Authors: Zoe Archer
“Let’s leave that aspect of her education out of it,” said Catullus.
Sobering somewhat, Bennett continued. “Suffice it to say, when she learned the true nature of her family and dead husband’s work, she wanted nothing to do with it. Joined the cause of the Blades without regret. Now she’s hoping to enlighten the Heirs’ other women. We could use all the allies we can muster.”
“And what will you do whilst your wife plants the seeds of revolution?”
Bennett tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, and Catullus had to sigh. All of Catullus’s fresh clothing had been lost, including two gorgeous silk waistcoats he’d purchased in New York. Being in the field often meant forgoing his own exacting standards of dress. A burden for him to bear, but more so because he wanted to look his best for Gemma. At the moment, he resembled a crumpled, street-grimed advertisement for a gentleman’s emporium.
“Oh, the usual,” Bennett said, unaware of Catullus’s acute case of clean-waistcoat envy. “Gather information exercising my talents as a second-story man.”
“A fortunate set of circumstances that led you to being a Blade and not England’s most notorious thief.”
“Who says I’m not both?”
“You’d have better taste in boots.”
Bennett glanced down at the footwear in question. His boots were appallingly scuffed and, if Catullus wasn’t mistaken, stained with saltwater. The haberdasher within Catullus shuddered in horror.
“Badges of honor,” Bennett said. He looked over at Catullus’s boots. “Isn’t that a scratch on your own bespoke Jermyn Street boots?”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” Catullus said darkly.
They bantered, but an undercurrent of tension made each attempt at levity feel that much more false. Eventually, their words drifted away like dried weeds.
“It’s going to get brutal out there,” Catullus finally said. “Be careful, Ben.”
“Where London’s concerned,” Bennett answered, serious, “I’m always careful. You, too, Cat. None of us has ever gone to the realm of magic. Stay sharp. And take care of your Yankee.”
“I won’t let anything happen to her.” He’d never meant any words more.
“Glad you took my advice,” Bennett said, looking like a proud uncle.
Catullus said nothing. Bennett was his friend, but like hell would Catullus describe the wonder that had been making love with her. Still … “My gratitude, Ben.”
Bennett nodded, approving. “Godspeed to you.”
The two men shook hands, then broke apart.
Catullus turned, to see Astrid staring at him with her wise, clear eyes. Her expression bordered on cool, but he knew that, after the trials she’d endured and survived, she kept her innermost self well guarded. She still felt as deeply, only with less openness.
Yet, when she stepped closer to him, there was no hiding the bittersweet warmth in her gaze.
“We’ve not truly been apart since you came to Canada,” she murmured, “to protect me against the Heirs.” Before that, she’d hidden herself deep within the mountains for four years, four years of silence that had strained their friendship terribly. “I still don’t know why you came all that way, just for me.”
“I wonder that, myself.” But they both knew the bonds of friendship endured beyond distance and time.
They shared a small smile, and he could not help thinking how utterly Astrid had changed from the eager young girl arriving with an equally young new husband at the Blades’ front door so many years ago. Catullus wouldn’t wish Astrid’s sufferings on anyone, yet she’d emerged from them as tempered steel, and with the love of a man as strong and fierce as she.
Suddenly, Astrid wrapped her arms around Catullus in a hard, quick embrace. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I don’t know if I said it before, but … thank you.”
Catullus clasped her close, feeling the tough leanness of her body, this dagger of a woman he loved as he would love any member of his family. “We’ll see each other again.”
“Not a doubt.” She stepped back, and cast a quick look over her shoulder, where Gemma was shaking hands with Bennett and London as now-dressed Lesperance looked on. “She’s a good one, Catullus.” Astrid’s voice turned gruff. “Got a spine, and a brain. Worthy of you.”
Catullus tried but could not stop himself from staring at Astrid. Her words absurdly touched him, given, as they were, almost against her will.
Yet Astrid still had a prickliness about her, and she wouldn’t care for excessive shows of sentiment, so he only nodded and said, “Thank you.” The two of them, standing there and thanking one another as if for small acts of politeness,
and not earth-shifting alterations in the way they saw the world and lived their lives.
Then Astrid abruptly turned and strode over to where Gemma and the others had gathered. For a moment, Astrid and Gemma just stared at each other, two formidable women who had clashed and fought—each other, and side by side—and Lesperance, Bennett, and London watched them with a wary awe, wondering what might happen. No one really knew.
Astrid suddenly stuck out her hand, and Gemma took it and gave it a shake, with a respectful nod that was returned.
Everyone let out the collective breath they hadn’t known they held.
