Chapter Eight
When in doubt, remember that you have the wisdom of an ornithologist, the patience of an ornithologist, and several tools in your ornithologist’s kit bag that can serve as weapons.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass , H.A. Quirm
Devon’s assurance of a quick journey to Canterbury contradicted any definition of “soon” that Beth had experienced. After almost two hours’ travel, she had become numb from top to most especially bottom; moreover, intimate contact with a male body had gone from titillating to tedious in the extreme. The horse trudged morosely beneath their combined weight. The sun beat down with remorseless vigor on unending billows of farmland. Beth began to fear she might do something drastic, such as remove her hat and announce herself to be bloody well fed up, if she did not get hold of a cup of tea before too long.
“We’re never going to reach Canterbury,” she said. “We’ll perish from dehydration before we even glimpse the cathedral’s tower.”
Devon sighed with equal weariness. “It must surely be just around the cor—”
“Aaarrrghhhh!”
A blur of darkness leaped from behind a tree. The horse shied, and Devon pulled the reins to settle it.
“Monsieur Tarrou!” Beth exclaimed, staring down at the president of the Parisian Ornithological Union, who now blocked their path. He wore an elegant three-piece suit, accessorized with a large spotted handkerchief tied around his head, which had sadly failed to prevent sweat from cascading down his face. As Beth and Devon watched in amazement, he held up a wrought-iron birdcage and shook it. The bird inside fluttered unhappily.
“Give me the horse,” he demanded, “or I’ll set this bird upon you!”
“A sparrow?” Devon said, unimpressed.
The monsieur spat a laugh. “What kind of ornithologist are you?” he asked, his tone prickling with contempt (or possibly just a normal French accent). “Can you not see the little black speck on its tail?”
“Leechsparrow!” Beth said, gasping.
A nasty grin slid across Monsieur Tarrou’s face, redirecting rivers of sweat. “Ah yes, the famously clever Professor Pickering. If you don’t want that cleverness sucked out through your ear by the leechsparrow’s magic, you’ll get down from the horse. Now.”
They dismounted.
“Good choice,” Monsieur Tarrou said. Clambering on the horse, he galloped away, his maniacal laughter mingling with the frantic cheeps of the leechsparrow. Seconds later, two footmen emerged from the shrubbery, laden with suitcases, and sprinted after their master.
“Wait!” Beth called out, to no avail.
“Well, damn,” Devon said, setting his hands on his hips as he frowned after the POU president. “That man really is a louse.”
Beth was too upset to condemn this language. Indeed, such was her unhappiness, she actually took off her hat and fanned herself with it. “This is altogether dreadful!”
“It will be all right,” Devon said distractedly.
“No, it won’t. Monsieur Tarrou does not have the address for the clerk’s brother in Canterbury. He won’t know where to take the horse. What if it ends up in some dreadful situation? Perhaps even a slaughterhouse! And, oh, that poor little bird!”
She was so caught up in worry, she did not notice Devon approaching until he was upon her. Suddenly, without a word, he scooped her up off her feet.
For the first time in her life, Beth squealed. She knew she sounded like an undergraduate but could not help herself. Dropping her hat in surprise, she clutched at Devon, fearing he might let her go. But he cradled her easily in his arms, as if she were featherlight, and began to stride north.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, trying to sound outraged.
“Employing a little chivalry,” he said. “A fine lady should not have to trudge along a dirty road.”
“We cannot travel miles on only one pair of legs!” Beth protested. She smacked his shoulder, and he gave her his most charming, teasing grin. It was too much. Hatless, hungry, and not having slept properly for two days, Beth felt her resistance crumble. Naughtiness rose within her, accompanied by a swarm of fluttery giggles.
Thankfully, just in the nick of time, she saw over Devon’s shoulder a horse-drawn carriage emerge from the hazy southern horizon. It was traveling at speed, sunlight flaring off its polished black surface. Beth’s humor abruptly vanished.
“Traffic,” she said.
Devon stopped, turning to frown at it. “Hm,” he said, setting her on her feet.
Beth brushed wrinkles from her skirt as if she could brush away her improper behavior. Hippolyta would have a fit were she to see her now—and the fact that it would be a fit of laughter did not ease Beth’s mind at all.
“Do you think it’s ornithologists?” she asked, squinting through the sunlight at the carriage.
“I don’t know,” Devon said, his face growing somber. He drew his gun. “But in about five minutes it will be.”
“Oh, another hijacking.” She eyed the gun warily. “You’re not actually going to shoot anyone, are you?”
“Of course not,” he said. “I’m a scientist, not a criminal. Well, not a murderous criminal, anyway.” He glanced at her with a roguish smirk. “Can’t practice ornithology without a little trespassing, a little theft, a little seduction of farmers’ wives.”
