Chapter SEVENTEEN
Nigel woke to the sensation of warm flesh under his palm. And something else as well. Something silky and a little ticklish.
At first he didn’t question any of this. Sleep was heavy in his brain, and his body ached strangely, and wakefulness didn’t have enough appeal to draw him fully out back to a conscious plane. So he lay still, breathing in a gentle perfume of chamomile-lavender, which played delicately in his nostrils. And let his hand move idly along that soft curve, the tips of his fingers playing with that little bit of silk and . . . and was that lace?
A garter.
His eyes slowly blinked open, facing a bleary, half-dark world.
Why were his fingers toying with a garter?
Squeezing his eyes shut and giving his head a little shake, he forced a little awareness back into his brain. Then, careful not to let panic set in, he took another look at the world around him. At the warm female form curved into his body, fitting so nicely, so naturally. At the quilt, fallen in a tumble off to one side.
At her skirt, hiked up in sleep. Exposing a long stretch of shapely leg and silk stocking and . . . yes. A garter. Right where his hand was resting. On her thigh.
For a long, hazy moment, Nigel observed all this from the perspective of a dreamer, not quite believing, not quite disbelieving. Simply aware, without any need to form an opinion or offer a reaction. He relished the feeling of her skin under his palm, so smooth, so warm. And a sleepy thought spun idly through his brain: I wonder if she’d like those purple garters from Saint Jollify Fair? They’d look so nice against her skin.
Then he thought: Oh gods.
Followed by: OhgodsohgodsohgodsOHGODS.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Nigel yanked his hand away from that forbidden flesh, rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling pipes. But the awareness of her was deep in his bones, and his body was absolutely on fire. Grimacing, he pushed himself upright, taking care not to touch or disturb his sleeping companion. That was no good, however—because once upright, his view of her was that much better. He could take in the whole length of her body, curled on her side, her skirt hiked up much too far for decency. One stocking had escaped the garter’s clasp and slipped down past her knee. Had he pulled that stocking free in an unconscious effort to access more skin?
Oh gods!
Reaching over Luna’s sleeping form, Nigel grabbed hold of the quilt and pulled it across her, blocking out the view. Then he buried his face in both hands, tugging at his disheveled hair. How could he be such a beast? She was so vulnerable, in so much pain last night! She needed someone, anyone. Just human contact, the knowledge that she wasn’t alone. She wasn’t thinking straight, and it was his responsibility to protect her in that moment. Even from herself, if necessary. He knew how foolish people could be in the depths of grief. He’d been there himself, not long ago, and made plenty of decisions he’d later learned to regret. The last thing he wanted was to be a regrettable decision in Luna Talbot’s book of life.
But after taking such pains to remain the perfect gentleman the whole night long, it was grossly unfair for his body to betray him like this now. He had to get out of here and . . . deal with matters.
His reaching hand grasped hold of the counter’s edge, and he leveraged himself into a standing position. Taking care not to look at Luna—for not even a quilt could fully disguise the delightfully feminine shape of her sleeping form—he crept for the hinged counter. It creaked as he opened it, and all the flowers in the shop seemed to turn their heads to look at him. Nigel winced and held up his hand in a shushing gesture. Then, tiptoeing out from behind the counter, he made it five paces toward the stairwell.
A flutter and flap of wings burst upon his ears just as Debbie swooped down from the apartment above, squawking out a raucous, “Never mind! Never mind!“
Nigel yelped and staggered back. Never before in his life had he felt so intensely the urge to wring that bird’s wicked neck.
“Debbie!“
he whisper-snarled, even as the bird flapped to settle on her skull-pot. “Hush!”
But the raven, upon seeing who lay on the floor back there, clacked her beak and turned a deeply accusatory stare Nigel’s way. “Never mind!“
quoth she in condemnatory tones.
In that moment, Nigel heard a little groan from behind the counter.
His blood froze.
