He wanted to stay vigilant, but his mind kept fogging. It probably wasn’t a good idea to have Gemma walk in front of him. He was mesmerized by the unconscious sway of her hips as she moved, as well as the way she looked about her, taking in the landscape with an alert and eager eye.
He rather wished she would put her hair back up. But she hadn’t, and he became equally enthralled by the gleaming mass as it trailed down her back in brilliant waves.
Catullus made himself study the surrounding land, the familiar world of hedgerows and paddocks, stiles and hay-fields. Underneath all these quotidian sights lay ominous threats. The Heirs could be anywhere, and had many means of spying.
He and the others couldn’t reach Southampton fast enough. He hated having Gemma vulnerable in any way, and could not fail her when it came to her protection. And he needed to focus all his faculties on the issues at hand. There were so damned many issues: the Heirs and the Primal Source, the inevitable battle that could very well determine the fate of the world. He couldn’t allow his thoughts to be muddled by overwhelming, surprising desire for a female American journalist. Once she was safe at headquarters, he could devote himself fully to the mission.
It did not help that whenever he turned his gaze from Gemma, he found Astrid staring at him with concern. He and Astrid were good friends, and he’d worried about her terribly when she’d retreated into the Canadian wilderness. Now it was her turn to worry about him—though he wasn’t entirely sure what she protected him from. Certainly not Gemma Murphy. Or, did Astrid see something in her that Catullus didn’t?
He couldn’t believe that Astrid was jealous. Not with her heart so fully given to Lesperance. Only two other times had Catullus witnessed such a powerful bond between lovers: Thalia Burgess and her husband, Gabriel Huntley; and Bennett Day and his wife, London Harcourt. Astrid loved Lesperance just as deeply. Further, Catullus and Astrid had always been strictly platonic friends. So she did not resent Gemma for a romantic reason. But why, then?
“How wide a net do you think the Heirs have over this area?” he asked Astrid, to keep his mind on track.
“There’s no way to know,” she answered.
“We could be walking right into them,” said Lesperance.
“Perhaps it would be wise to do some reconnaissance, before moving on.” Catullus wished he had more than a spyglass with him, but he’d had to leave behind his larger pieces of equipment in the haste to return to England. He might be able to fashion something—though the surrounding farmland didn’t leave him much to work with.
Nearby, a shaggy pony at the edge of a field looked up from cropping grass and watched them. It wore a halter. Perhaps he could salvage some of the leather and metal….
Astrid halted, bringing the whole group to a stop. “How do you suggest we attempt that?”
Catullus scanned the surroundings, then spotted a densely wooded dell to the west. “Astrid, you’re one of the Blades’ best scouts.” She did not contradict him. “You can take that pony and reconnoiter. Lesperance, you can … provide aerial assistance.”
Gemma frowned in confusion, but Lesperance understood.
“And you?” asked Astrid.
“Gemma and I will find shelter in that dell.”
Astrid raised a brow.
“I can help, too,” Gemma objected.
But Catullus shook his head. “Scouting is too dangerous for a civilian, and I don’t want to leave you on your own and unprotected.”
He wondered to himself how much of this was truth, and how much was an excuse to be alone with her again—something he both craved and dreaded. He decided he didn’t want to investigate his motivations.
Thank God no one pressed him on this. With promises to convene at the dell within an hour, the party broke into two. The late autumn day had only a few more hours of daylight, so time was vital.
“Is all of England like this?” Gemma asked as they tramped speedily through a soggy field. She refused to allow Catullus to carry her little bag, so she slung it over a shoulder and marched onward with a lively stride. Likely the result of having such wonderfully long legs.
Stop it. Get her safely to Southampton and then move forward. Stay alert.
But, damn it, he liked talking to her, even as he kept his eyes in constant motion, assessing for threats. “You don’t fancy our English pastoral?”
“Oh, it’s fine, I suppose,” she said airily.
“Just fine?”
“Well,” she said, “if you have to press.” She gazed around as she walked. “It’s pretty enough. But there’s no drama. It’s very … tame.”
Oddly, her words stung, as if she was criticizing him and not the sodding landscape. “There’s nothing wrong with being cultivated.”
“But not everything should be contained and tidy. Without a little mess and wilderness, things would be so dull.”
“There is wilderness in England. The Lake Country. The moors. The Cornish coast.” Why did he sound like a priggish geography professor? “All quite wild, I can assure you.”
She sent a playful smile over her shoulder. “I’ve got no doubt that beneath England’s civilized exterior, there’s a good deal of wildness.”
His footsteps faltered briefly before he regained his pace. This, he discovered, was where he got into trouble with women. When it was a matter of letting the body do as it demanded, he followed instinct and need. But this interaction, this banter and play, reading subtle cues, artful compliments and deft, intriguing evasions, here his admittedly gifted brain left him at an utter loss.
So, like an ass, all he could say to Gemma’s teasing was, “Ah.”
It had been much simpler kissing her. He liked that. He liked it very much. Very, very much.
They reached the dell, a little wooded niche whose steep sides and rock-strewn bed kept it safe from cultivation. Autumn had already stripped the branches of their leaves, but tree trunks offered ample camouflage. Catullus found a large fallen chestnut tree and guided Gemma to sit in its shelter.
“Just a moment,” he said before she sat, and produced a square of tartan flannel to lay upon the ground. “To keep you from getting dirt upon your clothing.”
She murmured her thanks before settling down. For himself, he couldn’t sit quietly, not when the Heirs could be near. So he paced. And thought. When he reached Southampton, he’d go straight to his workshop and begin raiding his arsenal and supplies. What might he need for a massive battle against the Heirs? Ammunition, his demolition kit for urban combat, the wireless telegraph device he’d been developing. Blades out in the field would need to communicate with each other, and the devices could be incredibly helpful for transmitting information between distances. He’d also have to consider— “I’m getting dizzy.”
He froze at Gemma’s words. “Is it the jump from the train? You might have hit your head rather hard—”
“From watching you pace.”
Heat crept into his face. “Sorry.”
She brushed aside his embarrassed apology. “Don’t fret. I like watching you think. I just wish you’d do it in a more stationary way.”
She liked to watch him think? “It’s difficult for me to remain