by Zoë Archer
London spared him no thought as she moved to help Bennett. And saw that her help was not needed.
He shoved one knee into the chest of an attacker, and drove his elbow into the youth’s chin as he fell backward. The youth sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky with dazed, glassy eyes.
London did not even see Bennett get to his feet, but suddenly, there he was, standing loose and tall. He landed a series of quick punches into the jaws and chests of the attackers, each in turn. A right uppercut hook, delivered with neatness and precision. The assailant crumpled with a whimper. Another was sent flying into the trunk of a nearby tree, sending a rustling cascade of leaves down upon him as he momentarily lost the ability to breathe.
Leaving only the leader. The youth, panting, glanced around at his fallen comrades, all nursing injuries, two quietly praying for divine intervention or at least the solace of their mothers. He looked at Bennett.
Bennett smiled. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Deliberate and calm, he picked a few leaves off his jacket, then gave the garment a final tug to right it.
The leader backed up, stepping on one of his prone friends. A yelp of protest and pain.
Picking up the pitchers, Bennett said, affable as a publican, “The stream is toward the east, correct?”
All the leader could do was nod mutely and point in the proper direction.
“Excellent.” Bennett gestured London forward. “Let’s go, my love. Sorry I can’t offer you my arm, but my hands are a bit full.”
“Think nothing of it,” said London.
“Was ever a man blessed with such an agreeable traveling companion?” Bennett asked the heavens. Then he began to walk.
The youths on the ground scurried out of his way, while the leader of the group darted behind the twisted trunk of an olive tree, seeking shelter. As London and Bennett walked onward, no one spoke.
After strolling twenty yards on, London heard a frantic scuffling. She braced herself for another attack. When none came, she chanced a look over her shoulder. The gang, supporting each other, stumbled off toward the village, not even daring to glance back. London almost felt sorry for them, the little worms. But her hands still shook with commingled fear and unleashed violence—she’d never caused someone to shed blood before—and she wasn’t sorry at all.
When they were gone, she turned to Bennett. “What the devil were you thinking?” she demanded hotly. “Why did you remove the bullets from your gun?”
He gave a negligent shrug. “They were just boys. Besides, with the gun loaded, they’d just try to take it from me, then wind up shooting themselves.”
“I don’t see what’s so bad about that,” muttered London.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Already you’re demanding blood sacrifices. But Blades minimize casualties where they can.”
Unlike her father and his associates. The thought slowed her heartbeat with a shiver of sorrow.
“You were ferocious back there,” he added, and she basked in the admiration warming his voice. Strange, she never thought to be praised for kicking a man in the face.
“An Amazon,” she said, recalling his words on Delos.
“Stronger than Heracles.”
She valued his good opinion. It held a weight that few things in life carried. But it was not a sweetmeat handed out by an indulgent adult to a covetous child. Rather, it passed from one equal to another.
The ground sloped downward into a valley shaded by bay laurel trees, the air scented by the fragrant, glossy leaves. Bennett tucked one pitcher under his arm and kept a careful hand on her elbow as they edged with sideways steps into the valley.
“Listen,” Bennett said, stopping for a moment and holding up his hand.
London cocked her head to the side, searching. Then she heard it. A liquid tumble of water over rocks. “The stream.”
Moving more quickly, they hastened into the sun-mottled valley. Sparse grasses and fallen leaves crackled under their feet. Sunlight glinted at the bottom of the valley. There, they stopped.
Carving out a path for itself at the base of the valley, the stream flowed over pebbles on its banks and large rocks and boulders in the center. Though the stream was barely ten feet across, a test by Bennett with a fallen tree branch revealed its depth. The water could come over London’s head, if she stood on the floor of the stream. Dense grasses fringed the banks, ribbons of green fluttering alongside the clear water.
Bennett dipped one of the pitchers into the water, then brought it to her. He held the pitcher as she drank from it. The water was cold and sweet. When she had taken her fill, she stared, fascinated, as he placed his mouth where hers had been and drank deeply, the strong column of his throat moving as he swallowed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, dazed, when he finished and set the pitchers aside.
He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip where a few droplets of water clung. “The hell if I remember.”
She blinked, trying to collect herself. “The stream. The Source.”
That broke the small spell around them. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Right.”
For a few moments, he and London stood on the bank, listening. “I do not hear any singing,” London said after some minutes. “It sounds like water in a stream, but nothing more.”
Bennett frowned in concentration. “Move around a bit. Let’s try hearing it from different points.”
She obliged, walking up and down along the bank, straining to hear something beyond the soothing, but quotidian, sound of running water. Bennett did the same, then, without a word, backed up and started running for the stream. London barely gulped her warning before he sprang across the stream with an athletic leap. He landed in an easy crouch, then smoothly came to standing.
“You must have driven your poor mother mad,” London gulped.
“Still do.” He was like a boy. But no boy moved as Bennett did, potently virile, effortlessly confident.
Rather than spend the day watching him, London made herself continue to patrol the bank of the stream, careful to listen for any change in the sound of the water. Bennett did the same on the opposite bank, attentive and alert.
