by Tilda Booth
Easton’s attack on her, as well as the damning evidence of the recording she’d made using Tesla’s transcriber, which she’d taken on impulse after rediscovering it in her robe that night at his house, had been enough to convince the policemen to take everyone into custody. Jane and Elizabeth were handed into the care of the Bumblebee’s attendants, who had flown her to the hospital.
At Scotland Yard, George had insisted on calling the one agent he knew was not involved in the conspiracy, his former protector James. James had taken over and listened to the recording as well, whereupon the Prime Minister had been called, Easton and Tesla remanded into custody, and George given a private audience to brief Huxley on the whole sordid conspiracy.
“Nicky’s other men escaped. I did warn James that Nicky had agents in the Yard, and he swore that he had only his most trusted men handling the case, but this morning when they went to check on him, Nicky was gone, and Easton was dead in his cell.”
Jane’s fingers tightened on his, turning white. He shook his head. “I don’t think he’s a threat to us now. At least not an immediate threat. He was never one to be motivated by revenge. And…” George’s lips twisted in a sad smile, “…he was my friend.”
Jane couldn’t bear to see him so sad. She caressed his cheek with her free hand.
This time, the smile he gave her was genuine. “As for you, Huxley has agreed to a blanket pardon for your involvement in any activities associated with this. You’re free to go, under one condition.” Bringing the back of her hand to his mouth, he kissed it. “He’s concerned that you might return to working subversively against his government. I had to give him my personal assurance that you wouldn’t, and I guaranteed it by saying…” his eyes shifted away for a second. He took a deep breath and looked at her again, “…that I would marry you.”
Eyes wide, Jane stared at him.
“Jane, Amy, whatever your name is, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
It was so unexpected that she couldn’t react, didn’t know how to react. At her stillness, George bit his lip. “I’m sorry, perhaps I was mistaken? Huxley offered the possibility of exile, and if that’s preferable to you…”
Exile, prison or marriage. If she could have, she would have laughed out loud at him. As it was, she grinned, even though it hurt and one side of her mouth had a lopsided droop to it. She put two hands around the back of his neck and drew him close, kissing him. His hand went to her hip to steady himself. His lips parted hers and he pressed into her until she winced.
At her movement, he straightened, an apology in his eyes, but she put a finger to his lips to silence it.
“Does this mean you accept my proposal?” he asked, his voice shaky.
She nodded and brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the back of it, an imitation of his earlier gesture.
Laughing, he bent his head to touch hers, forehead to forehead. “Oh, Jane, of all the times I might have wished that you couldn’t speak, this isn’t one of them.”
Epilogue
Sussex, 1907
“Lizzie, go find Joseph and tell him that we’re leaving.”
“All right.” Lizzie trotted out of the bedroom, dressed in her traveling cloak.
Trying to decide what to take, Jane weighed the merits of the weapons laid out on her bureau drawer. The clunky Tesla gun was a must, even if it took up nearly a quarter of the carpetbag. The Webley semi-automatic too. That left only the Remington and her old two-shot Derringer. The Remington was more practical, and there was just enough room for it, but she picked up the Derringer and remembered that fateful night when she had pointed it at George in his garden and kidnapped him.
George’s voice crackled over the EF transmitter. “Jane, where the bloody hell are you?”
Picking up the device, she held it close and flicked a switch. “Coming, sweetheart. Just finishing packing.” She picked up the Remington and shoved it into the remaining space in her luggage.
“Not more guns, I hope. We’re already dangerously heavy.”
“I’ll be right out.” Pressing the off button before he could scold her again, she put the Derringer in her reticule, lifted the carpetbag and lugged it down the stairs and out to the garden. George stood at the entrance to Jules Verne’s newest airship, the Wasp. The name fit its sleek, aerodynamic design as well as the deadly stinger ray that armed the tail of the ship. Behind George, Lizzie was already on board, holding on to Joseph’s hand. He looked far more serious than any nine-year-old should have a reason to be. She couldn’t see them, but she knew that Eliza and Sarah, his six-year-old twin sisters, were on board as well.
Dragging the bag behind her, she ran up the ramp. George took the bag from her and made an “oof” sound. “Just couldn’t leave the Remington, could you?” he teased.
She gave him a kiss, long and passionate, while the girls behind them giggled. Jane and George broke off the kiss and the two of them hauled on the ropes to bring up the ramp and close the door. Jane went to the front of the ship and sat in the pilot’s seat, with George taking the co-pilot’s. She checked the gauges on the dashboard while he set switches on the overhead panel.
“Children, find your seats and hold on. We’re taking off.” Jane pumped the handle next to the steering wheel a few times and heard the bellows inflate the spider-silk balloons above them. The ship rose in the air.
Not a moment too soon. The rear periscope showed two tiny dots on the horizon behind them. She leaned toward George. “A little more steam, my love. We’ve got company.”
He turned a dial, pushed down a lever, and the Wasp shot southward over the sparkling blue of the Atlantic, moving out of view of the pursuing government airships within seconds.
