Free The Adept Book 2 The Lodge Of The Lynx by Katherine Kurtz, Deborah Turner Harris

gold-embossed covers proclaiming them to be first editions. As he paused to admire them, a slim girl with a long mop of dark curly hair popped out from behind the counter at the back of the shop and came forward with a smile.
    “May I help you, sir?” she began, then her face lit up with pleased recognition. “Oh, it’s you, Adam! How lovely to see you. Papa didn’t tell me you’d be calling in today. Is that a friend you’ve brought with you?”
    She tilted her head in Peregrine’s direction, her dark eyes bright as a wren’s.
    “Miranda, if you flirt with that rascal instead of me, I shall be inconsolable!” Adam informed her with a chuckle. “However, I will admit both to having brought him and to him being a friend—a uniquely talented one, as it happens. His name is Peregrine Lovat, and he’s a portrait artist.”
    “A portrait artist?” Miranda was intrigued. “Have you ever painted anyone famous, Mr. Lovat?’
    Peregrine flushed at the question, but found himself already caught up in the good-natured banter.
    “Well, I once did a sketch of the Queen Mother,” he told her with a wry grin. “It was only from someone else’s photograph, though, so I don’t really think it counts.”
    “Don’t let him get away with false modesty, Miranda,” Adam said easily. “He hasn’t painted any of the Royals—yet—but he’s had some very distinguished clients. Peregrine, this is Miranda Stewart, my friend Randall’s daughter.”
    Peregrine had already taken note of the piquant face and the way she had draped a silk paisley shawl, Romany-fashion, about her slender shoulders, and now he cocked his head at her in new reflection.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Stewart, though I should tell you that the most famous faces are not necessarily the most interesting ones.”
    Miranda gave him a tip-tilt glance from under long, dark eyelashes.
    “Now I’m not sure which I’d rather be—famous or interesting. Would you paint my portrait either way?”
    “With pleasure,” Peregrine said, and added recklessly, “Anyway, I don’t see why you shouldn’t be both.”
    Miranda laughed, and Adam, not without regrets, took the opportunity to intervene.
    “Much as I would like to continue this merry exchange, I have Christopher waiting in a loading zone outside, and I need to have a word with your father, if I may. Is he in?”
    “He’s in the stockroom,” Miranda said. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll nip back and tell him you’re here.”
    She was gone in a gypsy whirl of dark skirts, vanishing through a door at the back of the shop. When she returned a few minutes later, she was accompanied by a slight, elderly man in spectacles. When he caught sight of his two visitors, he hurried forward.
    “Adam!” he exclaimed. “What a delightful surprise on an otherwise gloomy Saturday morning!”
    “You’ll spoil me with such greetings, Randall,” Adam said with a chuckle. “Perhaps I should have telephoned, but I must confess, this is a slightly impromptu visit.”
    “It matters not a whit,” said the elderly bookseller. “You know you’re always a welcome visitor.”
    His mild blue gaze turned to Peregrine. “And who is this?” he inquired. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    “This is Mr. Peregrine Lovat,” Adam said, beckoning Peregrine forward. “Peregrine, my very dear friend, Randall Stewart.”
    Peregrine surveyed Miranda’s father as they exchanged handshakes. Lightly-built like his daughter, Randall Stewart had silvery hair and the finely-chiseled face of an aging scholar. The gentle, old-world courtesy in his manner was suggestive of more courtly times.
    “Peregrine Lovat,” the old man mused. “That name is not unfamiliar to me—ah, I have it! You,’re the portrait artist, aren’t you? The one whose works were so favorably reviewed in The Scotsman.”
    Peregrine had the grace to blush. “The critics have been very generous, sir.”
    “And you are too modest,”