Chapter Nine
Even the drabbest bird can prove magical.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
“Seven,” Devon said as he stared at the jumble of beds stacked haphazardly atop each other in the small, dark room. “Seven beds.”
“And barely enough space to stand in,” Beth added, chewing her gloved thumbnail. She might not understand about wiles, but she wouldn’t be an animal biologist if she didn’t appreciate the perils of being alone for the night with an unscrupulous rake, especially considering he had just embraced her. Embraced her! And kissed her hair! In public, moreover! She half expected someone to knock on the door with a summons for them to appear at the marriage registry office.
“At least we’re out of the rain,” she said, trying to persuade herself she’d made the rational choice. “And that bathroom at the end of the corridor does look inviting.” She glanced briefly at Devon, then chewed her glove some more.
“Your bribing the innkeeper certainly paid off,” he said as he sorted through the provisions they’d been given. “Candles, towels, bedding, nightshirts, a tray of food, even a bottle of wine. So long as we avoid the Frenchmen, and don’t get attacked by mad birds or birders, we should have a comfortable night.”
Beth frowned. “I did not bribe the innkeeper.”
“Offering to talk to his daughter, gifting her an expensive feather…”
“I meant that sincerely. We are not all heartless cynics, Mr. Lockley.”
“I’m not heartless,” he said. “For example, I’ll allow you first use of the bathroom.” And he handed her a towel and nightshirt, smiling so adorably he could have illustrated the encyclopedia entry for fraudster .
Beth gave him a chiding look in return. “You’re only doing that so while I’m gone you can eat all the pie.”
“Now who’s the cynic?” he retorted.
Beth opened her mouth—and closed it—and opened it again. But speech did not avail itself of either opportunity, so, with a huff instead, she turned on her heel and marched for the bathroom, trying to ignore the sensation of Devon’s infernal gaze on her as she went.
When she returned sometime later, clean and warm and dressed in fresh white cotton, it was to discover that Devon had rearranged the stacks of beds, creating more space. He’d managed to fit two mattresses side by side on the floor and dressed them with sheets and blankets. He’d even set the food out like a picnic. Candles glinted around the room, and a red-gold sheen from the fire he’d built in the small hearth swayed and flickered to the sound of dreamy piano music coming from the dining room below. Altogether, the scene couldn’t have been more romantic were it set in a honeymoon suite.
“Goodness,” Beth murmured, unsure if she meant this as a general statement or a reminder to herself of how she must behave.
“There’s no space for privacy,” Devon said. “But no need to fear, we’re adults—”
Which sounded to Beth like an excellent reason for fear.
“—and scientists. You’ll be quite safe from shenanigans.”
“If you suppose I am even thinking about shenanigans, you are in cloud cuckoo land,” she told him archly.
He gave her one of his smug, provoking looks. “I’ve been there many times.”
“What?”
“What?” he echoed in a defensive tone, then relaxed once more. “I mean Yakushima Island, of course, where the cloud cuckoo lives.” Taking a nightshirt and towel, he departed for the bathroom, leaving Beth to tremble nervously bristle indignantly! alone.
—
An hour later, they sat facing each other cross-legged on one of the mattresses, both dressed in voluminous white nightshirts, both flushed with the warmth of the fire, and neither willing to admit that they were slightly tipsy.
“You’re scared,” Devon said, smirking, as he reached for the last piece of ox tongue pie. In the rich, heavy firelight, it looked almost good enough to eat, despite his experience with it thus far, and he needed something, anything, to counteract the sour taste of the wine.
“I most certainly am not!” Beth retorted, sitting a little more erect. “It is sensible of me to avoid corruption when it is placed like a lure before me.”
Devon broke off a piece of piecrust and put it in his mouth. He was at least enough of a gentleman to not speak while eating, but his eyebrows moved with eloquence, and Beth turned even more prickly.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll submit, just this once. Go ahead and ask again.”
“Knock knock.”
She sighed. “Who’s there?”
“Hoo.”
“Hoo who?”
“Why, Miss Pickering, I did not know you were an owl.”
She stared at him, and he took another bite of the dreadful pie so he wouldn’t laugh. She was beautiful in the drift of golden light and silvery shadow, with her hair a long damp braid that had left distracting wet patches down the front of her nightshirt, and her bare fingers a great deal more interesting than he’d expected. Their ink stains, scratches, and short, crooked fingernails attracted him as no manicure had ever done. But then, everything about her attracted him. Even her weary exasperation.