And then it was time to go. So much needed to be done, and in so short a time, there could be no more lingering. With final waves, the Blades parted, three pairs diverging from a briefly shared path.
Gemma and Catullus stopped at the edge of the forest to watch Bennett, London, Astrid, and Lesperance disappear.
“Going to miss them?” she asked.
“I always do,” he answered. “But, then, I also like working alone.”
“Oh.” Her vibrant face clouded a little, and he saw what she thought, that he might prefer this mission to be a solo one.
Only a day ago, he might have fumbled for words, awkward and embarrassed as he strove and failed for understanding. Yet a whole day contained many lifetimes, and he was not the same man he’d been even a dozen hours earlier. He knew her intimately, now, and he knew himself.
“I’ve never truly had a partner before.” He picked up her hand and pressed a kiss to its back, and she smiled, her azure eyes warm. “I think I’ll like the experience.”
Seeking an entrance to the magical Otherworld was all well and good, but Catullus was starving. He’d only had a bit of stale bread and some coffee—and that paltry meal had been burned up in the furnace of lovemaking and battle. Though she hadn’t complained, Catullus knew Gemma had to be hungry, as well. She’d had no breakfast. Come to think of it, neither of them had eaten much of anything since yesterday. He had to do something about that.
The desire to provide for her reached into the most primitively male part of him. He found, after years of scrupulously cerebral existence, that he rather liked indulging that aspect of himself. It felt like stretching a long-unused muscle.
He wanted to hunt. With knife and arrow. Cook the animal he killed over an open fire and give her only the choicest morsels. But this was modern England, not the primordial steppes. He’d have to settle for something a little more civilized.
Soon after parting company with the other Blades, he pounded on the door of an isolated farmhouse. A woman in
an apron came to the door, peering around it timorously, with a knife held unsteadily in her grip.
Catullus immediately put himself between Gemma and the woman. “Come now, madam,” he soothed, taking a step back and holding up his hands. “No need for that. We’re only travelers in search of a meal.”
The woman visibly relaxed and tucked the knife into her apron pocket. “You near scared the wits out of me,” she laughed, but her laugh was strained and breathless.
“Is anything amiss, madam?” Catullus asked.
“Strange doings, sir. Strange indeed.” The woman, a sturdy country lady, as evidenced by her work-roughened hands, smoothed her apron after taking in the quality—if not the condition—of Catullus’s clothing. “Tom Cole said he went to sell apples in Crowden this morn, and weren’t nothing left of the whole village but rubble and ruin. And not a soul in the place, neither.”
Catullus and Gemma scrupulously avoided looking at one another. “That’s terrible,” Gemma murmured.
The farmwife’s eyes widened with surprise. “Bless me, are you a Yankee?”
“Chicagoan,” Gemma replied.
“That another country?”
“Yes,” said Gemma.
“Well, you’re welcome to this corner of England, miss. But you’ve come at a bad time. All the cows’ milk has spoilt, and folks is afraid to walk the streets at night, what with all the odd beasties roaming up and down. ‘Struth, when I heard you hammering at my door, I thought for certain the gwyllion had come for me.”
“Gwyllion?” asked Catullus.
“The hill faeries, sir,” the woman whispered after first casting a fearful glance over his shoulder. “Frightful creatures my old Welsh mam warned me about. I used to think they were just stories, but after John Deever and Peg Goode got set upon last night and barely made it home alive, and
Susan Paley near had her babe stolen from its crib, I didn’t think they’re just stories anymore. With my son gone to Dover for the week, and me alone here, I brought this to the door.” She patted the pocket that held the knife. “The gwyllion don’t like knives, and I wasn’t taking chances. You’d be wise to do the same.”
Catullus had, hidden beneath his coat, a horn-handled hunting knife, but he thought it prudent, with the farmwife agitated as she was, not to go brandishing it about. “We’re well prepared for whatever we meet.”
The woman looked dubious, but did not argue. A maternal expression crossed her weathered face as she studied them. “The two of you look fair worn to dust.”
Catullus glanced at Gemma, whose freckles stood out on her pale, weary cheeks. She needed sustenance and rest. A couple of hours of sleep barely compensated for everything she’d undergone these past days. Rest wasn’t possible at the moment, but a meal must help.
“All we need is some food to take with us, if you’ve any to spare. You’ll be well paid.”
The farmwife opened the door farther. “I’ll take your coin,” she said brusquely, “for it’s a hard living out here, but, sure as I love sunrise, you’ll eat at my table and not crouching in the dust somewhere like a pair of vagrants.”
