His Clockwork Canary tgvd-2

by Beth Ciotta

  In spite of her fuzzy head and a now aching shoulder, Willie tried to shift away whilst looking directly into Simon’s intense gaze. “Why are you in bed with me?”

  “You invited me.”

  “I did not.”

  “True. I was attempting to be a gentleman. You did, in fact, beg me to join you.”

  Willie’s cheeks burned hot. She searched her memories, which took her back to the catacombs. A dark corridor. A man. A gun. An excruciating assault to the shoulder. Her shoulder.

  “You sustained serious injuries and spent the past two days in a feverish delirium,” Simon informed her. “This morning you shivered as though subjected to subzero temperatures and cried out for warmth. Demanded it, actually. Curse me if you will—”

  “That would be petty,” Willie said, forcing her words around a humbling lump in her throat. “Something tells me you saved my life.”

  “You most assuredly saved mine,” Simon said.

  For a moment they simply stared into each other’s eyes. They’d been intimate in this way before—in bed, entwined—but that had been long ago. The rapid beating of Willie’s heart was all too familiar. However, she did not recall Simon’s hair color resembling that of a fine cognac, nor his eyes, not just blue, but cobalt blue. How vibrant he looked! Vibrant and intoxicating.

  She remembered then that she’d abandoned her corneatacts. Of course, everything would appear less muted. That also meant that Simon was gazing intently into her unshielded eyes, her freakish kaleidoscope eyes.

  Self-conscious, she looked away.

  Simon trailed a finger down her jawline, then grasped her chin, gently bidding her attention. “Although I was seduced by vivid green and intrigued by brown, there is nothing more enchanting then a rainbow of swirling shades.”

  Her breath hitched. Could he truly be charmed by an affliction that repelled so many? “Some fear that if they peer into our naked gaze too long, they’ll be hypnotized by the swirling effect, and would then be powerless to our whims.”

  Simon’s mouth quirked. “The swirling is very subtle and I am not a gormless twit.”

  No, indeed. Simon Darcy was most intelligent. It was one of the things, along with his adventurous spirit, that had drawn her to him twelve years prior. That, and his sinfully handsome face. She had not thought it possible, but Simon had grown even more bonny over the years. His chiseled facial features and impeccably, closely groomed beard, which was really more like a sexy whiskered shadow, contrasted with his perpetually disheveled, longish hair.

  Had his body matured in a similar fashion? Could time improve upon what she remembered as perfection? Willie could scarcely breathe as her mind took a prurient turn. Even though Simon was fully clothed, she could easily imagine his bare chest, his muscled abdomen, his . . . “How long was I senseless?” she asked, desperate to break the sensual spell.

  “Three days, give or take a few hours.”

  Three days and two nights. Had Simon slept with her throughout? He must have. Glancing about, she noted there was only one bed and this was not her room. He would have no qualms about sharing a bed with a woman, especially one in need of comfort and care. Had he stripped her naked, tended to her wounds? She found it difficult to ask. She felt exposed enough as is. “The Houdinian—”

  “Is gone.” Simon shifted, resting on one elbow and peering down at her with an enigmatic expression. “I stepped out when you seemed . . . restful,” he said. “Filmore, Flash, whatever name he goes by, fled his post at Spirits & Tales. No notice. No explanation. I backtracked our journey through the catacombs and found nothing. I suspect he moved whatever he was protecting.”

  “Why are you lingering here three days after?” Willie snapped. “You should have followed whilst the trail was hot!”

  “And leave you cold?”

  Her body stiffened and her heart jerked. “You abandoned me before.”

  “That would be the other way around, my dear.” His tone was harsh and it heightened Willie’s sensibilities. He dragged a strong hand through his glorious hair, mussing it even more. “I waited for you that day at Paddington Station. Long past the time you had said you would join me.”

  “I sent Wesley with a missive of explanation.”

  “I received no missive.”

  “Wesley said—”

  “He lied.”

  Willie blinked. Why would he lie? True, they’d never been excessively close, but why would her own brother, her Freak brother, betray her? She could not imagine. “I don’t believe you.”