“That’s your idea of a witty joke?” she asked.
He did laugh then, almost choking on the pie. “No, darling, that’s my idea of a joke suitable for your ladylike taste. You’d almost certainly combust in flames of offended dignity if I told you something I considered witty.”
“Tsk,” she said, shaking her head. The wine had failed to loosen her attitude (although she was tilting a little to one side), and Devon suspected that, if he really did tell her a risqué joke, she’d lecture him until he surrendered with a promise to become a better man. And God, how awful would that be? Iniquity was an excellent defense against vulnerability, and he had no intention of relinquishing it, not even for the sake of a beautiful woman.
He reached automatically for his wineglass, drank what was in it, and grimaced as his throat burned. “I can’t believe you gave away that deathwhistler feather. Selling it would have bought us a decent bottle of chardonnay, if nothing else.”
“Unlikely,” she said. “It was just an underwing covert. Besides, the calamus was—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Sorry.”
Devon frowned mildly in confusion. “Why?”
“I talk too much about birds,” she said with wry amusement. But she would not meet his gaze, and he noticed her fingers twisting in the billows of her nightshirt.
“I’m an ornithology professor,” he said. “I don’t think it’s possible to talk too much about birds. ‘The calamus was—’ what?”
She looked at him then, her eyes dark at first with suspicion but slowly lightening as he smiled encouragingly, then beginning to shine with outright excitement. “It was marred with significant vertical cracks,” she said, her words racing after each other as if they’d been waiting offstage, clutching their scripts and jiggling their knees, desperate for an opportunity to be spoken. “This might indicate the deathwhistler was an unhealthy specimen, or it might have been in the process of pulling the feather out to facilitate molting, or else you caused the damage during your theft of the bird.” She gave him a reproachful scowl, and he tried not to grin. “Also, the plumulaceous portion was yellow, which suggests a juvenile bird, although it’s hard to be certain, since the deathwhistler retains its first underwing coverts until late in the transition to adulthood. In any case, the feather’s value was sentimental only.” She sighed. “Coming away with just one small covert I found in the dirt seemed appropriate for that particular venture.”
Devon tried not to wince as a strange little pain flicked through him. “I don’t apologize for stealing the bird,” he told her, “but I am sorry you didn’t get the chance to observe it more. If it helps, my measure of the wing chord placed the bird’s age somewhere in its third year.”
Beth gazed at him wide-eyed, seemingly having forgotten the necessity of breathing. “Did you happen to notice the unusual formation of its beak?” he asked, just to keep the delightful expression on her face.
The delight flared even brighter, warming his heart. “Yes! I actually took a note of it…” She leaned sideways, reaching for her satchel, and brought out a field journal and spectacles. Opening the book at a steep angle, so as to protect its contents from him, she shared her observation of the deathwhistler’s mandibular rostrum. While he listened, Devon regarded her thoughtfully, trying to decide how much of her defensiveness was from mere caution and how much from actual dislike of him. He found neither particularly daunting. More than once, he’d spent hours on a freezing, windswept beach, coaxing some wary shark gull or sword-billed sanderling closer so he could study it. Convincing a woman to talk to him was easy in comparison. And he very much wanted Beth to talk—about birds, or anything, really. He’d luxuriate for as long as he possibly could in the precise, polysyllabic tones of her voice and the interesting things she had to say.
So he started detailing the deathwhistler’s measurements, keeping his manner light, and sure enough, Beth gradually lowered the book. She wrote his descriptions alongside a sketch she’d made of the bird, her penmanship delicate and clean, turning his words into something lovely. Her eyes looking up at him over the rim of the spectacles were wing-dreaming skies he wanted to lie back and stare at for hours. And when she bit the end of her pencil while listening to him explain the deathwhistler’s toe structure, he had to lay a pillow across his lap to hide the effect it had on him. Conversing with this woman was like the most delicious foreplay, only with technical descriptions of an avian species in lieu of touching.
At last, the hearth fire burned low. “We should probably go to sleep now,” Beth said reluctantly, putting the journal away. Devon felt a strange little swoop in his heart, as if he’d been abseiling with a rope that had suddenly slackened. Beth reached up to remove her spectacles, and he had to force himself not to catch her hand, stop her, since he couldn’t think of a reason for doing so beyond you’re so damned sexy when you wear them, I want to keep handing you things to read . Which, he guessed, she’d find impolite.