A few thick heartbeats later, and Luna’s face appeared, bedraggled and bleary with sleep. “Mr. Grimm?“
she said in a blurry sort of voice.
Nigel darted for the counter in a rush, grabbed the edge, and tucked himself hard against it, making certain that nothing untoward could possibly be visible to anyone, from any angle. “Miss Talbot,“
he said, his throat strained.
She blinked at him. She was an absolute mess after a night of crying and what could not have been a restful sleep on the shop floor, even tangled up with him as she was. Her hair was matted in the back, all the pin curls long since vanished in limp strands. Her skin was pale as death, her eyes swollen and a bit crusty, and Nigel thought, not for the first time, what an angel she was. A rumpled angel, sure. But nonetheless heavenly. Were he lucky enough to wake up every day of his life to that smooshed-and-puffy face, he would count himself the most fortunate of mortals.
Luna rubbed the heel of her hand into first one eye then the other. With a quick, clarifying shake of her head, she peered at Nigel again. “Mr. Grimm,“
she said, her voice hoarse, “last night, did we . . . um . . .”
“No!“
Nigel said hastily.
“. . . remember to feed the double-delight rose?“
she finished.
“Oh.“
Nigel’s jaw worked. “Erm. Yes. Yes, I took care of everything. Around about your fourth cup of tea.”
“Oh.“
Luna bit her lip and nodded. “Good.“
Wincing, she got to her feet, one hand discreetly rubbing at her hip. She looked down, made a little, “yikes!“
face, and hastily bent to pull up her sagging stocking. Nigel averted his eyes while she affixed it to its garter under her skirt. Then she stood up straight, smoothing out her garments, and shivered. “It’s cold in here in the mornings.”
Her gaze went absolutely everywhere save directed toward him.
“I’ll light the stove,“
Nigel said. “And put the kettle on.“
But he didn’t move. He gripped the counter with both hands and made an intense study of the woodgrain in between.
Luna blew out a little breath. “I should, um . . . go. I think,“
she said very softly. “Home. Freshen up. I . . . I might not . . . I might take the day. If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Grimm.”
“Yes.“
He nodded hastily. Hair flopped against his forehead, and he wondered if he looked an absolute disaster this morning. Quite the madman, no doubt. “Yes, that makes perfect sense. Rest up. Take, take, erm, take whatever time you need. Erm.”
She nodded. Stepping around the pile of blankets, she grabbed her coat, scarf, and hat down from the peg and slipped them on. Then, coming out from behind the counter, she fetched her boots from where she’d left them last night. Nigel watched from the tail of his eye as she put them on, one after the other, and did up the buttons.
“Mr. Grimm,“
she said, straightening. And though she was only a few paces away from him, it suddenly felt as though an impossibly large chasm had opened between them. Her cheeks were flushed, and she seemed to be having some difficulty pulling on her own gloves.
“Yes, Miss Talbot?“
he said hoarsely.
“I think,“
she continued, “that . . . that I went home last night.”
“What?”
“Yes,“
she continued with a firm nod. “I think I went home. Before curfew. And then I stayed in bed all day today. And when I return to work tomorrow, that’s all it will have been. And . . . and you were very kind to let me go early from work yesterday. Considering the bad news I’d just received. Very kind indeed. And I was very grateful.”
It was a little too early in the morning for Nigel to begin rewriting history quite so thoroughly. But there was a gloomy sort of determination around the line of Luna’s mouth, and when her gaze flashed to meet his, there was something in her eyes. A challenge? Was she daring him to contradict her?
Did she want him to contradict her?
Did she want him to admit that he would never, ever, ever forget last night? Or the glory of holding her in his arms, of sharing her (for want of a better word) bed? Did she want him to admit the sharp, agonizing joy of waking up to find her right there, with him? Smelling of tears and chamomile, the embodiment of everything good and sweet and worthwhile in life?
