Stranger

by Zoë Archer

  Briefly, Catullus considered taking the piece of metal in his hand and gutting his friend with it. Then an idea, quiet but sensible, whispered to him. Where women were—or had been—concerned, no one was better at understanding and seducing them than Bennett. Before Bennett met London, fidelity had not once enticed him, nor did it have reason to. Bennett’s skill with women had been the stuff of legends. Whatever woman he wanted, he had, an endless banquet of sexual delight. And not only because Bennett had the face of a Renaissance prince. Something within him had an unerring instinct for what females wanted, what they needed.

  Precisely the opposite of Catullus.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. He gazed down into the barrel, seeing the serrated shapes of iron within. Words came from him, words just as jagged as the iron. “I want her so badly, I think I’ll go mad from it. She’s …” He searched for the right word to encapsulate and describe Gemma. Unsurprising that here, his vocabulary failed. Words seemed small and confining where she was concerned.

  He spread his hands, not a shrug of dismissal, but a gesture of expansiveness. The world was a bigger place with Gemma in it.

  Bennett gave a low whistle. “Damn, Cat. You’re serious.”

  “I … am.”

  “What do her kisses taste like? This is assuming you’ve actually kissed her. You know how it’s done, correct? I’d demonstrate for you, but your beard would chafe my delicate skin.”

  “No demonstrations. I know how it’s done,” gritted Catullus. “And I have kissed her. I’m not going to tell you what she tastes like,” he added when Bennett started to speak.

  “Once? An awkward peck?”

  “A few times, and we both enjoyed it.”

  “More details,” Bennett demanded. “It isn’t fair, you know, hoarding this kind of fascinating information when I have been so generous sharing my own experiences.”

  “That generosity was never appreciated.”

  Bennett sighed in exasperation. “Give me a little more to work with, Cat. Clearly, you need my assistance.”

  “Usually I’ve kissed her after some threat or danger,” Catullus finally admitted.

  “When your blood’s high and you don’t have time or room to overthink your actions.”

  Catullus blinked at Bennett’s perspicacity. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And you’ve said she’s responded well to these kisses?”

  Remembering the silken fire of Gemma in his arms, the feel of her lips against his, the furnace within his body blazed high. “Very well.”

  “Good, good.” Bennett nodded, an encouraging uncle. “Have you done anything else with her besides kissing?”

  “We … ah … exchanged some … intimacies.” “Intimacies,” Bennett repeated. “Care to be more specific?”

  “No,” Catullus said through gritted teeth. He absolutely was not going to tell Bennett about the night with Gemma at the inn. About caressing her full breasts and satiny skin through the thin cotton of her nightgown. About finding her wet and slick for him, and stroking her until she moaned her release into his mouth. About her own hand on him, firm, demanding hands that gripped and slid until he, too, surrendered to bliss.

  The furnace within his body roared, until he was fairly certain he’d burn his clothes right off.

  “Whatever those ‘intimacies’ were,” Bennett remarked, dry, “they must have been good.”

  Catullus rasped, “I think that’s a safe assumption.”

  “But it was her initiative, I’d wager.”

  Again, Catullus found himself caught off guard by his friend’s insight. “When did Bennett Day, rakehell and trickster, become such a sage of the human condition?”

  Bennett grinned. “I’d say when he met a certain young woman with an aptitude for language and a hunger for adventure, then somehow managed to convince her to marry him. The lucky bastard.” Then he shook his head. “Let’s not get off the subject. If you only kiss Miss Murphy after something dangerous has happened, and if she was the one who instigated your ‘intimacies,’ then it’s bloody well time you take charge of the situation. Next time you have a chance, kiss her giddy and then, for God’s sake, make love to her. Be bold. Be commanding.”

  “Force her?” Catullus was appalled.

  Bennett rolled his eyes. “Don’t coerce her, but allow yourself to be aggressive.”

  “She’s very forthright and independent. I don’t think she’d appreciate that.”

