Stranger (10 page)

It broke her heart a little to think of it. Then realized she saw in him a mirror, reflecting her own solitude.

But now was about more than their shared isolation. So she said, “We will
all
think of the answer.”

His gaze dropped away, as if embarrassed to have revealed so much, but he rallied in an instant, becoming again the incisive commander. “Several sites in England are associated with Avalon. Some say it lies in the mists off Cornwall’s coast. Or near Wales.”

“Astrid said she felt the Primal Source’s energy gathering south of here. Surely there’s some place south of … wherever we are … that’s linked to Avalon.”

She
felt
the inspiration hit him, as strongly as a silver wave coursing to shore. A physical sensation, but also deeper, more profound, a strange and strengthening bond connecting them.

“Glastonbury.” He turned from the window, and Gemma’s hand fell away as he surged back into motion. He stared at her, then at Astrid. “Glastonbury,” he repeated.

Where or what that was, Gemma had no idea, but Astrid clearly did, because she changed from grim to energized
in a moment. “God! I should have thought of that!” Astrid turned to Lesperance, watching with a puzzled expression that, no doubt, paralleled Gemma’s.

“Glastonbury is an island?” asked Lesperance.

Astrid rushed headlong into her explanation. “No, it’s a hilly town in Somerset. But it was once surrounded by marshes, which would give it the
look
of an island.”

“One of the holiest places in England,” continued Catullus. He began smiling now, everything within him brightening as the sun of understanding emerged from gloom. “Its abbey used to be the wealthiest, after Westminster. And in the twelfth century, monks claimed to have unearthed the grave of Arthur and Guinevere near the abbey. The bones disappeared, but the legend remained that Glastonbury was,
is,
Avalon.”

Astrid pressed a hand to her chest, closing her eyes, focusing inward. “I can feel it now. The Primal Source is drawn to where myths are strongest, and there are so many swirling around Glastonbury, it would attract the Primal Source’s energy. I sense it … gathering beneath the ground, taking shape, becoming real.” Her eyes opened. “We have to stop it.”

“How can we prevent something as powerful as the Primal Source from calling forth Arthur?” Gemma asked.

“I don’t know,” Catullus answered, and this dimmed his excitement but not his determination. “Yet we
must
try. If King Arthur is truly summoned, if he is imbued with the power of legend, then there will be almost nothing the Blades can do to keep him from achieving what the Heirs desire.”

Rush headlong to stop a mythical king from being summoned by the world’s most potent magic? It couldn’t be done. It seemed to Gemma just then that the Blades had set for themselves an impossible goal, that they fought not to win, but because
someone
had to, regardless of the consequences.

The Primal Source was magic. They were human. Which meant their bodies demanded rest. Racing down to Glastonbury without a night’s sleep went beyond the prospect of daunting to nigh impossible. And Catullus, the general in command of their army of four, ordered everyone to their beds so that, early the next morning, they could speed south without delay, refreshed and rested.

They had finished their supper, everyone barely restraining their sense of urgency and tension, and bidden each other a good night before retiring to their rooms.

By the light of a single taper, Gemma changed into her nightgown. Like all of her clothing, the height of its glory had passed many washings ago. She fought a sigh as she considered the worn cotton. If only a band of French lace adorned it, or a bit of dainty embroidery. Threadbare calico lacked the sophistication and sensuousness of ribbon-trimmed silk—which Catullus was no doubt more accustomed to.

As though it mattered what Catullus thought of her nightclothes! He’d never see her in them.

Gemma glanced over at Astrid, who sat on the edge of the bed they were to share that night. The Englishwoman hadn’t yet changed for bed, but perched warily, fully clothed and ill at ease.

“Have you no nightgown?” Gemma asked. She, herself, had only the one, so nothing could be loaned.

“I don’t wear anything when I sleep,” came the strained reply.

Oh.
“I promise I won’t try anything fresh.”

Astrid managed a taut smile, her gaze straying to the door. Across the hall was Lesperance, and through the inn’s thin walls, the deeper voices of him and Catullus resonated in bass murmurs.

“You miss him,” Gemma said quietly.

