“I told you we should have taken the packet,” Hamish grumbled as he stared at the broken axle on Moncrieff’s coach.

“The coaches are faster,” the duke insisted. Again.

Aye. When they dinna break down.

“We’re close to Woolfardisworthy,” James, the Earl of Darlington, said.

Woolfardisworthy? Hamish snorted. And these people thought the Highlands were the back of beyond?

“Let’s send the women in the other coaches to town and have them send back help.”

They had all come on this journey. This holiday. All ten of them. Hamish, McCloud, Lady Esmeralda, Victoria, the earl and his countess, the duke and his duchess, and, of course, Mary and her footman. It had been something like a traveling circus. Four coaches, three maids, and two grooms to boot.

For his part, Jamison was learning to hold his own with the powerful personalities in the company, which was saying a lot. Esmeralda had almost come to terms with the unconventional marriage of her youngest charge, although she still occasionally had fits of the vapors.

Hamish suspected this happened when she imagined she was not the center of attention.

At any rate, a broken axle this close to their goal was frustrating as hell.

If Hamish had his way, he would unhook one of the horses and ride bareback straight to Clovelly. Unfortunately, he had no idea where Elizabeth was living. Only Helena knew, because she’d visited once, and though she’d tried to give directions, the little town was convoluted, like an ouroboros, and no one could really understand the route. She would have to show them.

“Doona worry,” McCloud said, slapping him on the back. “We’ll find Lady Elizabeth soon.”

Hamish nodded to the Scotsman. “I know. But I just have this feeling. She needs me.”

“Of course she needs you,” the earl said blandly. “All women need their men.”

“It’s no’ that. I feel as though she’s . . . in trouble.”

Moncrieff and Darlington exchanged a glance. “It has been my experience that one should listen to those feelings,” the duke said.

“I agree.” The earl tapped his lip. “Perhaps Hamish should go with the women into Woolfardisworthy. Then he and Helena can head straight for Clovelly. That way, he can set his mind at ease today.”

“I should go along too,” Jamison said. “As added muscle.”

They all surveyed the boy. Though he was young and healthy, he was hardly muscled.

But Hamish liked Jamison, and assistance would be welcome if necessary, so he nodded.

“I’m far more menacing,” McCloud grumbled.

“That you are, my friend,” the duke snorted.

“Perhaps I should go as well.”

“And leave me here alone with Darlington?” Moncrieff jested.

“We could leave the servants,” James said.

“Bah.” The duke frowned. “We want it done right.”

“Come along then,” Lady Helena called from the coach. “What is the plan?”

Clearly, the countess was impatient. But then, Hamish had learned, women who were increasing often were.

“Darling,” James gushed.

“Don’t darling me,” she snapped. “What is the plan?”

The duke stepped forward and took charge as dukes were wont to do. “Lady Helena, it has been decided that the working carriages will go on to Woolfardisworthy and send back help while you escort Mr. Robb to Miss Claire’s house. Mr. Jamison and the good Mr. McCloud will go with you.

McCloud grimaced at his friend. “Since when have I been good?” he muttered.

The duke clapped him on the back. “A figure of speech, my man. A figure of speech.”

As much as these fellows amused him, Hamish was more than a trifle impatient—being so close to Elizabeth and all—so when Lady Helena barked, “Let’s get to it then,” he was more than happy to snap into action.

It took a moment for everyone to rearrange and then the coaches set off in a long line, leaving the duke, the earl, and a handful of servants next to the wrecked carriage.

“So annoying,” Lady Helena said as they trundled down the road. “I hate being held up.”

“As do I,” Hamish offered, but she merely glowered at him.

“Are you feeling all right?” McCloud asked. Apparently they’d been friends long enough that she would allow such an intimacy.

Or not. She glowered at him too.

McCloud merely grinned and patted her hand soothingly. “We’ll be there soon.”

But they weren’t. The Hobby Drive was rough and unfinished and jostled the coach terribly. By the time they reached the bluff overlooking the seaside town of Clovelly, it was full-on dark, which made it that much more difficult for the countess to point the way.

In the end, they had to stop at one of the other cottages to ask for directions.

And that was when Hamish heard it. The sound that made his blood go cold and his hackles rise.