  “Forthright and independent women are exactly the type who enjoy an assertive man.” He spoke with absolute assurance. “They don’t want to be cowed into submission, but they find it gratifying to meet a man as strong-willed as they are, a man who shows how much he desires her, a man who’s willing to take charge in bed. Trust me, it’s very arousing for both parties.” Some particularly potent memory flickered across his face, and he smiled.

  Yet, still, Catullus felt unsure. Could he? Lead the dance, instead of follow dizzily in her steps? If he blundered, or said or did something wrong, and lost her, he’d hide himself off to some godforsaken tundra and wait for frozen death. “I’m just not certain.”

  Bennett knocked his fist into Catullus’s shoulder. “Then get certain, idiot. A passionate woman like Miss Murphy won’t wait around forever. She needs to know you want her. Here. Use this.” He reached into his coat pocket, then pressed the produced metallic object into Catullus’s hand.

  A flask.

  “And that’s prime Scottish whiskey,” added Bennett.

  “I’m not going to get her drunk and take advantage of her,” Catullus sputtered indignantly.

  “It’s not for her, Cat. It’s for you.”

  While Catullus gaped, Bennett stood straight and rubbed his hands together. “Aren’t we supposed to be building a bomb?”

  Gemma finished sprinkling dirt over the now oil-slicked cobblestones. The sky stretched dark overhead. Sunrise would be coming presently. A faint sensation—an awareness—prickled along the back of her neck. She looked up from her work, straining for some glimpse, some sound. All she saw was the road leading east, out of the village, the boundary between dirt road and paved street, placid fields.

  Nothing. No one out there. Soon, though.

  She turned to Mrs. Day, who held the empty oil canister. Neither woman spoke a word, but their eyes met and held. An exchange of silent communication.

  They both hurried back to the square. There, they found Catullus and Day carefully putting a lid onto the barrel. Mrs. Day immediately went to her husband, and they stood with their arms around each other.

  “We’ve finished our task,” Gemma said.

  A flutter of wings, and Lesperance in his hawk form landed on the eave of a nearby roof. With a swirl of mist, he shifted into a human and nimbly leapt down onto the pavement. Gemma carefully avoided looking below his waist, particularly when Astrid appeared, a revolver in one hand, rifle in the other.

  Catullus glanced at the sky, then at his pocket watch. “Sunrise in half an hour.”

  “And then battle,” said Astrid.

  Everyone looked at one another, surveying the people beside whom they would fight, each wondering privately who might be hurt or worse. And yet, there was a kind of wild excitement that danced between them, a gleaming readiness for whatever lay ahead.

  “Let’s trounce the bastards.” Day smiled, ferocious, and he was no longer the lighthearted scoundrel but a warrior ready to do battle.

  “With pleasure,” said Astrid, her own smile savage.

  Lesperance pulled Astrid close and kissed her, the act somewhere between primal claiming and tender devotion, and Gemma couldn’t help but watch the private moment. At the same time, Day and his wife also came together in a searing kiss.

  Gemma looked at the two embracing couples. A sudden longing beset her. What might that be like? To have one person who meant everything? Who stood beside you even in the most perilous circumstances? For, truly, she’d been alone most of her life. By choice, but s
till, alone.

  Suddenly, Catullus stood in front of her, quick as shadow. His arms wrapped around her, strong and sure, and a kind of fierceness was in his face that sent a bolt of basic feminine need racing through her. He drew her against his long body. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, broad shoulders that didn’t falter, as he lowered his mouth to hers and proceeded to kiss her giddy.

  Here it is, she thought. What she’d been missing. Here.

  She tightened her hold, feeling the muscles beneath, breathing him in. He tasted of coffee, tobacco, intent.

  With a growl, he pulled away, then took her hand. She could only follow as he led her to the house where she’d slept earlier.

  Catullus paused in the doorway. “As soon as dawn breaks,” he said to Day, “come get me. But until then …”

  “You’re not to be interrupted.” Day grinned.

  Gemma was far too aroused to be embarrassed. When Catullus ushered her inside, a possessive hand on the small of her back, she gladly acquiesced. Surrender never felt so good.

