Stranger by Zoe Archer Page A

to her, guarded. “I did.”
    “I’ve never seen anything like that. It was remarkable.”
    He flushed slightly at her praise, and tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly aligned shirt. “A very simple device, I assure you.”
    “Not to me.”
    “Inventions and mechanical devices are something of a family trade.”
    She was amazed at his genuine humility. “They should be proud of you, then.”
    He gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You are still going to remain in Southampton, Miss Murphy.”
    Gemma snorted. “I’m not trying to
flatter
you into letting me stay with you, Mr. Graves. My compliment is sincere.”
    “Ah.” He was abashed. “Well … thank you. And, if I may say, Miss Murphy—”
    “Go ahead and call me Gemma,” she said. “Calling me ‘Miss Murphy’ is too formal, especially after I saved your bacon today.”
    “You didn’t ‘save my bacon,’” he said, indignant. “I was perfectly in control of the situation. But,” he added at her noise of protest, “you
did
lend a hand in that fight, and for that, I do thank you.” He made a small bow, one hand pressed to his chest.
    She found herself mollified. The man
could
speak so beautifully. Gemma felt she could listen to him describe the digestive systems of jellyfish and she would be enthralled.
    “In fact,” he went on, “I cannot think of another woman, who wasn’t a Blade, who could handle herself as admirably.”
    The variety of blandishments Gemma received from men often involved her looks. All surface, no substance. Her appearance had nothing to do with
her,
or who she was, not truly.
    “I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me on the way I swung a heavy rope in a brawl.” When he made choked noises of apology, she added quickly, “It’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”
    “Really?” He blinked at her.
    “Usually I get some nonsense about my eyes or my hairor other trifling things.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But, to be praised for how I fight—
that
means something. So, thank you.”
    “Oh.” He fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. “You’re … welcome.”
    Then, because she had come so great a distance for so much, she went on. “That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned these people I believe you called the Blades of the Rose. Who are they?”
    He tensed, either because she was prying into secrets or because her question had reminded him of the ever-present threat.
    Whichever it was, she wanted an answer. “Mr. Graves—
    Catullus—”
    Her using his given name startled him. And, judging by his indrawn breath, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to hear Gemma call him thusly. She actually liked it, herself. The shape and feel of his name in her mouth, with its hard opening consonants falling into a soft ululation. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man who bore the name? A hard exterior concealing something much more sensitive beneath.
    “You have told me about the Heirs of Albion,” she said. “You have told me about the world’s magic. But there is more. I know that the Blades of the Rose, whoever they might be, are also involved.”
    Still, he hesitated.
    Gemma leaned forward, earnest. “You say you want to keep me safe—”
    “I do.” His voice was firm with resolve.
    “Then prove it, and tell me all. How can I begin to protect myself if I do not know everything? Without full understanding, I’m just fumbling around in the dark, at risk from the Heirs as well as my ignorance.” She refused to play the flirt and charm information from him. If Catullus was to open up to her, it must be because he saw something within her to trust and value. She could not respect herself to resortto cheap ploys, and she needed that self-respect. Without it, all that she worked so hard for was valueless.
    For some long moments, they stared at each other. She watched him assess her, his perceptive gaze held with hers, as if he sought to delve into her innermost thoughts.
    Strangely, she