The Twisting

by Laurel Wanrow

  Even if she wished to, she couldn’t stop staring at him and the fibers wiggling through Patrice’s jam. He ate the slice, and she stifled a breath of relief and dropped her gaze to the open jars. She prepared him another piece of bread with the pea nut spread, though it had fewer of the blue threads—

  “If we are in agreement, I’ll have my solicitor—”

  Her head popped up. “Mr.—George?”

  “Yes?”

  She had to ward off both disagreeing and agreeing. “I must give this…new information more than a few minutes’ thought. I have—” What? Think, Annmar, think. “Other needs.”

  He grinned, not quite but almost, a leer. “I’m very aware of that.”

  Heat flooded her chest and cheeks. She started to look away, then stopped herself. She’d fail in this if she didn’t take control. “I mean for the shop,” she said firmly. “Particular materials and equipment I’m used to. The high quality Shearing Enterprises has come to expect for the business’ superior advertising. I would like to make a list. You should review it, and check the latest prices, before we make an agreement.”

  “I think we can agree the shop will be completely stocked before you take ownership.”

  She affected a sniff. “No, that’s not good business. Our expectations should be up-front. Fair to both parties.”

  To her relief, he nodded. “As I said, you are a fine businesswoman. Prepare your list. In the meantime, look over the property.” He handed her a folded paper.

  She took it automatically and passed him the second piece of bread. “Thank you, George. Please try this new legume and see what you think. It’s a product your model farms might benefit from growing.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he peered at the pea nut spread. “What is this?”

  Why hadn’t she thought of pointing out the new crop sooner? Now she had Mr. Shearing’s attention on something that rivaled sex in importance. “This legume hasn’t made it to Derbyshire?” She dropped the paper in her valise, not wanting anything to interrupt.

  He ate a bite, his brow furrowed in concentration. He finished the slice and said, “Tell me about it.”

  Annmar startled out of her near-trance of watching the blue fibers disappear between his lips. She snatched up the knife and dipped it into the jar while she talked about the legume. On top of the pea nut spread, she layered Patrice’s jam, adding twice the number of threads. While he ate that piece, she prepared the next on an apple slice, since the apples contained more fibers.

  She relayed every last detail she could remember about the pea nut plant, then tasted a bite of the spread herself to glean more details through her Knack. He consumed the food to the last bite, possibly only to please her attentive eye, but he ate it all, nonetheless.

  How many fibers would it take? She passed another apple slice, and he caught her hand.

  “You eat something,” he said. “Very soon you’ll need the strength you say this pea nut provides.” Then he laughed at her astonished look.

  Laugh, would he? Annmar squeezed his hand and narrowed her focus, not on Mr. Shearing, who immediately apologized for his improper comment, but on her Knack. Her other hand rose to her collarbone. His gaze tracked it and settled lower.

  But this time Annmar didn’t care. Blue threads ran through Mr. Shearing.

  She dropped his hand and ate an apple slice to cover her grin.

  Of course, this set him to laughing again, but he joined her in crunching a few slices, so she let him think she had agreed with his suggestion.

  Her stomach started flipping again. The threads were there, but would they do her bidding?

  Mr. Shearing rose. “I’m happy we’re well on our way to settling this fine arrangement.”

  Annmar had no chance to counter before he pulled her to her feet.

  “This pea nut is a splendid find,” he said. “You’ve persuaded me. A pea nut field will grace every Shearing farm come spring, and you shall devise some clever advertising campaign. We must celebrate.”

  “But I haven’t agreed—”

  “Come dawn, I’m sure you will have accepted all of my proposals.” He took her into his arms, and kissed her with more enthusiasm than earlier.

  Caught by surprise, Annmar froze. It didn’t deter Mr. Shearing. He proceeded as if he had her full agreement, on both items.

  Bile rose in her throat. She forced it down. She had to do this. For Henry and Wellspring. Relaxing in his hold, she put her mind to her Knack. Blue threads swam behind her closed eyes.

