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“There are menservants in the house and the stables,” Matilda added, her tone flat and matter-of-fact.

Desmond sighed, the exaggerated exhalation betraying his growing impatience.

“I’ll shoot the first woman who screams.” He spoke smoothly but with murderous intent.

The women’s simultaneous gasp sent a dove to flight.

Shelby didn’t need to see to know Desmond had lifted his weapon and likely aimed it at Roxina or one of the other women.

“But I still intend to take Miss Danforth, with or without your cooperation.” Desmond spoke with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way—the leader of a feral gang of highwaymen who cared for no one and nothing beyond himself.

Roxina’s voice rang out, clear and sure. “If I come willingly, will you leave my friends unharmed?”

No, Roxina.

Shelby should have expected her bravado, but dread roared through him all the same. Of course, she would offer herself to spare the others.

Stubborn, reckless, infuriating, endearing, incomparable woman.

“Hmm,” Desmond hummed as if considering. “Tempting, my dear, but I find it amusing how you assume your surrender holds any sway over my actions.”

Footfalls soundless against the lush grass, Shelby crept closer—every muscle coiled, every sense tuned to the menacing energy crackling in the air. Moisture broke out across his forehead, and a bead of sweat trailed down his temple, but his grip on his pistol never faltered.

The breeze shifted, carrying the scent of gun oil and fetid unwashed bodies—Desmond’s men were close.

Shelby adjusted his stance, readying himself for the inevitable confrontation.

He stepped into the gate opening. “There’s no need for you to sacrifice yourself, Roxina.”

“Shelby.”

Roxina’s whisper carried through the garden, edged with relief and dread.

Desmond’s entire frame went rigid.

So, Shelby had surprised the craven cur.

That brought a great sense of satisfaction, but gloating would have to wait.

“I wouldn’t move, not even to breathe.” A pistol pointed at the miscreants, Robyn approached, his visage fiercer than Shelby had ever recalled. His usual affable demeanor had vanished, replaced by an iron-hard expression that would make lesser men tremble.

Robyn’s stony gaze softened as it swept over his sister and then the other women, lingering a moment on Georgine before his features hardened once more into unyielding lines.

He casually waved his pistol barrel between the intruders. “I’ll thank you to stop pointing your weapons at the women.”

“You have but a single shot,” Desmond sneered, curling his lips into a feral snarl as he shifted his grip on his pistol. “You cannot shoot all three of us.”

“Ah, but there are three of us, as well.”

Desmond jerked his head toward Honeybrook, who emerged from behind a Portuguese laurel bush, his weapon leveled and expression murderous.

“And I’ll wager this commotion has servants and townspeople descending upon the gardens within seconds. This is a battle you shall not win.” Honeybrook’s too-smooth tenor sent a chill up Shelby’s spine.

“Oh, thank God.” Claire Granlund pressed a hand to her chest, her eyes unnaturally bright. “We are saved.”

Shelby wasn’t ready to thank the Lord just yet.

Desmond and his hirelings still wielded their pistols, and desperate men made reckless decisions.