London awoke from fevered dreams of Bennett’s mouth and hands to hear Kallas shouting orders above deck, boots moving over the wooden planks. Sitting up, she stretched, her back a mass of knots after sharing a one-man bunk.
The small porthole showed the approach of a rocky coastline, but it was difficult to see much through the narrow window.
She glanced over at Athena, busy rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“If I was more conventional,” Athena said, “I would say you must marry me now.” When London blinked in confusion, the witch explained, “While you slept, you attempted liberties with my person. You called me ‘Bennett,’ and commanded that I make love to you.”
“Oh, dear God!” London gasped, mortified. “I’m so sorry!”
Then Athena laughed. “A joke.” She sat up and swung her legs around. Even just waking, the witch’s aristocratic beauty shone. London had a feeling that she herself did not look nearly as regal upon rising from bed. “You did groan a little and say his name, though. Your encounter with him last night must not have been altogether satisfying.”
London’s face flamed. Both Athena and Kallas were quite aware of what was transpiring between her and Bennett. Even when married, London never discussed what went on in the bedchamber, though she had longed to ask someone, anyone, if carnal relations were often so uncomfortably formal. Now she and Bennett had crossed over into physical intimacy, and on the tiny planet of the caique, this was global news.
“It was satisfying,” she said, intent on smoothing out her wrinkled skirts. “But, ah, incomplete. We were…interrupted.”
“That explains it.” Athena nodded sagely. “The restless sleep, it is the body demanding more.”
It wasn’t only London’s body that wanted more. Having shared such intimacy with Bennett, it felt wrong and painful to separate. She thought of all the ancient love poetry she had read. Those antique words had planted needs within her. Those needs were never met by Lawrence, and she had shut them away into a locked cabinet within her, believing she was to endure a lifetime of cold solitude. But now, with Bennett, those needs broke the cabinet door and, in the wreckage, demanded to be satisfied. She wanted to sleep beside him, wake up in his arms and have him look warmly down at her with drowsy eyes while they spoke softly to one another about trifles. Yet, she did not even know if he was willing to do such things.
Rather than answer Athena or face the uncertainty of her feelings for Bennett, London got to her feet. “We should join the men on deck.” She went to the cabin door and added, without turning around, “You might want to consider what your own body demands, rather than mine. I recall you mumbling ‘Nikos’ a time or two last night.” As Athena sputtered a denial, London went out into the passageway, hiding her smile.
On deck, the day glowed. Light poured over the world, an exultation of clarity and brilliance. London’s eyes adjusted to the crystalline perfection. The sky, the blue of dreams, held not a cloud, and the sea lapped at the hull, content and irreproachable. The water shifted from cobalt to aquamarine and then to pale blue so clear, the gold of rocky sea floor shimmered underneath.
The approaching island was white rock and green pine, its narrow sand beaches weaving down to the sea in small arced bays that gathered the waves. From their approach, it was difficult to see whether the island resembled a dolphin, but she trusted Kallas’s assessment. The sharp smell of pine threaded through the saline breeze. London stood at the rail, inhaling deeply and feeling the caress of sunlight on her face.
But she could not idly enjoy the pleasures of an Aegean morning. She turned to help bring the caique in. She lost her breath watching Bennett move with masculine grace and confidence around the boat. The lean muscles of his arms flexed as he trimmed the mainsail, his shoulders bunching and moving beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Bracing himself on the deck, his legs were long and powerful, the work of a master sculptor celebrating the male form. The sea wind ruffled his dark hair, and he smiled with the joy of movement.
Aware of her presence, he stared at her as she approached, his bright blue gaze hot and hungry. She pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the pull and demand of that gaze within her innermost self. And this man, this beautiful man, shared a bed with her last night?
Not entirely. There was still the matter of actually making love, having him inside her, beyond those skilled, blunt-tipped fingers. She desperately wanted that. Not once had she experienced a climax as potent or intoxicating as the one Bennett had given her through touch alone. Yet rather than feeling sated, as she thought she might, her release only triggered the need for more. More of Bennett. He was Bennett to her now, not Day, after all they’d done and shared.
