by Cara Elliott
Another step. Damnation. His back was now up against the wall.
“Would I do that?” A weak reply, he knew. But his brain seemed unable to come up with a more inventive quip.
“I think…” Reaching out, she twined her fingers in the folds of his cravat, “…that you are capable of anything.”
A strange sort of sensation squeezed at his throat.
“Including devious deception.” She leaned in close.
Her scent—that beguiling mix of sweetness and spice—was affecting his balance. How else to explain why the floor seemed to be canting at an odd angle?
“Where in the name of Lucifer have you learned such wiles?” he muttered.
“Oh, here…” Her palm pressed against his chest. “And there.”
“Hell’s teeth.” His voice was muffled by the nuzzling of her lips.
Oh, I am a weak-willed, evil fellow. Abandoning all pretense of restraint, Devlin gave in to his inner demons and kissed her back.
Evil. Evil.
“We have come this far together,” whispered Anna.
Not far enough, said his lust-hazed brain.
“We are comrades-in-arms, so to speak. So don’t you dare try to sneak off and capture the miscreants on your own.”
“Because you need to come up with a swashbuckling scene for your next chapter?” he asked.
“Because…” A flash of sunlight crossed her face, obscuring the rippling of shadows beneath her gold-tipped lashes. “Just because.”
“I would expect a more articulate reason from a famous author.” Hearing her sharp intake of breath, Devlin quickly added, “I am teasing, sweeting. I’ve not yet devised a plan, and when I do, I shall inform you.”
“As a famous author, I am familiar enough with the nuances of language to know that ‘inform’ does not mean ‘invite,’ as in, ‘I shall invite you to come along,’ does it now?”
“Anna, we have an agreement,” he reminded her. “If I deem it too dangerous, you promised that you would stand aside.”
Her chin jutted up…and then slowly sunk. “Drat. Having a strict notion of right and wrong is a cursed inconvenience.”
Smiling, he couldn’t refrain from kissing the tip of her nose. “I wouldn’t know.”
“At least let me help you come up with some ideas of how to trap the traitors. You have to admit that I have certain creativity when it comes to dashing adventure.”
Brave, bold, beautiful—a whole bookful of adjectives could not begin to capture her spirit. Anna was unlike any lady he had met before. Unique beyond words. All at once, Devlin felt a surge of emotion swell up in his chest. The force was so great he thought his ribs might crack.
Fear, lust, anger, aggression—all these he recognized. This was something utterly unknown.
Oh, surely it couldn’t be love.
Clearing his throat, he managed a light reply. “Just as long as you don’t expect me to swoop in on a mechanical eagle and carry them off to the Tower of London.”
“Hmmm.”
A shuffling in the neighboring room of books warned that with the morning hours waning, the castle was beginning to bustle with activity.
“Look, we cannot linger here any longer without attracting attention,” he pointed out. “I’ve agreed to accompany Lord Dunbar on an afternoon ride to the sea cliffs, so I won’t be free to strategize until the evening hours. I suggest that we meet in the deserted wing of the castle after everyone has retired. Unless, of course, you would rather not risk any more creeping through the corridors at midnight.”
“Where?” she demanded.
“You remember the Portrait Gallery?”
A flush of color painted her cheeks. “Yes,” she answered curtly. “But it’s not quite as isolated as one might wish.”
“I know another more private spot. But I had best lead you there, as it’s hard to find.”
“Very well. But if you deceive me—”
“Yes, yes, I know. My liver will be handed to the cook for use in her special pâté.”
“You are wiggling worse than a Breton eel, this evening, mademoiselle,” murmured Josette. “Is something amiss?”
“No.” Anna tried to stop squirming in her seat, but her body didn’t seem to be listening to her brain. “That is…” She groped for an explanation. “…I am unhappy that Mama keeps trying to push me together with Prince Gunther. Clearly the poor man isn’t interested. It is embarrassing to both of us.”
