by Zoë Archer
“That looks like Astrid’s writing,” Gemma noted, looking at the third letter.
“Your eye doesn’t fail you, my love. She’s finally recovered from what proved to be a rather surprising birth.”
“Why surprising?”
“Twins.”
Gemma’s hand flew to her mouth, shocked and amused.
“And?”
He frowned. “And?” She swatted his arm. “Boys or girls?” “One of each. A bear and a wolf cub.” Gemma couldn’t stop her laughter. “Oh, God, poor Astrid.”
“Poor Lesperance, more like. Astrid wrote that he was so agitated during the birth, he couldn’t stop shifting between all three forms. But the mother and children are all well, and the father’s recuperating. They’ll be joining his tribe at their winter camp in a month. And next spring, they’ll be petitioning the government for more tribal land. Astrid is optimistic.”
None of his friends had what might be considered normal marriages. Theirs was not the path of routine and monotony, of settling down into prescribed behavior. Not because of the magic in their lives, but something else. Marriage, he discovered, was a partnership, each spouse testing and finding his or her way, learning as they went, evolving together. As he did, every day, with Gemma.
Again, she nodded. “It’s good to hear from everyone again. Seems like too long since we were all together.”
Catullus could only shrug philosophically. “It’s the way of the Blades. I believe there’s some ancient pronouncement that states if all the Blades are together at the same time, one should either prepare for Armageddon or a very large picnic.”
“Speaking of Armageddon, I’ve got to finish making arrangements for my family’s visit. I still need to find bedrooms for my brothers.”
“Perhaps the stables.”
“Good idea. Unless the horses are bothered by the smell.” Gemma rolled her eyes, but Catullus knew she was looking forward to the arrival of her family. Not everyone was coming, which cast a small shadow over the proceedings. Her father and some assorted siblings were intolerant of her marriage—she’d sent them a wedding portrait photograph along with her letter, so there was no mistaking the difference in husband and wife’s skin color. Others, including her mother and most of her brothers, were glad she’d found someone as unique as herself, regardless of racial difference.
And when the Graves family of Southampton met the Murphys of Chicago … the army should be put on alert. It promised to be a most unusual gathering.
He expected no less for himself. His whole life had been spent in a strange, liminal existence, and, even now, he felt decidedly apart from the rest of the world. Yet this did not trouble him. As he held his wife in his arms, feeling her warmth, her spirit, he felt the dissonant threads of himself weave together. Blade of the Rose, inventor, husband.
“So, do you want to come up for tea?” Gemma asked, smiling up at him with unmistakable enticement. “Or maybe we should have a little bite—” She nibbled along his jaw. “Down here?”
“Oh, I think I’d rather take my meal here. And later,” he said, voice husky, “I can show you an invention I’ve been working on. I promise you’ll find it more than stimulating.”
Her laugh was breathless, aroused. “Mr. Graves, you are a most stimulating man.”
Gemma was his fire, his soul. In this world of neat categorizations and preconceived roles, they were strangers. But they were not strangers to each other.
He didn’t want a peaceful life. He wanted his life: sometimes dangerous, always interesting.
An adventure.
Did you miss the other
Blades of the Rose books?
Go back and read them all!
In September, we met a WARRIOR in Mongolia …
To most people, the realm of magic is the
stuff of nursery rhymes and dusty libraries.
But for Capt. Gabriel Huntley, it’s become
quite real and quite dangerous …
IN HOT PURSUIT
The vicious attack Capt. Gabriel Huntley witnesses in a dark alley sparks a chain of events that will take him to the ends of the Earth and beyond—where what is real and what is imagined become terribly confused. And frankly, Huntley couldn’t be more pleased. Intrigue, danger, and a beautiful woman in distress—just what he needs …
IN HOTTER WATER
Raised thousands of miles from England,
Thalia Burgess is no typical Victorian lady.
A good thing, because a proper lady would have no
hope of recovering the priceless magical artifact Thalia
is after. Huntley’s assistance might come in handy,
though she has to keep him in the dark. But this
distractingly handsome soldier isn’t easy to deceive …
There was a knock at the wooden door to the tent. Her father called out, “Enter.” The door began to swing open.
Thalia tucked the hand holding the revolver behind her back. She stood behind her father’s chair and braced herself, wondering what kind of man would step across the threshold and if she would have to use a gun on another human being for the first time in her life.
The man ducked to make it through the door, then immediately removed his hat, uncovering a head of close-cropped, wheat-colored hair. He was not precisely handsome, but he possessed an air of command and confidence that shifted everything to his favor. His face was lean and rugged, his features bold and cleanly defined; there was nothing of the drawing room about him, nothing refined or elegant. He was clean-shaven, allowing the hard planes of his face to show clearly. He was not an aristocrat and looked as though he had fought for everything he ever had in his life, rather than expecting it to be given to him. Even in the filtered light inside the ger, Thalia could see the gleaming gold of his eyes, their sharp intelligence that missed nothing as they scanned the inside of the tent and finally fell on her and her father.
“Franklin Burgess?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” her father answered, guarded. “My daughter, Thalia.”
