“You’ll live.” Her stomach relaxed a fraction and she headed for the river.
Upon reaching the forest’s edge, Phoebe once again crept down the riverbank and ducked behind the first bush she reached. She surveyed the quiet riverbank. Was Lord Ashlund on this side of the river or had he crossed over? The moonlight dimmed behind filmy clouds. She scurried from bush to bush toward the water. Nearer the river, the bushes thinned, then stopped altogether. She bent low and darted from the cover of the last bush. Gunfire broke the silence and she dropped to the ground fifteen feet from the water’s edge. Her knee smashed against a small rock. She winced, biting back a cry of pain.
“Give it up, Your Lordship,” Zachariah's call drifted across the river. “You’re outnumbered. We won’t hurt you, I swear.”
Silence met his demand.
“You can’t escape. I have men guarding your retreat.”
Still no answer.
“Come, now. You’re only going to get you and your men killed.”
A soft splash in the water jerked Phoebe's attention sideways.
“If you come out now, I promise to release everyone except you,” Zachariah shouted.
A figure rose from the river near her. He turned slightly and the silhouette of the revolver he held above the water became visible. She realized the giant was the man Zachariah had called Bob. Phoebe rose to her knees and aimed her revolver as Bob stepped up onto shore and started toward the bridge.
“Not another step, Bob,” she said in a whisper, “or I’ll blast a hole in you.”
He halted. Her thudding heart skipped a beat.
“Do we have an agreement?” Zachariah called.
“Drop the weapon,” Phoebe ordered.
Bob remained motionless.
She drew back on the hammer. The chamber clicked over with an audible grate. “Throw down the weapon,” she ordered again.
He looked over his shoulder. His gaze latched first onto the weapon, then slid up to her shadowed face. He whirled and she fired. He staggered back with the force of the ball that hit his belly.
He looked down at the spreading stain, then at her. “Ye shot me.”
Her stomach turned. Two men in one night. And this one, she guessed, wouldn't live.
He fell to his knees, hitting the ground with a choked groan. “Done in by a woman.” He raised his weapon.
Phoebe froze. The man she had killed was about to kill her. Another shot fired. She jumped as Bob fell face forward onto the ground. Something rustled behind her and she twisted, losing her balance and hitting the ground on her backside. A figure emerged from behind a bush and she barely stifled a scream upon recognizing the MacGregor man she'd left unconscious.
He hurried forward. She stared dumbly at him as he halted beside her and dropped to his knees. She allowed him to disengage the revolver from her grasp and help her kneel. Revolver at ready, he grasped her arm.
“Can you crawl?” he asked.
She nodded and started on all fours alongside him toward the bridge.
“Now,” came Zachariah’s voice again, “you see what happens? You’re forcing me to kill your men. Who did we kill, Your Lordship?”
Phoebe yelled, “Bob didn’t kill anyone, Zachariah. He is dead.”
An instant of silence passed.
“What?” Zachariah demanded.
“Come along.” Her companion urged her toward the bridge.
“That’s right, Zachariah,” she shouted. “Bob is dead.”
“Who is that?” he shouted back.
There was a scuffle, muffled voices, then the sound of footsteps running through the trees—running away, Phoebe noted.
“Come back, you cowards,” Zachariah called.
A moment later, Phoebe and her companion reached the bridge, and he called out softly, “MacGregor.”
A man’s voice answered a few feet away, beyond the bushes. “Donald?”
“Aye,” he replied.
A man showed himself and waved them forward. Donald got to his feet, pulling Phoebe with him. He hurried her past him and she pushed through several bushes, snagging her skirt on brambles. Donald yanked the skirt free and pushed her forward. They broke through the bushes where three men stood, and she stopped short at seeing Kiernan sitting on the ground, back against a large rock as he loaded a revolver.
“Phoebe Wallington,” he said without looking up, “when this affair is finished, I do swear to beat you.”
There was a gritty edge to his voice Phoebe didn't like. “Indeed, my lord? I was thinking I would shoot you.” Her gaze caught on the tartan wrapped around the uppermost part of his left thigh. “Good God, what have you done?”
She hurried forward and dropped to her knees at his side. A splinter of pain shot up her leg. She winced, but ignored the discomfort and touched the tartan around his leg. She pursed her lips upon recognizing the moist stickiness of blood and pressed down on the wound.
“Phoebe,” he said in a raspy voice.
She shot him a quelling look. “You were the one person who was not supposed to get shot.”
“Save your reprimands for the wedding night,” Kiernan said with a grunt.