Oh gods. Theheatof her hands against his thighs . . .
All this and more, on and on, as the wheel twirled, and its occupants howled with delighted terror, and the glass-eyed unicorn stared at Nigel from where it sat, squashed between Luna and Ward’s hips. As though gazing into his very soul and finding him wanting.
He began to grow quite green around the ears. That funnel cake, eaten rather hastily, began to make its presence known in his gut. So much fried batter and sugar, not good for the innards on even the best of occasions.
He closed his eyes. Concentrated on the pressure of Luna’s fingertips, gripping his. Concentrated on infusing some sort ofcomfortthrough that small point of contact, reassurance of his presence and proximity, whatever she needed. But with his eyes closed, he felt that much more aware of the shuddering structure in which he sat, felt convinced the wheel itself would vibrate all its bolts loose, and . . .
The wheels and gears clanked to a stop at last.
Luna breathed out a grateful, “Green Mother!”
Nigel didn’t wait to hear more. The instant the wheel master opened the little gate, he scrambled over Bryony—to shrieks of, “Oi! Mr. Grimm, have a care for my shoes!”—burst from the carriage, darted around to the far side of the wheel, and fully disgraced himself in the grand tradition of festival rides the world over.
When he finally staggered back to join the others, the three of them had formed a little knot just beyond the waiting fete wheel queue. Ward hovered behind Luna in a manner which Nigel found deeply offensive though, if pressed, he couldn’t have defined why. The man did keep his hands to himself, after all, behaving like a perfect gentleman, which . . . damn him. Luna stood with that wretched pink unicorn gripped against herstomach, her eyes wide with concern. Bryony was there too, and she said something as Nigel approached, but he wasn’t terribly aware of her, even when she slipped to his side and tucked her hand back through the crook of his elbow.
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Grimm?” Luna asked softly.
Nigel peered at her, searching for some sign of the anxiety verging on terror he’d glimpsed. There was nothing there. It was all smoothed away under a perfect mask of concern and good humor, as though that other version of herself—the one who held his hand throughout that spinning horror—never existed.
“Quite, Miss Talbot,” Nigel replied, matching her tone with one equally polite and distant.
“Poor old Grimmsy!” Bryony declared, leaning quite brazenly against his shoulder. “Do you need a little lie down to cool your head? I’m sure we could find you a nice, dark place to slip away to, and if you want a little company—”
“Oh, no! Certainly not,” Nigel hastened to protest with a swift glance Luna’s way. She wasn’t looking at him, but seemed to be studying the spiky purple mane of her unicorn. “I’m quite all right, Miss Braithwait. Shall we continue to the, erm, next attraction?”
“Fine by me,” Ward declared.
“And what attracts you just now, Mr. Grimm?” Bryony asked neatly, not about to miss such a ripe, verbal opportunity. “You looking for fun and games, or are you ready to sink your teeth into something tasty? A little strawberry tart, perhaps?”
When Nigel’s answer was not immediately forthcoming, Ward spoke up. “I spotted the Wacky House from up in the fete wheel. That was a favorite when I was a kid. What’s say we check it out?”
“I’m game!” Bryony said.
Luna, still without glancing Nigel’s way, smiled up at Ward. “Sounds fun!” She took the wardsman’s offered arm withouthesitation this time, allowing him to guide her away through the festival throngs. Nigel was left to trail along in their wake, with Bryony glued to his side. It occurred to him that he was being quite rude to Luna’s roommate, forcing her to make all the conversational effort. He ought to at least try to be chatty. Though never a ladies’ man, he’d possessed charm enough back in the day—one had to know how to work the intricate society politics of sorcerous academia if one wanted to rise in the ranks, after all. His skills might be a little rusty, but perhaps now was the time to dust them off.
“Erm, have you attended the Saint Jollify Fair before?” he asked as they darted to one side to avoid a set of parents trying to comfort a wailing child over a dropped lolly.
“Oh yes, loads of times.”
“Are you a native denizen of Ballycastle then?”
“A what now?” Bryony laughed, shaking her red curls so that they bounced most fetchingly along with all the other bouncing bits of her. “I don’t speak foreign, Mr. Grimm. Though I do love me a posh Plym accent!”
Nigel blushed and tried again, taking care to moderate his vocabulary. “Were you brought up in the city?”
“Oh, not me, no.” Bryony deftly redirected him around a group of teenagers, who were daring each other to try to sneak into the back of a freak show tent. “I’m a country girl, me. A legitimate milkmaid, if you care to picture it! But I met a gent, who gave me a ride in his automagic mobile all the way to Ballycastle, and that was some five years ago. I tossed him over soon after we got here, and I’ve been making my own way ever since.”
“You sound, erm, quite adventurous.”
“I don’t know about all that.” She grinned dangerously. “I do know how to spot an opportunity when it comes along, and I’m not shy to grab hold andtug.”
She knew what she was doing. She knew how to infuse just enough innuendo into both tone and inflection to inspire a roaring blush up his neck.
Nigel cleared his throat. “No, I certainly don’t get an impression of shyness from you, Miss Braithwait.”
“You’requite the shy little bunny, though, ain’t you?” She ran her hand up and down his arm, her fingers firm through layers of tweed and linen. “But don’t worry—I like the shy ones best. I’ve often found a man who doesn’t feel the need to talk himself up is a man who actually knows what he’s doing. You strike me as a capable sort of fellow, Mr. Grimm.”
“Erm, thank you, Miss Braithwait.”
