Fox donned dry clothes, checked the stables, and carried his spyglass out to the cliff edge. Any vessels afloat were hidden in mist.

He should have been out here watching, instead of upstairs fighting with his cock. A man capable of control, he was, but he needed to put that skill to his mission.

In the cove below, nothing stirred. On the hillside to the north, all the shadows stayed put.

He walked the path toward the stables, skirting around them and moving up to the front door of the cottage. The house muffled the waves to a dim roar. Otherwise, all was quiet.

The skin on his neck rippled. If the shadows were moving, he couldn’t see it. Yet something was wrong.

Aye, and much had been wrong this entire day. With Perry, he’d gone from harsh rejection to near ruination, in between spurring her into danger that’d almost killed her. He’d sent the boy, Pip into danger also.

He leaned back into the shadows, bracing himself on the door frame, watching.

Nothing skulked on this moor. All of his unease came from inside him. He’d been wrong—wrong to send Pip alone to speak to Perry’s captors. Wrong not to step in sooner. Hell, when he’d heard her gasping, he’d slipped on the rocks and damn near fallen right onto the rocky beach.

He tapped his head back on the hard wood. He hadn’t been able to see. He’d only heard the big man’s grunting voice, her choked response, but the man’s voice had been familiar. He’d met him, somewhere. Once Perry was rested, he’d question her about her captors. She’d remember some detail that would help him identify the man.

He should have been questioning her tonight instead of stripping her naked and pleasuring her.

He stood in the shadows for long minutes and watched the darkness shift and weave around him. The hair on his neck settled, but the ominous feeling had only sunk deeper into his bones. He made his way back down to the kitchen door and let himself in.

The scent of toasting bread wafted up, and he spotted it next to the boiling kettle on the hearth stove. A great hunk of cheese had been set out on a plate on the sideboard.

“Jenny?”

Dim lamplight moved in the storeroom.

His nerves went on high alert, and his heart did cartwheels. His cock took that moment to stand at attention again.

The storeroom held the smallest of cots, not much more than a raised pallet really, where a kitchen boy could rest between tending the fire on a long cold night.

He had a fire that needed tending.

A figure appeared in the doorway, and he turned away, resting his spyglass on the table, carefully arranging it so it wouldn’t roll off, keeping his hands busy.

“You should be sleeping.” Don’t look at her. That one glance had shown hair brushed into the sparkling halo, and a dress plainer than even the fashions of past years—no laces, no furbelows, no flounces. When he’d gone looking for linens, he’d seen dresses in one of those presses. Perhaps it was her mother’s, or her mother’s maid’s.

He flicked another gaze over her. Lady Shaldon had been shorter, and this dress only hit the top of Perry’s slim ankles. And she was wearing no stays to interfere with the shape of her breasts and the curve of her waist.

“I sent Jenny to bed with a promise to wake her when MacEwen returns.” She set plates on the table and went to turn the bread. “Oh, excellent. It’s not burned. I’ve seen this done. I had only but to remember. Charley and I used to sneak down to the kitchen at Cransdall for toast and eggs.”

She was nervous of him.

“I brought the brandy back for you.” She pushed the bottle over and set about making tea. “Did you see anything outside?”

“No. All is quiet.”

“Chestnut—”

“Is fine. The gelding is not yet back.”

“Is he one of my father’s?”

“Yes.” He grabbed a plate and carried the toast to the table, standing too close to her. “Are you all right, Perry?”

She turned an open gaze upon him. No bruising marred her cheek or her eye. Perhaps she’d found some paint among her mother’s things.

But a scarf loosely covered her neck, making his gut clench.

He reached for her with his free hand, and she looked up.

“I need to be a part of this, Fox.”

The plate rattled onto the table. He draped an arm around her, unable to stop from touching her. “You already are.” And he hated it, hated the danger she was in, hated that he couldn’t deny her anything. “But I’m afraid your participation may only last until your father arrives.”

“We have some time. He’ll stay in London during the coronation.” She turned fully into his arms. “We need to talk.”

He dropped his arm and stepped back. He wouldn’t take her maidenhead and have her go into an arranged marriage facing another man’s shaming.

Her shoulders lifted in a big sigh. “We need to talk about who killed my mother. We need to talk about why Gregory Carvelle is here. We need to talk about these assassins.”

The corner of her mouth tilted up. “When you left me tonight, all I could think about was you coming back to my bed. And then Jenny reminded me, we have a mystery to solve. Three mysteries.”

