Stealing Utopia

by Tilda Booth

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Miss Bramble and the Leviathan:

  Pandora stared at the glinting brass pin in her palm. Even in the shade, light caught the sculpted metal. She rubbed her thumb over the star at the center of the spread wings. “It’s lovely.” It was disastrous. “This means…” She glanced up at him to be sure he wasn’t about to snatch it back. “It means you’re declaring yourself my beau.”

  “I know what it means. Do you accept?”

  She couldn’t. Not if she was to go through with her plan to save her family. It would ruin him if he ever found out. “I don’t know if I should.” Except she did know. Quite clearly she should hand it back and run. But that was easier thought than done. She just couldn’t bring herself to turn down the affection of a man she had already begun to think of as hers.

  “Why ever not? Is there another tomcat prowling at your heels?”

  “No, of course not. I just—it’s that it’s all so sudden.” That was as good an excuse as any.

  “Pandora, I leave in four days. Sudden is all I have.”

  “Yes, I suppose things work differently for Company men, don’t they?” Her thumb ran across the finely polished metal once more. She would suffer the consequences when they came. She held out the pin to him. “Would you put it on me?”

  He took it with a smile and slipped his fingers beneath the neckline of her dress to pin the broach near her right shoulder. She inhaled at the contact, her body paying no mind to the public location or impropriety of the touch. “When will you be back?”

  “Don’t have me gone yet. We’ve a few more days until those things have to be discussed.” He stroked the side of her neck while he kissed her cheek. “Hungry?”

  “Famished, actually.” If things went as she suspected they would, he was going to hate her, but until then she might as well enjoy being doted upon. It would give her something pleasant to remember while she cried herself to sleep at night. She forced herself to smile as he handed her out of the carriage.

  He spread the blanket, then set out the picnic things. “Let’s see what Cook has packed up for us.”

  She sat beside him while he parceled out ham and chicken sandwiches, cold boiled eggs, an assortment of cheeses, rolls with jam and butter, a basket of strawberries with a container of cream, plum cakes and a decanter each of lemonade and ginger beer.

  “My word, your cook must have thought you were entertaining a great deal of people.”

  He studied the display of food. “It is a bit much, isn’t it? What can I say? Cook’s used to feeding a whole ship. Guess we better dig in.” He uncorked the lemonade and held it up.

  “Yes, thank you.” After he poured, she took the glass from him and sipped. The tart liquid did little to quench the growing guilt inside her. She tried to change the subject, but the questions that came out of her only threaded another line in her sticky web. “If the engines are being cleaned the night of the officers’ ball, how will the ship be lit? How will dinner be prepared?”

  He offered her the plate of sandwiches. “Dinner is catered and the officers’ ball is traditionally lit with candles and gas lamps. Rather romantic, actually.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.” She took half a ham sandwich, her appetite dwindling. “What time do you leave the next morning?”

  “Ready to see me off, are you?” He smiled.

  “No, not at all.”

  “We leave early morning. It takes all night for the cylinders to fully dry, then they’re inspected one last time, refilled and powered up at dawn.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You take more interest in those engines than any woman I’ve ever known, but then you’re not like any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Does it bother you? My interest?”

  “To the contrary. I like being able to talk about the ship. Most women just laugh and smile and humor me. I know they haven’t the foggiest.” He tilted toward her. “I never thought a woman’s mind could bring such heat—or firmness—to my veins as yours does.”

  “Theo!” She gasped, but took pleasure in his wickedness.

  He laughed. “I do love the sound of my name on your lips. Among other things.”

  “Unrepentant,” she muttered with a grin even as her mind kept imagining how things might go when he found out she’d been using him. None of her scenarios ended well. She would have to find a way to balance things. To give him something in return for her duplicity.

  As they finished their sandwiches, Theo dipped a strawberry in cream and held it out to her. She bit into it, licking her lips to capture every drop of sweetness. His eyes tracked the movement, darkening with a hunger for something more than food. He watched her with such ardor she began to wonder if he’d ravish her right there on the blanket.

