He was all right where he was, Phoebe decided, not relishing the prospect of carrying a squalling, scratching animal the mile or so home. She’d come back in the morning and replenish his food and keep him company for a while. Meg would be easier in her mind now.

Phoebe picked up the basket she’d left on the front step. It contained the fresh mint she would use to make dressings for the worst of Meg’s wounds. The mint had a numbing, soothing effect. She also had mallow leaves for poultices and an assortment of herbs that Meg had listed to make the soothing drinks and jellies that would induce sleep and bring down the fever brought on by her exposure to the freezing elements.

Meg had no need of the leech, she was her own physician, and Phoebe was a competent physician’s assistant. She slung the basket over her arm, turned the key in the door and pocketed it, then set off down the path, holding her lantern high. It was growing dusk, but it was a clear, soft, early spring dusk, not threatening even in the rustling world of the woods.

As she reached the gate, however, she heard the chink of bridles, the clopping of hooves, a murmur of voices approaching through the trees. Phoebe froze, her heart hammering against her ribs, all her terror of the morning returning in full flood. Who could be coming here at this hour?

She darted back down the path to the cottage, the key in her hand, but before she could reach the door, the first horsemen appeared at the gate and a voice bellowed through the gloom, “Hold fast! Who has business here?”

Phoebe recognized the voice instantly. Giles Crampton’s tones were unmistakable. She felt first relief and then dismay. If Giles was here, it was odds on that Lord Granville wouldn’t be far behind. They’d left together just before noon.

She would have to try to brazen it out, as Brian had suggested.

She turned back and said boldly, “It’s me, Giles.” Then she saw Cato. Her heart began to thump again despite her resolution.

“Phoebe, what in the name of the Almighty are you doing now?” Cato dismounted as he spoke. He came through the gate and down the path towards her, his step light and springing, the white collar of his shirt gleaming in the dusk against the dark leather of his buff tunic. He reached her and placed his hands on her shoulders.

For the first time, Phoebe found herself shrinking from him as he held her. A frown crossed his eyes, dark and glowing as they rested on her pale face.

“What are you afraid of?” he asked quietly.

“You.” Phoebe forced herself to meet his eye. “Don’t you think I have good cause, my lord?”

There was something both hurt and yet indomitable lurking in the depths of her eyes. “No,” Cato said. “You have no cause to be afraid of me.”

Phoebe dropped her gaze with an almost palpable air of disbelief.

Cato’s expression grew taut, but he managed his normal calm tones as he asked, “What are you doing here at this time of night, Phoebe?”

“Meg needs her medicines and she was worried about her cat. I came to feed him and make sure he was all right. He ran off when the crowd came this morning.” A slight shudder ran through her and she half turned from him as if to hide her expression.

Instinctively Cato moved a gloved hand up to clasp the back of her neck, his fingers closing warm and firm around the slender column. “Come.”

The men of the cavalcade were grouped together on the narrow track, their horses shifting, shaking their bridles as they sniffed the evening breeze. The men carried pikes and muskets at their saddles, swords thrust into their belts.

Phoebe hesitated as they reached them. “You have no need to interrupt your business, sir,” she said, her voice sounding stiff. “I can make my own way home.”

“No,” Cato said with finality. “You cannot.” He took Phoebe’s basket and lantern and set them on the ground. “Give me your foot.” He bent and cupped his palm. “Grab the pommel as I send you up.”

Phoebe scrambled into the saddle. She was wearing one of her old gowns and a threadbare woolen cloak missing its clasp, so had no fear of tearing anything. She settled astride, hitching her skirts up to her knees without giving a thought for exposed stockinged legs.

“We’ll head for home, Giles,” Cato instructed as he extinguished the lantern and left it behind the gate. He handed Phoebe the basket and then mounted behind her. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” He moved forward and the cavalcade followed in single file along the track.

Phoebe wanted to lean back against him, into the encircling embrace of the arm that held her. But how could she?

“There’s someone up ahead,” she whispered suddenly. Her ears were particularly acute and she’d heard what she was certain was the chink of a bridle. “Listen.”

Cato drew rein, signaling that his men should do the same. They all sat still, ears stretched into the darkness of the woods on either side of the track.

Then Cato heard it too, at the same moment that Giles raised a finger and pointed to the right. A twig cracked, then another. And then the faintest whicker of a horse. Then it was hushed and silent as the grave. Nothing stirred, not a squirrel, nor a rabbit, not a pheasant, not so much as a sparrow. And it was this silence, this total lack of ordinary sound, that told Cato they had company in the woods and it was company that didn’t wish to be discovered.

He stared frowning into the trees. If it was a royalist party, he should engage them. In ordinary circumstances he wouldn’t hesitate. He could feel Giles’s eagerness as the man drew close beside him on the narrow path.

But Cato could not do battle with Phoebe on his saddle.

Phoebe took matters into her own hands. She would not be a burden to him when it came to military decisions, whatever else he thought of her. She leaned back and mouthed against his ear, “I’ll wait up a tree. I’ve done it before.”

Cato’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “So you have,” he murmured. “Get down, then.” He lifted her down to the path and Giles nodded with satisfaction.

Phoebe, still clutching her basket, slid into the trees to the left of the path. Whatever was going to happen would happen on the right, so she’d be out of their way. She felt a curious exhilaration mingling with her apprehension. Cato would be all right. She’d seen him in action. She had faith. No one could get the better of him.

She set the basket at the base of an oak tree with low branches and hauled herself onto the bottom branch. Her gown ripped under the arms as she reached upward to grab a higher branch. Phoebe gave a mental shrug. The dress was too small for her anyway.

She scrambled up until she could sit astride a branch that overhung the path. There were no leaves to obscure her view of the track below, and she leaned into the trunk so she wouldn’t be easily visible to anyone passing underneath. Her gown was a dull gray and blended well with the bark.

She was barely settled before the evening quiet was riven with sound. Yells, then the clash of steel, the violent thudding of hooves. And now Phoebe was no longer exhilarated, she was terrified. Why should she believe Cato would survive a hand-to-hand battle? What made him immune?

A volley of musket fire, the smell of cordite on the soft evening air. A barrage of shouts, a whole confusion of sound. Phoebe tried to imagine what was happening from the noise, but it was hopeless.

Suddenly she couldn’t bear to sit in her perch a moment longer. She had to see what was happening. She inched forward along the branch to give her room to swing her legs down to the branch below. Then she froze. Hooves thundered along the narrow track, coming away from the sounds of fighting.

Three horsemen hurtled along the path, spurring their mounts, whips slashing flanks as they urged the sweating beasts to greater effort. A gust of wind snatched at the plumed hat of the man in front. He reached to grab for it but it was lost, and his long, flowing hair cascaded free in the wind as they raced beneath Phoebe’s tree. For an instant she saw his face clearly. And then they were gone.