Gossamer Wing 1

by Delphine Dryden

  The surgeon came by & gave you a tonic. You were charming after, & not sick at all. Obvs. had to burn clothes you were wearing. So I sponged you off and put you in a nightgown. You really don’t remember, do you?

  “No, I don’t.” She also wasn’t sure she believed him.

  He plucked the pad from her fingers and wrote on it again, letting her read over his shoulder.

  I believe I have located and dealt with source of problem re: implants.

  “No! That was five minutes. You can’t have!”

  He shrugged and picked one of the tiny gold and crystal tubes up with a clean cloth, gesturing to her right ear as he fitted the retrieval hook onto the end of the implant.

  It went back in with the same uncanny twist, and a cacophony of noise attacked Charlotte’s brain as her world lurched sharply out from under her.

  A surface like a heated wall stopped her fall, and enormous reassuring hands steadied her, cradled her, as the wall rumbled in a comforting way.

  “Sorry. I’ve got you. Left ear now, and you’ll be better than ever. Be still.”

  She gripped the surface beneath her palms, braced her arms and tried not to move as a one of those warm, supportive hands moved into her hair, tucking the strands behind her ear and then cupping the back of her head to angle it just so.

  There was a last sickening slide and the too-loud click as the implant latched itself into place, and then Charlotte’s perspective restored itself.

  She was sitting in Dexter’s lap. Her legs dangled between his, her hands supported against the very solid thigh in front of her knees, and he was stroking one hand slowly up and down her back as he used the other to stow the tiny extraction tool safely in its specialized box.

  “Don’t you want to know what it was?” he asked, as if she were not sitting in her night rail in his lap, with her hands clenching his thigh.

  “I suppose,” she answered, exactly as if his hand were not lengthening its exploratory tour of her back to include a brief circular foray around her hip and buttock.

  “Earwax.”

  If somebody had told her she would ever find the word earwax titillating, she would have laughed out loud. At the moment, however, it was not remotely amusing.

  “Earwax?” Her mind engaged enough to register disbelief. “But the implants are sealed, and I clean the exposed surfaces daily with ethyl alcohol. Doctor Alvarez didn’t mention anything about—”

  “Not on the exterior, in one of the pressure valves. A tiny bead of it. It must have been overlooked during the initial installation. I suspect it originally adhered to the casing, then got dislodged enough to gum the works of the implant itself once it hardened. It was causing the valve to stick. But not, I think, every time. Mainly when the pressure tried to equalize while you were moving forward into a horizontal position.” He demonstrated with his free hand, tipping it from the vertical, and Charlotte nodded as though this were profoundly helpful.

  It made sense. The Gossamer Wing with its horizontal cradle. The deck chairs on the ship, so comfortable until she had attempted to roll over and sun her back. And the railing, beyond which there had been only fictional porpoises. She had been fine until she tipped that vital bit more forward, and that few inches and degrees of slant had made all the difference. And it might not have even occurred to the doctor to test the devices at that particular angle.

  But the sense was hard to focus on, when his hand was making a much more leisurely round of her hip this circuit.

  “But what I still don’t understand,” she said, focusing on the one thing that seemed foremost, “is why the ship feels like it’s lurching? I mean if you removed the earwax, and the implants are working properly.”

  “That’s easy.” His hand tightened at her waist as one of those lurches threw them slightly off balance and the chair threatened to swivel into the table. “It’s because the ship is lurching. We’re heading into a patch of unfortunate weather.”

  Seven

  THE OCEAN LINER ALBERTA, EN ROUTE FROM NEW YORK TO LE HAVRE

  DEXTER’S REASON STARTED to fail him when he held her head steady to reinsert the first implant. And he didn’t even try to pretend to himself that his method of securing her for the insertion of the second was rooted in chivalry or even expedience.

