Chapter 8 Almost #2
“This one some time ago. I was not supposed to have it, you know. Quite a scandalous text.”
“Naturally.”
“It posited that”—she lowered her voice—“transcendent magic comes from a goddess and not from Merlin at all.” God, her eyes were gorgeous shining like that.
“Belisama is her name. It means brightness or shining. There is not much information about her, but glamours shine, do they not? I cannot see through them, but there is a… trick to knowing them. They seem to glow about the edges. A glamoured flower burns brighter about the edges than a real one. An ethereal, unreal light. The author argued that the ability to cast glamours was a gift from Belisama, goddess of brightness and shining things.”
“I’ve never heard that. But it’s fitting for what I do know.”
“Tell me.” Such excited fever in her voice. It infected him.
He used his hands to talk, her passion bubbling up in his chest. “All magic is pulled from the world. Potions use plants. Alchemists use metals. And transcendents…”
She leaned closer. If he paused longer, would she lean so close, she’d finally touch him? So very tempting to try it.
And then—her hand on his forearm, shaking it. “Oh, do tell. You are perplexingly frustrating sometimes.”
She’d reached out, moved that desired inch, and touched him first. A surge of victory stretched his smile.
Not that she noticed. “Here, I’ll give you a bit more advice on how to behave amongst the ton, and you give me your secret.
Hm.” She tapped her chin, studied him. “Ah, yes. Do not appear so commanding. The ton will accept you more if you appear smaller, if you appear awed by them instead of disgusted.”
“You want me to lie.”
She nodded. “First rule of survival in my world. Lie often and lie well.”
He grunted. “I’m not good at lying.”
“Practice, Lord Knightly.” Said like an accomplished pianist to a reluctant student. “Now. Your turn.”
He laughed. “Very well. Transcendents pull from the air, the water in it, the light, too.”
He shouldn’t, but he did because her hand still rested on his forearm—he curled her arm with his own and pulled her down the street at a comfortable pace, their steps locking into a shared rhythm.
“But I’ve never heard of that before, and… and how can you be sure?”
“I’m not. My father taught me the importance of studying all magic, understanding how it works even if it is not mine to manipulate.
We prefer to walk in the light instead of in shadows.
My father and I, we think secrecy and separation is holding us back.
” That one reason Temple had taken the secret steam engine part to the king.
If only the other alchemists shared his perspective, he’d not be exiled from their society.
“Us?”
“Alchemists, transcendents, everyone. Look at the immense pace of technological advancement. We are speeding ahead, but if we worked together, we could travel even faster.”
“Work… together?” She laughed. “Transcendents do not work.”
He shrugged. “Yet they benefit from my labor.” He pulled the stone from his pocket.
It was always there. Dead now, but this morning it had been shining bright.
Flickered on the minute his arse had hit the chair at the breakfast table.
“This very morning, the king ordered me to investigate the creation of a device that would communicate beyond the grave.”
“Beyond… that’s not possible.”
“Mediums claim to do it. Why not me?”
“Do you believe the mediums?”
“Not much, no.”
Her fingers drummed on his forearm, comfortable as a kitten in a pile of blankets. He placed his other hand over hers, and she didn’t even flinch. She simply walked forward with him, her sharp gaze fixated on something he couldn’t see.
“Air. And light,” she said softly. “Hmm. Why do you think you can see through glamours?”
“I’m not sure. A man named Donaldson in Manchester is studying the phenomenon, has been his whole life, but it doesn’t seem to follow the usual rules. Iron possesses no properties that interact with light that we know of. It can be reflective, though, like most metals.”
She shook her head. “I was taught nothing… I wonder if Apollo was or if my kind simply lack an inquisitive nature.”
“Not you. You are the definition of inquisitive.”
She smiled. Their gazes locked. His heart pumped pure exhilaration, headier than when the potion had him in its grip.
Then she noticed where his hand was, where her hand was, and she tugged it away.
Damn. One step forward. Two back.
She cleared her throat and ambled on. “I have always been the curious sort. My grandfather obliged me, usually.” They were passing the bookshop again, and she cast it a longing look.
“Your hair is pink, Miss Chester, no one will recognize you. Go in.”
“Horrible, tempting man.” But there was a laugh in her voice, and she paused at the shop door, her fingers hovering near her lips. “Do you really think I could go in and not be recognized?”
“I do. But… first…” He couldn’t help it. Her fingers had drawn attention to her lips, and now he could not look away, could not drag his brain back into a more logical, practical place.
Instead, he dragged her into a narrow alley between buildings and backed her against a wall.
He rested one arm above her head and left the side of their bodies open to the square unguarded.
She could slip away if she wished. Or… she could make another choice.
“First, Miss Chester, tell me—may I kiss you?”
“What?” The word a bit of a squawk.
“I should like to kiss you.”
“But we barely know one another.”
“But we’ve been courting a week now.”
“But that’s not long enough and…”
“And?”
“We’re not really courting.”
“I am. I assure you.”
“Why?” Her gaze crept its way up his chest, over his cravat and chin and lingered on his lips.
“I like you. I need a wife. You need a protector.”
“I…” She licked her lips. “It would not be a good idea to kiss me.”