  To really see if it worked, she needed the courage to let him do more with her, to do what Mary Clare insisted was the minimum so he’d think he had gotten what he paid for. Yes, the money—the image of him handing her the roll of notes steadied her resolve.

  She lifted her head and smiled at the man staring down at her. His thumb rubbed a circle on her neck. As Mary Clare had instructed, she said, “I am feeling a bit shy, George. Will we be able to take things slowly tonight?”

  “Of course.” He swept his hand from her waist to press at the side of her breast.

  This was slowly?

  Daeryn hadn’t touched her so intimately. No one had.

  Mr. Shearing’s breath heated her neck before he dived to kissing it, her collarbone, and…lower.

  She groaned, which he mistook for encouragement, and suddenly his lips skimmed into her bosom’s lacy modesty panel.

  Ugh, this was too much. She didn’t want him kissing any part of her. She’d much rather strip to the corset that was nearly impossible to get off, get him out of his trousers, let him think something was going to happen and be done with him. Her other drawings of him—the rude ones—rose in her Knack’s view, with him drooping vividly.

  He froze.

  So did Annmar, her breath in her throat, the image held in her mind.

  Then he moved, and his mouth was upon her, open and insistent. Her head muddled with the sudden heat of his body against hers, of him touching…her. Even Mary Clare’s precise descriptions hadn’t clarified this. Waves of confusion enveloped her, and the blue threads flew apart, gone. She fumbled for what to do, in her head and with her hands. They fell from his neck to his chest and pushed.

  They separated, and she stared up at him, trying to catch her breath. Amazingly, he didn’t seem upset. He simply smiled in an oddly intense way.

  “A little warm?” Mr. Shearing asked.

  She nodded dumbly, and he stepped away, removing his coat and unbuttoning his waistcoat as he watched her.

  Annmar turned away. No. She’d just made this worse.

  Why had her Knack worked and then stopped? Why…his touch had startled her, been something she couldn’t ignore. But she had to. She had to focus to do this, and he was making her lose that focus.

  No, she couldn’t. She would do this.

  He dimmed the gas lamps and then he was behind her, smoothing his hands around her waist and up her sides. With each stroke his hands came higher, closer—

  She gritted her teeth and forced herself to pay no heed to the touching. She closed her eyes and focused. The blue mist rose, separated, and threads streamed in all directions.

  She would do this.

  He pulled her to his body and dipped his lips to the back of her neck, settling his hands exactly around what her corset cupped.

  She ignored him, keeping a hold of her blue threads. That worked, until he turned her in his arms and flicked his gaze over her.

  More kissing was clearly coming, for her lips and her exposed chest.

  Hang Mary Clare’s suggestions for dragging this out. They were different girls. Annmar fingered the pearl buttons on her bodice.

  His pupils dilated, and he covered her hands with his. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice hoarse with excitement.

  She let him unfasten the first few, but when his hands assuredly slid beneath her clothes, her breath caught.

  “You’re luscious,” he said.

  Oh…mercy. Throat tight with fear, h
er attempt at an enlightened, “Thank you,” emerged in exactly the breathy voice Mary Clare had recommended.

  Without ever seeming to have his hands off her, Mr. Shearing unfastened the rest of the round buttons. Annmar kept her fingers curled into his waistcoat to stop herself from swatting him away.

  His movements advanced in a precise manner, as planned as the construction of his machines, and Annmar found herself in the bedchamber, next to the bed, loosened from her skirt, her petticoats falling, and then, clad only in her corset and lady drawers, she was upon the bed.

  Annmar participated, if one could call it that, as if from a distance, as if this wasn’t happening to her. Because she had already decided it wouldn’t happen to her. She was allowing it to proceed only because she had to believe she could stop it at any moment.

  But when a naked man climbed into the bed beside her, Annmar shrank back. His patently murmured, “No need for alarm,” did nothing to calm her. The blue she’d determinedly held to fled once more.

  “I can’t…” she said.

  “But you agreed,” he whispered. “You’ve accepted my money. Unless you’d rather return it and go?” Frowning, he parted slightly from her.

