“Um,” she said, holding up the watch.
Devon shot a quick glance at it. “Um,” he agreed.
The bird in its hooded cage had no comment.
“We’ll just have to hope we’re not too late,” Devon said.
Looking back over her shoulder at the diverging roads behind them, Beth noticed dust clouds in the distance and realized the race was on. Fear gripped her stomach tight. Forget hope; it was going to take a whole lot of luck to get out of this situation, and as a scientist, she knew that was the most precarious thing of all.
Chapter Twenty-One
The adventuring woman should not just expect the unexpected, but be the unexpected.
Birds Through a Sherry Glass, H.A. Quirm
Arriving at the train station, Devon leaped from the curricle almost before the horses had come to a halt. He assisted Beth in making a more careful descent with the birdcage, then together they ran up the ramp to the platform. A clock above the ticket booth assured him they still had five minutes before the train arrived, but Devon knew he’d not feel safe until they were on board and heading for London.
Only when Beth stumbled behind him did he realize he’d kept hold of her hand and was practically dragging her along with him. “Sorry,” he said, letting her go—but immediately set a hand against her back as he guided her toward the ticket booth.
“I can walk under my own power, you know,” she said with wry humor.
“You’re keeping me steady,” he answered, flashing a grin to hide the fact that he meant it seriously, and far more soulfully than a licentious rake ought. Somehow over the past few days, Beth Pickering had become the center of his personal gravity. Whenever he left her side for long, it felt like his heart was spinning out into darkness. He had to appreciate the irony: after all, he was only in this situation now because he’d been so aghast at his head of department’s matchmaking endeavors, and so determined to remain single.
Then again, perhaps Beth’s wry comment was her nice, polite way of asserting her personal boundary. And Devon, respecting her, certainly did not want to overstep. So he withdrew his hand—
And she caught it, clutching it warmly with her own. “I’m glad I’ve been a good influence on you,” she said—and the only reason he didn’t stop right then and kiss her in demonstration of just how bad she inspired him to be was because they had a priceless bird to save, a nefarious cabal of ornithologists to escape, and tickets to buy before all the first-class seats were taken.
The ticket clerk watched their approach excitedly, and by the time they arrived he seemed almost breathless. “It’s you!” he exclaimed, his pert little goatee ruffling like a duck’s tail.
“It is?” Devon said cautiously.
“The famous ornithologist lovebirds!”
Beth was so astonished that he’d used the correct word, she did a double take. Then she quickly laughed. “Oh good heavens, no. We only look like them. We’re literature teachers.”
“You’re holding a birdcage,” the clerk pointed out.
“It’s a raven. For a class on Edgar Allan Poe.”
“Two first-class tickets for London, please,” Devon ordered, releasing Beth’s hand as he reached for the wallet in his coat’s inner pocket.
“Of course,” the clerk said. He slipped a card across the desk—not a ticket, but a color postcard with the Little John hawk depicted on it. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for an an autograph…?”
“Certainly,” Beth replied with a smile.
“But we’re just literature teachers,” Devon interjected. “Not famous at all.” He reached beneath the glass screen, seized the tickets, then strode away without another word, leaving Beth to thank the gobsmacked clerk before hurriedly following. As she caught up with him, her hand brushed against his, like a shy question. He reached out to take it, and at once her fingers tightened around his. It was as if they tightened around his heart too.
“You’ve become quite the liar,” he teased, smiling at her.
“Your corruption of me is complete,” she said with a valiant attempt at banter.
“Not quite yet,” he answered, his banter so on point it might even be described as penetrating. Beth blinked, and flushed, and altogether made Devon adore her a hundred times over.
“Excuse me,” the ticket clerk said behind them, dragging a luggage trolley. They leaped apart, for fear of being interrogated about their relationship status and ending up in a newspaper once again, but the clerk did not even notice; he was looking about confusedly. “Where’s your luggage?”
“We have none,” Devon told him.
It was as if he’d announced that suitcases and steamer trunks had been canceled and that there would be no refunds, not even a handbag. The clerk reared back with shock. “Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
“I see.” Clearly they were making wholesale edits to a script he had in his mind. He gave himself a little shake. “This is a flag stop; we have to wave down the train so it knows to stop here and pick up passengers. I’ll tell Martin up the signal tower to bring out the white flag and—hey! Stop!”
At first Devon assumed the young man was merely being emphatic in his explanation of what a white flag signified. But then he glanced up at the signal tower.
“Hey! Stop!” he shouted.
“No, thank you,” called down a Miss Fotheringham from the high platform where she stood beside the signalman (or at least the gagged and bound form of the signalman), waving a green flag aloft.
“But we need the train to stop!” the clerk yelled up to her. “Wave the white flag! The white!”
Miss Fotheringham cupped a hand to her ear. “I can’t hear you!”
TOOT!
Devon and Beth turned to see a train approaching.
