Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (12 page)

He heard her breathing deepen. He reached across and put his hand lightly on top of hers, and she sighed in sleep, turning her own hand over so that their fingers interlaced.

She thought herself an empty husk. Nathan knew otherwise.

 

Sergeant Williamson sat at his makeshift desk—a table with a desiccated biscuit shoved under one leg for stability—writing up his latest report to headquarters. He had planned to be back at the Bow River Fort by this time, but recent events demanded his attention.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” Mackenzie said, standing in the doorway. “I think you may want to come out here.”

Williamson set down his pen, aligning it carefully with the ink pot. It would not stand to have any kind of disorder out here in the Northwest Territories. “What is it, Corporal?”

“Two men have just arrived, Sergeant.”

“Men arrive here all the time,” Williamson pointed out. The trading post saw a usual amount of activity for a tiny bastion on the edge of the civilized world—trappers, traders, men from the Hudson's Bay Company come to buy furs, prospectors, whiskey runners, government surveyors, Mounties, Natives, fortune hunters, criminals, and men of every nationality and stripe, both respectable and suspect. Women were less frequently seen, usually as the wives of homesteaders or representatives of the HBC. Astrid Bramfield had been entirely unique. “You or Hastings can speak with them and ask them their business.”

“I think it would be best if
you
did so, Sergeant.”

Frowning at Mackenzie's insistence, the sergeant rose and, after tugging on his scarlet jacket and donning his hat, strode outside to see what sort of visitor to the wilds of Canada demanded his particular attention. “What's this all about, Mackenzie?” he demanded. “I'm still writing this report, and it's deuced difficult to explain the utter disappearance of someone as noteworthy as Lesperance.”

“There, Sergeant.” Mackenzie pointed to the two men who were currently the object of attention. Everyone at the post, including the most jaded
voyageurs,
stared. And no wonder.

One of the men was an exceptionally tall fellow, with a lean, lanky build and sandy hair and moustache. He was handing over to an Indian boy two saddled horses, as well as two packhorses loaded down with as much equipment as three scientific expeditions. When the lanky man spoke, it was with the flat vowels of Boston.

Americans, even tall Americans, were not so unusual out here in the Territory. It was the American's companion, however, who drew most of the interest.

Williamson doubted he'd ever seen a finer-dressed man, and that included his visits to Toronto and Montreal, where, it was alleged, tailoring came straight from the finest fashion houses in Paris. From the shoulders of his pristine hunter green jacket to his slim gray trousers and all the way to his gleaming black tall boots, the man dazzled. And that was not taking into account his blue-and-silver embroidered silk waistcoat, so beautifully cut that even a man who cared little for fashion, as Williamson did, could but weep in envy. Everything was fitted to perfection on the man's lean but well-built frame. He didn't look like a dandy. He looked exactly as he should, even out here in the middle of the wilderness.

The fact that this model of sartorial excellence was Negro almost, but not quite, obscured his elegance. Before and after the war between the states, Negro men came up to Canada to seek their fortunes away from the blight of slavery. These men had little except what they wore on their backs, and that was threadbare. There was absolutely nothing threadbare about this gentleman. He had a neatly trimmed goatee, close-cropped hair. He gazed through gleaming wire-frame spectacles around the trading post with a pair of intelligent, inquisitive eyes that missed absolutely nothing.

Williamson did not miss the revolver holstered at the man's waist, nor the stag-handled knife also on his belt. Both looked well used.

As Williamson approached both men, he heard them speak to each other.

“You sure this is where she's supposed to be, Graves?” the tall man asked his comrade. “Seems more populated than she'd want.”

“She didn't live here,” came the answer, in an English accent so refined, Williamson would have thought him a member of the royal family, if such a thing were possible. “From what I understand, Quinn, she lived a substantial way out.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Williamson said, nearing. He introduced himself and the men politely nodded their greeting. “Can I help you with something?” It was the duty of the Mounties to keep a vigilant eye on all comings and goings in their jurisdiction. Williamson fervently believed in his responsibilities.

The elegantly dressed man, identified by his companion as Graves, nodded. “We will need to hire a guide, someone who can be relied upon for his knowledge and discretion.”

This piqued the sergeant's interest. “Is there something you need to be discreet about?”

“We are investigating certain natural phenomena,” Graves answered, “that is highly sensitive.”

“Sensitive in what way?” Williamson eyed the shotgun slung over Graves's shoulder. The man might be a scientist, but he knew his firearms as well as his fashions. It was a hunting gun, sawed down for quick use. The metal was blued dark, making the ornate gold carvings stand out.

Quinn, the tall man, said, “Other men of sciences are in pursuit of the same phenomena. You could say we're rivals.”

“If that's so, then your rivals have already been here,” Williamson said. “A group of four Englishmen came to the post several days ago and hired several guides. They, too, said they were on a scientific expedition.”

Graves tensed. “Did they have a bird with them?” he demanded.

An odd thing to ask. “Come to think of it, they did. A variety of falcon. Something got the bird riled up—it made a substantial racket.”

Both men exchanged alarmed glances. The American cursed.

“You fellows must take this scientific discovery business quite seriously,” Williamson said, noting the men's expressions of mixed apprehension and anger.

“Sergeant,” Graves said, grim, “that is an exceptional understatement.”

Williamson looked back and forth between the two men, a feeling of unease prickling along his neck.

“You may be familiar with our colleague,” Graves continued. “A woman, about this tall,” he held his hand up to the height of his shoulder, “with blond hair, gray eyes. She generally keeps to herself.”

“Mrs. Bramfield,” Williamson said. “I didn't know she was also involved in the field of natural phenomena.”

“She used to be,” Quinn answered.

Williamson shrugged. “I have only met her on a few occasions. The last time was a few days ago.”

