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“God, forgive me. Oh, God, forgive me.”

Her hoarse whisper jolted him from his stupefied trance. Grasping the coat of the other dead robber, he yanked him from the carriage entrance then dumped the man in an undignified heap on the ground beside his deceased cohort.

His mind still whirling in flabbergasted amazement, Ian bounded into the carriage and without hesitation, drew his quaking wife into his arms.

She buried her face in his shoulder, shaking and mumbling incoherently against his coat. “I had to, Ian. I had to.”

He patted her back soothingly, brushing his lips across her hair. “Shh, sweeting. It’s all right.”

She sucked in a ragged breath. “He’d have killed you.” Raw regret laced her voice. Head angled, her haunted gaze sought his. “I couldn’t let him hurt you. I had to kill him. Don’t you see?” Her tears flowing freely and fingers trembling, she clasped his lapel and pleaded for him to understand. “I didn’t want to, but I’d no choice. I wouldn’t let him take you from me.” Weeping softly, she closed her eyes and pressed her face into his chest, her tears saturating his coat.

Take him from her? Did she possess some minuscule degree of affection for him after all? Hope flickered to life. Vangie’s confession staggered far more than the knife tip pressed to his neck mere moments before.

Hugging her to his chest, he soothed, “Shh, it’s over now.” He ran a calming hand down her trembling spine. “The drivers and I kept the first four from the coach, but the other two must’ve been hiding.”

Six highwaymen.

Truthfully, they were lucky to have survived. He wouldn’t have done if it hadn’t been for Vangie. How could he have believed she’d hurt him? She was everything good and decent and gentle. And, she killed tonight—killed to protect him.

Despite his stinging lip, he kissed the crown of her head and tightened his arms around her slim form. Something wondrous sprang free in his chest, liberating him. Initially painful, the sensation resolutely exploded forth with a life and vigor of its own. It was marvelous, implausible, and consuming.

And this time, he didn’t call it rot and rubbish.

Disheveled and holding his right arm, Malcolm appeared in the coach doorway. “M’ lord, milady. Are ye unharmed?”

“Shaken, but unharmed,” Ian assured him.

Malcolm’s gaze meshed with his. “They was waitin’ fer us, sir.”