by Anne Renwick
Was it wrong of him to hope he found something unpleasant? He blew out a breath. Ridiculous of him to feel jealous of a man who had been dead for an entire year. But there it was. True, she’d turned him down despite her obvious interest. So unless she crooked her finger, he would play the gentleman.
Not that he could mention the man’s stunning widow to his friend without inviting ribbing. And questions. Questions he wasn’t supposed to answer even if he knew what was going on. If he could find a single connection, one solid lead…
“Something about Davis’s blood isn’t right.” Shaw’s musing reminded him there was another mystery to solve.
“Not right?” Alec flicked a glance at his friend as they walked down a long aisle. Heavy wooden boxes filled with laboratory notebooks bowed the tall racks of shelving looming on either side of them. There. A box labeled “McQuiston.” Alec dragged the crate from the shelf and looked inside.
It was nearly empty. A lone personnel file lay within. His jaw clenched. Telling, this lack of laboratory notebooks. Someone didn’t want the dead man’s research exposed.
“Chemistry took a look at a sample and commented that not only did his blood have too many red blood cells, it seemed… stickier. They were going to isolate components, but that night, all biopsies and samples—even Davis’s body—were confiscated.”
His head jerked up. “Confiscated? Why am I just hearing about this now?”
“Please.” Shaw rolled his eyes upward. “You were in no condition to handle anything other than yourself. The team thought it better to leave well enough alone.”
“Except now the board wants to deny anything went wrong beyond standard aquaspira failure. And I have private and controlled access to an Ichor machine.” Davis might have been a fool to act as a lab rat, and there was no denying that he’d put his team at risk, but he had been their friend. “If we let them get away with this, there’s no telling what kind of experimental liberties they’ll think they can take with the BURR team.”
“Exactly.” Shaw nodded. “Someone here did something they shouldn’t and has powerful friends willing to help hide it. He needs to be stopped.” He crossed his arms and gave Alec a pointed stare. “Glaister Institute is too fond of its secrets.”
Of which Alec was one. He pinched his lips together, but nodded. Much as he hated keeping information from his friend, he’d promised Logan. “I’ll do everything I can to figure it out.”
“Good.” Shaw pointed his chin at the file Alec held. “On with it then.”
Opening the file, Alec quickly scanned basic information, flipping through the pages. “Born in Stornoway. Graduated medical school with honors. Married shortly thereafter. Nothing particularly interesting… wait…” Fingers tight on the file, he looked up and met Shaw’s gaze. “Mentored by one Lord Roideach prior to receiving his own laboratory.”
He could wait no longer for Mrs. McQuiston’s return. It was time to visit the widow’s home.
Chapter Ten
A LOUD KNOCK WOKE HER.
Though the house was warm, Isa uncurled stiffly from her position upon the not-so-comfortable sitting room settee and staggered onto her stocking-clad feet.
When her letter was finished and posted, tea and biscuits consumed, she had stared at the narrow flight of wooden steps leading upward. Deep inside her chest, her heart recoiled and her lungs rebelled. Every heartbeat pounded against her ribcage, and every breath scraped the inside of her throat. The only available bed in this house was the one she’d shared with Anton, and she refused to ever sleep there again.
More knocking. A glance at the hall clock informed her it was five past seven o’clock in the morning. Any number of neighbors might have seen a light in her window last night and come calling to confirm. With luck, it was Mrs. Wilson with a loaf of fresh-baked bread and a pot of jam. Her stomach growled.
She crept to the front window and twitched the curtain aside. Dr. McCullough stood upon her doorstep in the bright morning sunlight where anyone in the neighborhood might see and remark upon his visit. Her pulse jumped. She’d sent the skeet pigeon back, inviting him to tea, not breakfast. Was there dire news? Had another man died?
Or was he here for another reason? After all, he didn’t look worried. He looked every inch a gentleman, not merely a lightly-groomed drifter. A dark coat. Waistcoat and cravat. Pressed trousers. She smiled. But no top hat. His dark hair was tousled and windblown, and that sent a shiver across her skin.