“I would imagine that the prince is no stranger to fending off matchmaking mamas,” replied the maid. Her deft fingers snagged an errant curl and twisted it into place. “Perhaps your unhappiness has to do with another gentleman downstairs, eh? One that your Mama does not want to encourage?”
Anna felt herself blush. “That particular gentleman needs no encouragement to do whatever he pleases.”
“A man with backbone. That is good, non?
No. The spineless fops of the ton were certainly easier to deal with emotionally than the marquess. Somehow he had taken her steely self-control and rearranged all the little gears and levers.
As if I were one of his mechanical creations, she thought wryly.
Josette let out a throaty little laugh when she didn’t answer. “Men are impossible creatures.” A hairpin slid into place and a clever little tug created an artful tumble of golden curls. “The key is not to take them to heart.”
Illusions. Her maid had a knack for hiding any flaw.
“But…how do you manage that?” asked Anna. “I fear that the heart does not always listen to reason.”
“You’ll learn.” Josette curled a midnight blue ribbon around her finger. “There is no easy answer to your question. We all will have different solutions. But keep in mind one thing—just as the heart doesn’t listen to the head, the head can ignore the helter-pelter thumpings of the heart.”
Can it? Anna wasn’t so sure.
“You have a stronger will than I do,” she replied, making a rueful face in the looking glass. “I seem to have no…” Squaring her shoulders, Anna sat up a little straighter. “But never mind my silly musings. There must be something in the Scottish air that puts me in a strange mood. I shall shake it off.”
“Wild heather and rough magic—the ancient Celtic spirits are strong in this land of sea and stone,” agreed her maid.
“Yes, that must be it.” Anna regarded her reflection, surprised that she looked so outwardly calm when her insides were churning like the wind-whipped ocean waters. A glimmer—it had lasted for only an instant—had set off this surging, spinning, swirling force within.
A glimmer—a fire-kissed glimmer in Devlin’s eye. She drew in a quick breath. Which was likely just a quirk of her own imagination.
“Voilà. You are ready to go down, mademoiselle.” Josette set her hands on her hips. “Have no fear. You are more than a match for amour and its arrows.”
Chapter Twenty
Devlin shifted his weight from foot to foot as he waited, shrouded in darkness, just inside the entrance to the Portrait Gallery. There was nothing to be nervous about—the chances of anyone stumbling onto the late-night rendezvous with Anna were almost nil. And yet, he found himself feeling unaccountably edgy.
Perhaps because over the course of the last few days, a number of new elements had been added to the mission. He preferred to work alone and for a very good reason. His experience in building complex mechanical mechanisms had taught him that the more moving parts in the design, the greater the risk for something to go awry.
To give them credit, his three coconspirators had performed admirably all evening. He had been a bit concerned about the younger Sloane sister, but Caro had betrayed no hint of interest in the French suspects. She had argued with McClellan over the artistic talents of Sir Thomas Lawrence—whether the tiff was feigned or real he couldn’t tell. But regardless, the diversion had amused the other guests and given him a chance to keep a close eye on Verdemont and Lady de Blois. Neither had made any attempt to s
lip away from the drawing room. He hadn’t really expected them to. Whatever evil they were planning, it was almost certainly going to take place on the moors.
Leaning a shoulder to the fluted molding, Devlin cocked an ear for any sound of movement.
She was late.
Mouthing a silent oath, he felt anxiety begin to gnaw at his insides. Yet another reason to remain a solitary operative.
Light steps drew him from his brooding. He recognized Anna’s tread. Damnation, a great many things about her were imprinted on his consciousness—the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her mouth, the lilt of her laughter.
“Devlin?”
He reached out and caught her arm. “Shhhh.”
She gave a little start but didn’t make a sound as he yanked her into the gloom.
“It’s not safe to talk here,” Devlin whispered. “Follow me.” Keeping hold of her hand, he ducked into a narrow passageway that led to the oldest part of the castle.
