She gave an exaggerated grimace, as she went on in a blithe tone. “Only a small one. Go on without me, I’ll just rest here a moment.”
His expression grew softer. She knew perfectly well he was on to her. They both knew. But neither of them addressed the truth. Instead, he offered her his arm. “Lean on me,” he said in a soft rasp. “And we’ll climb the stairs together.”
And if, in truth, Adam ended up leaning into her, letting her shore him up as they limped up the stairs, it was nobody’s business but theirs. Nor did she take notice when he panted upon reaching the landing. Instead, she pulled out a kerchief.
“Here,” she said, wiping the sweat from his brow with brusque strokes. “You are filthy. I thought Mr. Brown gave you leave to use his bath.”
Tall as he was, she had to rise up on her toes to reach him, and his hand settled upon her waist to steady her. Eliza ignored the little kick his touch set off inside of her. Quietly, he watched her, his face bent towards her so she might clean him. But she felt the weight of his stare, the strange tenderness of it.
What on earth was she doing? He did not need fussing over and certainly not by her. She took a hasty step back, pocketing her kerchief.
“There.” She made her voice bright and cheerful. “All better.”
He watched her for a moment more, his expression solemn, then cleared his throat. “Come along then, mother hen.”
His fingertips found the small of her back as he led her into the inner press office, and she realized that, no matter what his mood or predicament, he acted the gallant knight first and foremost. And though the chain leached his strength, he moved with the grace of a warrior.
Cheaply dressed Adam might have been, yet as soon as they walked into the cramped newsroom, a man hurried over not with an intent to eject them from the premises but with clear deference. “May I help you, sir?”
“We are here to see Mr. Michaels.”
Mr. Sean Michaels, it turned out, was a cheerful Irishman of medium height with hair the precise shade of Christmas gingerbread. It curled around his ruddy face and highlighted the color of his brilliant blue eyes.
“Have a seat, then.” He hastily cleared stacks of yellowed papers from the bentwood chairs in his small, chaotic office. Towers of paper and books tottered higgledy-piggledy and threatened to come crashing down as Eliza and Adam took their seats in the little area cleared for them. “Here we are. We’ll have a spot of tea and a fine chat.”
Bold as you please, Adam threw back his cloak and the blasted length of chains clattered around him. Michaels’s brows rose. “That’s quite a… spiffing outfit.”
Adam laughed, deep and full. “Eliza insisted I wear them. She finds the chains titillating.”
“Horrid man,” she whispered, barely resisting the urge to pinch him, even though part of her fought a smile.
Adam shrugged at Michaels. “They are merely part of a garden variety curse. Pay them no heed.”
“If you say.” Michaels caught a folder midslide and tossed it into a corner. “I’ll get us that tea.”
In the time Eliza had to give Adam a dubious look, the young man returned, carrying a plain, wooden tea tray, laden with a clunky crockery teapot and three mismatched earthenware teacups. “Were this a social visit,” Michaels said as he set the tray down, “I’d ask you to do the honors, Miss May. As we’ve a bit of work to do here, I’m afraid I must be pouring the tea. Milk or sugar?”
“Both,” Eliza and Adam said as one. They glanced at each other in mild surprise before Eliza turned her attention back to Michaels.
He went about serving them with surprisingly graceful movements. The aroma of good, strong, milk-in-first Irish tea filled the office and made Eliza aware of how very cold and weary she’d become. Gratefully, she accepted the hot mug and, not standing on upper-crust manners, wrapped her icy fingers around the heavy bowl of it.
“Drink it while it’s fresh and hot,” Michaels said as he sat himself behind his desk. The eerie greenish light of rain-soaked London shone through the rice paper shade covering his window and set his curls aglow.
Eliza took a bracing sip and sighed.
“A Yank who appreciates her tea,” Michaels said with a small smile. “Now that is something I like to see.”
“A Yank, yes,” Eliza answered after taking another sip. “But three-quarters Irish to boot.”
“Well” – Michaels’ eyes crinkled – “we won’t hold that one-quarter against you, now will we, lass?”
Adam set his cup down with more force than necessary. “As charming as discussions of ancestry are, I do believe we are here on other business.”
Michaels simply grinned, his ruddy cheeks plumping up like autumn apples. “There’s been talk, speculation that you disappeared because you fell in love. But, until now, I didn’t believe it.”
“Shouldn’t you know the actual truth,” Eliza couldn’t help but ask, “seeing as you are an oracle?” She didn’t want him running on about Adam being in love, at any rate. Nor did she care to have Adam correct his error. Their odd relationship was uncomfortable enough without others knowing about it.
Michaels glanced at her, his blue eyes mischievous. “Oracles aren’t omniscient, Miss May. We’ve limitations just as much as the next supernatural.” Not to be distracted, Michaels turned his attention back to Adam. “That’s it then? You’ve lost yourself in a woman?”