Because he is with Maid Marian. She can see him, and Nicolas could, too, if he turned slightly to the left.

Yes, a young woman of Marian’s status and age would not be roaming the moors alone. The man is at least fifty and seems, from this distance, well dressed, meaning he is a member of her family or her household staff who has accompanied her to this rendezvous.

Nicolas and Marian continue speaking, their voices now too hushed for me to distinguish more than the occasional word. Marian leans closer to her Robin Hood, gazing up at him with such obvious adoration that if she was the compatriot Nicolas was meeting yesterday, then history is wrong. This girl did not betray him.

Having no excuse to linger—and not particularly wishing to see any parting kiss—I return to the mare. I settle in to wait for Nicolas while insisting that I am not the least bit upset at this turn of events . . . and knowing I have rarely told myself a greater lie.

Nicolas says little when he returns. He assures me all is well, and then we are off with the mare. Once we reach the coast, Nicolas stops. As he helps me off the mare, he says, “I propose we release the horse nearby, where there is both grazing land and water.”

I look around. “Your cave is nearby?”

“Non, but the skiff is below.”

“Skiff?”

“It is similar to a rowboat,” he says.

“I know what a skiff is, but I am not sure of the application in this context.”

His brows rise. “Do you intend to swim to my pirate cove, crécerelle? I would not advise it, the water being terribly cold.”

Of course. He said he stays in a cave. Where does one find a cave in these parts? Along the ocean bluffs. History tells of countless ones in this area being used for smuggling.

As he releases the mare, I say, “We ought to have sent her with your sweetheart.”

His brows shoot up so high I almost laugh.

“I apologize,” I say. “I was concerned for your safety, and so I snuck after you. When I realized you were with your sweetheart, I withdrew.”

“Presuming you mean Mademoiselle M . . .?”

That is not the name I heard, but as he said, they do not use their own names in this business. I must look confused, though, because he continues.

“The young woman I met,” he says. “She is the daughter of my associate. I would consider her a friend, perhaps, but sweetheart?” He shakes his head. “She is even younger than you. A mere child.”

“I am six-and-twenty, Nicolas.”

“Did you call me Nicolas? Well, that is a start. As for your age, if you are truly six-and-twenty, pray tell, what year were you born?”

“Eighteen—” I stop short.

He laughs. “You were born in the future? You are even younger than I thought.”