Текст книги "The Golden City"
Автор книги: Kathleen Cheney
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“Erdano and I met at a tavern,” he said. “We were set upon as we left.” He reached back, dug something out of the pocket of his frock coat, and laid it on the table. It was a knife bearing the mark of the Special Police. “It could be a coincidence or stolen, but this doesn’t look like a cheap copy. It’s regular issue.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “I think they’re not happy that I’m asking about The City Under the Sea. What I’m not sure about is how they know I’m still asking.”
Oriana glanced down at the blade. A line of his blood stained the edge. “Do they know about you . . . and your mother?”
“Why would we be alive if they did? No, I suspect this is about the investigation.” He regarded her wearily. “I came by earlier to return your sketch, but you were out.”
Oriana licked her lips. Was he accusing her of telling someone about his investigation? Did he think she’d provoked this attack on him? “I . . . I saw my master on the street, and . . .”
He held up one hand. “You don’t have to explain. I just wanted to apologize for not getting you a knife earlier, as I promised I would. I’ll bring one to breakfast.”
The coil that had been twisting in her stomach loosened. She didn’t want him thinking badly of her. “Thank you.”
Mr. Ferreira stood and offered her a hand up. Her mitts lay on the table, but she placed her bare hand in his and let him draw her to her feet. That close, he smelled of ambergris cologne, of blood and brandy, a fascinating combination.
“I should go to bed,” he said, “before the brandy goes to my head.”
He must be exhausted. She felt guilty now for interrogating him. “Of course.”
“Then good night, Miss Paredes.” He gathered up his coat and assortment of weapons, including the knife with the sigil of the Special Police. He moved toward the door, but stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “And if you sleep in the bathtub, you might contrive to rumple the bed anyway. I was already asked by my valet, who had it from the butler, who was told by a maid that you didn’t sleep in your own bed last night. Their assumption being, of course . . .”
“That I was in your bed,” she finished for him, warmth stealing through her body again. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nodded, and then was gone.
Oriana sat down and stared dazedly after him.
She didn’t know why she was reacting this way to him. She had never given a moment’s thought to any of the men who’d made up Isabel’s court of suitors. Some had been overly familiar, touching her inappropriately or making suggestions, but that had only made her like them less. They simply hadn’t interested her.
She wasn’t certain why this man did. He wasn’t strikingly handsome. He was human—or half-human, she corrected herself. He was also half-selkie. Her people tended to regard selkies as savages, choosing to live in the sea like animals. She’d never met one before, though. Lady Ferreira was certainly not a savage, nor was her son.
But selkies also had a reputation for seductiveness. Oriana licked her lips, wondering if that was the source of her reaction. She had gotten close enough to smell his skin. That scent she’d taken for ambergris cologne must have been a selkie’s musk. Could that be it?
She shook her head to stop her brain’s meandering. She needed to keep herself under control around Mr. Ferreira. She didn’t need any more complications.
CHAPTER 15
THURSDAY, 2 OCTOBER 1902
Duilio had expected to toss and turn for hours, but he’d actually fallen asleep facedown on his bed without even undressing. Marcellin had been livid at Duilio’s disregard for his attire, more so than he’d been over learning that someone had tried to kill his master. Duilio took it with good humor, though, offering the man the chance to pick out his evening wear for the ball that night as a sop.
By the time he reached the breakfast table, he found Miss Paredes and his mother already halfway through their meal. When reminded of the ball they planned to attend later, his mother promised she would take a nap that afternoon. She appeared unruffled by their plans, which made him feel better about dragging her out into society.
He turned to Miss Paredes, sliding a napkin-wrapped bundle across to her. “I hope this one works for you, Miss Paredes.”
She peeked at the knife and its wrist sheath, then quickly shifted the contents to her lap. “Thank you,” she said meekly. Her eyes flicked toward the door where Gustavo was entering, carrying a tray with Duilio’s regular breakfast and coffee. “It will be fine, sir.”
Apparently she didn’t want to talk in front of the footman. Or perhaps she was sheepish after her boldness last night. But she seemed withdrawn this morning. Duilio preferred the woman who’d surprised him in the library the night before, who’d spoken to him like an equal. He wondered if that was the real Oriana Paredes.
He wasn’t going to find out this morning, he decided half an hour later. Miss Paredes spent the meal reading to his mother about an effort to lift salvage from a Spanish ship sunk decades before near Lisboa. When he left, pleading a need to go speak with Joaquim, Miss Paredes seemed relieved. It was vexing.
