Chapter 7 The Allure of Iron
THE ALLURE OF IRON
Why was she running? Diana had no clue. But when a man looked at you like that—like you were the thing he’d been waiting for, like the world spun into motion as soon as he caught sight of you—you ran. Didn’t you?
Diana did.
The plant bounced beneath her arm as she took the stairs two at a time. He followed close behind, his footsteps heavy, loud, slow. Tenacious. He would catch her.
Of course he bloody would, she was running toward the roof! She threw the door open, and London’s hot air hit her like a wall. She placed the plant down and studied the door. Surely there was a lock of some sort. Or a brick she could wedge up against it, or—
It swung open, and Lord Knightly stepped through, closing it behind him, leaning against it. He grinned, ever so slightly.
“You look well,” he said.
“You are blocking my way, my lord.”
“You’re headed in the opposite direction.”
She pointed to the plant. “I’ve finished my task. I must go back downstairs now.”
He stepped away from the door. He seemed much too hard a man to exist in the soft, green light of the roof garden. And he seemed so much bigger now than he had that night at the ball. Darkness had hugged him, then, the flames of the nearby fire limning his sharp profile, his shoulders.
To see him in the light of day an entirely different experience.
He seemed honed from the earth. His hair the rich brown of rain-soaked soil, and his eyes gray storm clouds.
She’d not been able to see them clearly in the dark, but now they gleamed, striking with the lightning of intelligence. And curiosity.
“May I have a word?” he asked. “I’ve been worried.”
That stopped her. “Worried? Why?” Her hand was at her throat. How had it gotten there? She slipped it into her apron pocket. “You’re not angry with me? You’re not here to charge me with illegal potion use?”
“Good God, no. Of course not.”
“Oh.” She sagged a bit, pressing her hand to her heart. “Thank goodness.”
“I was here when you arrived, trying to discover your identity. But Lady Guinevere sent me away. You sounded… scared. And that man you were with, he said…”
Ned had announced to everyone that her groom had tried to do her in.
He searched every inch of her face. “Your color has improved. Your eyes are focused. Is there any more pain?”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He studied the garden, each potted plant seeming to bow beneath his consideration. Diana didn’t know their names. She was learning them, but obscure historical facts stuck with more ease than plant nomenclature.
She wandered down a low row of herbs, pretending to check on them.
If he saw her pink cheeks, he’d know that her heart thumped.
“That day was… a trying one. I am embarrassed you were privy to it. But…” She peeked at him over her shoulder.
“Thank you for your concern. You no longer need worry over me.” She headed for the far reaches of the garden where the lattice dipped low enough to see into the square.
“Hm.” He followed her down the path, not too close to worry her, but close enough she felt him.
Not the heat of his body, but the sizzle of his regard.
Her body buzzed like it had behind the curtain.
They’d been much closer then. But this seemed more intimate.
The sun watched. The open sky watched. Beyond the ivy-laced lattice work, Finsbury Square looked on.
This man, newly anointed into the ton, knew where she was, and a shiver ran like a skeletal finger down her spine.
She turned and nearly bumped into him. He rocked back a step.
She had to crane her neck to look up into his face, but he lessened her work by curving over a bit.
Marble bending would look like him, hard yet moving with liquid grace. Despite her fear, her pulse raced.
Or perhaps because of her fear.
“Please,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “you cannot tell anyone I am here. I hope you have not already.”
Silence, the day quiet and somehow still around them.
Then the rustle of fabric before his hand landed softly at the tip of her chin. He wore no gloves, as was alchemist practice, and the heat of rough skin scorched her. With the slightest pressure, he lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.
And, oh, it was soft. The kind of gray that made a misty morning a favorite memory.
“Never,” he said, oh so low but loud enough for her to hear, his voice a soothing rumble. “I have told no one, and I will never tell anyone. I promise.”
She bit her lip, nodded, looked away and blinked to hide how deeply that promise sank into her.
“Thank you.” And look—she’d not even sounded shaky.
She inhaled deeply, said with less tremble, “Thank you. I am glad, after all, that you tracked me down. To know you are not angry with me, to know you will keep my secret. It is a great relief. I should have known. You were kind that night. But I… attributed it to the potion.”
He nodded, let his hand drop, and lifted his gaze to the city below. “I attributed it to the potion as well.”
