by Anne Renwick
“Is everything all right, Mrs. McQuiston?”
His voice held a dark note. Would he forcibly evict Danel at her word? A thrill ran down her spine. Tempting, but her brother only had her best wishes at heart.
“Everything is fine, Dr. McCullough. Allow me to introduce my brother, Mr. Danel Guthrie.”
Danel glowered.
Dr. McCullough inclined his head, every inch the gentleman. “Apologies for monopolizing her, but your sister’s medical expertise has made her an indispensable asset to an ongoing investigation of mine.”
“Expertise? Investigation?” Her brother rubbed his chin as he looked between them, uncertain.
Served him right for listening to the Carrs.
“A string of odd deaths. Mostly fishermen. All of them suffering severe blood loss.” Dr. McCullough tipped his head. “Might you be the Mr. Guthrie of Guthrie Shipyards? Inventor of Guthrie Vibration Dampening Tubes?”
“None other.” Danel’s chest puffed. His shipyard was second in his heart only to his wife and family.
A disarming smile stretched across Dr. McCullough’s face as he chose all the right words. “As a fan of emerging marine technologies, I’ve followed your career in the papers. When do you think there might be practical application of the tubes?”
“They’re already installed in a Navy vessel being retrofitted in my shipyard,” her brother said. “The last one is due to be injected with crystalizing fluid today.”
Dr. McCullough leaned forward and dropped his voice to conspiratorial levels. “Any chance I might beg a tour?” Danel hesitated, and he pressed. “I must ask a favor of you as well, Mr. Guthrie. Who better to ask than a man who works beside the ocean, who built his shipyard from the ground up? Have any rumors reached your ears of reliable seamen disappearing without warning?”
Danel looked at her and frowned.
She pursed her lips. “You may disapprove of us working together, but men are dying. If you know something…”
Her brother jerked a nod. “Very well. A tour, then. I’ve a man at the boatyard who’s been known to tell a strange tale or two.” He glanced at her with a frown. “If you’d care to freshen up, Isa, then we’ll go directly.”
Chapter Eleven
IT WAS A MISERABLE spring day. Gray clouds produced a constant drizzle and blotted out the sun, dropping the temperature enough to give the occasional gust of air an icy bite. If not for her brother’s presence in the crank hack, Alec would have tugged Isa close and done his best to warm them both.
Isa. A name made for soft whispers. The first moment they were alone, he’d brush away that artful twist of bright hair that grazed her cheek and suggest something naughty. Something that would bring a flush to her cheeks. If he nipped her earlobe, would he unleash her inner vixen? Aether, he hoped so.
The carriage clattered along the road, her brother rattling on about a proposed propulsion engine based on cephalopod physiology and his good fortune in winning a number of naval contracts, thereby allowing him to work with cutting-edge marine technology. Alec asked a few probing questions, but held back, preferring not to reveal the depth of his naval training. Let the man boast of his achievements while Alec stared boldly at his sister, who cast him occasional heated glances from beneath long lashes.
“The problem lies in our fluid dynamics calculations,” Mr. Guthrie expounded, oblivious to the swirling undercurrents. “Using the Bernoulli equation fails to properly account for intramantle pressure during the propulsion phase. However, when we apply the Froude equation…”
He tried to focus on the reason he’d forced this tour.
Both Isa and her brother knew something about the two dead fishermen that they weren’t sharing. Not hiding, exactly, but a careful reserve entered their manner whenever the topic was broached. How it pertained to his—their—investigation, he wasn’t certain. Not yet. He intended to find out, but for now, he was enjoying this other version of Isa.
Gone was the gray and sensible widow. In her place, an urban woman with an upsweep of hair pinned beneath a teardrop hat, her capable fingers hidden by long, satin gloves that disappeared beneath elbow-length sleeves edged with a waterfall of black lace. The sea-green garment hugged her form as the lapels of the jacket dipped into a deep, suggestive plunge to her navel. A shame about the blouse she wore beneath.
