She’d expected to have found the abbey by now. Although Ned had explained that Morvath kept on the move, and Jacobsen had confirmed this on pain of having the information seduced out of him by Lady Armitage if he did not speak fast, she’d still assumed a day would be enough to find a hulking great abbey accompanied by various battlehouses—especially considering the geography of the area.

“Only an Englishman would call that knoll a hill,” she said. “The village’s church tower was higher.”

“That was because of the angle you were viewing it from,” Ned replied complacently. “Besides, look at all that horizon out there, full of mystery and distant magic.”

She gave him a long, cool look. Despite his mischievous grin, he appeared worn-out: unshaven, his eyes shadowed, his clothes dusty from the road. Cecilia supposed she herself was not much better. “Nevertheless,” she said, “the name Blackdown Hills conjures a different impression than this.” She indicated the view from the window.

Wandering over, Ned put his hands in his pockets as he looked out across sunset meadows of rural peace, speckled with sheep and trimmed with lush hedges of wild rose and brambleberry. “I will admit,” he said, “it’s not the typical location for a villain’s lair.”

Cecilia sighed. She felt tremulous—which was due entirely to worry, she told herself, and not the presence of the scoundrel so close beside her. After all, she was a strong, modern woman. A blackstocking, if you will. If Ned Lightbourne dared kiss her again, she would . . . she would . . . make him walk the plank! Although there wasn’t far for him to fall in these so-called hills. Slapping would be better! Mind you, she did not want to gain a reputation as a slapper. Stab him! Yes, that was a lovely thought. She would thrust a long, heavy knife into him, penetrating—

“Goodness, it’s very hot in here,” she murmured, and tugged on the window latch.

Ned glanced at her sidelong, smiling as if he could read her thoughts. “Are you quite well, Cecilia?”

“Just worried, that’s all.” The window would not open. She muttered something as she tugged harder.

“Let me.” As he reached over to fiddle with the latch, his sleeve brushed her bodice. His scent of road dust and apple peel slipped through her senses. Cecilia took a hasty step back, knocked into a chair, stumbled forward again, and found herself pressed entirely against his body. Her inner Miss Darlington gasped. Her inner pirate remarked upon how many weapons he had secreted in interesting places. And her inner Lady Armitage, which even the sweetest girl has somewhere deep inside, whispered that not all of those hard-edged items were weapons and if she pressed a little closer—

Cecilia leaped back as if scorched.

“I’m afraid the window won’t budge,” Ned said as if nothing untoward had just occurred. He tugged on his shirt cuff, which had been displaced by a ribbon on her bodice, but not before Cecilia glimpsed part of the anchor tattoo on his wrist. She fanned herself vigorously with a hand.