t value the child’s life as much as we’d believed.

I’ve come a long way. I’m not so foolish as to hand over the ransom when you have not brought my niece to me. I expected to bring her home. Tonight.

If you leave, you may never see her again. Will you be able to live with that? So very calm and controlled, that evil voice.

Terror carved a jagged wound in her heart. Please, bring her to me. Our negotiation will be at an end, and we may both go on our way.

Negotiation? The word seemed to play on his tongue. I am afraid you are mistaken. This is not a negotiation. We will obtain that volume. One word from me, and Munro will wrench it from your hands. I do believe he would appreciate an excuse to hear your bones snap. Fortunately for you, my employer would prefer to obtain your cooperation rather than employ violence.

She steeled her spine. I am prepared to surrender the book. I have complied with his instructions in every way.

A half-smile touched his mouth. Surely you did not believe that would be all there was to it? You were entrusted with a rare and valuable book, an item that by all rights should be in the possession of my employer. He has questions…questions only you can answer.

Her heart raced, but she steadied her voice. I am afraid that he will be disappointed. I was not privy to any secrets. I simply watched over my niece after her mother took ill.

What you know and do not know is of no concern to me. Come with me now, and there will be no trouble.

She counted five heartbeats, then another. If I refuse to accompany you?

I believe you already know the answer to that. He pinned her with his cold, unwavering gaze. The only question is whether or not the brat will live. And that, Miss Templeton, is up to you.

A primal warning crept over Johanna’s skin and weighted her limbs. Leaving with these men was a dangerous proposition. No one in the tavern would notice her departure. By the end of the evening, no one would even remember she’d been in the establishment. She could disappear, and no one would be the wiser.

But like a chess master, the smooth-voiced gentleman had achieved his checkmate. He’d left her no option. No way out. These unscrupulous blackguards had a prize more valuable to her than a sultan’s treasure.

She had to get to Laurel. No matter the cost.

…

Connor MacMasters swirled the whisky in the tumbler, watching the amber liquid slosh as he mentally mapped out his next move. The barkeep shot him a look, filled a tankard with ale, and slid it down the counter to a lean, bearded fellow. He eyed Connor again, seeming to question why a drunk who’d staggered into the tavern on legs that could barely hold him wasn’t actually drinking.

Connor put the glass to his mouth and took a hearty swig, then another. That would do for now. He had to keep his faculties sharp. God only knew what he’d be called upon to do if the pretty lass in the burgundy suit actually left with those no-good bastards.

One look at the woman, and he’d known she was trouble. An American, or so he’d been told. A writer of penny dreadfuls, of all things. J. M. Templeton. Johanna, by birth. He didn’t have an age, but with her sweetly rounded face, she couldn’t be much past five and twenty. Ringlets of reddish-brown hair framed her delicate features. He’d first spotted her beneath the noonday sun as she’d disembarked at the station in Inverness. She’d marched right past him, clutching a leather satchel, her shoulders squared, her strides brisk and determined.

Tall for a woman, she filled out her proper traveling suit in all the right places. Not buxom by any means, but her curves would certainly draw a man’s eye. God knows they’d got his attention. Now if only his cock would stay out of it and let him think.

He doubted she’d recognized him when he’d made his entrance into the tavern. For his surveillance at the depot, he’d combed his hair in a civilized manner and worn a well-pressed suit. A stark contrast to his current disguise. God above, he could pass for a soused buccaneer. Truth be told, he might’ve overdone it with the whisky. He could scarcely stand the smell of himself. A drunk who’d actually stumbled into a vat of alcohol wouldn’t reek so badly.

Miss Templeton had regarded him with a mix of disdain and fascination. Blue eyes the color of Loch Lomond on a rare, sunny day had met his. Her intelligent gaze seemed to search his features. Only the drawn set of her full mouth betrayed her duress. That, and a look deep in her eyes that revealed emotions she didn’t want anyone to see. Fear. And something more—a spark of awareness. She might be prim and proper with her high lace collar and cameo brooch, but he’d swear he’d seen a flicker of hunger that went gut-deep.

And then, those plump lips of hers had pulled into a taut seam. Good thing she still had the sense to hide that elemental impulse deep within, out of reach. He’d abandoned his good sense the moment he agreed to chase after a very fetching, entirely reckless American writer who was about to throw herself into a viper’s nest.

