Fox spotted the union jack fluttering astern and his heart started beating again.

A crew member hailed them.

“Shite,” Gaz mumbled.

Fox pushed Perry and Pip up. “We’ll come alongside,” Fox shouted. “Do it,” he told Gaz and Davy.

“Out for a row?” The uniformed officer peered down at the boat. “It is a fine evening.”

Another man, attired in dark coats, came up beside the officer.

Fox’s nerves prickled, and he pulled the coats higher over Perry. He didn’t recognize the man, but he knew the look.

And still, the role must be played. “I’m Goodfellow, from Gorse Cottage. Two of my servants were waylaid and robbed on their way back from Scarborough. Villains held them awhile. We found them just in time to fish them out of the water.” He shifted again and braced his arms on the sides of the boat. “Three men on their way to the point north of the cottage took them and left them for dead. They were in a great hurry to meet a shipment coming in further north. Didn’t want witnesses.”

“Your vessel looks like a smuggler’s craft to me. What else have you got in that boat?” the officer asked.

“Nought but these two wet bedraggled bodies needing dry clothes and medical attention. Drop a man over to search if you will, but hurry before a fever takes them.”

The two men conversed quietly.

“What are they bringing in?” the civilian asked.

“We don’t know.”

“You two at the oars. What are they bringing?”

Davy looked at Gaz. “Sir, we don’t know. My boy’s freezing and I’d like to get him home safe and dry him up.”

“Can your boys identify the smugglers?”

Perry swayed in her seat and began to gag. Fox steadied her as she leaned her head over the side, hair shielding her face. Nothing came of her dry heaving, and he wondered if it was a ruse.

“No,” Pip called. “It were nobody from here, I think.”

“What does the other one say?”

“This one was beaten almost senseless. For God’s sake, go north and check. Come round to the cottage after, if you will,” Fox said. Shoot at us if you will. “Gorse Cottage. Oars in, boys.”

“Assassins,” she whispered.

“Shhh,” he breathed into her ear. Assassins. She’d pronounced it the French way.

“Wait,” she croaked up at the boat. The plainly dressed gentleman took out a spy glass.

Fox pushed her down.

“They were meeting assassins,” she whispered.

“What is he saying?” the officer shouted.

“The cargo might be an assassin.”

At a word from the gentleman, the Captain turned to give orders.

The gentleman leaned over the decking. “Take care of your servants, and get yourself into dry clothes, Goodfellow. Your work here is done.”

The cutter sailed away, and Davy and Gaz took up their oars.

Perry sat up and rested her face against her cupped hands. “Farnsworth.” She moaned.

Farnsworth. He knew the name. Farnsworth worked with Shaldon.

“Lean back,” he said. “You might be concussed.”

Her head moved side to side. “I am sick from this infernal rocking, is all.”

He draped an arm over her. “He couldn’t see you.”

“He will know. They always know. You always know.”

As the boat rocked, she gripped the side.

“I don’t get seasick,” Pip said. The boy seemed completely recovered. Even his teeth had stopped chattering. “Look, we’re almost there.”

They rounded a point and saw the dark mass of Gorse Cottage in the distance. The dimmest of lights twinkled behind closed kitchen shutters. Except for the departing cutter, the coastline was free of vessels.

Farnsworth might wait until the next day to visit. They still had days until the coronation, and then at the very least one or two more before Shaldon could reach the cottage. Fox could put off Farnsworth by hiding Perry away. There must be a smuggler’s hidey hole somewhere in that massive hillside.

They could hole up together until she recovered, and then take a packet over to Holland.

He shook his head at the mad thought. Perry had no place with him, nor he with her. Besides, he would finish this mission. Shaldon had sent him here to find his last spy, Gregory Carvelle, and he’d stay on to solve the mystery of Lady Shaldon’s death.

Perry leaned to the side and gulped air. Her cap had come off in the water, and her hair straggled around her collar, the cut uneven. Her hair, curling down to her waist, had been glorious, ephemeral, turning her into the goddess of the picture he’d painted over, the one he still held in his heart. He’d always see that side of her.

But now, with short hair, men’s clothing wet and plastered against her curves, the bare determined hands gripping the side of this boat, now he could almost believe she was just a woman, vulnerable, real, and accessible, even to one such as him.

Heat coursed through him and he leaned forward, resting his chin on her shoulder.

He felt the shiver that rippled through her. “We must get those wet clothes off you. We must get you warm.”

“Who are they going to kill, Fox?” she whispered.

He saw the slight stiffening in Davy’s and Gaz’s backs.

“The King probably,” she said. “We must send word to my father.”

Perry huffed her way up the hillside path, clinging like a girl to Fox. At the crest, she gulped in breaths that shattered pain through her back, while Fox whispered to Davy and Gaz.

Hunching against the cold, she set out for the cottage. She’d made it this far, she could make it the rest of the way.

