LITMIR.BIZ

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it sent to my cabin later.” He started to stalk off.

      “Wait, please!”

      He turned at her words, knowing he was scowling and being altogether ungentlemanly, but finding it hard to stop himself. Being played with like a puppet on a string did little to coax him into good humor.

      The flirtatious cast of Miss Murphy’s face evaporated, leaving behind an expression he suspected was more true to the woman. Instead of deliberate charm, her eyes were alight with intelligence and determination. She gazed at him steadily, not a coquette but a woman with intent.

      “I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said, “since the other night in your c-cabin.” She stumbled a bit over that last word, as if remembering the few moments they had been alone together. More playacting?

      “I often think,” he replied. “And find it to be a highly underutilized pastime.”

      A brief, real smile flashed across her face, and Catullus saw to his dismay a minuscule dimple appear in the right corner of her mouth. Precisely where a man might place the tip of his tongue before moving on to her lips.

      “We’re in agreement on that.” She stepped nearer. “But what I’ve been thinking about, and can’t seem to get out of my head, is the Heirs of Albion’s goal.”

      The mention of his old foes brought Catullus’s mind fully back into the present, and future. “A British empire that encompasses the globe.”

      “You’re British, aren’t you? Wouldn’t such a goal work to your benefit?”

      “I don’t believe any nation should have that much power. And I don’t believe one government should dictate how the rest of the world conducts its business.” Warming to his topic, he forgot to be angry with Gemma Murphy, and instead spoke with unguarded feeling. “Further, capturing the world’s magic to ensure that kind of despotism is abominable.”

      “And your friends, Mrs. Bramfield and Mr. Lesperance, they and others share your feelings. Mr. Lesperance called them …” She thought back for a moment. “The Blades of the Rose. Are you one of these Blades?”

      At her question, he felt a subtle pressure, a force working upon him, coaxing him. Tell her. She’s trustworthy. Just open your mouth and speak the answer. But he shoved that force away. An odd impulse, one he was glad he didn’t give in to.

      “This conversation is over, Miss Murphy.” Before he could take a step, she reached out and took hold of his arm with a surprisingly strong grip.

      “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I won’t ask more about them. Only—don’t go.”

      He rather liked hearing her say that. Somewhat too much. Yet, despite his brain telling him to do just that—leave and never speak with her again—he stayed.

      “I also think that what the Heirs are doing is horrible,” she continued. “Not just because they might steal or use my magic. My Irish family in America fought against the British in the War of Independence. Some lost their homes. Others died.” Her voice strengthened, grew proud. There was no artifice here. “It’s always been a source of honor for the Murphys, myself included. We stood up and fought for freedom, regardless of the price.”

      “A justifiable sense of pride.”

      She accepted this with a nod. “I can’t be a soldier— I don’t want to be one. But I can do something to help, something to stop the Heirs.”

      “Miss Murphy, your help is not wanted.”

      She did not flinch from his hard words, even as he regretted having to say them. She pressed, “Tell me everything. About the exploitation of magic. About the barbarity of the Heirs. Let me write about them.”

      With a sharp movement, Catullus turned to go. Yet she dogged him, putting herself in his path.

      “You say no one will believe what I write,” she said insistently, “but I don’t think that’s true. The public will believe, Mr. Graves. And they won’t stand for such wickedness. They will rise up and—” She stopped, because he was laughing.

      Not an amused laugh, but a harsh and bitter one. “Newspapers mean nothing to these men. They couldn’t care less if you published their home addresses and bank accounts, plus a detailed description of every crime they had ever committed. A fly’s buzzing, nothing more.” He stepped closer, and, judging from the slightly alarmed look on her face, he must have cut a menacing figure. Good. She needed to be afraid.

      “And do you know what they do with flies?” He pounded one fist into his own palm. “Crush them. Destroy them utterly.”

      “But the public,” she foundered, “the government—” “Can do nothing. Not the president of your United States, and not even the Queen. The Heirs serve her Empire, but neither she nor the prime minister nor all the damned members of Parliament can touch them. They answer to no one but themselves and their greed. And they will take a tender morsel such as yourself and make you wish all the Murphys had died in the Revolution so that you might never have been born.”

      The pink in her cheeks was gone entirely. Her freckles stood out like drops of blood upon her chalky face. Catullus realized he had been shouting. He never shouted.

      He collected himself, barely. A tug on his jacket, a straightening of his tie. “I do not like yelling at ladies,” he said after a moment. “I don’t like yelling at you. But the moment the Heirs of Albion become aware of your presence is the day you become one of the walking dead.”

      “Like you?” Her voice did not tremble.

      “Pardon?”

      “Are the Heirs aware of your presence?”

      “Yes.” More than aware. They hated him and his entire family. Considering that the Graves clan had been supplying the Blades of the Rose with inventions and mechanical assistance for generations, the Heirs would prefer if every single member of the Graves family were cold in their tombs.

      “Yet you’re still alive.”

      “Because, in this war of magic, I am a professional soldier. And you are a civilian.”

      “Civilians can fight. They did in the War of Independence.”

      “This isn’t flintlock muskets and single-shot pistols, Miss Murphy. It’s magic that can literally wipe a city off the face of the map. And I am telling you now for the last time “—he jabbed out with a forefinger—” you are not to get involved.”

      He spun on his heel and stormed away. This time, she did not try and stop him.

      Several hours later, he was bent over the cramped desk in his cabin, adjusting the tension in some steel springs, when a tap sounded at his door. He found a steward outside, holding his coat.

      “The lady said I was to give you this, sir,” the young sailor said.

      Catullus gave the lad a shilling and, after taking back the overcoat, sent him on his way.

      With the door to his cabin closed, Catullus found himself holding the coat up to his face, inhaling. He pictured her in the coat, how deceptively delicate she appeared in its voluminous folds.

      There. The scent of lemon blossom and cinnamon. Her scent. He could smell it all day and never grow tired of it. Even this small sense of Gemma Murphy thickened his blood.

      A small square of paper was pinned to the lapel. He adjusted his spectacles to peer at handwriting, ruthlessly tamed into a semblance of legibility.

      It is a beautiful coat, but you look much more dashing in it than I. Thanks for the loan.—GM

      He ran his thumb over the scrap of paper, picturing her ink-stained fingers. Perhaps he should write her a note. Apologize for his rudeness.

      No. What he did was for her own protection, whether she believed him or not.

      He

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