The coastal path and the fields behind were dark and silent. The only noise was the crashing surf.

Anger reared in her. Bloody Fox—he wasn’t coming.

Perry yanked Pip around. The skiff with the other villains had disappeared round a point. They were quite alone with this villain.

And they must save themselves.

“Do as I do, Pip,” she whispered, easing him closer to the cliff edge. He planned to shoot and push them over.

“Very good.” The Frenchman sounded pleased. “Now you will kneel. I should have liked more time with you, cherie, but I must be off. I am good at what I do. You and the boy will feel no pain.”

“I can swim,” she whispered. “On three.” She put a foot back and bent her other knee, pretending to kneel.

“One, two, three.”

They catapulted off, and heard both shots before hitting the water.

Bloody hell. He’d been almost too late.

Fox ran to the promontory, shifting the hot pistol to his other hand and pulling out a knife. He skirted the dark-clad body and ran to the edge.

His heart all but stopped. The Frenchman had got off one shot. Perry or Pip, he couldn’t bear seeing either hit.

One shot wouldn’t have pushed them over this cliff. They’d jumped―in time, he hoped.

Perry’s head crested the surface, and his heart started again. She gulped air, thrashing, fighting to stay afloat, pulling at the boy who finally surfaced.

Fox bent to the Frenchman and sliced his throat, neat and deep. He dropped pistols, knives and coats, tore off his boots, and jumped.

Bloody hell, the cold.

He’d cannonballed, bounced off the mercifully deep enough bottom and shot up again. Currents grabbed him, pulling fiercely while he fought, and gulped air, and spat water.

There. She and the boy had been pushed further out. He grabbed the force of a retreating wave and shredded through water, every muscle in his arms and chest and legs moving and kicking.

He grabbed for her, and the current pulled her away.

A swell massed behind them. He treaded water, waiting, waiting, and “Kick!” he shouted.

The wave launched them up. He shot toward them and snagged the boy’s arm.

“Kick, Pip.”

“I am.” The boy snorted up water. “It’s too far.”

“We’ll get there. Are you all right, Perry?”

Her teeth chattered. “Y-yes.”

The next wave sent them in closer, close enough for him to stand neck high, the rocks cutting into his stockings and feet. He hoisted the boy onto his hip, and braced against the retreating current, until it shifted. They staggered the rest of the way out of the water, Perry dragging along with them by her tether to Pip.

Perry pulled a knife from her boot, hands shaking.

“Let me.” He pried the knife from her grip and sawed at their bindings. Dark fluid trickled down her head. That was blood.

“He hit you,” he said through clenched teeth.

Perry’s shivering kicked up to a frantic pace, shock overtaking her.

God’s blood, she’d almost died.

“Who was he, Pip?”

“I don’t know,” he rattled out quickly, “Some Frenchie.” The boy glanced up at the promontory. “He got away.”

Fox saw the fear blooming on the boy’s face. “No. He didn’t.”

“You killed ’im?” Pip’s eyes went big. “You ain’t a real painter?”

“I’m a painter.”

The rope gave way and the boy clambered to his feet. “Can you walk?” Fox asked him.

“Aye.”

Fox scooted near Perry, pulled out his tucked shirt and pressed the hem to her head. “You’re bleeding, my lady.”

Her head plopped onto his chest, rattling his breath and his heart.

“Pip, run up there onto the point. Bring my boots, my coats, my pistols and my knives. Make two trips if you have to. Careful with the weapons.”

The boy scooted off.

He lifted her chin to gaze into her eyes.

“I h-hear you, th-thinking. Sh-she shouldn’t have left.”

He wanted to throttle her. Now wasn’t the time.

She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “I’ll get it right the next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.” He braced an arm around her shoulders and settled his lips against hers, his cheek pressing her nose. She was cold, so cold―her lips, nose, and shoulders. He nipped and teased, trying to get her to open, trying to warm her.

She turned away. “No.”

“Yes.” He forced her chin around and pressed again, nudging her lips with his tongue. “You could have died,” he murmured. I could have lost you.

“No,” she groaned.

There’d be no next time. It was this time. This time for them. This night, and as many more as he could manage before Shaldon came and killed him.

He pressed and caressed, found his way under her coat to her breast, teasing the nipple, already hard from the cold. She gasped and opened and accepted his kiss. Heat swamped him and he pushed it at her, letting it swirl around them both. He shifted and sat, pulling her onto his lap, into his heat, kissing her.

A loud throat-clearing interrupted. Clutching her tightly, he broke the kiss and looked up.

Pip stood shivering, his arms full of coats. Davy held the knives and the pistols. Gaz had the boots.

Even in the dark, he could see Gaz’s glower.

“Buggerin’ painter,” Gaz muttered.

“Gentlemen.” Fox held onto Perry. “Give me that coat. Pip, wrap yourself in the waistcoat.”

“No.” Davy set down the weapons, shed his own coat and wrapped it around his boy. “You’re drippin’ too. You take the waistcoat.”

Fox draped Perry in both his waistcoat and coat and started pulling on his boots.

“What about ’im?” Gaz jerked his head toward the promontory.

Perry stumbled to her knees. “He’s still there?”