For a moment, their eyes locked and—as if she read his mind—her cheeks colored. With a knowing smile, he let his gaze drift downward to another departure from conservative attire. The ruffled skirts she wore were fashionably cut a few inches shorter to reveal patent leather boots that—dare he hope?—laced to her knees.
He looked up to find Isa biting her lower lip as she studied his cravat. Something she did when she wanted something, but struggled to admit it even to herself. His groin stirred to life as he wondered if he could convince her to whisper her own desires in his ear. Teasing forth such confessions would take top priority the very next moment they found themselves alone.
Isa’s brother cleared his throat as the carriage came to a halt. “We’ll need to walk from here.”
The door of the crank hack swung wide, and Alec tore his gaze away from Isa, in favor of gaping at the scrapyard before him. “Impressive. I remember reading that your enterprise began as a salvage business. I had no idea you continued to maintain that aspect of your occupation.”
Pride gleamed in his eyes as Mr. Guthrie surveyed the heaps of scrap that stretched out before them and completely surrounded a warehouse and dry docks. “Started with the rusty old fishing boats that ran aground out on Lewis. Learning to fix what others deemed hopeless. No formal schooling can beat getting your hands dirty. Look there.” He lifted a finger to point. A number of young men were paired with steambots wrenching loose bolts, cutting through metal plates, pulling apart rusty, old vessels. Other steambots rolled through the yard, sorting the various pieces into functional piles. “If they show promise and interest, I send them to the tinker’s shed where we learn just what those boys have between their ears. Found my best men that way.”
They climbed from the crank hack, and Alec opened an umbrella, beckoning Isa to his side. She stepped close resting her gloved hand upon his elbow, bringing with her a sweet, floral scent that teased his senses as it wrapped around him. “Retrofitting and repair is my brother’s stock in trade.”
“And I see no reason to give it up,” Mr. Guthrie said. “Salvaging old vessels saves time and money.” He waved his hand. “Now, careful where you step.”
They wound their way through the heaps of scrap past two ships that sat in dry dock, barely visible behind the layers of scaffolding that covered their every inch. At the end of a pier stretching out over the water, a third vessel floated low in the water, almost out of view.
Alec let out a low whistle. “An S-126 Class Water Skimmer.” These vessels monitored Britain’s shoreline, keeping a close eye on foreign and domestic vessels. They also employed a number of marine cryptobiologists to study kraken and other unusual sea creatures that had begun to emerge from the ocean’s depths in recent decades. “How did your brother manage such a lucrative Navy contract?”
For the slightest of seconds, her hand clenched. When she answered, her voice was tight and controlled. “We’ve an uncle in the Royal Navy. He’s advanced quite far.”
A spot of nepotism from Uncle Gregor, he surmised. The man otherwise known as Commodore Drummond. The uncle Isa strongly disliked. Were there deep, dark family secrets Alec ought to let lie? Probably. But he found himself unable to keep from asking. “What did he do to you?”
She tripped, and he stole the opportunity to wrap an arm about her waist, drawing her yet closer and denying her any escape. “That bad?”
“Yes. No.” She stepped over a long rotor, falling silent for a number of steps. Then, with a glance at him she gave a long, resigned sigh. “You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?”
“Not much chance of that.
An irritating familial trait, I’m afraid.” He smiled as he spoke, hoping to wipe some of the pain—or was it fear? —from her face. That failing, he let his voice grow rough. “You intrigue me, Isa. I’ve an itch to pull back every layer.”
“And if you don’t like what you see?” She sounded worried.
“We all have secrets. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
She laughed. “Fine. My uncle arranged my marriage, making grand promises he did not keep. Then he married Mr. and Mrs. Carr’s only daughter, a spoiled brat. You witnessed the baptism of their child.”
He nodded. “At the wedding of your sister Nina to their son Jona.” Sympathy bloomed. “Bound to the Carrs by marriage twice over. I can only surmise what it must be like to attend a family gathering.” Miserable. Much like those of his own.