She remembered enough to sketch a curtsy as she felt the heat of the stranger’s gaze on her. An uncharacteristic flush rose in her cheeks.
“And you are …?” her father prompted.
“Captain Gabriel Huntley,” came the reply, and now it made sense that the man who had such sure bearing would be an officer. “Of the Thirty-third Regiment.” Thalia was not certain she could relax just yet, since it was not unheard of for the Heirs to find members in the ranks of the military. She quickly took stock of the width of the captain’s shoulders, how even standing still he seemed to radiate energy and the capacity for lethal movement. Captain Huntley would be a fine addition to the Heirs.
There was something magnetic about him, though, something that charged the very air inside the ger, and she felt herself acutely aware of him. His sculpted face, the brawn of his body, the way he carried his gear, all of it, felt overwhelmingly masculine. How ironic, how dreadful, it would be, if the only man to have attracted her attention in years turned out to be her enemy. Sergei, her old suitor, had wound up being her enemy, but in a very different way.
“You are out of uniform, Captain Huntley,” her father pointed out.
For the first time since his entrance, the captain’s steady concentration broke as he glanced down at his dusty civilian traveling clothes. “I’m here in an unofficial capacity.” He had a gravelly voice with a hint of an accent Thalia could not place. It was different from the cultured tones of her father’s friends, rougher, but with a low music that danced up the curves of her back.
“And what capacity is that?” she asked. Thalia realized too late that a proper Englishwoman would not speak so boldly, nor ask a question out of turn, but, hell, if Captain Huntley was an Heir, niceties did not really matter.
His eyes flew back to her, and she met his look levelly, even as a low tremor pulsed inside her. God, there it was again, that strange something that he provoked in her, now made a h
undred times stronger when their gazes connected. She watched him assess her, refusing to back down from the unconcealed measuring. She wondered if he felt that peculiar awareness too, if their held look made his stomach flutter. Thalia doubted it. She was no beauty—too tall, her features too strong, and there was the added handicap of this dreadful dress. Besides, he didn’t quite seem like the kind of man who fluttered anything.
Yet … maybe she was wrong. Even though he was on the other side of the ger, Thalia could feel him looking at her, taking her in, with an intensity that bordered on unnerving. And intriguing.
Regardless of her scanty knowledge of society, Thalia did know that gentlemen did not look at ladies in such a fashion. Strange. Officers usually came from the ranks of the upper classes. He should know better. But then, so should she.
“As a messenger,” he answered, still holding Thalia’s gaze, “from Anthony Morris.”
That name got her attention, as well as her father’s.
“What about Morris?” he demanded. “If he has a message for me, he should be here, himself.”
The captain broke away from looking intently at Thalia as he regarded her father. He suddenly appeared a bit tired, and also sad.
“Mr. Morris is dead, sir.”
Thalia gasped, and her father cried out in shock and horror. Tony Morris was one of her father’s closest friends. Thalia put her hand on her father’s shoulder and gave him a supportive squeeze as he removed his glasses and covered his eyes. Tony was like a younger brother to her father, and Thalia considered him family. To know that he was dead—her hands shook. It couldn’t be true, could it? He was so bright and good and … God, her throat burned from unshed tears for her friend. She swallowed hard and glanced up from her grief. Such scenes were to be conducted in private, away from the eyes of strangers.
The captain ducked his head respectfully as he studied his hands, which were gripped tightly on his hat. Through the fog of her sorrow, Thalia understood that the captain had done this before. Given bad news to the friends and families of those that had died. What a dreadful responsibility, one she wouldn’t wish on anyone.
She tried to speak, but her words caught on shards of loss. She gulped and tried again. “How did it happen?”
The captain cleared his throat and looked at Franklin. He seemed to be deliberately avoiding looking at her. “This might not be suitable for … young ladies.”
Even in her grief, Thalia had to suppress a snort. Clearly, this man knew nothing of her. Fortunately, her father, voice rough with emotion about Tony Morris’s death, said, “Please speak candidly in front of Thalia. She has a remarkably strong constitution.”
Captain Huntley’s gaze flicked back at her for a brief moment, then stayed fixed on her father. She saw with amazement that this strapping military man was uncomfortable, and, stranger still, it was her that was making him uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because of the nature of his news, unsuitable as it was for young ladies. Or perhaps it was because he’d felt something between them, as well, something instant and potent. She did not want to consider it, not when she was reeling from the pain of Tony Morris’s death.
After clearing his throat again, the captain said, “He was killed, sir. In Southampton.”
“So close!” Franklin exclaimed. “On our very doorstep.”
“I don’t know ‘bout doorsteps, sir, but he was attacked in an alley by a group of men.” Captain Huntley paused as Thalia’s father cursed. “They’d badly outnumbered him, but he fought bravely until the end.”
“How do you know all this?” Thalia asked. If Tony’s death had been reported in the papers, surely someone other than the captain would be standing in their ger right now, Bennett Day or Catullus Graves. How Thalia longed to see one of their numbers, to share her family’s grief with them instead of this man who disquieted her with his very presence.
