by Zoë Archer
Instead of slogging through mud, she envisioned herself marching into her editor’s office with a sheaf of paper under her arm. She would triumphantly slam the articles on Ludlow Hallam’s desk. His pipe would drop from his mouth, scattering tobacco on the floor.
“There,” she would say as everyone gathered outside, gaping. “I am never writing another piece of tripe about gardening or spring fashions or household tips ever again.”
What a wonderful moment that would be. She absolutely could not wait until it happened.
So why was she lingering at the trading post, when she really should be going home? Something was keeping her there, and she found herself delaying her departure, mystified by herself.
Suddenly, she had her answer.
Three people on horseback approached the trading post. At first, they were too far away for Gemma to make out anything about them. But then they were in the yard, and something thrilled through her.
He was back.
A variety of people visited the trading post. Trappers. Miners. Naturalists. Mounties. Natives. Missionaries. Of every color and stripe. Gemma made note of every one.
Yet none of them had left such a lingering impression as he did.
Instinctively, Gemma slid behind an outbuilding and watched as the three riders dismounted. One was the capable, serious mountain woman. Another was the Native attorney, now dressed in buckskins. They both surveyed the yard, alert and aware. Their movements were perfectly attuned to the other, as though connected by, and communicating through, an unseen bond. Even vigilant, they were continuously aware of each other. It was a union so profound, Gemma’s breath caught to see it.
But they did not hold her attention for long. He did. Granted, his clothing was not nearly as dazzling as before—he looked, in fact, grimy and threadbare. But his spectacular wardrobe had not drawn her as had his eyes. In all her life, Gemma had never seen eyes like his. Not so much the dark color, but the powerful intelligence gleaming there. The precision of mind and immeasurable insight. Truly, someone extraordinary must reside behind those eyes. Someone she desperately wanted to know.
The fact that he had a gorgeously sculpted face and body was also something of an incentive. His tall, muscular body had held her riveted, the width of his shoulders and absolute assurance in his walk, his movements.
Strange indeed. Men usually did not affect her so strongly. She’d always prided herself on her cool head, interviewing even the most handsome light-opera tenor without blushing or flirting. Something about this man, though, pierced her professionalism, reaching beneath her journalist’s armor to find the woman beneath.
Gemma continued to watch him as he and his companions led their horses across the yard, straight toward where she was hiding. She could not stop watching him. And when he and his friends stopped, just around the corner from where she stood, Gemma flattened herself against the wall to listen in on their conversation.
Yes, she was eavesdropping. Rude—perhaps. But one didn’t become a respected journalist by following the rules of polite society.
“Will it take long to reach England?” asked the Native man.
“Perhaps a month,” was the answer. “We’ll take a stagecoach to St. Louis, then a train to NewYork, and from there, a steamer to Southampton.”
Gemma’s heart knocked against the inside of her chest to hear him speak. That voice! Rich and low, and with the most delicious British accent. Women melted at such voices and, as much as she prided herself on being different from the average woman, in this she was no exception. Beyond its mere sound, though, was the intellect thrumming beneath. Profound. What secrets and insights might he harbor? Gemma needed to know.
“I hope that isn’t too long,” said the woman.
Why? For what?
“You think the Heirs might still make use of the Primal Source?” he asked.
“It’s entirely possible,” answered the woman. “They might not know precisely what they have, but the Primal Source is too powerful to be still for long, especially in the hands of those who would exploit it. We need to reach England.”
“And soon,” finished the Native man, as if speaking the same sentence.
“If we are too late,” the woman continued, her words perfectly transitioning from the man’s, “the consequences will be disastrous.”
Every journalistic bone in Gemma’s body hummed to life. She had no idea what these people were talking about—Heirs, Primal Sources, disastrous consequences—but it sounded not only fascinating, but dangerous. Precisely the sort of thing she loved to write about. If her instincts were right, and they always were, then whatever this trio was involved in was a thousand times more extraordinary than a few articles about life in the Northwest Territory.
“I’m going to check in with Sergeant Williamson,” said the Native man. “Tell him to forward Prescott’s belongings on to the office in Victoria. Along with my letter of resignation.” He made a soft noise of amusement. “Something so small as that task brought me here. To you.” There was no doubt from the warmth and devotion in his voice that he was addressing the woman.
“I’m glad it did,” the woman answered, with just as much tenderness. She added, her voice more businesslike, “And I’ll let the sergeant know that Edwin Mayne attacked me in my cabin but was killed by my feral dog.”
“Feral dog?” repeated the Native man, almost as if insulted.
“Vicious wolf,” amended the woman fondly.
“Better,” said the man, also affectionate.
How odd.
“I can stay with the horses,” he said, and Gemma heard the footsteps of the Native man and the mountain woman heading toward the Mounties’ office.
Gemma debated whether to slink away or pretend to just arrive, when she heard him say, “Please, do come out. I hate to think of you lurking like a footpad.”
Oh, dear. Gemma never had anyone catch her before. Well, nothing to do but brazen it out. She tilted up her chin and rounded the corner, careful to keep her expression cool and assured.