“Many thanks, madam.” Catullus ushered Gemma ahead, and they both entered the small farmhouse. Following the woman and Gemma, he had to bend down to keep from knocking his head against the low, timbered ceiling, and soon found himself in the kitchen. A pot of something savory, smelling like the gates of heaven, simmered on the hearth, and a large orange tabby cat regarded them with disinterest from his place in front of the fire.
“Now, sit yourselves down,” the woman said, gesturing to the table and chairs, “and I’ll have some good food ready for you. Killed the old cockerel this morning, and he’s been stewing half the day.”
Both Catullus and Gemma could only murmur their thanks as the woman bustled about, fetching bowls and bread. Two mugs of cold cider appeared, and Catullus felt himself on the verge of inarticulate growls of joy. He downed the cider in a single gulp, then smiled when Gemma did the same.
“They brew that in town,” the farmwife said proudly. She refilled the mugs.
“If the Church of England believed in saints,” Catullus said, “surely you’d be canonized.”
“And you haven’t even tasted my cooking.” She set down two battered tin bowls filled with a rich-scented stew, then brought a wedge of cheese and loaf of coarse brown bread to the table, wrapped in a clean cloth.
“Go on, then,” she urged, when Catullus and Gemma only looked at her. “I’ve had my midday meal. No need to stand on useless ceremony.”
Like ill-mannered badgers, both Catullus and Gemma attacked their food. The only sounds either made came from their spoons scraping the bowls or the soft tearing as they pulled pieces of bread to stuff into their mouths. Doubtless, Catullus’s grandmother Honoria would suffer apoplexy to see him comport himself thusly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too busy cramming food into his gullet.
“Forget sainthood,” Gemma said around a mouthful of bread, “you’ll be made
goddess.”
The farmwife chuckled, taking pleasure in the enjoyment of her guests. “A goddess of plenty, for there’s more.”
Ultimately, Gemma ate two bowls of stew and Catullus three, and not the tiniest crumb remained of the bread. From one of his many pockets, Catullus produced a stack of coins that made the woman’s eyes widen.
“Sir, that’s too much.”
“Consider it payment for the food and the company. Besides,” he added, “we may return under more impecunious
circumstances, and it always helps to have a good reputation with the house.”
Slowly, as if afraid the money might jump off the table, the farmwife reached out and scooped the coins into her palm. She dropped the lot into her apron pocket, and smiled at the jingling sound they made.
From her seat, Gemma sighed and stretched, her arms reaching overhead as she interlaced her fingers. The unconsciously seductive movement caused her breasts to press against the lightweight fabric of her dress and jacket, her body arched with innate sensuality. The sight stirred in Catullus a hunger that had not been sated. If anything, his need for her grew exponentially by the minute. It felt like far too long since he’d tasted her mouth, touched the silken curves of her body. Made love to her. Now that he knew precisely how she felt, the noises she made in the throes of pleasure, every moment not spent caressing her bare skin, sinking himself into her body, became an ordeal.
A sudden image flared: sweeping the bowls and mugs off of the table, laying Gemma across it, dragging up her skirts, and then, as he knelt, feasting on her between her legs with lips and tongue. He hadn’t tasted her yet. Would she be sweet, or spicy? He would find out as he made her come, again and again, her thighs draped over his shoulders.
“Catullus?” Gemma asked, lowering her arms. “Feeling all right? You look … feverish.” She peered at him curiously.
“Splendid,” he rasped. Thank God he’d forgone etiquette and kept on his long coat. As it was, he’d have to sit at this table for the next dozen years whilst waiting for his massive erection to subside to a chimney from a smokestack.
Gemma suddenly smiled with wicked understanding. She glanced at the part of the table that mercifully shielded Catullus’s lap, and then,
Good God,
licked her lips. Catullus expected the heavy table to simply flip over from the force of his rearing cock. To keep himself from making
good and then elaborating on his vivid imagination’s scenario, he gripped the table’s edge, his knuckles paling with the force he exerted.
He actually began to sweat, and his spectacles fogged.
“Is there anything else you’d like?” asked the farmwife, unaware of the carnal battle raging within him. “Tea? Muffins?”
“We’re satisfied,” Gemma said, smiling at the woman politely. Then Gemma turned her eyes to his as her smile evolved into something much less polite and altogether arousing. “For now.”
He almost groaned.
“I’ll fix you a hamper for the road, then.” The farmwife fussed about, getting provisions together.
Catullus used the time constructively, casting his eyes up at the ceiling and mentally reviewing theory and debate surrounding Euclid’s Fifth Postulate. By the time he reached Beltrami’s essays on hyperbolic geometry, he felt himself under enough control to get to his feet.
