“Goodness me,” Beth murmured a second before Devon shoved her protectively behind him. In the next second, the fishermen arrived, shouting mere inches from Devon’s face and brandishing their fists. Beth tried to step forward so she might calm the situation, but Devon extended his arm, barricading her.
“Really, this is silly,” she said. “Just let me explain…”
But there was no point: none of the men listened, nor even seemed to require her existence to justify their dispute. Shewas on the verge of walking away, to find a quiet spot in which to read while awaiting the train, when a cheerful voice sounded behind her.
“I say! What ho!”
The men’s voices stumbled into confused silence. Everyone looked around at the youngCanterbury Timesjournalist, Mr. Spencer, who had joined them. He held notepad and pencil in anticipation of an interview.
“My French is a bit rusty,” he said to Devon, “but I believe they’re accusing you of beating the young lady. Do you have any comment? Perhaps the stress of competing for Birder of the Year drove you to it?” Turning to Beth, he aimed the pencil at her like a weapon. “Ma’am, have you any bruises I might detail for my readers? I’m certain they—”
Devon scowled. “Bruises? This is preposterous!”
“Prépuce?!!”the fishermen raged. One lunged for Devon, who hastily stepped back, almost knocking Beth down as he did so. This whipped up a veritable storm of French fury.
“Mr. Lockley has not beaten me!” Beth averred, quite horrified.
The journalist noted this down. “In that case,” he said helpfully, “may I suggest you offer some proof that you are friendly with each other? Perhaps a gesture that transcends language, if you know what I mean.”
He winked so broadly, it was a wonder he didn’t pull a facial muscle.
Devon expelled a sigh of exasperation. Turning to Beth, he gave her a look so intense, her stomach forgot swooping and donned a sparkling leotard to begin performing arabesques instead. “What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we illustrate our goodwill toward each other?”
Beth thought back to their demonstration of marital association for the innkeeper yesterday. A brief hug seemed like a reasonable solution to the current dilemma. “Yes,” she agreed.
Devon immediately stepped close and set an arm around her back. Beth girded her loins in anticipation of being embraced.
Instead, he swung her into a dip.
The world swayed, filling with sunlight. Staring up at Devon, she felt her sudden bewilderment melt in the heat of his regard. He raised one eyebrow questioningly, and all at once she realized his intention. For about half a second, she considered saying no. But words to that effect could not be found anywhere inside her (although to be fair, she did not exactly search for them). She gave the slightest nod, and Devon smiled.
Then he bent and kissed her.
The fishermen gasped. The journalist gasped. But Beth did not hear them. Indeed, the entire world might have gasped, clutched its handkerchief, and swooned dramatically among the stars, and she would not have noticed. Devon kissed her with such brash, cheerful vigor that all her senses were bowled over. She tried to remind herself that he was a villain who disliked her utterly, but thefunof the moment banished such thoughts. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to climb into the kiss and build a home there, grow a bright garden, and wake every morning to joyful birdsong.
Then it ended, as suddenly as it had begun. Devon lifted her straight again. But the camaraderie in his eyes kept her off-balance, and he tucked her in close against his side to hold her steady.
The fishermen began to laugh. They clapped Devon on theshoulder and took Beth’s hand, squeezing it in a rough, sympathetic manner that had her feeling giddy all over again.“Pardon”was babbled in French and English by all parties; the journalist urgently scribbled notes and demanded to know names; and the crowd of passengers began to cheer and whistle. But Mrs. Hassan was tapping her IOS badge against her jaw, staring at them intensely, and Beth felt a chill, like a sharp sliver of frostbird magic, penetrate her heart. A woman’s reputation was everything, and she imagined IOS would entirely disapprove of her kissing a man in public. Think of the damage it might do to the public’s ideas about ornithology!
Just then, a train arrived, the sound of its horn breaking the scene into pieces. With a finaladieu,the fishermen departed, the journalist ran to interview Mrs. Hassan, and Beth found herself standing alone with Devon in taut silence. He still had an arm around her, and she slipped away from it. Straightening her satchel, she frowned at a fascinating patch of concrete beside her feet.
“So this is goodbye,” she said, just as she had what seemed like hours ago. Back before the world filled with shimmering frost and kissing. Really, the concrete wasso very fascinating, she could not tear her gaze from it.
“Miss Pickering,” Devon said. When she did not look up, he set a finger beneath her chin, lifting it. She tried to avoid meeting his gaze, but one accidental glimpse of it, all shining darkness and sultry eyelashes, arrested her.
“We’re catching the same train,” he pointed out.
“But we’re making different journeys,” she said. After all, fun was lovely and kisses were sweet, but tenure was forever. And birds were her only friends. People, on the other hand, showed interest in her only when they wanted something. Bethhad no doubt whatsoever that Devon’s charm would end just as soon as the caladrius flew into sight, leaving her with a whole lot of regrets to add to her stack of unhappy memories
Retreating from his touch, she offered a polite, collegial nod of farewell. He stared at her silently. The morning sun glowed red-gold around him, flaring in rainbow fragments where the frostbird had shed its icy magic in his hair. But his eyes were almost black with an emotion too intensely human for Beth to identify. Farther down the platform, a group of buskers began to play music that soared above the hum of the crowd. Beth thought wryly that someone ought to capture the scene with a kind of rapid, repeat-action camera, then display it in motion on a large screen; people would surely pay good money to watch and weep over it.
She did not weep, however. She turned away and hastened away to board the train, alone, ruthless, and without looking back.
Chapter Twelve
The lady ornithologist’s reputation is most exposed to danger when traveling alone; therefore, it behooves her to always carry a petite revolver, a personal supply of tea, and a false marriage license should the necessity for one arise.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
