A shot rang out. Phoebe cut her gaze to the approaching brigands who aimed a pistol at the MacGregor men. Her pounding heart skipped a beat. The ball had missed its mark and the would-be kidnappers still raced toward the MacGregor men.
She looked at the derringer. Why hadn’t the duke had anything better in his library? Shooting the derringer at a target more than fifteen feet away was like spitting. She clasped the cloak about her throat, then spurred her horse back the way she’d come. Another gunshot pierced the night air. She glanced back and saw Kiernan holding his weapon level, and a riderless horse charging toward him.
The fallen man’s comrade whirled and raced back toward the bridge. Phoebe urged her horse into the forest, then reined south toward the river. Beyond the trees, she glimpsed the man who had fled. He reached the bridge and raced across. Indistinguishable shouts reached her when Kiernan and his men disappeared down the riverbank left of the bridge.
Minutes later, Phoebe reached the bank. She pulled her horse up short and dismounted. She discarded Kiernan’s cloak, then slid down the riverbank to river's edge. The bridge lay a hundred feet away. Waist high bushes grew in sporadic patches along the bank. The slow moving water whispered in a gentle flow downstream. She gave a final glance around the deserted riverbank, then scurried between the bushes toward the bridge. Thirty feet from the bridge, something rustled in the foliage within its shadows, and Phoebe halted behind a bush. Her heart jumped into her throat when a figure emerged from the shadows and started up the bank.
She aimed the derringer, then hesitated. He was too far away to hit with any accuracy, and his back was to her. Her stomach took a sickening turn. She'd never shot a man, and she wasn't about to start by shooting him in the back. Crouching, she headed for the next bush. Another shot discharged. The man spun toward her before she reached cover and she stopped. Their gazes locked, then he stepped toward her and she fired. He jerked to his right and fell. Her heart jumped into her throat. Thank God, the bullet hit his shoulder, as planned. She'd feared the gun would pull even harder to the left than anticipated, and she would miss him altogether.
Phoebe rose on shaky legs, but forced herself to hurry forward. Another brigand appeared from beneath the bridge and she halted. His glance flicked from his fallen comrade to her—then the derringer she still gripped. He leveled the double barrel revolver he held. Phoebe dove behind the bush an instant before he fired. She looked up, expecting to see his pistol aimed at her again, but he wasn’t there. A strong hand clamped onto her arm and yanked her upright.
Her captor began dragging her up the bank and Phoebe fumbled for the sgian dubh in her pocket. The dagger bounced off her thigh with the long strides he forced her to take. She caught sight of two revolvers stuffed into his waistband, then gave a tiny cry upon recognizing the MacGregor plaide of his kilt. Phoebe looked up and searched his face, but didn't recognize him.
“Who—" She tripped as they crested the bank. He grabbed her around the waist and yanked her off the ground. “Barbarian,” she yelped, and elbowed him in the ribs.
He grunted. At the sound of more gunfire, Phoebe glanced back, but saw nothing as he hauled her up the bank. They entered the trees and she twisted to face her captor.
“You would do better to help Lord Ashlund," she said. "Those ruffians will shoot his companions and take him.”
“You have a fine opinion of MacGregor men,” he replied in a placid voice that didn’t hide the sarcasm.
Phoebe jammed her derringer into his side. “Release me and go help the others.”
“You used your one shot on that fellow.”
“Useless piece of iron.” She tossed the weapon aside.
Her horse came into view a few feet ahead, alongside a stallion. Her captor set her on her feet, but kept hold of her arm, while directing her toward the horses.
“They need your help.” she burst out.
“I can't take you near the fighting, and I canna’ leave you alone. MacGregor will have my head.”
“Lord Ashlund will understand.”
“Not him. His father.”
They reached the horses. Phoebe spied a branch the size of her arm near the stallion’s feet.
“What will his father say when you return with me and his son’s ransom demand follows?” she demanded.
More gunfire echoed through the trees and he cast a glance in the direction of the sound. He shook his head. “I must do as the MacGregor ordered.” He reached for her horse’s reins.
Heart pounding, Phoebe bent and grabbed the branch. Sorry about this, lad. Her stomach tensed as she shot to her feet, swinging the branch against the back of his head. He fell to the ground with a groan. She dropped the branch and grabbed a revolver from his waistband. He groaned again.