  He led her to the bedroom at the back of the house. He shut the door firmly behind them, and they were enveloped in warm semidarkness. There wasn’t much time. Gemma didn’t know where to begin.

  Fortunately, Catullus—inveterate planner—did.

  With deliberate intent, his eyes never leaving hers, he removed his spectacles and placed them on a nightstand. He set his shotgun against the wall. Then, as she watched with her pulse in her throat, he closed the distance between them. His hands came up, and she half expected him to simply pull her against him and kiss her. Her eyes began to shut in anticipation.

  Yet, he surprised her. Softly, he brushed his fingertips across her forehead, over her cheekbones, down the bridge of her nose. All the while, he stared with fascination.

  His touch felt soothing, gentle, exploratory.

  “Strange,” he murmured. “I almost believed your freckles would be hot to the touch.”

  “They’re just naturally tinted bits of my skin,” she said, wry.

  “But they are burned into my mind.” He leaned closer and grazed his lips over her cheeks. “Each and every one.”

  She didn’t mind her Irish complexion just then.

  “You’ve even got some freckles here.” He stroked a fingertip across the lobe of her right ear. Then, his breath warm and soft, he dipped nearer and touched the tip of his tongue to her earlobe.

  Keeping her eyes open became almost impossible as he lightly traced the outline of her ear with his tongue. She never thought having a man lick her ear would have been at all arousing, but the slight, warm and wet touch echoed in other parts of her, made her think of his tongue elsewhere on her body, and once those thoughts entered her mind, it was all she could do to keep standing.

  “They ought to taste sweet, as well,” he breathed. “And they do. They taste of you.” He nipped at the very tip of her earlobe, and she shivered.

  Oh, God, if he was going to be this thorough, she might not survive the next few minutes, let alone the battle that loomed.

  His fingers threaded into her hair, his large hands easily encompassing the back of her head, which he tilted so he could have access to her mouth. “Gemma,” he whispered. Their lips joined.

  Finding precise and defined words to describe events and situations was Gemma’s business. She long ago learned how to reduce the chaos of an experience into sharply delineated, concise language so that a reader could know exactly what transpired. Occasionally, she even caught herself mentally describing events taking place around her—the man walked up the short flight of three stairs to deliver a bottle of milk to a girl in a striped apron—which kept her engaged, if not a little removed from everything around her.

  That skill, that habit, evaporated with this kiss. She knew only the feel of his mouth, his tongue rubbing and stroking hers. Sleek, warm wetness as they drank each other in. A mutual exploration. Yes, they had kissed before, but there was something open and unrestrained now. Something tender and desperate.

  But even these precise thoughts and words had no place, because all she could do was feel and taste and touch, her mind abandoning her entirely to sensation.

  Her hands craved the texture of him. She let them roam where they wanted: over his wide shoulders, down the length of his long body, across his chest, where she could feel through the layers of his clothing the hard beating of his heart. Her hands dipped beneath the fabric of his heavy coat; she touched the broad expanse of his back, then let her hands go lower. When she cupped the tight muscles of his buttocks and gave them an appreciative squeeze, he laughed, low, into her mouth. His laugh turned to a groan as she stroked and kneaded him. Who knew a man could have such an incredible backside?

  One of his hands moved to stroke her neck.

  “Accelerated pulse,” he rasped. “Shallow breathing. Definitive signs of arousal.”

  “Keep touching me,” she said with what breath remained in her, “and you’ll find more.”

  “Here.” His hand drifted from her throat, along the line of her collarbone, and then he cupped her breast. They groaned together. Yet it wasn’t quite enough.

  “Lie down,” he rumbled.

  Gemma pulled off her boots and then stretched out on the bed. Catullus had already shucked his coat and jacket and tore at the buttons of his waistcoat. She watched the knot and play of his muscles beneath the fabric of his fine, white shirt, the exposure of his throat as his neckcloth sailed off to drape over a straight-backed chair. His boots thudded onto the floor. As he stood above her, shirt open, pushing his braces down, she’d never seen him look so fierce, as if he’d been chipped away to the sharpest point.

