Sin inhaled sharply. He grabbed the saddle’s pommel and kicked his right foot out of its stirrup.
The first thief aimed the barrel of his pistol at him. “We didnae say ye could move.”
Sin forced his expression to remain neutral, to keep the snarl from his voice. “If you want my coin, I’ll have to dismount in order to retrieve it.”
The second thief sidled over to the carriage, getting much too close to the door that lay between him and Winnifred.
Sin’s knuckles went white around the reins.
The first thief nodded. “Slowly.”
Sin assessed the men as he climbed down. Not much muscle on either of them. Probably been a while since their last meal. Easily defeated.
“You’re bringing your trade a bit south, aren’t you?” Sin rubbed his horse’s nose.
“Better to relieve the English of their money.” The man adjusted his handkerchief. “But a Scottish toff will do.”
His driver and valet both eased to the edge of the seat. Sin met their gaze and gave a small nod. When he hired his servants, the ability to fight was a requirement, as well. He didn’t have to worry about them. But one stray bullet near his wife ….
He reached into his saddle bag, slowly so the thief could see his movements, and drew out a large pouch of coins. The fight played out in his head. He’d toss the man the bag, wait till his greedy gaze focused on the flying pouch, and follow it in with a sound beating. Dugald would pounce on the second man, and Gregor would follow to assist. They’d been in such situations before. It would be as choreographed as a play.
If only all the actors kept to the script.
“Who do we have in here?” the second thief asked.
Sin couldn’t see him behind the carriage, but he heard well enough when the bounder pulled open the opposite door.
All thoughts of the normal plan of action were erased from his mind, pushed out by a blinding rage. Dropping the bag, he took the two steps to the carriage door on his side and yanked it open.
The thief blinked. His hand clutched Winnifred’s skirts and the gun he held pointed carelessly at the ceiling.
Sin’s gaze narrowed on the filthy hand touching his wife’s gown. Heat exploded in his chest.
The man reached for Winnifred’s arm as he dropped the pistol towards Sin.
With a roar, Sin reached through the cabin, grabbing the man by the wrist and the front of his shirt. Bones shifted, cracked under his grip, and the man screamed as Sin hauled him across the floor of the carriage, ripping his handkerchief off his face, and throwing him headfirst into the dirt.
A shot went off, and Sin didn’t know if it was from his victim’s pistol or the other thief’s. He didn’t care. He pounded his fist into the man’s face, enjoying the spray of blood from his nose. He’d touched his wife.Pound. Held a weapon near her.Pound, pound, pound/smash. Dared to threaten something that was Sin’s.
The man was limp in his grip, but still Sin hit him until the features on his face were unrecognizable.
Two gloved hands grabbed his arm, a tuft of lace at the hems blowing in the breeze.
It wasn’t the strength in the hold that stopped him as there was barely any. It was the sight of that damned lace that brought him to his senses. His vision widened from its narrow focus on his victim. His driver stood over a kneeling highwayman, holding a short blunderbuss to his head. His valet scooped up his dropped bag of coin. All was well.
He dropped the unconscious man and turned, chest heaving.
For once, Winnifred’s face was completely readable. Her eyes were wide with shock, her mouth open in a perfect circle.
He gripped her shoulders, turning her about to look for injury. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”
“Yes. No.” She stumbled on the hand of the unconscious man.
Curling an arm around her waist, he lifted her away from the man’s body and tucked her behind the carriage. “Which is it? Yes or no.”
“Yes, I’m all right.” She curled her body to peer back toward the carnage. “No, I’m not hurt. I can’t believe what you did.”
Sin swallowed. It wasn’t something a woman should have to see. The violence he was capable of. A woman as controlled as Winnifred wouldn’t want a brute for a husband. But that’s what she’d got. He was a blunt instrument. He wasn’t patient like his friend Montague, thinking of a solution when fist would do instead. Not sly like Summerset who preferred a surprise attack so his clothes wouldn’t get ruffled. Sin used his fists. He beat threats into submission. He wasn’t ashamed of his brutality, but it wasn’t something he necessarily wanted to show off to his bride.
