Stranger by Zoe Archer Page B

kitchen—everything quite ordinary, quite domestic, like any other inn Catullus had visited. Yet here, standing with his body very close to Gemma so that he saw the flutter of her pulse just beneath her jaw as she looked up at him, nothing was ordinary or domestic, but charged and fraught with possibility.
    “Collecting material for your article?” he asked softly. He cast a quick look to the staircase, down which the innkeeper had walked.
    “No.” She faintly frowned at the idea she might exploit the innkeeper’s tale for her own benefit. “I just like to hear people’s stories.”
    He didn’t doubt that. Gemma Murphy was, he continued to learn, exceptionally inquisitive. Not only for her work as a journalist, but for herself, because she loved knowing and learning and exploring for their own sakes. She imbued even the proprietor of a dying, tiny country inn with gravity and worth, where others—more thoughtless—might dismiss such a man.
    This woman is very dangerous.
Not in the common way dangerous, ready with a knife or betrayal, but danger of another sort. A well-guarded heart might not be as fortified as previously thought. And a body that had gone far too long without pleasure and release could not resist her, with her lush, seductive curves, her freckled, warm skin, her nimble hands.
    But he would. He knew self-discipline, and good manners, and a lifetime of loneliness that could not be eradicated within the span of a few days. So, despite everything within him demanding that he close the small space between him and Gemma, and press her against the wall as he kissed her thoroughly, he said, instead, “See you at supper, then.”
    Catullus thought he saw a look of disappointment cross Gemma’s face, but it vanished before he could make certain. “Yes, at supper.”
    Then she turned and went into her room, and Catullus stood by himself for many moments afterward.

Chapter 5
Sleeping Arrangements
    Once inside the room she was to share with Astrid, Gemma looked up, expecting to find hams hanging from the rafters or perhaps goats gnawing on the coverlet. But the room was only that—simply furnished with a washstand, a chair, a chest of drawers and, of course, a bed. As the innkeeper had promised, the bed looked wide enough to easily accommodate two.
    Astrid paced the room, taking its measure. She checked the one small casement window, making sure it opened, then glancing down to the road a story below. Checking for escape routes, Gemma realized. Astrid moved with precision and purpose, a battle-hardened veteran who also happened to be a woman. Gemma could only speculate what variety of adventures and hardship the Englishwoman had endured.
    While Astrid surveyed the pitched-ceiling room, she continued to glance at Gemma with caution, as though Gemma were a variety of spider that leapt on and bit its unsuspecting prey. The source of Astrid’s circumspection could be any number of possibilities. What might it take to win her trust?
    In any event, it seemed unlikely that Gemma and Astrid would spend the night exchanging whispered confidences and giggling beneath the blanket.
    Gemma rifled through her little satchel, desperate to find a brush for her disobedient tangle of hair. She wasn’t especially vain, but knowing that she would be sharing supper with Catullus in a few minutes made her more attentive to her appearance. Maybe it was for the best that the room’s only mirror was both tiny and fogged with age. Leaping off moving trains tended to wreak havoc on one’s hair and clothes, and Gemma was sure she looked as though she’d not only jumped off a train, but landed in a sty and then rubbed handfuls of forest in her hair. Looking at herself in a mirror would only confirm her suspicions.
    Astrid’s gasp sounded behind her.
    Gemma ran to her side, supporting Astrid as she staggered. The Englishwoman wore an expression of both pain and acute concentration.
    “Are you all right?” Gemma tried to usher