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, nolaissez-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.
