“The Heirs wouldn’t do that,” she averred, then undermined her own certainty by adding, more faintly, “would they?”
“They have and they will.” Graves’s tone left no room for uncertainty. He stepped closer, his eyes containing experiences beyond Gemma’s substantial imagination. “Which is exactly why you cannot be involved in anything to do with them. Even if the magic they wield is itself benign, their use of it is incredibly dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”
Now that he stood in front of her, Gemma had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. If the intent was to intimidate her, in that regard, the gesture didn’t work. What his nearness did do, however, was make her aware of his warmth and scent—a mixture of bergamot, tobacco, and the intangible essence of him, his flesh and self.
“I don’t mind a little danger.” Her voice sounded husky to her ears.
His velvet-dark eyes moved over her face, lingering on the freckles dotting the bridge of her nose, before traveling down to idle on her mouth, and then lower. The dress Gemma wore was modest as a schoolmarm, with a high, buttoned collar and not a single bit of flesh exposed, save for her hands. But even in the most demure dress ever sewn, there was no concealing Gemma’s figure. Not only had she inherited her mother’s magic, but her hips and breasts as well. While Gemma had a mind for journalism, fate and family had given her the body of a burlesque dancer. Between her figure and her flaming, bright hair, Gemma’s pursuit of professional legitimacy was an uphill battle.
Sometimes she resented her curvaceous figure and saw it as nothing more than an impediment to being taken seriously. And other times …
To see frank male admiration in Catullus Graves’s face as he looked at her … she couldn’t deny a certain … gratification.
When his gaze met hers again, his voice came out somewhat raspy. “It isn’t a little danger. It’s a lot of danger. And I refuse to imperil you at all by having you anywhere near the Heirs—or us.”
A difference, she sensed, between his protectiveness and the condescension she endured back home. The male reporters at the Trib smirked and told her the life of a journalist was too perilous for a woman—her delicate constitution, her fragile sensibilities. Never mind that she could hold her liquor better than any of them, including Pritchard. Gemma could also swing a mean left hook and shoot a rifle. But, no, as befitting a woman’s disposition and health she was supposed to be writing harmless little articles about putting up summer beans or the best ways to get grape stains out of a baby’s pinafore.
Catullus Graves’s concern for her safety had nothing to do with whether or not he considered her capable, and everything to do with the fact that these Heirs of Albion were ruthless, murderous men. Men hell-bent on controlling the world’s magic for their own selfish desires.
She recognized the danger was real. Just as she understood that she had to write this story. Joseph McCullagh knew reporting on the Civil War from the front lines could cost him his life, but the risk to himself was nothing compared to the need for the public to know about the horrors of war.
“I will still write about this,” she challenged.
“No one will believe a word of it,” he answered.
“Then tell me more! What harm could it do, if no one will believe what I write?”
Graves, still holding Gemma’s gaze, shook his head. “The answer is no. Any more information will only jeopardize you further.” His expression darkened. “Lives will be lost, Miss Murphy. Of that, there is no doubt. And I swear that yours will not be one of them.”
“Will your life be lost, Mr. Graves?”
“Very possibly.” Not a trace of fear or exaggeration in his voice, just a simple statement of fact. He might die soon, violently, and he accepted that.
Her heart plunged to contemplate his death, even though he was a stranger to her.
Gemma started when Catullus Graves’s large, warm hands curved over her shoulders. Even through the layers of her clothing, she felt his touch move in swift, heated currents through her body. Temporarily stunned, she let him gently guide her backward. Then he took one hand from her, opened the door, and then lightly conducted her into the passageway.
“Forget everything you’ve heard here tonight, Miss Murphy,” he advised.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Much as it pains me to say so,” he said, “that is your concern, not mine. But forget it you must.”
“But—”
“I know you can open any door, but I will trust you not to open mine again.” Regret seemed to cross his handsome, thoughtful face. “Good night, Miss Murphy. And, for the last time, good-bye.”
With that, he closed the door. Leaving her alone in the passageway.
Gemma stood there for a moment before heading back to her cabin and vowing to herself that, whatever the costs, whatever risks to herself, she would have her story. There were still so many questions unanswered, and she would find those answers. Not even the formidable force of Catullus Graves could stand in her way.
It amazed Catullus. He had been on board the ship for over a week and, during that time, not once had he seen Gemma Murphy. Now, he could not take a step outside his cabin without running into her.
Not literally—she maintained a respectable distance. But he had only to turn his head, and there she was. Across the dining room. Striding briskly past deck chairs and their blanket-swathed occupants as he took one of his own daily walks. Peering at him from behind a week-old newspaper in the reading room. Even the smoking lounge, the province exclusively for men. Catullus had gone in to indulge in an occasional pipe, and she entered the room right after him. Took a cheroot from an astounded steward, then lit up and cheerfully smoked, while Catullus and everyone else in the lounge gaped like guppies. No one had ever seen a respectable woman smoke before. It was … disturbing. Alluring.
He thought perhaps she might badger him with questions. Yet she never did. Whenever he saw her, she would smile cordially but preserve the space between them.
He couldn’t tell if he was glad or disappointed that she had not entered his cabin again. Every step outside in the passageway had made his pulse speed. But she never came to him privately. Only hovered in the public parts of the ship like a brilliant phantom.
Catullus now stood upon the prow, watching the ship cleave the gray water as it neared Liverpool. Sailing directly to Southampton hadn’t been an option, since the next steamship traveling to that town wouldn’t depart New York for two weeks. Far too long a wait with so much at stake. So, he and Astrid and Lesperance had booked passage to Liverpool, with the intent to hop immediately on a train heading to the Blades’ Southampton headquarters.
If he could, he would get out and tow the ship in, if only to get them to Liverpool faster. The ship docked tomorrow morning, and he was in a fever of impatience to reach their destination. What Astrid had revealed about the Primal Source—that it could actually embody the dreams and hopes of its possessor—had to be brought to the other Blades’ attention. At headquarters, they could discuss strategies, formulate a plan. Catullus enjoyed plans.
Wind and sea spray blew across the prow. Not as cold as those Canadian mountains, but he took pleasure in the soft black cashmere Ulster overcoat he wore, with its handsome cape and velvet collar. Too windy for a hat—but he was alone and so there wasn’t a breach of propriety.
Or had been alone. Catullus sensed, rather than saw, Gemma Murphy as she stepped onto the prow. His heart gave that peculiar jump