Page 48 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
“Nae. A few bumps and bruises.” Gavin took a half step backward. “It wasnae an accident, ye ken. The driver wore a hood so we couldnae see his face. And he rammed into us thrice, then drove off without stopping.”
“And you left her?” Coll could barely spit out the words. His heart pounded; he’d guessed wrong and she might have been… she might have been killed.
“I saw her home and had that skinny lad secure the house. I told him to nae open the front door until ye arrived. I had to come fetch ye, m’laird, or I wouldnae have le—”
“How did ye get here?” Coll broke in, striding for the door and dragging the groom with him.
“I stopped by Oswell House for a horse. And I brought Nuckelavee with me. The pretty-dressed lads out front are holding him for ye, hopefully.”
“Good.” Brushing passed a surprised-looking footman, Coll shoved open the front door and trotted down the trio of steps. Nuckelavee whinnied when the stallion saw him, pulling free of the clearly terrified groom and charging to the foot of the steps. “Come with me, Gavin. I may need more help.”
“Aye.”
Swinging into the saddle, Coll reined in the black long enough for Gavin to mount the gelding he’d brought along. “Ye did well, Gavin. I’m grateful.”
The groom gave a solemn nod. “The lass’s first question when I pulled her out of the coach was whether the driver and I were injured. She offered to purchase the lada new coach or pay for the repair of the mangled one. She’s abean-ghaisgeil.”
Aye, she was a brave woman. And he’d been a damned fool to leave her safety to someone else, even a man he trusted as much as he did Gavin Corbat. As soon as they cleared the crush of waiting coaches, he kicked Nuckelavee in the ribs. The big war horse snorted, accelerating into a smooth, effortless gallop.
Someone had tried to kill the lass. And this time, they’d nearly succeeded.
If he’d needed an additional sign to tell him how he truly felt about her, the black fury and fear that boiled his blood made it plain enough. Persephone Jones was the lass he wanted. Damn all propriety and tradition that said he couldn’t have her. And damn anyone who tried to stop him.
Chapter Ten
“False face must hide what the false heart doth know.”
MACBETH,MACBETHACT I, SCENE VII
Persephone paced from her bed to her door and back again. The heavy lilac curtains in her bed chamber stood closed, but she stayed clear of them anyway. No sense in tempting fate if someone happened to be lurking outside, waiting with a rifle in hand for a likely silhouette.Good Lord, had it truly come to that?
Returning to her door, she faced the bed. Her portmanteau sat there, open, waiting to be filled. That was what she should be doing. A few gowns, a few wigs, some shoes, a shawl, and all the money she had to hand. Everything else she needed, she could send for when she found somewhere safe, or she could simply purchase anew. Yes, that would be wiser.
Still, though, she hesitated. Gregory would likely come with her if she asked; he had only his brother nearby. Flora wouldn’t leave London, not with her daughter Beth still employed at the Saint Genesius and her grandbabies living in Charing Cross. And the theater—they could move Jenny over to play Lady Macbeth, but Charlie already had leaflets printed and advertisements paid for. She had a contract through next Season, and breaking it would break her heart.
Even with all that, it wasn’t those things that had her portmanteau still empty. For that, she could blame a mountain of a Highlander with deep green eyes, a hearty laugh, and a face over which even Michelangelo would weep with envy. For heaven’s sake, she’d only known Coll MacTaggert a few days. To pin any hopes and dreams on him at all was the height of foolishness. To think of trusting him… It had to be desperation.
A trio of knocks at the front door thudded so hard they rattled the windows upstairs. Persephone jumped, her hand going to her heart as the muscle nearly leaped out of her chest. It had to be Coll. But if it wasn’t…
Taking a quick breath, she ran to her nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out the small, cloth-wrapped bundle she kept there: a small flintlock pistol, more suited for hiding in a man’s coat as protection against highwaymen than for stopping a killer, but she freed the Queen Anne pistol, cocked it, and aimed it at her door anyway.
The latch rattled, swiftly followed by a hard thump. “Persephone,” Coll called in his low brogue. “It’s me, lass.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” Lowering the pistol, she ran forward and unlocked her door.
Coll stood there, dressed in a fine black coat, a very fashionable cravat, blue trousers stuffed into Hessian boots, and a black waistcoat embroidered with purple thistles. Barely taking the time to note how odd it was to see him not in a kilt, she wrapped her arms around his solid chest and tucked her face into his shoulder.
“Thank you for coming,” she whispered, trying to stop the sudden tears from filling her eyes.
“Of course, I came,” he returned, pulling the pistol from her fingers and pocketing it. “Gavin said yer coach rolled over. Are ye injured?”
She shook her head, digging her hands tighter into his coat. “Just bruises and scrapes.”
“Have ye eaten?”
Persephone lifted her head to look up at his face. “Food?”
“I dunnae know about ye, lass, but I’ve been dancing and leaping about all evening. I could eat an entire heifer.”