  He had wanted her in his lap, the better to touch her with his big, clever paws. He marveled at her delicacy, and at how very tiny her hands and limbs were compared to his own. How his fingers could span the width of her buttock from hipbone to tailbone. He knew that even very small women did not, in fact, break when a large man touched them. Or did other things with them.

  The sorts of things men often did with their wives.

  He had expected her to bolt once the implants were replaced. But she seemed incapable of moving, and he had long since used up his stores of self-restraint where Charlotte’s body was concerned.

  Even the weather seemed complicit in nudging them together, as the swell of the waves and the heaving of the boat urged Charlotte, who had less natural ballast, to cling to the nearest available heavy thing for security. And no heavy thing could be nearer than Dexter was to her at that moment.

  “I need to stow my equipment,” he remarked. Things were beginning to slide this way and that, and fetch up against the lip of the table. He caught a magnifying vise with one hand, but never removed the other from her posterior where it was now so comfortably settled. Nor did Charlotte seem inclined to shift herself from his thigh. He wondered if her paralysis was caused by desire, or perhaps more along the lines of what a rabbit felt when caught by the headlights of an oncoming steam car.

  Then the boat did a new thing, not a lurch but a tilt, and both of them grabbed at the table as their world shifted to a sickening slant for what seemed like an eternity. Thunder cracked, and the gas lamps flickered ominously and then dimmed entirely until they were in almost total darkness. As the light faded, the ship seemed to slow to a halt, to an equilibrium, a balance that felt as tenuous as they both knew it must be. The very air was alive with terrified anticipation.

  The ship went down the swell so quickly they nearly flew for a mad second or two, Charlotte’s insubstantial weight almost leaving Dexter’s lap altogether as he clung to the table’s edge. An open case sailed slowly across the floor past his chair, and he began scooping his fragile, valuable equipment into it.

  “Is it an emergency light?”

  He glanced around, not sure what Charlotte was talking about, then realized he could actually see quite well given that the wall sconces and chandelier were still out.

  “The doctor said the gas would be turned off if it got bad enough. And yes, he said—help!”

  She leaned and snagged the case with her foot as it scooted back the other way, clutching at Dexter’s shirt to keep from rolling off his knee onto the floor.

  He deposited the last of his stray things in the small trunk and latched it firmly.

  “I need to stow it under the berth with the other small baggage. We’ll go before the next trip up. On three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  As one they leaped through the dividing door and scrambled for the relative safety of the bunk, and Charlotte climbed up while Dexter opened the compartment below the platform and shoved the equipment case into it. He let gravity pull the door closed and carry him into the berth as the ship began its next descent.

  Charlotte was already busy yanking at the heavy curtains, snapping them into place along the rails at the bottom of the bunk to guard against any remaining projectiles. When she had finished, she and Dexter were encased in a snug little cube of bed linens and tapestry, its dark softness punctuated only by a few leaks of the cold blue emergency lighting that seemed to emanate from a single bulb high in one corner of each cabin compartment.

  “I think this may be my very last attempt at a honeymoon. They don’t seem to work out well for me at all.”

  He laughed, caught off guard. “The first one was hardly the fault of the weather,” h
e ventured, unsure how far to push a jesting mood in the face of such dark humor. Perhaps only she was entitled to find levity in the subject of honeymoons.

  “On the contrary, it rained horribly on the first one. The alligators were interesting, however.”

  “I can’t do much about the weather—well, I can’t do anything at all about it, obviously—but I think I can promise you that our honeymoon will at least be free from alligators.”

  She shrugged, then gripped the wooden molding on either side of her as the ship began to pitch once more. She pressed herself even more firmly into the corner, but as best he could see in the limited light, she did not look terrified. He wondered if the claustrophobia was already closing in, but knew that if it was, his mentioning it would only make it worse.

  “They weren’t so bad, really,” she assured him. “It’s not as though they attacked the riverboat. They merely lurked. Alligators are experts at lurking.”

  “I can only imagine. I’ve never been to the South.”

