Page 128 of The Highlander Is All That

McCloud grimaced at his friend. “Since when have I been good?” he muttered.

The duke clapped him on the back. “A figure of speech, my man. A figure of speech.”

As much as these fellows amused him, Hamish was more than a trifle impatient—being so close to Elizabeth and all—so when Lady Helena barked, “Let’s get to it then,” he was more than happy to snap into action.

It took a moment for everyone to rearrange and then the coaches set off in a long line, leaving the duke, the earl, and a handful of servants next to the wrecked carriage.

“So annoying,” Lady Helena said as they trundled down the road. “I hate being held up.”

“As do I,” Hamish offered, but she merely glowered at him.

“Are you feeling all right?” McCloud asked. Apparently they’d been friends long enough that she would allow such an intimacy.

Or not. She glowered at him too.

McCloud merely grinned and patted her hand soothingly. “We’ll be there soon.”

But they weren’t. The Hobby Drive was rough and unfinished and jostled the coach terribly. By the time they reached the bluff overlooking the seaside town of Clovelly, it was full-on dark, which made it that much more difficult for the countess to point the way.

In the end, they had to stop at one of the other cottages to ask for directions.

And that was when Hamish heard it. The sound that made his blood go cold and his hackles rise.

A scream, wafting on the tangy sea breeze through the night.

A voice he recognized beyond all others.

Elizabeth.

Without a moment’s thought, he leaped from the coach and set off running in that direction.

* * *

“What are you doing here?” Elizabeth snapped at Twiggenberry, though it was a purely rhetorical question. She knew damned well what he was about.

His lip curled in a sneer. “I think you know, Elizabeth. You are coming with me. Now.”

She took a step back. “I most certainly am not.” She shot a glance around the small room and caught sight of the fireplace poker by the hearth. Before she could lunge for it, he caught her arm and towed her toward the door.

She fought with everything in her, but she was not nearly strong enough to break away.

“Here now. What is this?” Miss Claire’s stentorian tones rocked through the cottage.

Twiggenberry paused in his retreat. Winded from their tussle, he gasped for breath, still holding Elizabeth tight. “I am taking my bride,” he announced.

Miss Claire sniffed. “You most certainly are not.”

“I am. The banns are read. I have the license. I am taking her to All Saints’ now. We will be wed immediately.”

Oh hell no. Elizabeth lurched back, and when that didn’t work, she kicked Twiggy in the shins. He howled but only grasped her closer. “I won’t say the vows,” she bellowed.

His chuckle sent skitters down her spine. “You won’t need to. I have friends in the clergy who are more than happy to stand witness to our marital bliss. So come now.”

Having recovered his strength, he resumed his efforts and pulled her into the yard where, to her horror, his carriage awaited. As though she were thistledown, he whipped her into his arms and stuffed her inside.

Stuffed her, because she fought tooth and nail, grabbing at the doorjamb, writhing to loosen his hold, and howling her outrage. She probably could have wrestled her way free if there had not been another man inside. He grabbed her from behind and yanked her in. None too gently, he tossed her on the opposite seat and then blocked her escape.

The light hit his face and she recognized him as Twiggenberry’s friend, Blackworth. His grin was heinous. “My congratulations on your upcoming nuptials,” he said in an unctuous tone.