“I’d like to take the earliest possible train tomorrow,” she said, her voice brisk again now they had stopped discussing birds. “I’m certain Hippolyta already has a plan in action.”
“And you want to catch up with her.”
“I want to beat her. We may have been associates for the past couple of years, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t rivals now in this competition. To be honest, I’m glad I missed the ferry. It means I didn’t have to tell her to her face that I was parting ways with her.” She lowered her head as she carefully packed the spectacles into her satchel, and Devon could have sworn he heard her muttering in a self-deprecating tone, “I’m not sure I have enough apologies in me for that.”
“Maybe, if she was the one who lured us into that trap in Calais, it was her way of not having to tell you that she wanted to part ways.”
“Maybe. But why would she involve you?” Beth shook her head. “Really, it could have been anyone who did that. Ornithology is hardly a walk in the park. Er, except when it is an actual walk in the park to observe birds, of course.”
He grinned at her. “Very true. As for the train, there’s an eight o’clock to London we can catch. The innkeeper has agreed to knock on our door if we’re not awake on time.”
A tight little pause followed.
“I appreciate your assistance thus far,” Beth said slowly, “but we should probably keep in mind that there can be—”
“Only one Birder of the Year,” he recited with her. “Yes, I remember.” The pie turned over in his stomach. Standing, he gathered plates and empty wineglasses, then stepped across the thin space of bare floor to stack them on the hearth shelf. Vapor arising from the clothes hung to dry on bedframes made his breath feel hot. Lust spiraled like a small, frantic bird in his gut. Scowling, he vehemently wished himself somewhere more comfortable, such as the Indian jungle during monsoon season.
A small noise made him turn, and his blood leaped as he found Beth standing close to him, an empty plate in her hands.
“I hope we won’t have a long walk to the train station,” she said, even as Devon contemplated which of her cheek or throat or earlobe he would most like to kiss first. “My shoes are quite ruined. It was discourteous of Miss Marin to hijack the carriage rather than simply share.”
Devon huffed a laugh. “Discourteous certainly is a nice way to describe having a gun pointed at you,” he said, and held out his hand to take the plate from her.
At that same moment, she leaned forward to place it atop the others on the hearth shelf. His fingers brushed against the front of her nightgown. The plate clattered onto the shelf.
“Sorry,” Devon said, stepping back.
“Sorry,” Beth said, stepping back at the same time.
“It’s fine,” they both answered at once.
He tried to go around her, just as she tried to move out of his way. He shuffled in the opposite direction—so did she—and they laughed nervously. There simply wasn’t enough space in the room, although at this point Devon suspected there wasn’t enough space in the entire world for him to comfortably breathe, knowing that Beth Pickering existed.
His defenses cracked, and a gaggle of devilish inclinations rushed through the gap. He caught Beth’s hand, setting his other hand on her back. She looked at him in surprise.
“Have you ever seen American bald eagles perform their sky dance?” he asked as he swayed her into a side step. The piano strains of what might have been Vivaldi’s “Summer,” had the pianist enjoyed any talent, arose from below. Following the rhythm, he led Beth in a step back toward the hearth again. “It’s breathtaking.”
“A courtship dance,” she said warily, although her free hand rose to lie against his upper arm. It was such a light, tentative touch, Devon barely felt it, yet tremors went through his body in response. Why had she done it? To encourage him? Or merely to keep her balance? He looked down at her, seeking answers, but she would not meet his gaze. With another woman, he’d make an educated guess, but this one was all sincerity and sudden knives, and he simply could not be sure.
“The reeling flamingo of Peru somersaults during its courtship dance,” she said. “And uses magic to flip rocks as well. The bigger the rocks, the more likely it is to find a mate.”
“I flipped a couple of these mattresses to stack them out of the way,” Devon answered with a boyish smile as they sidestepped again, their movement slower this time, their hands growing warm.
Beth sighed. “Are you ever capable of engaging in conversation without bantering?”
He lowered his eyes so she wouldn’t see the shadow flickering through them, then looked through his lashes at her. His smile slid languorously into wryness, even as he danced her back toward the embracing heat of the hearth fire.
“I do believe you were the one, Miss Pickering, who spoke of courtship.”