“I’ve been this way before, the night I followed you into the depths of the old wing. You entered a room with a heavy door, but I dared not follow. What were you doing there?”
“You’ll see soon enough.” It was pitch black within the rough stone walls but he didn’t wish to light a candle. “Watch your step,” he warned. “There are several sharp twists and a set of stairs up ahead, so be careful not to trip on your skirts.”
Her answer sounded suspiciously like a snort.
Come to think of it, there was something odd about the swishing of fabric around her legs. Or lack of it.
He stopped abruptly and ran a hand over her derriere. “What in the name of Hades are you wearing?” Not that he objected. The feel of her body unencumbered by yards of silk and lace was rather lovely.
“Breeches,” answered Anna. “You have no idea how much easier it is to move quickly. It’s most unfair of you men to keep them to yourselves.”
Devlin let his palm linger on the curve of her bum. “I’m all in favor of creating a new fashion for ladies.”
She shuffled her feet, sending a frisson of heat up his arm. Ye gods, her lower legs must look divine in stockings.
“Um, shouldn’t we keep going?” she murmured.
“Right.” This was no time for erotic fantasies. Shoving aside his impure thoughts, he hurried through the last stretch of darkness and came to an ancient, iron-banded door.
Easing it open, he struck a flint to the pair of oil lanterns hanging just inside the entrance.
“Good Lord,” intoned Anna, as the flames flared to life, casting a weak illumination over the front part of the cavernous room.
He shut the door and shot the bolt into place. “Interesting, isn’t it?”
She moved through the circle of light to inspect a near life-size carved wood tiger with a hapless human trapped between its giant paws.
“McClellan would take great pleasure in this piece,” said Devlin dryly. “The beast is about to devour an Englishman.” He joined her by the automaton and reached out to flick a small brass lever.
The tiger began to grunt and growl as the man flapped a hand and made a wailing noise.
“Oh!” Her eyes widened and then she let out a laugh. “Wherever did it come from?”
“India,” he replied. “It’s called Tipu’s Tiger and was made around a quarter century ago for Tipu Sultan, the ruler of the kingdom of Mysore. He hated the East India Company and the control it wielded over the native dominions.”
“So it would seem,” murmured Anna.
“The East India Company army found it when they captured the sultan’s summer palace during the first Mahratta War. The Governor General sent it to London, where it was put on public exhibit at East India House.” Devlin ran a hand over the painted head. “I had heard it was sold to a private collector, but hadn’t realized that Lord Dunbar was the purchaser until I arrived here.”
She glanced around, noting a number of other elaborate creations half shrouded in the shadows. “What other creations are secreted here?”
“A good many fascinating things.” He unhooked one of the lanterns from its wall bracket. “Come, let me show you a few of my favorites.”
Bypassing a massive chiming clock in the form of a brass peacock, Devlin drew her deeper into the gallery. “Here is a marvelous English mechanical model from the last century,” he explained, stopping in front of a silver swan set on a shimmering stretch of glass rods. “Its workings are impressively complex—just watch.” He wound the clockwork key, and a music box started to play as the glass rods began to rotate, giving the illusion of moving water. Little silver fish appeared within the rods as the swan moved its neck and preened. A moment later it appeared to notice the fish and bent down to catch one in its beak.
“Amazing,” exclaimed Anna.
He smiled, glad that she found the automata as fascinating as he did.
“My eagle wasn’t such a mad idea,” she mused. She traced a fingertip along the graceful arch of the bird’s neck. “This is wonderful, but I daresay your singing pistol is even more fiendishly difficult to create on account of the miniature size.”
“It has its own unique challenges,” he murmured. “But then, all automata require a willingness to let one’s imagination run wild.”
On impulse—the Devil’s own wicked impulse—he took her hand and pulled her into a small anteroom off the main gallery. Unlike the main room, it had two narrow windows, mere slots in the mortared stone, originally made for archers and now covered with paned glass. A dribble of moonlight added a silvery cast to the flickering gold of the candle.