Strong arms came around her and before she could utter a protest, Fox hoisted her up like a babe. Her teeth chattered too fiercely for her to object.

The kitchen door opened and the immediate sensation of warmth sent her shivering out of control. Jenny stood wringing her hands, but when the door slammed, just the three of them remained. The two men and Pip had gone their own way.

“Jenny. Bring wood to the bedchamber, and hot water,” he said without pausing, and then she was bouncing against him, his heart pounding, his breath ruffling the hair near her ear.

He kicked open the bedchamber door, and Jenny rustled by. The girl dropped kindling and wood in the grate and knelt before it with the tinderbox, striking sharp flares.

“Let’s get these clothes off.” Fox tore at the knot on her sopping neckcloth. He finally gave up and pulled out his knife. “Don’t move.”

She closed her eyes during the delicate slicing and concentrated on not shivering, letting the first delicate spirals of smoke curl into her with promises of warmth. She heard the knife clatter on the table and felt her neck lighten as he unwound her.

He inhaled sharply and muttered a curse. Strong hands cupped her shoulders.

“Oh, miss,” Jenny whispered.

They both stared at her neck. “Is it bruised?”

His gaze scorched her. Fox was well and truly angry.

“Jenny, hot water.”

Jenny hurried out.

He pressed his lips together and finished unwinding the cloth, tossing it aside. Then he turned her around, pulled off his damp coats and tugged at her soggy ones.

She pulled away from him. “Stop. I’m feeling much better. I can undress myself.”

“No.” He tugged at her sleeve again.

“You are too rough. Too angry.” Sudden tears sprang and she swallowed them back.

She was yanked back against him, into his heat and his trembling, and she remembered. He was soaked also, and freezing. He needed dry clothes.

She covered his hands with hers. “Go and change, Fox. Jenny can help me when she comes back.”

“No.”

His heat and his anger vibrated through her. “I won’t go anywhere.”

For the rest of my life. A sob bubbled inside her. Father would lock her up for her foolishness. Her hands curled into fists, and she bit hard on her lip.

She must do the honorable thing and report this threat to the King, even at risk of her freedom. She would not cry. She would somehow survive this and find another way to break free.

He released her and went back to tugging on sleeves, this time more gently, removing her coats.

“Sit down, now.” He moved a chair near the growing fire.

The heat made her skin ripple. Fox knelt before her and removed one of her boots. Money spilled out, coins and bank notes. She picked up one of the notes. It was only a little damp. A night drying by the fire and she could still use it.

Fox’s eyes narrowed. He collected the coins and notes and set them next to his discarded knife.

He lifted her other foot. “I suppose this one has the jewels.”

Her face heated as he poured out her gold chain, the pink garnet ring she’d received for her eighteenth birthday, a cameo fob, and a slim bracelet dotted with turquoise. It was paltry. All the best of the jewelry was locked in Bakeley’s safe. How had she thought to subsist on these items? She watched him gathering them, noticed how he kept his face carefully neutral. He’d slipped from anger to pity.

Jenny entered with a steaming bucket.

“Put it there.” He pointed to the hearth.

“I’ve tea ready also.”

He nodded. “Get it. Some biscuits also, or bread if there’s any.”

As soon as the door slammed, he eased her out of the chair, yanked out her shirttails, and tore the shirt over her head.

She plopped her hands over her breasts. “Fox.”

His fingers tore at her trouser buttons. She barred an arm and hand over her breasts and slapped at his busy hands with the other.

Buttons flew. The loose breeches peeled down her hips and pooled at her feet. He swept a gaze over her, his eyes darker than usual, and walked into the dressing room.

She glanced around the chamber. Where had she left her dressing gown? Where had Jenny put it?

In the adjoining room, he was slamming cabinets. As his footsteps neared, she dropped into the chair, drawing her knees up and huddling into them.

She peered up. Her robe hit the bed where he tossed it. A pile of towels fell to the floor next to her chair. She swung her gaze around, her field of vision at the level of his waist. He’d shed his wet shirt and—holy saints. His trousers strained with an erection worthy of the Godolphin Barb.

Liquid heat poured through her, pooling at the part of her she was trying so desperately to conceal.

He wanted her, just as franticly as she wanted him.

She heard the door latch turn. A towel floated over her head, covered her, and began to rustle through her tangled damp hair.

“Put it on the table,” he said.

Dishes clattered.

“Sir, let me—”

“Out.”

Jenny must have paused, the brave little thing.

“Get. Out.”

The door snicked closed. The towel came off. Lips pressed against hers, hot and demanding, pushing her chin up, breaking the grip she had on her knees. He’d kissed her on the beach, jolting her back to breathing, back to life, but this—this was so much more.

She reached for him and he pulled her up, his hot length burning her, melding her to him. She squirmed closer, fingers tracing wide shoulders, bunched muscles, hard strength. A fresh, pink scar knotted his chest and she lifted her head to look. Before she could ask about it, he kissed her again, a hot demanding press of his lips, his tongue searching and twining with hers.