His heart swelled and pounded. We. He liked that.

He loved her.

He was every kind of fool, and so was she if he thought he’d let her chase villains with him. “Tell me what happened on that road.”

She stepped back and framed her hips with her hands, her elbows akimbo.

“You first. How did you happen to come after me? And why didn’t you rescue us sooner?”

The darkness reared up again slamming him with his guilt and unworthiness. He would never be good enough for her. He drained his brandy glass and poured another.

When he dared to look, her eyes were dark pools.

“Mind you.” She cleared her throat. “Mind you, I was every kind of fool for running off like that.”

She’d reached into his mind and stolen his words.

“And I’m so very grateful to you for shooting that man and for fishing us out of the water. And for…” she took in a shallow little breath, “and for showing me the…pleasure of love.”

Blood raced through his body, pounded in his ears and hurried south. Take her, his cock screamed, and his legs yelled, Run.

Almost swiving was not love, he wanted to say, condescendingly, the way he’d always kept her at bay.

She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, and suddenly she was a girl again, defensive, defiant, drawn-in, as if she’d heard his sarcasm before it left his tongue.

He touched her shoulder. “Wait.” The chair was too far for them to reach and sit without having to release her. If he drew her in closer he’d give in to the urge to kiss her. “I was going out to look for you when Pip came walking into the yard with Chestnut. Pip was on that road, delivering a message to Scruggs’s men coming up from Scarborough. I assumed they were the ones who’d taken you. So, when we got close, I hid the gelding as far off the road as possible and sent Pip on with the message.”

Her gaze flitted over his eyes, looking for lies and omissions.

“I was wrong.” He circled his thumb in the hollow next to her shoulder. “Those weren’t Scruggs’s men.”

Her white teeth worried her lower lip for a moment. “What was Pip’s message?”

“John Black was coming.”

She shook her head slowly. “Yes. I remember now. Pip told the men. John Black. I’ve heard of him.”

“He was a smuggling lord in these parts. Brutal when crossed. He was transported last year.”

Her eyes went wide. “And he’s back?”

“I imagine the real John Black never left England.”

A frown creased her brow. “That big man who took me. That was him?” Her jaw firmed. “His speech was distinctive—not of a higher class, but not as broad as the men who rowed us back. If he’s here, when I hear him speak, I’ll recognize him. Is it Scruggs, do you think?”

“No. I’ve met Scruggs.”

“Are there any other men his size in the area?”

“There were a few at the inn. Likely the man’s from farther south, around Scarborough or beyond.” He took a step closer and tugged at her neck scarf. “When he did this to you, I was on the slope, listening. When I figured out what I was hearing, I managed to almost fall down the cliff trying to get to you.”

“The rock slide.”

“Yes.”

Her gaze searched his face. “So, you did save me.”

“And I was a while righting myself and heading in the wrong direction. I should have—”

“No. No, Fox. Just you and an unarmed woman and child against three hardened men?”

“I could have taken them.”

She lifted his hands, kissed the knuckles, and dropped them. “What do we do next?”

The question was matter-of-fact. She shook herself loose, picked up a knife and sliced pieces of cheese.

This was where a sensible man would say, We pack you up, Lady Perpetua, and send you home.

A slice of cheese plopped onto his toast. He sat, pulled the plate over, and yanked her down onto his lap. “Now we eat.” He took a bite while she squirmed, letting his free hand slide along her waist, seeing the muscles play under her fair skin. Perhaps a barium white pigment, with a faint wash of sepia. He would have to experiment to achieve the shadows and planes of her satiny flesh.

She gripped the edge of the table. “Fox.”

“Very well. We eat, and then we wait for MacEwen to report back.” He held the toast up to her mouth. She took a bite, chewing slowly, keeping her gaze locked on him.

And he had an idea what they could do after that.

He shook off the images. He wouldn’t dishonor her. He should set her off onto another chair, but they were both fully clothed, and feeding her had its own satisfaction. She ate with the same relish she’d displayed up in bed.

He wiped his face and pulled the tray with the tea setup over, pouring, and mixing all with one hand.

“Thank you.” She accepted the cup like an earl’s daughter taking tea in a Mayfair drawing room.

Reminding him again, she was too far above him.

A smile lit her face and struck a spark of hope within him. By some miracle, might he gain Shaldon’s approval? And if he did, could he ever make her happy.

When Perry’s chewing stopped, Fox pushed more food at her. This business of him feeding her was annoying, but also rather endearing. Still, she began taking smaller bites, chewing more slowly, listening to a disconcerting story of frustration and danger.