Captain Huntley again let his eyes rest on her briefly. She fought down her immediate physical response, trying to focus on what he was saying. “I was there, miss, when it happened. Passing by when I heard the sounds of Morris’s being attacked, and joined in to help him.” He grimaced. “But there were too many, and when my back was turned, he was stabbed by one of them—a blond man who talked like a nob, I mean, a gentleman.”
“Henry Lamb?” Franklin asked, looking up at Thalia. She shrugged. Her father turned his attention back to the captain and his voice grew sharp, “You say you were merely ‘passing by,’ and heard the scuffle and just ‘joined in to help.’ Sounds damned suspicious to me.” Thalia had to agree with her father. What sort of man passed by a fight and came to the aid of the victim, throwing himself into the fray for the sake of a stranger? Hardly anyone.
Captain Huntley tightened his jaw, angry. “Suspicious or not, sir, that’s what happened. Morris even saved my life just before the end. So when he gave me the message to deliver to you, in person, I couldn’t say no.”
“You came all the way from Southampton to Urga to fulfill a dying man’s request, a man you had never met before,” Thalia repeated, disbelief plain in her voice.
The captain did not even bother answering her. “It couldn’t be written down, Morris said,” he continued, addressing her father and infuriating Thalia in the process. She didn’t care for being ignored. “I’ve had it in my head for nearly three months, and it makes no sense to me, so I’ll pass it on to you. Perhaps you can understand it, sir, because, as much as I’ve tried, I can’t.”
“Please,” her father said, holding his hand out and gesturing for Captain Huntley to proceed.
“The message is this: ‘The sons are ascendant. Seek the woman who feeds the tortoise.’”
He glanced at both Thalia and her father to see their reactions, and could not contain his surprise when her father cursed again and Thalia gripped a nearby table for support. She felt dizzy. It was beginning. “You know what that means?” the captain asked.
Franklin nodded as his hands curled and uncurled into fists, while Thalia caught her lower lip between her teeth and gnawed pensively on it.
She knew it was bound to happen, but they had never known when. That time was now at hand.
In October, let SCOUNDREL whisk you away to the shores of Greece …
The Blades of the Rose are sworn to protect the sources
of magic in the world. But the work is dangerous—and
they can’t always protect their own …
READY FOR ACTION
London Harcourt’s father is bent on subjugating the world’s magic to British rule. But since London is a mere female, he hasn’t bothered to tell her so. He’s said only that he’s leading a voyage to the Greek isles. No matter, after a smothering marriage and three years of straitlaced widowhood, London jumps at the opportunity—unfortunately, right into the arms of Bennett Day …
RISKING IT ALL
Bennett is a ladies’ man, when he’s not dodging lethal attacks to protect the powers of the ancients from men like London’s father. Sometimes, he’s a ladies’ man even when he is dodging them. But the minute he sees London he knows she will require his full attention. The woman is lovely, brilliant, and the only known speaker of a dialect of ancient Greek that holds the key to calling down the wrath of the gods.
Bennett will be risking his life again—but around London, what really worries him is the danger to his heart …
“Save those slurs for your grandmother,” said a deep, masculine voice to the vendor. He spoke Greek with an English accent.
London turned to the voice. And nearly lost her own.
She knew she was still, in many ways, a sheltered woman. Her society in England was limited to a select few families and assorted hangers-on, her father’s business associates, their retainers and servants. At events and parties, she often saw the same people again and again. And yet, she knew with absolute clarity, that men who looked like the one standing beside her were a rare and altogether miraculous phenomenon.
There were taller men, to
be sure, but it was difficult to consider this a flaw when presented with this man’s lean muscularity. He wonderfully filled out the shoulders of his English coat, not bulky, but definitively capable. She understood at once that his arms, his long legs, held a leashed strength that even his negligent pose could not disguise. He called to mind the boxers that her brother, Jonas, had admired in his youth. The stranger was bareheaded, which was odd in this heat, but it allowed her to see that his hair was dark with just the faintest curl, ever so slightly mussed, as if he’d recently come from bed. She suddenly imagined herself tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
And if that thought didn’t make her blush all the harder, then his face was the coup de grace. What wicked promises must he have made, and made good on, with such a face. A sharp, clean jaw, a mouth of impossible sensuality. A naughty, thoroughly masculine smile tugged at the corners of that mouth. Crystalline eyes full of intelligent humor, the color intensely blue. Even the small bump on the bridge of his nose—had it been broken?—merely added to the overall impression of profound male beauty. He was cleanshaven, too, so that there could be no mistaking how outrageously handsome this stranger was.
She may as well get on the boat back to England immediately. Surely nothing she could ever see in Greece could eclipse the marvel of this man.
“Who are you?” the vendor shouted in Greek to the newcomer. “You defend this woman and her lies?”
“I don’t care what she said,” the Englishman answered calmly, also in Greek. “Keep insulting her and I’ll jam my fist into your throat.” The vendor goggled at him, but wisely kept silent. Whoever this man was, he certainly looked capable of throwing a good punch.