"Mère de Dieu." Angelique lifted her pistol. Holding it steady with both hands, she aimed at her target and fired. The pistol popped and the recoil jarred her teeth. Crying out, the traitor flipped to the ground and slid a few inches. His sword clattered away. Lachlan ducked, his gaze darting to the groaning man she'd downed, then to her. "What the devil?" Where did I get such reflexes? She coughed against the thick smoke, stared at the pistol and lowered it with shaking hands spotted with black powder. "You have done it again, Ange!" Camille said. "Maybe someone would hire you as a mercenary." "Do not jest with me so." Now was the time to assert her power, before Lachlan and the clan. He would not lead alone. Carrying the pistol, she climbed down from the coach and strode forward, trying to conceal how her knees shook. Lachlan stood over the traitor. "Lock him up," he told two of the Drummagan men. "Have someone see to his injury." Blood soaked the man's right sleeve. Lachlan turned to one of the king's retainers.
