“Why not?”

“Is it safe? The path, I mean. It doesn’t look as if it is.” She took an unconscious step backward. “And it’s very cold. Bertie won’t like it.”

“Let him down.”

“What? Here?”

“He’ll follow the other dogs.” Mr. Cross gave a low whistle. Seconds later, one of the mastiffs loped up over the side of the cliff, his tongue lolling. “See? There’s Paul.”

She bit her lip. “Very well.” Reluctantly, she set Bertie down on the mud and gravel road. At the sight of Paul, the little pug barked twice—a high, hoarse yip—and trotted off.

Paul ducked and weaved, bowing to Bertie once before turning and clambering back over the cliffs. Bertie followed without hesitation.

“Well.” A slow smile crept over Clara’s face. “It seems I’ve been making a mountain out of a molehill.”

Mr. Cross’s mouth curved up slightly. “He’s a dog.”

“I suppose he is, at heart. Though he hasn’t lived like one for most of his life.”

“He knows what he is.”

“It seems he does.” She gave a sudden laugh. It was tinged with rueful awareness. “Would that we all had the same self-knowledge.”

He stared down at her. His jaw was clean-shaven, his golden hair rumpled from the wind. He was ridiculously handsome by any measure. But it wasn’t his face that captivated her attention, nor even his tall, strapping frame, standing over her like some Arthurian hero come to life. It was his eyes. The look in them was strangely intent.

An image of him kissing the housemaid sprang into her mind.

She moistened her lips. “You may take Bertie—”

“You can come—” he began at the same time.

She bent her head, nearly laughing again at the sheer awkwardness of it. But when she raised her eyes back to his, she saw no humor in his gaze, only the same peculiar intensity. It made her heartbeat stutter. “Do you mean it? It wouldn’t be an imposition? Or a—”

“No.”

She cast another wary glance at where the dogs had disappeared over the side. “You’re certain I won’t tumble down and break my head?”

Mr. Cross didn’t answer, merely walked to the cliff’s edge. She trailed after him, craning her neck to look over the side. There was a path there, albeit a dangerously steep one. It wound in a narrow, haphazard fashion to the beach below.

He looked back over his shoulder. “I’ll go first. Like on the stairs.”

She nodded, waiting as he ventured down ahead of her. He’d gone no more than a few steps when he turned and offered her his hand.

Clara swallowed hard. And then she took it.

As he led her down the path, loose stones skittered beneath her boots. But it wasn’t fear that made her pulse leap and her palms grow damp beneath her gloves. At least, not only fear.