“I hope you slept well,” she said, coming closer so that only a foot separated them. An inane thing to say, but how did one greet a lover the morning after an abortive tryst?
“Terrible,” he said.
“Perhaps tonight you’ll sleep better.”
“I hope not.” Searing heat from his gaze burned her, and she felt a leap of excitement and need.
“Then the night cannot come too soon.” To hear her speak! The proper and decorous London Harcourt of English society would never dare to say such things. But she was far away from English society, and might never return.
The ice of reality cooled the heat of desire. She considered the island, then asked, “Is this the dolphin-shaped island?”
He noted her shift in mood, adjusted his own. “So Kallas says.”
“It is almost as small as Delos,” Kallas said. He nodded toward the island. “A mile across, four miles long. We are approaching the curve of its tail.”
“That is still a considerable amount of ground to cover,” Athena said, coming up on deck. “The stream could be anywhere, and time is scarce.” London could have sworn she saw a blush in the witch’s dusky cheek when she looked at the captain.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And that is why, Lady Witch,” he answered, “I will put in near the village. The villagers will tell us.”
“If they are willing to talk, and if they speak truthfully.”
The captain scowled, which seemed to be his perpetual expression whenever Athena Galanos was nearby. “We islanders are honest, forthright people. Unlike mainlanders.”
“Shall I be forthright with you now?” Athena asked sweetly.
“Now’s a good time for a lesson on bringing in a boat, Captain,” Bennett interjected.
It was enough of a distraction. Kallas issued orders to all of them, even Athena. London’s hands were much healed, thanks to Athena’s poultice, so she was able to help adjust the sails without pain. She looked down at her hands. They were already quite different than they had been only a few days ago—stronger, more resilient.
At the wheel, Kallas called out commands while he guided the boat into the shallows of a bay. Satisfied with their position, he gave Bennett the helm and dropped anchor. The caique was too large to attempt a beach landing, yet it was small enough that they didn’t need to row into shore. The sails were lowered.
“Where is the village?” Bennett asked.
“Just beyond those rocks.” Kallas pointed to an outcropping bristling with pines. “I warn you, ‘village’ is too grand a word for that place. But you should find people willing to help.”
“I’m not worried,” Bennett assured him. “I’ve a way with people.”
London didn’t doubt that. If the village or hamlet or collection of shacks housed even one woman, there would be no shortage of assistance. Perhaps Dionysian offerings of wine or olives would be made. Bennett went to the bow, where the boat was shallowest, then climbed over the rail and jumped down into the surf. The water licked at his hips.
London went to the bow, as well, and stepped over the rail, preparing to also jump into the water, but Bennett held out his arms to her. “Ferry service,” he said.
She smiled down at him. “What’s the charge?”
“Three kisses. Except you, Kallas.”
“Four kisses?” asked the captain.
Athena smothered a laugh.
“How about this?” offered Bennett. “I pay you in bottles of ouzo to stay on the boat. And let’s you and I never speak of kissing again.”
“Deal.”
“And am I offered the same rate to come to shore?” Athena asked.
Bennett shook his head. “You stay with the boat.” The witch started to object, but Bennett cut her off. “If the Heirs come, we’ll need you ready.”
She acquiesced, not looking particularly pleased with the idea of being alone again with Nikos Kallas.
“I’ll teach you my favorite shanty about the sea nymph and the fisherman,” Kallas said.
Deciding it was an opportune time to get off the boat, London lowered herself into Bennett’s waiting arms, wrapping her own around his neck. His hold was strong and sure, his body solidly muscled. The stance brought their faces close together. She was mesmerized by the black fringe of his eyelashes, the planes of his face shaded with a few days’ worth of stubble, the sensual perfection of his mouth.
“Will you claim your fee now?” she murmured.
“Later.” He tore his gaze from her own mouth. “I start collecting now, the whole day’s lost.”
“Please go,” Athena grumbled. “Or I will surrender my nonexistent breakfast.”