She checked the periscope again. “Do you think they saw us?”
“Unlikely, and even if they did, they’ll never catch us now.” He grinned at her, and even though she’d woken to that grin every morning for the last ten years, her heart turned over. She looked back at Joseph, who contemplated the clouds in the sky as if they contained puzzles that only he could unlock.
“Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?”
George put his hand over hers, still lying on top of the ignition handle. “You were right, all those years ago. Nicky, too, and you know he’ll never let me forget it. But I won’t let Huxley have Joseph. He’s not taking my son to become one of his Utopian Supermen.”
She put a hand to his face. “It looks like the revolution is calling once again. Are you ready?”
He pressed a kiss into her palm. “I trust you’ll show me how it’s done.”
About the Author
Tilda Booth was born in Chicago and persists in the belief that the Cubs will win the World Series in her lifetime. For similar reasons, she also believes in curses, miracles, jinxes, and the eternal optimism of “Wait ’Til Next Year!” She married her very own international man of mystery—actually an academic whose research nobody understands—and is immersed in the joys, wonders, and befuddlements of raising gorgeous, precocious children in the city.
On an average day, Tilda can be found hunting for wifi in local cafes, creating dairy-laden breakfasts from scratch for her kids (that she’s not allowed to eat herself anymore, darn it) and watching spy shows with her husband. After many years of a stressful corporate life, where she worked on projects ranging from health insurance, auto racing, computer systems, politics, toilets, patient videos, [blah blah blah], she finally admitted to herself that writing was her life’s passion, and nothing was quite as much fun as penning the perfect happy ending.
Find her at www.tildabooth.com.
Love, science, death. She is all three.
Bluebeard’s Machine
© 2010 Mari Fee
A Silk, Steel and Steam Story
Determined to discover what new experiment is stealing her husband’s attentions, Annette Parker ventures into forbidden territory—his study—only to discover a secret he would kill to keep. She is his fifth
attempt to clone the original Annette and, according to his journal, he’s planning a sixth…after he dissects her dead body.
Unsure of who or what she is, she assumes a new identity and flees to the Orkney Islands and her last hope. The man she once rejected.
Isaac Ward’s first instinct is to get this mysterious “Miss Ada” out of his undersea laboratory—and out of his life—before he repeats the mistakes that drove him there in the first place. Her wild stories and stubborn insistence that they’re true wear his patience thin, but it doesn’t matter. She is as irresistible as the tide.
Then the truth appears right outside the portholes of his lab, stripping away her dubious disguise. Exposing a secret that could kill them both…unless Isaac abandons the science he knows for a second chance with the woman who broke his heart.
Warning: contains mad scientists, wanton murder, identity crises, and boiling hot underwater sex. Submersible instructions not included.
Love lifted her heart to the skies. The rest of her needed a little more help.
Flavia’s Flying Corset
© 2010 Sahara Kelly
A Silk, Steel and Steam Story
When Flavia Winters enters the aerial carriage that will convey her across churning waters to the magnificent, isolated castle of Dr. Harland Gennaro, it’s not a polite social call. Nor does she hope to re-ignite their former passion. Oh, no. She’s convinced the renowned scientist stole something of value from her lab, and she plans to get it back by whatever means necessary.
Once Harland blinks away the temporary blindness caused by Flavia’s clever magnesium beads, he finds himself tied to a chair as she insists he return a vital ingredient for some impossibility called “Icarus”. Then she demonstrates with the last of her compound, and all he can think about is convincing her he’s not the guilty party—and getting into the lab with her to recreate her gravity-defying wonder.
Side by side, they burn the midnight oil making new discoveries, and re-learning old ones about each other. As an ocean storm rises with their desire, though, skullduggery is afoot. A thief watches and waits for the moment they make a discovery that could be their last.
Warning: Reading this book may stimulate an interest in the principles of physics, aerodynamics and the science of sexual arousal. The author is not responsible for any injury incurred while investigating all three topics simultaneously.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Flavia’s Flying Corset:
Harland prided himself on the efficiency of his unique home, in fact he’d put several years worth of thought into the additional design elements. Thus he was able to provide a suitable meal to start the day. At least he thought it was suitable. Tea, of course. Toast, not too badly burned. Some marmalade Mountjoy had recommended and he’d approved. Of course, he had a suspicion that Mountjoy was walking out with the marmalade maker, but that was his business, not Harland’s.
The butter was cool, as was the milk for tea. Harland’s icebox system was one of his many accomplishments. The use of the largest local resource—the ocean and its salty water—combined with an ingenious extraction and circulation pump, well it worked quite well. He was proud of it.
Setting the dishes on the table in front of the windows, he wondered what Flavia would think about it. Then she walked in and he forgot everything he’d planned on asking her.
Glowing skin, hair soft and falling down a little here and there—she was a vision from his dreams. Her smile lit a fire in his breeches, an occurrence that seemed to be part of his every waking minute since she’d stepped onto Roman Rock and back into his life. Even in the more casual attire she’d chosen, she was the answer to his every sensual dream.
