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Something flitted across her eyes. She stared at him without speaking, dark hair lifting in the wind. Then she gave her head a shake.

“Don’t forget flight,” she said. “A balloon ride over Britain.”

“You’d fly with me?” He tightened his grip on her arms. “You’d step into a car lifted by inflammable air and allow me to pilot you through the skies?”

She narrowed her gaze, surprised at his surprise. “You acted as though my acceptance was assured.”

“Wishful thinking.” He was beaming.

“I did accept.”

“When death seemed imminent.”

“I still accept. Although I’d like to learn to pilot as well.”

“Miss MacKinnon.” He tipped his head. “We will form an aeronautic duo such as the world has never seen. We will co-pilot ourselves to the moon.”

“Lord Blane. A voyage to the moon has long been my chief desire.” She was beaming too, happy and shy and triumphant and so lovely he pulled her in for a kiss.

“Not your only desire, though.” He murmured against her sweet, soft, outlandishly tempting lips. They curved.

“Not my only desire,” she agreed, and his blood surged, and his cock—dammit—seemed determined to point the way moonward. It strained up and up and up.

“First to Selchskerrie.” She leaned back. “Are you ready for the leap?”

“What?” His reality stuttered.

She stood, her hands sliding around his arms, cupping his elbows. He let her tug him to his feet. She had more sense than he. He’d forgotten that they’d escaped from the depths only to strand themselves on the heights.

This ordeal wasn’t over.

He separated from her and pivoted, taking stock of their surroundings. They stood on a small plateau, scarcely bigger than a ledge, rock with meager vegetation, half-shaded by the overhang of the cliff that stretched above. The view was a breathtaking compound of misty gray-green sea and cloudy blue sky. In one direction, Dearnrigg glowed like an emerald. He turned to look toward Selchskerrie, so much closer, Castle Lyon distinct on the headland. He could count the decorative crenelations on the walls.

Tib had paced to the plateau’s edge and stood peering down. She made a pretty picture, with her streaming dark hair, her belling blue skirt, unraveled at the hem. When she lifted her head, he felt her bright glance like a dart.

“It’s farther than we’ve leapt before. And it will seem farther the longer we wait.” She lifted her chin. She had the world’s jauntiest chin, or there was something special about her neck that allowed her to angle it just so.

One might almost think she relished the idea of plunging twenty feet into roiling waves.

He met her at the edge.

Make that forty feet, fifty perhaps.

Far below, the water swirled and surged against the islet’s base.

“We’re lucky,” she said. “It’s the sheltered side. The currents won’t be so bad. And there’s only a short distance to the beach.”

“Lucky.” He speared a hand through his hair. “Lucky.”

“You’re not afraid, are you?”

There it was, that teasing smile, that derisive tone, this old pattern.

“Bugger,” he said and stepped away from the brink. “I jolly well am.”

She blinked her astonishment. But they weren’t ten years old anymore, ringed by island children, the lot of them cheering her and jeering him. They were alone. There was no need to posture. An hour ago, she’d wept on his chest, frightened and fragile. She’d trusted him. Why not trust her?

“I’ve always been afraid.” He sighed, embarrassed but oddly relieved. “Whenever you dared me to climb to some ungodly ledge and leap off, I nearly expired from fear. I spent all year dreading the next challenge. And trying to prepare. Training.”