Bennett strode through the shallow water, carrying London. Fish the size of hairpins darted around his boots, and she smiled at them. The world was a jewelbox she had just opened.
“This would be a lovely place to swim,” she said.
He stopped walking and closed his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Just enjoying the mental image. You. Wet.” A wicked smile curved his mouth.
London swatted his shoulder, even though she wanted to put her lips to that wicked smile. “Mr. Ferryman, this is not the time to entertain salacious imaginings.”
He opened his eyes, sultry pools of azure. “It’s always the time for salacious imaginings. Even better for salacious doings.” But he continued on through the water until they reached the beach, where he set her lightly on her feet.
To reach the village, they had to climb a small rocky hill. While Bennett took the hill easily in long, limber strides, London struggled. Even though the hem of the dress had been shortened, she scrambled for footing. She felt herself a long way from the tame seaside at Brighton, hunting for shells or strolling on the West Pier. Bennett slowed his ascent to give her a supportive hand, helping guide her up the hill. Even in the heat of the morning, the feel of his large hand enfolding hers made her shiver with awareness.
A rough collection of low white buildings clustered together at the top of the hill, surrounding a single well. They resembled a child’s blocks left behind by a forgetful titan. A tiny blue-domed church met the village’s spiritual needs, and in its shade lounged a sleepy orange cat, unconcerned with godly matters. The cat paid no mind to the goats ambling through the cluster of buildings, nor did it bother to look up when Bennett and London walked past. In a doorway sat an old woman watching them as she shelled beans. A child’s laugh twinkled behind her.
“You came on the caique,” said a man’s voice.
London turned to see a craggy-faced man emerge from a doorway, dressed in a mix of modern and traditional clothing. He regarded them impassively.
“We’re seeking fresh water,” Bennett said. “For our voyage.”
The man eyed the revolver on Bennett’s belt. “Dangerous voyage.”
“They always are.”
The man tilted his head toward the well. “That’s been dry for years, otherwise you would be welcome to it.”
A goat meandered over and began nibbling on London’s skirt. She tried to tug the fabric from its mouth, but it was a tenacious beast.
“I have heard tell that there is a stream on this island,” Bennett said, “its water of surpassing sweetness.”
With a proud nod, the man said, “It is our blessing. Without it, we would have dried up and blown away like dead leaves. No matter how little rain we get, the stream always runs, always sings for us.”
London and Bennett shared a quick glance. So the singing stream was here! She made herself appear calm, when inside, her heart pounded with excitement. The ruins were leading them to the Source.
“It would be an honor to see this stream,” said Bennett, “perhaps even drink from it.”
“We have money,” London said, then realized too late that she had not a single drachma or even shilling. Everything had been left behind at the encampment at Delos. And even if she did still have money, she would never spend it, knowing that it came from the Heirs’ work.
Fortunately, the man waved off her offer. “There’s no need for money here. What would we buy?” He pointed behind the church. “If you follow this hill seventy paces, you will find a grove of olive trees. Go through there, head east, and then you will be in a valley. At the bottom of the valley is the stream. Here.” He handed two earthenware jugs to Bennett. “You cannot carry water in your cupped hands.”
“Many thanks,” said Bennett. “It’s true, what’s said about the generosity of islanders.”
“Just the same,” said the man with a wink, “I wouldn’t mind going to the mainland every now and then. These accursed goats have eaten every blanket I own.”
The goat at London’s skirt bleated in protest. She took advantage of the moment to snatch her skirt free from its relentless teeth. She sighed in frustration. Athena would get her dress back with several goat-chewed holes in it.
Wishing them well, the man turned and went back into his playing die of a house.
Following the villager’s instructions, London and Bennett passed the church and continued on through a field of scrub and pink wildflowers. On land, the sun bounced off the ground, baking the air. A trickle of perspiration ran between London’s breasts and filmed her back. A swim did sound lovely, but she knew they hadn’t the time to indulge. Always at the back of her mind was her father, the look of shock and disbelief as she sailed away. He would come for her—whether as a self-perceived rescuer or an agent of vengeance, she did not know, but she had observed him over the course of her whole life and knew that his determination was singular, unbending. No man clung more tenaciously to his ideals and goals than Joseph Edgeworth.
