by Anne Renwick
Particularly as Luke’s infected wound grew more worrisome. Neither the application of more ethyl alcohol nor an additional treatment of dragon’s blood—both performed hastily while cells spun—had done much to reduce the putrid-smelling pus that oozed from the cut or slow the spread of the red streaks.
The excitement of realizing the dragon eggs could hold the cure for Luke’s illness had all but vaporized when Ivanov and Dimitri had landed in her courtyard with their demands. Not enough time was left to slowly work her way through her father’s instructions, checking and double-checking each step. Instead she was rushed, harried and increasingly distressed by thoughts of what might happen should this impromptu treatment fail.
Her smile faltered. What if her best wasn’t good enough? If this attempt failed, there would be no second chance. There wasn’t time, not even if she were willing to sacrifice a dragonet. Luke might well die. She and Zia would be hauled back to Russia along with the dragon eggs where all would suffer untold torments. Worry gnawed at the inside of her stomach and began to crawl its way upward to lodge beneath her heart. She didn’t want to ever be parted from Luke again. Not for any reason.
Zia was back to guarding her remaining three eggs and barely shifted as Natalia set about gathering supplies. After placing the vial containing the precious cells upon a metal tray alongside a syringe and needle of intimidating size, she made her way into the great hall where, as she’d worked, spates of crashing and banging had echoed. She stepped into the room, taking in the scene before her.
Luke—feverish—sat upon a chair, ignoring pain and discomfort to keep an eye on castle activity when he ought to be in bed, resting. He gave her a faint smile, tipping his head toward William’s industriousness. Hay was strewn across the floor as the young man worked to pack swords and armor into crates. At her approach, he paused at his task.
“Impressive progress,” she said. An entire wall was bare.
“This is the last crate,” William said. “The steam wagon is fixed and loaded, and I’ve filled the coal hopper. Mr. Dryden and I,” he cleared his throat, “took care of the body.”
“He means,” Luke interjected, “that we dragged Rathail’s hunter to the river and gave him the send-off he deserved.”
“So we did.” A corner of William’s mouth twitched, but he shifted on his feet. “If you can convince Aileen to depart, we could leave at first light. I poked my head into the kitchens to let them know of our plans, but she was weeping still, and I’m not certain she heard my words through her tears. McKay is at an utter loss.”
“I’ll speak with them.” Internally, she cringed. Coping with an emotional Aileen would be trying. She would want to shake sense into her—but would need to fight the urge. Possibly Aileen’s teeth would rattle loose first. “It’s late. Mr. Dryden is ill. Head home, gather your things and snatch a few hours rest.” Surely Aileen could be made to see reason by dawn?
William hammered a few more nails, then heaved a crate onto his shoulder, calling a brief, “Good night.”
Alone, she sank onto a chair beside Luke, tipping her weary head onto his shoulder, drawing strength from his presence even as her hand sought out his wrist, taking measure of his pulse. Weak and thready. It grew more worrisome every time she checked. The only way to save him now was to charge bravely ahead.
“Is it time?” he asked. “Shall we adjourn to your laboratory?” Impossible to tell if that was anticipation or worry in his voice. Probably both.
How many times had they sat here together at the high table of the great hall, deeply engrossed in conversation, or battled each other in the expanse of this space when the weather did not permit them to spar in the courtyard? Always careful to keep any physical contact fleeting, constantly aware of the forbidden attraction that simmered between them.
She’d been a married woman, her continued presence in this country dependent upon the goodwill of her absent husband and the funds provided to her by the very institution that employed Luke. Lady Kinlarig could not afford to tarnish her reputation. It didn’t matter that the lord of the castle traipsed about with an actress upon each of his arms, entertaining his women with funds meant to delve into the organic chemistry of dragon venom in search of medical applications. Her appeals to the Department of Cryptozoology fell on deaf ears. She was to rise above it. To work without complaint while she waited for her laird to return home, to declare his intent to sire an heir.
And that was exactly what she would have done, had they not sent one Mr. Luke Dryden. He was back. They were both free. To be able to lean against Luke without a guilty conscious was a priceless luxury. But one she wouldn’t be able to enjoy for long if his arm did not heal, his liver failed or—a more immediately relevant possibility—if Dimitri and Ivanov ran him through with a blade. A decided possibility should they attempt to run. Outside the relative safety of the castle, the Russians held the air advantage and, as sick as he was, Luke would be easy prey. Even at full strength, the odds would be against them. She could fret all she wished, but if they did not risk the stem cell treatment, a dark cloud hung over their future. Time to chase after everything she’d dreamed of: a loving husband and children. Zia free and happy surrounded by her own brood.
“Soon. We’ve a moment. The cells are resting. Recovering from the shock they’ve been put through.” Threading her fingers between his, she squeezed his rough, calloused and all-too warm hand. “With all that’s happened, do you not regret the day you learned dragons are real?”
“Not in the slightest.” Luke dropped a kiss on top of her hair, and she smiled. It had been far too long since she’d felt cherished. “Father tried for years to discourage my dreams of working with extraordinary creatures. Banking, he insisted, was the path to happiness and security. But his plans for his son were a lost cause from the first moment I watched a pteryform soar overhead and announced I would become a—”
“Zookeeper.” She’d heard the story long ago. Smiling, she tipped her face upward and basked in the warmth of his passion.
