Free A Highwayman's Honor: (A Highland Highwayman Novella #1) by Michelle McLean Page A

with the damn corset she wore. After a few minutes, she pulled her hand from his grasp.
    “Leave me. They aren’t after me. You must go,” she said, her breath wheezing from her constrained lungs. “I can’t run any farther in this gown. We must part. Now.”
    He grabbed her about the waist and kissed her, hard and fast. He would need to leave her. And soon. She couldn’t go with him when he fled. But the thought of leaving her standing there, never to see her again, went against everything he was.
    “Not yet,” he said. He bent and picked her up, throwing her over his shoulder.
    The shouting from the soldiers drew nearer and he spun and ran again. Ran until his chest burned with the force of the air leaving his lungs with each breath. They’d reached the exit of the maze. John could see the stables. He just needed to reach them. Phillip would have the horses ready.
    Elizabet…he put her down and took her hand again, pulling her with along him the final few yards. They’d have to say goodbye. For now. But he’d come back for her. In a few weeks, perhaps, he could come back. Or send for her…
    He was so intent on reaching the stables, he didn’t see the soldier step from the hedges until it was too late. Until he saw the glint of a pistol in the sun. Heard Elizabet scream.
    John turned. Her face was ashen, eyes wide with fear and horror. Blood stained the front of her gown, the red bleeding into the satin like ink on parchment. No. He couldn’t lose her now. Not like this!
    She reached for him and he tried to raise his arms. But they didn’t seem to be working properly. His legs threatened to collapse, unable to hold his weight any longer. He dropped to his knees. She dropped with him.
    Only it wasn’t her blood marring her clothing. He frowned. He must have been shot. That must be why the world seemed dull around the edges, why he was having trouble focusing. Why Elizabet was crying.
    Shouldn’t it hurt?
    “Elizabet,” he said. Only no sound came from his mouth.
    He sank farther down, slumping forward. Elizabet caught him, resting his head upon her shoulder while she pressed against his chest, urging him to lie down so she could put pressure on the wound.
    The soldier who’d shot him came forward, shouting at her to move. She looked up. The fury contorting her face was magnificent to behold. At the moment, she more closely resembled a warrior than a heartbroken maiden in a ruined dress. The soldier shouted again and drew his sword.
    Before John realized what she meant to do, Elizabet reached beneath his coat and pulled his pistol from his belt. She aimed. Fired. And the soldier fell.
    The pistol dropped from her shaking hand and she turned back to John. Without her strength to support him, he collapsed on the ground. She reached for him, the dead soldier forgotten.
    “John. Stay with me,” she pleaded, again pressing her hands to his chest in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. “Help will come. I’ll find help.”
    John shook his head. Help wasn’t going to come. But soldiers were. And she couldn’t be found with a dead soldier lying at her feet. There was a way to hopefully save her. She wouldn’t like it. But he’d make her see reason.
    He mustered what strength he had left and forced the words from his throat. “Elizabet, listen to me.”
    “I’m here, John. I’m listening.” She stroked his hair back from his face with one hand. The other never left his chest.
    “Take my gun,” he instructed. She looked at the one she’d dropped and he shook his head. “The other gun. In my belt.”
    He waited until she had it in her hand. Then he took the hand that rested over his heart and pressed it to the pistol as well. She protested, trying to resume putting pressure on the wound. “No,” he said. “Elizabet, my love, stop.”
    At those words, she froze. But John was already growing cold. It was no use. She needed to focus on herself.
    He took a deep breath that rattled in his