We take a bridle path, and as we near a road, Nicolas asks me to wait with the horse and to remain out of sight.

The meeting point seems to be across the road and down an extension of the riding path. I tie the mare where she can reach a patch of grass, and then I set out. I promised to remain out of sight, but I need to be sure he isn’t walking into another ambush.

I barely cross the road before voices drift my way. One is Nicolas’s, unmistakable with that accent. The other is a young woman’s, and on hearing it, my stomach tightens. I chastise myself, but my heart still sinks when I peer through the brambles to see him standing with the young woman. She’s no more than twenty, dark haired and beautiful, and she’s leaning toward him, speaking urgently, her fingers on his arm.

This is not a chance encounter. This is a woman he knows. From the little bit I can hear, it is also the person from whom he expected to receive a message.

There is no reason why Nicolas’s “associate” could not be a woman, and of all people, I should allow for such a possibility.

I look at her, leaning toward him, her gaze fixed on his.

Maid Marian, I presume?

I want to say it lightly. Of course this Robin Hood would have a Maid Marian or three. He’s far too charming and decent and handsome to lack that sort of attention.

“You must take more care, Dr. Dupuis,” she’s saying. “We heard about the attack. My father is beside himself with worry.”

There’s little of the Yorkshire accent in her voice. She sounds city bred and educated. Her dress is simple—with a rust-brown bodice and light-brown skirt—but it is obviously not meant for mucking out a stable.

“I am fine, Miss Jenkins,” he says.

“Then why is there blood on your cuffs?”

“It is not mine,” he says. “It belongs to a small hawk I found, injured. I believe a hunter shot her in the wing. It was most unfortunate, but she survived.”

I bite my cheek at that. Not entirely a lie, at least not as long as he insists on calling me by that ridiculous name, which admittedly, I’m rather proud of.

I shall call you crécerelle. It is a small hawk I saw in the Americas, which they call a kestrel. It is very small and very fierce.

“You are so kind,” she says. “That poor creature.”

“She would have been fine without my intervention. She is a strong little thing. Now, I presume if you are here, you have a message for me?”

A movement behind the pair has me snapping to attention, and I miss Miss Jenkin’s response as I notice a man standing twenty feet from them.

I start to lunge forward, ready to race down the path and warn Nicolas and his Marian, but the man is making no effort to approach them. No effort to hide, either. He stands openly on the path behind Nicolas.