“His name isGerald Morningford,” Margaret spat, “and I know exactly where to find him.”
Left to her own devices,she would have leapt into a carriage immediately and set off with no accoutrements except a thick commonplace book and a non-leaking fountain pen with which to scribble and revise drafts of the most scathing possible remarks to properly wither her enemy upon arrival.
However, as a married woman, travel had apparently become absurdly overcomplicated.
“Many people,” her husband insisted, his tone infuriatingly patient as he blocked the doorway, “would indeed consider the packing of fresh clothes necessary before a journey likely to last for days.”
“Who gives a damn what I wear when I confront him?” Margaret rose onto her tiptoes to peer longingly over Lord Riven’s shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who told me not to waste time chasing after temporary fashions? That worm has the Rosein his actual grip.”
“And you’ll have a far easier time intimidating him out of it if you aren’t grimy and travelworn when we arrive. Moreover, you may recall how confused exhaustion made you by the end of your last journey, when you weren’t allowed to stop and rest along the way. Don’t you think you ought to take the time to sleep at a few inns, dress in clean attire, and have your wits about you?”
His eyebrows rose into a maddeningly supercilious expression. “Or do youwishto arrive looking desperate and bedraggled and struggling to think when you finally confront your nemesis?”
“Ugh.” Growling, Margaret gnawed at her lower lip and fell back a step. “I can’t bear it. He’ll be pawing at the Roseright nowand feeling so smug and superior. Morningford always told me it washisarea of study by right, as the direct descendant of our college founder.”
“Ha.” Red sheened across Lord Riven’s pale gaze. “As it happens, guarding the Rose wasmyresponsibility as the descendant of the man who swore to keep it safely hidden...and I can tell you now, madam, that if you wish me to keep my own control andnotshed blood on your precious college grounds, you will allow me the time to pack and rest along the way. Otherwise, I may not be able to recall, when we arrive, that I am still a gentleman.”
“Oh, very well.” Therewouldbe an enormous amount of fuss, Margaret supposed, if her—albeit temporary—husband bit out Gerald Morningford’s treacherous throat on college grounds. In a worst-case scenario, it might even lead to her being barred from the college library for months. And yet...
“You do know you needn’t come along with me,” she told him. “I’ve made a commitment, and I shall honor it. I won’t forget our partnership and leave you to lose your estate the moment the Rose is in my hands.”
“I do trust that you won’tmeanto,” said her husband dryly, “but I am beginning to have some small understanding of the power of an academic fixation over and above all other concerns. Moreover, as much as I admire your keen mind, I fear that any brute who would go to such dishonorable lengths to gain the Rose in the first place mightnotbe easily talked into giving it up afterwards, no matter how persuasive your arguments. You might find it surprisingly helpful to have a partner by your side for this particular battle.”
“Hmmph.” She’d made it through every challenge in her academic career without receivingorrequiring any support from any of her fellows...but Margaret did have to admit that it might be helpful to have her husband at hand to arrange all the particulars of the journey home afterwards, leaving her free to study the Rose unhindered by any practical distractions.
So, in the end, she endured the tooth-grinding delay of all the preparations. Their carriage, laden with frivolous baggage of all descriptions, did not set off until nearly one in the morning. Ordinarily, she would have been asleep by that point; tonight, fueled by furious energy, she was kept busy with her scribbled imprecations, questions, and furious notes to herself until the conveyance finally drew to a halt some hours later.
When she looked up, blinking, Lord Riven gave her a wry shrug. “Dawn approaches, I’m afraid. Even with the best possible wooden shutters, it’s better not to take any chances.”
She might have argued—but a sudden, jaw-splitting yawn took her off guard, and she fumbled her pencil as she lifted her hand to her mouth in reaction.
Lord Riven caught the pencil with his usual grace and held out one strong arm to her as the carriage door was opened. “May I help you to the ground?”
Margaret looked into his expectant gaze...and sighed, swallowing down a second yawn. “Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “I suppose rest would make sense for both of us.”
Her head whirling with exhaustion, she gave in to necessity and placed one hand on his proffered arm as she walked down the carriage steps. It was an astonishingly steady support; she felt strong muscles flexing underneath the fabric of his coat to hold her weight and keep her safe from any falls.
Needless to say, she snatched her hand back the moment her first foot landed on firm ground. She couldn’t allow herself to grow accustomed to that sort of thing.
However, as the long days of travel passed, Margaret found it impossible not to relax her guard, at least by fractional degrees, and equally impossible not to notice when her husband required support from her as well.
Lord Riven never shrank from conversations at the inns where they stopped each morning, but she could read the tension in his large frame as he first took in each new sight and unfamiliar person. After who-knew-how-many decades spent moldering by himself among bitter old memories in his family home, she could almost feel the sensory impact of the outside world slamming into him, each new technological development and turn of phrase striking him like a metaphorical explosion.
She might even have felt pity if she hadn’t seen each startling new discovery punch more holes into the fog of despair that had shrouded him when they’d first met. Watching him wake up to the world again felt dangerously revelatory. He’d had a startlingly modern haircut at the first inn where they stopped, but while his mane might have finally been tamed, his mind was once more ravenously hungry and on the prowl for information and sustenance.
For practicality’s sake, Margaret adopted his nocturnal schedule for the duration of their journey. However, she wasn’t prepared for how much she would enjoy the conversations they fell into in the long hours of the nights. He'd never again asked, even in jest, to take her blood—but everything else seemed to hold endless fascination.
“What drew you to a study of the Rose in the first place?” he inquired, midway through their second night of travel. His boots were propped against the footboard just beside her, his arms crossed loosely across his chest. As he leaned back against his cushioned leather seat, his keen gaze was illuminated by the warm glow of the carriage lamp. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a woman prone to chasing fairytales or legends.”
“Not even the most stubborn industrial modernists can pretend that items like the Rose are mere legends,” Margaret said. “We still see their effects every day—and over half our nobility was created by them. My parents’ explorations took us all around the world in search of even more rare and legendary wonders, but they always told me the Rose was one item sure to be found within England’s own borders.”
She gave a casual shrug, trying not to notice the light brush of her husband’s boots against her skirts as the carriage turned a corner. “Of course, once I lost my parents as a child, my own travels had to end...and even now, respectable ladies aren’t meant to travel abroad on their own.” She grimaced. “Fortunately, thanks to our late queen, wecanat least attend university and make names for ourselves in that way, even if it does enrage men like Morningford.”
“Ah.” Her husband’s upper lip curled. “I’ve known fools like that in other centuries too, who only find their own strength in pushing others down.” There was a drifting silence for a few moments before he continued in an oddly wistful tone. “How far did you travel with your parents?”
“Oh, mostly across the continent—they were particularly interested in the myths and history of some of the smaller kingdoms in the Eastern European mountains. But beyond all of those...wait.” She tilted her head. “You were planning a tour of the continent as well, all those centuries ago, weren’t you?”
“As it happened, I got no further than the very top of northern Italy, and even that was further than I should have allowed myself to go.” His lips gave a wry twist. “Not quite the epic adventure I had planned.”
