“I’m flattered you’re keeping notes.” Taking hold of her arm, he steadied her as she reached for the drainpipe.
“You needn’t grip so firmly,” she grumbled.
“Just—careful,” he said. And again as she pulled away to grasp the pipe—“Careful!”
“My gloves are going to be ruined,” Beth muttered as she began her descent. A great crash announced the men’s conquest of the door, and Devon swung himself hastily onto the pipe. Seconds later, Schreib and Cholmbaumgh appeared at the open window.
“Oi! Stop!” they shouted, brandishing their fists.
“While that’s an entirely reasonable request,” Devon called out, “I’m afraid we can’t just now.”
“Dreadfully sorry!” Beth added.
“Damn!” came the response, and the men disappeared from view.
“Hurry before they get downstairs,” Devon said.
Beth frowned. “I’m going as fast as I—”
“Hey!” came a new voice as a window flung open beside her. Startled, Beth clutched the pipe even tighter. A young girl leaned out to gape wide-eyed at her. “Who are you?”
“Professor Pickering,” Beth said. “Forgive me for not shaking hands.”
“Are you the bird lady my dad told me about last night? The one who gave me a feather?”
Beth smiled. “Yes.”
“Is it a real, actual deathwhistler feather?” the girl asked, propping her elbows on the window ledge and staring with fascination.
“Indeed,” Beth assured her. “An underwing covert, which is a type of feather that birds use to—”
“Excuse me,” came Devon’s tightly measured voice from above. “Pedagogical diligence is all very admirable, but this really, really isn’t a good time for a lesson.”
“Right.” Beth gave herself a little shake. “Sorry,” she said to the girl. “I’ll send you a letter all about it when I’m next at liberty to write!”
“Are you doing that contest?” the girl asked as Beth recommenced the descent.
“I am.”
She waved vigorously. “Good luck!” Then Devon passed her window, and her eyes grew so wide she might be compared to the yeti owl of Siberia. “Oh gosh. Are you a birder too?”
“Yup,” he said with a grin.
“If I go to birding university,” she asked as he continued down, “will I meet more handsome men like you?”
Devon laughed. But Beth, reaching the ground, called up, “You should hope not! Handsome men are all too often scoundrels!”
“You think I’m handsome, Miss Pickering?” Devon asked, and only the fact that just then she glimpsed Cholmbaumgh and Schreib through the inn’s dining room window saved Beth from making a sassy, bantering reply. A moment later Devon dropped to the ground beside her and, catching her hand in his, pulled her into a run across the courtyard toward a gated fence, beyond which lay the road.
“Really, this constant towing of me is unnecessary,” Beth complained.
“I’m not towing you,” Devon said. “I’m using you as ballast.” And yet his grip loosened, so that she might easily withdraw from it if she wanted. Beth, however, did have to admit he provided a convenient ballast for her too. She tightened her own grip, Devon pushed open the gate, and they dashed out.
And came to a sudden, jolting halt at the sight of the French fishermen standing at the inn’s entrance, all peering at a map one of them held open.
“Damn,” Devon muttered. He very nearly yanked Beth’s arm from its socket as he began towing her even faster up the street.
Determined not to surrender every nicety, Beth called out in wayward French. “Hello! I see you there!” (“Bonjour! J’ai peur, sauve-moi!”)
Immediately, all four men began shouting and pointing to her. Beth was surprised to hear a tone of anger in their voices. Then Cholmbaumgh and Schreib emerged from the inn, plowing into their ranks, and a skirmish immediately broke out.
“We should go to help our friends,” Beth said, glancing back with concern.
Devon laughed darkly in response. “No, thank you. We’ll be lucky to outrun any of them as it is.”
Just then, a milkman’s wagon drove past the group. Devon’s eyes lit up, and thus Beth received half a second’s warning before he tugged her into the middle of the road.
“Oh no,” she said. “Not another hijacking.”
“Do you want to escape Schreib and Cholmbaumgh and get to the train on time?” Devon asked as he pulled a gun from beneath his coat. Beth stared at it in surprise.
“I thought you gave that to Miss Marin yesterday.”
He cast her a wry look. “What kind of ornithologist would I be if I didn’t keep a hidden weapon?” Extending his arm, he pointed the gun at the milkman, who gave a startled shout and reined in his horse.
“We’re taking your wagon!” Devon called out.
“Dreadfully sorry!” Beth added with a small wave.
