The Shadows by Megan Chance Page B

back. I knew where the Devlin stables were—two blocks over from the park, only a short walk from here.
    I was nervous as I went there, my pulse racing.
Stupid!
There was nothing to worry about. This morning had been odd, and those things I’d felt . . . whatever the cause, I had no wish to see Derry again. And who knew if Lucy was there right now, lying to her mother, sneaking out. . . . He’d whispered
something
to her; doubtless it had been a time tomeet him later. Wouldn’t
that
be perfect, to run into her there.
    But I needed that book. And I knew Derry had it.
    The stables were on the corner. As beautiful as any mansion—probably just as well appointed, too, though I’d never been inside. The brougham we’d taken to the shop was parked outside, and the driver was polishing it until it gleamed in the sun. He started when he saw me.
    “Miss?”
    “I think I might have left a book in the carriage,” I lied. “I wondered if perhaps you’d found it. A small book. Of poems.”
    Leonard shook his head. His hat was off, his dark-green coat lying over the carriage wheel. “No, miss. There was no such thing.”
    “I must have dropped it. Perhaps the stableboy found it on the walk.”
    He jerked his head toward the open stable door. “He’s just inside. You could ask him yourself.”
    I knew that he believed this was just what I’d come to do, and I hated it, especially because it was true, even if not for the reason he thought.
    The inside was as beautiful as I’d expected. Polished walnut stalls and gleaming leather tack hanging from the walls, porcelain troughs of water, a barrelful of oats so fine I would have been glad to eat them myself. The stable smelled like any other, of oil and leather, hay and horse, but the air here seemed more rarefied somehow, as if the scents of sweat and manure were not allowed but kept hovering outside, waiting to sneak in.
    I hesitated just inside the doorway. I saw no movement anywhere but for the horses: a swish of tail, a stomped foot. And then I heard a noise, a muttered voice, and Derry emerged from a stall. There was no glow this time—not that I’d thought there would be. He held a currying brush, and his shirtsleeves were pushed up to expose muscled forearms, his shirt mostly open, revealing far too much of his chest, which gleamed with the fine sheen of sweat. His dark hair was still falling into his face—irritating me all over again. How could he even see through it?
    I wished I hadn’t come. But before I could retreat, he saw me.
    He straightened, then I saw that mocking expression again. “Miss Knox,” he said—there was not the slightest surprise in his voice, and that was irritating too. “Let me know if you mean to swoon, will you? I’ll wash my hands. I wouldn’t want to get you dirty.”
    “I’ve no intention of swooning.”
    He put aside the currying brush and leaned against the stall. “Am I still glowing?”
    “No. Not since . . .”
Since you touched me.
I swallowed those words, knowing already what he would make of them.
    “Not since when?”
    “Since you caught me,” I admitted.
    His grin grew, exactly as I’d thought. “I’ve been told I have a healing touch.”
    “I doubt
healing
was the word.”
    He inclined his head as if to acknowledge that was trueand propped his elbow on the top railing of the stall. “So what brings you here, miss, if ’tisn’t ‘healing’ or catching you want?”
    “You may be the most arrogant boy I’ve ever met. I’m here because I want my book.”
    “Your book?”
    “I dropped it. When I . . . when I swooned. And now I can’t find it. I thought you might have it.”
    “Why would I want your book?”
    “I have no idea. I doubt you can even read.”
    “You’re a bit arrogant yourself, Miss Knox.”
    “Am I wrong?”
    He crossed his arms over his chest and gave me that thoughtful look that had stolen my breath outside the carriage, as if he saw something in me that belonged to him, and