She sniffed indignantly, but he noticed the way her ears reddened. And the sweep of her eyelashes. And every fine thread of light weaving through her soft, ruddily brown hair. He was caught—the dance forgotten, his very heartbeat seeming to slow to a whispering stop. Somewhere beyond the room, people were traipsing up the inn’s stairs, opening and shutting doors, talking to each other. But it felt like the room of seven beds had broken off from the universe and was out drifting among stars and wild dreams.
My God , he thought. Just two days in Beth Pickering’s company and he’d begun using poetic language, telling inane jokes, and even veering dangerously close to thoughtfulness. Much more of this and he might become gentle .
He stepped away from her abruptly. Taken by surprise, Beth rocked a little, and Devon reached out instinctively, catching her around the waist to save her from falling, despite the fact that she was really in no danger of it. She gasped, sending his pulse into a wild flutter at the sound. Despite all his academic genius, he did not know what to do; staring into her deep sky eyes for some kind of answer, he felt like he was the one falling. Beth pressed her hand against his chest, and when she did not use it to push herself away from him, but seemingly to anchor him to her quietness, it was as if he, too, was being saved.
“You truly are an angel, aren’t you?” he whispered.
“Not as much as you’d think,” she said. And it might have been an offer, or it might have been just him dreaming. Either way, he could not seem to help himself. The narrative gravity drew them together slowly; so slowly, either one of them might have stepped back, packed their clothes, and left the room before the other moved an inch.
But they did not leave. And so the momentum or some unknown magic kept going, until at last their lips met.
—
Beth had been kissed before. Many times! As a woman of the world, she was quite seasoned in the matter. Why, she could not even count how many men had kissed her gloved hand when greeting her. Then there had been the copious times she’d been kissed on both cheeks by villagers grateful for her capturing a bird that had been threatening their lives (granted, elderly women villagers, but the point remained). Kissing was an altogether banal event. Certainly it did not compare to the sight of a sooty shearwater taking wing for its annual migration south.
And yet, as her lips pressed against Devon’s, every sensible thought within her scattered in a rush of pure sensation. Sooty shearwater? What even was a bird?!
Devon shifted his mouth across hers softly, like a wing-stirred breeze. Beth closed her eyes, sinking into the feeling. Her brain melted into a lush, gold-spangled reverie. She yielded to the gentle urging of his lips and parted hers, welcoming him, wishing for him. Devon responded at once, placing his hand against the back of her head as he deepened the kiss. So many lightning flashes sparked in Beth, she could have been plugged into a socket and used to illuminate a small city. Devon’s mouth was a velvet lapwing feather, stroking her into magic, luring her gorgeously into danger. She felt somehow both blissful and desperately yearning at the same time. A dozen perfectly decent scruples went up in flames as she shifted restlessly, hands reaching in search of something she didn’t know how to classify in the hard length of his body.
Devon stepped away from her suddenly, his breath shaking. He shoved back his hair. Beth stared unseeing into the middle distance.
“Um,” she said.
“Er,” Devon agreed, not looking at her either.
“Good night, then,” they chorused.
Without further word, they crawled onto opposite ends of the mattresses and tucked themselves beneath blankets, feet toward each other. A stunned silence descended upon the room, leavened only by the soft whisper of rain.
Oh dear , Beth thought to herself. That had been nothing like a kiss on the hand. Indeed, she’d place it in a whole different genus. Certainly it had been more romance than she’d experienced in her life thus far. She was obliged to declare herself scandalous indeed!
And not entirely upset about it.
Her brain, however, dropped a heavy stack of memories, sending reverberations through her nervous system and making her cringe. There was no need to inspect them; she recited their contents to herself daily: playground taunts because of her book-hugging awkwardness; offended silences when she let her intelligence show; even a full-color chart of the many rejections from her classmates, who were always several years older than her. In short, evidence to prove incontrovertibly that she was not good company.
No doubt Devon had only danced with her because he was rather drunk and she just happened to be there. As for the kiss—it was meaningless, an accident of circumstance. She should not harbor any foolish hopes. After all, the man was forever staring at her, thoroughly dumbstruck; he called her angel, which suggested he could not remember her name; and he was currently hunched so tightly at the other end of the mattresses they could have safely run a flock of geese through the space between them. The conclusion was undeniable: he disliked her utterly.
This was why she avoided society unless heavily armored with niceties that were sure to please. She’d let her guard down tonight, and it had been lovely, so lovely, but at the same time extremely misguided.
Pulling the blanket over her head, she closed her eyes so firmly not a single tear could escape.
And when she woke in the morning to find Devon gone, she was not surprised.