Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  He rose from the table and joined her at the hearth. He took her hands, one at a time, and held them between his own. “You’re cold,” he said as though she’d done it on purpose.

  “I suppose the turning weather has seeped under my skin.” As if to punctuate her statement, a flash outside the window signaled lightning, followed by a clap of thunder.

  He rubbed her hands briskly. “The storm is blowing in quickly. You ought to have said something. I’ll build up the fires.”

  She shook her head. “It is plenty warm in here. Likely it is a case of nerves. I am unsettled, and now that the rain is beginning to fall on the festivalgoers, I am feeling quite bad for them.”

  His lips quirked, and he held one of her hands up to his mouth, cupping it in his and softly blowing warm air onto it. “You feel bad for the festivalgoers whose parade is literally getting rained upon. Festivalgoers who have been the target of your envy all day.”

  “Certainly! I hate to see their fun come to an end.”

  He chuckled and repeated the warming process with her other hand. The small gesture was proving so effective she found herself quite warm all over.

  “You are amazingly good at playing nursemaid. Did you know that? Have you had occasion before to be so . . . ­motherly?”

  One eyebrow shot up. “Does my attention to you truly feel maternal?”

  She swallowed. His nearness was deliciously warm, and she wanted to snuggle against him and hold him tightly. Maternal? She sighed. Not in the least.

  She looked up at him, and those intense golden-brown eyes held a hint of laughter, mixed with an exasperated smirk she was certain should spark her temper.

  “Not maternal, I suppose, but you seem very . . . natural . . . at all of this.” She waved her hand in a small circle. “This caring-for-an-invalid sort of thing.”

  “I’ll be honest.”

  “Please.”

  “I could care for you as an invalid with much less familiarity and significantly more professional efficiency.”

  Her cheeks warmed. “I suppose you could.” She cleared her throat and tried for an expression that would read Mature Conversation Between Two Adults, Neither of Whom Feel Self-Conscious. “And you’ve another situation with which to compare?”

  His lips twitched. “Another situation where I’ve cared for an invalid with more professionalism? Less familiarity?”

  “Yes. Just so.”

  “I believe I can gather a memory or two. Between military service and police work, I’ve been occasionally called upon to lend aid.” He paused. “Heaven knows I ought to be reprimanded at the very least for my presumption. Would you rather I establish clearer boundaries? More distance?” His voice was low and wrapped around everything in her that still felt chilled.

  She felt fairly breathless. “I believe that would be counterintuitive, wouldn’t you say? How can you keep me safe from a distance?”

  He tucked her hair behind her ear. “An emotional distance, perhaps, would be more appropriate. Less of this sort of thing.” He trailed his finger softly along the curve of her neck.

  She licked her lips. “But Josephine is off on an errand, so it naturally falls to you to fix my hair . . . warm my hands. And after falling from the sky, it would have been positively criminal for you to neglect me.”

  “I do admire your logic.” He put his hands in his pockets, and she swayed slightly forward, regretting the loss of contact. “One might suggest those hours directly following the ‘sky falling’ were a natural response to fear of death or paralysis.”

  That didn’t account for the night before, when the prospect of another lovely kiss had been unintentionally curtailed by one well-meaning vampire-valet.

  Oliver sobered, and she knew he laced his flirtation with honesty. “If I were any sort of gentleman, I would treat you now with less familiarity, not more.”

  “You are more of a gentleman than the majority of men I know.” Her throat felt thick, and she swallowed. Honesty was painfully emotional, and she didn’t want tears threatening when she had entirely too much time to wallow in it. She gave him a half smile. “I am still quite traumatized, you know. Any sudden change in your treatment of me could be awfully dangerous and extremely irresponsible on your part.”

  He lifted that one brow, but for the first time, it didn’t feel condescending. In fact, when combined with the smile that played at the edges of his mouth, the warmth she felt turned to heat.

  “I should hate to be accused of neglecting my duty to you, Miss O’Shea.”

  She nodded. “I should hate to feel obliged to report your dereliction to your superior.”

  “Speaking of my duties.” He nodded toward the sofa. “You ought to sit. Rest your ankle.”

  She sighed. “Perhaps in a moment.” She smoothed the lines of his vest. “I am too restless to sit.” She fiddled with a button on his chest and lifted her eyes to his, stepping a few inches closer.

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and cupped her elbows, slowly inching his way up her arms to her face. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you ever do anything by halves?”

  She smiled. “What would be the point?”

  He chuckled softly and shook his head, finally lowering his mouth to hers in a kiss that robbed her of breath and coherent thought. He braced her against him with an arm around her waist and one at the back of her neck. She clutched his vest in tight fists.

  The shrill ring of the telephone intruded, and Emme was content to ignore it, but then Oliver broke contact with a sigh. She swallowed, overwhelmed, and when he straightened, she relaxed her fingers and tried to smooth the mess she’d made of his vest.

  Oliver clasped her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “Probably a timely interruption,” he whispered and left her to answer the call.

  She placed her fingertips against her lips and watched him walk away, running a hand through his hair. He picked up the receiver, his back still to her, and she sank slowly onto the sofa, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching him move.

