The Laird’s Christmas Kiss (The Lairds Most Likely 2)

“No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.

“Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.

“But the horses, my lord—”

“They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”

Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.

“Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”

“Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.

He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.

“My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.

Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.

“The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.

“Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.

“Oofff,” she gasped as, with little ceremony, he hauled her off the step.

“And stay there, ye wee besom,” he said, plopping her back on the road with no great expectation she’d heed him. She hadn’t yet.

If he had time, he might call her unwomanly. If he had time, his appreciation for those fine eyes might convince him she was very much a woman after all. “You’re getting in the way.”

“My father isn’t a small man,” the woman said breathlessly, as she staggered to keep her feet. He noted that, unlike her father, she spoke English with the clipped accents of the upper classes. Perhaps once they were out of this blasted mess, he’d find out why. “You’ll need help.”

“I’m sure I can manage, madam.” He didn’t delay to make sure she was all right. Using his sleeve to brush the glass shards from the seat, he leaned in to assess what he needed to do. “Can you slide across to the door, signore? It will be easier on your leg that way.”

“I can’t move,” the man moaned, pressing against the far door. When the shift in weight set the carriage rocking, Fergus’s stomach twisted in dread.

“Si, you can,” the lady said. She was back peering over Fergus’s shoulder. Just his luck to be stuck with a woman unable to recognize the voice of authority, not to mention good sense. “I know it hurts, Papa, but if you use your good leg, you can do it.”

The man’s terrified eyes sought out his daughter, and Fergus recognized paralyzing fear. So far, the older man showed considerably less fortitude than his daughter. “You’re una ragazza crudele, and the angels despair of you.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Fergus said between his teeth.

“Papa, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in to get you. Then it will be your fault if we both drown.”

“Per pietà, this won’t work.”

“Try, Papa. Per favore. You don’t want to be buried in Scotland.”

“Certo, I do not! Even for a dead man, this country is too cold.”

“In that case, you have to move.”

Fergus was about to tell the woman to be a bit gentler with her father’s fears, when to his surprise, he saw determination seep into the plump features. “For you, then, figlia mia.”

“Take my hand,” Fergus said on a surge of hope, reaching in, while still trying to use his weight to keep the carriage level.

“You, Coker, come and hold the broken shaft to keep the coach steady,” the woman said sharply behind Fergus. Coker must be the blockhead of a coachman.

Grunting in pain, the Italian began to shift gingerly in Fergus’s direction. Halfway along the leather seat, he stretched out a shaking hand. Fergus lurched forward to grab the man’s wrist as he felt the carriage settle further into the mud. Coker must have at last decided to lend his aid.