Astrid choked out a laugh, shaking her head at herself. “Absurd, I know. He’s just across the hall. One night should not matter. I lived alone for years and didn’t need anyone. Then he roars into my life and …” Her look grew tender, faraway. She was in a distant land Gemma had never truly seen—love. “We have not slept apart once since then.”

What must that be like, to need someone so fully? Strange, too, witnessing the steely Englishwoman’s vulnerability. Yet it didn’t diminish her, but somehow made her even stronger, that she could hold such love and need for someone, and still fearlessly fight. It helped that Lesperance was a man of uncommon strength, as much a warrior as the woman who loved him.

Gemma ducked her head. “I’m sorry you have to be separated on my account.”

At this, Astrid chuckled. “Catullus, for all his unconventional ways, can be something of a traditionalist. He wants to protect your reputation.”

Now Gemma laughed softly. “That assumes I
have
a reputation.”

“He’s an optimist.”

“I know you don’t trust me,” Gemma said, and Astrid did not dispute this, “but I want you to understand something. I will
never
manipulate or seduce Catullus to my advantage.”

“I know you won’t,” Astrid said, “because, if you do, if you hurt him for your own gain, I will cut each and every freckle off of you with my skinning knife.”

Gemma had no doubt Astrid would do just that. She refused to let the Englishwoman cow her, however. Blandly, she asked, “Which side of the bed do you want?”

Astrid smiled, not entirely without warmth. A kind of détente had been reached, an establishment of mutual respect that might not see bonds of eternal friendship forged, but at least created a foundation of wary esteem.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Astrid said, standing. “I’m not
sure how much sleep I’m going to get. I’ve grown so damned used to having that wolf beside me every night.”

Gemma furrowed her brow at Astrid’s word choice, but didn’t comment. Must be a pet name or term of endearment.

“The innkeeper said he had some whiskey,” Astrid continued, moving toward the door. “Think I’ll have a nightcap. That might help me sleep.” She paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Want to come down and have a drink?”

This, absurdly, touched Gemma. “A shot of good whiskey sounds wonderful, but,” she added with disappointment, “I can’t creep about the place in my nightgown.”

“As you like,” Astrid shrugged, then left the room.

Gemma stood next to the bed for several minutes, heart thudding, mind awhirl. The men’s voices across the hall had gone silent.

She drew a breath, summoning courage.

Before she could stop herself, she padded across the hall and opened the door to the other room. She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. A mirthless smile touched her lips. She was forever stepping on the wrong side of doors, into situations she should probably avoid. But then, if she did avoid those situations, her life would be indescribably dull.

And dull certainly did not describe the scene before her.

Catullus, dressed only in his trousers and an open shirt, rose up from the bed at her entrance. His hand reached for a nearby pistol, but stilled when he saw she was the unannounced visitor. Gemma’s eyes moved from his shocked face to the sculptural planes of his chest, satiny skin lightly dusted with dark hair. She would have followed the causeway of ridged, defined muscles down from his chest to his flat abdomen, and lower, but the sound of claws scraping on wood snared her attention.

Gemma froze when she beheld the room’s other occupant.

Less than five feet from where she stood. Staring at her
with topaz eyes as it uncurled from the floor to standing. A huge silver-and-black wolf.

“Wolf,” she said absurdly.

And that’s what it was. Not a large dog that had somehow wandered into the room. But a massive wolf looking right at her. She didn’t have a lot of experience with wolves, had only seen a few at a distance when she’d been in Canada, but even someone of her limited experience knew that
this
wolf radiated power and deadly potential.

What in God’s name was it doing in Catullus and Lesperance’s room? And where
was
Lesperance, anyway? Downstairs, having a quick tryst in the taproom with Astrid before retiring to separate beds?

Not that any of this mattered. There was a damned
wolf
in the room.

She backed to the door. Her eyes never left the animal. She rasped to Catullus, “Move slowly. Just edge toward me and we can make an escape.”

Catullus sighed. He was irritatingly calm about the presence of an enormous wild animal in his room. “Not necessary.”

Her eyes flew to his. “But there’s a—”

Before she could finish this thought, the wolf trotted forward and gave her motionless hand a friendly lick. Its tail wagged, briefly, then looked up at her with what she could have sworn was humor in its golden eyes.

