Stranger:. Zoe Archer

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      “Where are they?” Forton bleated.

      “How the bloody hell should I know?” Draycott scowled at the empty coach. When he reported back, Edgeworth would be furious. Two of the most important Blades had been in their grasp, and slipped away. Again.

      And where the devil had they gone to? They had disappeared, and Draycott almost believed that the Blades had broken their own fool directive to never use magic. With an oath, Draycott shoved his way past Forton out of the coach, never seeing the unlocked hatch above him.

      “Tuck in your arms and legs,” Catullus shouted to her. “And let yourself roll.”

      Gemma, balanced on the junction between the mail coach and the next carriage, eyed the speeding ground with a combination of terror and excitement. The bags had already been thrown off, and both Astrid and Lesperance had leapt off soon after. If they’d survived, she had no way of knowing.

      Her choice was either to go back into the mail coach and risk the Heirs, or throw herself off of a racing train.

      At her hesitation, Catullus took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll be right beside you,” he shouted. “Trust me.” And he actually winked at her before tucking his spectacles into an inside coat pocket.

      She actually did trust him, and having him beside her did give her confidence. So, with a nod and a smile, she crouched, readying herself.

      Her movements made him smile, admiring. Then he, too, prepared himself to leap.

      “On my count,” he yelled. “One … two … three … jump!”

      Gemma threw herself into the air.

       Chapter 4 Unfamiliar Territory

      The only thought careening through Catullus’s head as he flew through the air was, God, please let her be safe. Jumping off speeding trains wasn’t something he did daily, but he had enough experience with it to feel confident about landing without being hurt. Gemma, however, was new to his world. She could be hurt. Or worse.

      He hit the ground, pulling his arms in close to take the impact. Rolling, he tumbled down a low hill. He smothered a curse as he bounced over a rock, but then, mercifully, the hill ended and he came to rest in a ditch. He heard the distant sound of the train speeding away, but no Heirs in pursuit.

      The Blades and Gemma had gotten away. For now, they were safe. Or maybe not.

      His eyes opened to find himself staring up at a curious sheep. It stared at him with black, ovine eyes before trotting off with a bleat. Catullus took a mere moment to be sure that all his limbs were still functioning before sitting up. He looked around quickly; then his heart pitched.

      Gemma lay on the ground, a few feet away. And she wasn’t moving.

      He scrambled over to her, a litany of swearing tumbling from his lips. She lay on her back, one arm flung overhead, the other resting on her stomach. Tiny cuts and scrapes dotted her face and hands, and her hair had come down into a mass of copper waves.

      He knew better than to try to move her right away, but he had to restrain himself from gathering her up in his arms.

      “Gemma?”

      No answer.

      He said her name again, then bent low to her mouth, where, saints be praised, he felt the stirring of her breath. Gently taking up her wrist, he felt for her pulse, and it came steadily against his fingertips.

      Catullus brushed strands of her satiny hair from her face.

      “Gemma?”

      Then, she moaned softly, and her eyes flittered open. He thought he might shout with joy to have those sapphire eyes on him again.

      “Catullus,” she whispered. “The Heirs?”

      “Gone, for the moment.”

      She blinked, coming back into herself, then tried to push herself upright.

      “Careful. Don’t move. Are you hurt anywhere?”

      She shook her head slightly, but the motion made her gaze unfocused. “Dizzy.”

      “Rolling down a hill tends to do that to a person.” He felt anything but droll, however. “I’m checking you for injuries. Let me know if anything pains you.”

      His hands moved over her, impersonal—or he tried to be. He tested her arms, her hands, and gained his first true understanding of her slim, strong body. When he progressed to her feet and legs, he struggled to remain objective. This was simply a matter of field doctoring, the same as he’d done hundreds of times in his life for himself and other Blades.

      Except it wasn’t. Gemma Murphy was not a Blade, and his body somehow knew the difference. He tested her slender ankles with gentle attention, trying like hell to dampen his reaction to her. “Does this hurt?”

      “No.”

      Her legs needed to be checked for breaks or sprains. Over the skirt, or under it? He had to be thorough. “I’m sorry, but—” His hands slid under her skirt to touch her calves.

      Some mystic in India once taught Catullus special breathing techniques to help gather his thoughts, calm his mind and body when the world grew too present. Catullus drew upon every drop of that training to help him now.

      Good God, she had gorgeous legs. He could not see them, but he could feel with a greater sensitivity. The muscles of her calf were sleek and lithe beneath the coarse knit of her stockings, not the calf of a leisured lady who reclined upon a chaise all day, but the kind that attested to an active life full of motion and purpose. And, damn him, if he didn’t find that unbearably arousing.

      He wanted so badly to take his hands up farther, over her knee, across her thighs to feel those muscles and the band of bare flesh above her stockings. But he could not. That would be a violation.

      He pulled his shaking hands away, and carefully smoothed down her skirts. “Try moving your legs.”

      Her skirts rustled as she did this. He set his teeth against the sound.

      She said, “They’re fine.”

      “What about … your ribs? Are they bruised?”

      She made to bring her hands up to feel them, but the movements were fitful as she struggled to regain her strength. “I don’t know.”

      “May I?” He was a tongue-tied boy again, simple words stuttering in his mouth.

      “Yes, please.”

      So he lowered himself beside her, and, at her nod, ran his hands along her sides. Her dress was worn thin, and he felt beneath the fabric the material of her corset, each individual lace and hook that constrained her body. It was a corset for traveling, lightly boned, so that he knew now, to his deep joy and dismay, that the curves of her waist were entirely hers and not the result of a corsetmaker’s art.

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