“Hyyyaah!!”
Suddenly, a great chaos of noise filled the world. Beth felt a moment’s confusion before Devon was leaping to wrap his arms around her. As he threw them both into a hedge, Beth’sconfusion exploded into shock. She stared through a veil of hair at a curricle speeding away along the road, its pair of horses kicking up great clouds of dust.
“Are you all right?” Devon demanded, cradling her against him, his hand brushing the hair away from her face as he searched for injury.
“You saved me,” she sighed dreamily—then, hearing herself, forced Proper Etiquette kicking and screaming back into her brain. “I’m much obliged for your timely assistance.”
Devon chuckled. The sound vibrated through Beth’s heart, causing havoc with its already tumultuous pulse. She attempted to push herself up, but Devon held her closer, so that she was now at risk of suffocation, crushed nerves, and fatally broken scruples.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he insisted. There remained no hair against her face and yet he kept brushing. His eyes had turned the color of old fire. Beth went still, like she did when observing a distressed bird.
“I’m quite sure,” she said softly. “You should let me up before a newspaper reporter comes past.”
He nodded but did not move, except for his hand, which was now sliding down her throat. After the past week, Beth had a good idea where it might end: deep inside her feminine wiles. She tugged herself free, getting clumsily to her feet and brushing off road dust, leaves, and hot tingling sensations.
“As I was saying,” she continued a little shakily, “I must clarify something.”
Devon gave a huff of laughter. He rose, looking like a pagan god emerging from the undergrowth. At the sight, Beth’s good manners rushed forward—not to protect her but to offerthemselves as sacrifices on whatever altar Devon might suggest. Appalled at herself, she began striding down the road.
For three steps before stumbling on a pebble.
Immediately, Devon was at her side, holding her upright. “Youarehurt.”
The genuine anxiety in his expression melted away the last of Beth’s resistance to him. The man might be a villain, but he was a decent, good-hearted villain, and she could honestly no longer think otherwise. He listened to her, always made her feel welcome, and now here he was caring that she might be hurt. Not letting herself love that would be allowing all her bullies, the people who’d told her she was not worth care, to rule her heart. And it would be allowing them to devalue Devon too, which she couldn’t tolerate.
“I’m fine,” she told him with a smile. He did not seem convinced, however, and Beth suspected he was on the verge of carrying her all the way to Gladstone’s house. Gentle reassurances were not going to suffice. So she pulled away and began striding once more along the road, swinging her hips just a little in the way she’d seen Hippolyta employ when desirous men were on the scene.
“To clarify,” she said in her archest tone, “we are rivals, traveling together only as far as Professor Gladstone’s house, after which we will go our separate ways.”
“Of course,” he answered as he followed, his voice easing just like she’d hoped. She cast him a provoking look.
“Perhaps we may shake hands again at the Birder of the Year ceremony, when you congratulate me on winning.”
That made him smile, and Beth was relieved to see color return to his face. “You really are an angel,” he said. “I’ll mention you in my winner’s speech.”
Edging to the side of the road, Beth skimmed her fingers along a hedgerow, letting the tickle of leaves and twigs send sparks through the heavy smolder Devon’s touch had caused in her. “What would you say about me, exactly?”
“Why, that you are a tremendously accomplished woman,” he answered. “Clever and capable and beau—”
Alas, just at this most interesting part, a hand reached out from a gap between bushes and yanked Beth off the road. Staggering, she drew breath to scream, but another hand clamped over her mouth, and she was dragged into darkness.
Chapter Nineteen
If it looks like a blackbird and sings like a blackbird, it might nevertheless grow sudden fangs and try to eat your face off.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
An hour earlier
Gladstone’s summer residence,with its comfortable aspect, private aviary, and several accompanying acres for the natural study of birds, reflected his academic character—and the fact that he’d inherited a large income, since no science teacher could afford such an estate.
This morning he was outdoors, endeavoring to capture a leechsparrow. Which is to say, he sat on a mahogany sofa in the meadow behind the house, gesturing with his rosewood pipe to several graduate students who traipsed through the grass, bedecked with protective goggles and earmuffs, wielding heavy-duty nets, as they did the actual work of capturing a leechsparrow. The gentleman himself sipped tea between puffing on the pipe and nudging down his tiny spectacles to frown at the students. His goatee had been brushed and teased into a magnificent state, his bowler hat was unacquainted with bird guano, and the fine polish of his shoes reflected considerable doubt that he’d entered the field under his own steam.
“To the left!” he shouted. “No, fools! My left, not yours! Forpity’s sake!” He clicked his tongue with contempt, and all throughout England, university students shivered uncannily. “Young people these days,” he grumbled.
“Absolutely,” averred Mr. Flogg from the far end of the sofa, since despite the inexact nature of Gladstone’s complaint, his professional instinct was to always agree with the person paying him, regardless.
“Indeed,” murmured Mr. Fettick in a chair opposite.