A quick side trip down to the marina past the Alameda de Massarelos, where the family’s boats were moored, gave him the answer to Erdano’s query about where Aga had gone. As soon as Duilio said her name, a furiously blushing João stammered that Erdano’s sister had decided to “visit” at his flat for the time. Since he’d probably gotten the young man into that situation, Duilio asked João to come up to the house in a few days to discuss it further. João’s apartment was rent free, but the young man would need additional funds if he were to host Aga for any length of time. Duilio didn’t mind—after all, Aga was almost family.
Joaquim wore a pleased smile when Duilio finally reached his office. The office in the Massarelos Police Station was small, with a modern metal cabinet for files standing in the corner and a decrepit desk in the center of the windowless room. As offices went, it wasn’t particularly welcoming. The plain wooden chairs before the desk were sturdy, though, and surprisingly comfortable—a good thing, since Duilio spent a great deal of time sitting in them.
“I have good news,” Joaquim said before Duilio even settled into his usual chair.
Duilio puffed out his cheeks. “Erdano and I were set upon last night.”
“Yes, I heard,” Joaquim said briskly, waving that away as he sat behind the desk. “Now, Captain Santiago has given me a new assignment—”
“We’re both fine, by the way,” Duilio said, feeling unappreciated. “Only a knife to the shoulder for me.”
Joaquim folded his arms over his chest, an impatient frown twisting his lips. “Don’t be childish. Cardenas told me about it when I stopped by the house earlier this morning. He said you came in through the servant’s door late last night, looking like hell but on your own feet.”
Duilio slumped back in the chair and tugged off his gloves. “You stopped by the house to talk to Cardenas and not to me?”
Joaquim shrugged off Duilio’s protest. “You were at breakfast. Mrs. Amaral has decided to be petulant and is claiming that Miss Paredes stole personal items of the daughter’s. Some jewelry and—”
Duilio sat up straight, appalled. “That’s ridiculous. Miss Paredes—”
Joaquim held up his hands. “It’s a baseless charge. However, the charge gives me license to question the Amaral servants. I can get back to work on this case, even if in a roundabout fashion. Fortunately, Mrs. Amaral doesn’t know where Miss Paredes has gone or she’d probably demand I immediately arrest her.”
“Damnation,” Duilio said with a grimace. “She’ll know tonight. Remember, we’re supposed to go to the Carvalho ball tonight.” When Joaquim looked ready to argue, Duilio added, “Besides, servants up and down the street do gossip. It wouldn’t occur to them that her presenceshould be kept secret.”
“Which is why I spoke with Mr. Cardenas this morning,” Joaquim said. “I wanted to ask him to have the servants keep quiet about Miss Paredes.”
Duilio stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles under the desk. It irritated him that Joaquim felt unwelcome in his home. There’d been a lot of friction between Joaquim and Alessio when they were young. When his mother’s pelt was stolen, Alessio had chosen not to tell Joaquim, even though Joaquim surely would have been helpful in the search. Duilio didn’t know what had passed between the two of them, but he suspected thatwas at the base of Joaquim’s behavior. And Alessio was dead. “You should have come up and eaten with us.”
“I’d already eaten, and I wanted talk to Mr. Cardenas, not you.”
That puts me in my place. Duilio sighed. “That will give us until tonight, at a minimum. Has Efisio contacted the police in any way about Lady Isabel?”
“No,” Joaquim said with a roll of his eyes. “It’s a conspiracy of silence, with him and the girl’s mother shielding the criminal while they’re trying to protect their so-precious reputations.”
Duilio didunderstand Joaquim’s disdain for that aspect of privilege. Reputation shouldn’t come ahead of the truth. He nodded mutely.
“Now, I have something to show you.” Joaquim opened a desk drawer, withdrew a slip of paper, and handed it to Duilio—an invoice from the Castro Ironworks. “I talked with the bookkeeper there a couple of weeks ago, before the investigation was shut down. He didn’t recall anything unusual, but left this for me late yesterday. He didn’t know where the chain ultimately went, but the bill went to that address.”
Duilio frowned down at the paper, an order for three hundred feet of galvanized marine chain. A coffee stain marred one corner of the invoice, as if a cup had been left atop it. The grade of chain, a little heavier than a normal anchor chain, approximately matched what Duilio had seen when peering out through a submersible’s windows. The billing address near the bottom was in a less-well-to-do parish of the city on Bonfim Street. “Espinoza?”
