Page 149 of The Unlikely Spare

“Callum?” His voice has a clipped quality. “Yes, we’re—no, we’re fine. Had a bit of excitement with the local constabulary, but?—”

He listens, his expression shifting through several complicated emotions.

“How soon?” A pause. “And Grandmother agreed? Bloody hell. I mean, wonderful?—”

He meets my eyes, his expression triumphant.

“Yes, yes, we understand the timing. Just make sure the announcement hits every major outlet simultaneously.” He pauses, listening for a bit. “That sounds fabulous. And, Callum? Thank you. Tell Oliver his negotiating skills are about to make history. Literally.”

Another pause.

“Of course I’m being careful. I have a very competent Irishman ensuring my safety. Love to you both.”

Nicholas ends the call and turns to me. His face is flushed with a kind of wild adrenaline. “Two hours. They’re just putting everything together now, but they should be announcing theestablishment of the Royal Foundation for Colonial Reparations in roughly two hours. Initial funding of seven billion pounds from the Crown Estate, with commitments from seven other aristocratic families, including Harry Matheson’s family, to total twelve billion.”

Christ. My brain struggles to wrap itself around that many zeros. Twelve billion. It’s not enough, could never be enough, to balance centuries of resource extraction and exploitation. But it’s a start. It’s an acknowledgment.

“The Preston-Alexanders?” I ask.

His smile turns sharp. “Mother’s family has committed to providing eight hundred million so far. Apparently, they were given the choice between making a voluntary contribution or having their colonial profit history published in excruciating detail.” His voice carries dark satisfaction. “Oliver can be remarkably persuasive when he chooses.”

“That’s amazing.”

“I know. I can’t believe we did it.”

“You did it. It was your idea, your plan.”

“We did it.” He meets my gaze. “We did it together.”

The hope inside me is almost painful now.

I have to turn away, fixing my gaze on where the lake meets the land, the water so still it creates a perfect mirror of the volcanoes lurking behind. It’s like nature’s own magic trick.

Two hours. We just need to stay free for two more hours, and then maybe, just maybe, Pierce and his people will accept that they’ve achieved their goal without actually having to kidnap Nicholas.

And then maybe we can stop running long enough to sort everything out between us.

But just as that thought goes through my head, movement in my peripheral vision makes my spine go rigid.

“Nicholas,” I say, but he’s already turning, following my gaze.

Three boats are approaching us from different directions, moving with too much purpose to be recreational. They’re still distant, but closing in a pattern that speaks of coordination.

Of hunting.

“Well,” Nicholas says with his aristocratic drawl, “I suppose it was too much to hope they’d wait for the official announcement.”

My blood turns to ice.

Fear claws up my throat, raw and choking.

Not for me.

For him.

Three boats mean at least six men, probably more. They’ll be armed and professional.

And they want Nicholas.