Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts

by Nancy Campbell Allen

  Only yesterday, she’d have teased about the concept of brilliance paying him even a passing visit. Now, she felt a sudden surge of awkwardness. She’d had a very literal taste of him and was in entirely new territory. She nodded and began hobbling with her walking stick as he picked up the portmanteau.

  His patience had clearly run thin by the time they were several yards from the trees. The rain had increased its efforts, and he put his arm around her waist. “Relax against me,” he told her brusquely, then lifted her against his side.

  Her breath left her lungs in a grunt as her feet dangled a few inches off the ground. He maneuvered both her and her luggage into the trees, setting her down when unruly branches and twigs hit them in the face. She managed to avoid “screaming in pain” but couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped when she bumped her foot against a rock.

  She hopped on her right foot, teetering and balancing her weight, and belatedly remembered she held a walking stick to aid in the effort. While she worked at keeping herself upright, Oliver moved farther into the trees.

  “We’ll sit here for a time, at least until the rain stops.” He appeared again at her side and repeated the awkward half lift to carry her to a dry spot under the entwined trees and branches.

  “My portman—”

  “I’ll get it,” he snapped.

  He disappeared through the trees to retrieve the bag that had become a source of contention over the last few hours. She chewed on her lip, wondering if he would be restored to good humor if she kissed him again. It wasn’t in her nature to manipulate people for whom she genuinely cared, but desperate times and all that. Now that she’d been the recipient of Detective-Inspector Reed’s charming side, she found she liked it better over there.

  She examined the small area of ground at the center of four tree trunks and gingerly sat down. She clenched her teeth to keep from crying, knowing she was fully responsible for her current state of affairs. She was not one to place blame on another when it rested firmly on her own shoulders, and she was still trying to forgive herself for Oliver’s involvement.

  It had been his choice, her rational brain pointed out. But he would never have made such a choice if not for her actions. She couldn’t regret it, when all was said and done, because she’d known to her bones that the smarmy captain had no intention of releasing them. She’d felt his malevolence without reading his aura or examining his feelings. According to Oliver, they’d been headed for Portugal. Portugal!

  She rotated her head and put a hand to her neck as Oliver returned with the portmanteau. He dropped it on one side of her and sat down on the other. He sighed and leaned against a tree trunk, his hip aligned companionably against hers, and put his arm around her shoulders. He gently pulled her closer and closed his eyes.

  “Get some sleep if you can,” he murmured. “Rest your ankle, and in a few hours, we’ll move again. Someone is bound to come along the road eventually, and we’ll beg for a ride to the nearest inn.”

  She tipped her head against his shoulder and sighed quietly. “Are you hungry?”

  He cracked one eye open and gave her a side glance. “I fear I neglected to bring the soda water and cracker tin you requested from the flight ’ton.”

  “I have food in the portmanteau.”

  He opened both eyes. “You said it contained only documents.”

  “I didn’t say it contained only documents. I make a habit of keeping portable food bits on hand.”

  “You do? Why?”

  “One never knows how long any given activity will take. Protest rallies tend to last several hours, especially if we encounter interference of any kind.”

  He half smiled. “The law-enforcement kind?”

  “Exactly. So you see, you’ve yourself to thank for the fact that I am prepared.” She sat up and pulled the bag to her, opening the top clasp with fingers that still felt sore from the intense cold of her impromptu airship departure. She reached inside and located a biscuit tin and small canteen of water, pulling them out and showing Oliver.

  “Miss O’Shea, you’ve impressed me yet again with your resourcefulness.” He took the tin from her and opened it, fishing out a biscuit for her and one for himself. They ate in silence, occasionally feeling the raindrops that managed to infiltrate their leafy canopy. She handed him the water, and he took a sip, wiped the rim, and returned it to her.

  A smile twitched, and she fought the urge to laugh.

  “I would love to hear what you find so amusing.” He took another biscuit from the tin.

  She couldn’t very well admit she found it silly that he would go to the trouble of wiping the rim of the water canteen so shortly after kissing her senseless on the beach. On a practical level it made sense, she supposed, and she took a sip of water. She should appreciate his thoughtful attempt at civility.

  “When we were young, Isla, Hazel, and I used to enjoy impromptu picnics. When Isla’s younger—and often irritating—sister, Melody, tagged along, we always insisted she clean the rim after taking a drink of communal punch.”

  “Did you consider packing more than one drink container?”

  “Space was at a premium. Isla usually carried everything in a pack on her back. Does military protocol dictate you wipe the canteen before sharing with a fellow soldier?” She nibbled on her biscuit, hungry but slightly nauseated.

  “More often than not, if we were in a position to be sharing water, nobody worried about such details.”

  She’d never heard his tales from the time spent at war in India. What she knew of Daniel, Sam, and Miles was that they didn’t share much about those experiences either. Having arrived at a place where she cared about offending Oliver, she wasn’t certain she should ask about it.

  “Why did you decide to leave military service?” she asked, hoping the question was innocent enough. “I’ve heard you were a rising star.”

  “Were you asking about me?” He winked.