  The money. The money she no longer had. The money Wellspring so desperately needed to hold the farm together, to keep the Collective’s people working. For Henry. And to keep her there, and near Daeryn.

  Annmar swallowed and opened her eyes. She would lay him out if she had to—more easily now. “I mean, I can’t believe I’m here.”

  He grinned down at her and moved closer. “I told you, this is a better place for a fine woman like you than among the wild elements of Blighted Basin.”

  No, it wasn’t. This didn’t feel right at all. She was so very tired of him assuming he knew what she should do. What felt right was Daeryn, her new friends at Wellspring, her Knack. The blue warmed within her. She reached for the threads, and while Mr. Shearing petted her hair, her shoulders, and…the rest of her body, Annmar took charge of those wild elements.

  It required all her focus to direct the threads. The gleam in Mr. Shearing’s eye made her lose them. But with a push from her Knack, his manhood drooped. She didn’t want to watch him, but she had to. His eyes closed. His teeth nibbling over her lips faltered, then his mouth skimmed her cheek. His head lolled to her shoulder, heavy and still.

  Her breath expelled on a sigh…and his hand found its way over her hip.

  She gasped, and the threads scattered. The place he pressed—oh, Lord, no. She shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. He had her pinned, his body creeping over hers, weighing against her, pushing.

  Her fingers clenched into the sheet, and she struggled to ignore his groping, to focus…focus…focus…

  Slowly, slowly the threads returned. They were harder now to control, seemingly farther from her…but she was far from the Basin, and Mr. Shearing had so few to work with. She bound them to her, to him, pushing every fiber with every ounce of her will.

  Finally, his hands slowed. Minutes later—long, scary minutes, in which Mr. Shearing made fair progress in his intentions—he fell heavily upon her, his breathing deep and slowing, and every part of his body limp.

  Deep in her Knack, Annmar fixed the threads in place and collapsed, lying panting beneath him with tears leaking into her hair. His skin was hot against her, so very hot, and she couldn’t get a full breath with her corset so tightly laced.

  Even after his snores broke out, she couldn’t lift her arms to push him away. At last, when her sobs subsided and her tears dried up, she untangled her limbs. Wiggling, then levering him up more forcefully, Annmar rolled away and curled up at the edge of the bed. If only she rested, she could get up.

  He moaned.

  Annmar’s heart leaped into her throat. Half-asleep, he reached blindly for her. She sent her fibers connecting with his. Fear kept her focus until he eased down. A half hour later, she decided it was safe to move again.

  This time she recognized the weakness from overusing her Knack. She had to eat. After stumbling to the sitting room table, she licked a spoonful of Patrice’s jam and scooped another—

  “Where are you?” Mr. Shearing called.

  She flew back, using the convenience as her excuse, and had to bear his groping all over again.

  After she’d put him to sleep the third time, the ugly truth hit her. She could only affect Mr. Shearing if she was touching him.

  Tears trailed down her cheeks. Why? Why could she do this with Rivley and not Mr. Shearing? Why hadn’t she tested it on Daeryn, if only to have more ideas at hand?

  Annmar drew a deep breath and wiped back her loose hair. She couldn’t spend time worrying. She was tired and emotionally spent, and now she’d have to make a run for it in the morning. But she needn’t do that in her underclothes. She had hours before daylight to collect her clothes and dress.

  Keeping a hand upon his arm, she eased off the bed and eyed her petticoats. But she needed the jam worse. With it and the remaining food, she could restore her strength. After, she would retrieve her clothes, and lastly dress. She went into her Knack to give the threads a last urge to stay with him and cast a look at him to watch them.

  Old Terry’s bindings at her wrist glowed golden, like a faint ray of sunlight.

  No, not fainter, just with a different light. They were different threads, rock threads, not plant threads.

  Rock threads.

  Annmar swung around and spotted her satchel, all the way across the sitting room.

  He’d surely wake and be…ready again. She rubbed a hand over her face. She had to do it.

  He was stirring by the time she snatched up the jam, bread and satchel.