“Dead and drained like a pig,” Davy said. “Neck flappin’. Dear God, Pip. Scruggs told me about the errand. Said you should’ve been back. What the hell did you get into? Dear God.”

She struggled to her feet and reached for the boy. “You’re c-cold.”

“No, m-miss.”

“Miss?” Gaz peered closer.

“They’ll f-find him.” She started toward the path.

She was befuddled as hell. “Wait, Perry.” He stowed his weapons and followed her.

“G-going up. R-roll him in.”

“No, you’re not.”

Footsteps crunched in the gravel behind them. “He shot at us, Da.”

“Wait up, you two,” Davy said. “Come on, Gaz. Grab us some big rocks on the way up. We’ll give him a proper burial.”

“We have to go that way anyway to get back to the road,” Fox said. “I need to check his pockets.”

“Aye, and that was a damn fine gun,” Gaz said.

“We’ll go through them pockets and get those guns. Might be some dry powder too,” Davy said. “You keep the lady and my boy here out of the wind so you don’t catch your death.”

Could he trust them?

Davy pushed Pip toward him. “We needs do this now. Don’t want them spotting a body from the road.”

“It will go faster with my help, and we can be on the road,” Fox said.

“That road be busy tonight with pack trains coming south.”

“Do you know another way back?”

“Scruggs keeps a skiff here and there. Be cold on the water, but we’ll get back faster.”

“Check pockets, boots, seams. Under his cap. Keep the weapons and money. Bring me the rest.”

Davy nodded and pulled Gaz along.

“And, Davy…”

The man turned. Fox swept his arms around the boy and Perry. “Thank you.”

The cold breeze lashed like the devil’s own blade through the tight weave of Fox’s wool coat. Just as soon as she’d willed herself to stop quivering, a fresh slap of air would come down the cliff, snake under her wet clothing, and into her scattered brain.

Fox seemed to know these local men who guided them along the coast, through rock beds and craggy mires. The best route was this way, they said. She’d balked—it didn’t seem right. Once they reached the end of this narrow bay, there’d be no way out but up a sheer cliff, and she didn’t think her frozen legs would bear her.

“Trust my da,” Pip had said.

Fox had simply picked her up and carried her. She was lodged now against his chest, feeling the wild pounding of his heart, hearing his labored breath.

“I can walk.” She said it, over and over, a mad litany, while she shivered.

They’d almost been murdered.

Tears sprang, and she sniffed mightily and said again, “I can walk.”

She’d almost been murdered. She’d have never talked to her father again, or seen Sirena’s and Gracie’s and Paulette’s new babies born, or played with her niece and nephew again, or been held like this in such strong arms.

“I can walk.”

“Shush,” Fox said.

“I’m too heavy. Lumbering beast.”

He stopped and his breath warmed her, his lips searched her cheek, bumped her nose, and found her lips.

“Here it is,” one of the men said gruffly.

Fox lifted his head, leaving her quaking for more.

He set her on her feet and clamped an arm around her, like a footman steadying a prized piece of porcelain. Mama used to hold the precious Limoges chocolate pot like that, a gift from father, while her maid wrapped it in cotton wool. It traveled to town with them whenever they went.

She needed to walk. She lifted a foot and felt the squishing. Jewelry, bank notes: all wet.

Fox lifted her into a rough wooden boat and climbed in behind her. Pip clambered in next to her. The boat tipped wildly with the other men boarding, and then they were off, the two local men rowing.

Fox’s warmth poured into her back. He shifted, and sharp pain sliced through her, making her gasp.

He quickly adjusted her. “You’re injured?”

“A bruise.” The ocean sparkled where stars broke through the clouds. “Those men. If we see them—”

“We loaded the pistols, miss.”

Pip was clearer-headed than she. She hadn’t noticed them loading the weapons. Perhaps she’d fainted for a moment. But if they saw the men, and they had pistols…She rolled her head toward the boy. “The big man is mine.”

“Best to not speak much,” Fox whispered. “Sound carries.”

Fox held her, thoughts burning. Perry wouldn’t have a chance to shoot either man. He’d tear them limb from limb, and let their weighted bodies land in the water next to their French friend.

The man’s pockets and hems had been empty—no letters, no laissez-passer, no encrypted instructions. No tobacco, no keys, no money. He’d stayed at a safe house somewhere near Scarborough. He’d worked for someone near Scarborough. Probably the real John Black.

And what the devil was this? If Scruggs was sending messages to his men about John Black, he wasn’t in league with the man. And how did Carvelle fit in?

The rhythmic swish of the oars and Perry’s regular breathing lulled him. She cradled the boy, and Fox held her, all the dry coats draping them. For now, her trembling had stopped.

They stayed close to the shore in the shallow-hulled boat and the cliffs helped break the force of the wind.

He’d never be a match for her, but he’d give her as much as he could without taking all of her innocence. He’d keep giving until Perry was tired of him, or until Shaldon stepped in and murdered him.

The coronation would take place in mere days. After that, Shaldon would make haste for Gorse Cottage. Whether or not Fox sent a message, the spy lord would have sources to pass on the news of his daughter’s adventure.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, a muffled oath, and the oars stopped. They’d rounded another point, and almost collided with a cutter.