“You are… better now?” He did not seem to be hopelessly in lust with her, but then he was also being quite… soft with her.
“I’m not so sure.”
That knocked the breath out of her. “Oh, but you can’t be—I mean, the potion’s effects should be—”
“Should you like to know what they are saying about you? About the ballrooms?”
An abrupt change of subject. But she was too curious to know what information he held to care. “Are they saying anything?” She’d not been terribly popular. People knew she existed of course, but they did not seem to particularly care.
“Your cousin has put it about that you’ve retired to the country and plan to remain there. You are ill. Gravely so. My condolences.”
Her cousin, the monster of her dreams these days. He chased her through sleep and haunted the waking shadows.
She touched the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair.
The bump had gone down, but tenderness lingered.
She cleared her throat and clasped that rogue hand behind her back.
Clasped it tightly. The laugh she produced was strangled and too high.
“Thank you, my lord. Will you attend my funeral?”
“No.” He paused, looking down at her slowly and blocking the light. The sudden shadow should have chilled her, but he was too warm for that, a walking furnace, she’d noticed behind the curtain. “I’d be too tempted to throw myself on your funeral pyre.”
Throw himself on it? His body could start it. “Are you always so hot?”
“All alchemists possess a higher body temperature than normal.”
“From birth?”
“No. We cultivate it. Through our training.”
“I know little of alchemists. You are a secretive lot.”
He scratched his jaw. “We are. But… I’m tempted to share something of myself with you.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “You fascinate me.”
“Why?”
“Have a favorite word, do you?”
This time her laugh felt light and airy. She wanted to catch it in a jar to keep. She could uncork it after a nightmare, listen to it bounce joyful off the ceiling, and remember that not every moment would be suffocating darkness.
“Why is an excellent word. So productive. Ask it and an entirely new world opens up. But it is not my favorite. My favorite word is puddle. Not why.”
“See. Fascinating. Explain.”
“It’s a silly word, and it rather sounds like what it is. Flat and usually muddy and with no real shape, thin around the edges. Possibly deep enough to wet your ankles.” His gaze darted to her ankles, and she rushed on. “And fun.”
“Puddle is a hardworking word to accomplish all that.”
“Just so.”
“Come here.” He nodded down the path, then strode in that direction. She could not help but follow and brush her hands along the tops of plants as he did. She did so mindlessly, but he seemed to be searching for something. He stopped. “Ah. Perfect.”
His hand hovered over an empty pot. Well, almost empty. There seemed to be no plant, though it was half filled with soil. He motioned for her to come closer, but if she did, they’d be touching. So, she glued her feet to the floor and bent a bit at the waist.
“Watch.” He wiggled his fingers.
“What am I watching?”
“Shh. I must concentrate.” He wiggled his fingers again. And this time the pot shook. The soil inside it shook, vibrated, the clods and specks shifting, then flying upward. He closed his hand into a fist. “Got it.”
He rotated his fist fingernails up, and Diana stepped closer. Their arms brushed. He opened his palm.
“Dirt?” she said.
“Iron.”
“How did you get it to fly up like that? Alchemists are good with metals, but you are not—”
“Magic?”
Precisely. But he’d moved the earth without touching it. “How?”
“I have an affinity for iron. I can work the other metals, but iron… sings to me.”
“Fanciful image.”
“Truth.”
My, he looked smug as he brushed off his palms, dropping the dirt back into the pot. “I can shape raw iron and heated iron with my bare hands. I can bring its best qualities to life, make the most of them by creating new things.”
“No you cannot.” His bare hands? Nonsense.
Alchemists used tools. Like blacksmiths.
Not that she’d ever seen one work. Or read any books on them or…
interesting how little she knew about them, after all.
Yet, he could not be telling the truth. It was too much like magic to shape molten metal with the hands.
And suggesting an alchemist had magic was like…
Suggesting a woman could inherit transcendent powers.
She reached for a nearby wicker chair and dropped into it, her body suddenly heavy.
He leaned against a column holding up a small overhang that shaded several rows of plants. “Your turn, little mouse. Now that I’ve shared something of myself with you, share with me.”
“What do you wish to know?” This was dangerous ground they tread. Did he, perhaps, know?
“I want to know how I can help you.”