Beth decided it wisest to ignore that. “I only ask because Hippolyta is forever shooting people, and it’s costing me a fortune having to send fruit baskets to them in the hospital.”
Devon laughed. Then he strode to the middle of the road, all long, swirling black coat and dusty leather boots, the kind of man comfortable navigating danger zones like jungles, crocodile-infested swamps, and the hallway outside the student canteen at noon. Pivoting on a heel, he extended his arm, pointing the gun at the approaching carriage.
Beth moved to stand beside him. She reached only as high as his chin but consoled herself with being his superior in all particulars except height (and devilry). Straightening her gloves and trying not to notice their grubby state, she reached up to adjust her hat before recollecting she’d left it on the road. Indeed, it lay not too far away—and yet, she did not run to retrieve it. Something uncharacteristically wild inside her thought, Let it fly!
“Let’s hope these people are as amiable as the fishermen,” she said.
Devon looked at her askance, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. Fortunately, before they could begin a debate on the definition of amiable , the carriage arrived. Its driver yelled out, pulling urgently on the reins, and dust flew up from beneath the horses’ hooves as they came to an abrupt halt. The carriage shuddered.
Taking an authoritative step forward, Devon aimed his gun directly at the driver. “Stand and deliver!” he commanded in the same tone he used when telling students there would be no extensions allowed for their essays.
“Hello there!” The driver, a young man with ragged hair and a nose resembling that of the northern goshawk, rose from his seat. “This is a private vehicle, gov’nor. I’m standing, but if you want something delivered, you gotta send it by train.”
Devon blinked at him for a moment. Then he lifted the hand holding the gun and rubbed its thumb knuckle wearily against his forehead. “This morning has been far too long.”
“Hello, young sir!” Beth called out. “Terribly sorry about all this! Just to clarify, we are, unfortunately, hijacking you. I understand it will be distressing, but we’d appreciate any help you can give in making things go smoothly. Thank you so much!”
Both men stared at her. Then Devon set a hand against her back and bent to say quietly, “You evict the passengers. I’ll deal with the driver.”
She did as he asked at once, since compared with the feeling of his touch, and the intimacy of his voice so close to her ear, hijacking suddenly seemed a whole lot less scandalous.
—
Devon watched Beth hurry to the cab, her posture impeccable despite the haste, her hips swaying in a moderate yet alluring fashion…Then he abruptly recalled himself and frowned up at the driver.
“Take us to Canterbury and I’ll—”
“Kill me quick rather than slow?” the boy supplied.
Devon startled. “What? No! I’ll pay you.”
“Cor, that’s even better! Can you give me a black eye, though? Or a cut on my arm, so’s I’ll get a fascinating scar? Nothing attracts the ladies like a fascinating scar, you know.”
Devon just stared in response.
“Fair enough,” the boy said. “But you might want to watch out for your missus.”
“Why?” Devon asked.
“The passengers are a bit—”
“Aaaaahhhhh!”
—
Beth leaped back from the carriage’s open door as a hand emerged, pointing a long white finger at her.
“Be gone, you evil felon!”
She stared into the carriage. It held two passengers, one a small-boned gentleman, the other a woman so rigid she might have been mistaken for a statue were it not for the shrieking voice. Beth attempted a polite smile.
“My good lady—”
“Repent of your wicked crime and leave at once!” was the response.
Beth blinked, her smile fading. “Er…”
“Is something the matter?” came Devon’s calm inquiry as he walked across, the young driver crowding behind him. “Why are the passengers still inside?”
“Brigands! Malefactors! Repent or go to hell!”
“That’s why,” Beth said.
“Fornicators!”
Devon cast a mild look at Beth. “What have you been telling them?”
She might have bristled, but the woman was attempting to whack her with a purse, and it proved an effective distraction. Hauling her smile back into duty, and summoning several nice points of etiquette as reinforcement, she opened the door wider and unfolded the step.
“Thank you for your advice,” she said to the woman. “It’s very thoughtful of you. However, I must ask you to exit the carriage. Apologies, but this is a hijacking, and—”
“Silence! We will not be relinquishing this vehicle to the forces of iniquity! Desist and depart, you vile outlaws! ”
“Not happening,” Devon said. “Just get out and we won’t break—”
Beth shifted adroitly in front of him. “I’m afraid we must insist. Tenure is at stake!”
“We’re going to Canterbury on business,” the gentleman piped up, his gray mustache bobbing. “Perhaps instead of hijacking our carriage, you might simply ride with us? There’s room, and we packed sandwiches for the journey.”
“What kind of sandwiches?” Beth asked.
“Turkey.”