But sleep-tousled was not how a woman wished to answer a door. Particularly when she was considering taking the man on the other side of it as her lover. Sensing her gaze, he turned his head and looked directly into her eyes. His lips twitched, then spread into a smile that formed crinkles at the corners of his eyes, as if he found the locks of hair that tumbled about her shoulders amusing.
She dropped the curtain and pressed a hand against her stomach, a futile attempt to calm the butterflies she seemed to have swallowed. Combing her fingers through her hair, she twisted it into an acceptable knot at the base of her neck and pinned it in place before glancing down with despair at her hopelessly wrinkled bodice and skirts. A proper lady would ignore him, refuse to answer the door, but he’d seen her before in nothing but a dressing gown, a memory that made her heart beat even faster.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled the door open and tipped her face upward to meet his assessing gaze. “Might these surprise visits be the start of a trend, Dr. McCullough?”
His smile fell away as he held her gaze. “They might, Mrs. McQuiston, were I to receive the slightest encouragement.”
Her breath caught, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Then consider yourself encouraged. Do come in.”
With a glint in his blue eyes, he stepped inside, filling the entryway. He closed the door, and the noise of a waking city disappeared, leaving nothing but the two of them in the faintly illuminated hallway. “I must admit, there’s a certain appeal to catching you in various stages of dishabille.”
His voice curled around her like a tendril of smoke, leaving her breathless. His gaze fell on her lips, and heat settled low in her belly, igniting a slow burn. But instead of kissing her, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Slowly. The tips of his fingers traced the outer shell of her ear, his touch sweet torture.
Her eyes fluttered closed, her entire body quivering with anticipation. “Please,” she whispered, done suppressing her inexplicable desire for this man’s touch. “Kiss me.”
Low rumbling laughter echoed from his chest as his hand slid down the back of her neck. His fingers pushed into her hair to cup the base of her head and drew her closer still. Soft full lips pressed against her own, gently exploring.
Too gently.
Ignoring a certain weakness in her knees, she rose up onto her toes and—gripping his shoulders to hold herself upright—boldly parted her lips in invitation. With a growl, he caught at her rib cage, pulling her up against him as his tongue plundered her mouth. But all too soon, he drew back, but not before catching her lower lip between his teeth with a nip.
She gasped. What sort of kiss was this? Nothing she’d ever experienced had set her skin aflame in such a manner. Her body swayed forward pleading for more.
“Later.” His voice was low and husky, but his hands fell away. “There is news.”
“Is there.” She dropped heavily onto her heels. Perhaps it was best she took a moment to focus on something other than the thought of unwinding his cravat and pressing her lips to the skin of his neck. Men were dying. That sobered her. “Another fisherman?”
“No,” he answered, his face growing serious. “A colleague. When his belongings were located, more evidence came to light. We need to talk.”
Her mood deflated. Such words never preceded anything good. “Tea?” she asked, needing something to do.
“Please.”
In the kitchen she stirred the fire inside the cast iron stove to life, then
put the kettle on to boil. No point in activating the steam cook until she’d been to market. Bracing herself for unpleasant news, she turned and asked, “So what brings you here at such an early hour?”
“I’ve run tests on Larsa’s blood. While I found nothing to indicate the presence of octopus tissue or blood, I did find evidence of hirudin.”
“An anticoagulent produced by leeches.” She dropped heavily onto a chair, staring at him with eyebrows drawn together trying—and failing—to sort the purpose of such a creature.
“There’s more.” Lowering himself onto a chair opposite her, he went on to describe a ceramic—what might be a kind of blood filter—attached to another scrap of the odd skin by way of some strange kind of mollusk filament.
She shook her head in bewilderment. “Manmade, yet living.” She shuddered at the horrible depiction he’d painted. “A chimeric vampire octopus with fabricated features attacking fishermen to drain them of their blood. But… why would that involve a filter?”
