Page 70 of The Highlander's Holiday Wife

She slipped her hand into her skirt pocket, one specifically sewn to hold her pistol.

“Och, listen to Dr. Fancy, with them breakteeth words,” sneered one of the men.

Hell and damnation.

She recognized that voice from the night she and Donny were attacked.

“These are the men who injured Donny,” she whispered to Braden.

“Oh, splendid.”

He took a step forward, his pistol up and cocked. “So, not a simple robbery, after all. To what do we owe the honor of this encounter?”

The larger of the two, a burly fellow garbed in the rough clothes of the docks, lifted his club in a menacing gesture. “For starters, ye’ll keep yer bloody voice down, or I’ll bash yer bloody brains out.”

Braden scoffed. “I see clubs have become the weapon of choice for morons. I’m sure they’re very effective against unarmed victims, but you might have noticed that I’m aiming a pistol right at your heart. And since I am an excellent shot, I suggest you step back. Because I will take you down, I promise.”

Instead, the idiot took an angry step forward. “See ’ere, ye piece of—”

His companion jerked him back. “Yer a moron, all right. He’s trying to get a rise out of ye.”

“Looks like it worked,” Braden replied. “In any case, I will shoot you if necessary. So I suggest you be off.”

“We’ll no be takin’ orders from ye, doc,” said the second man, apparently not the least bit perturbed.

He reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out a pistol. He pointed it at Braden while still keeping a firm grip on the club in his other hand.

“That evens the odds a bit, don’t it, doc?”

Samantha extracted her pistol before he finished talking. “Not precisely.”

The man laughed. “Yer gonna shoot me with that little popper? That’s a joke and a half.”

He sounded both genuinely amused and entirely in control. Clothed in a heavy wool coat that hung open to reveal breeches and riding boots, he was clearly a cut above his companion, as well as the average criminal that roamed Old Town.

Samantha flashed him a toothy smile. “This is the new Deringer pistol, which I recently acquired. It’s extremely accurate at close quarters. And, like the doctor, I am a very good shot.”

He snorted. “Go ahead and try it, m’ lady. We’ll see how far ye get before I blow yer pretty little skull to pieces.”

When he shifted slightly, as if to point his weapon at her, Braden growled deep in his throat. “Try it, ye bastard, and I’ll shoot yer fecking head off and kill yer fecking mate, too.”

Samantha mentally blinked. The man standing by her side suddenly sounded more like a Highland berserker than a physician. He was intimidating enough that their would-be attackers did indeed take a step back.

“That’s better,” Braden said, reverting to his usual cool control. “Now, since this is obviously not a robbery, get on with whatever message you’ve come to deliver, and make it quick.”

The moron with the club growled. “Or what, ye’ll shoot us?”

“Since I am pointing a gun at you,” Braden said, “why the hell would you think I wouldn’t shoot you?”

“Because yer a feckin’ doctor, that’s why. Ye dinna kill people.”

“Oh, Lord,” Samantha said. “You truly are an idiot.”

“Why ye—”

The man in the greatcoat rammed an elbow into his companion’s side, effectively silencing him.

“Yer right, m’ lady,” Greatcoat said in a genial voice. “But dinna be fooled that a shootin’ match will go yer way. Or that it’s just the four of us here in Barrie’s Close. Ye’d be surprised what’s hidin’ in them dark little corners.”

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