  The tone of his voice was professional, as always, and he leaned down to jot notes on a paper. He listened, then responded, turning to lean against the table, one hand on his hip. His shirtsleeves were turned up at the cuffs, revealing arms she’d felt around her more times than she could count, and she couldn’t help but smile.

  He looked at her as he concluded the conversation, finally hanging up. He leaned against the desk and folded his arms over his chest. A flash of lightning showed outside the windows, where a relentless rain hit the glass.

  Emme sat back against the sofa cushions, and she grinned even as her heart thumped with a mixture of daring and fear prompted by self-preservation. “You’re not going to come back over here, are you.”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Was that the Chief-Inspector?”

  “Yes.”

  “With an update?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded. “Any news of consequence?”

  “Nothing useful to us.”

  She felt a thrill at his use of the word us. It tied them together as a unit and almost gave her the courage to ask him what his feelings for her entailed. Almost. As much as she was reckless and an odd sort of brave, she couldn’t make the words leave her mouth.

  “I suspect Gus or the others may return soon, and we would be well advised to turn our attention to more . . . constructive things,” he said.

  She’d had things on her mind before they’d begun flirting like a couple at a society ball—well, she amended, perhaps a couple outside in the moonlit gardens at a society ball. She was hard-pressed to remember what had been occupying her thoughts, and for a moment her mind was blank.

  She took a deep breath and released it in a sigh, then pulled her telescriber from her pocke
t. Constructive. She could be constructive and professional and not at all affected by something as simple as a harmless attraction to a man whose job it was to protect her at all costs. That was the problem, really. The relationship had been unusual from the ­beginning, and now had twisted into something equally strange. She was a modern, adult woman, and she would act like one.

  She straightened in her seat and cleared her throat. “Some­thing is bothering me, as a matter of fact.”

  He raised a brow, the picture of a calm professional. Pleasant but back down to the business at hand. “What is bothering you?”

  She frowned. “Something about Madeline. Nothing negative, but there is definitely something odd happening. I cannot put my finger on it. Perhaps if Maddie visits later, Isla might discover it. She’s dangerously good at coaxing conversation from the most reluctant of people.”

  “Madeline has not yet responded to your telescribed message?”

  Emme shook her head. “Nothing. The family is supposed to hunt tonight. I know she dislikes it as much as I do, and I wish she would come here instead.”

  “I do not suppose much hunting will take place if this weather continues.”

  She rolled her eyes. “They may wait until it clears. Of course, they do like to make a show of their masculine prowess in times of difficulty. Hunting in a rainstorm at night might be just the thing.”

  “Do they customarily hunt at night?”

  Emme sighed. “Yes. Again, anything to prove their ­prowess.”

  Oliver frowned. “They’re fortunate nobody has been accidentally shot.”

  “So they say,” she muttered. “I would put nothing past them. For all I know, there could be graves all over the property.” She glanced at Oliver. “You should check your missing-­persons lists.”

  “I’d like to believe you jest.”

  “Of course.” She smiled and shifted on the sofa to warm her back at the fire.

  “What do they hunt? Small game, I should think?”

  “Yes, small game here. They travel to Africa for the larger, more dangerous kills. Lysette pouts at being excluded from the big-game expeditions abroad, and the household is obliged to weather her foul mood until Sir Ronald returns with his grand stories and even grander trophies.” She smiled grimly. “My mother put her foot down when he threatened to station a lion and hyena in the London townhome.”

  “Does she spend much time at the lodge?”

  “No, but now and again, she likes to assert her position.”

  Oliver looked surprised. “He does not control the money?”

  Emme smiled. “Women and property law was an issue barely in its infancy when my mother married Sir Ronald. She refused to step one foot near an altar unless he signed away his rights to her portion of Castles’ Boutique and any income it may ever generate.”

  Oliver whistled low. “Very intuitive of her. How was she certain to avoid loopholes?”

  “Our solicitor is an old family friend. By the time he finished drafting the documents, my mother’s interests were carved in stone, as were my aunt Bella’s, Isla’s mother.” Emme felt immense satisfaction in that fact. She remembered the ruckus it had caused, having been old enough to understand her mother’s fierce determination and her insistence that she would cancel the wedding. “Sir Ronald was not pleased but eventually capitulated. What else could he have done? He got his money for estate repairs, and Mama bought a title. She thought it would be good for the business.”

  Oliver nodded slowly and quirked a half smile. “The apple has not fallen far, I see.”

  Emme sniffed. “I’m sure I do not understand your insinuation.”

  “That you inherited your persistence from your mother?”

  “Persistence. I shall take it as a compliment.”

  “It was intended as such.”

  She glanced at him with sudden suspicion. “Have you endeavored these last several minutes to distract me? Keep me from crippling boredom?”

  “Has it been effective?”

  She frowned. “Spectacularly.”

  He laughed softly. “Excellent. My work here is done.”

  “If only that were true,” she muttered. “I’d rest easier.”

