Unraveled (Turner #3)(25)

Chapter Seven

THE CLOCK STRUCK TWO as Miranda arrived at the Council House. Overhead, clouds obscured the sun. Still, even the midday gloom could not hide the empty steps of the building. Magistrate Turner wasn’t here.

She had imagined he would be punctual. He seemed the sort to be precise about—well, everything.

She waited for a minute, until she heard a faint mewing sound emanating from a nearby alleyway. Curious, she stepped back and peered around the corner.

Ah. Here was the reason Magistrate Turner wasn’t standing on the stairs.

He had squeezed in that small gap between the buildings. His face was set in grim concentration, as if he were listening to a prisoner’s speech. But he was sitting in judgment over a pair of cats—one small and orange, the other large and white.

One meowed again, and he broke off a piece from what appeared to be a meat pie, and tossed it to them.

He was dressed in sand-colored wool. Up until now, she’d only seen him in dark colors—black robes, navy jackets. The light color of his coat made his hair seem all the blacker. It brought out a warmth in his skin that she’d not seen before.

And when he looked up from the cats and met her gaze, she realized for the first time how intensely blue his eyes were—emphasis on intense. He seemed to see straight through her, right through her threadbare cloak and her nondescript dress, through her flesh, straight into her heart. That unruly organ thumped heavily in her chest.

She raised her hand to give him an awkward wave. Her pulse beat, and an unexpected thrill ran through her at the sight of him. The sensation spilled through her body in little shocks, like a harpist strumming out an arpeggio against her ribs.

Oh, drat. She was attracted to him.

“Magistrate Turner,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “Turner,” he corrected her.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“You called me Magistrate.” His nostrils flared. “Magistrates decide cases and issue warrants for arrests. They don’t go on walks with intriguing women, no matter what the destination might be. I must make it clear that I’m helping you in my private capacity. If you call me Magistrate Turner again, I’ll turn around and walk away.”

He made it sound so grim, the prospect of taking a walk with her. It took her a moment to hear that word—intriguing. But he wasn’t smiling at her. That couldn’t be an attempt at flirtation, could it?

Miranda shook her head slowly. “Good heavens. That’s quite an act you put on.”

He drew himself up haughtily. “I beg your pardon.”

“An act,” Miranda repeated. “Stand as tall as you like, and frown at me all you wish. I saw you just now. You were feeding cats.”

“So I was. And do you make something of that?”

“You,” Miranda said daringly, “have a kind heart.”

He turned away from her, the tails of his greatcoat swirling about him. “Don’t enlarge too much upon the matter. The cats were hungry. I had food. This seemed to be a problem with a ready solution. It’s not kindness to solve problems; it’s efficiency.”

“I stand corrected. You have an efficient heart.”

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.