Gemma managed to break the gaze to see a pile of men’s clothing folded neatly in the corner. Sober, respectable clothing that an attorney might wear.

Understanding came with the loss of her breath. “Lesperance?”

The wolf gave a soft
woof.
It moved back and sat on its haunches.

Gemma’s eyes shot to Catullus, watching her with a kind
of resigned amusement. Oddly, all she could muster was annoyance, not amazement that there were
humans who could turn into animals.
“You didn’t tell me.”

“Never seemed an appropriate time,” he said. “’The Heirs are about to unleash a mythic power on an unsuspecting world, and we have to stop it, and, incidentally, Nathan Lesperance can change his form into a wolf, a hawk, and a bear.’”

“A hawk and a bear, too?” This aggravated her further. “What about you?” she demanded of Catullus. “Can you turn into a turkey or an anteater?”

His lips quirked. “No—I’m just a man.”

She was, in truth, all too aware of the fact that he was a man. And she was in her nightgown. In his bedroom.

Which prompted him to ask, “What are you doing here, Gemma?”

Yes. Right. “Astrid’s miserable.” She addressed this to Lesperance. “Right now she’s downstairs trying to drink herself into a good night’s sleep without you.”

Lesperance made a low whine of distress, getting to his feet. Or was it getting to his
paws?
She really had no idea.

“You need to be with her,” Gemma continued. “The two of you are …” She searched for the most fitting word.

“Bonded.”

Lesperance rumbled his agreement. And Gemma realized she was having a conversation with a wolf. She doubted she could ever write such an outlandish scene.

She held the door open. When she’d left her room, she hadn’t shut the door behind her, so now the empty room waited across the hall. “Go to her.”

Making no noise of protest, Lesperance trotted out of the room and into the other. He even winked at her before nosing the door closed, as if they were two collaborators in Astrid’s waiting surprise. Gemma shut the door of Catullus’s room.

And now they were alone together. They both knew it with the powerful awareness of the rising moon, tidal.

“I think they would have survived a night apart,” Catullus said dryly.

“But not well. I’ve never seen two people so connected.” Which awed her, knowing that such love could truly exist in this world. “And,” she added, willing herself not to blush, “I … heard them.”

“Heard them?”

“On the ship. At night, when I would be …” “Eavesdropping.”

There really was no way to dispute that, since it had quickly become clear that Astrid and Lesperance weren’t discussing strategy or secret plans in their cabin. “Yes. They’re a very … passionate … couple.”
Very
passionate, and Gemma had the singed ears to prove it. The sounds the two of them made would arouse a glacier.

Catullus lost the war against blushing, his own face turning a deep, burnished henna. “Ah,” he said.

Without the distraction of a wolf in the room, Gemma allowed herself to look her fill of a partially dressed Catullus Graves. His crisp white shirt was undone and untucked, leaving a swath of bare skin from his neck to his stomach. A lone candle upon the nightstand illuminated the room, so his exposed flesh became a tantalizing play of gold and mahogany, planes and valleys of distinct muscle that revealed him to be not just a man of the mind, but also of the body.

No coat, jacket, or waistcoat hid the way his fine shirt clung to the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his arms. And his trousers, of course, fit him beautifully, the expensive drape of wool delineating the lengthy muscles of his legs. His feet, large and long, were bare. This, more than even the bare flesh of his torso, struck Gemma as unbearably arousing, strong yet vulnerable, and she swallowed past a lump of heat that had suddenly formed in her throat.

Likewise, his gaze traveled over her, from the tips of her
own bare toes, up along the expanse of threadbare cotton nightgown—lingering, it had to be noted, on her breasts—to her hair spilling over her shoulders, and then her mouth, her eyes. A thorough perusal, not a bit analytical. If anything, Catullus’s gaze held the same haunted look of yearning she had seen before. Yearning, and desire.

He forced his eyes away from her, and his voice, when he spoke, was a growl. “It’s not right for you to be here.”

Which wasn’t a rejection, exactly. But he didn’t exactly cross the span of the room separating them and enfold her in his arms either. His kiss still resonated through her, many hours later, much more memorable than the leap and fall from the train, and she wondered with an almost detached desperation if such heat could flare between them again.