“I do.” I straighten in his arms. “I did not mean to keep it a secret, but it is not an easy thing to explain. Three days ago, in this very room, I said that I knew you were about to die on that road. I pretended I could see into the future because that is more believable than what I am about to tell you.”

His brows shoot up. “The gift of prophecy is more believable? Now you do have my attention, crécerelle.”

“What I need is not merely your attention but your trust. As far-fetched as my story may sound, allow me to finish my explanation before you question my sanity.”

“I would never question—”

The front door rattles, cutting him short. We both glance over. All has gone still and silent again.

Nicolas lifts me from his lap, sets me on my feet and buttons his shirt as he creeps toward the front door. While I pick up my dress, the knob turns one way and then the other.

I slide the dress over my head. It does not fit well without the petticoats, but right now, my only concern is being covered in case the current Lord Thorne should walk in. As that knob turns again, I know that is not about to happen. Someone is trying the locked door with great care so as not to alert those inside.

We have not bothered to keep the house in darkness. Lanterns are lit. Smoke pours from the chimney. Nicolas said that the current Lord Thorne has many friends who are welcome to use his home, and so the villagers will not send up a mob if they see someone in residence. Could they be concerned, though? Or could it be a thief come to rob us? We are in the time of highwaymen.

There is, of course, another obvious scenario. Yet I do not leap to the assumption that Norrington has found us. We escaped on horseback and then on foot, with no one in pursuit. His first thought will never be to check the home of his distant neighbor in case Nicolas knows the family and has permission to use the house.

And yet we cannot dismiss that possibility, can we? The possibility that someone saw us. Or that Norrington’s men encountered someone who spotted lights on at Thorne Manor.

Nicolas stands poised at the door with his head cocked. I position myself along the wall, where I am hidden and can both listen and watch him. When the next sound comes, it is at the back door, and I tense, my mind leaping to that broken door.

No, the door is broken in my time, under that Lord Thorne, and here, the intruder can only twist the knob this way and then that.

Nicolas drops to a crouch and creeps to the front window. Being careful not to ripple the drawn drapes any more than necessary, he opens a peeping hole. One look, and he’s pulling back fast.