Now Graves looked truly alarmed. “Around the same time that the other expedition was here?”

“Yes—she left only hours before they arrived. They found guides and headed in her direction. West. Perhaps they wanted her to join their team.”

Graves stepped closer, and suddenly Williamson realized that the elegant man could be quite intimidating. “A guide,” he said, low and demanding. “We need one
now.
”

The sergeant pointed him toward the saloon. “You'll find one there.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” With those clipped words, Graves strode toward the saloon, Quinn fast on his heels. Williamson stood and watched them go, wondering how he might explain this in a letter to his superiors.

Catullus Graves spared little thought to the mud spattering his boots, or the stares directed at him—he was used to both. He had also already dismissed the inquisitive Mountie Williamson from his thoughts. The only thing on his mind was getting to Astrid in time.

“How much lead do they have on us?” Max Quinn asked him. Catullus had only just met Quinn a month ago when he docked at Boston, but Quinn's service as a Blade was well regarded back at Southampton headquarters.

“Too much,” Catullus answered. “We'll have to push ourselves to catch up.”

Quinn nodded. Good man—he knew how important this mission was, not only to the Blades, but to Catullus personally.

They entered what the sergeant had optimistically called a saloon, and went up to the chipped, barely standing bar. A handful of men gathered at tables openly stared at Catullus and Quinn. The man behind the counter eyed the Blades warily, particularly Catullus, until a neat stack of Canadian coins appeared on the scarred wooden bar. Then the bartender was much more affable.

“Two whiskeys,” Catullus said. “And the whereabouts of a good guide.”

Before the barkeep could answer, a shadow fell across the bar. Catullus turned to see the unmistakable form of a woman standing in the open doorway. He knew at once she was not Astrid. For one thing, Astrid did not have fiery copper hair that formed a blazing corona when lit by sunlight. And also, to put it delicately, Astrid's curves were far more subdued than this woman's lush figure. As she stepped into the saloon, Catullus felt himself immediately regress into stammering, libidinous boyhood. She was shaped like a temple goddess, the kind of woman who filled young men's thoughts with aching, impossible lust—full breasts, a waist hardly more than a hand span across, and sumptuous hips.

He dragged his gaze up to her face to see her watching him with ironic amusement in her clear blue eyes. She seemed to know the effect her body had on men, and was not entirely pleased about it. It was then that he realized what he saw in her appealing face piqued his interest as much as, if not more than, her figure. Perception, a shrewd intelligence, determination. And freckles.

Catullus had a weakness for freckles. Even more so than his weakness for waistcoats.

When she moved farther into the saloon, Catullus saw she was dressed in a serviceable riding skirt and plain jacket and blouse, all perfectly ordinary for this wild place, and though the garments were somewhat boxy, they could not disguise the splendor of her shape. Belatedly, Catullus noticed she also carried a notebook and pencil.

Every one of the seated men leapt to their feet, stumbling over themselves like eager bear cubs. Their voices clamored against each other. “Please, Miss Murphy, take my seat.” “Would you do me the honor, Miss Murphy—?” “What can I get you to drink, Miss Murphy?” Such chivalry in a saloon that would make a Whitechapel gin house look opulent by comparison.

“I'll take a whiskey, thank you,” she said in a husky, American-accented contralto, as she lowered herself into a now-available seat.

Four men launched themselves at the bar. Catullus and Quinn were forced to jump backward, lest they be crushed to death by a stampede of trappers. The woman, Miss Murphy, barely noticed. She was busy writing in her notebook and absently nodded her thanks when the requested whiskey appeared in front of her.

The commotion slowly died down, and the trappers, seeing that Miss Murphy was not there for conversation, went back to their own dialogues. Periodically, she would glance up, gaze about her with that same cutting perception, and then return to her writing, with an occasional sip of whiskey.

Once the bar was no longer a potential scene of asphyxiation, Catullus and Quinn took up their places.

“We still need our drinks,” Catullus reminded the bartender, “and information about a guide. A
trustworthy
guide.”

Two whiskeys were poured into glasses much more chipped and grimy than the one Miss Murphy had received. Then the bartender muttered something to one of the men at the bar, and this man promptly left the saloon.

“Slately will bring your man,” the bartender said. He went back to his preoccupation with wiping down a streaked mirror mounted on the wall behind him.

Catullus took a drink and felt his throat catch on fire. Someone must have distilled the whiskey through a sock. How the hell had that Murphy woman taken such dainty sips? She had to have a constitution stronger than an ironclad battleship.

“I think you have an admirer,” Quinn murmured, low.

When Catullus frowned in perplexity, Quinn darted a look toward Miss Murphy. Catullus, using the mirror, surreptitiously studied the woman. Sure enough, she would pause in her work, stare at him for a little while, then return to her notepad, writing more furiously than before. For a moment, it looked as though she were sketching him as well. He didn't know whether to be suspicious or flattered. The part of him that was entirely male preened under her scrutiny, but the part of him that was a Blade wondered what kind of agenda this woman had out here in the midst of the Northwest Territory.

The Heirs of Albion did not have women in their ranks, but recent activities in Greece proved that, when the situation was crucial, even this steadfast rule could change. Fortunately, in Greece, the woman who had been unknowingly employed by the Heirs had turned out to be an ally. More than an ally, actually, since she had gone on to marry reprobate Bennett Day, who was now thoroughly devoted to his wife. But one could never be certain of such a felicitous outcome. As much as Miss Murphy intrigued him, he would have to remain on his guard.

Slately returned with a man of mixed Indian and white blood following.

“I hear you're looking for a guide,” the Métis said. “I'm Jourdain.”

“You know this area well?” Catullus asked.

“As well as you know waistcoats,” answered Jourdain, glancing down at Catullus's chest.