She drew in a long breath and looked about them. She didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary, but she also didn’t want to look obvious as she searched for them. Pitching her voice low, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“A bench. It is not much farther.”

“Well, that’s a shame. I was hoping it was on the opposite end of the park.”

His fingers squeezed hers. “I wish the same. But you mentioned an invitation?”

“Dinner. Sunday. If the weather’s fair, we’ll be playing croquet beforehand, and you’re welcome to join us for that too.” She gave him her cheekiest grin. “Mama said so, and Daddy grows tired of disagreeing with her, I think.”

“And you and your mother? You have smoothed things over?”

Her grin faded. “It isn’t how it used to be. I’ve been missing her too.”

“Sweet Lily.” He nodded toward a path that forked off from theirs and the bench within sight alongside it. “Perhaps you should tell her so.”

“Perhaps.” Would it help? Ease some of the hurt Mama must be feeling?

“You will not regret it if—”

A loud crack cut him off. Before Lily could even process what it was, Zivon had pushed her to the ground, covering her body with his own. Shouts sounded, and footsteps, and another crack that she realized with horror must be gunfire. “Zivon?”

“Stay down.” Somehow, he sounded both frantic and controlled. “I will not have you injured.”

But he eased off her, his attention on the path behind them where the sounds of a struggle continued. She could tell from the breath he exhaled when Hall’s men must have succeeded in getting their suspect under control.

“All right. He will not escape them now. Have I hurt you, milaya?”

She shook her head and got to her knees, accepting the hand he offered to rise the rest of the way. “A bit muddy, but that hardly matters.” Her hands, however, were shaking. “Was it him who shot first?”

“I believe so. He must have spotted them closing in.”

That did nothing to calm her. If this fellow had been following Zivon, if he had no reason to think today was out of the ordinary, did that mean he always carried a weapon? And was so willing to use it?

Perhaps Zivon read her thoughts. Or just had matching ones. He touched a hand to her cheek. “They have him now. All the other ‘what ifs’ are now moot, yes?”

“Yes. Of course.” But she gripped his hand and was ready to argue if he tried to tug it free.

Her gaze was pulled toward the group of navy men, the prisoner still struggling—though in vain—to break free of them. The man had twisted enough that he faced them now, and he spat in their direction, though he was far too distant to even hope to reach them.