An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,117

him.

“I deduced that,” he replied with considerable froideur. I decided to overlook his sulkiness.

“There is no call to be in a temper,” I said. “Just because we have been abducted. Again.”

“I think there is every call to be in a temper,” he returned. “This is precisely the sort of predicament I was trying to avoid.”

“I certainly hope you do not mean to suggest this is my fault,” I began.

“Suggest? No, I am stating it outright,” he told me. “I am saying it plainly. If you like, I will have it printed on the front page of the Daily Harbinger or spelt out in electric lights in Piccadilly Circus or tattooed on my backside—which, I would like to remind you, is in fact naked at this moment.”

“I think that is a trifle unfair,” I said, attempting to conceal my sense of injury.

“Unfair? Veronica, what is unfair is that yet again an attempt has been made upon our lives, one that may yet succeed,” he said in real bitterness.

“Do not be so melodramatic. This is hardly an attempt on our lives. We were merely rendered hors de combat, put into a trunk, and loaded onto a boat.”

“A boat that is at sea and from which we will most likely be flung into the ocean,” he said. This would never do. He was distinctly in the grip of “the morbs” and I would not stand for it. We were companions in adventure, and it was my duty to buck his spirits.

“That is a decidedly pessimistic way to view the current situation,” I said a trifle more cheerfully than I felt. “I prefer to believe we will prevail. But I am the rara avis, a true optimist.”

“You are not an optimist. You are a fantasist. You cannot really believe that just because we have eluded a fatal conclusion to every previous unexpected peril that we must do so again. Sooner or later, our luck will run out, Veronica. And that day may very well be today. How can you accept this with such blind and reckless equanimity?”

This was no mere momentary gloom, I realized. He was, for perhaps the first time in our acquaintance, well and truly in despair. I was silent a long moment. He had been angry with me before. When his dark moods were upon him, anger was his frequent companion. I bore the vagaries of his temper with composure. His flashes of irritation were no source of bother to me; in fact, if I am honest—as I have sworn within these pages to be—I will admit that when his ire rose, it more often than not roused some rather different emotion in me. Because I knew his rage, even in a burst of white-hot passion, would never cause him to inflict harm, I could view it from a position of detachment, appreciation even. It would have been a rare woman not to enjoy the sight of his muscles taut with emotion, his eyes flashing sapphirine fury, his hair tumbled as he thrust his hands through it. I had even, upon occasion, deliberately prodded his patience to the snapping point in order to turn that hectic emotion to some more personally enjoyable activity.

But this reaction was calculated in its coldness. This was no sound and fury that signified nothing. This was a withdrawal, a pulling back within himself like a wounded thing, guarding and protecting himself. From me.

I rested my head on his shoulder. There was nowhere for him to move, but I felt his muscle flinch in protest. He would offer me no willing succor.

“I am sorry,” I said softly. “You are quite right. I did fling myself headlong into this endeavor without ever believing the consequences would come to this. And I did so knowing that you would follow. As you always do.”

“More fool me,” he said into the darkness.

“I only wanted—”

“I know what you wanted.”

“To find justice for Alice Baker-Greene. And then to help the Alpenwalders,” I finished. “It seemed a noble pursuit.”

“To find justice? To help the Alpenwalders?” His voice was frankly incredulous. “Just now, when we are facing death yet again, I would very much appreciate it if you could be bothered, just this once, to tell the truth.”

I reared back in shock, slamming my head into the side of the trunk. “I beg your pardon? Are you calling me a liar?”

He took a deep breath, as deep as the confines of the trunk would permit, and exhaled slowly, ruffling my hair. “Not intentionally,” he said.