Of course, seeing him up close, talking with him—his height, that voice, those eyes—had the unwonted effect of making her blush. Since she was a redhead, that meant her freckles turned crimson. Delightful.
“Unless you are a footpad,” he said, wry. But then he stared at her face, at her freckles, actually, and seemed to lose the thread of the conversation. They stared at each other for several long moments, Gemma deeply aware of him, and he seemingly in thrall by her. A few feet separated them, but even that felt strangely intimate, the air hot and alive.
They both blinked, collecting themselves. “I’m not a footpad,” she answered. “I was merely taking a…” What was that English word? “A constitutional through the post.”
“How much did you hear?” he asked, and while his tone was sharp, his eyes lingered on her lips.
Come to think of it, he had a beautiful mouth. Sensuous and full. It probably felt wonderful pressed against one’s skin. Dear God, what was she thinking?
“Oh, nothing,” she replied. “Something about a dog.”
That seemed to placate him, though only slightly.
She stuck out her hand, knowing that, back home, a white woman shaking the hand of a Negro man was forbidden. But she was in the wilderness now, and normal rules could go rot. “I’m Gemma Murphy.”
He eyed her ungloved hand for a moment before extending his own. His hands were large, but agile, and as he clasped her hand with his, she felt a sudden current, as though a coil of light unwound inside her. His own breathing came a little quicker, his eyes widening slightly behind his spectacles.
She longed to delve deep into those eyes, learn what mysteries they held. This was a most intriguing man, and he drew her in not only for the intelligence illuminating his face, but the stories he held. What a life this man must lead! The journalist in her was unbearably captivated, as much as the woman.
“Catullus Graves,” he murmured, slightly dazed.
&nbs
p; “You were the talk of the trading post, Mr. Graves,” she said, “not that long ago.”
“Why is that?”
“Your guide, Jourdain, came back and said you and your companion insisted on going into some dangerous territory. He thought you might be dead.” The news had unexpectedly saddened her, more than she would have anticipated about someone who was, in truth, a complete stranger.
A shadow fell across Catullus Graves’s face. “I am not. But my friend is. We had to bury him in the mountains.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, sincere.
“Thank you. But he died doing what he loved, so there is some comfort in that.”
“And if you died doing what you loved,” Gemma asked, “what that might be?”
He thought about it. “I would be in my workshop. Having just invented inexhaustible and clean fuel.”
“Are you an inventor, Mr. Graves? What sort of inventions do you create? Do you have any with you now?”
“You ask an exceptional amount of questions, Miss Murphy.” But his tone wasn’t shocked or reprimanding. Almost…admiring.
“A terrible habit that I cultivate tirelessly,” she answered.
He seemed a little startled by her response. But then he smiled at her.
She thought she might actually lose consciousness. Good gracious, did this Catullus Graves have a beautiful smile. Warmly, slowly unfurling. And even a bit shy.
“Catullus?”
Both Gemma and Graves turned at the sound of the mountain woman’s voice. She and the Native man were striding toward them, wearing matching, wary expressions, completely in tune with each other.
Graves dropped Gemma’s hand, surprising her. She hadn’t realized they were still holding on to each other. “Ah,” he said, sounding a bit flustered. “Astrid, Nathan, this is Miss Gemma Murphy. She’s something of a habitué of the trading post.”
“But not for long,” Gemma added. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
“Going home?” asked the woman, with more than a touch of suspicion.
Gemma didn’t like to outright lie, so she said, “Mm,” which was neither a confirmation nor a denial.
“Everything’s settled with Sergeant Williamson,” said the Native man to Graves. “He said we can get a stagecoach at Fort Macleod.”
“Excellent,” said Graves. He turned to Gemma. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
They were both taken aback at the sincerity in his voice.
“Maybe we’ll meet again,” she said.
“Unfortunately,” he replied, “I doubt that.”
“Is it?”
“Is it what?”
“Unfortunate?”
He gazed at her, holding her with the sumptuous deep brown of his eyes. She felt herself under a minute inspection, as though he was reaching inside her and carefully, thoughtfully sorting and categorizing her into discrete elements. Like one of his inventions, perhaps. But she was more than a machine.
“Yes,” he said slowly. “It is unfortunate.”
“Catullus,” said the mountain woman.
Again, Gemma and Graves glanced over and saw the woman and Native man mounted on their horses and waiting.
“Good-bye, Miss Murphy,” said Graves. He hovered for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to shake her hand, kiss her, or just walk away. Finally, he settled on shaking her hand, though they were both a little awkward in their movements. And then he let go. With motion far more graceful than when he shook her hand, he strode away and mounted his horse.
A final glance at her, the faintest hint of puzzlement in his expression, and then he and his companions wheeled their horses around and rode away.
Gemma waited just long enough for Graves to disappear before breaking into a run. She needed a horse, a guide, and a gun. She was hunting a story, and something told her the one she now chased would be spectacular.
Don’t miss the rest of the
Blades of the Rose series,
coming this fall!
In September, we met a WARRIOR in Mongolia…
To most people, the realm of magic is the
stuff of nursery rhymes and dusty libraries.
