The first moment he’d seen the woman at that tedious birders’ meeting, standing alone at the edge of the room with her gaze fixed on the exit door, he’d thought she looked like an angel visiting earth and finding it horribly boring but, being angelic, not wanting to complain. Pretty face, lovely eyes, eminently kissable. But now his attraction was becoming complicated by a far more treacherous emotion. He liked her. She was Sunday morning, a bird in the hand, fresh chalk for a clean blackboard. And damned if he wasn’t in—
“Ahem.”
Turning, blinking, they both looked at the fisherman standing beside them.
“Ton manteau, crétin,” he said, holding out Devon’s coat.
Beth smiled at the man in a way that sent jealousy rampaging like feral carnivorous ostriches through Devon’s blood. “How gracious,” she said. Then she flicked a reproachful look at Devon. “Isn’t that gracious? He’s offering you tea and toast—you know, croutons.”
Somehow, Devon did not think so. He took the coat, then hurried away before wishes, or French fishermen, eviscerated him.
Finally, as daylight seeped red-gold and glimmering through the harbor, they docked at the Admiralty Pier. Devon gave the trawler’s captain a handful of francs and got a scowl in return. He climbed onto the pier, heavy-limbed, cold, and determined to find a place that served coffee. Beth, however, took a ridiculously long time with farewells. Devon watched bemusedly as she shook the hand of each fisherman, murmuring a few words, eliciting smiles and much doffing of caps. It appeared she was thanking them, wishing all good things upon their families, and inviting them to call upon her should they ever find themselves at Oxford during the Michaelmas term. And they were thanking her right back. Devon rolled his eyes.
At last they handed her up onto the pier, saying things in rapid, impassioned French, which Devon suspected were instructions on how to kill him and steal all his money. Grasping her elbow, he proceeded to
“Good heavens!” she declared, clutching her hat to keep it on her head. “This is altogether vigorous of you!”
“I’d just like to leave Dover sometime before winter,” he said. “And without an entourage of angry Frenchmen,” he added, glancing over his shoulder to where the men were standing on the trawler’s foredeck, arms crossed, watching him balefully.
“They are merely excited for us,” Beth said. “Because they understand so little English, it was no use telling them about Birder of the Year. My own French being weak, all I could think to say was that you were my beloved husband—my épine dans mon coeur, giving me a vacation in England—an angoissant vexation.”
Devon laughed. “I’m pretty sure you told them I’m a thorn in your heart who distresses you with his anger.”
“Oh.” Her expression blanked. “I must go back at once and explain!”
“No, you must not,” he said, increasing his stride. She stumbled to keep up with him.
“But what will they think of us?”
“That we’re evil boat thieves. It doesn’t matter, we’ll never see them again.”
“But—”
Suddenly, her boot met a crack in the dock and she stumbled. Devon caught her before she fell. Glancing back again as he did so, he saw the fishermen bristling. One reached for a harpoon.
“There’s no time to waste!” he said, practically dragging her along. “We must hurry if we want to have any hope of catching the caladrius!”
“Yes,” she said, her mood suddenly changing, as if she’d come fully awake and remembered what she was about. “You’re right. We must run!” Now she was tugging on him.
Devon found himself actually trying to slow her down before she did either of them an injury. “The station is right there. Don’t worry, Miss Pickering. It’s all going to be fine.”
—
“It’s a disaster!” the ticket clerk cried, waving his cap in agitation. “We don’t understand how it happened! The track is absolutely melted! Not just buckled but melted, I tell you!” He jammed his cap onto his head, then immediately yanked it off and waved it again, nearly whacking the engineer who stood with him, gazing mournfully at the mess of warped tracks alongside the platform. “There’s no point asking about tickets, mister. We’re not getting a train in or out of here for days.”
“Feuerfinch,” Beth said.
The clerk and engineer stared at her as if she were mad, or possibly German. But Devon made a thoughtful sound in his throat. “Interesting theory, Miss Pickering,” he said.
Beth opened her mouth to remind him that he was not the only academic genius standing on the dock, thank you very much, but something in his eye suggested that he’d appreciate the excuse to tease her. So instead she leaped down the twelve inches from platform to tracks, eliciting a shocked gasp from the ticket clerk at such unladylike behavior. A small red semiplume lay trapped between pebbles; crouching, she picked it up gently and held it to the morning light. Pinkish-gold traces of magic lingered around the soft bit of fluff, shimmering here and there as a breeze tried to restore the feather to flight.
“Feuerfinch,” she said again, envisioning the snazzy little bird, with red wings and an orange breast, hopping over the tracks as it breathed tiny but potent flames onto them. She’d never seen one in the wild, and her heart sighed happily over the feather even while her brain peered at it closely, taking mental notes of the enthralling details.
“I’m impressed,” Devon said.
Beth couldn’t decide whether he meant impressed by her or the bird, so regretfully set aside the compliment. “Someone has employed a feuerfinch to deliquiate this iron,” she said. “The luteofulvous threads of psychokinetic ignition still emanating from this fringilla accendo semiplume confirm it.”
Looking up, she saw the engineer lean sideways toward Devon. “What’s she talking about, mate?”
“A magic bird melted your tracks,” Devon translated.
“Cor blimey!”
“The feuerfinch is extremely rare and only found in the Black Forest,” Beth said, peering up at the arched roof of the station as if the bird might still be flapping around beneath it. But all she saw was a quiet, wingless morning shimmering with dust. Regarding the tracks once more, she noted fragments of the magical threads that provided a lingering trail of the bird’s movement. Tracing it with her gaze, she realized the little creature had attempted flight several times but failed.
“Someone clipped its wings!” she said, rising from her crouch with the force of dismay. “They mutilated the bird so they could use it as a weapon!”
“The IOS competition is heating up,” Devon said, his voice grim. “Literally, in this case.” They exchanged a silent gaze weighted with professional fury for whoever had harmed the feuerfinch, then Devon glanced northward, frowning. “We should hurry.”
“Yes,” Beth agreed, and stepped on a track, raising her arms in advance of climbing back onto the platform. But suddenly Devon was reaching out, taking her hands in his.
“Up you come,” he said.
He lifted her so precipitously, Beth stumbled onto the platform, colliding with him. He held her steady…she stared at him in a daze…and after several moments the clerk and engineer cleared their throats awkwardly. Coming to her senses, Beth moved back. With a sardonic smile, Devon released her hands and turned to the clerk and engineer. Beth took the opportunity to discreetly flex her fingers, which thrummed with the sensation of his touch.
Villain, she reminded herself. Rival.
Pretty, her heart replied with a sigh.
