Spellen’s gaze spun to the door where the inn maid crowded up next to Paulette.

“You bitch,” he growled.

Bink lunged, swinging his knife, slicing a gash in the man’s coat, as Spellen lurched backward, blocking another swipe, and spinning away with a kick that knocked the knife from Bink’s hand.

The man reached under his coat, and Bink dove, knocking a pistol away. The gun hit the thin rug and clattered across bare floorboards but didn’t go off.

Spellen parried another lunge, and Bink ducked an answering blow. From the corner of his eye he saw Paulette inching around, close to where the pistol had fallen. Spellen saw her too.

Bink roared and grabbed for the man, who dodged backward and vaulted the bed, launching a pitcher, making Bink duck again. Footsteps pounded in the corridor behind him and when he looked, Spellen had frozen in front of the window.

“I have him, Gibson,” Paulette croaked.

He didn’t dare turn around.

“The way she’s shaking, she’s as likely to shoot you,” Spellen said. “Put down the gun now, there’s a good girl.”

He could hear the rasping of Paulette’s breath.

Bink steadied his breath. “Keep your aim straight, Paulette. Why aren’t you locked up, Spellen?”

“I was released. Did nothing wrong. The girl wanted it.”

“Liar,” Paulette cried. “Why are you here?”

He leered at the point beyond Bink’s shoulder where Paulette was standing. “She invited me.”

“I most certainly did not.” Paulette pushed up next to Bink. He reached for her hands wrapped around the gun and steadied them.

“Stay back, love. I’ll take this.”

“No.” She tugged the pistol. “Spellen, put your hands up and get down on your knees.”

The jackal’s smile was a dare.

Could she shoot him? He doubted it—the way her hands shook it would be pure accidental. And if he made a move for the man, she might shoot the both of them.

Taking a man’s life was a burden, a soldier’s burden. His burden. He wouldn’t let her be saddled with that.

He glanced at her strained face and took her gun hand in both of his.

In the moment he turned away, Spellen lurched toward the open window.

The gun clattered again. Bink grabbed for Spellen and planted a blow. Spellen punched back, landing a fist on his jaw, sending Bink reeling. The villain plunged for the door again, but Bink caught him and swung him back. Spellen kicked, dodged back, and dived out of the window. Bink grabbed his legs, but another kick to the jaw stunned him, and before he could grab him again, the man toppled out.

Rubbing his jaw, he hoisted himself and looked out. Spellen lay in the shadows below, while a stable hand hurried into the yard.

“Thief,” Bink shouted, “Get him.”

Spellen raised his crumpled self and took off in a limping trot. Another figure shot out of the barn and gave chase into the darkness.

Paulette appeared next to him, Mabel behind her, and Johnny behind him.

“You,” he told Johnny. “Stay here.”

He gripped Paulette’s shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said shakily.

He pulled her close. “I’m going after him. Stay here. Say nothing.” He squeezed her, picked up the blade and the pistol, and was off.

The hastily dressed innkeeper met him at the foot of the stairs, a cudgel in hand.

“Where is he?” he asked.

“Took off. There’s a man giving chase.” Bink stopped him. “Your maid was in on it. Find her.”

Ewan met him in the yard, lantern in hand, and they traced the broken path down the dale, moving with as much speed as possible.

“Over here.”

Kincaid stood, staring down a steep incline at a dark shadow stretched at the bottom. It could have been anything—a stag, a wild boar, a stout log.

“Give me that light.” Bink took the lantern and side-stepped down.

Kincaid followed.

At the bottom, Bink toed the body. The head lay askew, like a man craning his neck to look down the bosom of a woman behind him.

“Broken neck.” In the darkness, Kincaid’s eyes glowed blackly.

A chill rippled Bink’s hair. Black eyes, dark hair and a fathomless manner, that was Kincaid. Not an enemy, though, his gut told him, not to him, and not to Paulette. And Bakeley hadn’t ordered Kincaid along to be rid of him. Bakeley hadn’t sent him at all. The old Earl had ordered it before his death. Kincaid was another protector for Paulette.

What the devil was Paulette mixed up in?

He should have protected her. He hadn’t protected her. “That fall would kill a man,” he said. “Would that I’d snapped his neck back in the inn room.”

Kincaid grunted. “Was the lass in the room?”

“Yes.”

“It’s as well she doesn’t see this.” Kincaid bent and flipped back the man’s coat. “And I see here that you slowed him down a bit.”

Blood soaked the side of the dead man’s shirt. He’d cut him after all.

While Kincaid ruffled through the man’s pockets, Bink pumped his fists, getting the feeling back. Yes, it was good Paulette hadn’t seen this.

He found his voice and called Ewan down, and when he reached the gully, the boy’s eyes were like saucers.

“It’s all right, lad,” Bink said. “He’s only dead. Go back. Tell the innkeeper. And—we don’t know who this man is, Ewan, understand?” It was possible Ewan had been one of Spellen’s guards and recognized the man. “We’ll need to be on our way very soon.”

Ewan nodded.

