by Zoë Archer
“You remember them?” he asked, taken aback.
Gemma’s mouth curved, wry. “Hard to forget. A bigger bunch of pompous asses I never met—and, believe me, I’ve known quite a few.” Especially in the newsroom of the Tribune. “They came in the same day that Mr. Lesperance arrived, looking for guides, and managed to insult everyone in the trading post.”
Lesperance stood even straighter. “You,” he said, staring at her. “I saw you there that day, too. Out of the corner of my eye. You were lurking behind some buildings. I went to follow—and then the Heirs grabbed me.”
She did do rather a lot of lurking in her work, but couldn’t feel too embarrassed about it. Being polite and proper never made anyone into a good journalist. “Heirs,” she repeated. “You mentioned them before. Those Englishmen at the trading post were called Heirs?”
“The Heirs of Albion,” Graves said, grim. “As we said, they want everything for England’s empire, and that includes the world’s magic.”
Gemma blanched. “That’s … awful.” A sudden thought struck her. “Does that include my magic?”
His somber expression showed that he had already considered this possibility. “Very likely. Either it will be stripped from you or—” He broke off, frowning deeply.
“Or?” Gemma prompted.
“Or your magic, and you, will be enslaved. At any given moment, you could be summoned and forced to open any lock, any door. A vault holding a nation’s wealth. A chamber guarding royalty, leaving the monarch vulnerable to an assassin’s bullet.”
A whooshing in her ears, the sound of her blood rocketing through the vast network of her body. Saint Francis de Sales, that would make her an accomplice to murder! Her stomach churned in disgust and revulsion.
“The Heirs wouldn’t do that,” she averred, then undermined her own certainty by adding, more faintly, “would they?”
“They have and they will.” Graves’s tone left no room for uncertainty. He stepped closer, his eyes containing experiences beyond Gemma’s substantial imagination. “Which is exactly why you cannot be involved in anything to do with them. Even if the magic they wield is itself benign, their use of it is incredibly dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”
Now that he stood in front of her, Gemma had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. If the intent was to intimidate her, in that regard, the gesture didn’t work. What his nearness did do, however, was make her aware of his warmth and scent—a mixture of bergamot, tobacco, and the intangible essence of him, his flesh and self.
“I don’t mind a little danger.” Her voice sounded husky to her ears.
His velvet-dark eyes moved over her face, lingering on the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, before traveling down to idle on her mouth, and then lower. The dress Gemma wore was modest as a schoolmarm, with a high, buttoned collar and not a single bit of flesh exposed, save for her hands. But even in the most demure dress ever sewn, there was no concealing Gemma’s figure. Not only had she inherited her mother’s magic, but her hips and breasts as well. While Gemma had a mind for journalism, fate and family had given her the body of a burlesque dancer. Between her figure and her flaming, bright hair, Gemma’s pursuit of professional legitimacy was an uphill battle.
Sometimes she resented her curvaceous figure and saw it as nothing more than an impediment to being taken seriously. And other times …
To see frank male admiration in Catullus Graves’s face as he looked at her … she couldn’t deny a certain … gratification.
When his gaze met hers again, his voice came out somewhat raspy. “It isn’t a little danger. It’s a lot of danger. And I refuse to imperil you at all by having you anywhere near the Heirs—or us.”
A difference, she sensed, between his protectiveness and the condescension she endured back home. The male reporters at the Trib smirked and told her the life of a journalist was too perilous for a woman—her delicate constitution, her fragile sensibilities. Never mind that she could hold her liquor better than any of them, including Pritchard. Gemma could also swing a mean left hook and shoot a rifle. But, no, as befitting a woman’s disposition and health she was supposed to be writing harmless little articles about putting up summer beans or the best ways to get grape stains out of a baby’s pinafore.
Catullus Graves’s concern for her safety had nothing to do with whether or not he considered her capable, and everything to do with the fact that these Heirs of Albion were ruthless, murderous men. Men hell-bent on controlling the world’s magic for their own selfish desires.
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 by a short blue jacket of threadbare appearance. The elbows were faded. She must move her arms quite a bit to get that kind of wear. An active woman.
What he wouldn’t do to get that delectable figure and coloring into some decent clothing! Silk, naturally. Greens would flatter her best, but there were also deep, rich blues, luxuriant golds, or even chocolate browns. And he knew just the dressmaker, too, a Frenchwoman who kept a shop off Oxford Street. Madame Celine would be beside herself for the chance to dress a pre-Raphaelite vision such as Miss Murphy. And if he could see Gemma Murphy slipping off one of those exquisite gowns, revealing her slender arms, her corset and chemise … or perhaps underneath the gown, she would wear nothing at all….
Catullus shook himself. What the bloody hell did he think he was doing, mentally dressing and undressing a woman he barely knew? A woman who made no secret of her ambition to expose the world of magic that Catullus, his family, and the Blades had fought so hard to keep hidden.