“Dragonkeeper has an even better ring to it.” He tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear and trailed the backs of his fingers over the edge of her jaw. A shiver ran across her skin. “I fell in love with you the day we met.” His voice was a whispered confession, but as she leaned forward and closed her eyes, his hand fell away. Disappointed, her eyes fluttered open. “When this is over, Natalia, you could attend a Season in London. Dissolute gentlemen are in the habit of stalking young heiresses. Perhaps you might turn the game on its head and snag yourself a wealthy industrialist, one who could maintain this castle and support your research.”
Her lips flattened into a hard line. A declaration of love followed by a suggestion she wed another? “Absolutely not.” She stood and crossed her arms, tucking her balled fists beneath her arms. Slapping a sick man wasn’t an option. But perhaps after she cured him…
“Relying on government funds is always an uncertain existence.”
“As is relying on a man.” She threw him a sideways glare. Particularly ones who took themselves off to hunt dragon eggs in the Ural Mountains. She kept those words to herself. He’d made no promises to her. How could he, married as she was?
Was. Widows had certain freedoms in this country. Perhaps she was a fool to dream of marrying again? She drew in a steadying breath.
“This corner of Scotland is lovely,” she continued. “But I’ve no intention of continuing to molder away within the walls of this damp castle. I’ve begun negotiations with a distant Kinross cousin. If he cannot or will not offer a fair price, I intend to sell it to the highest bidder. The townhouse in Edinburgh should be more than sufficient for my needs.” How she would manage Zia and her dragonets if there was no safe haven for them in the Trossachs was beyond her, but she’d cope with that problem later.
“I’m sorry.” Luke winced. “But it needed to be said.”
She disagreed. But she was done c
ontemplating any future until their immediate obstacles were behind them. Uncurling her fingers, she held out a hand to Luke. From the bilious look upon his face, the anti-rejection medication was working at full strength. “Come. If you’re still willing, it’s time to perform the transplant.”
“I’ve everything to gain, and nothing to lose.” He looked up, the pale shade of his face highlighting the dark shadows beneath his cheekbones, but he grasped her hand. “However awful the cure, it can’t be worse than the disease.”
“Careful.” Lips twisting, she pulled him upright. “You might yet regret your words. I’m a chemist, not a cell biologist, and attempting to follow a recipe for the first time. This might not work. But if it does, dragon stem cells are extremely aggressive. The effects, if they occur, are rapid and potent.” She swallowed hard—willing her voice not to tremble—and finished. “We’ll know in a matter of hours if I’ve succeeded in isolating them—if there’s hope for a cure.”
She wished she were as confident of success as she pretended to be, but any direct experience with dragon stem cells was limited to being the patient, not the physician. A memory of misery. Lying motionless in a bed. Tears flowing from the corners of her eyes. Every breath a struggle as death circled in the dark shadows overhead, waiting for an opportunity to sink its claws deep.
Luke’s situation was not so dire, but the regenerative effects were likely to be unpleasant. No, that was putting it too mildly. Painful? Pure agony? Save for a necessary conversation with Aileen, she would stay by his side and attempt to ease his torment.
“Aggressive?” A look of worry crossed Luke’s face. “Tell me, what was it like for you?”
Natalia was the first—and to her knowledge, only—human to ever undergo a dragon stem cell transplant and had never shared her story. Not a single living soul had any idea what she’d undergone.
While Dimitri had gloated and basked in the limelight of retrieving dragon eggs from the surrounding mountains in time for all to witness the hatchlings emerge, Papa had quietly collected the egg shell fragments. Busy shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with his superiors in a quest to elevate his position within the Ural Zavód, Dimitri hadn’t noticed his mentor silently cultivating a cell type never before documented. Only when her father’s absence from the laboratory was noted, did Dimitri think to wonder what had become of his betrothed.
Not that he took the trouble to visit, bastard that he was.
She swallowed. “I was hazy and nauseous—an effect of the anti-rejection medication—when my father arrived at my beside.”
Luke nodded, urging her on with hope in his eyes. Hope she was about to pierce with a sharp lance.
“Numb from the neck down, I felt nothing as he injected small colonies of stem cells alongside the fractured vertebrae of my neck. Not a single twinge, not even when the needle punctured the membranes protecting my spinal cord as he inserted a number of stem cells directly into my cerebral spinal fluid.” Closing her eyes, she forced the memory past her lips. Her body started to shake at the effort of voicing the memory. “An hour, maybe two, passed. Then there was a sudden burning sensation, a jolt as if an electric current raced down my back. Pain and pressure enveloped me as the stem cells invaded and repaired every bit of damaged tissue.” They’d ripped down her spine, crawled over her nerve cord, dividing with unrelenting purpose. Locked in a nightmare, she’d felt every single cell as it crept about, ripping out damaged tissue to assemble something new. “I thought I was going to die.”
