the jetty.
She was exhausted and trembling by the time he got her onto it. They slumped side by side, gasping, simply waiting for some semblance of strength to return.
Lying back, shoulders propped against the bank, he stared unseeing at the sky. Her head lay cradled on his arm. After a few minutes, she turned his way, weakly raised a hand to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”
He didn’t reply—couldn’t. He caught her fingers, trapped them in his, closed his eyes as reaction— realization—poured through him, so intense it was frightening, a fright that shook him to his soul.
Then her weight against him, the faint warmth reaching through her drenched clothes, the gentle intermittent pressure of her breast against his side as she breathed, registered, and relief flooded him.
He realized he was squeezing her fingers; he eased his hold, raised them to his lips. He looked down; she looked up. Her eyes met his, a frown dulling the silver.
“You know,” Caro murmured, trying valiantly not to shiver, “I think you’re right. Someone is trying to kill me.”
Eventually, they climbed up to the cottage. She refused to let Michael carry her, but was forced to lean heavily against him.
Once inside, they stripped; there was clean water to wash away the mud and linen towels with which to dry themselves. Michael wrung out their dripping clothes, then they hung them in the windows where the sun streamed in and the warm breeze could catch them.
She speared her fingers through her toweled hair, combed out the tangles as best she could. Then, draped in shawls her mother used to use in winter, she crawled into the V of Michael’s thighs as he sat propped against the head of the daybed, and let him wrap her in his arms.
His arms tightened; he held her close, leaned his check against her damp hair. She crossed her arms over his and clung.
Simply held tight.
He didn’t exactly rock her, yet she felt the same sense of caring, of being cherished and protected. They didn’t speak; she wondered if he kept silent for the same reason she did—because her emotions were so stirred, roiling so close to her surface that she feared if she opened her lips, they’d come tumbling out, willy-nilly, without thought for what they might reveal, where they might lead. What they might commit her to.
Gradually, the slight shudders that still racked her—a combination of cold and fear—eased, driven out by the pervasive heat of his body, by the warmth that seeped slowly to her bones.
Yet it was he who stirred first, who sighed and eased his arms from under hers.
“Come.” He placed a light kiss on her temple. “Let’s get dressed and go back to the house.” She shifted to face him; he caught her gaze, continued in the same even, determined voice, “There’s lots we need to discuss, but first, you should take a hot bath.”
She didn’t argue. They dressed, pulling on their clothes, still slightly damp, then left the cottage. Crossing the bridge was no real problem; although it was narrow, she’d crossed it so often, she didn’t truly need the rail.
Michael stopped just before he followed her off the bridge. Crouching, he examined what remained of the post that had supported the rail at that end. He’d caught a glimpse of it as he’d rushed down to the bank, before he’d dived in; what he saw now confirmed his earlier observation. The post had been sawn almost through; barely a sliver had been left intact. All three of the posts had been treated similarly; the upper portion of each had been virtually balancing on the lower section from which it had been all but severed.
No accident, but a callously deliberate act.
Rising, he drew a deep breath and stepped down to the bank.
Caro met his gaze. “I don’t usually use the rail all that much, just for crossing. Did you, yesterday?”
He cast his mind back… recalled putting a hand on the post at the bridge’s other end, not far from where Caro had grasped the rail today. “Yes.” He refocused on her eyes, reached for her arm. “It was solid, then.”
Had the perpetrator known that only Caro and Mrs. Judson used the bridge, and, it being Tuesday, that it was most likely Caro who would use it next?
Lips setting grimly, he steered her up the meadow. They walked back to the house as fast as she could manage. They entered via the garden hall; he parted from her in the corridor with a stern reminder of the advisability of a hot bath.
She cast him a sharp glance, with a glimmer of her usual manner tartly replied, “I’m hardly likely to want anyone to see me in my present state.” Her wave directed his attention to her hair—now sun-dried, it seemed twice its normal volume and even more untameable than usual. “I’m going up the back stairs.”
He caught her gaze. “I’ll go home and change, then I’ll meet you in the parlor.”
She nodded and left; he watched her go, then headed for the parlor. As he’d hoped, the door was open; Elizabeth was on the window seat embroidering while Edward sat in a chair poring over some papers spread on a low table. Standing in the shadows of the corridor, out of Elizabeth’s sight, Michael called to Edward.
Edward looked up; Michael beckoned. “If you can spare a moment?”
“Yes, of course.” Edward shot to his feet and strode to the door, eyes widening as he took in Michael’s state. He pulled the door closed behind him. “What the devil happened?”
In a few short sentences, Michael told him. Grim-faced, Edward swore he would ensure that after her bath, Caro came straight down to the parlor and stayed there, safe in his and Elizabeth’s company until Michael returned.
Satisfied he’d done all he could for the moment, Michael left to ride home and change out of his bedraggled clothes.
He returned two hours later, resolute and determined.
While riding home, then bathing and changing his clothes, calming Mrs. Entwhistle and Carter, eating a quick luncheon, then riding back to Bramshaw House, he’d had plenty of time to think without the distraction of Caro’s presence. Plenty of time not just to dwell on what might have been, but to draw some conclusions, firm enough for their purpose, and from that see ahead to how they should go on—what they needed to do to unmask whoever was behind what he now firmly believed were four attempts on. Caro’s life.
He walked into the parlor. Caro, recognizing his step, had already looked up, was already rising. Edward rose, too.
Elizabeth, still ensconced on the window seat, beamed a bright smile his way. Gathering her emboridery she got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to discuss your business.”
Sunnily assured, she swept out. He held the door, then closed it behind her. Turning, he looked—just looked —at Caro.
She waved and sat again. “I don’t want her to know and worry, and even less become involved, and she will if she knows, so I’ve told her you and I have some political business to discuss, and given the ambitions we all hold for Edward, that he should stay.”
Edward shot him a long-suffering look and resumed his seat.
Michael took the armchair opposite Caro. He wanted to be able to see her face; she was often difficult to read, but given the subjects they had to discuss, he wanted to catch as much as she let show.
“I think,” he said, glancing at Edward, “that we’re all in possession of the relevant facts?”
Edward nodded. “I believe so.”
Michael looked at Caro. “Do I take it you now accept that someone is intent on causing you harm?”
She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Very well. The question we clearly have to answer is: Who would want you dead?”
She spread her hands. “I don’t have any enemies.”
“I’ll accept that you don’t know of any enemies, but what about enemies who aren’t motivated by personal connection.”
She frowned. “You mean via Camden?”
He nodded. “We know of the Duke of Oporto, and the interest he apparently has in Camden’s papers.” Michael looked at Edward, then back at Caro. “Can we agree that it’s possible there’s some hidden reason in whatever’s at stake there that the duke believes you know, that’s sufficient to convince him he needs to do away with you?”
Edward considered for only a moment, then nodded decisively. “A possibility, definitely.” He looked at Caro. “You must agree, Caro. You know as well as I do what’s at stake at the Portuguese court. Murder has, indeed, been