“I stopped before work this morning and talked to the landlord,” Joaquim said, “one Mr. Gouveia. The renter answers Espinoza’s description handily. Middling age, lean, with white hair in a queue. He hasn’t been seen there for some time. Gouveia isn’t certain exactly how long, but he’s still receiving the rent via the mail.”
Fortunately, Espinoza’s old-fashioned hairstyle made him memorable. “Well, this has promise.”
“Here’s the best part,” Joaquim said. “The tenant rented both the first and second floors and, according to Mr. Gouveia, the first floor has been made over into a craftsman’s shop.”
“Woodwork, perhaps?”
“The landlord wasn’t sure, but it was enough to make me curious.”
“Me too.” Duilio folded up the invoice. He held it between his palms and asked himself whether it was important. Yes,came the answer. Duilio grinned at his cousin. “I’ll try to get back with you later today, let you know if I find anything.” He quickly rose to take his leave. “By the way, did you get a chance to tell Captain Santiago I had another lead I was working on?”
Joaquim rose as well. He retrieved his suit coat from the back of his chair. “I did, although I didn’t tell him what lead or mention the specific case. He would know, since you’re only on the one right now. But I didn’t feel comfortable talking about your source. Captain Rios was in with him,” Joaquim finished, shrugging on his coat.
Duilio paused, one hand in the doorknob. Captain Rios was the liaison between the Special Police and the regular police, and he thoroughly disliked Duilio. Rios considered him an interfering busybody and dilettante. “The person who attacked Erdano and me in the tavern last night? He left his knife behind. It was Special Police issue.”
* * *
Oriana had been working in the front sitting room where the light was good, but she’d finished the edge she was hemming some time ago. She’d been sitting there just staring at it. The blue silk dress with its layers of skirt and newly attached ruffle was almost ready. At the moment it lay across her lap on the beige sofa, a cloud of darkness that reflected her mood.
She shook herself back to awareness. The day before she’d checked behind her a dozen times on her walk home—using a far more circuitous route than she would have normally taken—and had finally been satisfied that she wasn’t being followed. Her brief foray in pursuit of Heriberto had given her a great deal to think about. She’d always suspected that Heriberto wasn’t above blackmail. Now she knew that to be true.
He had definitely been threatening her father. It had been a vague threat, but Oriana had heard Heriberto mention his girl. She didn’t know whom Heriberto meant by that. It wasn’t Oriana herself, because Heriberto had said he knew where she lived. It apparently wasn’t her father’s employer and purported lover, Lady Pereira de Santos, which hinted that her father was involved with more than one woman. Oriana hadn’t yet forgiven him for replacing her mother with Lady Pereira de Santos, no matter that her mother had been dead for fourteen years now. It implied that the tie of Destiny between her father and mother had been false, didn’t it? She hadn’t been able to reconcile that in her mind yet.
And she was jealous of her father’s new life here, where he had a gentlemanly occupation and likely didn’t wear shoes that pinched his feet. Here the males had all the opportunities, which would suit her father perfectly. She shouldn’t be angry with him. But she’dbeen the one left behind to raise Marina when he’d been exiled. She’d had to hear the news that her sister was dead. She’d been alone then, with no one to comfort her.
Lady Pereira de Santos lived one house over, and Oriana’s father came there on occasion. She would peer out the Amarals’ windows, trying to catch a glimpse of him as he walked up the front steps of the Pereira de Santos mansion. But she’d nevercontacted him—not even a note. She had played by the rules, done everything as she should, and now she felt a fool.
He’d known she was here in the city. Her father hadn’t contacted her, but he hadn’t displayed any surprise when Heriberto asked about her either. He’d seemed ready to defy Heriberto for her sake. He said he wouldn’t tell Heriberto where to find her even if he knew. Part of that was simply his temper. She’d gotten her hot temper from him, not her mother. But she believed his words.
She’d spent the past two years in fear that Heriberto would blackmail her by threatening her father. Evidently she’d gotten it all backward. And what of the woman who’d watched her from across the street? Oriana sighed, clenching her teeth on the pins in her mouth. She wished she knew what the truth was.
Stop wasting time.She could mull this over and over for hours and still get nowhere. She turned the dress about to take in the waistband.