He had a very difficult time not going to her, stripping her free of those clothes and taking her all over again on the Axminster rug. Perhaps from behind again, her buttocks white and round, begging for the touch of his hand, his mouth, his teeth—
“Oh, lovely. Tea. Just what I need.”
Well, it wasn’t exactly a rousing endorsement for sex on the carpet. He gave himself a mental smack and just smiled. “I’m glad. We need to discuss some matters.”
“Yes. The plan.” She seated herself and glanced out of the window. “It’s very thick, isn’t it? The fog?”
He didn’t even bother looking, just set the toast rack near enough for her to reach and popped a small spoon into the marmalade jar. “Not unusual for this time of year. It may clear later, if the wind picks up a bit.”
Such mundane conversation, he mused. As if they hadn’t been naked and intimate such a short time ago.
“So tell me.” She bit down on a slice of toast. “You want to recreate Icarus.”
He nodded. “I do. That’s the first part of the plan. Simultaneously, I want to spread the word of what we’re doing.”
She tilted her head and watched him as he poured the tea. “How? Why?”
“The how is easy.” He gestured to the communications machine. “I’ll simply send a message to a few friends that you’ve honored me with your presence and that we’re working together on an exciting project you’ve developed.”
“And rumors will spread.”
“I hope so.” He nodded again. “The only person whose attention will be thoroughly intrigued should be the person who knows what you’ve been creating. Anybody else will simply think it’s just another scientific collaboration and not devote much interest to it.”
“It’s bait, isn’t it? Designed to lure the thief here perhaps?”
Approvingly, Harland smiled. “Yes. You’re quick to grasp the implications. Whoever stole your Icarus sample will wonder if we’re making more.”
She held up a hand. “There’s more to it than that. Whoever stole it has a piece roughly an ounce or so in size. He’ll try and duplicate it, of course. And that will be a futile endeavor.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t remember the exact measurements. My discovery of Icarus was—how can I put this—serendipitous?”
“You mean it was an accident?”
She sighed deeply. “Yes. Completely by accident. I wasn’t paying much attention since my attempts to create a wax additive weren’t paying off. I recall stirring in a little cedarwood essence to add a fragrance. Then I wiped off my worktable and probably got a little more dust and scrapings into it than I’d originally planned. I did sneeze too.”
“Oh good God. Don’t tell me that nasal effluvia is essential.”
She grinned. “No. But my sneeze lifted some vaporous dust, drifted it around and into the mixing dish I was using at the time. All these circumstances combined together and when I looked back at my compound, it was congealing into the form you saw.” She rubbed a hand over her nose in frustration at the memories. “Even then, it wasn’t until I had it in my hand…I was staring at it and wondering what on earth had gone wrong. I sighed and—”
“It elevated.”
“It did.” She shrugged. “I can’t begin to describe my surprise.”
“The exhalations. The contents of your breath. Gases caused a reaction.”
“That was my assumption, yes.”
“Good. I probably have the ingredients we’ll need.” He nearly rubbed his hands together in enthusiasm, but managed to restrain the impulse.
“Don’t get too excited. I’ve tried for so long to duplicate it. I’ve had no success whatsoever.” Her mouth turned down.
“Never underestimate the power of two heads, which is, as they like to say, sometimes better than one.”
She flicked him a mildly irritated glance over the rim of her teacup. “I made the damn stuff. If I can’t do it again, I’m not sure how having you hovering over me is going to help matters.”
“Testy.” He grinned.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be. But you’ve arrived at the point where my frustration knows no bounds.”
“We’ll take it step by step. I’ll sneeze if I have to.”
“Gracious. Why didn’t I think of that?”
She raised an eyebrow dryly.
“Trust me, Flavia. Between the two of us, we should be able to succeed.”
“And if we do, then what?”
“Then…then we hope the lure of more Icarus, or perhaps the idea of a written formula, will be sufficient to entice your thief.”
The last thing she planned to steal was his heart.
Miss Bramble and the Leviathan
© 2010 Kristen Painter
The Company. Military institution, protector of Praeton and the nation of Grand Isle. Dirty rotten thief.
When Pandora Bramble steps aboard the Company’s premiere airship Daedalus it’s not for the exclusive VIP tour. It’s to secure proof that the Company stole the regulator valve her father designed—even if it means tearing the engine apart. Foiled by the unexpected appearance of a handsome crew member, she despairs of ever getting another chance—until he kisses her.
Captain Theolonius Hatch, sentenced to engine room duty for refusing to take part in the Company’s fleet week activities, never dreamed a woman like Pandora existed. Her brains match her beauty, a combination that adds up to more trouble than he ever expected.
As Pandora allows Theolonius to sweep her into a whirlwind courtship, her wildest dreams come true. As do her greatest fears, leaving her to decide what matters most. Loyalty…or love.
The clock is ticking.
Warning: This book contains airships, mechanical owls, women who are good with tools, men in and out of uniform, steam generated by engines and people, and some hot carriage scenes.
