After the Loving

ONE

AFTER THE LOVING

Book Two of the "Heroic Rogues" Series

By Marie Higgins

Devon, England

The pops of gunfire all around Isabelle Stanhope sounded like she stood on a battlefield instead of riding in a stagecoach. The few other passengers screamed, sliding down into their seats. Fear of the worst kind surged through Isabelle as she bent over and clutched her trembling legs.

Her life may end today.

"Everyone stay low!" the driver yelled. "Highwaymen are swarming around us."

Panic thrashed inside Isabelle like a turbulent wave, threatening to suffocate her at any moment. A gang of highwaymen had killed her father less than a year ago, and she feared the same fate would befall her.

Another pistol fired, closer this time. Mrs. Winters, Isabelle's companion, screamed then slumped against her. Tears filled Isabelle's eyes, and a sob rose to her throat. She dared not look to see if her companion had been shot or if the frightened woman just swooned since Mrs. Winters had been prone to do that. Isabelle had never been able to handle the sight of blood, especially from someone she cared so deeply about.

As the fast-moving stagecoach rocked to and fro, small satchels fell to the floor. The other passengers had been holding these at one time. Looking at them now, Isabelle didn't know which one belonged to whom.

One of the satchels was slightly opened, and the gleam of the golden handle dagger caught her attention. Without a second thought, she snatched the weapon and held it close. She wouldn't bat an eye if she had to kill a highwayman to save her own life.

The stagecoach came to a jerking stop and had her sliding to the floor. She landed on another passenger and mumbled her apologies as she tried to climb back on the seat. Her gaze fell to Mrs. Winters, who was still unconscious and thankfully, didn't have any blood on her—that Isabelle could see, anyway.

The door flew open, and a masked man wearing a black cloak framed the door. "Everyone outside if you want to live."

Of course, she wanted to live—the imbecile! She nodded and waited for those in front of her to exit first.

With a shaky hand, she hid the dagger underneath the waist of her traveling jacket. She followed the woman in front of her, taking careful steps until they all came to a halt. Armed highwaymen stood everywhere, each wearing a mask that covered their eyes only. A different type of fear sliced through her. Silently, she prayed for strength and courage.

She glanced over her shoulder at the stagecoach. Where was Mrs. Winters? The still body of Isabelle's companion made her stomach twist with sadness, and she wondered if Mrs. Winters had indeed been shot. Isabelle then looked to the driver and the guard. Both were slumped over, while blood continuously spilled from each head as their bodies remained unmoving. Bile rose to her throat, and she placed a hand over her mouth, looking away.

Someone standing next to her pushed her forward, and she stumbled into another highwayman. He grasped her shoulders to keep her from falling. As soon as she gained her footing, she took one step back and looked at the tall man. A shaky breath caught in her throat. Black silk cloth covered the top part of his face—save for the eyes—which served as a mask as it hid his true identity. Once-white linen stretched across wide shoulders and a broad chest, opened at the throat to display sun-bronzed skin. Black jackboots and breeches molded to his powerful legs. And he was muscular beyond belief! His hair hung to his shoulders and was black as midnight. He looked more like a pirate than a highwayman.