“It’s utter torment. The pressure to remarry, to produce offspring is all but unbearable.”
Panic raised its head and blinked awake.
“Wipe away that look, Dr. McCullough.” Back stiff, she came to a sudden stop and turned to face him. “I agreed to an affair. Not every woman is looking for a husband or a family. Some of us have our eyes on a career.”
His eyebrows drew together. He’d assumed—incorrectly—that she was content to be an itinerant healer. “A medical degree? But—”
Doubt must have shown on his face, for she grabbed his hand and slid it beneath her jacket lapel to her upper arm. His fingertips grazed over the fine linen and felt a narrow ridge. He shook his head in confusion.
“A contraceptive device,” Isa said, releasing him, and he pulled his hand back before her brother took notice. “Experimental, but effective. Before I married, four years past, my uncle arranged for me to visit the Glaister Institute as a test subject. I was promised five years without children. Five years to pursue a degree in medicine.”
Relief came with the price of knowing a bright mind had been stifled, a battle his sister currently waged against their mother. “But?”
This time her laugh was bitter. “Three applications, three rejections. My married status used against me. Though I am now a widow who has submitted a fourth application, I surmise my sex is unwelcome in the hallowed halls of the University of Glasgow.”
He expected she was right. Could his brother pull a string or two upon her behalf? Possibly, assuming she had the proper academic credentials. But Logan would demand a favor first. Which circled them back to why they stood in this shipyard to begin with.
“My given name is Alec,” he said. “No need for formality between friends, lovers or co-investigators who are not on a path to the altar. Trust me, I know all about family members and their matrimonial schemes. We shall dodge them all.” He cocked his elbow. “Come now, we’ve a murderous octopus to locate.”
A faint smile returned to her face, and together they hurried toward her brother who stood upon the pier, wearing a frown. “Something I ought to know?”
“Dr. McCullough had a question about our uncle.” Isa’s chin lifted in challenge, as if she expected her brother to scold her.
“Yes, well,” Mr. Guthrie cleared his throat. “Family connections have, at times, been of assistance.” He glanced nervously at his sister. “If—”
“Say no more.” Alec held up a hand. “I’ve no interest in naval politics, only in saving lives. And,” he presented his most disarming smile, “a chance to see those Vibration Dampening Tubes.”
Wariness was replaced with a conspiratorial grin. “She’ll slip around our coasts silently now,” Isa’s brother bragged. “You might be able to see her coming, but you won’t hear her. This way, then.” They crossed a narrow plank onto the ship’s deck, then descended into the bowels of the ship, passing through hallways and over bilge doors. They turned a corner, following the noise of several crewmen and—
“Beautiful,” Alec said, crossing the space to stand before the tubes in awe. All the activity on the ship was concentrated here, on this new technology. A hand’s breath in diameter, the cylinders stretched upward, pressed against the ship’s hull like glistening ribs. “It’s a permanent installation?”
“It is.” Mr. Guthrie rocked back on his heels. “We begin by using a cotton webbing that resembles a stocking more than it does a tube. As the gel is injected, my men press them into their grooves, holding them in place as the gel polymerizes to form…”
~~~
While Dr. McCullough—Alec—peppered her brother with questions, Isa wandered away from the crowd, stepping over the materials and tools strewn about, her eyes drawn to the cavernous furnace of the ship’s engines. Flames licked at the glowing coals, throwing heat as it consumed everything in its path.
Beside her, filtration pipes hummed as they siphoned and filtered sea water, pumping it into enormous water tanks. She placed a hand upon the cool pipe and drew a deep breath. There would be no keeping the truth about the Finn people from Alec. She’d seen him glance at her brother’s scarred fingers. If this biomech octopus specifically attacked those with factor Q flowing through their veins, then there was a chance the creature was after more than mere blood.
