Blake's first thought upon hearing the shot was that his life was over.

His second thought was exactly the same, although not for the same reasons. As soon as he realized that he wasn't dead, and that James had managed to bring down the villain who'd been attempting to shoot him with a well-placed blow to the head, it occurred to him that the shot he'd heard had not been nearly loud enough to have been fired up on the cliff.

It had come from down on the beach, and that could mean only one thing. Caroline was dead. And his life was over.

His weapon slipped from his hands, and for a moment he was completely limp, unable to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of Prewitt's men charge toward him, and it was only at the last moment he regained enough presence of mind to whirl around and kick the man in the stomach. He went down with a grunt of pain, and Blake just stood over him, his mind still ringing with the sound of the gunshot on the beach.

Dear God, he'd never told her he loved her.

James came running to his side, a piece of rope dangling from his hands. “This is the last of them,” he said, kneeling down to tie up the fallen man.

Blake said nothing.

James didn't appear to notice his friend's distress. “We've one man down, but I think he'll live. Just a knife wound in the shoulder. The bleeding is almost under control.”

Blake saw her face, her laughing blue-green eyes, and the delicately arched upper lip that begged to be kissed. He could hear her voice, whispering words of love, words he'd never returned.

“Blake?”

James's voice pulled his mind out of its painful vise, and he looked down.

“We need to get going.”

Blake just looked back out at the sea.

“Blake? Blake? Are you all right?” James stood and began patting his friend down, searching for injuries.

“No, I—” And then he saw it. A body floating in the surf. Blood in the water. And Caroline—alive!

Blake's mind snapped back to life. So, too, did his body. “What's the best way down?” he asked curtly. “We haven't long.”

James regarded the manner in which the man and the woman holding Caroline hostage were arguing. “No,” he agreed, “we don't.”

Blake retrieved his weapon from the ground and turned to James and William Chartwell, the uninjured War Office man. “We need to get down as silently as possible.”

“There are two paths,” Chartwell said. “I surveyed the area yesterday. There is the one Prewitt used to force her to the beach, and another, but—”

“Where is it?” Blake interrupted.

“Over there,” Chartwell replied with a jerk of his head, “but—”

Blake was already off and running.

“Wait!” Chartwell hissed. “This one is steep. It will be impossible at night.”

Blake crouched at the head of the path and peered down, the moonlight affording him precious little illumination. Unlike the other path, this one was shielded from view by trees and shrubs. “This is our only hope of getting down undetected.”

“It's suicide!” Chartwell exclaimed.

Blake whirled around. “My wife is about to be murdered.” And then, without waiting to see if either of his colleagues cared to follow him, he started the slow and treacherous journey to the beach. It was agony not to be able to race headlong down the hillside. Every second was critical if he wanted to return home to Seacrest Manor with Caroline safely in his arms. But the terrain wouldn't allow anything other than the tiniest of baby steps. As it was, he had to make most of the journey sideways to keep from losing his balance.

He heard a small pebble rolling down the path and then felt it hit his ankle. The disturbance could only mean—thank God!—that James was following him. As for Chartwell, Blake didn't know the man well enough to predict what he would do, but he had enough confidence in the War Office to know that at least he would do nothing to jeopardize Caroline's rescue.

As he descended, the wind shifted and began carrying sounds from the beach. The man and the woman holding Caroline hostage were arguing. Prewitt's voice was conspicuously absent, and Blake could only assume that his was the body floating in the surf.

Then he heard a sharp cry from Caroline. Blake forced himself to calm down. She sounded more surprised than in pain, and he needed to retain a cool head if he was to make it to the bottom of the path in one piece.

He reached a small ledge and stopped to catch his breath and reassess the situation. A few seconds later, James was at his side.

“What's happening?” James asked.

“I'm not sure. She looks unharmed, but I still have no idea how we're meant to get out there and save her. Especially when they're all standing in the water.”

“Can she swim?”

“Bloody hell. I have no idea.”

“Well, she grew up near the coast, so we can hope. And—Good Lord!”

“What?”

James's head slowly swiveled to face him. “That's Carlotta De Leon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Blake sensed that his friend had more to say. “And…?”

“And it means we're in worse trouble than we'd feared.” James swallowed. “Miss De Leon's as ruthless as they come, and a fanatic to the cause. She'd shoot Caroline in the heart with one hand and use the other to flip pages in a Bible.”

* * *

Caroline knew she was running out of time. Davenport had no pressing reasons to keep her alive. He clearly only intended to have what he considered a little sport with her. He probably thought it would be exciting to have his way with the wife of an agent of the crown.