London tripped over a rock, but Bennett caught her while juggling the clay pitchers. “Blast,” she muttered. “I can’t move in a skirt.”
Bennett righted her on her feet. “I’ll carry you.”
She shook her head. “And the pitchers? All the way to the stream? No. I have to walk on my own. But,” she added, moving forward, “I can see why the reformers advocate trousers for women. It’s impossible to do anything with a dress tangling in one’s legs.”
“You’re becoming positively radical.”
“It’s the dissipated company I keep.”
“Not dissipated. Liberated.”
The villager had spoken true. Bennett and London soon found themselves within a grove of olive trees. Some of the trees were young and slim, but others twisted with generations of growth, their gnarled branches reaching up to the sky in an ancient dance. Silver leaves cast patches of shadow upon the rolling earth and rustled in the breeze. London trailed her hand along the pitted bark of an older tree, almost a honeycomb of holes. She pulled back in surprise when a small owl hooted irritably from its burrow.
“Athena’s keeping an eye on us.” Bennett drew her onward.
“The Blades of the Rose allow women in their ranks,” London said. “The Heirs do not.”
He nodded. “We’re unchivalrous cads who throw our women in front of cannon fire.”
“Is it wrong to protect women?”
“No man wants to see a woman hurt. But if a woman wants to fight for a cause, that’s her choice.”
Choice. London mulled over the word as she and Bennett walked through the natural cathedral of olive trees. She’d never had choice in her life before. Everyone made decisions for her. As a child, she was subject to the rule of her parents, nurse, and governess. When she came of age, her mother supervised all aspects of her entrance into society—the gowns she wore, which parties she attended, the young ladies London was to befriend. London’s suitors, too, were all carefully selected. She was told when Lawrence approached her father, requesting permission to make an offer, told that she was to accept him. London did as she was bid and married the man of her parents’ choosing. Then Lawrence held dominion over her, and she kept house according to his wishes. Even when he died, London’s mother directed her on the proper means of mourning. Only where linguistics were concerned did London have agency, and that was done in secret, so it held little weight.
Now London had choice in abundance, and her head spun with possibility. She could do anything, go anywhere. If, somehow, she and the Blades managed to find and protect the Greek Fire Source, then she would find herself completely at liberty. She had no idea what to do.
London glanced over at Bennett striding behind her. He was alternately gilded in sunlight and dusted with violet shade as they moved under the trees’ canopy. He swung the pitchers easily, keeping in time with his steps. A beautiful man. Who desired her. Who offered her choice. It would be foolish, very foolish, to lose her heart to him, to lean on him. Easy to do this, but unwise.
She was only just learning how to stand on her own, so she must keep herself whole. She had tried to love Lawrence. That had proved to be a failure. Given choice, she must now act wisely, especially when faced with such a temptation as Bennett Day. Her entire life, men controlled her. Her father. Lawrence. Her father, again. She wondered if she could let Bennett into her life and maintain command over herself. Now that she had it, she would not let it go. Yet she also wanted him.
Twigs snapped, snaring her attention. She brought herself up short when a group of five young men emerged from the shade of the trees, blocking the path. They had sullen faces and greedy eyes, raking over London with predatory interest and looking at Bennett with undisguised aggression.
London glanced over at Bennett. He stood almost casually, light and easy on his feet, arms loose at his sides. She gulped, trying to hide her own apprehension. But she was no Blade of the Rose, had not a lifetime of experience facing danger, and could not quite suppress a shiver of fear.
“Mainlanders,” one of the youths said in Greek, his lip curled in derision.
Another took in Bennett’s well-tailored, English clothing, and sneered, “Foreigners.”
The first young man swaggered forward, pushing his cap back on his head. The leader. He ambled toward Bennett, his chest puffed. “What do you want here, outsider?”
“Water.” Bennett wore a pleasant half smile, as if discussing horse racing.
