Adventures of a Scottish Heiress by Cathy Maxwell

side by side, quiet as hunted rabbits, she remembered that even a so-called gentleman would take advantage of a woman if he thought her beneath him. She’d learned to be wise to the nuances of male behavior and knew how to protect her reputation. She’d even administered a slap or two.
    But the Irishman was a completely different species of the male sex than any who had crossed her path before.
    This time, he broke the silence, his voice low and deep in the darkness. “If they discover us, I want you to run as fast as you can. Don’t worry about where you are going, just keep moving.”
    “What about you? Where will you be?”
    “I’ll hold them off here.”
    Her pique of temper vanished. “You can’t do that. There are at least two or three or more of them. And they are armed.”
    The flash of even white teeth gave his grin a wolfish expression. “ Now you are worried about me? Miss Harrell, you could have saved us all the trouble by staying quietly in your bed back in London.”
    His criticism hit home—especially when she thought about how completely she’d been gulled by her Gypsy imposter friends. The feel of the tarot card tucked in her bosom only rankled her more. “I doubt if I’m much trouble to you. Not with the reward I’m certain my father is paying.”
    “You would be less trouble if you would be quiet.”
    Lyssa’s temper flared red. Didn’t he know who she was? Who her father was? The man paying him?
    And she was going to tell him. She was going to rise up and give him a piece of her mind—
    His hand clamped over her mouth. He lay one leg over hers, pushing her down to the ground while his right hand above her head raised the pistol. His thumb cocked the hammer.
    Startled, she listened and heard what he’d heard: the sound of men beating through the bushes.
    She edged closer to him. He removed his hand from her mouth and placed his arm protectively around her.
    A moment later, their pursuers stood mere feet from when they hid. One man held a lantern, and Lyssa, too frightened to move, prayed she’d pulled in all of her plaid so it could not be seen from the road.
    Go on by, go on by , she wanted to whisper to them, and for a moment she thought they would—until the beat of horses’ hooves vibrated through the ground.
    Two mounted men rode up and her mind frantically attempted to assimilate the horrid fact that a party of over five men had been sent to murder her. She leaned even closer against the Irishman.
    “Have you seen anything?” one man asked the riders.
    “Nothing. But hell couldn’t be blacker than this night.”
    “A big man like Campion couldn’t hide, no matter where,” said a man with a muffled voice.
    “Well, he has, damn him,” the rider countered with no small amount of frustration. He had a deep bass voice that sounded as if it came up all the way from his toes. A voice that would be hard to forget. An English voice.
    His companion on horseback added, “Not onlythat, who would have thought he’d fight instead of turning tail and leaving the girl to us? What’s she to him?”
    “Money,” the first rider answered. “Well, we’re wasting our time at this point. How’s your nose?”
    “Broken. The bloody sod will pay for it when I get my hands on him,” the muffled voice responded, and Lyssa knew this must be Mason. So, the Irishman hadn’t killed him. Now Lyssa wished he had.
    One of the others asked, “What do you want to do, Fielder? Your call.” They all had London accents.
    Mason growled out that he wasn’t leaving until the deed was done. “She could have seen me. I’ve no desire to have my neck stretched for attempting murder. And beware, lads, if I go, you’ll all go.”
    Even from her position on the ground, Lyssa could sense an instant negative response to his words from the others. No one liked to be threatened, especially murderers. Two of his comrades started to complain, but the man called Fielder, the one with the deep voice, cut them