A Highwayman's Honor: (A Highland Highwayman Novella #1) Read Free Page A

lingered, pausing to look back at him. Something caught her gaze and she turned. Her dagger lay near a small bush, gleaming in the moonlight. She bent to retrieve it, straightening with it in her hand.
    “Blade!” Will yelled, drawing his pistol.
    John and Philip shouted, but Will’s finger had already tightened on the trigger. A shot rang out.
    And Elizabet fell.
     
    * * *
     
    The coach horses reared and bolted, taking with them the carriage containing her parents. They were out of sight within moments. Elizabet lay motionless on the ground. She must have lost consciousness for a moment because the next thing she was aware of was shouting. One of the men shouting at the one who’d shot her, jerking his gun from his hand. The bastard didn’t put up a fight. Good. At least she didn’t have to worry about getting shot again. He just stared at her mumbling, “She had a blade,” over and over.
    The Highland Highwayman ignored him and rushed to her. She wished she knew his actual name. Saying the Highland Highwayman was a bit of a mouthful. Not that she’d be saying it much. Though even thinking it was a bit much. It occurred to her she might be rambling. Her thoughts, that is. Also, she didn’t feel much pain. She’d just been shot. Shouldn’t it hurt?
    The highwayman dropped to his knees by her side. He laid his fingers on the pulse at her neck. That felt nice. Soft and tender.
    She was definitely rambling.
    “Faint, but steady,” he said.
    “I like your voice,” she murmured.
    He gave her a wry smile and laid his hand on her cheek. “Just lie still, lass.”
    He pulled aside layers of velvet and lace until he located the wound.
    “Am I dying?” she whispered, strangely not all that curious about the answer. Shouldn’t she be? Seemed like something that should matter to her.
    “No. The bullet pierced your upper arm. A clean shot, at least. All the way through.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I won’t have to dig for it, at least.”
    “That’s good,” she said, her voice faint and slurred to her ears.
    “That’s very good.”
    “Sir,” one of the men said. The one who hadn’t shot her. “We need to be going.”
    The highwayman nodded. “Aye.” He swept his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it about her. “Hold tight, love. I’ll try not to jostle you too much.”
    Before she could respond, he’d scooped her into his arms. She thought the other man protested. But she kept moving so her highwayman must not agree. She didn’t remember much after he got her on the horse and climbed up behind her. He kept her tight against his chest. He was warm. Solid. She’d just been shot and was being carried off to who-knew-where by a highwayman whose mate had shot her. She should be terrified. Screaming. Calling for help.
    Instead, she slumped back against him, sighed when his arm drew her closer, and drifted away. The next several hours were a blur. The occasional jarring of her shoulder would jerk her awake periodically, sending white-hot pain shooting through her arm. At some point they stopped and she felt herself being lifted from the horse. Carried inside. Someplace warm. Something soft beneath her.
    She sighed and burrowed deep into pillows beneath her head. And gave into the darkness that pulled at her.
     
    * * *
     
    Warm sunlight filtered over Elizabet’s face and she carefully cracked open an eye. Her whole body ached. She closed her eyes and shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot. The jolt of pain burning through her shoulder had her instantly awake and gasping.
    “Lie still,” a deep voice said.
    She turned her head, her eyes watering. “Where am I?” Her voice rasped and a man came into view and handed her a cup.
    “Water,” he said. “Drink.”
    She frowned at him, recognizing her highwayman from the previous night. She could hardly help but recognize him. He still wore his mask.
    She took a deep drink and handed the cup back to him. “Wear that everywhere, do you?” she