Page 127 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

There was more than one of them.

Blast.

She had no idea how many bullets Matilda held, if any.

Ah well. There was nothing for it. She tucked the tiny pistol into the pocket of her traveling dress and levered herself up and out the door, onto the upturned side of the coach.

“Oh, my,” she said. “It’s so high.”

One of the bandits muttered a curse and then, grumping all the way, came over to the carriage. He tucked his pistol into his belt and held out his arms. “Jump into my arms. I’ll catch you.”

“I couldn’t,” she squealed. She hoped it was an approximate reproduction of how a craven girl would sound. She had no clue.

“Jump, damn it!”

So she did. She made sure to gore the man with as many knees and elbows as possible and yes, he collapsed to the ground beneath her weight.

“Bloody hell,” he snapped, pushing her off onto the dirt of the road.

“How rude,” she sniffed.

He scrambled to his feet and glowered at her.

“Are you no’ going to help me up?” she asked, holding out a hand.

He glared at his companion and then, grudgingly, tugged her to her feet. She sniffed and brushed her skirts.

“How many passengers?” the first highwayman growled, waggling his weapon at her face.

She gingerly pressed it away with two fingers. “Just one, but I think he’s dead.” Though she hoped he was not, it was better if they thought it was so.

“These two are dead,” the other said, kicking the driver, who had unfortunately flown through the air and landed on a stump at the side of the road. The guard, who’d been riding on the back with the mail box, was crumpled beside the coach.

“Good.” The lead highwayman grinned at his companion. “No heroes today. Let’s see what we have.”

The second man nodded and bent to fish for the keys to the lockbox from the guard’s pockets. He opened the box and rummaged through the contents by the light of a lamp as the other kept his pistol trained on Isobel.

As he did, she studied him. He was nothing like she expected of a highwayman.

Not tall or dark or even remotely romantic, as one would think a highwayman to be. He was short and squat and had a scraggly beard and ragged clothes and was missing some teeth.

It was a disappointment indeed.

“Do you do this often?” she asked. Partly to throw him off his guard, and partly because she was interested.

“Huh? What?”

“Do you do this often?” she repeated.

He glowered at her. “Often enough. Now shut up while we work.”

“We should tie her up,” the other said.

Isobel scowled at him. “You most certainly will not.”

He ignored her. “We need to get into the coach and it’ll take both of us. We don’t want her escaping.”

She didn’t like the way they both smiled. It made her blood go cold.