  “You’re right, I need my strength,” she murmured to him, managing to tip jam onto a hunk of bread before he tipped her back onto the pillows. Chewing, bearing his hands all over her and his hips rocking to open her legs, she took another bite and another, eyes closed, and reached for her Knack. The threads gathered, as weak as her arms. Dredging strength, she pushed them onto Mr. Shearing.

  He hesitated, then sagged over her.

  She grabbed the satchel. When her searching fingers found the stone, his eyes blinked open. Come to me, she urged the pale gold fiber and rubbed her thumb across the rough crystals. The thread squirmed to her fingers. She dropped the stone and met Mr. Shearing’s frown with one thought streaming through her Knack: Sleep.

  Seconds later, her empty hand and Mr. Shearing’s bewildered expression told Annmar the fiber had done her bidding. His eyes fluttered closed, and stayed.

  Chapter THIRTY-FOUR

  When she could lift her arms again, Annmar shoved Mr. Shearing aside and slid from the bed. Gasping shallow breaths, she stared down at the lying scoundrel. He would not have let her leave, even after asking if she wanted to return his money.

  For a minute she stood, watching. Two minutes passed, then three. He moved only to breathe.

  She had done it.

  Annmar wiped the hair from her damp brow. She still had the rest of the night to spend in his company, but not in this bed. Glee spread like a glowing dawn through her, and Annmar grinned. It was ridiculous how good she felt, because if she tried to take a step now she’d fall to the floor.

  Gripping the bedstead, she leaned to his ear and whispered, “No, you bastard.”

  Then she took the jar from the bed, scooped jam with her finger and ate until she had the energy to find her rock and satchel, and finally turn her back on Mr. Shearing.

  * * *

  Just after dawn, Annmar accepted the familiar driver’s help and, with her knees shaking, climbed into the carriage pulled up in front of The Grand. He handed in her valise and closed the door. Inside, a wide-eyed Mary Clare searched her face, then, without a word, tucked her hand into the crook of Annmar’s arm.

  She peered out the edge of the window, not daring a word while the wooden conveyance creaked and swayed with the weight of the driver climbing aboard. Reins snapped, the man
clicked to the horses and the carriage rattled forward. Mr. Shearing wasn’t chasing her, the knowledge at last allowing Annmar to release her breath.

  Mary Clare squeezed her hand. “Annmar?”

  A tear welled at the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry.”

  Annmar shook her head. “No, he didn’t,” she said with finality and dashed away the tear.

  “But you’re crying?”

  “I’m not.” She searched her valise for her handkerchief with undo concentration, avoiding Mary Clare’s concerned face.

  Mary Clare passed her a handkerchief. “What happened?”

  It was so hard to explain. “Nothing, and everything,” she said from behind the lace-edged cotton. “I didn’t like it, and I had to pretend I did, and it felt so awful. And he kept waking up, so I had to put my hand on him for the longest time—”

  “On his—”

  “Of course not,” she hissed, lowering the handkerchief to glare. Mary Clare had the most improper ideas of any girl Annmar had ever met.

  Her friend’s brows were raised. Then Mary Clare wrinkled her nose. “I was teasing. I knew you probably didn’t. But you were sure ripe for asking, so I did, and now you don’t look about to cry.” Mary Clare squeezed her into a hug.

  “I kept him at bay,” Annmar muttered into her shoulder. “It was awful, and now it’s done and I just can’t think about it.” She straightened, put away the handkerchief and adjusted her gloves. “I’m going to get those Harvesters on the train and get out of these clothes. Twenty-four hours confined in a corset is beyond necessary.”

  Mary Clare grinned. “Now you’re seeing things properly. So go on. You had your hand on…”

  “His arm.” Annmar rolled her eyes. “I must be the most awful prude in the whole of England.” Another check out the carriage window assured her Mr. Shearing wasn’t following. “My Knack couldn’t keep him asleep unless I continued touching him. It wasn’t at all like controlling Rivley’s…er, Rivley.”

  Mary Clare frowned. “And Rivley is no sissy. He’s strong-willed, especially when it comes to his manhood, so that’s not the difference. What did you find out about your Mr. Shearing?”