Unraveled (Turner, #3)

He turned to look at her, and the corner of his mouth quirked up. That half-smile sent another prickle down her spine.

“Also,” he said, “I happen to like cats. They’re aloof creatures that want nothing from me except a little food. Once they’ve had that, they walk away.” He raised his chin. “I have a great deal of respect for creatures that walk away from me.”

“Are you trying to intimidate me?” Miranda set one hand on her hip.

He simply gave her a level look.

“It won’t work. I seek out frightening stories, just to send a shiver up my spine. I climb to the top of bell towers, just so I can look down at the ground. I like being scared. So please, give me that repressive look. Just once more.”

She’d said it to tease him. But her stomach roiled as she spoke. It was true, all too true. He scared her with his curt speeches. He wielded extraordinary power, and he was willing to use it. He frightened her, and she liked it.

That hint of a smile flickered across his face once more. But all he said in response was, “I see. Shall we be off? It’s a bit of a walk, and it looks like rain.”

“You have an umbrella, Lord Justice.”

He gave a deep sigh. “Don’t call me that, either. Just a plain ‘Turner’ will do.”

She trotted after him. “It’s intended as a compliment. You’re a stalwart defender of justice, and so forth.”

“I suppose it started that way. When it was just the common people calling me that, I didn’t mind. But my brother magistrates took up the cry as well.” He stopped, took her elbow, and turned around, pointing back down the street. They’d scarcely gone twenty feet.

Miranda shook her head in confusion.

He touched her chin, tilted her head up—but he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he directed her attention to the roof of the Council House, still visible down the street. “Do you see that figure up there?”

It was hard to concentrate with his glove warm against her jaw. Still, she peered upward. There was a statue of a seated woman in flowing robes atop the Council House roof.

“That’s Lady Justice,” he explained.

“Isn’t Justice supposed to be blindfolded?”

“No. In Bristol, Justice stares you straight in the face.” He spoke matter-of-factly.

“Where are her scales? Has she misplaced them?”

“It would explain a great deal about my colleagues,” he said dryly. “But never mind that. One of my fellow magistrates said that the common people call me by that unfortunate appellation because I was so dedicated to my work that I might as well be married to Lady Justice—hence the name. The jest has been played out all too often. Don’t call me Lord Justice.” He started off down the street once more.

Miranda followed. “That doesn’t sound so awful as jokes go.”

“I paraphrased only. He didn’t imply actual marriage.”

“So circumspect, Mr. Turner.” Miranda spread her hands. “You forget: I have no sensibilities to offend. I was raised by actors.”

“Very well, then. He said I must be tumbling Lady Justice—‘It would account for the hours, and would explain why you’re cold as stone.’ I can’t hear the name now without calling to mind that ribald jest.”

He cast a glance at her. Just a simple glance, but it reminded Miranda of a time she’d slipped in winter and slammed her palms on the ice to break her fall. Maybe he was cold, but sometimes ice burned.

He was walking at a good clip. His route dipped behind buildings, around squares, avoiding the crowds nearer the water’s edge.

“You’re not cold,” Miranda offered. “You’re…controlled. Besides, if you’re a duke’s brother, why aren’t you Lord—um—Lord…” She trailed off. She didn’t know his Christian name. There was a book somewhere that listed it, doubtless. She’d never seen it.

Little droplets of rain began misting down. Beside her, he swept up his umbrella and pushed it open.

“You mean, why am I not called Lord Andrew or Lord John, like a proper duke’s son?”

She nodded.

“Simple. I’m not named John.” He spared her another glance. “You’d better walk closer. No point in your getting wet.”

She stepped toward him.

“No, all the way,” he said. “If you keep your distance, I’m liable to poke your eye out with the ribs.”

She stepped under his umbrella. No doubt it was her imagination, but it was warmer close to him. He smelled like clean, uncomplicated soap—just soap, no fussy perfumes or scents. The rain intensified, drumming into the fabric above.

“‘It’s efficient to feed the cats,’” she said, mimicking his gruff tone. “‘If you don’t share my umbrella, I might accidentally blind you.’ I believe you’re speaking English, Turner, but I’m not sure you’re doing a good job of it. It makes a girl wonder what you meant by, ‘Here, let me take you to gaol.’”

“I always mean precisely what I say, even if I don’t say precisely what I mean.”