It is said that there was nothing as swift as a mail coach, and Isobel, who had never ridden in one before, was stunned at how true this was. From the moment the mail box lids clanged down and the driver yelled hee, they fairly flew from the stable yard—though it was impossibly crowded—and pounded down the road out of town. She had to hold on to a strap to keep from slamming into the man next to her, though he was well cushioned.

There were not many passengers on the mail coach to Inverness via York on this day—only Isobel and her companion—which was a mercy as the mail coaches were usually overflowing, to include people clinging on outside. But the dearth of paying passengers was made up for with packages aplenty. They were piled high on the far bench and on the floor. While Isobel had room to stretch out her legs, the jostling of the coach had parcels and bundles tipping onto her with each sharp turn.

Her companion, a Mr. Breedlebum heading for York, was a chatty type. Isobel learned all about his thriving textile business, his wife and six children, and his favorite hunting dog. He shared his supper with her, an apple and some cheese, for which she was grateful, because she hadn’t thought, in her haste, to bring food.

Mr. Breedlebum told her he spent a lot of time on the road and shared some of his experiences, including a time when he was actually robbed by a highwayman.

That, of course, seemed very thrilling.

“What did you do?” she asked.

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.

Her hand stole over her stomach and her breath caught. A little boy, just like him.

Did a son need a father more than a daughter?

And then, yet another terrible realization. If she did have a boy, she’d be robbing him of more than a father.

She would be robbing him of a legacy.

The boy who would one day have been a duke would have no title whatsoever, other than bastard.

She’d never cared what people called her, in the years before her mother married Andrew. But for some reason, the thought of them disparaging her son—if, indeed, there was to be one—mortified her.

How dare they?

How dare they?

It took a moment for her to remember this was all supposition, but still, her fury remained.

The world was a harsh place. Even she, as the niece of a duke and a baron, had seen it. Did she have the right to deny any element of safety to her child?

For what?

Her own selfish desire to be free?

She huffed a slightly damp laugh. What was freedom? Was this it? How glorious was it then to be on her own in the world?

Even her beloved family could not fill the void that Nick’s absence created.

Everything about him fed her soul. His laugh. His smile. His touch.

What was it about her that made her want to run?

Ah. She knew and the realization humbled her.

It was fear.

The thing she had always fought, resisted, and despised.

And it lived within her. Coiled in her belly.

Controlled her.

Owned her.

Would she let it?

If she continued on this course, she would have succumbed to it. And she would, ever and always, be alone.

A cold wind blew through her.

Only now did she realize what a fool she had been.

When it was far too late.

But . . . was it?

Her heart stuttered as she realized it was not.

She could leave this coach at the next stop—no matter how brief it was—and catch the next coach back to London.

She could return to him. Beg his forgiveness. Confess the love that terrified her.

She could—

The coach took a violent lurch to the right, going up on two wheels. The horses screamed. Isobel slammed into the door and then was slammed again when her companion smashed against her. His weight was suffocating. But then it was gone as the coach went back onto four wheels again with a shuddering thud.

She’d barely caught her breath, barely registered Mr. Breedlebum’s curses, when the coach began to tip again, in the opposite direction. Isobel fell to the left, thankfully onto that soft cushion, as the coach teetered and wobbled and then, finally, turned on its side with an earsplitting crash.

And then, all was silent, still, but for the stamping and snorting of the horses.

Isobel, somewhat stunned, needed a moment. Her head was spinning and there was an ache in her shoulder and a pile of packages on her person.

With great effort, she pushed them off, against the upturned floor of the carriage. Then she turned her attention to Mr. Breedlebum. Though she called to him and shook his shoulder, he didn’t respond. In the dark of the coach, it was impossible to tell if he was dead, or merely knocked out, but it hardly mattered. There was nothing she could do for him in either case.

She crawled up onto the pile of packages, opened the side door, and peered out.

Both the driver and the mail guard had been thrown to the side of the road and were not moving. The horses, frantic and fretful, stamped at the road.

Her first thought was to get to them and calm them, lest they drag the coach.

But then she noticed something . . . strange. It was dark, with only a sliver of a moon, but she could make out the shape of something in front of the coach.

Her heart clenched as she realized what it was.

Someone had felled a tree across the road.

She’d read enough gothic novels to know what this was.

And indeed, at that moment a shadowy figure emerged from the woods and cried, “Stand and deliver.”

Egads.

An actual highwayman.

He spotted her and raised his weapon. A shiver skittered up her spine.

“You. Girl. Come out.”

Her blood went cold as an unfamiliar dread coursed through her. Not for her own well-being—she’d never feared for that—but for the child she might be carrying. Nick’s child.

Suddenly everything was so clear.

Threat of death did that, she supposed.

Nothing mattered but the safety of this child.

Nothing.

“Yes of course,” she called in a frightened voice, then she feigned a fall and oofed loudly as she dropped onto Mr. Breedlebum. “I’m coming,” she said as she felt around in his pocket for Matilda.

As her fingers closed on the small weapon, her heart lifted. It wasn’t a bow, but it was something. And he wouldn’t be expecting a helpless girl to be armed. Hopefully.

Maybe she could take him by surprise.

He wouldn’t be the first armed man she’d faced.

But stakes had never been this high.

“Hurry up, or we’ll come in after you,” a different voice bellowed. Isobel stilled.

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.

“Why do you no’ want me to escape?” she asked.

The ugly, scraggly one chuckled. “Because you’re a prime piece.” He waggled his brows.

“And,” the other one said, “we’re takin’ you with us.”

It hit her then, cold and hard, the realization of the danger she was in. What these men could and probably would do to her in their den or wherever it was they called home.

As they came at her, one of them carrying a length of rope, it rose up in her, the fear, the horror, the regret. Why had she not just been happy with what she’d had? It had been amazing. It had been wonderful and perfect.

But she’d turned her back on it, and now this was her fate.

Bile tickled the back of her throat as the brigands seized her and roughly tied her hands together. It rose and rose, swelling to an unsustainable bitterness.

She opened her mouth and released it. Mr. Breedlebum’s apples and cheese, and anything else she’d eaten that day.

She released it.

All over the highwaymen.