He didn’t slow, her resistance proving useless against his strength. “I’m not,” he growled. “We are taking a train to Southampton, and you’re coming with us.”
So prepared was she to argue her case, she thought she misheard him. “What?”
On the steps leading into the station, he finally did stop, swinging around to face her. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were deepest brown, gleaming with fury and resolve. “I was a damned idiot,” he snarled. “I let one of those bastards see you, and now your life isn’t worth tuppence.”
His anger was for himself, not her. But she couldn’t allow that. “He only saw me for a second. Surely that’s not enough.”
“For the Heirs, it’s all they need. It won’t take much for them to learn who you are, and know that you fought on the side of the Blades. That means your life is imperiled.” He paced up the stairs to the station, with her still in tow. “The safest place for you now is with me.”
A fast chill ran along Gemma’s spine to think that she was now the target of a ruthless band of powerful, magic-wielding men. She’d experienced danger before—including a trio of unruly fur trappers desperate for female company, though they were less inclined to pursue her after she shot one in the hand and nearly emasculated another. There had been many other brushes with risk. But nothing like this. Nothing where she truly felt her life was threatened.
Graves would keep her close, keep her safe. There was no doubt in him. While she was in his care, he would ensure no harm would come to her.
Inside, the station teemed with activity, almost as chaotic as the docks. Gray sunshine poured in from large skylights, illuminating the cavernous station and people swarming along platforms, where huge, shining black trains waited and steamed. None of the thousands of people here had any idea that a war was being fought for the world’s magic. But they might learn, when she wrote of it.
If she lived.
Graves stopped in the middle of this industrial and human maelstrom. Astrid and Lesperance caught up, and the Englishwoman shot Gemma a suspicious glance.
“She’s coming with us, then?”
“One of them saw her.”
Astrid nodded with grim understanding, though it was clear from her severe expression that she didn’t care for Gemma’s presence.
Well, Gemma didn’t much like Astrid Bramfield, either. “You aren’t the only woman who knows how to fight.” She had proved it, minutes ago.
“Good.” But there was no faith or gratitude in the Englishwoman’s silver eyes.
“Miss Murphy’s shown she can be trusted,” Lesperance said.
“She’s demonstrated she can swing a rope,” countered Astrid. “That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy.”
“She’s still coming with us,” said Graves.
“And standing right here,” added Gemma. She didn’t care for being talked about like a unmatched, smelly shoe.
“I’ll purchase the tickets.” Graves finally released Gemma’s wrist to move toward the ticket counter, and she found she wanted his touch again.
“Wait!”
He swung around at her cry. She closed the distance between them. When she reached up to his face, he pulled back with a frown.
Gemma licked her thumb and rubbed it over his cheek, where the thug’s hook had cut him. The contact of wet skin to skin was a visceral charge. “You had a little blood on your face,” she breathed in the close space between them.
The air of hard authority fell away from him for a moment as his frown disappeared. He swallowed, tried to speak, then, finding no words, turned and strode toward the ticket counter. His long, dashing coat billowed behind him as he paced away.
Gemma watched him, saw the crowds part ahead of him, deferring to his natural air of command. She had seen the swift, confident grace of his movement in combat, the speed of his mind and body working together to create a man of devastating potency. Yet, with her, he became cautious, uncertain. What a paradox, one that fascinated her not as a journalist, but as a woman.
She broke her gaze to find Astrid Bramfield studying her. Gemma sent a challenging look right back. Yet, for some reason, the Englishwoman’s gaze was more contemplative than critical.
A few minutes later, Graves returned and handed each of them tickets. “We’ll have to change trains a few times, but we should reach Southampton by tonight.”
“And then?” asked Gemma.
“And then,” he said, “we will convene with the rest of our friends, plan our attack strategy. Nothing can be gambled when so much is at stake. And you will remain in Southampton under guard whilst we battle the Heirs.”
“Under guard,” she repeated, glowering. “You mean, held prisoner.”
He did not blink at her accusation. “Call it what you like. But you will be safe.” He turned away. “We have a train to catch.”
The world rushed by, smokestacks and suburban developments giving way to farmland and fields. Gemma sat at the window, watching England as it unfolded around the rushing train, her mind filling with images and words as it always did whenever she observed something new.
A tame place, she decided, compared to home. Everything she saw out the train’s window seemed old, weighted down with millennia and history. Green, gentle hills and low stone walls. Farmhouses and biscuit-tin villages. She tried to picture the magic that must exist beneath this cultivated country, the magic the Heirs of Albion would seize for themselves to ensure England’s dominance.
Yet when Catullus Graves sat opposite her in the train carriage, thoughts of secret wars for magic fled from her mind. She couldn’t look away from him. He’d cleaned the cut on his face and now presented the image of an elegant gentleman traveling. One would hardly suspect that not an hour earlier, he’d been fighting in a Liverpool street like a born warrior. But Gemma saw the small powder burns on his left hand and knew that his outward sophistication made up one small part of the whole.
Gemma openly studied him now.
He was abstracted, deep in contemplation, with that ever-present line between his brows. She wondered what he thought about: The Heirs? A new invention? Her?
His distracted gaze drifted to the window, then, restless, moved over her. And as soon as that happened, he suddenly remembered that she was in the carriage, too, and his demeanor changed.
He focused on the landscape speeding past, almost as if too shy to look at her. He’d been so imposing at the train station, and then, moments earlier, he’d been the picture of a brooding general on the eve of battle. Now he was diffident. They were alone in the carriage, Astrid Bramfield and Lesperance having gone to the dining car for something to eat. The air, as it often did when she and Graves were alone together, became charged.
A somewhat awkward silence stretched between them, with the clatter of the train as a steady undertone.
“Did you really make that shotgun shell with the net in it?” she asked.
He turned to her, guarded. “I did.”
“I’ve never seen anything like that. It was remarkable.”
He flushed slightly at her praise, and tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly aligned shirt. “A very simple device, I assure you.”
“Not to me.”
“Inventions and mechanical devices are something of a family trade.”
She was amazed at his genuine humility. “They should be proud of you, then.”
He