“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 washer 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.