The door to the sitting room began to swing open. Oriana reflexively buried her bare hands in the mass of fabric in her lap. But it was Mr. Ferreira who stepped inside, leaving the door open. His brows drew together quizzically as he regarded her. “Miss Paredes?”
She abruptly recalled the pins in her mouth and carefully removed them, keeping the webbing between her fingers hidden the entire time. “Mr. Ferreira.”
“Please don’t rise,” he told her. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Alterations, sir.” She calmly set the two pins into a small pillow that rested on the table and reset the needle in the fabric. “For the ball tonight. Is your shoulder better?”
“Is that one of my mother’s old gowns?” he asked, disregarding her query.
Did he think she’d misappropriated it? “Miss Felis assured me your mother wouldn’t mind my wearing one of her old gowns. In fact, Miss Felis insisted. She didn’t want me being a discredit to Lady Ferreira due to lack of proper garb.”
Mr. Ferreira sat down in the chair next to the sofa, saving her from craning her neck to look up at him. He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “I doubt my mother would even notice, Miss Paredes,” he finally said. “But I recall your wearing several attractive gowns over the past few months. Why do you not . . . ?” When Oriana didn’t clarify, he said, “Ah. Lady Amaral didn’t allow you to take anything with you when you left. Did she?”
Oriana shook her head. “No, sir. Only the clothes I was wearing that night.”
“People continually surprise me with their pettiness,” he said. “Although in her case I shouldn’t be surprised. She is, unfortunately, the reason I stopped back by here.”
That sounded ominous. “Sir?”
“Lady Amaral has gone to the police with the claim that you stole some of Lady Isabel’s property when she threw you out. Jewelry was mentioned.”
Oriana couldn’t help her initial reaction—one of disbelief and rage—but she quickly schooled her features to neutrality. “That is not true, Mr. Ferreira.”
One of his dark brows rose. “It never occurred to me it might be, Miss Paredes.”
She could breathe more easily then. “Thank you, sir.”
“I wanted you to be aware of the charge,” he said. “That’s all. The police don’t credit the idea either. After all, Lady Isabel could have taken the missing pieces with her to Paris. However, if Lady Amaral learns you’re living here, she may demand that the police arrest you on suspicionof theft. She’s influential enough that they might comply without evidence.”
Oriana had learned enough about influence in society here that she knew he was right. She’d stood next to the coal room steps that chilly morning and decided notto take the second bag, the one that held whatever Isabel couldn’t cram into her traveling chest. No matter how pragmatic it would have been, she’d refused to become a thief. Yet Lady Amaral had cast that slur on her character anyway. “She had the butler escort me out, Mr. Ferreira. He would have seen anything I touched. Although I doubt he’d vouch for me to the police,” she added with unfortunate honesty. “He has his position to think of.”
“I expected as much.” Mr. Ferreira smiled ruefully. “Don’t worry, Miss Paredes. The police do know what sort of person they’re dealing with. She has a history of bringing charges against servants that generally prove to be no more than an excuse to let them go without pay.”
Oriana felt her brows draw together in annoyance. Lady Amaral hadn’tpaid her when she’d cast her forth. “I see, sir.”
“Yes,” he said in a dry tone. “I’m sure you do. I’ve already talked to Cardenas and told him that if he hears anything about a theft, he’s to ignore it.”
* * *
Amaid came in then carrying a tray with a small pot of coffee and a pair of cups. Miss Paredes tucked her hands back into her mending, her vexed expression fading into polite placidity. Duilio rather liked the vexed Miss Paredes, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say so. “Thank you, Ana,” Duilio told the maid instead. “You may go, but leave the door half-ajar, please.”
The girl curtsied and swept her way out of the room, pulling the door almost all the way closed. He should go and open it wider to protect Miss Paredes’ reputation, but didn’t bother. He appreciated the privacy for now. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”
“Yes, please,” Miss Paredes said after a brief hesitation.
He added cream to hers, having seen her do so that morning, and set the cup on the small table near her elbow.
“You’re not supposed to serve me,” Miss Paredes protested.
Duilio didn’t laugh at her wry tone. He broke societal rules regularly enough that this tiny slip in etiquette didn’t merit any twinge of insulted propriety on his part. “I don’t mind serving, Miss Paredes, particularly as your hands are occupied. Do you enjoy sewing?”
She regarded him warily, as if she feared a trap. “Yes. It’s calming.”
Well, now he’d learned something. Miss Paredes liked to sew; it wasn’t merely a part of her disguise. He smiled down into his coffee. “I believe there’s a sewing machine down in the workroom. Did you know that?”