  “I may have made some inquiries while looking for information to exploit.”

  He laughed. “Were you hoping to blackmail me into staying out of your way? I hear such tactics run in your family.”

  She smiled. Isla had blackmailed her way onto Daniel’s airship when they first met. “Perhaps I was actually looking to understand you better but didn’t realize it.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully while eating. “No, I believe your first admission was true. You were looking for information to exploit with no altruistic motives whatsoever.”

  She laughed. “Much more likely.” The moment stretched into comfortable silence, and as she looked at him, she wondered when she’d begun to see him as devastatingly handsome. For nearly two years she’d thought him a gargoyle.

  He offered her the open tin, but she waved it aside with a “No, thank you.” He replaced the lid and turned it idly in his hands, studying it.

  “I had thought to make a career in the military. My early years before were spent as a constable, and when I thought of the benefits of travel and adventure, military service seemed an excellent option. And it was. I just hadn’t learned that my temperament isn’t suited to that work for a lifetime.”

  She tilted her head. “I should think your temperament excels at leadership in any organization.”

  He nodded, still looking at the tin he turned slowly in his hands. “Leadership is one matter. Politics, purchased commissions, and non-merit-based advancement is another altogether.”

  She bit her lip and tried to keep from digging. It was a useless endeavor, but she congratulated herself for thinking she might manage it. “You face politics and troublesome colleagues working for the Yard, I am certain.”

  He glanced at her, one corner of his mouth turned upward. “Perceptive, of course.” He paused and looked again at the tin. “I lost men in battle. I saw the futility in certain maneuvers but was obligated to follow orders from above. I
saw—gruesome things.” He traced his thumb along the edge of the lid. “Images that still haunt my sleeping hours.” He abruptly spun the tin in his hands and returned it to her. “The horrors of my work now are mostly intermittent. The scope of it manageable. I do not ordinarily encounter large-scale slaughter.”

  She nodded and took the tin. She returned it to the bag, and, on impulse, closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, opening her senses to him. She felt a wave of grief and even anger before he abruptly shut it away. She looked at him, trying to mask her surprise.

  “You have a door you close.”

  He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “You shut your reactions away quite efficiently.”

  He tipped his head in thought before rubbing his eyes. He looked incredibly weary. “A door. Very apt description. One I keep closed and locked.”

  “I imagine your door resembles a bank vault. I fashioned my door when I was young—yellow with black hardware. Isla says it is dangerous to keep such doors closed. I say it is wise. But should you ever need a place to open your door safely, she is a good one.”

  He smiled. “Isla is a shifter empath, and I do not count shifting among my traits.”

  “She is an empath for animals of all sorts. Including the human kind.” She closed the portmanteau and turned back to him with a small smile. “I am rarely a willing participant, but there are instances when she has been a great solace.”

  He lifted his arm, and she settled against his side. She yawned and moved her leg, wincing and groaning when it jostled her ankle. He rubbed her shoulder and dipped his head to look at her face. “We’ll find medical help in a few hours.”

  She nodded and rested her head against his shoulder, blinking back the sting of unwelcome tears. She’d cried enough for a lifetime in one day, her emotions having exploded in a torrent she couldn’t remember experiencing since childhood.

  “Emme,” he murmured, “I feel I should apologize for my actions earlier. I unwittingly took advantage of you in a vulnerable state.”

  The thought that he would apologize for kissing her caused her heart to drop. “It was lovely, and I do not wish to discuss it.”

  “I . . . very well.” He rested his head against the tree trunk.

  She lifted her head, and anger crept forward as she looked at his face, his closed eyes. “Why on earth would you apologize?” She tried to keep the hurt from her voice but heard it herself.

  His eyes snapped open, and he lifted his head. “I thought you didn’t wish to discuss it.”

  “Well, I do wish to. I’ll thank you not to take ownership of a situation in which I was a willing participant. Perhaps it was I who took inappropriate advantage!”

  He opened his mouth but said nothing. He studied her with those intuitive eyes that seemed to read everything at a glance. “If I encouraged something untoward, placed you in a position you may later regret, I apologize because it was unprofessional in the extreme. I would not cause you pain.”

  “You placed me in a position I very much appreciated.” She felt herself blush, glad it was still dark.

  His lips twitched, but he waited for her to continue. It was a tactic she knew he used as a detective—stop speaking, allow the suspect to fill the awkward silence.

  “Insult me with something other than an apology for a kiss.”

  “You look like a hideous troll.”

  “That is ridiculous. No, I do not.”

  “No, you do not,” he agreed. “Why on earth do you want to be insulted at all?”

  “Anger at you, frustration with you, is much more comfortable.” She swallowed. “You swept me out of the path of a careening carriage. You jumped from an airship despite your aversion to heights. You could have insisted that someone else take this job. Nobody else would have done it as well, I know that as surely as I breathe. You held me when I was terrified, and I fully participated in that kiss. Do not ever apologize to me again about that kiss.”

  He cleared his throat. “Fair enough.” He paused, and this time she let the silence linger. “I like to know how to plan for the future, and am . . . unsettled that we have arrived at such an unexpected crossroad.”

