Page 124 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

He shrugged. “What could I do? I handed over my purse. But since then, I carry Matilda.”

“Matilda?”

He grinned and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pocket pistol. Isobel had never seen a weapon so small.

“Can that actually hurt someone?”

Mr. Breedlebum laughed. “It can slow them down.”

“Have you ever used it?”

He snuffled and huffed for a moment, then said, “Only once.”

“And did the man die?”

“Ah . . . no,” he said with a laugh, and then added sheepishly, “I shot myself.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Right through the foot. Haven’t walked right since.”

“Well,” she said. “I feel so much safer knowing you are here with Matilda.” Which seemed to please him no end.

* * *

The mail coach rarely stopped. That was the reason they were so prized as a traveling device. Oftentimes, the mail guard would simply toss out the mail package for a given village, as close to the postmaster’s office as he could manage, as they passed. The one exception to that was for changing the horses, which the practiced ostlers did so quickly, there wasn’t even time for Isobel to alight.

Private needs became a pressing matter, one that the driver seemed inclined to ignore. The only times there was any respite were the few occasions when the driver himself needed to attend to his needs. Which, to Isobel, seemed very far and few between.

She wasn’t used to this kind of travel, having always traveled in a private coach with utter dominion over the driver and his whims.

As a result, she was uncomfortable for a long while as they pounded through the night.

Mr. Breedlebum, however, was not uncomfortable in the least. After their shared supper, he locked his hand to the strap above, rested his head on his arm, and proceeded to sleep.

Isobel knew he was sleeping, because his snores rocked the coach.

It was, indeed, a good thing she was not inclined to sleep as well, because she certainly would not have been able to.

Idly, she wondered if Nick snored. And then, irritated with herself—because it surely didn’t matter now—she pushed the thought away.

She’d made her choice, and she’d chosen freedom.

Hadn’t she?

As for the child, if she was indeed carrying one, there were no worries there. Her mother had raised her to the age of five without a father in sight, and she’d turned out just fine.

She’d been a hellion, certainly, but that had hardly changed when her parents met again and finally married.

Isobel closed her eyes and thought of those days. The first time she’d met Andrew Lochlannach. How he’d saved her and protected her and loved her.

When he’d entered her life, everything had changed. For the better. Oh, it had been fine before he came, but with him in their lives, it had been magical.

It was a shame her child—if there was one—would not know the love of a father.

Surely she was not stealing that from her? Or him.

Oh, glory. It could be a boy.