I glance up to see Nicolas coming through the hole. He’s halfway onto the ledge, but he can proceed no farther while I block the way down.

I grab a vertical board and slide my hands down it, wincing at the inevitable splinters. When I reach as far down as I can, I hook my fingers into knots in the boards and then lower my legs. My injured arm will not let me suspend my body weight, and my feet are still a yard from the ground, but there is nothing else to be done. I release my fingers and let myself fall.

A sharp breath sounds from above in that brief moment during which I seem to hang in the air before I fall, backward, arms pushing as if I am propelling myself through water. My bottom hits the ground. Pain ignites my injuries, but I am too busy wishing I had looked to see where I would land. On open ground—yes—but is it rock? Or dried grass that will crackle and give me up again? No, to my relief, I struck down on soft heather, and the only sound is the dull thump of my landing.

I scramble up and run, bent double, to the other side of a jutting boulder. Then I drop there, and I’ve barely drawn a breath before Nicolas lands beside me.

“Are you all right, Miranda? Have you reinjured your arm?”

I want to tease that he’s using my real name, but he is in such a state that I say nothing as he examines my arm’s binding.

“It is bleeding again,” he says, ending with a French curse. “The wound has reopened.”

I take his hands and gently pull them from my arm. “I am fine.”

“You are not—”

“I am not lying sprawled on the heather with a broken back. Nor sprawled and riddled with bullets. Therefore, I consider myself to be fine, sir.”

“Sir?” He gives a sharp shake of his head and then manages a strained laugh as he squeezes my hand. “You are never going to call me Nico, are you?”

I shake my head. “I heard mention of a warrant, and you said something about hanging. Was that in jest? I am attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the situation and how determined these men are to kill you. To kill us, if necessary.”

All humor drains from his face as he rubs his cheek. “A day ago, I would have said no danger at all. Not of death. Imprisonment, yes. Humiliation, certainly, if at all possible, because that is the gravest crime I have committed.”

“Humiliating Lord Norrington. Or should I say, Nottingham?”

The faintest quirk of his lips. “You are not the first to make that jest. Mais oui, I have undermined his authority by daring to feed his people. That is not, however, a hanging offense. I will explain more later, as you seem not to know the story, but as to the question, I cannot answer it except to say that, given that you were shot twice, we must presume they intend us grave harm.”