Page 48

She nodded. "Absolutely."

He shook his head, his thumb brushing her cheek. "You are too brave for my health."

He kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"Get down the moment you are safe," he said.

He placed the cloth pouch beside her right hand and arranged the lining over it. Then he crossed the room and came back with the fowling piece. He laid it along her left side, the barrel toward her feet, the stock near her hand.

She looked at it the way one looks at a snake in a bread basket.

"No."

"Yes."

"I have never fired a gun in my life. I don't know how. I would sooner climb out and beat them with the coffin lid."

"You won't need to fire it. You won't need to touch it. But if everything else fails and a man is climbing toward you and the quicklime is spent and your cane is out of reach, you point the wide end at his chest and pull the trigger. That is all."

"And if I miss?"

"At that distance you could fire it with your eyes closed and still hit him." He tucked the stock beneath the lining. "It's loaded. Don't bump it."

"You are putting a loaded gun in my coffin."

"I am putting a loaded gun next to the most stubborn woman in England. God help whoever opens the lid."

She glared at him. He arranged the lining over the stock until it disappeared.

He stepped back and looked at the arrangement from the doorway.

"Listen for the steps," he said. "I made them so they creak."

"I noticed. Clever."

"Thank you, my lady."

"Don't call me that."

He kissed her knuckles again. "Were it not for your brilliance, we could have had a far more enjoyable morning."

Her smile was slow. "There is plenty of time for that later."

"I am holding you to it."

She closed her eyes. Folded her hands. Lay still.

He left the room before he could force her out of the coffin and stow her somewhere safe.

He had sent word to the captain three days ago through the usual channels—a note left beneath the stone at the crossroads, the one the smugglers used for drops. The terms were plain. The captain and his men would enter through the orchard mouth before dawn and wait in the second branch off the main passage. When Reeve's men passed, they would block the tunnel behind them. No one leaves the way they came in.

The captain had not replied. He never did. A reply meant a record and a record meant a noose. Silence was confirmation in this trade. Kit had no choice but to trust it.

He climbed down the ladder into the cellar and sat on the cold stone floor with his back against the wall and his knife across his knees. Above him, through the floorboards, he could hear nothing. She was still. She was ready.

He closed his eyes and waited for them to come.

Chapter eighteen