Then, a shift. She halted immediately, adjusted her position. “I think I have found it.” London strained, then nodded. “Come and hear.”
Bennett again jumped across the stream, then joined London where she stood. He pressed close to her, his front to her back, his hands on her shoulders. She was aware of every inch of him and his solidly muscled body, his breath warm in her hair, the strength of his hands. Concentrate, London, she scolded herself.
“Do you hear it?” she asked.
“A voice,” he confirmed.
“A singing voice.” Together, they listened. Astonishing. The melody was simple, a single refrain in a voice that was neither male nor female, but elemental and of the earth. Plaintive, verging on melancholy. It repeated the same phrase over and over, rising up from the stream and glimmering in the sunshine.
“I don’t understand what it’s saying,” said Bennett.
“A very old dialect.” London tilted her head to hear it better. “A mixture of Samalian and Thracian.” She closed her eyes, focusing, though it was difficult with Bennett so near. “Come into my arms. Come into my arms.”
“Later, love,” Bennett said.
She turned so he could see her scowl. “Not me, the stream. That is what it is singing. Come into my arms.” She put a small breadth of distance between herself and Bennett. “A charming sentiment, but what does it mean? Whose arms? Where?”
Bennett paced for a moment, rubbing absently at his jaw. Then, with a gleam in his eyes, he shucked off his jacket. He unbuckled his belt and set it and his revolver carefully on the ground. After pulling down his braces, he removed his waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt.
“I said it was the stream, not me!” London yelped. She stared as his fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest, th
e ridges of his abdomen. Dark hair lightly dusted his chest, then trailed in a line down to the waistband of his trousers. In a moment, he tossed his shirt to the ground. London had only seen a handful of men shirtless, knew she was inexperienced in this realm, but Bennett’s body, she realized, was utterly perfect. He surpassed any sculpture or painting she had ever seen because he was real and flesh and very much alive.
His perfection was not marred by the small collection of scars marking his body. Rather, they revealed he was a man who lived by deed as well as word.
He saw her eyes moving over him, taking in the scars. “Lawrence Harcourt gave me this,” he rumbled, pointing to a line of scar tissue crossing the hard plane of his stomach.
She gasped in horror. “It looks like he wanted to gut you.”
“He tried.”
The idea appalled her. “Bennett—”
But he didn’t need or want any apology or explanation, dismissing the past, burning her now with the heat of his eyes. “I prefer this mark to any other.” He glanced down to his shoulder.
London followed his gaze and saw the red crescent upon his skin. She realized it was the imprint of her teeth from the night before. Deep within her, in her most intimate and warm places, she felt a contraction of pure lust.
He tugged off his boots.
“We cannot do this now!” London said, though her pulse raced like a deer in flight.
“Oh, we are. Now.” He held her gaze as he began to unfasten his trousers. He said, his voice a wicked tease, “Strip.”
Chapter 9
The Glimmer in the Water
She stared at him, aghast and also more than a little intrigued. Bennett hadn’t missed the way she had watched him while he undressed. The clear desire and admiration in her gaze made him tight as a bow, ready to be loosed. A man could grow needful of such a gaze, knowing he had the power to entice this woman. Yet she enticed him, too, more than he could comprehend. Last night proved that. She’d freed her passion and he the lucky bastard she had picked to share it with.
At this moment, she hesitated.
“Come into my arms,” he sang. Then, when she still wavered, he said, “We’re supposed to swim in the stream. That’s what the song means.”
She looked relieved and a bit disappointed. God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone for several hours or maybe days. The things he wanted to do to her, with her.
“Will we find something about the Source that way?”
“Seems likely.”
With a nod, she began to unfasten the gown, then hesitated. She turned a delicious pink. “Please…turn around.”
“Still shy? After last night?”
“That was in the dark.” She flushed deeper.
“Surely you’ve been naked in the daylight before.”
“Yes, but alone. Or with a maid, helping me dress.”
“Just a maid?”
“No man has ever seen me undressed in the day.”
“Not even your husband?”
“Especially not him.” She glanced away. “Soon after we were married, I thought I’d surprise him one afternoon. He’d been out, and I waited for him in his bedroom. Naked.”
Bennett stifled a groan. He could just imagine what a delicious picture she made, pink and nude in the afternoon light, standing on a Persian rug, or, even better, sprawled across a bed, her hair loose about her shoulders, the ends curling around her breasts. His already tight body grew even more taut.
“Then he came in, talking about some dinner we were supposed to go to that night. And saw me. He was horrified. Covered his eyes and threw me a robe. Lawrence said it wasn’t proper for us to see each other like that.”
Bennett scowled. “He was a fool.” And worse, to keep a luscious creature like London in darkness. Bennett wasn’t one to enjoy killing. Even though it was sometimes necessary, he hated to do it. Still, at that moment, he was glad not only that was Harcourt dead, but also that Bennett had been the one to send him on to Hades.
Bennett would do everything in his power to rid London of the shame and trepidation that had cloaked her for years. He wanted to see what sort of phoenix she would become. Burn me up. Now, however, wasn’t the time. There was still the tiny matter of the Heirs that surely were in pursuit.