“He came in on a big roan,” Kincaid said. “See if anyone knows where he hired it.”

The boy left and Kincaid went back to the dead man’s pockets.

“We should have Ewan check his kit.”

“Already done.” Kincaid patted the legs. “Didn’t see him up close when he rode in, but I had a bad feeling.” He stood and brushed his hands together. “Nothing here but a few coins.”

“And in the kit?”

“Nothing unusual.”

Bink rubbed a hand down his jaw. “How long for the coroner?”

“In these parts? We can be to Gretna and back by then. The girl will be safer once she’s yours.”

Bink laughed, ruefully. “Mrs. Gibson?”

“Aye. And she’ll be an Everly, also.”

He held the light higher. “And who are you, Kincaid?”

“A friend. To the old lord, and to Paulette. And to you. I’d suggest we leave statements for the coroner to review. They can call us for the inquest if need be. But I think they’ll rule this an accidental death of a thief.”

“What do you know of Agruen?”

“Not much.” Rocks clattered above them as lights approached. Kincaid lowered his voice. “But I know something of Josiah Dickson.” He lifted his chin and shouted, “We’re down here.”

Huddled with Mabel and Jenny, there’d been no sleep the night before, and as a consequence, Paulette had finally succumbed in the coach to a fitful, dream-filled, swaying slumber, one that, she later discovered, had lasted through three changes of teams.

When she awoke, her head was on Mr. Gibson’s shoulder and her maids were nowhere around, and the carriage was still moving.

Mr. Gibson awoke almost immediately and checked his surroundings. His arm around Paulette—which she hadn’t noticed until now—tightened and he pulled her into a kiss that quickly became heated. Her hat fell away and he tossed it to the floor on top of her lap desk.

When his hand moved to her breast, a sharp stab of pleasure made her gasp.

He released her and studied her face. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

She rubbed her palm along his bristly jaw. “It was pleasure, not pain. Do you always awake so enthusiastically?”

He smiled, and then laughed. “No. But I hope to every morning from here out.”

“Why are you here?”

He huffed out another laugh. “Kincaid and Johnny insisted. And I fell asleep in the saddle.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

A worry niggled at her. Mr. Kincaid was a question mark. She’d not spoken more than one word with him.

“Do not worry. It’s open country, and if anyone is pursuing us, he’ll be spotted in time for Ewan to wake me. Though here I am, already awake.”

She frowned and he tweaked her nose.

“You mustn’t worry.”

“I’m thinking. About last night, if I hadn’t gone to your room—”

“No, Paulette.” His arms engulfed her.

“But you thought the same thing. Is that why we left before dawn? You were worried about Agruen?”

“That’s part of it. Spellen was Agruen’s man, and we don’t yet know why he wasn’t still locked up. I sent an express to Hackwell.”

After Bink returned with news of Spellen’s death, she’d shared Jenny and Mabel’s room, Johnny guarding their door, and thought about Agruen’s words to her in the library at Greencastle. Spellen was searching the bags, which meant the rings weren’t enough. He needed something else to solve the puzzle. “What was the other part?”

“We wanted to leave before the coroner could arrive to detain us. We left our statements.”

“What did you say?”

He squeezed her hand and sighed. “You should probably know. I said I met you in the corridor leaving your maids’ room and escorted you to your chamber, where you found the intruder. That we fought and he jumped out the window. That I saw him running away.”

“And then he fell and broke his neck.”

He looked down at their hands locked together and finally lifted his eyes to hers. “I did not kill him, Paulette.”

She let out a tense breath. “Jenny won’t say much, but I know she’s terrified. She thinks he went looking for her.”

“Because it was her room.”

“Yes.” A chill went through her.

“And what do you think?”

“I…I told the innkeeper’s girl,” she frowned. “I told her, if anyone asked for me, to tell them I’d changed rooms.”

Mr. Gibson’s jaw hardened and moved and she went on.

“Where did she go? Was she working with him?”

“He paid her I think, to keep me out of the way. Which wouldn’t have worked, Paulette. I’ve no interest in any woman but you.”

A warm ripple uncurled in her and all she could manage was a strangled “Oh.”

Could that be so?

By Mrs. Everly’s laws, men were creatures who’d take any woman who came along, and such doings at inns were a common occurrence.

Could Mrs. Everly have been wrong? She’d been wrong about other things. Paulette shook off the thought until later.

“He was searching, wasn’t he? He’d upended their bag. What could he be looking for? Agruen already has my mother’s ring.”

“That wasn’t your clothing, then?”

She shook her head, and his fingers smoothed hair away from her eyes, his touch gentle and warm. It was close in the carriage, the windows shut tight and the shades drawn, and she felt beads of moisture coating her face.

“Perhaps he was looking for the letter of your mother’s you found.”

She turned away in her seat. The man noticed everything. The man forgot nothing. It had been a mistake to mention the letter. And yet…

“I doubt it.” She lifted the lap desk from the floor, undid the clasp and reached under the playing cards and the few sheets of paper. “Here. You may read it yourself.”

“I will. But later. Put it away.”