A scream, wafting on the tangy sea breeze through the night.

A voice he recognized beyond all others.

Elizabeth.

Without a moment’s thought, he leaped from the coach and set off running in that direction.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth snapped at Twiggenberry, though it was a purely rhetorical question. She knew damned well what he was about.

His lip curled in a sneer. “I think you know, Elizabeth. You are coming with me. Now.”

She took a step back. “I most certainly am not.” She shot a glance around the small room and caught sight of the fireplace poker by the hearth. Before she could lunge for it, he caught her arm and towed her toward the door.

She fought with everything in her, but she was not nearly strong enough to break away.

“Here now. What is this?” Miss Claire’s stentorian tones rocked through the cottage.

Twiggenberry paused in his retreat. Winded from their tussle, he gasped for breath, still holding Elizabeth tight. “I am taking my bride,” he announced.

Miss Claire sniffed. “You most certainly are not.”

“I am. The banns are read. I have the license. I am taking her to All Saints’ now. We will be wed immediately.”

Oh hell no. Elizabeth lurched back, and when that didn’t work, she kicked Twiggy in the shins. He howled but only grasped her closer. “I won’t say the vows,” she bellowed.

His chuckle sent skitters down her spine. “You won’t need to. I have friends in the clergy who are more than happy to stand witness to our marital bliss. So come now.”

Having recovered his strength, he resumed his efforts and pulled her into the yard where, to her horror, his carriage awaited. As though she were thistledown, he whipped her into his arms and stuffed her inside.

Stuffed her, because she fought tooth and nail, grabbing at the doorjamb, writhing to loosen his hold, and howling her outrage. She probably could have wrestled her way free if there had not been another man inside. He grabbed her from behind and yanked her in. None too gently, he tossed her on the opposite seat and then blocked her escape.

The light hit his face and she recognized him as Twiggenberry’s friend, Blackworth. His grin was heinous. “My congratulations on your upcoming nuptials,” he said in an unctuous tone.

Alas, demure and elegant lady though she was, Elizabeth could not help herself.

She kicked Blackworth right in the stones.

His eyes crossed, his nostrils flared, and he wheezed out a groan as he fell back onto the other seat.

Elizabeth did not wait. She launched herself for the open door. Though Twiggenberry was in the process of climbing in, she had the momentum and pushed him back out. He fell on his arse with an oof.

Miss Claire—bless her heart—was at the ready with her cast-iron skillet. It connected with Twiggenberry’s head with a dull thud. His eyes crossed, he wheezed, and then he collapsed.

“Well, I never,” Miss Claire said.

Elizabeth laughed. “For someone who never has, you did well.”

“Thank you, my dear. It was rather satisfying.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Miss Claire surveyed the scene, the carriage, and the lump of Twiggenberry on the ground. “What do we do now?”

But it was beside the point, because Blackworth had recovered himself and came out of the carriage, snarling, “You bitch.” He came straight for Elizabeth with his hands bunched. Miss Claire swung at him with the skillet, but he dodged the swipe and grabbed Elizabeth by the waist.

She screamed and fought him as he dragged her back to the coach.

“You’re going to pay, my sweet,” he said. “When I’m finished with you, not even Twiggy will have you.”

Miss Claire came at him again, and Blackworth held on to Elizabeth with one hand while with the other he coldcocked dear, sweet Miss Claire in the cheek. She crumpled to the ground and didn’t move.

“No!” Elizabeth bellowed. “No!” She tried to make her way to her friend, but Blackworth was too strong. Much stronger than Twiggenberry and, truth be told, meaner.

“Shut up,” he snapped as he hefted her onto the floor of the carriage. To her horror, he crawled in on top of her and set his hand to her bodice . . . and yanked.

It came apart with a heart-rending rip.

Elizabeth tried to lift her knee, tried to connect with his tender bits, but he was expecting this and quickly immobilized her legs even as he wrenched up her hem. He held her hands together above her head and pinned her with his muscled weight. To her horror, she realized she couldn’t move. She was utterly at his mercy.

Pity he had none.

He caught her expression and laughed. “Not so bloody arrogant now, are you, Lady Elizabeth?”