  Simon studied her hard, causing her skin to itch with unease. “What, pray tell, did I ever do to earn your mistrust?” He pushed off the bed, angry now. “You’re the one who lied to me.”

  Though weak and stiff, Willie at least pushed up into a sitting position. She did not want to have this discussion whilst flat on her back. If she could stand, she would. But just swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress was an effort. “I wanted to tell you, but . . . the deeper I fell for you, the more I feared you would reject me.”

  “Based on your race?” His expression hardened as he stuffed his shirttails into his trousers.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No, I don’t. You agreed to marry me. Did you really think you could hide your race from me for the rest of our lives?”

  “Aye! I did! I’ve fooled the world for ten blasted years. Why not a lifetime? Other than my eyes, which I can camouflage with tinted corneatacts, and my time-tracing abilities, which I can control, there is nothing to differentiate me from any other Vic.”

  “Except for your blood.”

  “Oh, aye,” she muttered, irritated by her oversight. “There is that.”

  Hands on hips, he glared down at her. “What if, in those brief torrid weeks that we were together, something had happened to you? Some hideous accident that required my rushing you to a doctor? And what if that doctor had treated you as a Vic, tainting you with a blood transfusion? You could have died. Thank God, you finally confessed your race in the catacombs—otherwise, three days ago, that exact scenario would have played out!”

  “Are you saying I required a transfusion?” Using her good arm, Willie untied the strings of her long nightshirt and peeked inside. “So you took me to a skytown?” she asked, noting the bandages applied to the right side of her upper chest, shoulder, and arm. She remembered nothing of a treatment. She remembered nothing at all of the past few days.

  “There was no time to arrange for air transport to a skytown.”

  Her pulse stuttered. “I warned you not to take me to a conventional hospital. Was there a ruckus? Did they refuse to treat me and then relent? Where did they find Freak blood? I can’t imagine they had a supply on hand.”

  “I brought you back here,” Simon said. “The physician came to me. A Freak physician. Her skills were quite remarkable, although she did warn that it would be some time before you retained full use of your right arm.”

  Instead of wondering how in the universe she was going to write her stories with a bum arm, Willie homed in on the curious doctor. “You located a physician who was not only a Freak but a woman? Does she practice openly? How can that be? Freaks are denied the right to pursue such positions.”

  “Which explains your determination to masquerade as a young Vic man. The ruse afforded you the opportunity to flourish as a journalist for a major newspaper. But it does not explain why you failed to confide in me, the man you professed to love, twelve years ago. Or at the very least when we initiated this quest!”

  Willie’s temper flared. “I told you, I thought you would reject me. I was young and impressionable and my parents constantly warned me off mixing with Vics. You are not a persecuted minority. You are free to work where you will and to marry whom you wish. I am not!” Incensed now, she shot to her feet. Unfortunately, her noodly legs crumpled.

  Simon caught her in his arms, held her close. “Too much, too soon. The doctor warned me.”

  Willie looked u
p at him, her heart in her throat, tears in her eyes. “I explained in the letter that my parents learned of our plans and that they were taking me away. They reminded me that Freaks are forbidden to wed Vics. The marriage would be illegal, and you would be shunned by polite society. Daddy cautioned I could ruin your life, your career. Mother preached that if you knew I was a Freak, you would forsake me. Deep down, I did not believe that part. In the letter I confessed my race and asked you to meet me in a month’s time at Gretna Green if you truly loved me.” Her chest ached with the betrayal. “I stole away that day, made the journey on my own. I waited two days, but you never showed.”

  Simon closed his eyes briefly and cursed. “I never saw that letter, Mina.”

  What had her parents and Wesley done? All these years she’d thought Simon had jilted her, when in truth they’d finessed it so that she had jilted him. In chagrin and heartbreak, a river of tears flowed.

  “Ah, Christ. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .” Simon cupped the back of her head, then lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender, comforting, and, oh, so magically wondrous. Misunderstanding her moan of delight for one of discomfort, he broke off all too soon and lowered her onto the bed. “I’m going to step out to get you a warm meal. When I return, you can fill me in on the exact skills of a Time Tracer, and then we will formulate a plan for tracking that damned Houdinian.”