“If you’d like to freshen yourselves before setting off, there’s a basin and ewer for the lady.” The farmwife pointed toward a bedroom. “And, if you don’t mind the roughness, sir, we’ve a pump outside in the back, just next to the rabbit hutch.”
“Obliged, madam.”
Gemma disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. As Catullus strode outside, he tried not to picture what she must look like, semi-dressed, running a damp cloth over her face, down her slim neck, and, if she’d removed the top of her dress, in the satiny valley between her breasts….
More roughly than he intended, he threw off his coat and jacket, tossing them to hang from the bare branches of a nearby hawthorn tree. Rabbits within the hutch scampered into the corners as he also tugged off and pitched away his neckcloth, his waistcoat, and finally, pushing down his
braces, his shirt. The hawthorn tree looked as though the top half of a man had exploded all over it, leaving only garments. And it wasn’t entirely proper, either, stripping himself to the waist in a stranger’s yard.
Catullus couldn’t care. He needed to cool down, and he needed to do it thoroughly.
He tucked his spectacles into his trouser pocket, then stuck his head under the spout and pumped the lever. After a few good pumps, frigid water came pouring out, splashing in his hair and running in cold rivulets over his shoulders and down his torso. Bracing, tonic. Yet he did not quite feel the cold—the engine of his desire burned too hot. Their lovemaking had been far too brief. He needed more—but God knew when they would have the time.
He took handfuls of water and splashed them across his chest and under his arms. When he felt that he’d reached a reasonable level of cleanliness, he straightened and rubbed his hands over his face. Taking his hands from his face, he saw a familiar cream-and-copper figure standing nearby. He fumbled with his spectacles. The figure coalesced into Gemma, a few feet away and staring at him as if she planned on turning cannibal.
Being eaten never sounded so stimulating.
She held out a small cloth, but her eyes didn’t leave his bare chest. “Mrs. Strathmore thought you could use this.” This Gemma said in a voice both breathless and throaty.
Catullus took the cloth and used it to dry himself. He wasn’t above a bit of preening, and took his time running the toweling over himself slowly, across the width of his chest and down the ridges of his abdomen. Everywhere the cloth went, her eyes followed avidly. He remembered now that he had unbuttoned but not removed his shirt when they’d made love. He had seen her bare chest, but she hadn’t seen him fully.
He might have been forty-one years old, inventor and man of science, but he kept himself in prime condition. His
work as a Blade demanded it, and he firmly believed in the Athenian balance between mind and body. At the moment, given the way Gemma watched him, his body was most definitely firm. She stared at the thick ridge his cock made along the front of his trousers.
Once dry, but not at all cooled down, Catullus dressed himself. Gemma watched this, as well, blushing but not turning away. Masculine pride energized him to see Gemma so very admiring of his body, and he also exulted that she wasn’t ashamed to show her desire.
She’d put up her hair, and he saw damp tendrils clinging to the smooth column of her neck. He wanted to run his tongue there, bite her a little, and feel her pulse with his mouth.
For a moment, after he’d dressed, they just stared at one another. He knew with absolute clarity that if either of them took a step toward the other, they’d wind up tangled together, rolling in the dust, tearing at clothing. A hard animal coupling. And, sweet heaven, how he wanted that.
“You two heading off, then?” asked Mrs. Strathmore, coming to the back door.
Both Catullus and Gemma blinked, and the tight spell of need wasn’t broken, but delayed. “Yes, we’ve an urgent errand we have to undertake,” he said, ripping his gaze from Gemma.
“Mind you take care on the road,” the farmwife cautioned. “There’s danger afoot.”
“We will,” he promised, but when it came to his desire for Gemma, he could not promise caution. In that, he gladly consigned himself to reckless abandon.
As Gemma and Catullus headed away from the farmhouse, following a bridle path over rolling fields, she sensed the waves of purpose and resolve emanating from him like a kind of low, barely audible music, the sort one
felt rather than heard. Purpose about their mission, but also about her. For he still wanted her, and they both knew it, just as they both knew she still wanted him. Making love once most definitely had not been enough. And only time and circumstance stood in the way of them taking more of what they needed.
When
that time might be, the saints only knew. She’d touched and felt his body in the darkness of a small bedroom. She had been gifted with the magnificent sight of Catullus Graves in the daylight—bare to the waist, broad shoulders, the expanse of his chest and smooth knots of muscle of his flat stomach, narrow waist, the shadowy lines of sinew disappearing under the waistband of his trousers—all of this delicious skin, beaded with water, and the thick outline of his cock demonstrating how very much he continued to desire her. He’d been diffident and shy before. Long before. That was gone now. He returned her stare and even deliberately teased her, running a cloth over his body with calculated, tempting slowness.