“Plenty of water in the sea,” the leader said, and his companions sniggered at his wit.
Bennett still smiled. “To drink.” He gestured east, still holding the pitcher. “We were told there’s a good stream nearby. A man in the village said we were welcome to it.”
“Kostas.” The leader spat upon the ground. “Foolish old man. Letting English outsiders stomp all over our home, taking what they want.”
“Islanders are known for their hospitality,” Bennett said mildly.
The youths barked their laughter, harsh and scornful. They were young, barely out of their teens, hardly able to shave, but brawny, full of undirected energy in their small island home. London tried to calculate if she could outrun them. Not likely.
She did her best to remain motionless, praying for invisibility. She knew what happened to women.
“Islanders aren’t stupid,” a third young man jeered. “We don’t give things away for free.”
The leader nodded. “There’s always a price.” He abruptly wheeled from Bennett to London. She tried not to edge backward, but it was difficult to keep her feet rooted. “This pretty songbird will do nicely.” He reached for her, leering.
“You don’t want to do that.” Bennett’s voice was icy steel.
The leader’s hand dropped, and he shuffled back, then tried to cover his move with bravado. “Too scrawny for my tastes,” he smirked. He turned to Bennett. “But you’ll pay us a toll. We’ll take whatever you’ve got. Drachmae, pounds, marks.”
Bennett said, “No payment for something that costs you nothing.”
The leader’s jaw tightened. “Where’s your respect, outsider?”
“Saved for those who deserve it,” Bennett said pleasantly. “Not bored little boys.”
The leader made to lunge at Bennett, but one of the youths, gangly and only just on the other side of childhood, yelped, “He’s got a gun, Vasilis.”
“This?” Bennett set one of the pitchers down and unholstered his revolver. The gang scuttled back. “Men don’t need guns.” He opened the cylinder, shook out the bullets, put them in his jacket pocket, then reholstered his weapon. He picked up the pitcher. Neither of his hands were free to either make a fist or load his revolver.
London gaped at him. “What are you doing?” she hissed in English.
He had the temerity to wink at her. She decided to kill him later, if they survived this encounter.
“Showing off for your woman?” the leader scoffed.
Bennett said, “She knows me better than that. I’ve nothing to prove.”
“Only that you bleed like everyone else.” The leader charged at Bennett. His companions cheered.
She barely saw it. Bennett’s left arm swung out, practiced, smooth. The pitcher he held slammed into the leader’s head, sending the youth reeling sideways from the blow.
Bennett glanced at the pitcher. “Didn’t break,” he murmured. “Good craftsmanship.”
The cheering died, but two of the young men, seeing their leader stagger, surged forward. Animal rage, long pent up, finally released, and they had fists ready.
Bennett stepped forward as if to meet them in a dance. He jabbed the bottom of a pitcher into one attacker’s stomach. The youth doubled over, gasping, retching. At nearly the same moment, Bennett trapped the ankle of the other attacker between his own shins and gave a little twist. Down went the youth, sprawling in the dust.
The fourth young man immediately leapt onto Bennett, wrapping tough arms around him in a parody of an embrace as the fifth youth grabbed Bennett’s knees and pulled. Everyone toppled back together. London winced at the sound of them hitting the ground. The pitchers rolled out of Bennett’s hands as his back met a large rock half-buried in the dirt.
Seeing their opportunity, the others collected themselves enough to pile onto Bennett like massing jackals. All London could see were limbs flailing, punching.
She had to do something. London whirled around, searching, and her eyes fell on a thick fallen branch. It was heavy in her arms, but she hefted it as fast as she was able. She staggered over and brought it down with a slam onto the shoulders of one youth. He howled in pain. Then turned and wrested the branch from her. The rough bark scraped her hands as it flew from her grip.
She had no weapon.
So she started kicking him.
He tried to shield himself, but she wouldn’t allow him any protection. Anything undefended, she kicked, wishing she had stouter boots and not ones of dainty kidskin. When he grabbed at her leg, she aimed with her heel and brought it square into his face. A gruesome, satisfying crunch and spatter of red upon his upper lip. He rolled over, cradling his nose and moaning.