  Poleaxed, Willie gaped as Simon pulled on his coat. “Knowing who I am, what I am . . . you still want to work with me?”

  Simon paused on the threshold, stealing her breath with his intensity. “Oh, I want much more than that, Canary.”

  • • •

  Simon placed a special order with the inn’s cook for his sick “friend”; then he stepped out onto the sidewalk, welcoming a gust of frigid wind. Never had he been so aroused by a simple kiss! A damned chaste kiss by his standards. One meant to comfort. Instead, Wilhelmina had moaned, a soft husky moan that betrayed her pleasure. Raging lust had steeled his shaft, warring and meshing with stirring compassion. Laying her on the bed, seeing her stark black hair fall away from her now naturally pale face, he’d ached to rid her of that nightshirt and to caress her every curve. He longed to make her damaged body soar. To incite pleasure that would override any pain. Simon had watched her suffer, and although he still had issues with their past as well as her recent journalistic antics, his guilt regarding her injury trumped all else. Severe muscle and nerve damage, Dr. Caro had said. What if the Canary’s ability to pen or type her tales had been forever compromised as a result of her pushing Simon out of harm’s way?

  In addition to that troubling scenario, he was also now saddled with the knowledge that her family had conspired to keep them apart. If only her brother had delivered that damned letter. Simon would not have waited an entire month. Impetuous and madly in love, he would have tracked down Mina and whisked her away. Learning she was a Freak would not have diminished his love. Although . . . if such an alliance would have truly hindered his career, perhaps he would have hesitated. He could not imagine not being able to provide handsomely for his wife or lover.

  Of course, if he won that jubilee prize, they could both thumb their noses at society and settle comfortably in a more tolerant or remote setting. The least he could do for Wilhelmina Goodenough in gratitude for saving his life was to ensure her well-being. He could protect and provide for her best by claiming her as his own. For once and for always. You and no other.

  Daunting, but doable.

  The biggest hurdle, he imagined, would be getting Wilhelmina to agree to the alliance. She had grown headstrong and independent over the years. Obstinate, even. And she was proud. She would not appreciate a proposal based on his gratitude and guilty conscience. He would have to be most calculated in his wording.

  With that in mind, Simon poked his head into a sundry shop where he purchased a fragrant bar of soap, fresh bandages, and the latest issue of the Informer. He preferred to read more reputable broadsheets, but this was for Mina. Willie. What the devil should he call her?

  Heading back toward the inn, Simon glanced at several window displays, thinking, once she’d convalesced, he’d have to take the Canary shopping for more feminine attire. He wasn’t keen on people mistaking his future wife for a bloke. As to her race, or rather the restrictions and prejudices regarding Freaks, he’d have to ponder that vexing problem at greater length.

  “Baltic oot there, yeah?” The Squire’s cook, known as McLaughlin, greeted him with a tray of aromatic food. “Ye might consider a cap and mitts fer the future.”

  No doubt his hair was wind tossed and his fingers ice-cold as he relieved her of the tray.

  “A bowl of hearty cock-a-leekie soup, a wedge of warm brown bread, and a pot of hot tea.” McLaughlin gave a curt nod, then waddled off. “Hope yer friend is up and aboot soon,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  As in, hurry up and get the bloody hell out of here? Simon was aware he’d courted gossip by refusing to let the chambermaid into his room, taking the fresh linens and saying he’d fend for himself. The staff knew he’d moved Willie into his room, and they knew the kid was injured or sickly. The owner had seen Simon carrying her upstairs the day she’d been o’blasterated.

  Had they been up to some criminal shenanigans?

  Were they homosexual lovers?

  Was Willie contagious?

  Let them ponder and talk. The Darcys had been at the root of gossip for decades. Simon couldn’t care less. What he cared about was seeing Willie fit and under his protection. What he cared about was catching up to that Houdinian, making him pay for his odious attack, confiscating the clockwork propulsion engine, and winning the jubilee prize. Providing for his family and future wife and restoring honor to the Darcy name and his father’s memory. Grabbing a bit of glory and respect for himself. That was what Simon cared about.