  Then she knew what she would give him. A sacrifice equal to her crime. A gift worth more than anything else she had. Something she’d never given to any other man.

  Herself.

  It was the only thing she could think of that might cause him to hate her a little less.

  Their love rides on a spring and a prayer…

  Wild Cards and Iron Horses

  © 2010 Sheryl Nantus

  During the recent Civil War, a soldier risked his life to save Jonathan Handleston—and lost. With the help of an advanced metal brace on his crippled hand, Jon now travels from one poker tournament to the next, determined to earn enough money to repay the man’s debt.

  Prosperity Ridge is supposed to be the last stop on his quest, but his brace is broken and he needs an engineer to repair the delicate mechanisms. The only one available is Samantha Weatherly, a beautiful anomaly in a world ruled by men.

  Sam is no fool. Jon is no different from any other gambler—except for his amazing prosthetic. Despite a demanding project to win a critical contract to develop an iron horse, she succumbs to the lure of working on the delicate mechanisms. And working with the handsome Englishman.

  Like a spring being coiled, Samantha and Jon are inexorably drawn together. Sam begins to realize honor wears many faces, and she becomes the light at the end of Jon’s journey to redemption. The only monkey wrench is Victor, a rival gambler who will stop at nothing to make sure Jon misses the tournament. Even destroy Jon’s and Sam’s lives.

  Warning: Contains crazed card games, gears and springs galore and a wild ride that’ll have you panting at the end of the book.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Wild Cards and Iron Horses:

  Sam looked down at the brown paper parcel, shaking her head as if waking from a dream. “Oh, yes. Your brace is repaired.” She went to the half-wrapped bundle and began pulling the paper off. “I intended to come over to Mrs. McGuire’s and meet you there.” The words rushed out like an oil leak. “Of course, then we would have had to come back here and do the fitting. I don’t think Mrs. McGuire would let me go up to your room and allow us to complete our dealings there.” She felt the tingling down her spine, settling in her stomach with a butterfly’s flutter.

  Jon got up from the stool, now steady on his feet. Taking his jacket off, he draped it over the stool and began the now-familiar routine of disrobing in front of Samantha, who diverted her eyes, as was proper. A few minutes later, he walked over to the table. Jon leaned over it, his upper body totally bare.

  She pulled the last piece of parchment off the metal brace with fumbling fingers. “Do you need my help to adjust…?” The words trailed off as she studied his bare chest, the light furring of dark hair a stark contrast to his fair skin. The trail led down to his bellybutton then lower, dipping into the darkness below his belt buckle. “The brace is very comfortable,” Sam murmured.

  Jon leaned into the brace, flipping the clamps that attached it to his upper and lower arm muscles. The strap went across his chest, the well-worn leather pulled tight with the buckle pressing against the red indentation on his skin.

  She watched, fully transfixed as he slipped the belt tail through a holder, laying it flush with his chest. The leather edge flappe
d against his skin, eventually snuggling safe into place.

  He turned to look at her, grinning. “‘Comfortable’? Did you try it on?”

  She let out a light hiccup, intently studying a knothole in the tabletop to avoid his gaze. “I felt it was important to see if the device worked as required, specifically the fingers. So I needed to wear it to be sure.” Sam looked up, just slightly, staring at his muscles twitching and shifting in the metal brace.

  “Ah.” Jon flexed his fingers, watching the little finger curl and uncurl on command. “As good as new.” He tilted his head to one side, still smiling. “How did you like wearing it?”

  “An amazing invention.” The words tumbled out, her internal voice shouting for her to calm down and stop babbling like a young girl on her first social outing. “I would have loved to have seen its construction. I would recommend, however, that you contact the manufacturer and ask if they could provide you with some emergency replacement pieces for the future. Improvisation can only go so far, and while I enjoyed working on you…on it and would do so again in a minute, I think…” She was breathless, her last words coming out in a whisper. Her eyes dropped down to study the knothole again. Surely she had made enough of a fool of herself that he would have nothing else to do with her now.

