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Christ on the cross.

What in the bloody hell went on here? A robbery? It didn’t make sense. Why drive the ladies to this godforsaken spot? Especially in this rabid weather?

The fiend straightened his arm, aiming a weapon at the younger woman. “Say yer prayers, lass. ’Tis time to meet yer maker.”

Not if Liam could help it.

Wrenching his dirk from his belt, he released a warrior’s ferocious battle shout. Another peal of thunder split the turbulent shrapnel sky, muffling the bellow. He vaulted from the saddle. But before his feet hit the ground, the man, still grinning maniacally, pulled the trigger.

Nae!

“Non!” The skinny older woman threw herself in front of the other equally slender lady.

The taller female caught her companion in her arms, the momentum from the gunshot propelling them to the muddy ground.

“Nae! Nae! Naaee! Aunt Jeneva!” the woman cried hoarsely, hunched over her immobile aunt, patting her face. “Och, my God, ye unconscionable monster. I think…ye’ve killed her.”

Even as Liam surged across the remaining distance, the scunner’s face contorted into a devious smirk, and he calmly leveled the other pistol at her head.

Proud and gloriously defiant, the lass lifted her chin, her saturated bronze tresses spilling over the plain dark blue cloak covering her shoulders and spine. Such bravery in the face of terrifying peril could only be admired, and Liam’s warrior’s heart applauded her courage.

An instant later, an uncomfortable jolt speared his breast.

He recognized her.

She’d been at the cèilidh hosted by Graeme Kennedy a few weeks ago. And also at that ludicrous masked ball in Edinburgh Mother had insisted he escort his sister, Kendra, to.

“Why? Why are ye doin’ this?” she shakily asked, her delicate, stricken face streaked with tears and rain. “We’ve nae money or jewels. Nothin’ of value. We’re simple seamstresses.”

The wind whipping his hair, the coachman shrugged casually, as if they discussed the petulant weather. He hastily sliced his companion a sly, side-eyed look. “We’ve been paid handsomely to dispose of ye.”

Her mouth went slack, and a confused line appeared between her brows. “Ye must have the wrong person. I’m nae a threat to anyone. Neither was my aunt. We have nae enemies. Ye’ve made a horrendous mistake.”

“Nae. ’Tis nae mistake.” He grinned, exposing time-yellowed teeth and wobbled the gun’s muzzle up and down. “We made absolute sure of yer identity, Miss Emeline Toinette Jeneva LeClaire, didna we, Hamish?”

“Aye, that we did,” his compatriot agreed, returning his friend’s sneaky sidelong glance. “Such a fancy name. So ladylike. I still say we ought to sample the bonnie lass, Walter. Nae one will ever ken, and it seems such a waste no’ to. How often do we get to sink our wicks into a lady? A pretty one, too, even if she is a skinny rickle-a-bones lass.”

Over Liam’s dead body would they lay so much as a finger upon her.

Eyes rounding in comprehension, she blanched and cast a frantic glance to either side.

“Ye have a good point, my friend.” Walter licked his fat lips, his lewd gaze lingering on the gentle swells the cloak hid. “A verra good point. He didna say we couldna, did he? He only said to make sure she didna return to Edinburgh alive.”

Who, exactly, was the he they referred to?

This was no random robbery then. It was an assassination. Liam didn’t have time to ponder why, however, for the scoundrels were intent on ravishing the remaining woman before disposing of her as ordered.

All at once, the rotter became aware of Liam bearing down upon him—looking no doubt like a wrathful, bearded demon straight from the bowels of hell. His features contorting in fear and fury, the attacker staggered backward a step and veered the gun’s muzzle’ toward Liam.

“Ye’ll meet yer maker today, ye devil’s spawn,” Liam vowed in a guttural growl.

At a full sprint, he threw the dirk. Satisfaction flooded him as the blade lodged to the hilt in the blackguard’s throat, and a stream of crimson gushed forth.

His eyes wide and surprised, the blunderbusses tumbled from the bounder’s hands. Clutching his neck and making weird gurgling noises, he folded to his knees, then, ever-so-slowly, slumped forward.

Slapping a hand over her mouth, Emeline LeClaire choked on a gasp and speedily averted her attention from the grisly scene.

Yanking an evil-looking knife from his boot, the other churl crouched into a defensive position. He brandished the knife with the ease of someone accustomed to handling a blade.