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“Of that I have no doubt, but I do believe that you will be seeing far more interesting sights with Mr. Davenport first.”
Caroline completely forgot that the aforementioned Mr. Davenport was holding her arm, and she lunged at Oliver. Davenport held firm, but she managed to land one good punch against Oliver's stomach. He doubled over in pain but unfortunately didn't lose his grasp on his gun.
“My compliments,” Davenport said in a low, mocking voice. “I've been wanting to do that for months.”
Caroline whirled around. “Whose side are you on?”
“My own. Always.” And then he lifted his arm, displaying for the first time a dark, gleaming pistol, and shot Oliver in the head.
Caroline screamed. Her body shook with recoil of the gun, and her ears buzzed and rang from the explosion. “Oh, my God,” she whimpered. “Oh, my God.” She had no great love for Oliver; she'd even agreed to furnish the government with information that might send him to the gallows, but this…this was too much. Blood on her dress and in the foamy surf, Oliver's body floating facedown in the water…
She wrenched herself away from Davenport and threw up. When she was able to stand again, she turned to her new captor and asked, simply, “Why?”
He shrugged. “He knew too much.”
Carlotta looked at Caroline and then slowly and purposefully shifted her gaze to Davenport. “So,” she said, in that delicately Spanish accent Caroline was coming to detest, “does she.”
Blake's first thought upon hearing the shot was that his life was over.
His second thought was exactly the same, although not for the same reasons. As soon as he realized that he wasn't dead, and that James had managed to bring down the villain who'd been attempting to shoot him with a well-placed blow to the head, it occurred to him that the shot he'd heard had not been nearly loud enough to have been fired up on the cliff.
It had come from down on the beach, and that could mean only one thing. Caroline was dead. And his life was over.
His weapon slipped from his hands, and for a moment he was completely limp, unable to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of Prewitt's men charge toward him, and it was only at the last moment he regained enough presence of mind to whirl around and kick the man in the stomach. He went down with a grunt of pain, and Blake just stood over him, his mind still ringing with the sound of the gunshot on the beach.
Dear God, he'd never told her he loved her.
James came running to his side, a piece of rope dangling from his hands. “This is the last of them,” he said, kneeling down to tie up the fallen man.
Blake said nothing.
James didn't appear to notice his friend's distress. “We've one man down, but I think he'll live. Just a knife wound in the shoulder. The bleeding is almost under control.”
Blake saw her face, her laughing blue-green eyes, and the delicately arched upper lip that begged to be kissed. He could hear her voice, whispering words of love, words he'd never returned.
“Blake?”
James's voice pulled his mind out of its painful vise, and he looked down.
“We need to get going.”
Blake just looked back out at the sea.
“Blake? Blake? Are you all right?” James stood and began patting his friend down, searching for injuries.
“No, I—” And then he saw it. A body floating in the surf. Blood in the water. And Caroline—alive!
Blake's mind snapped back to life. So, too, did his body. “What's the best way down?” he asked curtly. “We haven't long.”
James regarded the manner in which the man and the woman holding Caroline hostage were arguing. “No,” he agreed, “we don't.”
Blake retrieved his weapon from the ground and turned to James and William Chartwell, the uninjured War Office man. “We need to get down as silently as possible.”
“There are two paths,” Chartwell said. “I surveyed the area yesterday. There is the one Prewitt used to force her to the beach, and another, but—”
“Where is it?” Blake interrupted.
“Over there,” Chartwell replied with a jerk of his head, “but—”