Finn were highly susceptible to an induced dive reflex under the influence of standard anesthesia, a trait she suspected—but had yet to confirm—was linked to their ability to dive deeply into the sea, remaining underwater far longer than most humans were capable. But what could someone want with such Finn blood?
A transfusion? A violation of a man’s body in search of the ability to confer unusual abilities? Her stomach curdled. Could a transfer of blood provide a Scot with the ability to dive like a Finn? Impossible. Or was it?
She needed to speak to Alec, alone and uninterrupted. Not here, not aboard this vessel. But soon. She grew warm, thinking about what might also come to pass once they finally managed to spend time together. Alone. Aether, she wanted this affair, wanted to experience his definition of the word torrid.
“Vibration dampeners don’t interest you, Isa?” Alec materialized beside her, so close his warm breath brushed the edge of her ear.
A shiver ran down her spine. “Though I am proud of my brother, I find discussion of all this machinery decidedly dull. My hearing fades and my vision blurs.” She glanced sideways. “Where is he?”
“Called away.” His eyes sparked as he caught her gloved hand in his, tugging her behind a large boiler. “Presenting me with an opportunity to demonstrate the romantic opportunities that hulking equipment aboard a Navy ship presents.” His gaze fell on her mouth.
Her breath caught. Would he kiss her now? Here? Where anyone might discover them at any moment? The only kiss she could remember that didn’t end with a perfunctory and unsatisfying tumble upon a feather mattress was the one Anton had placed gently upon her lips when the minister pronounced them man and wife.
Nothing about Alec seemed gentle or unsatisfying. Lust flared and her heart pounded with anticipation. Curling her lips into a coy smile, she teased, “Are you implying that activities in its shadows can be… stimulating?”
“I see you take my meaning.” The boat rocked and tipped her upward onto her toes, and he used the momentum to tug her against his chest. His very hard chest. “Has your hearing faded?”
“Not at all, Dr. McCullough.” The flat of her palm was pressed against his firm abdomen, she was eye level with the topmost button of his waistcoat. “Alec. But my field of vision is suddenly very limited.”
His head dipped, and he brushed his mouth along the edge of her jaw. “Perhaps with a little creative manual dexterity, that view might… expand.” His hands fell on either side of her waist and spun her about, lifting her to set her feet upon a raised conduit at eye level.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” He popped the large button of her jacket free, then placed his fingers upon the top button of her blouse. “All torrid affairs ought to begin with stolen moments. May I?”
Her lungs could manage nothing but
shallow breaths. “I certainly don’t want you to stop.”
He loosed the top button, the second and a third, baring her throat. “One advantage of boiler technology is the heat it provides when one exposes bare skin.” He pressed warm lips against the hollow of her throat, her neck, exploring the shape of her clavicle. “I sense you’re new to this.”
“Yes,” she breathed. “To boilers, to affairs…”
“To…?” He lifted dark eyes to hers in question.
Did she dare admit it? Three years of marriage, and she barely knew anything of pleasure. “To bare skin.”
For the briefest of moments, shock rippled over his face. “Then wrap your hands about my neck, Isa,” he murmured, popping one button after another free, exposing the swell of her breasts. His fingertip traced the path of one of the many decorative spiral whorls embroidered upon her corset. “I am reminded of waves, water, of rocking on that boat of yours unable to sleep.” His eyes flashed. “Now, hold tight, and bite that plump lip of yours.”
She anchored her hands about his neck as he tugged at the edge of her corset, sending a sudden rush of air across her bare breast, pebbling her nipple.
“So perfect.” He palmed the weight, then bent, closing his mouth over its peaked tip, sucking hard.
Arching against the cold metal of the hull behind her, she cried out as hot, delirious pleasure, sent lines of fire racing over her skin, that met and fused at the apex of her thighs. Never before… not even… who knew that a man’s lips could bring such pleasure?
“Isa, shh.” His lips pressed now against her breastbone in admonishment, but she could feel him laughing against her skin. “The hum of shipboard technology can mask only so much.”