“Oh.” She tried to step back but was prevented from doing so by Devon’s presence immediately behind her. Before she knew what was happening, he lifted her onto the step plate. The consequent eruption of hot tingles in her blood was such that she could right then have been awarded a doctorate in volcanology. Stumbling into the carriage, she landed gracelessly on the bench seat opposite the passengers. Devon turned away to speak to the driver, leaving her at the mercy of bird-eating zealots.
“How do you do?” she asked as she settled herself, arranging her skirt and trying to smooth her hair, which had become disarrayed with the loss of her hat. “May I inquire as to your names?”
“Wilbur Podder, and this is my wife, Muriel,” the gentleman answered. “We’re journ—”
“Journeying north,” the lady interrupted. She speared her husband with a vehement frown. “For God’s sake, Podder, don’t chat to the depraved criminal.”
Beth winced. “I assure you, ma’am, notwithstanding the insistent borrowing of your carriage, we aren’t criminals.”
“Well…” Devon said as he climbed into the carriage. Shutting the door behind him, he dropped into the seat beside Beth. “I am planning to steal a dictionary for Miss Pickering, but other than that, no, we’re not criminals. Just ornithologists.”
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and Beth felt the carriage jolt into sudden movement—or maybe it was her pulse. Devon gave her a sidelong glance full of amused complicity, as if she was equally a scoundrel and, goodness, weren’t they having fun?
Yes , answered a traitorous part of her brain. Aghast, Beth immediately looked away and discovered the Podders staring wide-eyed at her and Devon.
“You’re ornithologists?” Mr. Podder asked. “Are you going for Birder of the Year?”
“Yes,” Beth replied, torn between delight that they’d heard of the competition and dismay that she might now have to endure a sociable discussion about it. “Professor Lockley and I—”
“Professor Lockley?” Mr. Podder’s eyes widened even farther as he surveyed Devon. “I didn’t realize! Goodness, you’re younger than I was expecting.”
“Er…” Devon gave him a confused and rather wary look. “You were expecting me?”
Mr. Podder flushed. “No! I mean yes! I mean, in general , you’re younger than I would expect for a professor.”
Beth stiffened, clearing her throat, but before she could inform the gentleman of her even more impressive youth, Mrs. Podder leaned forward to pat Devon on the knee in a manner that made her seem amiable indeed.
“Did I say ‘go to hell’?” she simpered, smiling beatifically. “A small misunderstanding! A mere slip of the tongue.” Reaching into her purse, she withdrew a notepad and pen. “Don’t mind me, scribbling is my remedy for travel sickness, ha ha. So, how are you finding the competition thus far?”
As she waited, pen poised, Devon’s wary look deepened. But Beth answered politely, “It’s fine, thank you for asking.” (Of course, being British, she would have given this same answer even were she waist-deep in an utter catastrophe.)
“Glad to be back in England?” Mrs. Podder inquired.
“Certainly.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh.” The pen’s tip began moving rapidly across the notepad. “Where do you plan to go from here?”
Beth drew breath to respond, but Devon interrupted. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just making casual conversation,” Mrs. Podder explained, trilling a laugh.
“You know, chitchat to pass the time,” Mr. Podder said. “Will you be traveling together?”
“Yes, what exactly is the nature of your relationship, may I ask?” Mrs. Podder added, looking up keenly from her notepad.
Beth felt as if a dozen phoenixes were going up in flames beneath her skin. “Professor Lockley is an esteemed colleague of mine,” she managed to answer.
“Esteemed, hey?” Mrs. Podder murmured, scribbling so emphatically, Beth supposed she must be very queasy indeed from the carriage’s jostling.
“I say, would you be willing to pose for a photograph?” Mr. Podder asked as he brought forth a Kodak box camera. “It’d be a nice little memento of our hijacking.”
Devon’s expression turned from wary to outright ornithological. “I don’t think—”
Thud.
Something heavy hit the carriage roof. In the startled silence that followed, a faint whirring could be heard.
“What is that?” Mrs. Podder asked with alarm.
“Stand and deliver!” came a shout from above.
The carriage juddered to a halt, throwing Beth from the seat. Devon caught her just in time.
“I’d say you’re about to meet one of our colleagues,” he told the Podders.
The whirring increased. Looking out through the window, Beth saw someone descend from the roof to the road with the assistance of a helicopter parasol. Then the carriage door was flung open and a young woman appeared before them. She was attired in tight breeches, tall boots, and a white lace shirt, with auburn curls tumbling loose about her shoulders and a wicked grin upon her face, all of which would have been an attractive vision were it not for the pistol she aimed at the passengers.
“Hello there,” she said. “Welcome to your hijacking.”
“Scoundrel!” Mrs. Podder shouted in reply. “Deplorable fiend!”
The woman laughed delightedly.
“Actually, this is Miss Rose Marin, a professor from Edinburgh University,” Beth said. “She’s a renowned expert in seabirds.”