She’d been in Scotland for two days, traveling by train from London through Edinburgh. He’d tracked her to a hotel there, but she’d set out for Inverness before he could make a positive identification. His contacts didn’t always get the facts straight. But this much was certain—Johanna Templeton left England at the summons of one of the most vile men ever to step foot in the Highlands. Geoffrey Cranston’s interest in the American could only mean one thing. She had something he wanted, and Cranston intended to get it, at any cost.

Was it possible she possessed a map to the Deamhan’s Cridhe—the Demon’s Heart ruby? Cranston had stolen, bribed, and killed in his pursuit of the artifact. He’d eliminate anyone and anything that stood in its path.

Including Johanna Templeton.

Now, Connor had been tasked with shadowing her movements. He’d discover what business she had with Cranston. If she knew the way to the jewel, he’d glean that information from the lass. And he’d try his damnedest to keep her alive and away from Cranston.

From his spot at the bar, he kept an eye on her. She was huddled in a back corner with Cranston’s chief lieutenant, John Ross. The Englishman never went anywhere without his brawny, ox-witted assistant, Angus Munro. The slight sag of Miss Templeton’s shoulders quickly followed by a straightening of her back made it clear she was keeping up a brave front. What did these bastards want from her?

Most likely, her connection with Richard Benedict had led her here. The man’s clandestine pursuit of antiquities on behalf of well-monied collectors had aroused suspicion from London to Inverness. But which of his underhanded dealings had brought the bloke to the Highlands? He’d gone missing, along with the agent who’d trailed him. Bluidy shame. Fitzhugh had been a good man with a family. Benedict had a more dubious agenda, one that had likely led to an untimely end.

Connor didn’t have many answers. But damned if he wasn’t going to find out.

Miss Templeton stood, stiff as a puppet with its strings held too tight. Munro made a grab for her, but she pulled away. Good for her. Her chin hiked up, even higher and more rigid than before. Connor couldn’t see her face, but the defiance eased from her movements, replaced by a grim determination.

Connor took another draught of whisky and set the glass on the counter. His task had been clear—trail the American, find out what the hell she was up to, and retrieve whatever she had in that satchel she clutched like a lifeline. Engaging with Cranston’s men wasn’t a part of it. He couldn’t endanger the mission by revealing himself. Not yet.

He’d already disobeyed protocol once during his time with the organization. The carnage of that day still haunted his nightmares.

He moved closer to the men, careful to keep to the shadows, out of their line of sight.

Surely you did not believe that would be all there was to it? Ross’s goading inquiry drifted to Connor’s ears. "He has questions…questions only you can answer."

Damnation! The bastards meant to take her to Cranston. And then, God only knew what fate was in store for her.

Stalking toward the door, he made short work of the head start Ross and Munro had on him. He couldn’t leave Johanna Templeton to their mercy. He’d deal with the consequences later.

Chapter Two

Johanna eyed the coach waiting in the alley behind the tavern, an elegant conveyance that bespoke its owner’s affluence and taste for fine things. In the moonlight, touches of gilding gleamed against the sheen of its polished ebony walls, while the sleek, chestnut carriage horse bore the hallmarks of fine breeding. This was not some broken-down nag. No, this animal had power in his strong, lean haunches and legs. Tethered to an iron rod barring the tavern windows, it snorted and laid its ears back as Munro passed. So, even the beast found the human’s vile presence an offense to its keen senses.

What’d ye have in that bag? The smelly boor stared down at Johanna. Breath as sickening as the stench wafting from his body struck her full in the face. Making no effort to hide her disgust, she pressed a hand over her nose and mouth.

It makes no difference to you. Ross spoke before Johanna could muster a reply.

Munro cocked a thick brow. Ye expect me t’believe there’s nothin’ more than a bluidy book in there? Me ma didnae birth a fool.

Ross’s eyes narrowed. You will be fairly compensated.

If the big man took note of the anger brewing beneath the gentleman’s tautly controlled demeanor, he ignored the warning. We need t’be sure we get our share. I got a bad feelin’ about this.

Tension pulled Ross’s handsome visage tight. Do your job and keep your mouth shut.

Munro snorted. That fine suit of clothes ye’ve got dinna make ye a better gent than me.

If you can’t find a way to shut that hole in your face, I will. Ross’s fingers clamped over Johanna’s wrist even as he kept his attention on the big man. You were hired to drive. Not talk.

Munro offered another derisive snort and threw open the carriage door. "If ye’ve a mind t’make a fool of Angus Munro, ye will regret