Or did she want him to nod. Accept that this was, quite possibly the most embarrassing thing that could possibly happen to either of them. And mutually agree to pretend like it never happened. It wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before. Holding her hand on the fete wheel. That mistletoe kiss. Green Yule morning. Those heated moments in the undercroft. Nigel swallowed painfully. He was starting to compile quite a litany of illicit moments between them. Moments that would haunt him to the end of his days.
But he nodded. “I . . . I hope that afternoon at home yesterday was just what you needed,“
he said quietly. “And today as well.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grimm,“
Luna said and, finally managing to get her second glove on, turned to hasten across the shop floor. The flowers all watched her go, the dahlias sighing, the tiger lilies mewling piteously. Even the double-delight looked a bit forlorn. With a tinkle of bells, she slipped out into the cold, winter predawn. It couldn’t be more than five o’clock in the morning, and the street outside hadn’t yet come alive with the day’s busyness. With any luck, she would make it home well before anyone realized where she’d spent her night.
Nigel watched her go. His chest felt oddly cavernous. As though she carried his heart away with her, leaving him empty in her wake.
“Never mind,“
said Debbie, hopping down from her skull pot and striding across the counter to pluck at his unfastened shirt collar.
“Yes, I know,“
Nigel said and rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “With any luck, no damage was done. Everything will be fine.”
He sighed then and leaned back against the counter. At least certain discomforts seemed to have resolved themselves for the time being. That was a relief if nothing else. And now he faced the prospect of a day without Luna in it. A day which must be lived, like any other. He had dependents, after all. The flowers in the shop. And Debbie. Plus Garden needed seeing to. And he should open at 9 o’clock as usual, posting the “no tea service“
sign, sure to disappoint the vast majority of his customer base, sell a few measly handfuls of flowers, and . . .
His gaze trailed out the shop window, watching Luna as she crossed Addle Street. She had just reached the far sidewalk and was setting off on the way to Nettleton Lane, when a figure loomed suddenly out of a dark doorway and grabbed her arm.
Nigel didn’t wait to see more.
He was in motion before anything remotely resembling thought had entered his head. He didn’t consider that he was not wearing shoes. Or a jacket. He didn’t consider the icy cold pavement, the slushy snow churned up on the street. He didn’t consider anything.
He slammed through the shop door to a tinkle of bells and sprinted into the street. Lucky for him, it was pretty much empty at this hour, or he would have been run down, for he didn’t look to see if any traffic approached. His gaze was completely focused on that man—that tall, dark man, who pushed Luna up against the wall and loomed over her.
Nigel had already begun to gather power. He didn’t realize he was doing it. It was a reflex, this summoning of Dire Matter in his veins, called up by the foul words of a damned language, spilling from his lips.
He achieved the far sidewalk in time to hear the man’s furious voice snarling, “And she’d marry me still, if it weren’t for you! You’ve cost me a fortune with your little tea-reading stunt. You owe me, and I intend to collect. If you won’t pay up, I’ll have the SSSD down here so fast, you can—”
Whatever Lord Bruxley might have said next, the world never discovered. For suddenly he was surrounded in a vibrant, writhing, roiling cloud of anti-glitter, pulsing with the energy of the Dire Dimensions. He turned his head. And Nigel just had time enough to see his eyes widen into saucers before suddenly multiplying times four. Now eight, staring, human eyes, set in a man’s face gaped at Nigel in an expression of absolute horror.
Then, with a POP! and a final burst of anti-glitter, something small, black, and many-legged fell to the snowy sidewalk.
Nigel stumbled. Dropped to his knees.
“Mr. Grimm!“
he heard Luna shouting. “What have you done?”
What he’d done was source the spell from his own life-force. Something he’d not done in many years but, in the absence of an alternative out here in this paved and snow-crusted street, he’d had to do so rather abruptly, without preparation. As a result, he felt as though several years of his life had suddenly been ripped out of existence, bloody and shredded and leaving behind a gaping spirit-wound.
He dropped heavily onto his hands. Breathed out hard. Then collapsed headlong.
A spider skuttled past his field of vision just before he blacked out.