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

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.

The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.

Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.

The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.

Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.

“Are ye all right, laddie?”

Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”

Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”

The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”

“Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”

Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.

“For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.

When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”

Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”

She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.

Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help taking a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.

And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.

“No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”

To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.

“He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

“No, only the two of us.”

For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.

After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”

When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”

“For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.

He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. S

he clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.

“Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for politeness.

“Stay there and don’t move.”

He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”