  Juggling his purchases and the food tray, Simon opened the door to his rented room and froze. What the . . . ? The bed was rumpled and empty, with Wilhelmina nowhere in sight. Heart thudding, he set the tray on a table, then noticed the closed door of the loo. Knocking instead of pounding—or, hell, bursting in—was an effort. “Willie?”

  “One moment.”

  Her voice sounded weak, but at least she was all right. Relatively speaking.

  Simon shrugged out of his coat. He rubbed warmth back into his icy hands whilst keeping an eye on that bloody door and listening for an ominous crash or thud. He heard nothing. One moment stretched to three or four. “Willie?” No answer. “Mina?” Dammit!

  The door creaked open. “Sorry.” She cradled her injured arm as she moved gingerly toward a chair. “I wanted to wash up a bit.”

  “You couldn’t wait until I got back? What if you’d tripped? Passed out?”

  “I managed,” she said, fumbling to tighten the sash of the robe she’d pulled on—a hideous, oversized dressing gown, manly like the rest of the Canary’s wardrobe.

  Brow raised, Simon procured the newly purchased soap from his bag. “For what it’s worth, I brought you a fresh bar of soap.”

  She sniffed and frowned. “It smells girly.”

  “You are a girl, Mina.”

  “Not outside of this room. And I prefer Willie. Mina . . . she’s not cut out for this world.”

  What the devil?

  She nodded toward the food. “Is this for me?”

  “It is. Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “I’ll take that as a good sign.” Simon abandoned the soap, and eased into a seat across from hers, wondering at her distant tone and manner. “Something happen whilst I was out?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t believe her. He wanted to pry, but he also wanted her to fill her belly. The faster she regained full strength and health, the sooner they could move on and resume their expedition. “Need help?” he asked as she tried buttering the bread, one-handed, left-handed.

  “I’ll manage.”

  That phrase was beginning to grate. Without askin
g, he poured them both a cup of tea, then sat back as she peppered her soup. She’d scrubbed her face and combed her hair, tucking the shaggy locks behind her ears and exposing creamy earlobes that he found quite lovely. He remembered suckling those soft lobes—teasing, seducing, making her squirm with desire.

  Simon’s own desire flared and he stifled a colorful curse. There was nothing provocative about her attire, nothing overtly alluring about her fresh face and unfashionable hair, yet he burned to make love to this woman. Shifting, he sought distraction via the tabloid he abhorred.

  “You purchased the London Informer?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “But you favor the Victorian Times.”

  “I bought this for you.” He peered around the newssheet, noting her look of surprise and the blush of her cheeks.

  “Any news regarding the Triple R Tourney?” she asked, dipping a hunk of bread in her soup.

  “Front page.”

  “Headline?”

  “‘Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

  “Titillating,” she said around a mouthful. “Dawson’s work.”

  “Who’s Dawson?”

  “Artemis Dawson. Managing editor. My boss. The one who insisted I get the scoop on you and your quest, the manipulative sod.”

  “Ah.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  Curious himself, Simon read the article aloud. “‘According to an inside source, Her Majesty Queen Victoria has embraced the Triple R Tourney sponsored by an anonymous benefactor via the British Science Museum. Celebrating inventions of historical significance not only honors Prince Albert’s passion for science, but maintains the queen’s conviction to focus on past accomplishments rather than encourage the pursuit and development of anachronistic marvels beyond our natural scope. Old Worlders celebrate any cause for the reclusive queen’s enthusiasm and therefore rejoice in the mounting excitement of the Triple R. Outspoken New Worlders continue to condemn the suppression of technological knowledge and ideological preachings of the twentieth-century Peace Rebels. Rumblings of an underground rebellion have jubilee coordinators on their proverbial toes, although they have assured our source that the threat of violence will not dampen the festivities. Voice your opinion to the editor. The Triple R Tourney—Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”