“Setting a date is not slight.” Had her uncle known the Viscount Stafford would also insist upon a prompt ceremony? Without doubt. Foolish of her to act as if she would be free from society’s expectations the moment she vacated her uncle’s property. A touch of panic swirled in her stomach. Everything was happening so fast, and she was being pressured to make life-altering decisions without enough time to consider all the possible outcomes. A verbal promise was one thing, but a signature upon a marriage license? That was binding. “This is all very… rushed.”
She tore her eyes away to focus upon the clockwork bird as it turned itself about and hopped toward the door of the aviary. Behind the skeet pigeon stalked Sorcha, alert and fully prepared to keep the contraption from taking wing. Colleen opened the door and snatched up the beady-eyed bird, focusing upon unfastening the message canister all while willing away the slight tremble of her fingers.
“I’m sorry.” Nick took the still-twitching clockwork pigeon from her hands, smoothing its wing back into place and turning it off before setting it beside the others. “If you’d prefer, I can escort you to a hotel.”
Sorcha, with the skeet pigeon no longer an item of interest, turned her back upon them with an air of nonchalance and returned to watch for a new victim.
“No.” She pushed her worries aside, focusing upon another emotion that thrummed though her body: yearning. “Your family only wants what’s best for you. As they should.” Her own parents would have guarded and protected her so. She missed it. “I’m staying.”
Nick stroked a finger down the side of her cheek. “If you change your mind…”
“I’m not opposed.” Her heart tripped as she spoke the words. “But I won’t walk blindly into such a commitment. Might we discuss expectations later… fireside?”
“Done.” He dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “Make a list of your demands.” A provocative smile curved his lips. “I look forward to experiencing your persuasive techniques.”
Did he mean… Her mind began to consider various possibilities, rendering her mute. And slow. For Nick snatched the paper scroll from her fingers with a laugh. “But don’t think I won’t exploit your every weakness in return.”
Grinning, she smacked his arm, then leaned close. “That trick will only work once.”
“We’ll see.” He read the note aloud, his voice sobering.
Apologies, sir. Your man was removed from my custody without explanation. Carted away, while only semiconscious and muttering about hearts and worms. I objected and demanded an explanation from my supervisor, but was told the Queen’s agents had no business interfering in private matters.
“Damn it.” Nick crumpled the message in his fist.
“Private matters?” Colleen’s eyebrows drew together. “Might it be time for your long, complicated story about Queen’s agent’s business?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “He’s the missing connection, Dr. Farquhar.”
“Missing being the operative term.” Colleen crossed her arms. Ice crystalized on her next words. “I can’t help if I don’t have all the relevant details.”
“My hunt for the cardio-pacing device began when a stray comment crossed my path. A laboratory technician glanced at MacWilliam’s paper.”
“The one I read?”
“One and the same. Though the technician couldn’t recall details, he remembered that the Lister Institute had once considered hiring someone whose work had reached similar conclusions. That there’d been talk of constructing a device that might supersede or alter the automatic pacing of a heart. But that nothing had come of it.”
Colleen wrapped her hand about his fist and squeezed.
“I took my questions to Lord Aldridge, a board member of the Lister Institute.”
She drew in a deep breath as all became clear. “That’s why you were in his study in the dead of night?”
Another nod. “I’ve no proof he’s involved in anything. Nothing but the slightest of hesitations when I inquired about past cardiac electrophysiology applicants.”
Hesitations could mean something—or nothing. But Nick’s instincts had pointed him in the direction of decidedly suspicious research activity. “And, like a cat with a mouse, you couldn’t stop toying with the idea.”
He threw her a twisted smile, then opened his fist and caught her hand in his, lifting it to his lips. His eyes were two deep pools that might hide any number of secrets. “Would a business partner and fiancée agree that any secrets a Queen’s agent shares are sacrosanct?”
Warmth spread through her chest, driving back the frost. “She would. Tell me what this has to do with Sorcha.”
“We’re not old enough to remember when it began, but there was a time when biologists scoffed at the mention of such creatures as kraken and pteryformes, but now—”
“They darken our skies and choke the Thames.”
“And cryptozoology is an established science.” He took a deep breath. “There are rumors of a shadow committee known as CEAP, the Committee for the Exploration of Anthropomorphic Peculiarities.”
“Anthropomorphic,” she repeated. “Ascribing human characteristics to nonhuman creatures?” The ice crept back.
“Selkies, for example. Seals who can turn into humans. There have been reports of them on the northwest coast of Scotland.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you telling me selkies are real?”
“No. But neither am I saying they aren’t. Someone else is tracking down those sightings.” He drew her hand to his heart and caught her gaze. “Within CEAP are individuals who are also interested in humans with animal characteristics. Men who would like nothing better than to capture and study such humans with an eye toward exploiting their unique skills. They’ve no interest in protecting even the most basic of individual rights and are not to be trusted.”
Humans with unique skills. “Such as myself,” she whispered. A woman who might once have been burned at the stake for suspicions of cavorting with the devil beneath the moonlight. Colleen struggled to keep her breathing steady. That mad scientist had stared at her, not with fear, but with amazement. And far too much interest.
