Leading an obviously ill-treated nag by the reins, a man was trudging toward her, his boots squishing in the mud. Black eyes leered wildly from his rough-hewn face, which was dark with unshaven stubble that didn’t look anywhere near as bonnie as it had on the Englishman.
“What have we here?” he asked.
Caithren backed up. “I-I have no money,” she managed to stutter out. To demonstrate, she turned her pockets inside out, revealing naught but the miniature portrait of Adam, which she hastily shoved back inside.
Undaunted, the man dropped his mount’s reins and stepped closer. The horse looked too worn out to bother going anywhere. Even through the scents of rain and mud, the man’s stale, liquor-tinged breath choked Cait as he came near and peered into her face.
“P-please, sir. I haven’t anything you’d want.”
“We’ll see about that.” With a lunge, he tried to plunge one grimy hand down her bodice.
Horrified, she seized his wrist. “I have nothing! Unhand me!” Bile rose in her throat as panic tightened her chest. “Stop! Unhand me! Now!”
“No money in there?” The arm twisted in her grip. “Ah, but I wouldn’t say you have nothing.”
Anger and indignation boiled up. Cait’s other hand clenched round his thick neck, but though her vision blurred with the effort, he didn’t seem to notice. She yelled, kicking at his shins, but her injured ankle threw her off balance, and he was managing to back her up into the trees at the edge of the road.
His free hand reached down for her skirts as they stumbled together in the mud, a writhing mass of combat. Gathering her wits, she brought one knee up—hard. With a stunned grunt, the man pulled away and hunched over. But she knew he was only stymied, not beaten. She’d never outrun him with her hurt ankle.
If only she could get to his horse.
She sprang for the animal, but the man managed to snag her by the elbow. Still crouched, he whipped her back around. Thinking quickly, she gritted her teeth and thrust a hand inside his soggy, smelly coat, searching for a gun, a blade—
Her fingers closed on the grip of a knife. As she tugged it from its sheath, the man growled in rage and wrenched himself upright.
“Keep back!” Bravely, she brandished the knife in his face.
And a gunshot rang out.
The sheer shock of it forced her backward into the mud. As her bottom met the ground, her breath expelled in a rush and the knife dropped from her hand.
But the bullet hadn’t hit her. It had come from another direction.
The man turned and bolted for his horse. Hammering hoofbeats were drawing near—indeed, were it not for the pounding rain and the veil of her own fear, Cait knew she’d have heard the sound earlier.
Her attacker was mounted and moving before her rescuer arrived, slid from the saddle, and reached a hand to help her rise.
She looked up into the face of the Englishman.
She stared at him in disbelief. No matter where she went, he insisted on showing up. But she found herself incredibly grateful he’d shown up now. While she didn’t understand him, at least he’d never tried to take advantage.
She wiped her hands on her skirts, trying to erase the feel of the monstrous man who was riding away. With a lingering glance at the man’s retreating back, the Englishman pulled her into his arms.
“Are you hurt?”
Shuddering, she shook her head. It was the only answer she could manage. But she took comfort from his nearness, his warm body against hers.
“I can scarcely credit how much trouble you are,” he muttered, the words laced with a quiet fury.
She’d have felt better if he’d have just yelled at her. “What did you say?”
“I said, are you hurt?”
That wasn’t what he’d said. Certain they both knew it, she raised her chin. “Nay, only shaken a bit,” she said in a voice that indeed sounded shaken. She wished she could say it more bravely. Though she wanted nothing more than to stand on her own, her hands clamped around him convulsively.
She could still feel the awful man’s hands on her, and her ankle throbbed. But she wouldn’t cry. The Englishman had already said she was trouble, and she knew he hated her tears almost as much as she did.
Apparently satisfied she was unharmed, he set her away. Reluctantly, she let go. Her ankle shot fire as soon as she put weight on it, but she clenched her teeth and made no sound.
His voice was as calm as ever. “What on earth did you think you were doing, wandering alone in the middle of the night?”
He had the nerve to be outraged on her behalf? Protective? The cur. Anger coursed through her anew. “I was going back to the coach! To get my things and complete my journey! I was almost there, too. Just leave me be!”
He stared at her, his mouth working as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t think how to word it.
“I don’t need your help,” she added, though she wasn’t at all sure what would have happened if he hadn’t charged in on his silver horse. “I was taking care of myself just fine. I had a knife.”
“I could see that.” He eyed the dull gray blade in the mud. “And I saw you, um…with your knee…”
“Um-hmm.” She gave him a smug smile.
“But I’d expect that from Emerald MacCallum.”
“Very well, then,” she forced through gritted teeth. “I appreciate your gallant rescue, but now I’ll be on my way.”
Gathering what little was left of her composure, she swiveled, hobbled over to fetch the knife, and began limping down the road. She could feel his eyes on her back. One, two, three steps…four, five, six…
“Emerald.” His voice wasn’t reproving any longer—instead it sounded mocking. “Oh, Emerald…”
She didn’t stop. Her name wasn’t Emerald. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…
“You’re walking in the wrong direction.”
She dropped the knife back to the mud. He was behind her in a flash, his hands large