London spared him no thought as she moved to help Bennett. And saw that her help was not needed.
He shoved one knee into the chest of an attacker, and drove his elbow into the youth’s chin as he fell backward. The youth sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky with dazed, glassy eyes.
London did not even see Bennett get to his feet, but suddenly, there he was, standing loose and tall. He landed a series of quick punches into the jaws and chests of the attackers, each in turn. A right uppercut hook, delivered with neatness and precision. The assailant crumpled with a whimper. Another was sent flying into the trunk of a nearby tree, sending a rustling cascade of leaves down upon him as he momentarily lost the ability to breathe.
Leaving only the leader. The youth, panting, glanced around at his fallen comrades, all nursing injuries, two quietly praying for divine intervention or at least the solace of their mothers. He looked at Bennett.
Bennett smiled. He wasn’t even breathing hard. Deliberate and calm, he picked a few leaves off his jacket, then gave the garment a final tug to right it.
The leader backed up, stepping on one of his prone friends. A yelp of protest and pain.
Picking up the pitchers, Bennett said, affable as a publican, “The stream is toward the east, correct?”
All the leader could do was nod mutely and point in the proper direction.
“Excellent.” Bennett gestured London forward. “Let’s go, my love. Sorry I can’t offer you my arm, but my hands are a bit full.”
“Think nothing of it,” said London.
“Was ever a man blessed with such an agreeable traveling companion?” Bennett asked the heavens. Then he began to walk.
The youths on the ground scurried out of his way, while the leader of the group darted behind the twisted trunk of an olive tree, seeking shelter. As London and Bennett walked onward, no one spoke.
After strolling twenty yards on, London heard a frantic scuffling. She braced herself for another attack. When none came, she chanced a look over her shoulder. The gang, supporting each other, stumbled off toward the village, not even daring to glance back. London almost felt sorry for them, the little worms. But her hands still shook with commingled fear and unleashed violence—she’d never caused someone to shed blood before—and she wasn’t sorry at all.
When they were gone, she turned to Bennett. “What the devil were you thinking?” she demanded hotly. “Why did you remove the bullets from your gun?”
He gave a negligent shrug. “They were just boys. Besides, with the gun loaded, they’d just try to take it from me, then wind up shooting themselves.”
“I don’t see what’s so bad about that,” muttered London.
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Already you’re demanding blood sacrifices. But Blades minimize casualties where they can.”
Unlike her father and his associates. The thought slowed her heartbeat with a shiver of sorrow.
“You were ferocious back there,” he added, and she basked in the admiration warming his voice. Strange, she never thought to be praised for kicking a man in the face.
“An Amazon,” she said, recalling his words on Delos.
“Stronger than Heracles.”
She valued his good opinion. It held a weight that few things in life carried. But it was not a sweetmeat handed out by an indulgent adult to a covetous child. Rather, it passed from one equal to another.
The ground sloped downward into a valley shaded by bay laurel trees, the air scented by the fragrant, glossy leaves. Bennett tucked one pitcher under his arm and kept a careful hand on her elbow as they edged with sideways steps into the valley.
“Listen,” Bennett said, stopping for a moment and holding up his hand.
London cocked her head to the side, searching. Then she heard it. A liquid tumble of water over rocks. “The stream.”
Moving more quickly, they hastened into the sun-mottled valley. Sparse grasses and fallen leaves crackled under their feet. Sunlight glinted at the bottom of the valley. There, they stopped.
Carving out a path for itself at the base of the valley, the stream flowed over pebbles on its banks and large rocks and boulders in the center. Though the stream was barely ten feet across, a test by Bennett with a fallen tree branch revealed its depth. The water could come over London’s head, if she stood on the floor of the stream. Dense grasses fringed the banks, ribbons of green fluttering alongside the clear water.
Bennett dipped one of the pitchers into the water, then brought it to her. He held the pitcher as she drank from it. The water was cold and sweet. When she had taken her fill, she stared, fascinated, as he placed his mouth where hers had been and drank deeply, the strong column of his throat moving as he swallowed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, dazed, when he finished and set the pitchers aside.
