“The passengers are a bit—”
“Aaaaahhhhh!”
—
Beth leaped back from the carriage’s open door as a hand emerged, pointing a long white finger at her.
“Be gone, you evil felon!”
She stared into the carriage. It held two passengers, one a small-boned gentleman, the other a woman so rigid she might have been mistaken for a statue were it not for the shrieking voice. Beth attempted a polite smile.
“My good lady—”
“Repent of your wicked crime and leave at once!” was the response.
Beth blinked, her smile fading. “Er…”
“Is something the matter?” came Devon’s calm inquiry as he walked across, the young driver crowding behind him. “Why are the passengers still inside?”
“Brigands! Malefactors! Repent or go to hell!”
“That’s why,” Beth said.
“Fornicators!”
Devon cast a mild look at Beth. “What have you been telling them?”
She might have bristled, but the woman was attempting to whack her with a purse, and it proved an effective distraction. Hauling her smile back into duty, and summoning several nice points of etiquette as reinforcement, she opened the door wider and unfolded the step.
“Thank you for your advice,” she said to the woman. “It’s very thoughtful of you. However, I must ask you to exit the carriage. Apologies, but this is a hijacking, and—”
“Silence! We will not be relinquishing this vehicle to the forces of iniquity! Desist and depart, you vile outlaws!”
“Not happening,” Devon said. “Just get out and we won’t break—”
Beth shifted adroitly in front of him. “I’m afraid we must insist. Tenure is at stake!”
“We’re going to Canterbury on business,” the gentleman piped up, his gray mustache bobbing. “Perhaps instead of hijacking our carriage, you might simply ride with us? There’s room, and we packed sandwiches for the journey.”
“What kind of sandwiches?” Beth asked.
“Turkey.”
“Oh.” She tried to step back but was prevented from doing so by Devon’s presence immediately behind her. Before she knew what was happening, he lifted her onto the step plate. The consequent eruption of hot tingles in her blood was such that she could right then have been awarded a doctorate in volcanology. Stumbling into the carriage, she landed gracelessly on the bench seat opposite the passengers. Devon turned away to speak to the driver, leaving her at the mercy of bird-eating zealots.
“How do you do?” she asked as she settled herself, arranging her skirt and trying to smooth her hair, which had become disarrayed with the loss of her hat. “May I inquire as to your names?”
“Wilbur Podder, and this is my wife, Muriel,” the gentleman answered. “We’re journ—”
“Journeying north,” the lady interrupted. She speared her husband with a vehement frown. “For God’s sake, Podder, don’t chat to the depraved criminal.”
Beth winced. “I assure you, ma’am, notwithstanding the insistent borrowing of your carriage, we aren’t criminals.”
“Well…” Devon said as he climbed into the carriage. Shutting the door behind him, he dropped into the seat beside Beth. “I am planning to steal a dictionary for Miss Pickering, but other than that, no, we’re not criminals. Just ornithologists.”
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, and Beth felt the carriage jolt into sudden movement—or maybe it was her pulse. Devon gave her a sidelong glance full of amused complicity, as if she was equally a scoundrel and, goodness, weren’t they having fun?
Yes, answered a traitorous part of her brain. Aghast, Beth immediately looked away and discovered the Podders staring wide-eyed at her and Devon.
“You’re ornithologists?” Mr. Podder asked. “Are you going for Birder of the Year?”
“Yes,” Beth replied, torn between delight that they’d heard of the competition and dismay that she might now have to endure a sociable discussion about it. “Professor Lockley and I—”
“Professor Lockley?” Mr. Podder’s eyes widened even farther as he surveyed Devon. “I didn’t realize! Goodness, you’re younger than I was expecting.”
“Er…” Devon gave him a confused and rather wary look. “You were expecting me?”
Mr. Podder flushed. “No! I mean yes! I mean, in general, you’re younger than I would expect for a professor.”
Beth stiffened, clearing her throat, but before she could inform the gentleman of her even more impressive youth, Mrs. Podder leaned forward to pat Devon on the knee in a manner that made her seem amiable indeed.
“Did I say ‘go to hell’?” she simpered, smiling beatifically. “A small misunderstanding! A mere slip of the tongue.” Reaching into her purse, she withdrew a notepad and pen. “Don’t mind me, scribbling is my remedy for travel sickness, ha ha. So, how are you finding the competition thus far?”
As she waited, pen poised, Devon’s wary look deepened. But Beth answered politely, “It’s fine, thank you for asking.” (Of course, being British, she would have given this same answer even were she waist-deep in an utter catastrophe.)
“Glad to be back in England?” Mrs. Podder inquired.
“Certainly.”