But for Capt. Gabriel Huntley, it’s become
quite real and quite dangerous…
IN HOT PURSUIT
The vicious attack Capt. Gabriel Huntley witnesses in a dark alley sparks a chain of events that will take him to the ends of the Earth and beyond—where what is real and what is imagined become terribly confused. And frankly, Huntley couldn’t be more pleased. Intrigue, danger, and a beautiful woman in distress—just what he needs.
IN HOTTER WATER
Raised thousands of miles from England, Thalia Burgess is no typical Victorian lady A good thing, because a proper lady would have no hope of recovering the priceless magical artifact Thalia is after. Huntley’s assistance might come in handy, though she has to keep him in the dark. But this distractingly handsome soldier isn’t easy to deceive…
Her father called out, “Enter.” The door began to swing open.
Thalia tucked the hand holding the revolver behind her back. She stood behind her father’s chair and braced herself, wondering what kind of man would step across the threshold and if she would have to use a gun on another human being for the first time in her life.
The man ducked to make it through the door, then immediately removed his hat, uncovering a head of close-cropped, wheat-colored hair. He was not precisely handsome, but he possessed an air of command and confidence that shifted everything to his favor. His face was lean and rugged, his features bold and cleanly defined; there was nothing of the drawing room about him, nothing refined or elegant. He was clean-shaven, allowing the hard planes of his face to show clearly. He was not an aristocrat and looked as though he had fought for everything he ever had in his life, rather than expecting it to be given to him. Even in the filtered light inside the ger, Thalia could see the gleaming gold of his eyes, their sharp intelligence that missed nothing as they scanned the inside of the tent and finally fell on her and her father.
“Franklin Burgess?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” her father answered, guarded. “My daughter, Thalia.”
She remembered enough to sketch a curtsy as she felt the heat of the stranger’s gaze on her. An uncharacteristic flush rose in her cheeks.
“And you are…?” her father prompted.
“Captain Gabriel Huntley,” came the reply, and now it made sense that the man who had such sure bearing would be an officer. “Of the Thirty-third Regiment.” Thalia was not certain she could relax just yet, since it was not unheard of for the Heirs to find members in the ranks of the military. She quickly took stock of the width of the captain’s shoulders, how even standing still he seemed to radiate energy and the capacity for lethal movement. Captain Huntley would be a fine addition to the Heirs.
There was something magnetic about him, though, something that charged the very air inside the ger, and she felt herself acutely aware of him. His sculpted face, the brawn of his body, the way he carried his gear, all of it, felt overwhelmingly masculine. How ironic, how dreadful, it would be, if the only man to have attracted her attention in years turned out to be her enemy. Sergei, her old suitor, had wound up being her enemy, but in a very different way.
“You are out of uniform, Captain Huntley,” her father pointed out.
For the first time since his entrance, the captain’s steady concentration broke as he glanced down at his dusty civilian traveling clothes. “I’m here in an unofficial capacity.” He had a gravelly voice with a hint of an accent Thalia could not place. It was different from the cultured tones of her father’s friends, rougher, but with a low music that danced up the curves of her back.
“And what capacity is that?” she asked. Thalia realized too late that a proper Englishwoman would not speak so boldly, nor ask a question out of turn, but, hell, if Captain Huntley was an Heir, niceties did not really matter.
His eyes flew back to h
er, and she met his look levelly, even as a low tremor pulsed inside her. God, there it was again, that strange something that he provoked in her, now made a hundred times stronger when their gazes connected. She watched him assess her, refusing to back down from the unconcealed measuring. She wondered if he felt that peculiar awareness too, if their held look made his stomach flutter. Thalia doubted it. She was no beauty—too tall, her features too strong, and there was the added handicap of this dreadful dress. Besides, he didn’t quite seem like the kind of man who fluttered anything.
Yet…maybe she was wrong. Even though he was on the other side of the ger, Thalia could feel him looking at her, taking her in, with an intensity that bordered on unnerving. And intriguing.
Regardless of her scanty knowledge of society, Thalia did know that gentlemen did not look at ladies in such a fashion. Strange. Officers usually came from the ranks of the upper classes. He should know better. But then, so should she.
“As a messenger,” he answered, still holding Thalia’s gaze, “from Anthony Morris.”
That name got her attention, as well as her father’s.
“What about Morris?” he demanded. “If he has a message for me, he should be here, himself.”
The captain broke away from looking intently at Thalia as he regarded her father. He suddenly appeared a bit tired, and also sad.
“Mr. Morris is dead, sir.”
Thalia gasped, and her father cried out in shock and horror. Tony Morris was one of her father’s closest friends. Thalia put her hand on her father’s shoulder and gave him a supportive squeeze as he removed his glasses and covered his eyes. Tony was like a younger brother to her father, and Thalia considered him family. To know that he was dead—her hands shook. It couldn’t be true, could it? He was so bright and good and…God, her throat burned from unshed tears for her friend. She swallowed hard and glanced up from her grief. Such scenes were to be conducted in private, away from the eyes of strangers.