“You bastard,” she cried, trying to roll him off to the side. But the floor of the carriage was too narrow for any such maneuvers and she realized there was nothing she could do to save herself from this horror.

Absolutely nothing.

A dark cloud shadowed her vision, cutting out the light from the cottage.

She closed her eyes as Blackworth rose up and prepared to take that which she did not want to give.

When he continued to rise, when his weight lifted from her altogether, when his dark chuckle was replaced with something of a squawk, she had to peek.

Though her head was spinning and she wasn’t sure if she was imagining this sight, it thrilled her to the core.

For there was an enormous red-haired Scotsman with adorably familiar features, holding Blackworth by his cravat and pounding the ever-loving stuffing out of him.

Cautiously, Elizabeth sat up, found her balance, and then stepped out of the carriage.

Her knees failed her, but Jamison was there to catch her.

She didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why Jamison was there to catch her, but she was thankful for it.

“Are you all right, Lady Elizabeth?”

She blinked and focused her attention on another man. It took a moment to recognize Violet’s husband, Ewan McCloud.

He was here too?

But again, she didn’t have the wherewithal to think on it. “I’m . . . fine,” she said.

McCloud frowned. “Take her inside,” he said to Jamison. “I think she’s in shock.”

“No,” she said, turning back to Hamish, who was still battering Blackworth. “I want to watch.”

McCloud chuckled. “Bloodthirsty wench.”

Some semblance of sanity returned, and Elizabeth’s gaze went to Miss Claire. “Please help her,” she said, and Jamison complied, leaving Elizabeth’s side to lift Miss Claire and carry her into the cottage.

“Well, really,” a crisp female voice echoed through the night. Elizabeth was delighted to recognize Helena, the Countess of Darlington, as she emerged from the shadows. She set her gaze on Hamish and his battering. “How long is this going to continue?” she asked, crossing her arms.

McCloud shrugged. “Til Hamish gets it out of his system, I imagine.”

And they all stood and watched for a minute more.

It was clear Hamish was flagging, but it didn’t much matter to Blackworth.

“Do you want me to take over?” McCloud called.

Hamish glared at him.

“Really, darling,” the countess remarked. “I think he’s had enough. Perhaps we should tie them up and contact the magistrate?”

“Aye,” McCloud said. “You doona want to murder him.”

“Do I no’?” Hamish bellowed, taking one more vicious punch.

McCloud snorted. “Nae. Far too much paperwork . . . in my humble opinion.”

Hamish paused, took a deep breath, and let Blackworth fall to the ground. The man issued a wheeze of relief. Then Hamish turned to Elizabeth. “Are you all right?” he asked, which, she considered, was a little late in the day.

“She’s fine,” McCloud said. “Come on. Let’s get these blackhearts trussed up.”

Jamison returned from the cottage with ropes and while the men tended to this business, the countess took Elizabeth’s arm and led her inside. “You’ve had quite a fright,” she said.

Elizabeth nodded. What else could she say?

To her surprise, Helena Tully, Countess of Darlington, bustled around the kitchen, making tea. While they were waiting for the water to boil, Elizabeth saw to Miss Claire, who was rousing. There was a terrible bruise on her cheek, which Elizabeth bathed with a cool cloth.

“That bastard,” Helena said as she helped Miss Claire sit.

Miss Claire stared at Helena for a moment and then cooed. “Is it really you, my darling?”

“It is,” Helena said. “I’ve come for a visit. And not a moment too soon, it seems.”

“She brought Scotsmen with her,” Elizabeth said. “They saved the day.”

Helena smiled. “Indeed they did.”

Elizabeth frowned. Now that the shock was beginning to wane, her fury rose to the fore. “That Twiggenberry is a rotter.”

Miss Claire shook her head. “I must say, I never thought he would go to such lengths to marry you.”

Lady Helena laughed. “Of course he would. He was desperate.”

Elizabeth blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently he had debts coming due and needed your dowry.”

“But . . . What about his ten thousand a year?”

The countess sniffed. “According to James, he’s been gambling heavily for years. So much so, he lost the principal. There is no ten thousand a year.”

“That bastard.”

They both turned and stared at Miss Claire, who looked far too innocent for such vulgarity. And then they both broke out in peals of laughter.