  Jon put his shirt on, shrugging the fabric over his broad shoulders and the brace. “An excellent repair job. And I’ll follow up on your recommendations. They’re preparing to make it available to more people.” He flinched, fumbling with a button. “A sad reality of armed conflicts is that innovation tends to follow in order to deal with the results of such.” Jon glanced over at her father and Gil, the two eagerly finishing off the last of the tarts. His voice dropped, almost to an intimate whisper. “Have you considered getting an artificial arm for your father?”

  Sam took a step back, folding her arms in front of her. This was an old argument with a new opponent. “Father’s too proud for that, at least right now. Besides, it would be too much money.” She shrugged, meeting his gaze head-on. There was no use in mincing her words. “As you may have noticed, out here things are much more expensive than they are on the coast. While we can produce our own food and items to a degree, we still need to import much more than we can make ourselves. Including such luxuries as artificial limbs and the means to fit and maintain them. And everyone wants to make a profit.”

  “I have noticed that.” Jon nodded. “I do think you should think about it. The science, the people I have seen in England, they would make his life much more comfortable.” He curled his fingers into a fist, the metal bands pulling the slender digits inward. “But I would understand if he chose not to, for his own reasons and not financial ones. I often wonder about my own decision.”

  “Well, I, for one, am glad you decided to keep your hand.” Sam took the crippled right hand and pressed it between her own two warm palms.

  Looking up, she saw a matching smile. The deep blue eyes locked with her own for what could have been a minute, an hour…

  “This pastry is delicious,” her father roared from the other table. “I’d forgotten how good. We need to order from them more often.”

  The shock startled Sam out of her reverie and she moved back a few inches, releasing Jon’s hand. He let out a low sigh at her withdrawal, sending her pulse racing.

  “Yes, the bill. The bill.” She went to the other desk and picked up a piece of paper. “We have an itemized bill here for you, Mr. Handleston.” Sam cleared her throat, making one last attempt to be as professional as possible. “I think you’ll find our rates are quite reasonable…” She paused, seeing his wide smile, the softness in his face bringing unbidden tears to her eyes.

  “What you’ve done for me is priceless, Miss Weatherly. And I thought I told you to call me ‘Jon’.” He took the page from her, scanning down the columns. “Everything seems reasonable, more than.” His good hand pushed into one of the waistcoat pockets. “Unfortunately, I don’t have enough on me at the present to pay.” Jon put up a hand. “But I do have an account at the bank, my dear lady. I don’t carry around large wads of cash, no matter my profession.”

  “Good idea.” Her father glanced over, a trace of raspberry jam on the edge of his mouth. “Why don’t you accompany him to the bank, my dear, and simply deposit it to our own account? That’ll save an extra trip for everyone.” He nodded to Jon. “I trust you to escort my daughter, sir. At least to the bank,” her father added with a hint of laughter in his eyes.

  “And I shall.” Jon bowed slightly, returning the wide smile with interest.

  Sam rolled her eyes. When it came to affairs of the heart, her father was about as subtle as a runaway steam engine. After walking into the back room, she emerged with a delicately made shawl, a cream-colored piece of whimsy that somehow fit with her work shirt and her dark blue jeans. The shocked looks when she re-emerged banished all doubt she had about buying the shawl only a few weeks earlier in an impulsive moment.

  “Shall I pick up something for later on?” She let out a laugh, seeing the mess the two men/boys had made on the worktable.

  One raspberry tart had been cleanly dissected, the fruit scooped out with fingers and spread across most of the daily newspaper, while the chocolate creampuffs had exploded over both faces.

  “Uh…maybe not for me.” Her father wiped the edge of his mouth with a finger and licked it clean. Gil let out a moan, clutching his stomach. “And I think Gil here needs a bit of a lay down.”

  Sam nodded. “There’s some baking soda in the cupboard if you need to mix something up.” Turning to Jon, she gestured towards the door. “The bank should be open for another hour or two, but we should hurry.”

  “Take your time coming home,” her father called after them. “Maybe stop for a cup of tea or something. No rush.”

  Sam scowled at him as she closed the door behind them. She was surprised Jon hadn’t already headed for the hills, with this sort of suggesting going on.