“And a crack shot,” Miss Marin added. “So no one think of resisting.” She gestured with the pistol that they should exit the cab, then demanded they hand over their weapons. Upon receipt of Devon’s gun and Mrs. Podder’s pen, she leaped into the cab and slammed its door shut.
“See you at the award ceremony when I accept Birder of the Year!” she called out cheerfully before ordering the driver to move on. As the carriage sped away, they glimpsed her through its rear window, lounging comfortably on one bench with her boots propped up on the other as she bit into one of Mr. Podder’s sandwiches.
“Damn,” Devon and Mrs. Podder said in unison.
“It’s not so bad,” Beth argued. “At least we have a nice day for walking.”
Boom.
They all jolted as thunder shook the air.
—
Trudging through rain along the apparently endless road, Beth regretted yet again that Devon had not allowed her to retrieve her umbrella from the fishermen. Indeed, she’d have informed him of his error in decided language, were her teeth not chattering too much for speech. He, too, was silent as he tramped at her side. Mrs. Podder, on the other hand, had a lot to say. She muttered unending curses upon ornithologists everywhere and the universities that bred them, and Beth honestly couldn’t help but sympathize. At one point, a carriage rushed past, but such was the deepening murk that trying to wave it down would have invited the risk of being run over. So they walked on until, finally, at the cusp of evening, a sturdy white building came into sight.
It was the Chaucer Inn.
“Thank God!” Mrs. Podder declared with complete disregard for the fact that God was more likely responsible for the storm than the building. She shoved past Devon, barged through the front door, summoned the innkeeper while the others were pausing to sluice rain off their clothes, and thus secured for herself and her husband the last remaining room.
“Are you sure?” Beth asked the innkeeper when she and Devon got their chance to inquire. “Not even one room left? Not even only one bed?”
“No,” the innkeeper reported brusquely. “A group of French fishermen arrived about an hour ago and took two rooms.”
Beth felt Devon’s gaze upon her but dared not return it. “How unfortunate,” she murmured.
“This is all your fault, Wilbur,” Mrs. Podder could be heard griping as she and her husband followed a maid toward the stairs. “I knew we should have just stayed with writing housekeeping advice.” Glaring back at Beth and Devon through her dripping-wet hair, she shouted, “Heed my warning, innkeeper! Don’t give that pair a room, whatever you do. They’re unholy demonspawn.”
“As opposed to holy demonspawn,” Devon explained to the wide-eyed innkeeper.
“We’re actually scientists,” Beth clarified. “We’re in the middle of a competition, which is why we—”
The innkeeper gasped. “You’re not ornologistics, are you?”
“Something like that,” Beth said.
“Very cold, tired ornithologists,” Devon added.
“My daughter’s awfully excited about this Birder of the Year contest,” the innkeeper told them, suddenly bright-faced and smiling. “We read all about it in the paper. She wants to be a ornologist when she grows up.”
“I’ll talk to her if you like,” Beth offered. “I have a brochure on Oxford’s ornithology program in my satchel.”
The innkeeper stared at her amazedly. “You’d do that? Even though you’re soaking wet and I’ve refused you shelter?”
“Of course,” Beth replied. “I’m happy to help.” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Devon smiling and shaking his head.
“Hmm,” the innkeeper said, frowning a little as he considered the situation. “I assume you two are married?”
Beth gave a nice little laugh, Devon a decidedly more impolite one. “No,” they said in unison.
“Pity. This is a decent establishment.”
“Please don’t worry on our account,” Beth told him. “By the way, would your daughter like a free pass to the London Aviary? And I think I have a…” Rummaging in her satchel, she drew out a small golden feather. “Yes. A plume from the magical pileated deathwhistler.”
The innkeeper took it, the brochure, and the aviary pass delightedly. “Thank you! My, what a shame you’re not married.” He fell into a meaningful silence.
Beth glanced sidelong at Devon and found him already glancing at her, one eyebrow raised. She hesitated for the slightest moment—but was so cold, her conscience had frozen over. She gave him a tiny nod.
He promptly turned to the innkeeper. “Oh, did you say married ? I thought you said merry . We’re certainly not merry in this weather, are we, my darling wife?”
“Certainly not,” Beth agreed. “Darling husband,” she added belatedly.
He put his arm around her, pulling her close and tucking her cozily against his side. With her brain still back in the moment after the innkeeper had spoken, and her body urging her to appreciate this far more interesting moment as much as possible, Beth found herself unable to move. Devon’s grip was strong and unfaltering, his presence enveloping her with such warmth, she felt surprised her clothes did not begin steaming. He kissed her hair, even while her brain was glancing around saying Wait, what? , then gave the innkeeper a steady look.
“Right,” said the innkeeper, grinning broadly. “Married it is. In that case, I do have one room I can offer. But I must warn you, there’s a slight bed problem…”