Stranger:. Zoe Archer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ distracted gaze drifted to the window, then, restless, moved over her. And as soon as that happened, he suddenly remembered that she was in the carriage, too, and his demeanor changed.

      He focused on the landscape speeding past, almost as if too shy to look at her. He’d been so imposing at the train station, and then, moments earlier, he’d been the picture of a brooding general on the eve of battle. Now he was diffident. They were alone in the carriage, Astrid Bramfield and Lesperance having gone to the dining car for something to eat. The air, as it often did when she and Graves were alone together, became charged.

      A somewhat awkward silence stretched between them, with the clatter of the train as a steady undertone.

      “Did you really make that shotgun shell with the net in it?” she asked.

      He turned to her, guarded. “I did.”

      “I’ve never seen anything like that. It was remarkable.”

      He flushed slightly at her praise, and tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly aligned shirt. “A very simple device, I assure you.”

      “Not to me.”

      “Inventions and mechanical devices are something of a family trade.”

      She was amazed at his genuine humility. “They should be proud of you, then.”

      He gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You are still going to remain in Southampton, Miss Murphy.”

      Gemma snorted. “I’m not trying to flatter you into letting me stay with you, Mr. Graves. My compliment is sincere.”

      “Ah.” He was abashed. “Well … thank you. And, if I may say, Miss Murphy—”

      “Go ahead and call me Gemma,” she said. “Calling me ‘Miss Murphy’ is too formal, especially after I saved your bacon today.”

      “You didn’t ‘save my bacon,’” he said, indignant. “I was perfectly in control of the situation. But,” he added at her noise of protest, “you did lend a hand in that fight, and for that, I do thank you.” He made a small bow, one hand pressed to his chest.

      She found herself mollified. The man could speak so beautifully. Gemma felt she could listen to him describe the digestive systems of jellyfish and she would be enthralled.

      “In fact,” he went on, “I cannot think of another woman, who wasn’t a Blade, who could handle herself as admirably.”

      The variety of blandishments Gemma received from men often involved her looks. All surface, no substance. Her appearance had nothing to do with her, or who she was, not truly.

      “I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me on the way I swung a heavy rope in a brawl.” When he made choked noises of apology, she added quickly, “It’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

      “Really?” He blinked at her.

      “Usually I get some nonsense about my eyes or my hair or other trifling things.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But, to be praised for how I fight—that means something. So, thank you.”

      “Oh.” He fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. “You’re … welcome.”

      Then, because she had come so great a distance for so much, she went on. “That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned these people I believe you called the Blades of the Rose. Who are they?”

      He tensed, either because she was prying into secrets or because her question had reminded him of the ever-present threat.

      Whichever it was, she wanted an answer. “Mr. Graves—

      Catullus—”

      Her using his given name startled him. And, judging by his indrawn breath, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to hear Gemma call him thusly. She actually liked it, herself. The shape and feel of his name in her mouth, with its hard opening consonants falling into a soft ululation. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man who bore the name? A hard exterior concealing something much more sensitive beneath.

      “You have told me about the Heirs of Albion,” she said. “You have told me about the world’s magic. But there is more. I know that the Blades of the Rose, whoever they might be, are also involved.”

      Still, he hesitated.

      Gemma leaned forward, earnest. “You say you want to keep me safe—”

      “I do.” His voice was firm with resolve.

      “Then prove it, and tell me all. How can I begin to protect myself if I do not know everything? Without full understanding, I’m just fumbling around in the dark, at risk from the Heirs as well as my ignorance.” She refused to play the flirt and charm information from him. If Catullus was to open up to her, it must be because he saw something within her to trust and value. She could not respect herself to resort to cheap ploys, and she needed that self-respect. Without it, all that she worked so hard for was valueless.

      For some long moments, they stared at each other. She watched him assess her, his perceptive gaze held with hers, as if he sought to delve into her innermost thoughts.

      Strangely, she did not resent this. For the first time in years, she actually welcomed a man into her mind, knowing instinctively that if anyone was to truly understand who she was as a person—not a woman, not a journalist, but the true and most essential part of herself—it would be this singular man, Catullus.

      So she let him look, holding herself open to his scrutiny.

      Peculiar. She hadn’t realized she needed this kind of openness until now. Hard lessons had taught her to keep her deepest self in reserve. Too many times, she’d left herself open, vulnerable, and been wounded by careless, heedless men. Men like Richard. She evolved into a hard-edged reporter and thought herself all the better for it.

      She’d been wrong. Some part of her still yearned for closeness, for connection. And that need revealed itself now as she let Catullus Graves gauge her.

      After many lifetimes, he gave a barely perceptible nod, reaching an internal decision. Gemma’s breath left her in a rush, and she only then realized she had been holding it.

      “Magic exists in many forms,” he said with his rich, deep voice. “Sometimes it’s in families, such as yours; sometimes a single person can possess it. But it is also found in objects that are scattered across the globe. They are potent objects whose powers can run the gamut from the benign to the malevolent.”

      “Like the club that thug was using in Liverpool,” she volunteered.

      “No—that was a simple charm on an ordinary item. The objects I am speaking of hold vast power. These objects,” he continued, “are known as Sources, and Heirs search the globe for them, seeking to add the Sources to their arsenal, crushing anything and anyone who stands in their path.”

      The idea was beyond horrible. “Something has to be done to protect the Sources,” Gemma objected.

      “Something is done,” Catullus said. “By me and Astrid. And people like us. The Blades of the Rose.”

СКАЧАТЬ