“I’ll leave you to get your supper ready.” The innkeeper bobbed, but Catullus stopped the old man before he headed down to the kitchen and gave him a florin.
“Thank ‘ee, sir,” the innkeeper chirped, brightening, then hurried away.
For a minute, Catullus and Gemma stood alone in the corridor. The narrow space forced them to stand close to one another, and all around them came the sounds of life—Astrid in her room, Lesperance in the other, the innkeeper downstairs happily chattering to someone, pots banging in the kitchen—everything quite ordinary, quite domestic, like any other inn Catullus had visited. Yet here, standing with his body very close to Gemma so that he saw the flutter of her pulse just beneath her jaw as she looked up at him, nothing was ordinary or domestic, but charged and fraught with possibility.
“Collecting material for your article?” he asked softly. He cast a quick look to the staircase, down which the innkeeper had walked.
“No.” She faintly frowned at the idea she might exploit the innkeeper’s tale for her own benefit. “I just like to hear people’s stories.”
He didn’t doubt that. Gemma Murphy was, he continued to learn, exceptionally inquisitive. Not only for her work as a journalist, but for herself, because she loved knowing and learning and exploring for their own sakes. She imbued even the proprietor of a dying, tiny country inn with gravity and worth, where others—more thoughtless—might dismiss such a man.
This woman is very dangerous. Not in the common way dangerous, ready with a knife or betrayal, but danger of another sort. A well-guarded heart might not be as fortified as previously thought. And a body that had gone far too long without pleasure and release could not resist her, with her lush, seductive curves, her freckled, warm skin, her nimble hands.
But he would. He knew self-discipline, and good manners, and a lifetime of loneliness that could not be eradicated within the span of a few days. So, despite everything within him demanding that he close the small space between him and Gemma, and press her against the wall as he kissed her thoroughly, he said, instead, “See you at supper, then.”
Catullus thought he saw a look of disappointment cross Gemma’s face, but it vanished before he could make certain. “Yes, at supper.”
Then she turned and went into her room, and Catullus stood by himself for many moments afterward.
Chapter 5 Sleeping Arrangements
Once inside the room she was to share with Astrid, Gemma looked up, expecting to find hams hanging from the rafters or perhaps goats gnawing on the coverlet. But the room was only that—simply furnished with a washstand, a chair, a chest of drawers and, of course, a bed. As the innkeeper had promised, the bed looked wide enough to easily accommodate two.
Astrid paced the room, taking its measure. She checked the one small casement window, making sure it opened, then glancing down to the road a story below. Checking for escape routes, Gemma realized. Astrid moved with precision and purpose, a battle-hardened veteran who also happened to be a woman. Gemma could only speculate what variety of adventures and hardship the Englishwoman had endured.
While Astrid surveyed the pitched-ceiling room, she continued to glance at Gemma with caution, as though Gemma were a variety of spider that leapt on and bit its unsuspecting prey. The source of Astrid’s circumspection could be any number of possibilities. What might it take to win her trust?
In any event, it seemed unlikely that Gemma and Astrid would spend the night exchanging whispered confidences and giggling beneath the blanket.
Gemma rifled through her little satchel, desperate to find a brush for her disobedient tangle of hair. She wasn’t especially vain, but knowing that she would be sharing supper with Catullus in a few minutes made her more attentive to her appearance. Maybe it was for the best that the room’s only mirror was both tiny and fogged with age. Leaping off moving trains tended to wreak havoc on one’s hair and clothes, and Gemma was sure she looked as though she’d not only jumped off a train, but landed in a sty and then rubbed handfuls of forest in her hair. Looking at herself in a mirror would only confirm her suspicions.
Astrid’s gasp sounded behind her.
Gemma ran to her side, supporting Astrid as she staggered. The Englishwoman wore an expression of both pain and acute concentration.
“Are you all right?” Gemma tried to usher Astrid to the bed, but found herself waved off.
Astrid regained her footing, and shook her head to clear her mind. She looked at Gemma, her eyes sharp and determined, and just a little frightened, which scared Gemma. Astrid Bramfield feared nothing, or so Gemma believed. Then the Englishwoman’s next words truly did alarm Gemma.
“It’s beginning.”
In the taproom, a supper of stew, bread, and cheese was laid out for the four of them, but none quite had the appetite, given Astrid’s revelation.
“You’re sure?” asked Catullus.
Astrid stared into her tankard of ale, her jaw tense. “Quite sure. The Primal Source is manifesting the Heirs’ dreams. Very soon they will be embodied.”
“When?” pressed Lesperance. He held Astrid’s free hand between his own, as though unable to be near her without touching.
“A matter of days, if not sooner.”
“How do you know this?” Gemma asked.
Astrid’s expression darkened even further. “The Primal Source and I are … linked. I can feel its energy, especially the closer I come to it. And I felt its energy gathering. Coalescing. Even without the Heirs’ direct manipulation, the Primal Source is materializing their desires. Now. And it has to be halted.”
Catullus frowned at the worn wooden tabletop, his fingers drumming against the surface. “Damn,” he growled. “There isn’t time to get to Southampton. We have to stop it on our own.” His look turned unreadable when he gazed up at Gemma, sitting beside him. “Which means, you will be coming with us.”
Directly into the path of danger, he did not say. But they both knew it.
The prospect gave her some alarm, yet she couldn’t quite stifle a thrum of excitement. But she couldn’t decipher whether her excitement was because she would witness the upcoming battle or because she was to remain with Catullus. The thought of staying behind in Southampton while he went off to risk his life had been gnawing at her, creating a pit within her, empty and restless.
“I want to come with you,” she said.
“Because you’re a reporter,” Astrid clipped.
Gemma turned from Catullus to meet the Englishwoman’s unyielding gaze with her own. Words formed and tumbled from her, each one gleaming with a truth Gemma fully understood only at that moment. “Because I want to help.”
Astrid’s gaze tried to dismiss her. “What can you do? You’re not a Blade. You aren’t trained to fight. All you have is some parlor magic.”
“Which saved you on the train today,” Gemma noted.
Both Catullus and Lesperance watched this verbal sparring match with open interest.
“We could have kicked the door open.”
“Then the Heirs could have gotten into the mail coach, and you would have been cornered.”
The Englishwoman crossed her arms over her chest, unconvinced. “I still think you will be a liability.”
“I’ll prove that I’m not. I’ll fight, right beside you.”
“And write about everything after.”
“Maybe.” But