“And go where now that you’ve brought the enemy down on us?” Flint demanded, fear now coating his anger.

“You can obey my orders and stay until it’s safe to leave, or you can leave now.”

“Bastard!”

Liam nodded. “Which should prove to you that I truly am my father’s son.”

Flint looked stunned for a moment.

Liam saw the first riders turn off the main road onto the long drive that led to the manor house. “Make your choice, Flint. They’re coming.”

Flint’s breathing became harsh as he watched more riders turning onto the drive. Then he ran back to the stables.

A footman came out of the house, grunting a little as he placed the large brass bucket next to Liam. Normally, the bucket sat on the drawing room hearth, filled with kindling. Now it was filled with chunks of wood and thick sticks long enough to be used as torches.

“Get back in the house,” Liam said, watching the riders approach.

The footman didn’t have to be told a second time.

Horses feared fire. If he threw burning pieces of wood at them, they might bolt, might even throw their riders, might buy him enough time for the servants to get away before one of the men put an arrow into him—or, he added honestly, before he set himself on fire.

Four guards rode in front of five men who wore gentry clothing. The rest of the guards rode to the side and behind the two coaches. The road dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves made it difficult to identify the men until the front guards swung their horses to the side, and Liam found himself facing Baron Donovan. The baron was an acquaintance, someone whose company he had occasionally enjoyed when they’d attended the same parties or dined together at the club.

What made Liam’s heart sink was that Donovan had been the only other baron besides Padrick who had given him any acknowledgment after his impassioned speech at the barons’ council in Durham—the speech that set the Inquisitors against him.

Why was the other baron here?

Donovan dismounted. So did the other four gentry men and half the guards. Liam recognized the four men as barons he’d seen in the council chambers, but he couldn’t remember their names or what counties they ruled.

“Baron Liam,” Donovan said, his voice courteous yet wary.

“Baron Donovan,” Liam replied. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“You left Durham in a hurry.” Donovan watched Liam intently.

“I had reasons.” None he was willing to share until he knew why Donovan was here.

The door of the first coach opened. Liam saw one of the guards hastily extend a hand as a hooded figure stepped down.

A flicker of—fear?—swept over Donovan’s face as the hooded figure came forward. Then his face became hard, his expression determined.