  “It has a certain charm. The Spanish moss in the oak trees, that sort of thing. Very evocative. Although I’m not quite sure of what.”

  “Gothic decadence?” he suggested.

  “Perhaps. There’s a bit too much of the French feel down that way for me to ever truly relax and enjoy it. Though I didn’t feel quite so fervently about that prior to my last visit there. My lord, I must thank you. I don’t suppose I would survive this tempest if you hadn’t repaired my implants. As it is, I must say I’m not feeling sick in the least.”

  My lord, is it now?

  Dexter let a smile build slowly across his face, looking her firmly in the eye all the while and hoping she could see him. It didn’t need much urging, that smile. He found he was enjoying himself despite the storm, despite the sheer unlikelihood of the whole situation.

  In particular, he liked that the no-longer-ill and suitably clean Charlotte’s night rail was practically transparent. And since it was slightly chilly now that the storm was raging outside and the gas was off, her good health was manifesting itself in the form of excellent circulation. Parts of her, parts he could see even in the dim of the berth, were practically burgeoning with suffusion. And delightfully crimped, although the lawn fabric wasn’t quite transparent enough to reveal that detail. About that, he was making an educated guess.

  Her nipples were the approximate size of small, wild raspberries. Not the overlarge farm-grown sort, with their blandly acceptable flavor. No, the little ones you almost overlook, the ones that grow in hidden places all on their own and taste like summertime in heaven.

  Jerking his eyes away from Charlotte’s breasts, Dexter tried to remember what they had just been talking about. He wasn’t even sure when his eyes had drifted down.

  But one glance told him that she had noted that drift quite clearly.

  Curiously, she did not look angry or embarrassed. A little annoyed, perhaps. Exasperated. As if she now had a problem to deal with, and wasn’t quite sure where to begin.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Would you like a blanket?” Dexter offered.

  She sat in my lap. She didn’t move. Her hip felt designed to match the curve of my hand.

  “You’re sitting on the counterpane,” she pointed out.

  “Oh.” He shifted enough for her to drag the quilted damask out from under him. She pulled it over her lap and arranged it around her waist and torso, high enough to cover her breasts.

  “You were saying something about the emergency lights?”

  “I was? Oh, yes. The surgeon mentioned they might come on. They run on battery cells, with a radio trigger. The gas lights are shut down in emergencies.”

  “I see. So we’re to wait in near darkness until the all clear is sounded, I take it.”

  The creak and sway of the huge ship cut through her words and she nestled further down into her corner. Dexter propped himself carefully next to her at the side of the bunk and tried to think about anything but the groan of wood and metal and the pounding of the ocean against the vessel’s frame. He surprised himself with his next words.

  “I’ve spent worse nights.”

  * * *

  IT WAS LIKE a fever dream, Charlotte thought. The little glimmers of icy light, the gathering womb-like warmth of the enclosed bunk. Perhaps she had not yet fully recovered from whatever euphoria the doctor’s potion had brought on. If she had, she reasoned, the confines of the bunk would feel stifling to her, not comforting.

  Dexter took up far more space than what was occupied by his physical form. The reality of him, the presence of him, might have suffocated her had it not felt so very much like pure oxygen. Heady and rich and elemental.

  She had analyzed his scent, because Charlotte liked to analyze things, the better to place them into the tidy compartments of her mind. Dexter Hardison, Baron Hardison, was bay rum and peppermint, copper, a hint of sharp mineral spirit, and sometimes a little musk of perspiration as the day wore on. And also horse, although of course he had lost the horse component since boarding the ship.

  None of which explained to her satisfaction why catching his scent made her knees go weak. Or why she had stayed so very much longer on his lap than was appropriate.