“Yes, but once you’ve accidentally sewn through your webbing, you tend to stay away from machines. I prefer to work by hand.”
Duilio cringed. “I see. The next time you need a gown, it might be simpler to have one made up. I didn’t mean for you to spend your hours here mending.”
She pushed the rumpled blue mound on her lap into order and then picked up her own cup. “Mending is honest work, sir.”
He crossed his legs and peered at her lowered features. Their relationship wasn’t a normal one, caused by circumstances to vacillate between that of master and servant . . . and something else. But his remarks about the mending had caused her to revert to servant again, which irritated him. He wanted to talkto her, not just exchange pleasantries.
Duilio decided she had the same sort of pridefulness about money that afflicted Joaquim. She didn’t want anything given to her, perhaps because that often came with a price.
He’d hit on the simplest way to handle Lady Amaral before he’d even left Joaquim’s office: simply have Joaquim take a statement about the value of the missing articles, and Duilio would have his man of business pay the woman that sum. It wouldn’t pinch his pocket, and the funds might entice Lady Amaral to leave Miss Paredes alone. Duilio wasn’t going to mention the transaction to Miss Paredes; he didn’t want her scowling at him more than necessary. He fished about for another topic.
“I have often wondered about your people’s culture,” he said then, hoping to draw out the woman behind the mask of servility. “It’s a shame tourism isn’t allowed on your islands.”
“Given our history with your people, are you surprised?” she asked tartly.
His people’s relationship with hers had not gotten off on the right foot, a story recorded in Camões’ epic poem. The islands had been discovered on one of Vasco da Gama’s voyages. The sailors, spotting the lovely “sea nymphs” bathing there, decided they were a gift from Venus . . . and took advantage. The poet chose to cast the incident in a heroic light. He wrote of the sereia running away into the woods, depicting their flight as an attempt to further entice the men—as if sailors long at sea required enticement at all. Duilio had always suspected that interpretation of those events; if a sereia wished to attract a man, she could callhim, could she not? “That incident was some four hundred years ago, Miss Paredes. I would hope my people are a little more civilized by now.”
“And yet your Camões is still heralded as a great poet. Did any of those sailors bring their so-called sereia brides back to Portugal? Did they attempt to right the wrong perpetrated against those women?” Her dark eyes turned toward the dress in her lap. She fiddled with the fabric, giving him an occasional glimpse of the webbing between her long fingers. “We have our own history of that incident– The Rape of Amado, it’s called.”
“I am not surprised,” he admitted. “What happened afterward is shrouded in mystery. What do your people say?”
“Amado became a prison of sorts,” she told him. “It had once been a game reserve, just for hunting, but along with the dozen or so human men who’d stayed behind, all the sereia who were caught up in that incident were sequestered there by their own people. They weren’t allowed to return to their home islands, as if they were contaminated. For long afterward, any humans who ended up on the islands, whether by shipwreck or capture—or those missionaries your Church kept sending—were transported to Amado and not allowed to leave.”
Duilio sat back in his chair. “That seems very harsh. Is it still sequestered?”
She shook her head. “No. After about two hundred years our rulers lifted the ban on travel. Amado is often called the Portuguese island, though. Its people have the most human blood, their culture is the most like that of Portugal, and a percentage of them are even Christian, which never did spread to the other islands. And thus Amadeans are looked down on by the inhabitants of the other islands who claim pure sereia blood, no matter how untrue that is.”
Her tone had grown sharper as she spoke. She must be Amadean herself, given her irritation. “Miss Paredes, I’ll promise never to speak fondly of Camões again, if you’ll accept my apology for what happened to your ancestors.”
She seemed surprised. “Your prince is the one who should apologize.”
“Unfortunately, thatwill never happen, Miss Paredes. And I thought we were making such progress. I was hoping to see those islands before I die.”
That statement caused her brows to furrow. She picked one of the pins from her pincushion, possibly planning to stab him with it. “Why?”
“I like different places,” he said quite truthfully. “I’m curious. I like to travel, see how different people live.”
She regarded him warily. “Why our people? There are plenty of others.”
He argued with himself over whether to tell her the truth or not, and then shrugged. “When I was a boy, my father brought home a book about your islands. It was in French, I recall, and made many unlikely claims, among them the report that your people wear no clothing, or very little. Thatprompted my initial curiosity.”