“That is the question to be answered. But until we can find an intact creature, or a man in possession of one—”
“We won’t know it’s full purpose,” she finished his thought, rising as the tea kettle whistled. Pouring hot water over tea leaves, she set the teapot upon the rough wooden table to brew and collected two tea cups, spoons and a sugar bowl. “Apologies for the lack of cream. I’ve only just returned.”
He waved away her concern, instead launching their conversation in an entirely different direction. “Have you heard of an Ichor machine?”
“Ichor machine,” she repeated tonelessly. Her feet froze to the floor, and her grip upon the sugar bowl threatened to shatter the delicate bone china. That was the very name of the device Anton had spoken of when he justified the transportation of Finn blood samples to the Glaister Institute.
Mother of Pearl, what had Anton left behind for others to discover? If the Institute learned of the Finn people… Could this possibly be related to the octopus attacks? Anton had been studying their blood… and she’d let Dr. McCullough carry away a sample of Larsa’s blood. If he had access to the machine…
Dr. McCullough rose and took the sugar bowl from her shaking hand to set it gently upon the table. Twisting her hand into her skirts, she looked into his searching eyes. Could she trust him with her people’s secret?
“I see you have,” he said, then cupped a hand at her elbow as if afraid she might tumble to the floor. “You’re looking rather pale. Please. Sit.”
Knees shaking and her mind racing, she sat. If Dr. McCullough had access to Anton’s Ichor machine, to his punch cards, he might well know already. If he didn’t, and it was somehow related to the attacks, not informing him would direct his attention away from the Finn people, leaving them vulnerable.
He needed to know.
“My husband and I worked together for some time, studying the blood of those individuals with syndactyly.” She struggled to find a way to explain their findings without naming the Finn people specifically. “We found that many of them possess a unique feature of the blood that we designated factor Q. When the serum of a normal person,” and by that she meant full-blooded Scot, “is mixed with their blood, clumps form.”
There were outliers, results that didn’t fit their proposed model, that Isa was at a loss to explain. Once, she had tested the blood of a man presenting with strong Finn features and received a negative result. No clumping. A pair of siblings with not a single Finn feature—the pride of their progressive, city-dwelling mother—had tested positive, clumping. Anton interpreted it as a clear sign of Finn ancestry.
Hence her temptation to test Dr. McCullough’s blood. Would it have made it easier to confide in him, had she proceeded and found he tested positive? No. Possessing Finn ancestry changed nothing. In the end, it was a person’s inclination toward prejudice—whether Finn or Scot—that mattered. Though disposed to trust him, she would proceed with care.
“Agglutination.” Eyes bright and alert, he leaned closer, fascinated. Tea was the last thing on his mind. “Have you determined what, exactly, factor Q is?”
“No.” Her hands fisted in her lap as she struggled to control the anger she felt toward a dead man. “That was why he removed the samples to the Glaister Institute.” She took a deep breath. “Shortly before his death, Anton started spending long hours in his laboratory. I requested he submit a petition to allow me to work alongside him, but he demurred and refused even to share his results with me.” Demands made by females were never well-received, and so she bit back her bitterness as she prepared to press her right to know. “Might I take a look at his laboratory notebooks?”
“I’d be happy to share them with you, but someone else has confiscated them.”
Her blood ran cold. “Who?”
“I wish I knew…” He fell back in his chair and tipped his head. “Once, your husband studied under Lord Roideach.”
She shook her head. “I’ve no idea who he is.” Did he suspect this gentleman? If so, what could this lord plan to do with the results of such an obscure research project? Then again, without examining Anton’s results, who knew what he’d discovered?
Dr. McCullough’s lips pinched together. “The dead man I examined had scars much like yours. Was the other man who died in a related manner also afflicted with syndactyly?”
Her body tensed. Afflicted. Impaired. Damaged. She hated applying such terms to Finn features. But it was the medical viewpoint of such a condition. Until and unless she was ready to reveal all… “Yes,” she replied. “You think this is somehow related to the unusual blood characteristics?”
