Page 3 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

He tightened his hold on her.

Dear God, he was strong, this beastly highwayman.

“Hold still,” he snapped. “You’ll fall.”

Of course she wanted to fall. She wanted to hit the ground before he did so she had time to retrieve her blade from the scabbard on her thigh before he caught her again.

What a pity he didn’t let her fall. He held her even tighter—she could barely breathe—and pulled on the reins to slow his mount.

Before she had time to react, he’d slipped off and was helping her down.

Helping her down.

No one had ever helped her down. She’d never allowed it.

The man was, in a word, infuriating.

Once her feet hit the ground she elbowed him in the stomach and whirled away. She glared at him, though he was unaware of this, doubled over and wheezing as he was. This gave her time to free her blade and point it in his general direction, so when he recovered himself, when he stood and stared at her, it was, indeed, a fearsome sight he saw.

She had no earthly idea why he laughed.

No earthly idea why her first glimpse of him—this bandit who had just impugned her person—made her heart stop.

Oh, he was handsome, for sure, with dark eyes and rampant black curls. There was a birthmark just above his lip that gave him a rakish air, and the hint of a scar bisected his left eyebrow. But his smile was white and broad and caused an irksome raft of dimples to erupt on his cheek.

He wore the stained, frayed clothes of a workingman, with boots caked in mud.

And good lord, he was tall. Tall and muscled and exquisitely formed.

She wasn’t sure which of his perfections annoyed her more.

And then he spoke, and she knew for certain. It was his voice, a mellifluous tenor, crisp with British superiority and the hint of a laugh.

She abhorred being laughed at.

“Well,” he said, nodding at her knife—which, in retrospect, seemed far too small. “Aren’t you the fierce one?”

It took a moment to stifle her growl. No doubt it would give him even more to mock. “What do you expect? You chased me. Grabbed me from behind. Manhandled me.”

His eyes widened and he stared at her for a moment, then his grin widened. “You’re a Scot.” Not a question.

“You’re bluidy right I am, so don’t try anything. You’ll not be the first man I’ve skewered.”

A laugh. “I don’t doubt it for a moment.” He continued studying her, though, in a way that made her skin prickle.

“What?” she said, breaking the silence against her will.

He shrugged, some lazy careless gesture that made her want to smack his supercilious face. “I just thought all Scottish lasses had red hair, is all.”

“Did you now?” Did he want to see red? Well, it danced before her eyes.

He must have realized his comment incensed her, because he laughed again. “Doona skewer me, lass,” he said in a perfect brogue. For some reason, that made her even angrier.

“Why no’? Are you no’ a highwayman, come to rob me?”

“A highwayman?” His beautiful perfect brows lifted in mock surprise. He had the audacity to bow before her. “My lady, I’ve just saved your life.”

She gaped at him. She was aware she was gaping, like a landed cod, but could not manage to form words.