“Oliver…”
He pointed the weapon at her head.
She shut her mouth.
He jerked his head to the left. “Start walking.”
“But that's the cliff.”
“There's a path. Follow it.”
Caroline looked down. A narrow path had been carved into the steeply sloping hill. It zigged and zagged its way down to the beach, and it didn't take much more than a brisk wind to send loose pebbles rolling down the incline. It didn't look safe, but it was considerably more appealing than a bullet from Oliver's gun. She decided to follow his orders.
“I'll need you to untie my hands,” she said. “For balance.”
He scowled, then acquiesced, muttering, “You're no good to me dead.”
She started to breathe a sigh of relief.
“Yet.”
Her stomach churned.
He finished untying her hands and pushed her toward the edge, musing aloud, “Actually, you might be most useful as a widow.”
This time, her stomach heaved, but she swallowed down the bile, coughing on the acidic taste in her mouth. Her heart might be racing, she might be feeling something far beyond terror, but she had to remain strong for Blake. She stepped out onto the path and began her descent.
“Don't try any false moves,” he said. “You'd be wise to remember I've a gun pointed at your back.”
“I'm not likely to forget it,” she bit off, poking her toe out ahead of her to feel for loose rocks. Damn, but this path was treacherous at night. She'd hiked similar paths during the day, but sunlight was a powerful ally.
He jammed the barrel of the gun against her back. “Faster.”
Caroline swung her arms wildly to keep her balance. When she was satisfied that she wasn't about to tumble to her death she snapped, “I'm not going to do you a bit of good dead of a broken neck. And believe me, if I start to fall, the first thing I'm grabbing is your leg.”
That shut him up, and he didn't bother her again until they were safely on the beach.
* * *
“I'm going to kill her,” Blake said in a low voice.
“Beg pardon, but you'll have to save her first,” James reminded him. “And you might want to save your bullets for Prewitt.”
Blake shot him a look that was decidedly unamused. “I'm going to bloody well tie her to the bed-post.”
“You tried that once.”
Blake whirled around. “How can you stand there and make bloody jokes?” he demanded. “He has my wife. My wife!”
“And what, pray tell, is the usefulness of cataloguing the ways and methods of punishing her? How is that meant to save her?”
“I told her to stay put,” Blake grumbled. “She swore she wouldn't leave Seacrest Manor.”
“Perhaps she listened to you, perhaps she didn't. Either way, it doesn't make a whit of difference at this juncture.”
Blake turned to his best friend, his face holding an odd combination of fear and regret. “We have to save her. I don't care if we lose Prewitt. I don't care if the entire damned mission is ruined. We—”
James laid his hand on Blake's arm. “I know.”
Blake motioned for the other two War Office men to gather round and quickly explained the situation. They didn't have much time to plan. Oliver was already forcing Caroline down toward the beach. But Blake had long since learned that there was no substitute for good communication, and so they huddled together for a moment as they agreed on a strategy.
Unfortunately, that was the moment that Oliver's men decided to pounce.
* * *
Once on the beach, Caroline realized that the channel waters were not as calm as she'd thought—and it wasn't the wind that provided the turbulence. A small boat she recognized as Oliver's was moored close to shore, and the soft crunch of sand under feet soon proved that they were not alone on the beach.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?”
Caroline whirled around and blinked in surprise. The voice had sounded as if it belonged to a large, burly sort of fellow, but the man who had just stepped into a shaft of moonlight was slender and disturbingly elegant.
Oliver jerked his head toward the boat and began wading out into the water, dragging Caroline along with him. “I was unavoidably detained.”
The other man perused Caroline rudely. “She's quite fetching, but hardly unavoidable.”
“Not so fetching,” Oliver said derisively, “but quite married to an agent of the War Office.”
Caroline gasped and stumbled to her knees, soaking the length of her skirts.
Oliver let out a bark of triumphant laughter. “Merely a theory, my dear Caroline, and one you have just affirmed.”
She staggered back to her feet, spluttering and swearing at herself all the while. How could she have been so stupid? She knew better than to show a reaction, but Oliver had surprised her.
“Are you an idiot?” the other man hissed. “The French are paying us enough for this shipment to set us up for life. If you've compromised our chances—”
“Shipment?” Caroline asked. She'd thought that Oliver had been carrying secret messages and documents. But the word shipment seemed to indicate something bigger. Could they be smuggling ammunition? Weapons? The boat didn't look big enough to be carrying something so large.
The men ignored her. “The wife of an agent,” the stranger muttered. “Sweet hell, you're stupid. The last thing we need is attention from the War Office.”
“We already had attention,” Oliver shot back, pulling Caroline along with him into ever deeper waters. “Blake Ravenscroft and the Marquis of Riverdale are up on the bluff. They've been watching you all night. If it hadn't been for me—”