He raised his hands in the air. “Evidence is extremely limited. But the biomech octopus seems to be out for blood. Your husband was a hematopathologist. And a gentleman I do not trust has an extreme and unwarranted interest in the Ichor machine that I find suspicious.” He thumbed his earlobe. “Is there any chance—”
“That my husband brought any data home?” she finished. “None. But you are welcome to examine our early research findings.” Syndactyly status had been noted beside a positive or negative result, nothing more. Besides, if something or someone was hunting her people, there was no choice but to allow him access. She rose, abandoning the tea that sat cooling upon the table. “Permit me a few minutes to freshen up, and we’ll get started.”
An insistent knock came from the front of the house. “Isa!” a voice called. “I know you’re in there. Open up!”
She cringed, and Dr. McCullough’s eyebrows rose. “My overprotective brother lives nearby.” And was forever intruding. “Not only will he have glimpsed you at the seaside wedding, the Carrs will have subjected him to a tirade condemning my—our—actions. When he sees my appearance, he will…” Her face grew hot.
Dr. McCullough’s lips twitched. “Assume a torrid affair.”
“He will.” A possibility she wished to revisit.
The banging continued.
He stood, catching her hand in his. The pad of his thumb traced a slow path over her knuckles, and every nerve ending woke, shivering in anticipation. His lips curved into a knowing smile. “Is that what you want, a torrid affair?”
“Are you offering me one?” She turned her hand over, and his thumb slid upward, beneath the cuff of her sleeve to trace small circles on the inside of her wrist. Every rational thought flew from her mind…
His answering laugh was low and rough. “I am. For as long as we both desire it. No promises, no commitments.”
Isa could barely breathe. She certainly couldn’t speak. How could she, a respectable widow, be considering such a thing? She bit her lower lip.
“But only if it’s what you want.” He frowned, and his thumb stopped moving. “It’s not a condition of us working together. If you don’t—”
“It’s what I want,” she whispered, her entire body trembling in anticipation. “I’ve simply no exp
erience in such… matters.”
“I’ll try not to rush.”
“No.” Absolutely not.
“No?” His eyebrows rose.
She’d promised herself to chase after what she desired, and she wanted this. Badly. Time to be bold. “Do not wrap me in cotton batting as if I were fine china that might break. I’m stronger than that.” With a deep breath, she forced words a respectable woman wouldn’t speak past her lips. “I don’t want a careful, gentle lover. I want passion. If that’s not what you intend to deliver—”
He pulled her against his chest, and his lips descended upon hers. A hard and fast kiss that threatened to melt every bone in her body. As quickly as it began, it ended. A whimper slipped from her mouth as he stepped away, taking his heat and hunger with him. A catlike grin spread across his face as she gaped. “Answer the door,” he prompted. “The sooner we’re alone…”
Head still spinning, she nodded, then stomped to the front of the house and yanked open the door. “Someone had better be bleeding.”
Danel might own his own shipyard and command hundreds of men, but once he’d been a snot-nosed brat that followed her everywhere, throwing seaweed and snails in her hair.
“Why so long to answer the door, Isa?” He crossed his arms and stared at her, unsmiling. “And why did you not let me know you had returned? I had to hear it from a neighbor that you were home. That, unchaperoned, you welcomed a strange man into your house.”
Because her mind had been on other things. Because with a new baby in the house, her sister-in-law didn’t need unexpected company. And because the older women in the neighborhood would materialize with lists of eligible Finn men looking for a wife.
“It was late.” She squared her shoulders. Absolutely under no circumstances was she going to allow anyone to manage her. Not anymore. “And it’s no business of yours whom I do or do not grant admittance.”
Danel bristled, and that was all the warning she received before she felt Dr. McCullough’s powerful presence beside her. Cats stomped louder than him. She’d expected him to remain in the kitchen, avoiding the troublesome complications of relatives. He’d offered an affair, not a courtship. Then again, he’d also agreed to a partnership in which they investigated the odd deaths together. And it appeared he meant to do so publicly. Her chin lifted with pride.