“If you keep working with me, if a member of this CEAP committee is watching, it may well draw his attention to—”
“My distinctive eyes,” she spoke on a soft exhalation. Caged within her ribs, her heart began to pace. “My uncanny athletic abilities. But it’s too late. Dr. Farquhar has already taken note of my eyes. That explains his spellbound stare before he turned tail and ran.”
Nick swore.
Precious few cat sìth roamed the woods of her family’s Scottish estate. The same could be said of the men, women and children who also possessed golden eyes. Sorcha had been snatched from the streets of London, but now that Dr. Farquhar had made the link from the cat sìth to her, it was only a matter of time until someone connected her to Craigieburn and its unique occupants.
Knees weak, she sank to the floor, leaning against the low wall at her back.
Nick crouched beside her. “Colleen?” Concern filled his voice, but throughout it threaded a note of curiosity. “I have to ask. Are there any truths to the myths surrounding the cat sìth?”
“Truths?” She took a deep breath and looked into the eyes of the only man to ever treat her as an equal. “I’ve the eyes of a cat—as did my father and his mother before him. A number of families who live on or near my land can name at least one member—past or present—with eyes such as mine.”
“A tapetum lucidum, a reflective layer of the retina allowing an animal—”
She winced.
“Or the rare human,” he squeezed her hand, “to see in the dark.”
“In low light,” she corrected. “A candle. A spark. A thin ray of moonlight. But there must be at least a glimmer light for them to reflect, for me to see.”
“And your spectacles?” Nick gathered her to his side.
“Bright light tends to blur my vision, hence the tinted lenses.” She waved a hand at the arch of glass above them. The rain had stopped and rivulets no longer ran down the glass panes in long streams. “But fog, clouds, rain. Soot. Anything that turns London bleak and gray brings the world into sharp focus.”
“Enhancing your nighttime prowling abilities.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And what of Sorcha’s devotion, do you have a unique attachment to her?”
“My familiar?” The term once used with lighthearted humor had lost its appeal.
“I didn’t mean—”
“But perhaps it’s true. Cat sìth are rumored to be drawn to those who share my eyes.” She shrugged. “We’ve an affinity of sorts, an ability to understand their thoughts when others sometimes struggle. Nothing unnatural, but I can easily deduce from the sound of their cries, the tension or position of their bodies, the intensity of their stares, what they want or need. More so than most. What seems a bit exceptional is that a cat sìth who has attached itself to a human will carry out tasks on their behalf. Sorcha occasionally assists me. Fetching an item from a top shelf, for example. Yowling if another prowler approaches while I’m working. And she’s learned to carry messages home to Isabella, a precaution in the event I ever needed help extracting myself from a sticky situation.”
“And has that ever happened?”
She smiled. “Not yet.”
“Nonetheless, we have circled back to the cat sìth and the origin of one particular myth.”
“Or, in other words, am I a witch with nine lives?” Her laugh was rueful. “If only. I can’t shape-shift, and I assure you, were I to fall from a rooftop or lose my grip on the cornice, I might land on my feet, but the impact would kill me, same as it would you.” Sadness swept through her. “Death, after all, stole away my father, as it did my mother and every other life on that ill-fated train.”
She’d told him once of the Tay Bridge disaster, when a violent storm had caused the bridge to collapse as a train ran across it, plunging all aboard into the river. Over seventy lives lost that night and not one survivor.
His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s five years in the past.” And was a tragedy that had altered the course of her life, but did not define her. “It may have stolen away my parents and my home, but I intend to recover the latter. I won’t sit idly by if there’s a threat to those like me, to the cat sìth.”
“Spoken like a woman with sharp claws.”
“Who is ready to prowl.”
They both laughed.
Smack. Crunch. Four soft paws dropped back onto the slate roof, and Sorcha proudly carried in a freshly crushed skeet pigeon. The thin, overlapping plates of the bird’s irises stared blankly, all input terminated. The cat sìth deposited the newly arrived mechanical bird at Colleen’s feet. A gift. Dropping onto her haunches, the cat awaited the praise that was her due.
“Thank ye.” As Colleen stroked her hand down the feline’s sleek back, Sorcha closed her eyes, quite pleased with herself. “Your assistance is noted and appreciated.”
Beside her, Nick smothered a snort and reached for the message canister.
“My turn.” She batted his hand away to unfurl this new scroll sent to them by none other than her former employer, Mr. Witherspoon. “Cornelius Pierpont,” she read the scrawled name aloud. “It sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Is he anyone you know?”
“No. I am, however, curious to discover if one particular individual might find it familiar.” Nick stood and held out a hand. “A steam carriage collects Lord Aldridge from the Lister Institute promptly every evening. The rain has stopped, and his house—with the mews behind it—is only a few rooftops away, while beneath us lies nothing but trouble.”
She let him pull her to her feet. “In the form of dress fittings, guest lists and menus.”
“And my mother.” Nick tugged her close. “Who is certain to be overenthusiastic to the point where she might already have browbeaten my father into procuring a special license.”
Colleen lifted an eyebrow. “Not much chance of stretching out before a fire to conduct our… discussion?”
“Not without interruption.” He lowered his mouth to hers, savoring a slow and sultry kiss that ended all too soon. “We’ll have better luck as the midnight hour approaches. I’ve climbed that trellis too many times to count. Leave the window open. In the meantime, shall we interrogate Lord Aldridge?”