He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip where a few droplets of water clung. “The hell if I remember.”
She blinked, trying to collect herself. “The stream. The Source.”
That broke the small spell around them. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Right.”
For a few moments, he and London stood on the bank, listening. “I do not hear any singing,” London said after some minutes. “It sounds like water in a stream, but nothing more.”
Bennett frowned in concentration. “Move around a bit. Let’s try hearing it from different points.”
She obliged, walking up and down along the bank, straining to hear something beyond the soothing, but quotidian, sound of running water. Bennett did the same, then, without a word, backed up and started running for the stream. London barely gulped her warning before he sprang across the stream with an athletic leap. He landed in an easy crouch, then smoothly came to standing.
“You must have driven your poor mother mad,” London gulped.
“Still do.” He was like a boy. But no boy moved as Bennett did, potently virile, effortlessly confident.
Rather than spend the day watching him, London made herself continue to patrol the bank of the stream, careful to listen for any change in the sound of the water. Bennett did the same on the opposite bank, attentive and alert.
Then, a shift. She halted immediately, adjusted her position. “I think I have found it.” London strained, then nodded. “Come and hear.”
Bennett again jumped across the stream, then joined London where she stood. He pressed close to her, his front to her back, his hands on her shoulders. She was aware of every inch of him and his solidly muscled body, his breath warm in her hair, the strength of his hands. Concentrate, London, she scolded herself.
“Do you hear it?” she asked.
“A voice,” he confirmed.
“A singing voice.” Together, they listened. Astonishing. The melody was simple, a single refrain in a voice that was neither male nor female, but elemental and of the earth. Plaintive, verging on melancholy. It repeated the same phrase over and over, rising up from the stream and glimmering in the sunshine.
“I don’t understand what it’s saying,” said Bennett.
“A very old dialect.” London tilted her head to hear it better. “A mixture of Samalian and Thracian.” She closed her eyes, focusing, though it was difficult with Bennett so near. “Come into my arms. Come into my arms.”
“Later, love,” Bennett said.
She turned so he could see her scowl. “Not me, the stream. That is what it is singing. Come into my arms.” She put a small breadth of distance between herself and Bennett. “A charming sentiment, but what does it mean? Whose arms? Where?”
Bennett paced for a moment, rubbing absently at his jaw. Then, with a gleam in his eyes, he shucked off his jacket. He unbuckled his belt and set it and his revolver carefully on the ground. After pulling down his braces, he removed his waistcoat and began to unbutton his shirt.
“I said it was the stream, not me!” London yelped. She stared as his fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons, revealing the sculpted lines of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Dark hair lightly dusted his chest, then trailed in a line down to the waistband of his trousers. In a moment, he tossed his shirt to the ground. London had only seen a handful of men shirtless, knew she was inexperienced in this realm, but Bennett’s body, she realized, was utterly perfect. He surpassed any sculpture or painting she had ever seen because he was real and flesh and very much alive.
His perfection was not marred by the small collection of scars marking his body. Rather, they revealed he was a man who lived by deed as well as word.
He saw her eyes moving over him, taking in the scars. “Lawrence Harcourt gave me this,” he rumbled, pointing to a line of scar tissue crossing the hard plane of his stomach.
She gasped in horror. “It looks like he wanted to gut you.”
“He tried.”
The idea appalled her. “Bennett—”
But he didn’t need or want any apology or explanation, dismissing the past, burning her now with the heat of his eyes. “I prefer this mark to any other.” He glanced down to his shoulder.
London followed his gaze and saw the red crescent upon his skin. She realized it was the imprint of her teeth from the night before. Deep within her, in her most intimate and warm places, she felt a contraction of pure lust.
He tugged off his boots.
“We cannot do this now!” London said, though her pulse raced like a deer in flight.
“Oh, we are. Now.” He held her gaze as he began to unfasten his trousers. He said, his voice a wicked tease, “Strip.”