  “Is it really so unexpected, Detective? Our reactions to one another have always been strong. Two sides of the same coin and all that.”

  He chuckled and tipped his head back against the tree. He closed his eyes again and added, “We’ve flipped the coin.”

  She nodded and settled against his shoulder. “This side is so much more pleasant,” she whispered and closed her eyes, certain she’d not gain even a moment of sleep.

  Light finally crept over the horizon and into the trees. Oliver watched it approach, having slept little. His eyes were gritty, and he wished Emme had a pot of tea in her portmanteau. She still slept, the longest stretch throughout the night as far as he could tell. He knew her leg must throb and protest in pain while sitting still, let alone involuntarily moving in her sleep. He’d stretched out his legs so she could angle sideways toward him and rest her foot atop his shins.

  If someone had told him even a week ago that he’d find himself sprawled with Emmeline O’Shea beneath the trees in an unknown countryside, he’d have laughed. Or sworn like a sailor. They’d been resting for a handful of hours, and the enforced stillness when he was desperate to be proactive was a test of his patience. He was exhausted and couldn’t have carried her anymore, so when it had begun raining and she’d insisted they stop, he’d been able to retain his pride.

  She’d been sleeping with her head on his shoulder, though it had now slid to his chest. He held her close to try to keep her from moving, because every time she did, she awoke with a pained gasp. He took the opportunity now to study her in better light. When compared so literally against his own height, she made him look like a giant.

  Her hair was completely free of pins and ribbons. The strands were long, with a gradual curl at the end, and a good portion of the silky black mass was trapped beneath his arm. He wanted to lift it free, but she woke at the smallest of movements, and he desperately wanted her to rest. Her eyelids were swollen, her skin pale, and he knew her shoulders and chest would be aching at least as much as his were from maneuvering the Jump Wings.

  He sighed softly and inched his far leg out from under her, bending it at the knee and feeling much like someone trying to keep a child napping. It was better to convince himself that was how he viewed the situation than to admit he had taken the proverbial plunge into abject insanity.

  He loved her.

  He didn’t know why it surprised him. She had been paramount in his thoughts for months on end, and she was definitely correct—their intense emotional clash represented two sides of the same coin. Since taking on the role of her bodyguard, his drive to keep her safe had been as desperate and focused as before, when he was tasked with keeping her in check.

  He suspected her feelings mirrored his. She was a constant surprise, however, so he could be completely wrong. Perhaps her affection wouldn’t extend beyond gratitude for his friendship and the enjoyment of a kiss. She’d been hurt, though, when she thought he’d regretted kissing her on the beach. That may be nothing more than pride; many a modern woman found opportunities that allowed freedom from dependence on a man. Heaven knew Emme had established her place in the world all on her own, and he was fortunate to have fallen into her sphere. But if he knew anything about her, it was that whatever she did, she did with her whole heart. He didn’t imagine she would be content with an occasional dalliance.

  He wrapped his hand around his other wrist, encircling her in an embrace, and leaned his cheek against her head. They needed to reach civilization, and soon. Someone had paid Barclay to take them far away, and who that person was must know by now the plan had failed. Oliver had stashed their Jump Wings behind a large outcropping of rock before leaving the water’s edge, but even so, he imagined it wouldn’t
be long before her enemies found their trail.

  They ought to have been in Edinburgh by now, settling into the Grand Hotel near the heart of the Summit’s festivities. He mentally reviewed Emme’s schedule for the day. She was to have visited the International Village, where multiple temporary buildings had been constructed in the Princes Street Gardens to showcase varying countries’ cultures with games, food, events, and items for purchase. She was also to have met with Giancarlo and the rest of the International SRO delegates to review the week’s events.

  As if she heard his thoughts, she stirred. He lifted his head, giving her some space. She planted her hand on his chest and shoved, pushing herself upright with a loud groan and then a wince.

  “Oh, mercy. Everything hurts.” She put a hand to her head and rubbed her eyes before glancing at him. “I must look a fright,” she mumbled. She gathered her hair in one hand and pulled the mass over her shoulder, grimacing as her fingers caught in the tangled strands.

  “I need to . . .” She flushed and looked away. “I’ll just go over there for a moment.”

  He understood her embarrassment and pushed himself to his feet, barely restraining his own groan. “Here, I’ll help you stand. I’m going to take better stock of our surroundings now that it’s daylight. I will just be out on the road. Call for me if you need me.”

  She nodded but wouldn’t meet his eyes. He bent down behind her and put his arms beneath hers, lifting her carefully and wincing at her gasp of pain. He handed her the walking stick, feeling helpless and wishing there was a maid magically nearby who could help her.

  When she was steady on her feet, he looked at her carefully. He could truthfully say he’d never seen her looking worse for the wear, and he’d seen her muddied from a demonstration involving water projectiles and dirt clods. She lifted her eyes to his, and his heart turned over. They were puffy from crying, her face was smudged with dirt, her clothing filthy, and her shoulders slumped.