After Bakeley’s wedding ball, her father had set Fox on the scent of Carvelle, a quest that had taken him to Holland, across the Low Countries, and back again to Gorse Cottage. In his time on the Yorkshire coast, Fox had acquainted himself with most of the smuggling paths in the district and many of the players from Clampton, including the corrupt Riding Officer and the maid from the Red Lion, who Scruggs used to control the officer and other strangers.

Fox had not spared her delicate sensibilities. Her heart swelled with that, and then quickly collapsed under a niggling suspicion.

“Fox. You were a stranger here.”

His hand flattened along her back and stroked up and down. “I’ve no interest in her wares, nor did I partake of them.”

It was cunningly done, that stroking and distracting. He might be telling the truth. She scrubbed a hand along his jaw, looking deeply. “I’ve heard that men often lie about such things. But perhaps I’ll choose to believe you.”

“I’m glad, because it’s the truth.”

He went on with the story. After Carvelle’s embarkation the previous night, they’d lost sight of the man, and MacEwen’s eavesdropping on Carvelle’s conversation with Scruggs had yielded no news.

Fox had met Davy and Gaz earlier that day at the inn as well as the local squire, Sir Richard Fenwick.

“What was he like?”

Fox hesitated and frowned. “Bluff and hearty, and dim as a sputtering candle. Your local Squire Western.”

His frown belied his words. “But he is surely part of the free trade?”

“As a receiver of bribes, yes, most likely. As an organizer...” Fox’s frown deepened. “He does throw his weight around.”

A muffled knock at the door made him pause. He set her aside and stood.

It was only Davy, bearing a covered basket. “Others are comin’.” He yanked off his hat and lifted the basket. “You are a real woman,” he said.

Her cheeks warmed. “I am.”

Davy glanced at Fox and dropped his gaze to the floor. He seemed an innocent sort, truly not old enough to have a child of Pip’s age.

“What have you brought in the basket?” she asked.

“Eggs. From my aunt. For savin’ Pip. And I thank ye, miss,” he added, his voice gravelly.

She took the basket and almost fumbled it. “It’s heavy.” A faded yellow cloth had been tucked in along the edges and she peeled it back carefully. At least two dozen eggs of assorted sizes and colors nestled there. “Oh, my.” As a girl, she’d had occasion to gather eggs at Cransdall, but they’d never had this much variation. “They are lovely. And there are so many.”

“Chickens be layin’ good. And lucky thing because you and your man be needin’ them with more mouths to feed.”

She saw Fox’s mouth quiver. Davy thought she was Fox’s woman.

The warmth flooding her made her giddy.

“Is Pip well?” she asked.

“Dried up and tucked in. One of Gaz’s sisters is sitting on him to keep him from coming back out with us.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Did you find the horse?” Fox prodded.

The man nodded. “Gaz is putting him up in the stable along with your other men and their horses.”

“Other men?” Fox asked.

“Aye. Two Scotsmen and an older gent.”

Fox’s eyes burned into her. Father had sent MacEwen’s cousin, or perhaps the cousin had been on that boat with Farnsworth.

She was not going to run away and hide.

“I believe I can manage to cook eggs for…” She did a mental count and smiled at Davy. “For six hungry men. You and Gaz will join us, Davy.” She pulled a crockery bowl from the open shelving above the food dresser.

Fox handed Davy a lamp. “On the top floor is my room. You’ll work out which one. Bring down two bottles of brandy. Stop on the floor below and knock on the door at the end of the hall. Tell the girl there to get up and come down. She’s a real woman, too. There are no ghosts here.”

Davy grinned and shuffled off.

She picked up an egg and weighed it in her hand. “He’s happy to go exploring.”

“And happy for the brandy.”

“And the extra woman.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not running away again. Nor will I be sent away.”

“Like this.” He snatched an egg from the basket, cracked it on side of the bowl, and emptied the bright orange yolk and the clear sac surrounding it, using only one hand.

His smoothness made her laugh again.

“It might soon be quite dangerous here,” he said.

She cracked an egg and it exploded, the contents sliding along the outside of the bowl. She tried to pick it up with her fingers and punctured the yolk. “I’m hopeless.” More giddiness took her and she laughed again.

“Use two hands, Perry.” He demonstrated with another egg then watched her try again. “Yes. Like that.”

She whooped and giggled, and he laughed with her. Only a tiny piece of shell had slid into the bowl. “I shall master this yet.”

