The article spent two paragraphs describing their capture of the whopper swan—and five thereafter analyzing in depth the kiss that had followed. Included were profiles of Professor Beth Pickering, “England’s Cleverest Woman,” recently returned from tracking dangerous birds through the wilds of Europe, and Professor Devon Lockley, “The Sightly Scholar,” for whom hearts on either side of the Atlantic beat fast.
Beth, beginning to hyperventilate, looked around instinctively for tea. But considering they’d not only got her name right this time but also included a horrifyingly accurate illustration of Devon’s kissing her hand, she really needed something like chloroform. On the seat opposite, Devon was biting his lip in what appeared suspiciously like an effort not to laugh.
She considered leaving him to sit elsewhere, but the train was jam-packed. She then considered chastising him, but that would require her to discuss the article, and although her inner sense of etiquette was now so thoroughly plucked and seasoned she could have served it for American Thanksgiving, the thought of such an intimate conversation while they were in the forced proximity of only one train compartment terrified her. Actually kissing him would be less daunting than talking about it.
She dared to glance at him again, and intuited from the hot intensity of his stare that he was sharing the same thought. Immediately she retreated behind the newspaper and spent the remaining half hour of the journey pretending to read it while her brain indulged in visions of being kissed by the Sightly Scholar until her breath came so fast it could have outpaced the train.
Arriving in the picturesque village of Hathersage just as the sun was beginning to set, they stood on the train station platform with their suitcases at their feet and stared out over the softly rolling hills. Old, red-gold light glossed the land, tempting its outlaw ghosts from the shadows of plump ash trees and brightening farmhouse windows. A fragrance of grass, sun-baked stone, and rail dust freshened their senses after hours of being indoors.
“Magnificent,” Beth breathed.
“Truly,” Devon agreed.
“It must have a wingspan of six feet at least, for us to see it from this distance.”
Devon squinted against the light as he watched the enormous hawk swoop over farmland. “Buteo colossaeus,” he murmured. “It can kill a cow with one swipe of its claws.”
They sighed in happy unison. Beth’s hand twitched with a desire to sketch the bird, and Devon’s hand stirred as he imagined inspecting one of those long brown feathers—and despite their standing three feet apart, each shivered as if their fingers had brushed against the other’s.
“The locals call it Little John,” Beth said, clutching at ornithology to keep her steady. “It’s the only one of its kind remaining and is too old now to endanger livestock. Professor Gladstone pays the farmers an annual stipend to not shoot it so he can come every summer to work on a longitudinal study of it.”
“Where is his house?” Devon asked, entirely casual, but with a sidelong glance at her that conveyed, I want to do a longitudinal study of your body.
Beth swallowed dryly. “About half a mile west of the village.”
“Half a mile? In these shoes?” Devon frowned down at his thick-soled boots, in which he’d tramped across much of America.
“I lost my hat running for the whopper swan and am going to get terribly sunburned,” Beth said, even as twilight filled her vision with shadows.
They turned their heads and stared at each other.
Ten minutes later, the innkeeper of the George, Hathersage’s coaching inn, consulted her reservations ledger while they panted from having practically run there. “Why, yes, we can accommodate you,” she said, smiling. “A telegram came in just this afternoon, booking out most of the inn, but luckily there is one room left! And with an excellent view of the sky, in case an interesting bird just happens to fly past.”
Beth sighed. Devon rolled his eyes. “You know who we are,” he said wearily.
“I do!” she burst out, causing them to lean back. “You’re the othologists I read about in this morning’s Lady of the House. You were rivals from feuding universities until your eyes met across a crowded museum display of dodo bones!”
“O…kay,” Devon said.
“If we tell you the truth, will there be more than one room available?” Beth chanced.
The innkeeper laughed more than an Australian kookaburra establishing its territory, thus ending any hope of rational conversation. They followed her upstairs.
“Here we are,” she announced, flinging open a door.
Beth and Devon peered across the threshold into a large candlelit chamber, at the center of which stood one bed frothing with white lace, scattered with rose petals. Perfume did not so much waft from the room as emerge at force 7 on the Beaufort scale.
“By pure coincidence, our last remaining room is the honeymoon suite,” the innkeeper said disingenuously. “There’s a complimentary bottle of champagne on the nightstand, and I’ll have a special dinner sent up to you. Please feel welcome to autograph anything you wish.”
She hurried away, leaving Beth and Devon standing witless in the corridor.
“Why do I feel that she’s going to be on the other side of the door this evening, with a glass to the wood, trying to listen?” Devon said dryly.
Beth gasped, her face reddening. He gave her a tired look. “I apologize—”
But Beth’s attention had not been on him. “Shh,” she hissed, and tugged his arm until they were both huddled behind the open door. “Down there,” she whispered, pointing in the direction of the corridor’s end. Eyebrows raised, Devon stared at her until she frowned and flicked her finger again. He carefully peered around the edge of the door.
A gentleman bedecked in nothing more than a silk dressing gown was backing out of a room farther along the corridor. “But, my sweet Leibling,” he protested to whoever was inside. “Be patient. I just want to get us more wine.”
“Oberhufter!” Devon murmured grimly.
“By Jove!” came a booming cry. “Never mind the wine, get back into bed, you buffoon! I haven’t finished with you yet!”
The blush drained from Beth’s face. “Hippolyta!” she tried to exclaim, but her voice had hidden itself beneath a blanket and refused to come out.
“Mein Gott, you are insatiable, woman!” Oberhufter declared, untying the sash of his dressing gown as he strode back into the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Devon was silent, seemingly captured by some imagined vision, the details of which Beth most definitely did not want to inquire about. She rubbed the heel of her hand across her brow as if she could erase her own imagination.
“Hippolyta told me she was going to the Cotswolds,” she said, bewildered.
“Suffice it to say, she lied.”
“What are they doing here?”
Devon raised an incredulous eyebrow. “I should think that was fairly obvious, even to a nice woman like yourself.” He paused for a heartbeat, then added wickedly, “The same thing we’re going to be doing.”
The words charged through Beth’s sensibilities like an avian metaphor she would have made had her brain not short-circuited. She opened her mouth, then closed it helplessly.
