“That sounds good. So back to France, then. But first, might we purchase some food from the inn? An apple, some nuts, some crusts of bread?”
“I think I can afford to buy us better than that,” Devon assured her wryly.
“I meant for the caladrius. Its seed and water supplies are adequate, but it ought to have a varied diet.”
Devon tried not to roll his eyes with fond amusement. “And you, Miss Pickering? Are you hungry?”
She blinked with surprise at the question. Then shyness darkened her gaze like a summer storm, and Devon wouldhave bet that no one had asked her such a thing in a very long time. “I’ll buy you some lunch,” he said, just to watch the storm deepen and her eyelashes lower sweetly, just to make her feel nice. “Will you wait here with the horse?”
She nodded, and he squeezed her hand gently before releasing it and turning toward the inn. But he’d taken only a few steps before he simplyhadto look back, compelled by the gravity between them.
Beth was stroking the horse’s neck, murmuring praise and promises of hay. The late morning sunlight blossomed around her, turning her long, loose hair into a wealth of bright treasure. Devon stared transfixed, every other thought forgotten.
And that was how he missed the parrot skimming past the inn before circling to fly north again, singinghere, here.
—
Beth watched fromthe corner of her eye as Devon went through the inn’s side door. The way he’d held her hand, not to mention the thrilling interest he’d shown in her digestion status, created a fluttering sensation all over her skin, as though she wore nothing but a feather boa. She wished she could forget about the International Ornithological Society for a while and convince him that they should take a room in the inn—a room with only one bed and a sturdy lock on its door.
She gasped at the thought, then gasped again because the first one had not been shock at her impropriety but delight at the imaginings it inspired.
And yet, how could she indulge in such imaginings about a man for whom she held so little data? She’d disliked Devon Lockley…been aggravated by him…felt attracted to him…kissed him…fallen in love with him, and it had feltlike everything. But what was his favorite bird? Had he ever encountered a ghost owl? Who were his family? Would he mind terribly if she ripped off his shirt and kissed every inch of his naked torso?
“Hello!”
The greeting jabbed her awareness; turning, she found a young stable hand beside her.
“Oh,” she said, blushing as if he might have somehow discerned her thoughts.
He tugged his forelock. Drops of sweat flicked off it to create tiny, murky puddles on his dirt-streaked face. “Can I help you, mi— Hey, wait! You’re that lady from the newspaper!” His gaze flicked from her to the birdcage, then back again at speed, barely giving her enough time to roll her eyes wearily. “The orthilochist lady what’s doing the Birder of the Year competition! Cor blimey!”
“Um,” Beth said.
“Where’s your American lover? Oh no, you ain’t back to being rivals?”
“Uh…”
“Is that cage for when you catch the caladrius?”
“Er.”
“Wait until Jenny hears about this! She loves birds! The flying kind, that is. Well, and t’other kind.” He winked in such a risqué manner that Beth took a step back. “Just wait here a mo’ and I’ll go tell her! Bleedin’ hell, anactual famousorthilochist!”
“Um,” Beth reiterated, to no avail. The stable hand dashed off, leaving her reeling from their conversation.
“Good grief,” she muttered. “Why do people have to people?”
“Vulgar cretin!”Hippolyta shouted.
Beth almost laughed. Trust Hippolyta to phrase it in amore blatant way, she thought, turning to raise her eyebrow at the woman—then suffered a belated jolt of alarm as she realized,Hippolyta!Ducking behind the horse, she looked around urgently but could not see her former associate anywhere.
“Must you shout, madam?!” arose another voice with no concern for the irony of its own volume. Beth comprehended that Hippolyta and Oberhufter, and God knows who else, were approaching close upon the inn.
She had mere seconds to act before they either passed its frontage and saw her in the stable yard—or stopped and, entering the building, discovered Devon therein. She looked around, trying to assess all possible escape routes, but before she could decide upon one, the inn’s side door flung open and Devon emerged at a run. Relief propelled Beth toward him, and he grasped her arm of course, towing her inside the stables. One second later, a hansom cab arrived in the yard, driven by Gladstone’s footman and with Hippolyta and Herr Oberhufter crammed into its seat, the Fotheringham sisters each balancing precariously on a step at either side. Behind it came the servants’ carriages.
Ducking behind the stable’s open door, Beth and Devon peered through a gap between the hinges as the ornithologists climbed down from the cab, squabbling the entire time.
“We won’t be able to hide for long,” Beth whispered. “The horse proves that we’re here.”
