“Tied up in the ladies’ cabin,” Kim said, sounding rather numb. “Probably unconscious. Sir, Knowle sought to divide us. You can’t necessarily take his word—”

“Don’t lie to me, Arthur,” Lord Flitby said, and walked away.

Will let himself slide down to the floor, now there was nobody who might kick him in the head. “Jesus.”

“Will. Where the devil did you spring from?”

“Spring from? I was right bloody there!”

“I know that now,” Kim snapped. “I didn’t expect you to be! Are you all right?

“No.”

Kim scrambled round the body. “Hell’s teeth. How bad is it?”

Will let his head drop back against the side of the yacht, not caring about the wet. “Let’s just go home.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The bullet had gone clean through Will’s calf, so at least it wouldn’t need digging out. It bled a fair bit, but Kim got him down to the men’s stateroom to lie on one of the bunks. Lord Flitby, astonishingly, cleaned and bound the wounds up for him with surprising competence, muttering something about worse hunting injuries, and gave him a couple of pills from the first aid kit. Will went out like a light after that. It had been a long day.

He woke with his leg throbbing. The pale light of the cabin suggested it was close to dawn, which meant horrendously early, but he wanted to know what was going on. He hobbled up the stairs from the stateroom, looking for company, and had to pause at the sight that greeted him: the sea huge and glittering around him, the endless sky, the white sails straining. That was when Will realised the engines weren’t running. He could only hear waves and wind, only smell the fresh sea air.

Kim was sitting at the pointy end of the yacht, arms curled around his knees. He looked bedraggled, exhausted, and beautiful.

“Hello,” Will said.

Kim didn’t even open his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I got bored. How are we doing?”

Kim pointed forward. Will had a squint, and saw the dark smudge of approaching land. “Is that England? Thank God for that. It’s taken a while, hasn’t it?”

“We decided to stick with sail and have both of us on deck, rather than me stoking the boiler all night. And I didn’t much want to come into dock at two in the morning. Maisie consented to the delay once she was on deck: the air seems to be helping. How’s the leg?”

Will lowered himself carefully to sit on the smooth teak, looking back along the length of the boat. There was what looked like a heap of sailcloth half way down: Knowle’s body. “Sore.”

“It would be. You should stop getting shot.”

“Thanks. Are you all right?”

“It’s been quite a long night.”