She slid her hands down to his waist and squeezed her fingers along hot muscles, and lower. She wanted to see more, feel more.

He tugged at her hand, lifted his mouth away, and said “No.”

His eye glowed with so much anger, her heart sank.

His gaze dropped to her breasts, plumped against his bare chest. Stepping back, frowning, he stroked her cheek. “You’re injured.” He traced the length of her arms, picked up her wrist and studied the bruising. “No skin broken,” he said, and the words grated as if they pained him.

Lifting her chin, he focused his gaze at her neck. “But this…I’ll kill him.”

“I’ve promised myself that reward.” Perhaps his anger wasn’t directed at her.

Fox’s fingers trailed over her breasts, down her sides, to her waist, his gaze stopping a moment at the thatch of hair between her legs before moving on. “Your knee is bleeding.”

Indeed it was. “I stumbled. I’m clumsy as ever.”

He settled his hands on her shoulders. His eyes still burned darkly, but his lips twitched. “It’s hard to walk on pound notes and garnet rings.”

Before she could protest, he whipped her around, and a tremor shook both of them.

“Perry, take a breath for me.”

He’d assumed the composed tone he’d used earlier that evening to send her away, stirring her anger.

“Why?”

Fingers trailed lightly over her back, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through her.

“Does that hurt?”

She swallowed. “No.”

He probed more closely and she gasped. “The scrawny one punched me there.”

“Does it hurt to breathe?”

She inhaled deeply. “Only a little.”

He touched her at waist level. “And here? Does this hurt?”

“It feels tender. He hit me there also.”

“The scrawny one. He’ll die, as soon as I can identify him.”

“Yes, and I’ll be the one to—oh.”

His fingers slid over her bottom and fire blasted through her. She gripped the chair back, and he tugged her bottom against him.

Oh, God. She’d seen the outline of his erection earlier tonight and now she could feel it.

“Fox.” She had no breath to say more. One of his hands, with those artist’s long fingers, had curled round her and was threading that warm thatch of hair at her center.

She gasped.

He froze. “Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head.

One arm pulled her to him. He nuzzled her neck, kissing and licking in a flurry of sensation that drowned out any aches. His other hand stayed busy, stroking, sending liquid heat through her. He backed them to the bed, and seated himself, pulling her onto his lap and taking one of her breasts in his mouth.

That busy hand flattened against her sensitive nub and a finger slid into her.

She touched his arms, his shoulder, his back. She raked her fingers along the soft hair of his arm, through the fuzz of his chest, along the prickly stubble covering his jaw.

The tension built higher. She clutched at his shoulders, reaching for something, in an agony of feeling, and—

Pleasure exploded in her and she gripped tightly while it pulsed.

Oh, oh, oh. She squirmed and gasped and settled.

He’d gone still as a statue, his finger still nestled inside her, his forehead pressed to her shoulder.

So this was it.

Now she understood. When women whispered about marital pleasure, this was what they meant. Not just the kissing and touching, which were wonderful, but…a woman would do much for this kind of pleasure. And men—no wonder the unhappily married members of the ton chased each other shamelessly.

Fox lifted his head, his face in a grimace.

This she’d heard whispered about also—a man engorged for too long was a man in pain.

She couldn’t bear to leave Fox in pain.

She slipped to the floor in front of him, ignoring her scraped knee, and reached for his buttons.

He pulled at her hands. “No.”

His tone was as hard as his cloth-covered rod.

Tracing a finger down his length, she watched his jaw tighten.

He squeezed her hand. “We’ll not go there tonight.”

“But you’re—”

“I’ll not ruin you any more than I have, Perry.”

“Ruin me?”

She sat back on her heels. Fox sounded so angry, and he’d averted his eyes, as if she was unpleasant to look at. But minutes ago, he’d had a finger in her most private of parts.

Perhaps the pleasure had addled her brain, and the lack of pleasure had addled his. She reached again for his fall, and he pulled her hand away.

“You don’t understand. I don’t know if I can—”

“Control this great manly rod?”

He grimaced.

“I see.” That was it. She’d seen stallions at work. He was afraid to unleash that wildness, that mad desire.

In her center, miraculously and without any touching, the pleasure had started again. Fox’s mouth parted hungrily. His eyes had gone completely black and feral in a way that sent tension spiraling through her.

Whatever tomorrow might bring, she wanted this tonight. She wanted ruination. She wanted Fox.

She reached for his damp boots and yanked off first one and then the other. His wet trousers clung so to his narrow hips and long, muscled limbs, he might have been naked. He was as beautiful as an Italian marble, and in his own way, as vulnerable as she tonight. Except that she was fully naked.

A lock of his unfashionably long hair touched his cheek, and in his eyes, need and hunger flashed while his tight fists bunched the bedclothes.

They had come to a crossing point.