  Then he stretched alongside her, surrounding her with his arms and his need. They clung to one another, kissing with exposed hunger. Without the barrier of so many clothes, she let her hands roam all over him. So much strength here, so much energy and potency, a shifting landscape of sinew and bone that pulsed with unleashed desire.

  He urged her up on her elbows as he pulled at the buttons down the front of her dress. Some awkwardness as she pushed the top of the dress down her arms, the fabric pulling tight, then loosening as, at last, it came down to collect at her waist, until all she wore was her chemise. She hadn’t put her corset back on, and was grateful she’d waste no time undoing all the hooks and laces.

  For a moment, she felt a spur of embarrassment that Catullus would see her in so shabby a garment—reporters, especially female reporters, didn’t make themselves rich through writing, and she hadn’t the budget for silk underwear—but he barely saw it.

  He pulled the frayed ribbon that gathered the neck of her chemise. This, too, was thrown aside, and she watched it flutter to earth like a wish granted. The top of the chemise gaped, and he all but pushed it down until it also gathered at her waist. She felt like an exposed and ripe piece of fruit once the protective blossom had fallen away.

  Lord knew Catullus looked at her as if he’d devour her in one gulp.

  He stared at her bare breasts.

  There was no denying it: her breasts were sizable. She’d developed them at an early age, and had to deal with the unfortunate consequence of unwanted male attention, even before she knew what the attention meant. Sometimes, she resented her breasts. They were often the part of her that garnered the most notice, the first thing people—especially men—saw when she entered a room. As a woman in a man’s profession, she didn’t need further reminders for her colleagues that she wasn’t like them. She’d even tried to bind her breasts, but all she received for her troubles was a sore chest and even more pointed looks at her chest from the boys in the newsroom, as if to ask, Where did they go?

  I’m up here, she’d wanted to shout.

  She knew that Catullus was unlike any man she’d known. But, when he gazed down at her breasts, then up at her, what she saw in his eyes went beyond animal male lust. Something else shone in his gaze, something much more profound.

  “You are so be
autiful,” he rasped. And rather than paw or squeeze her breasts, his hands came up to hold her face and kiss her tenderly.

  She knew, then. She knew what he’d come to mean to her. And she kissed him back, blinking away a sudden sheen of moisture in her own eyes, swallowing the burn in her throat.

  The gentle kiss shifted, becoming passionate, deeper and demanding.

  She covered his hands with her own, then pulled them down slowly, so slowly, until his palms cupped her breasts. They sighed. For a moment, neither of them moved, simply letting the sensation of his bare hands upon her flesh soak into them both. Faintly, almost too faint for her to perceive, he trembled. This, too, sent a bolt of purest emotion to her innermost self.

  His hands were big, so that, instead of her uncomfortably spilling over, he encompassed her. With infinite tenderness, he began to stroke her breasts, tracing her, gathering her up. A slight abrading from the calluses on his skin, evidence that he worked with his hands, and the rasping against her own, softer flesh was delicious. His fingertips circled her nipples, bringing them to tight beads.

  Then he bent his head and licked them, one, the other.

  She gasped. Arched her back, up, into his touch.

  He was thorough, as she knew he would be, licking and sucking her, lightly taking each nipple between his teeth, soothing and inflaming her with strokes of his tongue. She writhed beneath him, holding him to her.

  She’d known she could gain pleasure from her breasts. But she’d never experienced this kind of pleasure, so acute and all-encompassing that she barely heard the moans that rolled from her.

  Cool air touched her legs as he gathered up her skirts. He stroked up her legs, over the rather coarse knit of her stockings. Her drawers were removed so quickly, she barely felt them sliding down her legs. Once she was divested of her drawers, his touch returned to her legs. Past her garters, to the bare skin of her thighs. His breath came hot against her chest as he caressed her. When he stroked between her legs, where she was fevered and slick and ready for him, she moaned again and was matched by his growl.