festive mood was shattered.
“Enough,” Damien said, his eyes again scanning the crowd. He did so with what seemed unusual attention.
“I’d never much believed that old saying that freezing to death was a peaceful and pleasant way to go,” Brice gasped in agreement. The sudden arctic blast had all but taken her breath away. “Now, all questionable testimonials aside—I’m sure it’s untrue.”
To both her delight and trepidation, Damien put his arm around her and pulled her into the shelter of his body. It slowed their progress, but it kept the worst of the wind off of her. It also brought them close enough that she could feel the warmth of his spent breath as it hurried by her ear.
“We’ll be out of this in a moment,” he assured her in a calm voice.
“Have you seen a weather report? Will the storm get much worse?” Brice asked, shuddering at the feeling of cold—a million invisible ants boiling over her skin. She hated, hated, hated being cold.
“Yes, and quickly, but we won’t see the lightning for another forty-eight hours,” Damien said. He looked excited and suddenly energized. Pulling a strange device swathed in rubber from his coat pocket, he pressed a button and called for his car, telling the driver where to meet them. Seeing her curious look, he told her: “I can’t use a cell phone. Something about the magnetic field of my body scrambles the signal. It’s worse in lightning storms. So I use a walkie-talkie when I must be out.”
“Oh…are you sure about the lightning?” Brice asked, wanting to talk about his magnetic field , but deciding it was a bit personal.
“Yes. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get just the right combination of atmospheric conditions for a light show. The roof of Ruthven Tower is mainly made of iron, and it attracts the electricity.”
“And this is a good thing?” Brice asked. She allowed him to guide her through the crowds, keeping between her and the street and making sure that no one touched her.
“Yes, oddly enough. You can’t imagine what those gargoyles look like with Saint Elmo’s fire dancing over them. In a really big storm, a sort of aurora-borealis effect happens as well. Such storms are rare—but I think we may get one for Christmas.”
“You can tell?”
“I have a sort of inner barometer when it comes to the weather,” Damien answered. He paused at the curb, and his black sedan rolled to an all but silent stop in front of them. He quickly ushered Brice into the quiet warmth of the car. “Miss Ashton?”
“Brice,” she corrected, relieved to have hot air washing over her chilled skin. He seemed to forget that she preferred to be called by her first name every time he got lost in a moment of reflection or inner debate. The habit made him seem very English—and charmingly old-fashioned.
“Brice.” Damien turned to her. His expression was pensive. “I have a suggestion to make. I fully realize that it is very forward of me, and will understand completely if you would prefer not to accept.”
She nodded encouragingly when he paused, but her heart had began a heavy beating. It seemed that she’d been right about the effects of pâté.
“Would you consider being my guest tonight? I mean, staying with me rather than going to your hotel?” He waited, head tilted to one side. “For that matter, please stay as long as you like. If the weathermen are correct, travel during this storm will be all but impossible.”
Brice blinked, willing the delightful fog of wine to retreat just a bit so she could give the matter some thought. Before she could answer, he went on: “I have a large library filled with rare and unusual reference material which I would be reluctant to let out of my possession, and it might be that you would find working there more comfortable than being at the hotel and having to commute through this weather…which is getting worse,” he added, looking out the car window and frowning at the thickening
“Enough,” Damien said, his eyes again scanning the crowd. He did so with what seemed unusual attention.
“I’d never much believed that old saying that freezing to death was a peaceful and pleasant way to go,” Brice gasped in agreement. The sudden arctic blast had all but taken her breath away. “Now, all questionable testimonials aside—I’m sure it’s untrue.”
To both her delight and trepidation, Damien put his arm around her and pulled her into the shelter of his body. It slowed their progress, but it kept the worst of the wind off of her. It also brought them close enough that she could feel the warmth of his spent breath as it hurried by her ear.
“We’ll be out of this in a moment,” he assured her in a calm voice.
“Have you seen a weather report? Will the storm get much worse?” Brice asked, shuddering at the feeling of cold—a million invisible ants boiling over her skin. She hated, hated, hated being cold.
“Yes, and quickly, but we won’t see the lightning for another forty-eight hours,” Damien said. He looked excited and suddenly energized. Pulling a strange device swathed in rubber from his coat pocket, he pressed a button and called for his car, telling the driver where to meet them. Seeing her curious look, he told her: “I can’t use a cell phone. Something about the magnetic field of my body scrambles the signal. It’s worse in lightning storms. So I use a walkie-talkie when I must be out.”
“Oh…are you sure about the lightning?” Brice asked, wanting to talk about his magnetic field , but deciding it was a bit personal.
“Yes. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, we get just the right combination of atmospheric conditions for a light show. The roof of Ruthven Tower is mainly made of iron, and it attracts the electricity.”
“And this is a good thing?” Brice asked. She allowed him to guide her through the crowds, keeping between her and the street and making sure that no one touched her.
“Yes, oddly enough. You can’t imagine what those gargoyles look like with Saint Elmo’s fire dancing over them. In a really big storm, a sort of aurora-borealis effect happens as well. Such storms are rare—but I think we may get one for Christmas.”
“You can tell?”
“I have a sort of inner barometer when it comes to the weather,” Damien answered. He paused at the curb, and his black sedan rolled to an all but silent stop in front of them. He quickly ushered Brice into the quiet warmth of the car. “Miss Ashton?”
“Brice,” she corrected, relieved to have hot air washing over her chilled skin. He seemed to forget that she preferred to be called by her first name every time he got lost in a moment of reflection or inner debate. The habit made him seem very English—and charmingly old-fashioned.
“Brice.” Damien turned to her. His expression was pensive. “I have a suggestion to make. I fully realize that it is very forward of me, and will understand completely if you would prefer not to accept.”
She nodded encouragingly when he paused, but her heart had began a heavy beating. It seemed that she’d been right about the effects of pâté.
“Would you consider being my guest tonight? I mean, staying with me rather than going to your hotel?” He waited, head tilted to one side. “For that matter, please stay as long as you like. If the weathermen are correct, travel during this storm will be all but impossible.”
Brice blinked, willing the delightful fog of wine to retreat just a bit so she could give the matter some thought. Before she could answer, he went on: “I have a large library filled with rare and unusual reference material which I would be reluctant to let out of my possession, and it might be that you would find working there more comfortable than being at the hotel and having to commute through this weather…which is getting worse,” he added, looking out the car window and frowning at the thickening
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