“You will have to.”

“I cannot leave you here with those people.”

“Arabella, this is not a discussion. Climb out of that window and onto that drainpipe and run for help. The fence around the park has a gate on its northern end. You will find it by following the river downstream to a tight copse of trees. On the other side of that copse are the fence and the gate. Go now.”

“But what about Joseph and my coachman? My carriage—”

“Before I arrived, the oaf paid a visit to your carriage. I found the coachman hiding in the shrubbery and terrified, and Joseph injured.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “How injured?”

“Shot. I sent them home.”

“They shot him? But—”

“Arabella, the Bishop of Barris has tried to kill me twice, with poison stolen from my ship and with a knife wound administered to me on the beach in Saint-Nazaire.”

“But those men—”

“Were hired assassins. Fletcher wishes me out of the way so that he can control Combe’s wealth through my aunt’s child. While I imagine he would have preferred disposing of me in France, I will not put it past him to attempt to do so here.” He moved toward her. “Now, you—”

The key rattled in the lock.

Luc swept his arm to the draperies and pulled them over the missing bars. He went to the middle of the room as the door opened.

Their captor, the housekeeper behind him, jerked the pistol toward Arabella. “I don’t want her. She’ll have to go.”

Arabella froze. “Go?”

“Go home,” he said as though she were an imbecile.

Luc circled his arm around her waist loosely. “She goes nowhere without me.”

“No more of your talking, milord. She goes.”

Luc dipped his hand into her cloak pocket and swept the pistol forward and her body behind him in one quick movement.

“Now,” he said, “calculate if you will the likelihood of your pistol firing and you managing to hit me anywhere vital, and the speed with which I can fire at you, which I assure you I can do quite swiftly and quite accurately. Are you calculating? Good. Now set down your weapon.”

Astoundingly, the man did as Luc commanded. The housekeeper’s face was stark.

“Back away from the door,” Luc said.

They obeyed.

“Duchess,” he said, and went toward the doorway and through. “Take up that pistol and pass it to me.”

She did. He dropped the bishop’s pistol in his pocket and stepped forward, motioning her to go past behind him. She hurried toward the stairs.

It happened in an instant: the housekeeper flung her fist forward, a gray cloud burst over them, and she and the oaf threw their hands over their eyes. Luc staggered back, coughing, his palm covering his face.

“Arabella,” he gasped. “Run.”

She ran. But she was not quick enough. Her captor grabbed her shoulder, spun her around and knocked her head with the side of his fist.

Pain. Her stomach lurched. She scrabbled for a hold but her hands only found his thick body. She struck him. He grabbed her wrists and pinned them together, then hauled her back up the steps. Luc lunged toward them. The man released her and slammed his fist into Luc’s jaw. She jumped forward then jerked back; the housekeeper’s fingers clamped around her hair. She saw Luc reel and the oaf pointed the pistol at him.

“No!” she shouted. “I will do whatever you want. Lock me up. Do whatever you wish to me. Just don’t harm him. I beg of you!”

The man shoved her back into the bedchamber. The door slammed shut and the lock clicked.

She wasted no time in further begging. Throwing off her cloak, she went to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and climbed onto the sill.

The ground was remarkably far below. She grabbed hold of the pipe, found a nail for a foothold, and prayed.

She fell more than climbed. Her feet hit the ground hard and she tumbled over, then pushed to her knees and, torn and bleeding from her descent, set off at a run around the side of the house.

Figures moved in the distance near the river, and she flattened her back against the house.

From afar she saw the bishop’s man shove Luc with the pistol. Luc struggled, but with his arms tied behind his back again he seemed unbalanced. His captor lifted an arm, hit him in the head with the butt of the pistol, and Luc staggered. He kept his footing, but the man pushed him to the edge of the riverbank where a small rowboat was tied up. As Luc’s head came up slowly, painfully it seemed, the man just stood there, no longer even pointing the pistol at his captive.

Luc looked off to the side. The man threw back his head and laughed, the sound lost to her against the rumbling of the river and her own roaring heartbeats and labored breaths. His captor stepped forward and struck him again and Luc stumbled back. Then, with a mighty shove, the man pushed him into the river.

She clamped her lips over her cry and gripped the wall behind her. If he saw her, all was lost.

Her heart was screaming. Luc’s hands were tied. She had only minutes.

The man watched the water for a moment, then turned and lumbered toward the house. As soon as he was around the corner of the building, she broke into a run.

Chapter 18

The Bull and the Boar

Wet and stiff, the knots would not respond to his fingers, and he was sinking fast. And running out of air.

He shook his arm thickly through the water. The penknife from Arabella’s cloak pocket slipped from inside his cuff into his palm.

He cut his wrists and fingers then finally rope, and his hands burst free. He swept his arms around. His shoulder slammed into a rock. He was moving with the current. He knew this river. But he could see no light, no sun from above directing him. His lungs screamed for air. Her voice shouting his name came to him through the blackness and noise. A dream. An illusion. Desperate men heard mermaids in the sea’s depths. Arabella was his siren. She had always been, calling to him over the gurgle and rush of the river, the confusion in his head.

He broke free to the surface. He gulped in air. Midnight enveloped him. Complete darkness.

Her voice called him again. His dream. But closer now.

Real.

He marked the sweet, strident sound. He turned his body toward it, against the current, and swam.

SHE SAW HIM struggle, go under, and disappear.

The oar was slippery in her hands, her head dizzy, the water all around seething, silver sunlight slanting off its surface. She could not see him.

“Luc! Oh, God, Luc, where are you?” she shouted. “Luc!”

She leaned forward, pushing the oar into the water, but she was flying past the place where he had gone under, speeding forward. The boat smacked against a rock and jerked to the side. She grabbed at air. The oar hit another rock and flew out of her hands. She lunged for it. The boat tipped.

She fell in. With flailing arms and flying skirts and an enormous splash she sank into the river. Water poured into her mouth. She choked, struggling to hold her head above, coughing and paddling, her legs caught in her skirts. She sank. She would drown. Her nightmare coming true. Before she told him. Taking his child. The river sucked at her, dragging her beneath.

Strong arms came around her, lifting, scooping, pushing away the water. She gasped in air, coughed and sputtered and breathed.

His arms were around her, holding her above water, pulling her toward the riverbank.

He hauled her onto the bank.