  Except that it was appropriate in a sense, of course, because he was her husband. Not forever, but for now. Of all times, as the ship tossed them to and fro and screamed into the deluge, now seemed like a handy time to have such a thing as a husband. A bulwark, a helpmeet. Somebody to hold her throughout the storm. Somebody to sit beneath her on a bench, his hand slipping inside her garments as he plundered her mouth with kisses until she was breathless.

  They hadn’t discussed that night. Not so much as mentioned it. At times, she wondered if he had actually felt anything. Then she reminded herself that seated as she had been, she had felt more than enough of him to be assured that he was as moved as she was. Physically, at least. Even through all the layers of petticoat, she could feel that quite clearly.

  Still, it was only a kiss. A ploy, a necessary bit of subterfuge. A practical measure. They were adults engaged in the business of espionage. All sorts of pretending went on in that business. And men reacted to women they didn’t especially care for all the time.

  He moved a little closer to her on the berth, and she pretended not to notice.

  “Charlotte? Why did you regress just now, and call me ‘my lord’?” His expression was in shadow where he sat, and she could not quite make out his tone.

  “Regress?”

  “You were doing so well. You must remember to call me Dexter. I am your husband, after all.”

  “Of course. Dexter. Thank you for reminding me.”

  “I think . . .” He turned his upper body a little more toward her, and she swallowed, wondering when her mouth had gone so dry. “I think it might be a good idea to practice these little displays of marital familiarity. The French are known for their amorous inclinations, you know. If anybody would be likely to ferret out the secret of our connection, it would be a Frenchman.”

  “I see. And what sort of ‘practice’ do you propose, Lord Har—”

  “Dexter.”

  “Dexter.”

  “Charlotte. Must we pretend like this?”

  Her heart hammered up into her throat. She didn’t answer, and couldn’t think. It was a small, small space, and he was filling it. Such a little step it seemed, to letting him fill her. Yet she knew it was no little step, and that she must not be quite in possession of her faculties if she was thinking that way.

  After a moment of her silence, Dexter rose to all fours and crawled the scant distance left between them, until he was poised with his face a few inches from hers. His legs flanked hers, his hands rested on the quilt alongside her hips. Nowhere did he touch her, but she could feel him everywhere, all the same. She could smell him, his scent minus the horse, assaulting her awareness like an advance guard. His voice when he spoke again was lower, more intense. She wondered that she could hear it over the s
torm—or was that her own heart roaring so loud? Then she wondered she could hear anything else, as Dexter’s voice was the only sound that registered.

  “We both want this,” he said. “We’ve both wanted this since that night at the ball. Even before that. I thought I could ignore it. God knows I tried, because I knew it was meant to be just business with you. But now I find myself trapped in a bed with you in the middle of a possibly lethal storm, and somehow the niceties of the situation seem to pale beside the overwhelming importance of being inside you at least once before we die at sea.”

  “We’re not going to die at sea.” She had intended to scoff, but managed only a hoarse little whisper instead. Pathetic.

  “Probably not,” he admitted. “The ship seems sound and I don’t think the storm is all that bad. But the possibility certainly does lend weight to my position, and I’ll confess I’m that desperate for you.”

  He didn’t sound desperate. He sounded serious, and full of fierce need that he had been keeping under control too long. She swallowed and tried to think again. The effort was not meeting with success.

  “Charlotte.” A fraction of an inch closer every second. “If the storm hadn’t interfered, I would have kissed you. And more. I could have taken you over that table. I think you would have let me.”

  She nodded, her eyes closing. Then she opened them again, trying to take it back, shaking her head violently. “No! I was only lightheaded from the implants coming out. I was about to—”

  “Well now you’re just lying,” Dexter said flatly, “and I don’t have to tolerate that.”

  He kissed her hard, because her attempt to dissemble had clearly made him impatient. If it had been softer, or he had approached more carefully, she might have had time and space to reconsider. With no time to think herself out of it, Charlotte just reacted and kissed back. And kissed, and kissed, until she wasn’t sure if she could ever do anything else. As if kissing Dexter were now her sole purpose.