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Pamela assured him, throwing one leg over the horse’s neck and sliding to the ground.
    She would have kept right on sliding until she landed on her bottom if the highwayman hadn’t stepped forward to brace her with his weight. She hadn’t taken into account how long they’d been riding or how unaccustomed she was to such exercise. She clutched at his shirt, her thigh muscles quivering like a pot of jam. His chest felt as sturdy as a rock beneath her trembling hands, reminding her of those dizzying moments back at the coach when she had clung to him while he sipped tenderly from her lips.
    “Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered. She quickly untangled her fingers from his shirt, telling herself it must be the near tumble that had left her so breathless. As she stepped away from him, the bitter wind whipped stinging strands of hair across her eyes. “It’s no wonder you Scots are such a hale and hearty lot. If you weren’t, you’d never survive this climate.”
    “Once you get a wee dram of Scot’s whisky inyour belly, you’ll discover the wind is nothin’ more than God’s breath whisperin’ against your cheek.”
    He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she lifted her arms to Sophie, hoping to spare her sister a similar embarrassment.
    As soon as Sophie was settled safely on her feet, she drew the little pistol out of her sash and leveled it at him, hoping to regain their only advantage. His pistol was safely secured in the horse’s saddlebag. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way, sir.”
    “’Twould be my pleasure, lass,” he drawled, offering her a mocking bow before turning away and striding into the shadows.
    As they fell into step behind him, Sophie slipped a hand into hers and whispered, “Are you certain we’re not making a terrible mistake?”
    “No,” Pamela whispered back, her own courage faltering as they followed him down a grassy path that brought them closer to the churning sea with each step.
    At first she thought he was going to lead them right over the edge of those towering cliffs. But he shifted direction at the last minute, guiding them beneath a stone arch to a set of flat, narrow stairs that seemed to disappear into the earth itself.
    “Watch your step,” he warned them. “I can’t catch you if you fall.”
    Nor could he catch himself if he stumbled, Pamela realized, fighting a twinge of guilt. But as he disappeared into the murky gloom, his steps were as sure and steady as they’d been in the forest.She and Sophie exchanged a nervous glance before following. The roaring of the wind soon faded. As they descended deeper into the earth, they were enveloped by an oppressive hush broken only by the steady drip of water on stone and the shallow rasp of their own breathing.
    Pamela was beginning to wonder if the steps led straight down to the bowels of hell itself when she spotted a thin sliver of light below. The highwayman paused, waiting for them to catch up.
    He nodded toward the broad oak door set deep in the stone wall. “Would you mind doin’ the honors?”
    Pamela closed her icy fingers around the iron handle and gave the door a push. It swung open easily, inviting them inside.
    She brushed past the highwayman without a second thought, unable to resist the seductive lure of warmth and light. The chamber was no rat-infested dungeon as she had feared, but simply a long-forgotten vault to a tower that no longer existed. A fire crackled on a stone hearth set against the opposite wall. Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. The long, low-ceilinged room was not only warm and dry, but also cozy and welcoming.
    That is, until the air resounded with the echoing clicks of a dozen pistol hammers being drawn back at once.
    One by one, the men holding those pistols emerged from the shadowy corners, their eyes gleaming with lust, their lips twisted into delighted leers.
    The largest of those men wore a silver hoop in one ear and a leather vest hanging open over his