The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

He realized she wasn’t quite as unemotional about her parent’s plight as she pretended. He liked her better for the hint of vulnerability, and for her courage in keeping it to herself.

This time, he didn’t waste his time telling her to stand back, although if the coach went into the burn, it would take half the bank. The mudslide would carry her away with it.

“That’s it, Papa. Bravo.”

“Give me room, madam,” Fergus said curtly.

“Of course.” Before he had an instant to remark on her sudden cooperation, she went on. “I’ll hold you steady while you bring him out.”

Fergus didn’t have the breath to consign her to Hades, although he wanted to. When she stepped down, the coach gave another alarming wobble. As Coker struggled to keep a grip on the shaft, he swore in some incomprehensible Glaswegian patois.

“Coraggio, Papa.” Fergus heard how she strove to keep her tone bright. “You won’t be in there much longer.”

“Try and maneuver yourself out. If I pull you, I might damage your leg.” If only he’d had the luxury of splinting the break before bringing the man out, but the carriage was too close to going over.

“Don’t let me go, per favore,” the man said shakily, struggling to stand on one foot. The movement set the coach shuddering again.

“Coker, hold on!” the woman shouted.

Fergus reached in, trying not to upset the vehicle, then felt surprisingly strong hands grab his waist and ground him from behind. The Italian fellow gave a broken cry of agony as he made a clumsy hop toward Fergus. There was no time for niceties. With every second, the carriage tilted at a steeper angle.

“I won’t let you fall, sir,” Fergus said.

“Papa, listen to the man,” the woman said.

“Let me go, lassie. I need to step back if he’s to get out.”

“Very well,” the woman said. Despite the fraught circumstances, he noted that for the first time, she did what she was told.

Praying the carriage wouldn’t tip over without his weight to hold it steady, Fergus retreated backward onto the muddy road, pulling the Italian as he went. Inch by inch, the older man came forward, then with an awkward movement, more stumble than step, he toppled through the door.

Fergus lurched forward to catch him before he put any weight on his broken leg. As the man popped free of the cabin, the yellow traveling coach pitched to the side, then slid into the flood, taking a great slice of the bank with it.

“Oof,” Fergus grunted as he took the injured man’s weight in his arms.

“Hell’s bells,” Coker gasped, jumping back. He only just avoided the shaft knocking him into the water, too.

The carriage bobbed like a cork on top of the rushing water, then with a loud creak, it sank up to its shattered windows, and the current swept it away. Macushla and Brecon barked and dashed down the bank in pursuit, finding all of this a grand adventure.

Bracing his booted feet against the slippery ground, Fergus shifted his grip on the groaning Italian. The injured man was as tall as he was and twice as wide. His bulk made it no easy task to keep him upright. Straining to balance under his burden, Fergus hardly looked up as with a bang, the wrecked carriage jammed on a rocky islet about five hundred yards downstream.

The woman slid her shoulder beneath her father’s arm, mercifully taking some of the weight off Fergus. “Papa, are you all right?”

Gasping for breath, Fergus shifted to the other side to prop the Italian up. Even with two of them supporting him, the man’s weight was crushing.

“Porca miseria, my leg hurts.” Under thick gray hair, the man’s face was as white as new snow on the mountains. He, like the woman, was dressed in the height of fashion.

After much grunting and groaning, and some savage swearing from Papa that Fergus didn’t need translated, they managed to swing the older man onto the grass verge.

“Can you hold him up?” Fergus asked her.

“Papa, lean on me and balance on your good leg,” she said calmly. By God, Fergus had to give her credit, she was cool in a crisis.

He swept his greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it over the grass, then helped the woman lower her father onto the thick wool. That would at least keep the injured man from the worst of the damp.

The woman unfastened her red cloak and placed it over her father. Fergus bit back a protest that she exposed herself to the elements. There was no particular reason for her to heed him, apart from the fact that he was a man and in the right. But every atom of his masculine soul protested at leaving a lady to shiver on a hillside that belonged to him.

She sank down to cradle her father’s head on her lap. “How is that now, Papa?”