He knew the reason, of course. Meg was still vexed. Oh, but not nearly as much as he was in that moment.
“There you are, Your Grace,” Myrtle Parrish said with a smile as she walked out with her sister. “We were afraid we were going to miss bidding you farewell.”
“Farewell?” he asked with casual remoteness.
Then his gaze flicked to the open doorway to rest on a pair of icy-blue irises. The remaining fog gathered at her hem in filmy strands of mist. If someone were to tell him that she possessed meteorological wiles as well, at this point he would have believed them.
“Why, yes,” Myrtle continued. “We’re off to Italy now. Though, we were most forlorn when Meg mentioned last night that our parties will no longer be traveling together.”
“Did she, indeed? Well, it just so happens that my cousin and I are still on our way to Italy. As planned.”
Maeve Parrish smiled, a knowing gleam in her eyes. “Splendid news!”
“Simply splendid,” Meg muttered under her breath.
“Perhaps we’ll even happen to stay at the same hotels,” Maeve continued.
“There is a high degree of certainty that we shall frequent the same places,” he promised and saw Meg’s eyelashes cluster together as she hurled icy daggers in his direction. With a bow, he added, “I would welcome any further acquaintance with you and your party, ma’am.”
Then Lucien escorted them to their waiting carriage. Maeve and Myrtle filed in, chatting about their eagerness to meet again. Which left the she-wolf.
She said nothing as she stood off to the side. Her indigo traveling costume made the rim around her irises seem darker, giving the pale centers an almost bleached appearance. His gaze met with a hard, unapproachable glare as if she were considering chewing off his hand, should he dare to offer one.
But he presented his hand, nonetheless. And she waited five and three-quarter seconds before accepting.
The instant her fingers slid unerringly into the valley of his palm, a jolt rifled through him. Every blistering moment they’d spent locked in a fervent embrace teemed through his blood like a pack of howling wolves on the hunt. Reflexively, his fingers closed. Hers answered in kind.
Confusion marked her brow in delicate furrows as she glanced down. And when their eyes met again, she looked altogether too vulnerable. In that instant, he could almost hear her whispered declaration, There’s something more between us.
But he shook his head, refusing to give any credence to her ridiculous notions of chance and happenstance. And the unspoken exchange fell between them like a frosted windowpane, splintering with ice crystals that would not be quick to thaw.
She pulled free and slipped inside the carriage, issuing one curt “Good-bye, Your Grace,” before the door closed.
As the carriage rolled away, Pell staggered up beside him, shielding his eyes from the bleary morning light. “Lady Avalon seemed quite piqued this morning when I saw her inside and mentioned the carnival. Whatever did you do to her?”
“It’s what I didn’t do.”
He didn’t lose himself completely. Didn’t allow her to steal his sanity by forgetting what was between them.
“Mmm,” Pell hummed with intrigue. “It seems as though the lady is living up to her reputation. She’ll have you in leading strings by the time we reach Italy.”
“You’re mistaken. It will be the other way around.”
He was in control once more. And as long as he stayed away from her kisses and sly touches, he would remain that way.
“Are you sure about that? Because when you look at her, it seems as though—” Pell chuckled when he heard Lucien’s growl. “Right. I’ll say no more. Silent as the grave, I am. My lips are sealed. I’m turning the lock and throwing away the key. You won’t hear another syllable pass these lips. Not the susurration of a whisper, or even the . . .”
Merlin’s teeth, Lucien thought as his cousin rambled on, it was going to be a long way to Italy.
* * *
Lucien had been right.
Even though the days still contained the same number of minutes and hours, this past week had seemed like a month. A very cold month.
Some people claimed that hell was filled with fire and brimstone, but he believed it was full of glaciers and . . . waterfalls.
He discovered this when they reached the Rhine Falls in Schaffhausen, Switzerland, and Meg decided to take a tour of the river, paddling toward the thunderous cataract. Myrtle Parrish accompanied her. Maeve Parrish was far too sensible. And Lucien was not consulted.
He’d only learned of this insanity after he’d finished his correspondence and saw Pell—who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her—in the gaming salon instead.
Lucien found her just when she was getting into the canoe. Then she refused to answer when he’d asked, quite sensibly, “What the devil are you doing?”
So he directed his next queries to the infant captain of their vessel—if one could even call that casket seaworthy—who could not even provide documents regarding his qualifications or experience.
The boy knew nothing about Archimedes’s principle of buoyancy or even the flow velocity vector! And yet, she remained in that boat regardless.
Lucien had no doubt that she was doing it just to retaliate by means of torture. And he knew this because every time he’d shout from shore above the din of rushing water—rational warnings about rapids, eddies, the estimated percentage of capsizing risk, and the temperature in which hypothermia sets in—she would throw back her head and laugh.
Though, why it should bother him, he didn’t know. Nor did he know why there was a damnable gnawing sensation in his gut that nearly rooted him to the spot.
He pressed a fist into the center of his stomach. It aggravated him when he couldn’t make sense of something, when questions didn’t have substantiated answers. He was the type of man who required a firm understanding of the things around him or else he felt trapped and unable to move forward. That was the reason he’d always kept such detailed notes of every experiment.
But he didn’t have any notes on her.
Nonetheless, he forced himself to move, following their progress from the towpath. And every step of the way, he muttered curses beneath his breath.
His mood did not improve when the captain steered the canoe into a little cove a good distance from the edge of the falls. As the captain assisted Myrtle Parrish, Lucien hauled Meg out and set her on her feet.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Worried about me, Herzog?” Her eyes and teeth flashed in challenge as she leaned closer and laid her hand over his heart. “Admit it. You know there’s something more between us. Even when we’re angry, we cannot deny it.”
Beneath her hand, a conflagration burned inside his chest. Then the blistering air seethed through his nostrils as he fought the urge to either shake her or toss her over his shoulder and—
He didn’t allow himself to finish the thought. “Nothing could be further from the truth. My only concern was that you might have dashed your head on the rocks, and I’d never learn the location of my book.”
On a sigh, she lowered her hand. And as he watched her walk away, he dismissed that gnawing sensation in his gut, believing it was nothing more than a strong aversion to idiocy.