“I am afraid I must disagree, Miss Chester.” He leaned closer. The tips of their noses almost touched. She smelled like the potions shop, of earth and air and rain. “Do you not want to be kissed at all or is it me alone you object to?”
“Oh.” A startled little sound. Then again, softer. “Oh, it is not that. I should like very much to be kissed. And… and by you.” The last three words so soft he almost missed them.
“Then what? You are not scared. You cannot be. Not you.”
“I… I am. A bit. Not of you.”
“Good. There is no reason to be scared of me. Here, little mouse, I’ll tell you what it will be like. You will know what to expect, and you will not be scared anymore.”
Her breath hitched.
“First, I would rub my thumb across your lower lip.”
She bit her lower lip, as if she could feel his thumb there.
“I would part your lips then move my thumb down your chin, your lovely little neck. I’ll wrap my hand around it and inch my fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck.
Because I need to know what it feels like, how soft it is.
I’d be gentle. Because I’m scared. Scared you’re still hurt.
And I’ll want to soothe you with my touch, teach that expanse of skin to know I’ll never hurt it. Never hurt you.”
Her heart danced madly. He could hear it. He placed his hand on her chest, just above her breast, and he could feel its rhythm—wild, impatient. For him.
“Then,” he said, “I would kiss you softly, chastely. You almost will not feel it. In fact, it will infuriate you, and you will grab my head and pull me down, crash my lips to yours so you can have what you want.”
“W-what I want…”
“Me. My kiss. But we’re equal in this, mouse. I want your kiss, too, and I’ll kiss you coaxingly until your mouth moves beneath mine, opens and lets me in. Then…” He ghosted his lips across her cheek, her jaw, finding the sensitive shell of her ear.
“And then?” she whispered.
“Then I sweep my tongue inside and taste you fully.”
She moaned, her body going limp. She wanted it, his kiss. Wanted him. He slipped his arm around her waist to hold her up, to pull her body closer to his. Almost touching. Not touching.
God, he ached for there to be no space between them.
What was this? He had practical reasons for pursuing her. But every day spun a web of tight desire around him until practical seemed very far away indeed. He was supposed to be seducing her, but every word she spoke, every little flick of her hand, wrapped him up more tightly in her control.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he breathed.
“Yes.”
Thank Juno.
He abolished the slim distance between them.
And the brim of her bonnet poked his forehead. “Damn.” He tried again, and the bonnet tipped back but ran into the brick wall she leaned against. “Damn.” Even when he tilted to the side, he could not reach her lips. “Damn, damn, damn this bonnet.”
Breathless, she said, “Shall we be rid of it?”
“Finally.”
She gave him a funny look, but he undid the ribbons, his knuckles brushing against the satin skin of her jaw. Her breaths came in shallow pants. His did too. Ribbons loose, he tossed the bonnet aside. And chuckled.
“It’s back to being its usual color,” he said. “All the shades of brown known to man and a bit of auburn too.”
Her hand flew to her hair. “I—really?”
He nodded.
“Oh no.” She ducked out of his embrace and dashed into the square.
“Bloody hell.” He stomped after her.
But she was gone, slipping out of a gold-glowing streetlamp and into Lady Guinevere’s shop. And he’d not even tasted her lips.
He stayed to watch her until a light flickered on in an upstairs window. The candlelight was so very dim, but he knew the wavy outline of her body. Slim bosom, luxurious hips his fingers wanted to sink into.
Was it a good or bad thing he lusted so completely after this woman?
Good, if he meant to take her as his wife.
Yet… it still felt dangerous, like some part of his control was slipping from his grasp, like that cursed potions bottle had stolen his free will and wrapped up his destiny in the locks of that long, soil-rich hair.
He set out toward home, hailing a hack, slipping his hand into his pocket where the lump of iron always rested.
His father had given him the token when he’d started his apprenticeship.
It was sort of a rite of passage for young alchemists.
They were gifted a bit of their raw metal by the master alchemist they worked for.
And they’d keep it on them at all times until they fashioned it into a set of alchemist rings.
Was it his imagination, or did the iron… buzz a bit, as if excited?
Entirely his imagination. A kiss-starved fancy.
Next time, he’d kiss her. She’d like it, too. She’d wanted it tonight. Hell, he was hard as a slab of marble. He’d have to take himself in hand when he got home.
But when he left the hack and turned the corner to Bloomsbury Square, a man stepped out of the shadows.
“Knightly, I’ve got some news for you,” the man said.
Temple crept closer, and in the light of the gold lamp, he recognized Mr. Squires—big and broad, nearby lamp light glinting off his bald head. “What news? Come inside?” He nodded toward the door of his apartment.
“No. Thank you.” The man shrugged more deeply into his greatcoat, looking nervously from one end of the street to the other. “The man I’ve been tailing for you has hired a man as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“A runner. Your mark has a mark of his own.”
Fordham was looking for someone and had hired a runner to find them. To find her. Miss Chester. “Thank you. Anything else I should know?”
“This runner was released from his duties a year ago. For shooting first and never asking questions at all.”
Dread rose like a lump in his throat. “What are you saying?”
“Whoever Fordham is after, he likely doesn’t care if the fellow’s found alive… or dead.”