Stranger:. Zoe Archer

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      She recognized the danger was real. Just as she understood that she had to write this story. Joseph McCullagh knew reporting on the Civil War from the front lines could cost him his life, but the risk to himself was nothing compared to the need for the public to know about the horrors of war.

      “I will still write about this,” she challenged.

      “No one will believe a word of it,” he answered.

      “Then tell me more! What harm could it do, if no one will believe what I write?”

      Graves, still holding Gemma’s gaze, shook his head. “The answer is no. Any more information will only jeopardize you further.” His expression darkened. “Lives will be lost, Miss Murphy. Of that, there is no doubt. And I swear that yours will not be one of them.”

      “Will your life be lost, Mr. Graves?”

      “Very possibly.” Not a trace of fear or exaggeration in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. He might die soon, violently, and he accepted that.

      Her heart plunged to contemplate his death, even though he was a stranger to her.

      Gemma started when Catullus Graves’s large, warm hands curved over her shoulders. Even through the layers of her clothing, she felt his touch move in swift, heated currents through her body. Temporarily stunned, she let him gently guide her backward. Then he took one hand from her, opened the door, and then lightly conducted her into the passageway.

      “Forget everything you’ve heard here tonight, Miss Murphy,” he advised.

      “You know I can’t do that.”

      “Much as it pains me to say so,” he said, “that is your concern, not mine. But forget it you must.”

      “But—”

      “I know you can open any door, but I will trust you not to open mine again.” Regret seemed to cross his handsome, thoughtful face. “Good night, Miss Murphy. And, for the last time, good-bye.”

      With that, he closed the door. Leaving her alone in the passageway.

      Gemma stood there for a moment before heading back to her cabin and vowing to herself that, whatever the costs, whatever risks to herself, she would have her story. There were still so many questions unanswered, and she would find those answers. Not even the formidable force of Catullus Graves could stand in her way.

       Chapter 2 Tenacity

      It amazed Catullus. He had been on board the ship for over a week and, during that time, not once had he seen Gemma Murphy. Now, he could not take a step outside his cabin without running into her.

      Not literally—she maintained a respectable distance. But he had only to turn his head, and there she was. Across the dining room. Striding briskly past deck chairs and their blanket-swathed occupants as he took one of his own daily walks. Peering at him from behind a week-old newspaper in the reading room. Even the smoking lounge, the province exclusively for men. Catullus had gone in to indulge in an occasional pipe, and she entered the room right after him. Took a cheroot from an astounded steward, then lit up and cheerfully smoked, while Catullus and everyone else in the lounge gaped like guppies. No one had ever seen a respectable woman smoke before. It was … disturbing. Alluring.

      He thought perhaps she might badger him with questions. Yet she never did. Whenever he saw her, she would smile cordially but preserve the space between them.

      He couldn’t tell if he was glad or disappointed that she had not entered his cabin again. Every step outside in the passageway had made his pulse speed. But she never came to him privately. Only hovered in the public parts of the ship like a brilliant phantom.

      Catullus now stood upon the prow, watching the ship cleave the gray water as it neared Liverpool. Sailing directly to Southampton hadn’t been an option, since the next steamship traveling to that town wouldn’t depart New York for two weeks. Far too long a wait with so much at stake. So, he and Astrid and Lesperance had booked passage to Liverpool, with the intent to hop immediately on a train heading to the Blades’ Southampton headquarters.

      If he could, he would get out and tow the ship in, if only to get them to Liverpool faster. The ship docked tomorrow morning, and he was in a fever of impatience to reach their destination. What Astrid had revealed about the Primal Source—that it could actually embody the dreams and hopes of its possessor—had to be brought to the other Blades’ attention. At headquarters, they could discuss strategies, formulate a plan. Catullus enjoyed plans.

      Wind and sea spray blew across the prow. Not as cold as those Canadian mountains, but he took pleasure in the soft black cashmere Ulster overcoat he wore, with its handsome cape and velvet collar. Too windy for a hat—but he was alone and so there wasn’t a breach of propriety.

      Or had been alone. Catullus sensed, rather than saw, Gemma Murphy as she stepped onto the prow. His heart gave that peculiar jump it always did whenever he became aware of her. It happened the first time he saw her, at the tatty trading post in the Northwest Territory, and it happened now.

      “Don’t be an ass,” he muttered to himself. She had said quite plainly that what she sought was a story. Nothing more.

      He tried to make himself focus on the movement of the ship through the water, contemplating its propulsion mechanisms and forming in his mind a better means of water displacement. No use. His thoughts scattered like dropped pins when flaming hair flashed in his peripheral vision.

      Bracing his arms on the rail, Catullus decided to be bold. He turned his head and looked directly at her.

      She stood not two yards away—closer than she had been since the night in his cabin. That night, they had stood close enough for him to see all the delicious freckles that scattered over her satiny skin, close enough to see those freckles disappear beneath the collar of her prim dress, close enough to wonder if those freckles went all the way down her body.

       God, don’t think of that.

      Like him, she now had her forearms resting upon the rail, her ungloved hands clasped, and her face turned into the wind, little caring, as other women might, about the unladylike color in her cheeks called forth by the wind. She stared out to sea, watching the waves and the seabirds drafting beside the ship, a little smile playing upon her soft, pink mouth. Something secret amused her.

      Him? He told himself he didn’t care if she found him amusing, terrifying, or wonderful. The division between them was clear. He was a Blade of the Rose on the most important mission ever undertaken. The fate of the world’s magic, and freedom, lay in the balance. Pretty redheaded reporters with dazzling blue eyes and luscious figures were entirely, absolutely irrelevant. Dangerous, even.

      But he watched her now, just the same. She wore the same sensible traveling dress, a plain gray cotton that had seen several years of service. So thoroughly was it worn that the fabric, as it blew against her legs, revealed that Gemma Murphy had on a very light petticoat and was most likely not wearing a bustle.

      He found himself struggling for breath.

      Keep moving upward, he told his eyes. And they obeyed him, moving up to see that the truly magnificent bosom of Miss Murphy was, at present, marginally hidden СКАЧАТЬ