“Will you hold the letter for me? Will you keep it safe?”

“Yes. Certainly.” He stowed the paper into an inside pocket and kissed her again, this time more gently. “Is there aught else I should know about this puzzle Agruen mentioned?”

His eyes held hers, searching, and a sick feeling slid through her. They were marrying and he should know.

Except, her mother had scoffed at Jock’s talk of a treasure. It might not be real. She wouldn’t know until she knew.

“It must have something to do with whatever the solicitor is holding.”

His mouth firmed and he glanced away. Satisfied with the answer or not, she couldn’t tell.

The coach slowed and a knock on the roof warned them. Mr. Gibson opened the shades, while Paulette retrieved her bonnet. They were entering a hamlet.

“We’re almost to Brampton.”

“We’ve made good time.”

“Yes.” His face was grim. He was a man fit for action, wanting to be outside, looking for danger. “And I intend to do even better. Try to rest, love.” He chucked her chin, his eyes glowing. “You will have no rest tonight.”

Her heart clanged wildly as the coach stopped. Mr. Gibson was out of the door before she could form the words to respond.

First they would marry, then they would settle into an inn.

Paulette smoothed her skirt. The desire for speed and efficiency, she could understand, yet it seemed a backward way of doing things. For one, she would like to rearrange her disheveled hair and straighten the wrinkles from this traveling gown. Or change into her spare one.

She had, however, agreed early on to the plan, before she understood what thirty hours in a coach would do to one’s appearance. She hoped there would be a bath before the wedding night.

Her fingers curled as a ribbon of anticipation unfurled in her. After his rest, Mr. Gibson had returned to his vigilance, spurring on everyone—ostlers, post boys, grooms—to hasten. Privy stops were hurried, refreshments rapid.

He could not control the roads though, which, having succumbed to recent rains, slowed them in places to a precarious walk. Thus, when they entered the village of Gretna Green, the summer sun was low on the western horizon.

Nerves buzzing, she removed her bonnet. “My hair is a fright, isn’t it?”

“You look lovely, miss,” Jenny said.

Mabel crossed and sat next to her. “Turn then and let me re-pin it.”

The blacksmith’s shop and a grand inn came into view, but they passed by without even slowing.

“Where is he taking us?”

“Be still, Polly. Mr. Kincaid knows just the place, Johnny said.”

Mr. Kincaid again. He had been the one to chase Spellen down the hill. Yet he hadn’t himself fallen.

He’d been Lord Shaldon’s servant until the very end, fit and able. And he’d not been valeting Mr. Gibson, that was a fact.

Drat, she should have been asking questions instead of kissing.

“There.” Mabel pinched Paulette’s cheeks. “You will do very well as a bride.”

The coach turned down a quiet lane and stopped in a graveled courtyard. This must be an inn, a smaller one, set back from the heart of the town.

They sat for interminable minutes, and finally, Paulette opened a window and shivered. They were far to the north, and though the sun was still high, a chill breeze was coming all the way from the Irish Sea.

Mr. Kincaid appeared at the door, his face swathed in its usual gravity. He extended his hand. “Miss, Mr. Gibson is inside making arrangements. If you please, I will escort you.”

She climbed out of the carriage, and he draped her in a long piece of woolen plaid.

“A tartan,” she cried.

“The wind off the firth brings a chill,” he said.

She studied the moss green cloth with its intersecting black and red lines.

“’Tis the Kincaid plaid. You would honor me by wearing this.”

The gentle tone compelled scrutiny. Kincaid was brown-haired and brown-eyed, and almost everything else about him was middling—his height only a bit above average compared to Mr. Gibson, his physique sturdy, his age somewhere about forty. He could pass through a crowd and never be noticed, as she’d not really taken time to notice him. Yet now, he seemed almost familiar.

A hint of humor touched the corner of his mouth and he offered his arm. “May I have the honor?”

She drew the plaid tighter around her. An unaccountable emotion gripped her throat and she couldn’t find words. Ducking her head, she took his arm.

“He’s a good man, Gibson is.” He whispered close to her ear. “He will protect you.”

Paulette nodded again, and then his words registered. “From what?”

The pause told her he had misspoken. She did not think this man did that often. He hesitated, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“You must ask him to explain.”

Anger tightened his voice, directed at whom, she did not know. Mr. Gibson perhaps. Not at herself, certainly, because as they entered the inn, Mr. Kincaid turned to her with a kind look.

One lone maid—this one older, respectably dressed—worked the bar in the taproom. Two men put down their tankards and stood when they saw her, and started in their direction. Kincaid nodded to them.

“Do you know them?” she whispered.

“Aye. Good men, they are. We are dead on our feet. They will be keeping watch for a bit.”

Watch for what? And then she remembered: Agruen. Perhaps he had another evil servant to send after her.

There was no time to ask questions, as Kincaid led her through a door into a private eating room. Her eyes fixed on Mr. Gibson. Color rose under the stubble of his cheeks, and his lips curved up.

His beard had roughened over the course of the day, and she itched to strip off her gloves and feel him, and that thought made her face as warm as his must be.