Lizzie had smiled. “It’s magical.”

“Ah, you have your mother’s romantic soul.”

“Do you believe she tripped on a cobblestone, Gran?”

It was a question Lizzie had asked before, but her grandmother only answered it then, at the very end of her long, good life. “I’ll ask her when I see her in heaven, Lizzie, but no. No, I never believed your mother simply tripped and fell. But,” her grandmother had continued, some of her old starch coming back into her voice, “I do believe that whatever happened to her, justice was rendered. Your father would have seen to that.”

“What was she like?”

“She was very much like you, Lizzie.”

The sound of a car pulled her out of her thoughts and drew her attention to the gravel driveway down to her left. She walked to the railing and leaned over as a familiar sedan pulled to a stop behind the one she’d borrowed from Martha Prescott.

Jeremiah’s car.

Jeremiah who now owed her, Lizzie thought as she watched Will Davenport get out on the driver’s side and look at the darkening horizon. She waited, but no one else appeared.

At least he’d come alone.

She remained on the deck, listening to his even footsteps on the stairs. When he came around to her, she put both hands on the back of an old Adirondack chair she’d collected from her grandmother’s house farther up the rocks. “You got here even faster than I anticipated.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No. Not even a little.” It was true, she realized. “You’re more rugged looking up close. I can picture you humping over remote mountains with a heavy pack and a big gun.”

He smiled, walking toward her. “I see your imagination and flare for dramatics are at work again.”

“Ha. SAS and MI6 equal heavy pack and big gun.” She frowned. “Jeremiah told you where to find me? I have blabbermouth cousins.”

“Who adore you and whom you adore in return.”

“Serves me right for using them to run interference.”

But she saw the strain of the past day at the corners of his eyes as he squinted out at the Atlantic, seagulls crying in the distance, out of sight. “Is this your place, or does it belong to your family?”

“It’s mine. My great-grandfather Rush was a Maine fisherman. His son did well and married a Whitcomb from Boston, and he came back here and built a big-but not too big-house. I own it, too. No one else in the family wanted it after my grandmother died two years ago.”

Will turned and leaned against the railing, his back to the ocean, the evening breeze catching the ends of his hair. His eyes were more blue-green now, dark, observant. “Maybe they wanted you to have it.”

Lizzie dropped her hands from the chair and stood next to him on the railing, facing the water. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. My family-I love them all, Will.” She watched a worn lobster boat cruise toward the river harbor. “My parents planned to raise me here. Then my mother died, and my father-well, things changed.”

“Things always change.”

She glanced sideways at him. “How much do you know about me?”

That slight smile again. “Not nearly enough.”

She hadn’t expected the spark of sexuality in his eyes, but it was there. And it pleased her even as it unnerved her. “I looked up your family in Burke’s Peerage and Gentry.”

“You were in London in July,” he said.

“Josie’s been busy following my trail?”

“Very. I spoke to her on my drive up here.”

“I imagine the FBI will want to talk to her.”

“I gave them her number.”

“Supposedly you were in Scotland fishing when I was in London. I was careful to stay off any spy radar. I met people at a hotel bar where you and Simon often meet for a drink, and I walked past your sister’s wedding dress shop. I never saw her-I wouldn’t do that.” Lizzie shrugged, stood back from the deck railing. “I was just the hotelier on a London holiday.”

“I never knew,” Will said.

“That was the idea. I didn’t get close enough for you to find out.”

“You should have.”

Lizzie turned and faced him. “Maybe you should go back to Boston and join forces with Simon and the rest of the FBI, do what you can from there to find Myles Fletcher.”

“It’s Abigail Browning we need to find. Myles isn’t important compared to her safety.”

“Will…this place is my refuge. I’ve never…” She paused, tried to smile. “I’ve had my cousins over for lobster rolls, but otherwise this is where I come to be alone.”

“I get your meaning, Lizzie. I’m invading your space.”

“‘Invading’ is too strong. I had ants once. Now, that was an invasion-”

He touched a finger to the corner of her mouth. “I can see you battling ants.” He trailed his fingertip across her lower lip. “Are you all right, Lizzie?” he asked softly.

“Sure. Yes.” Her heartbeat quickened, but she tried to ignore its meaning. That she was reacting to this man. That she’d lost all objectivity with him. “I’m not the one lying dead in an alley or recovering from shrapnel wounds or-” But she squeezed her eyes shut at sudden images of where Norman could have Abigail Browning, what he could be doing to her. She tried to block them as she opened her eyes. “I don’t want him to hurt her.”

Will tucked his fingers under her chin and raised it so that she was meeting his eye. “Whatever happens won’t be your doing. Guilt gets us nowhere.” He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her softly. “I’ve been thinking about doing that for some time now.”

Lizzie smiled. “Long plane ride across the Atlantic.”

“I started wondering what it would be like to kiss you when you pretended not to recognize my name at Eddie O’Shea’s pub. When I saw you take on Michael Murphy-” Will kissed her again “-I knew it would be only a matter of time.”

“Very bold of you.”

This time, their kiss took on an urgency, nothing soft or tentative about it. She responded, putting a hand on his arm to steady herself. She was tired and raw emotionally, and all she wanted to do was to feel his arms around her, his mouth on hers.

“Kissing you is everything I imagined it would be,” he said.

“I hope what you imagined was good.”

He laughed. “Very good, just not sufficient.” His eyes sparked as he stood back from her. “I want more than a kiss.”

“Will-”

“Also only a matter of time, wouldn’t you say, Lizzie?”

She hoped so. Every nerve ending she had wanted it to be so. But she said lightly, “You are very bold, indeed, Lord Davenport.”

“A point to remember.”

He turned to face the ocean, and Lizzie shook off the aftereffects of their kiss as best she could and reminded herself who was standing next to her. What did she know about this man and why was he really here? “Maybe being attracted to each other is inevitable after all the adrenaline of the past twenty-four hours. Heightened senses and all that.”

Will seemed amused. “I was attracted to you before the adrenaline set in.”

Now she felt warm. She looked out at the water. Lights were coming on at the inns and houses down toward the river.

“Does Estabrook know about this place?” Will asked, back to business.

“Yes.”

“You think he’ll come here.”

“I think he knows I’ll come here.”

“Lizzie, you can’t deal with Norman Estabrook on your own any longer. No one would ask that of you.”

“What if I told you he kidnapped Abigail because of me? What would you say then?” She narrowed her gaze on him. “What would you ask me to do?”

He didn’t hesitate. “The same. You’re not a criminal, nor are you a law enforcement officer.”

“Did John March tell you to keep an eye on me?”

His expression darkened slightly. “I don’t work for March.”

“Did the queen tell you? Your friend the prime minister?” Lizzie didn’t wait for an answer. “You’re after Myles Fletcher.”

“I’m here because I want to help you.”

She noticed the air was cool, almost chilly, with nightfall. Maine’s too-short summer was coming to an end. “Thank you.”