Page 129 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

His darling was frightened. She was—

“I’m telling you, I need to go.”

“Shut up, you,” one of the men growled. “I’m tired of hearing it.”

“It’s been hours,” she snapped.

Ah. This tone he knew. She was annoyed. For some reason, his heart lifted.

“You should have gone at the last posting house.”

“The driver wouldn’t stop. Untie me and let me go into the woods. Just for a minute. I swear I won’t run away.”

A heavy sigh echoed. “All right. You take her.”

“Me? Why do I have to take her?”

“Because I’m up here, you dolt.”

As the highwayman on the ground went to Isobel, who was, apparently, tied to the axle, Nick slipped closer, following the ditch by the side of the road until he came up behind the coach.

He tripped over something, then realized it was the mail coach guard’s legs. The man had broken his neck in the fall, judging from the angle of his head. Nick dropped to the ground and felt around until he found it. Yes! The blunderbuss tucked into the back of his breeks.

Stealthily, he slipped it free and checked the powder. A blunderbuss was not an elegant weapon, but one favored by the mail coach guards for its sheer brutality. Hopefully he would not need to use it.

But he would if he had to.

He watched as the highwayman led Isobel into the trees, debating whether to follow or wait behind. But in truth, there was no debate, because if he stepped out into the open, he would be seen.

He gnashed his teeth as he waited for her to emerge and then regretted not taking his chance when a hollo-ballo arose from the woods. A cry, a thump, a thud.

That it was a man’s cry was gratifying, but it did precipitate a flurry of activity from the other brigand. He cried out and leaped down from the coach.

And then he stilled.

As did Nick.

Isobel emerged from the trees holding something . . . tiny. She held it like a weapon, though it could hardly be one. A muff pistol was his best guess, one that could barely hit the broadside of a barn and would only annoy a beast like this.

But damn, she looked fierce. Clearly, she had no clue her “protection” was so feeble.

In response, the remaining highwayman raised his weapon, a Manton—an extremely accurate weapon, one with real bullets—and pointed it at Isobel’s heart.

Nick set his teeth, sucked in a breath, lifted the blunderbuss, and bounded out from his hiding place.

“Lower your weapon,” he commanded.

“Nick!” Isobel called. “You’ve come after me.”

“Aye. Of course I have,” he snarled, keeping his attention on the bastard with the Manton. He swiveled and pointed his barrel at Nick. Excellent.

Anywhere but Isobel.

He smiled, something snaggletoothed and evil. “Lower yours.”

“Doona point a gun at him,” Isobel snapped at the highwayman. Who, for some reason, ignored her.

“You should have run,” Nick told her, not taking his gaze from the brigand.