  “Come now.” He made his way to the sofa and sat down. “I thought we had moved beyond our mutual distrust.”

  “No,” she said, glancing at him. “I mean I’d rest easier knowing you were away from harm.” Her cheeks warmed.

  Her thoughts returned to their Wing Jump landing on the rocky shoreline. She knew she’d babbled unintelligibly when he’d landed on the beach after they’d jumped, though she couldn’t exactly remember what she’d said. She was certain it ran in the vein of “I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.” That was entirely true. And then there had been “The Kiss,” which she now amended to “The First Kiss.” But the words she’d used in that frantic moment of fear—she didn’t think she’d admitted she loved him . . .

  The thought stopped her cold. She swallowed, her eyes fixed on the fire grate and definitely not on him. She had fallen in love with her nemesis, her greatest enemy. She frowned deeply and chewed the inside of her lip. She tried repeating to herself all the excuses she’d manufactured over the last week regarding her growing attraction to him but could not make any of them stick.

  She sighed. “This is a disaster.”

  “Which part?”

  “I ought to have insisted you replace yourself with someone else.”

  He was quiet, and she finally braved looking at his face. He was guarded. She’d not seen that expression for some time, and that she’d put it there filled her with regret.

  “I do not mean to offend, I only . . .” She twisted her fingers together. “Do you understand? I—please understand—Oliver, I could not bear it if you are harmed in defense of me.” She shook her head. “I do not want to see you harmed at all, under any circumstances, but were it to happen while protecting me would be the cruelest of all things. Especially since I really did detest you only a short time ago, and—”

  He laughed, then, and leaned close to her. Just when she thought he might kiss her again, he took her hand in his and patted it, which made her scowl. Perhaps he was only feeling maternal now. He’d kissed her twice and had every opportunity to make it a nice, round three. They were quite alone, she was not a young debutante in danger of ruination, and she doubted Gus would return within the next few minutes, or however long it would take for Oliver to indulge her with one more kiss.

  Men were amorous, or so she’d been told; what man wouldn’t take advantage of the moment and claim one more kiss? Maybe he found her lacking or had simply indulged her because she’d had a traumatic forty-eight hours and he knew she desired the closeness. He had tried to step back. She had pressed the advantage.

  “You, Miss O’Shea, are enchanting.” He smiled and squeezed her hand, giving it one last friendly pat.

  She looked at him flatly. “I am going to read now. Excuse me.”

  Still smiling and trying to stifle a laugh but clearly failing, he helped her rise, and she hopped with as much dignity as she could manage back to her own room.

  Emme did manage to read for a time, reviewing some passages in Miles Blake’s old family journals, about people who, to their horror, had begun shifting into predatory animals three nights per month. The pain, the fear, the humanity of the stories never failed to move her, and she planned to share some of them at the end of the week. She wanted to hold up one of the journals, show the physical proof of living, breathing people who were unjustly terrorized because the majority didn’t understand them.

  The day dragged on interminably, until finally Josephine presented her with a lovely dark-green dress and helped her get ready for dinner with her friends. The young woman had also procured a black stocking that she stretched over Emme’s casted foot, and while they lau
ghed at the silliness of it, Emme decided it was much better than staring at the ugly white plaster.

  She had sent a note inviting Madeline to join them for dinner and a visit but hadn’t heard anything in return. She worried, remembering Madeline had said she was going to try to do some snooping around Lysette’s room.

  She had discussed the next day’s activities with Oliver, Gus, and Carlo, and they had agreed to wait to see what news came from local law enforcement before deciding whether she would remain sequestered for another day. Gus had thought of a few other associates who might have knowledge of Bryce Randolph’s whereabouts, and had promised to speak with them later that evening. The thought of remaining alone with Oliver after she’d all but thrown herself at him that afternoon was not something she wanted to contemplate. She would insist Josephine remain with her and save herself the embarrassment of dwelling on the fact that Oliver Reed had probably just been placating her. It was just as well. Distance from him was safe. He was doing her a kindness, really.

  Finally, a knock on the door signaled it was time for what Oliver had described as “a secret gathering.” She grabbed one of the crutches and made her way into the corridor with Oliver.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Not far.” He grinned and led her to the room adjacent his. “This room was unexpectedly vacated this morning, and Lucy snapped it up. It is now fit for a queen’s celebration.”

  Emme laughed as they entered the hotel room, which had been rearranged to hold a large dining table. Lucy directed the guests to their seats and made use of two hotel staff, who served the meal according to her instructions.

  “Lucy, this is lovely!” Emme smiled as Oliver took her crutch and held out the chair for her. “And you’ve brought souvenirs!” Flags, scarves, and bits and pieces of the countries represented at the festival were placed all around the room. “You’ve gone to so much trouble.”

  Miles shook his head. “My wife could do this in her sleep. You’ve made her most happy by providing a reason for a gathering.” Lucy eyed her husband askance but nodded in agreement as she gave a final instruction to one of the servers. Miles waited for her to finish and then held out her seat. She made a remark to him over her shoulder as he seated her, and he chuckled and murmured something back. The words might have been whispered, but the affection was clear.