* * *
Oriana stared at Mr. Ferreira, wondering what type of impression he intended to make with that bald statement. “That alone piqued your interest?”
He flushed, a hint of red creeping cross his cheeks. “I had no intention of offending you, Miss Paredes. I was twelve, I believe. Boys that age, I’m afraid, find nothing more fascinating than the possibility of glimpsing a woman in her natural state. I hope that doesn’t negate my earlier apology. I am somewhat more mature now than I was at twelve.”
Her tone must have been sharper than she’d intended. “I’ll not take it amiss, then, sir. I should tell you, though, that we do wear clothing, although admittedly less than your own people. Our women especially don’t have to put up with this excessive number of layers.” She gestured at her own skirts, hidden under the blue dress.
He inclined his head, as if in acknowledgment of a gift. “I’ll have to look for that book. You might find it amusing.”
She could only imagine how inaccurate a human-written book about the islands would be. His dark brows drew together, and for a moment he didn’t speak. “Mr. Ferreira?” she prompted, uncertain where his thoughts had strayed.
“May I ask a personal question?”
She folded her hands atop the fabric. What could possibly give him pause after admitting having been an imaginative twelve-year-old male at one point? “Of course, sir.”
He gestured toward her hands. “The webbing between your fingers seems very delicate. I wondered if you often injure it. You said you’ve done so when sewing.”
She felt the urge to smile at his hesitation. “It’s tougher than it looks and heals very quickly. I do prick it on occasion, which jars me to my teeth, but it doesn’t hurt that much.”
“Jars you?”
She licked her lips, working out the words to explain. “Our webbing is what allows us to sense movement in the water—waves or fish or boats. When I injure it, it’s like . . . a loud thunderclap, but not in my ears. In my head.”
“Like a seal’s whiskers,” he said with a slow nod. “How sensitive is it?”
She hadn’t realized the purpose a seal’s whiskers served, but if anyone would know, he would. She held up her hand and spread her fingers wide, which allowed her to sense him. “At this distance I can feel your breathing, your heartbeat. It’s indistinct, but in water it would be far clearer.”
That apparently gave him something to think about, as he sat with his lips pressed together, unmoving.
Oriana suspected she knew what he wanted. Isabel was the only other human who’d ever known her well enough to dare ask. She moved to the front of the couch, hands still in her lap. “Would you like to look at them?”
He regarded her cautiously. “Would you find that offensive?”
She didn’t recall exactly when, but he’d switched to informal address, speaking to her like a friend, tu, rather than just an acquaintance. She did the same. “Will you show me yours in return?”
“It would be a terrible sacrifice,” he said with a sly smile, “but I suppose I could.”
Then he recognized it for a foolish request. She’d seen plenty of human hands in the past two years. But it was a trade she was willing to make. This wasn’t vulgar curiosity or sensationalism on his part. He simply liked to understand.
She leaned forward and held out her left hand—the one without a cut across the palm. The webbing ran up to the last joint on each finger. Their conjoined nature didn’t allow her the dexterousness of a human hand, but she found most tasks doable.
“May I touch your hand?” he asked.
Given his walking into her bath unannounced only a few days before, it was an ironic question. He’d already touched her bare hand, once when he passed her the bathroom keys and then the previous night in the library. This was different, though. She just wasn’t certain how. “Of course,” she managed.
His left hand, ungloved, touched hers. His fingers were warm, sliding under her hand to support it. His thumb rubbed across her palm, distracting her. She spread her fingers wider and let him turn her hand slightly to catch the light on the webbing. The silhouette of his fingers showed through the translucent skin. His heartbeat reverberated through her senses.
He was holding her hand because . . . he wanted to do so.
She swallowed. The sensation of Mr. Ferreira’s skin against hers was surprisingly affecting, making her body warm and her heart beat faster. She wasn’t accustomed to such familiarity; that had to be the source of her reaction.
His eyes met hers. “You have lovely hands.”
She jerked her fingers free of his light grasp, then wished she hadn’t. He’d done nothing wrong. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “I’m surprised that a . . .”
One of his eyebrows crept upward.
She should stop including Duilio Ferreira in her generalizations about humans . . . and about men. “I have large hands,” she said. “I’m given to understand that human men prefer delicate ones.”
“I am not entirely human,” he reminded her. He held out his own hand, leaning close to let her view it. She could smell him clearly now, that light musky scent she’d originally mistaken for ambergris cologne.