She gazed up at him. He was honorable, and kind. “You’re a good teacher, Fox.”

His eyes went dark.

“Will you truly tell my father everything when he arrives?”

“Perry—”

“And what if Father would give his official blessing?”

Cold air touched her cheek.

“His official blessing for what?”

Her heart thudded to a halt. The egg in her hand dropped, bouncing into the bowl, whole and unbroken.

A thundering stag of a man, dressed in dark wool, had belied all of his size and crept through the door while she and Fox fumbled eggs. And she knew him.

Father had not sent minions. He’d come himself.

The Earl of Shaldon crossed the room and tossed his gloves onto the table.

Next to her, Fox froze, and said, “Sir.” The silence that followed was as cold as the wind off the water. Fox didn’t bow like a toady. Nor call Father my lord. Nor shout, We didn’t expect you.

One could never expect the Earl of Shaldon. Or not expect him.

She opened her mouth and words wouldn’t come. He was here for her. Somehow, he’d learned of her visit to a friend in the country from one tiny piece of intelligence crossing his desk, and he’d made his way straight to her hiding place.

She might, after all, run, and require Fox to come with her.

Father’s face was unreadable, as bland and devoid of expression as ever. “You have egg on your face, my dear.”

She rubbed the back of her hand on her cheek and felt the tight pull of the dried membrane. She didn’t remember touching herself there. Fox handed her the yellow towel from the basket and she rubbed at her cheek.

Father raised his arms, and behind him, Kincaid appeared, helping Father out of his coat. All the while, Father’s eyes stayed fixed on Fox.

“You’ll be hungry, Father. I am making eggs and a bit of ham.” She took a breath, trying to keep her voice from quivering. “Good evening, Mr. Kincaid. Was your journey a hurried one?”

“Rather.” Kincaid pulled bundled packages out of a saddlebag. “Are you sharing that cheese, my lady?”

She nodded. “Yes, of course. There’s a bit of toast also. And some brandy.”

Father and Fox stood, eyes still locked. A bottle of whisky appeared on the table, and Kincaid went off and came back with glasses. Only two, she noticed, and wasn’t that rude? He should offer some to Fox, the man who had saved her, who’d almost made love to her, who’d taught her to cook, and who wouldn’t marry her without Father’s blessing.

Her breath caught. “Fox.” She touched his sleeve, and made him turn his gaze to her.

An honorable marriage with her Father’s blessing. They might have that. It wasn’t impossible. “Fox, yes.”

He blinked, because, of course, he hadn’t asked her to marry him, and what he was thinking she couldn’t guess. She couldn’t ask, not with Father and Kincaid in the room.

His arm slid around her. “Lord Shaldon, sir, I should like a private word with you.”

She let out a breath. It seemed that he didn’t hate her.

Father’s gaze narrowed on her, sending a shiver through her. “A private word.” His lips pressed together. “She shouldn’t be here, Fox.” Father sat down heavily and tossed back the spirits Kincaid had just poured.

“That is one of the things I would speak to you about.”

Not without her. He meant to send her away. She opened her mouth to object, but Fox’s look quelled her.

She stiffened her spine, fished the egg out of the bowl and cracked it. Perfectly, this time. “I’m not leaving.”

“She’s not leaving,” Fox echoed, the steel in his voice sending a thrill through her. Not many men stood up to the Earl of Shaldon. “I’ll protect her.”

Her heart swelled and pounded. She cracked another egg, the yoke plopping whole and intact into the bowl. “I’m getting good at this,” she murmured.

MacEwen walked in, saw them, and smirked behind Shaldon’s back while he shed his coat. “Night’s turning foul,” he said. “Business as usual.”

Gaz slipped through the door, hat in hand, his gaze wandering the room. Davy rolled through the inner door juggling two bottles of brandy, with Jenny behind him still tucking her hair under a cap.

The maid’s sleepy eyes widened at the sight of the crowd in the kitchen, and Perry saw the moment the girl spotted Father. She stopped in her tracks, her mouth dropping as low as her curtsy.

The chill wind that was Father wiped away Davy’s grin, and he clutched the two bottles of spirit to him like the two sides of a breastplate. Fox’s grip on her shoulder tightened a fraction. A log cracked and spit. The whisky bottle belched as Kincaid poured two more shots.

“For heaven’s sake.” She smacked an egg loudly, cracking it neatly. “Jenny, lay the table upstairs and then come help me. There’ll be one more for breakfast when Lord Farnsworth arrives.”