“Lord Dunbar keeps a few items in here that aren’t designed for public view.” Devlin indicated a length of black velvet draped over a large object. “Suffice it to say, they are rather provocative, so you might not care to view them.”
Her brows angled up. “Is that a challenge?”
He shrugged in answer.
Anna hesitated no more than an instant before venturing a peek under the cloth. A sound—a laugh? a squeak?—seemed to lodge in her throat. “Help me unveil it. I think it needs to be seen in all its glory.”
Devlin folded back the heavy fabric and dropped it atop a pile of other draperies. Lifting the lantern he let the light play over the exquisite detailing of carved ivory and precious metals. The automaton showed a couple on a coverlet of scarlet silk, entwined in the throes of passion. On toggling one of the lady’s upraised legs, the man’s hips began to rise and fall.
As she watched intently, he tried to gauge her reaction. However her expression, that bland Mayfair ballroom mask of politeness that she could slip on in the blink of an eye, gave nothing away.
“It’s Italian and was made by a Florentine master craftsman in the 17th century.” The lady’s head began to turn from side to side, setting her luxurious tangle of tresses to caressing the silk. “Her hair is made of real gold threads, and her eyes are Chinese jade,” he added. “Legend has it that Casanova once owned this piece.”
“I can well believe it, given his appetite for the opposite sex.” She crouched down for a closer look. “Good heavens, the anatomical rendering appears remarkably accurate.” The male lover rose and fell again. “Um, for the most part, that is.”
“Oh? Is something not quite right?” Devlin knelt down beside her.
After observing another gyration, Anna answered, “Not that I have a great deal of expertise in judging such matters, but the male appendage seems…a trifle exaggerated.”
“Are you saying I have a shortcoming?” he drawled.
Was it just the shadows or was she blushing?
“I—I haven’t enough experience to say one way or another.” Her eyes remained on the mechanical couple. “I have a feeling that the classical Greek and Roman statues I’ve viewed are not true to life. Nor, for that matter, are the sketches in my father’s books on primitive cultures and their rituals.”
Without all the layers of feminine frills between them, Devlin was intimately awar
e of the heat radiating from her body. It was making his skin prickle.
He found his gaze drawn to the pile of folded cloths beneath the windows and found the black velvet stirred a sudden rush of evil thoughts.
Evil, evil.
He had brought her here for reasons of strategy, not seduction.
Ah, but I’ve always been a weak-willed devil.
“Marble and paper are no substitute for empirical observation.” He curled his arm around her waist. “Come. Seeing as your father taught you to appreciate the importance of serious scholarship, I suggest that we further your education.”
“I’m not sure my father would approve of this sort of empirical observation.” And yet, Anna let herself be lifted up and carried to the bed of draperies. The stone-chilled air made her acutely aware of Devlin’s warmth beneath the rippling of corded muscle and hard…
She shifted in his arms, feeling a naughty thrill tickle between her thighs as his arousal rubbed against her.
“On the contrary, it sounds to me as if he encouraged his all daughters to be curious.” He set her down. “And adventurous.”
The nap of the cloth was softly sensuous against her palms. Anna imagined it would feel very nice against her bare bum. A most improper thought, she knew. But somehow wearing a man’s clothing seemed to free her of more than mere physical constraints.
Why can’t I be a little wicked? Ladies ought to be allowed the same freedom as men. On that her father had wholeheartedly agreed.
Drawing her knees to her chest, she answered, “Yes, he did encourage us to explore. But he also took care to explain that there were dangers and that we must understand and accept the consequences of our actions.”
“It sounds as if he was a very wise man.”
“Yes, in many ways, he was.” A sigh. “And yet, he had his faults. His devotion to his passion for science was unfair to Mama. It seems to me that a good relationship involves compromise.”
“We all have faults, Anna.” Devlin captured the tip of her shirtpoint between his fingertips and began to toy with the fabric. “Some are far worse than others. Believe me, I should know.”
