“Yes?”
“However, there is also no one to judge us on our actions. And that is our greatest threat.”
“Do you have doubts about what we’re planning?”
“Not a bit.” Simon continued to stare at her with green eyes that seemed to shine despite the shadowy room. “There is nothing we could do to these beasts that I would find too brutal. However, you must consider yourself too. There are certain lines that, once crossed, there is no going back.”
“I don’t understand you. What line could there be here? These things are monsters. We are required by decency to destroy them when we find them.”
Simon held up his hand. “Yes, I agree with that. I’m merely offering you a final chance to reconsider. They are monsters, but they are also humans, of a sort. Plus, we are not striking the enemy in the heat of battle. We are slipping into their beds and dripping poison in their ears. There are some who might find that troubling.”
“I’m not one of them. They’re animals.”
He nodded at her, apparently satisfied. His stern appearance lightened, and the issue was gone. Moral quandaries were vanquished. Kate couldn’t draw her eyes away from him as leaned forward and laid a warm hand on her chilled fingers, the contrast of which made her heart pound harder. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then his face turned serious. He took a step back, sliding the plate in front of her.
Kate took a deep breath, faced with the juxtaposition of a simple meal sitting on top of journals filled with notes on lycanthropy. She leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “You amaze me, Mr. Archer. I knew you were a man of great conscience. Your sympathy extends even to those monsters you hunt.”
“Eat.” Simon stood there a moment more. “When was the last time you were in bed, Miss Anstruther?”
Kate opened her eyes wide at the boldness of his comment but then realized it was she who had misinterpreted a simple question. Or had she? “Do you ask because I look like hell?” She pushed a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.
“I wasn’t commenting on your appearance. Although apparently exhaustion suits you. Still, a few hours spent between crisp sheets would do you a world of good.”
Kate swallowed consciously, not sure what he had implied, but just the thought brought a round of chills. She picked up the utensils and cut into the meal in an effort to distract herself. But all the while, she followed his straight back to the door. Kate blamed her flush on the lukewarm meal. Then her hand absently reached up to touch her neck, which still pulsed with the heat of his touch.
Chapter Eighteen
Kate felt badly out of place in the Devil’s Loom.
The close, musty scent of sweat and beer mixed with suspicious glances from the locals. Knowing eyes pinned her as a provincial swell with no attachment to the neighborhood. They also stared at Malcolm beside her, but with looks of concern, and even fear.
Simon stood at the bar chatting amiably with a group of rugged workingmen. They all laughed and slapped each other’s shoulders, and Simon bought them ales, and the laughing and slapping commenced anew.
Kate sipped a glass of pedestrian sherry, wishing it were something stronger. “Mr. Archer seems to be getting on.”
Malcolm grunted and shifted. She could hear the telltale rattle of his twin Lancaster pistols beneath his coat.
“It’s remarkable,” she continued. “Everyone likes him. From lords to longshoremen.”
“Yes.” Malcolm grunted again. “Everyone.”
“It’s almost unnatural.”
The hunter downed his scotch with a grimace of whiskey criticism. “It’s because the man has no soul.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say, Mr. MacFarlane.” Kate twisted her head quickly, shocked.
“It’s not meant as a criticism. He is exactly what he needs to be, whenever he needs it. But I can tell you, we’ve never seen the true man.”
Kate regarded Simon, who continued to master his audience with a glib phrase and a direct, manly look in the eye. Perhaps the grim, uncomfortable Malcolm was merely jealous of Simon’s easy nature.
The Scotsman murmured, “I wonder if he’s ever seen it either.”
“Mr. Archer learned how to survive in a society that cared little for him. No different than how you learned to live out in the wild, I imagine. Some may call you uncivilized and uncouth.”
Malcolm shrugged, taking no offense.
“Doesn’t make you any less of a man, does it?”
Malcolm grinned. “No, it doesn’t.”
Kate sat back. “Any more words of wisdom?”
“His friend, Nick Barker, is a coward.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked with surprise. “Because he doesn’t want to stand up to Gretta Aldfather?”