The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(72)

“I am. The banns are read. I have the license. I am taking her to All Saints’ now. We will be wed immediately.”

Oh hell no. Elizabeth lurched back, and when that didn’t work, she kicked Twiggy in the shins. He howled but only grasped her closer. “I won’t say the vows,” she bellowed.

His chuckle sent skitters down her spine. “You won’t need to. I have friends in the clergy who are more than happy to stand witness to our marital bliss. So come now.”

Having recovered his strength, he resumed his efforts and pulled her into the yard where, to her horror, his carriage awaited. As though she were thistledown, he whipped her into his arms and stuffed her inside.

Stuffed her, because she fought tooth and nail, grabbing at the doorjamb, writhing to loosen his hold, and howling her outrage. She probably could have wrestled her way free if there had not been another man inside. He grabbed her from behind and yanked her in. None too gently, he tossed her on the opposite seat and then blocked her escape.

The light hit his face and she recognized him as Twiggenberry’s friend, Blackworth. His grin was heinous. “My congratulations on your upcoming nuptials,” he said in an unctuous tone.

Alas, demure and elegant lady though she was, Elizabeth could not help herself.

She kicked Blackworth right in the stones.

His eyes crossed, his nostrils flared, and he wheezed out a groan as he fell back onto the other seat.

Elizabeth did not wait. She launched herself for the open door. Though Twiggenberry was in the process of climbing in, she had the momentum and pushed him back out. He fell on his arse with an oof.

Miss Claire—bless her heart—was at the ready with her cast-iron skillet. It connected with Twiggenberry’s head with a dull thud. His eyes crossed, he wheezed, and then he collapsed.

“Well, I never,” Miss Claire said.

Elizabeth laughed. “For someone who never has, you did well.”

“Thank you, my dear. It was rather satisfying.”

“I’m sure it was.”

Miss Claire surveyed the scene, the carriage, and the lump of Twiggenberry on the ground. “What do we do now?”

But it was beside the point, because Blackworth had recovered himself and came out of the carriage, snarling, “You bitch.” He came straight for Elizabeth with his hands bunched. Miss Claire swung at him with the skillet, but he dodged the swipe and grabbed Elizabeth by the waist.

She screamed and fought him as he dragged her back to the coach.

“You’re going to pay, my sweet,” he said. “When I’m finished with you, not even Twiggy will have you.”

Miss Claire came at him again, and Blackworth held on to Elizabeth with one hand while with the other he coldcocked dear, sweet Miss Claire in the cheek. She crumpled to the ground and didn’t move.

“No!” Elizabeth bellowed. “No!” She tried to make her way to her friend, but Blackworth was too strong. Much stronger than Twiggenberry and, truth be told, meaner.

“Shut up,” he snapped as he hefted her onto the floor of the carriage. To her horror, he crawled in on top of her and set his hand to her bodice . . . and yanked.

It came apart with a heart-rending rip.

Elizabeth tried to lift her knee, tried to connect with his tender bits, but he was expecting this and quickly immobilized her legs even as he wrenched up her hem. He held her hands together above her head and pinned her with his muscled weight. To her horror, she realized she couldn’t move. She was utterly at his mercy.

Pity he had none.

He caught her expression and laughed. “Not so bloody arrogant now, are you, Lady Elizabeth?”

“You bastard,” she cried, trying to roll him off to the side. But the floor of the carriage was too narrow for any such maneuvers and she realized there was nothing she could do to save herself from this horror.

Absolutely nothing.

A dark cloud shadowed her vision, cutting out the light from the cottage.

She closed her eyes as Blackworth rose up and prepared to take that which she did not want to give.

When he continued to rise, when his weight lifted from her altogether, when his dark chuckle was replaced with something of a squawk, she had to peek.

Though her head was spinning and she wasn’t sure if she was imagining this sight, it thrilled her to the core.

For there was an enormous red-haired Scotsman with adorably familiar features, holding Blackworth by his cravat and pounding the ever-loving stuffing out of him.

Cautiously, Elizabeth sat up, found her balance, and then stepped out of the carriage.

Her knees failed her, but Jamison was there to catch her.

She didn’t have the presence of mind to wonder why Jamison was there to catch her, but she was thankful for it.

“Are you all right, Lady Elizabeth?”

She blinked and focused her attention on another man. It took a moment to recognize Violet’s husband, Ewan McCloud.

He was here too?

But again, she didn’t have the wherewithal to think on it. “I’m . . . fine,” she said.

McCloud frowned. “Take her inside,” he said to Jamison. “I think she’s in shock.”

“No,” she said, turning back to Hamish, who was still battering Blackworth. “I want to watch.”

McCloud chuckled. “Bloodthirsty wench.”

Some semblance of sanity returned, and Elizabeth’s gaze went to Miss Claire. “Please help her,” she said, and Jamison complied, leaving Elizabeth’s side to lift Miss Claire and carry her into the cottage.