“I’ll undress,” London said, “but I can’t let you watch me.”
“Yet,” he added.
She made an impatient gesture demanding he turn around.
Obliging, he did so. He continued to unbutton his trousers. His fingers stumbled when he heard the soft whisper of fabric being pulled down from London’s body, the gown as she shucked it. Then the rustle of petticoats. As he stepped out of his trousers, he was confronted with the spectacle of his cock, hard and demanding. Naked woman nearby. Want.
Bennett wondered if the sight of him, huge and stiff, might disturb her. God knows he was a little disturbed—he was so hard, it bordered on penance. But she may as well look. She had to know how she affected him. The sooner she saw the strength of his desire, the sooner they could revel in it.
“You can turn around now.” Her voice was husky, breathless.
He did so. And thought he very well might go up in flames. “Oh, Christ,” he murmured.
She wasn’t naked, but nearly, clad only in a sheer, sleeveless chemise that brushed the tops of her knees. Her drawers and corset lay with the rest of her clothing and boots. Slim ivory arms, long legs equally slender. Through the gauzy fabric, her breasts were high, rosy-tipped, perfect handfuls. The curves of her waist and hips tantalized, barely hidden by the chemise. The triangle of gold between her legs could only just be seen through the cotton—she was fair all over.
Red burned in her cheeks, but she did not try to hide herself from his perusal. And when she caught sight of his eager cock, her eyes widened, but he almost groaned when she unconsciously licked her lips.
“No drawers?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Damned things are too restricting. That water better be bloody cold,” he growled.
She made a choked laugh. “For both of our sakes.” She waved toward the stream. “Let’s swim.”
Bennett went first, wading into the stream. The water shivered and bit with tiny, icy teeth. Its chill raced up his legs, but only slightly tempered the heat of his arousal. He moved deeper into the stream so that it reached his hips, then turned to help London.
“Careful,” he warned, taking her hand. “The shelf of the bank is steep.”
She stepped in, then yelped. “So cold!”
“Cold enough?”
She pressed her lips together in a playful pout. “Not quite. For you, either, I see.” She glanced down at him, at his erection bobbing in the water, and raised a brow.
“Come on, Naiad,” he rumbled, drawing her forward. “Swim.”
With a show of obedience, she walked forward, deeper into the stream. Her mouth flattened into a hard line as the frigid water rose up to her calves, her knees, and then higher, but she made not another word of complaint. Her chemise billowed up in the current, drifting like a lily. As the fabric swirled, he glimpsed the dark honey of curling hair between her legs. The goddamned cold water wasn’t helping at all.
They both moved farther into the water, him leading, guiding her. The water rose to his chest. Suddenly, she gasped and slipped on the slick pebbles lining the stream bed. She plunged forward. He dove to catch her. Then they were pressed together, her arms wrapped around his neck, his clasping her waist. He felt every silky inch of her. His cock surged against her soft, curved stomach. There wasn’t enough cold water in all the world’s oceans to bring down his fever.
She looked up at him through her lashes.
“You did that on purpose,” he said.
“If I did, then I’m just tormenting the both of us.”
“No pain. Pleasure’s much better.” There’s a mission, in case you’ve forgotten, randy idiot. He made sure she had stable footing before reluctantly disentangling, holding
only her hand. “Ready?”
At her nod, they both took deep breaths, then sank underneath the water. The stream ran gently, so it wasn’t difficult to swim against its current, though navigating around the large rocks in the middle proved a small challenge. He took his time, keeping his eyes open so he could scan the stream bed for something, anything that might be a clue. Pebbles and rocks of every hue lined the bed of the stream, and grasses rippled in the current. Distraction also came in the form of London swimming, as lovely as a river spirit, her hair darker in the water in a rippling banner, chemise clinging to her lithe body. Undulating, she smiled at him.
Something in the center of his chest constricted, sharp. He wouldn’t look away, reveled in it.
After a few minutes, they both rose up to the surface for more air.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Hell if I know. Keep going.”
Back down again. Several times they did this. The initial burst of warmth he got from swimming leeched away in the frigid water. London, too, grew awkward in her movements.
“Wait for me on the bank,” he said when they surfaced. “Your lips are blue.”
“I’m f-fine.”
“London,” he warned.
“I’m done with having a m-man tell me what to d-do.”
He could carry her out, force her to wait, but she was determined to test herself, see what she was capable of, and he had to give her that room. The problem with London was that she wasn’t just beautiful and clever. She kept impressing him with her courage. At this rate, he’d be entirely infatuated by sundown. And in a week…well, he wouldn’t dwell on the future. The Heirs were out there.
Without another word, he dipped back under the water. If she followed him, it would be her choice. When she truly endangered herself, though, he would make a unilateral decision to get her out of the water.
They each skimmed over the bottom of the stream, looking for anything, growing more desperate. This whole exercise could prove futile, a ruse to throw any who sought the Source off the path. It had happened before. He’d spent one extremely bitter winter in Lapland chasing the Heirs who, it eventually turned out, had been sent on a wild goose chase by a set of runes. All either of them received for their troubles were frozen beards and near cases of frostbite.