But instead of marching back to his cabin, as he planned, he simply remained on the prow, close, but not too close, to Miss Murphy.
He glanced over at her sharply, realizing something. Then swore under his breath.
Gemma Murphy blinked in astonishment when Catullus strode over to her. Clearly, she hadn’t anticipated him approaching. He said nothing as he pulled off his plush, warm coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The overcoat was far too big for her, naturally, its hem now grazing the deck.
She also did not speak, but stared up at him. Her slim, pale hands held the lapels close. Catullus cursed himself again when he saw that she was shivering slightly.
“Don’t you have a decent coat to wear?” he demanded, gruff.
“It got lost somewhere between Winnipeg and New York.” Her voice, even out here in the hard wind, resounded low and warm, like American bourbon.
“Then get another.”
Again, that little smile. “Lately, I haven’t had the funds or time to see a dressmaker.”
He had the funds, thanks to the Graves family’s profitable side work providing manufacturers with the latest in production technology. And, even though time was in short supply, Catullus had managed to squeeze in an hour with one of Manhattan’s best tailors, where he’d purchased this Ulster and three waistcoats. He usually avoided ready-made garments, but an exception had been made in these unusual circumstances, and the coat had been modified to his specifications. Catullus didn’t patronize bigots, either, but if the color of his skin had bothered the tailor, the color of Catullus’s money won out.
“Then perhaps you oughtn’t stand out on the coldest part of the ship,” he suggested dryly.
Looking up at him with her bright azure eyes, she said, “But I like the view.”
Did she mean the sea or him? Damn it, he never could tell when a woman was saying something flirtatious or innocuous. Catullus didn’t have his friend Bennett Day’s skill with women—nobody did, except Bennett, and now Bennett was happily married and miles away. So all Catullus could do was blush and clear his throat, wondering how to answer.
Flirting was a skill he never mastered, so he plowed onward. “Why do you keep following me?” he asked.
“That’s cocky,” she answered. “Maybe you keep following me. This isn’t such a large ship.”
“I’ve been followed enough to know when it happens.” And he’d had just as many bids on his life. Though he doubted Miss Murphy would try to stick a knife into his throat, which happened far too regularly.
Her eyes did gleam, though. “Have you been followed before? How many times? By whom? How did you elude them?”
“No one ever forgets you’re a reporter, do they?”
Her laugh was even more low and seductive than her voice. “I never do. Why should anyone else?”
True enough. “As I said before,” he pressed, “you will get no more from me, nor from Astrid or Lesperance. There is no story.”
“There most definitely is a story, Mr. Graves,” she corrected smartly. “And either you tell it to me, or I’ll conduct the investigation on my own. But I will get everything. I’m quite tenacious.”
“So I’ve observed.” In truth, tenacity was a quality he had long prized in others and tried to cultivate in himself. Most inventions took persistence to perfect. Almost nothing came together with merely a whim. If a mechanism wasn’t working precisely right, he kept at it, refining, reassessing, until h
e created exactly what he intended.
In the case of stubborn American reporters, he could do with a little less tenacity.
This American reporter suddenly sank her hands into the front pockets of the overcoat and sighed with appreciation. “What a lovely coat! I’ve never felt anything so soft. What’s it made of?”
“Persian cashmere.”
“Bless me, how wonderful.” She rubbed one creamy cheek against the velvet collar. “And so many pockets.” She examined the inside of the coat and found that, indeed, it was lined with a multitude of pockets, and all of them holding something.
“I requested them added when I purchased the coat,” Catullus said, watching her slim fingers trail over the pockets in a quick cataloguing.
“It’s so nice and warm—though,” she added with a sparkle in her eyes, followed by a lowering of reddish gold lashes, “you did me a favor by warming it for me.”
With the heat of his body. Now sinking into hers. The idea dried his mouth as a bolt of desire ran straight to his groin.
Catullus clenched his jaw in consternation. Either the woman was an extremely accomplished flirt and manipulator of men, or she simply had a knack for saying things that roused his normally restrained libido. Neither of the possibilities pleased him.
“Keep the coat,” he muttered. “Have it sent to my cabin later.” He started to stalk off.
“Wait, please!”
He turned at her words, knowing he was scowling and being altogether ungentlemanly, but finding it hard to stop himself. Being played with like a puppet on a string did little to coax him into good humor.
The flirtatious cast of Miss Murphy’s face evaporated, leaving behind an expression he suspected was more true to the woman. Instead of deliberate charm, her eyes were alight with intelligence and determination. She gazed at him steadily, not a coquette but a woman with intent.
“I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said, “since the other night in your c-cabin.” She stumbled a bit over that last word, as if remembering the few moments they had been alone together. More playacting?