He squeezed her hand. “But…”
“By morning scales were breaking through the skin of my back and neck.” Building their keratin scaffolds with shocking speed. “The itch at the base of my neck, along the length of my spine, was almost unbearable. Papa nearly fell off his chair when I suddenly sat up and reached behind to scratch at a cluster of scales.” No one had expected the transplant to work at all, let alone so quickly. “In less than twenty-four hours, I could walk again. All pain had vanished.”
Undiluted awe lit Luke’s eyes from within. “Amazing.”
“It was.” But with success came anguish. Bitterness surfaced. “It was also the end of my time in Russia. Dimitri turned in my father, his own mentor.”
While her father sat by her bedside, Dimitri had searched the laboratory, collecting the few random scribbles Papa had left behind upon forgotten scraps of paper. The evidence was thin, but accusations and demands were made. Thinly veiled threats. Papa was to share the details of his experiment with his superiors—of which Dimitri now numbered—immediately, else he would be arrested, his daughter remanded into custody for observation.
Unthinkable. Dragon stem cells were a potent remedy and—in the wrong hands—too easily abused. Yet today—if all went well—she would set wrongs to right and give them all a chance at a brighter future.
“That bastard,” Luke hissed. He reached for her, wrapping his arms about her.
With her recovered ability to walk, there really was no other choice but to flee. In a final act of treason, Papa had stolen the dragonets—Zia and Yuri—from the laboratory and… “We ran. The train was pulling away from the station. But Papa, he wasn’t fast enough.” Go! he’d yelled, pushing her in front of him, out of the way. Blocking her body with his own. “The guards caught sight of him.” Her voice faltered. “Shot him where he stood.” She brushed away a tear that ran down her cheek. The bullet had dropped him to the cinders beside the track. He’d sacrificed himself to save her.
Weeping, she’d clutched Zia and Yuri to her chest. Numb, she’d followed the plan. West to Scotland. To Edinburgh. To the Department of Cryptozoology. Throwing herself on their mercy.
“I’m so sorry.” Luke kissed her forehead and, for a moment, she allowed herself to savor the warm, comforting circle of his arms. But only for a moment. She would not allow another man she loved to fall on her behalf. Not while it was within her power to prevent it. The very thought of failure made her heart twist within her chest.
Shoving away memories of the past, she focused upon what must be done in the here and now. She cleared her throat and pulled back. “I’ll collect the cells. Make yourself comfortable in my bed.” A touch of heat rose to her cheeks. “If this works, you’re going to feel much worse before you feel any improvements.”
“It will work,” he said with a confidence she didn’t at all feel, tugging her back against his chest to press a fierce and fevered kiss to her lips, reminding her of other things worth fighting for. “Perhaps even fast enough for us to explore any interesting side effects that might result.”
Chapter Ten
Luke stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, pulled off his boots and then stretched out upon the bed. Holding his pocket watch in his hand, he noted the hour. Half past nine o’clock in the evening. Nine hours until sunrise. What if these stem cells didn’t work? Or didn’t work fast enough? But if they did…
Despite the fever heating his skin, entertaining such thoughts already had him in a state of half-arousal. He wanted nothing more than to free the weight of her breasts from that corset that teased his eyes with every glance he’d dared allow to skim its intimately-contoured leather surface, to slip his hands beneath the loose gathers of her tunic while nibbling at the curve of her neck, to…
He tugged a blanket to his waist, hiding his interest. But if the procedure worked, he had every intention of dragging her back into his arms and into this very bed. He’d thought himself reconciled to a brief affair—until she’d announced her intention to sell the castle, refusing to even consider marrying a wealthy gentleman to save this ancient pile of rocks. Pure relief had swept over him, and he’d begun to wonder if perhaps he could convince her to marry a certain dragonkeeper? Would she be willing to exchange the title of Lady Kinlarig for the simpler one of Mrs. Dryden?
“Ready?” Steel and glass rattled upon a metal tray, yanking him out of his
thoughts as Natalia crossed the room to his side.
Sitting up, he swallowed at the sight of the large bore needle screwed into the barrel of a syringe that held a cloudy, pinkish-orange fluid. Beside it rested a bottle of ethyl alcohol and cotton lint. “That’s it? A single injection?” But then what had he expected from mere shell fragments?
“I was only able to collect a few thousand or so cells.” She set the tray on the bedside table and flashed him a tense smile that did nothing to settle his nerves. Was he worried? Of course. But without risk there was no reward. “Without an incubator or appropriate growth media to culture the cells—to allow them to replicate—we’ve no choice but to make do.”
Tugging a thick textbook from beneath her arm, she placed it between them upon the mattress and began flipping through the pages, stopping at a diagram of the liver. “Our next step is to determine aim. Any and all input as to where I should send these cells is encouraged.”
A wave of apprehension rolled over him, collapsing all lingering thoughts of bed sport. A chemist masquerading as a biologist who was in turn playing doctor. Between the two of them, he was the one with more in-depth anatomical knowledge. But of rare and unusual animals. Still, human anatomy couldn’t be that different, could it?
Her finger landed on the image. “Here?” She sounded doubtful. “If I angle the needle upward and into the liver from beneath the right side of the rib cage?”
