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A boy came running out through the doors. “Yes, Mr. Doyle, sir.”

“Take care of this ’orse.”

“Right away, Mr. Doyle.” The boy reached for the mare’s bridle and gave it a gentle tug. The horse moved forward, and Jonas took a few shaky steps back.

“Well, don’ just stand there,” Cyrus Doyle said, starting for the inn’s back door. “It’s more ’n likely we’ll ’ave uninvited guests from Dover stoppin’ by any time now, and I’m not goin’ to waste my breath explainin’ why yer standing in my yard with a bullet hole in yer arm.”

On unsteady legs, Jonas followed after him; by the time he entered the back passage, the innkeeper was standing in the doorway that led to the front room.

“Lizzie!”

Jonas leaned against the wall and closed his eyes against the pain pulsating through the left side of his body. Footsteps, light and quick, entered the passageway, and he opened his eyes again. Miss Doyle looking at him with a wide-eyed expression not unlike the one she’d worn the last time he’d seen her.

“’E’s been shot,” Cyrus Doyle said. “Take ’im to the hidden room and keep ’im there till we know all them government men are back where they belong.” He thrust the lantern at her. “An’ you’d best be quick about it.” He disappeared into the front room, and his daughter moved toward the stairs.

“This way,” she said stiffly.

Jonas pushed himself away from the wall. The floor tilted, then righted itself. He crossed the narrow passageway and eyed the steep staircase with apprehension. Miss Doyle was already halfway up, and the circle of light surrounding her was receding quickly. Grasping the banister rail with his right hand, he started the climb. On the fourth step, he stumbled.

“Forgive me,” he muttered.

Ahead of him, Miss Doyle stopped and turned to him. “Have you been drinking?”

Irritated, he shook his head. “I was under the impression that alcohol deadens pain,” he gasped. “There’s nothing remotely dead about the discomfort I’m currently experiencing.” Lowering his head, he took a couple of deep breaths, and when he raised his head again, the lantern was sitting on the landing and she was standing on the step beside him.

“Put your uninjured arm across my shoulders,” she said. “I can help.”

It was ridiculous. She was half his size, and what she was suggesting was completely inappropriate, but the staircase was quite possibly the longest staircase he’d ever faced in his entire life, and he was desperate.

He straightened his legs, then stretched out his arm, and she tucked her narrow shoulders beneath it. With only a second’s hesitation, she placed her arm around his waist and grasped a fistful of his filthy, blood-stained jacket.

“Now,” she said. “On the count of three, we go up one step.”

Jonas nodded and set his sights on the next stair. When she finished counting, she stepped with him, steadying him as he moved upward.

“And again,” she said.

They were halfway to the top when the clatter of hooves announced the arrival of riders in the yard outside, and Miss Doyle’s arm stiffened around him. “Can you move any faster?” she said, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice.

He nodded. Thinking clearly was becoming more difficult, but this much he knew. “No more counting, and no more stopping.”

She tightened her grip, and they started again. One step after another, they pushed onward, and by the time they reached the top, Jonas was breathing heavily and sweat was dripping off his forehead. Reaching for the lamp with her free hand, Miss Doyle did not stop.

“Quickly,” she said. “This first room.”

Bearing more of his weight than he cared to admit, the innkeeper’s daughter guided him into a small bedchamber. Jonas caught a glimpse of an upturned barrel standing beside a single bed covered with a threadbare blanket before she stopped in front of the rear wall.

“Can you stand unassisted whilst I open the door?” she asked.

There was no door, but Jonas was not in any position to argue. He nodded, and she slipped out from under his arm. Jonas felt the loss immediately. His legs shook, and he reached out to brace himself against the fireplace mantel.

Then, from somewhere below, a loud rap sounded, and a man’s voice called out, “Open up in the name of the king.”

Jonas tensed, but Miss Doyle did not falter. Placing the lantern at her feet, she ran her hand over one of the wall’s wooden panels. He heard a click, and suddenly, the wall panel in front of her slid forward, exposing an opening about five feet by three feet.

“Hurry,” she said. “My father cannot hold them off for long.” Extending her hand, she took his arm. He ducked low, and she led him into a tiny windowless room barely big enough to hold a cot, a stool, and a washbasin.

Setting the lamp on the stool, Miss Doyle shifted slightly so he could reach the bed.