The third man beckoned the big one. Out at sea, a shadow floated, impossible to make out as more than a black smudge. The two men held a hushed conference, fragments of French floating toward her.
Fragments that sent her stomach roiling, her hair rising, and her head reeling.Men, andassassins, andweapons, andpayment, and then they were moving again, pushed along by the thin man.
“Bloody hell,” Perry said. “Quit pokin’ me. Can ye not let me go?”
The big man turned and gripped her throat, fingers tightening, cutting off breath. She managed a sucking wail, and her chest seized, her tongue stuck to her palate, making her want to gag. Pain seared her neck where the blood was cut off.
Rocks clattered on the side of the cliff. He let go and turned toward the noise.
She staggered against Pip, sucking in ragged breaths and gagging.
“Eet ees nothing,” the third man reported. “The wind.”
“The skiff’s not far,” the thin man said.
He came up close enough to smell and jabbed her hard in the back.
Pain seared her. She choked and staggered against the boy again.
“More of that comin’ if you don’t shut up.” His breath stung her nose, along with the rest of his dinner—onions, many, many onions.
Him, she could find by his odor. Him, she would kill also.
They skittered off onto a narrow path, switching back and forth down the cliff side. Gorse tore at her breeches and coats, the heels of her stout boots skidded on rocks, and she crashed into the boy more times than she’d have liked, trying to keep from falling over the side.
They reached a low promontory overlooking a sheer drop. Damp air penetrated her coats, and she fought her shivers, fought the fear numbing her mind.
It wasn’t hard to puzzle out their plan.
Three men stood between her and escape. She glanced back at the sea.
The folly bridge on the lake at Cransdall was just about this high, and she’d jumped off that many times on Charley’s dares. Mama had made sure they’d dug the lake deep.
Would the sea bed be deep enough?
“No witnesses. Take care of this,” the big man said, and stalked off.
And he’d spoken the words in badly accented French.
Onion Breath passed by, and she pivoted away from his jabbing. The blow glanced off Pip, who shouted and kicked out.
“Enough,” the big man bellowed. “I want to get there before them.”
Onion Breath skittered back to the path, and both men moved out of sight. They reappeared again at the water’s edge, and she saw it then. A skiff was pulled up, another man holding it against the pull of the waves. They got in, took up the oars and rowed away.
Her heart dropped. The surf battered the shore again tonight. She didn’t want to have to fight it, not with one hand tied to Pip. She didn’t know if she’d be strong enough.
They turned to face two pistols. “You’ll kneel down now.” This was the Frenchman.
She scanned the darkness behind the man.
“He’s back there.” Pip breathed out the words.
“Youcouldlet us go,” she yelled. She must stall. Fox must come, and soon.
“Non.”
That was definitely French.
