by A. W. Exley
“Who do you think?” he whispered, a sly smile on his face.
“Loki? You two? When, how—” She pushed off his chest to look him in the eye. Naked pirates filled her mind doing things she couldn’t quite imagine, but which definitely needed explaining.
“A story for another night.” His lips twitched with amusement. He knew her curiosity would explode, eventually.
“You are horrid sometimes.” Her muscles demanded sleep to recharge for another day, and she squirmed to find a comfy spot. He wasn’t the best pillow, all lean and muscled. “If you were squishier, you would be more comfortable.”
“Squishier?”
“Yes, a fat layer would make you more mattress-like for me.” She ran her fingers up his side and over a short scar as she tried to find an inch of fat on his body.
He grabbed her hand and growled. “If I grew fat, I would never be able to keep up with you.”
She sighed and wriggled closer, her hip over his, their legs entwined. “I guess I will make do.” She kissed his chest and settled down. Fatigue caressed her mind and promised sleep would soon follow. Perhaps with dreams of Nate and Loki.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Yes, but if it’s a really good one, I might have to tell Amy,” she murmured, her mind drifting off.
His hand continued its leisurely stroke over her skin. “I live for these moments.”
“The world-shatteringly good pirate sex?” Eyes closed, she let his words echo through his chest to her body.
“No.” He pinched her bum, and she yelped. “Not just that, but these moments afterwards. When you drape yourself over me, your skin pressed to mine. You radiate so much trust and love when we lie like this, I can soak it up. Your light shines into the dark places in my soul. This is what nourishes me and makes me feel human, you are the soul who guides me through another long night.”
He rarely strung so many words together about his feelings. His heart thrummed under her cheek. “We fit, you and I. You took my broken pieces and pulled them together into something beautiful.”
With one hand fisted in her hair, he pulled her face to his. His steel gaze searching hers. “I love you,” he whispered before kissing her. He didn’t say the words often, but wore them carved in his heart and showed her in a thousand different ways.
Next morning, a sharp rap on the door heralded unusual visitors—two Beefeaters from Her Majesty’s personal guard. Unmistakable in their black-and-red uniforms, the serious men delivered two boxes; a small one for Cara and a much larger one for Nate. One yeoman clung to the larger container as he said his instructions were explicit; he was to only hand the locked crate to Viscount Lyons, no one else would do.
Cara leaned against the door to her study and suffered a small moment of parcel envy as the standoff unfolded. The bodyguards stood in the entranceway with arms crossed and glared at the soldiers. The enormous Faberge clock with its jewel tone enamelled peacocks filled the silence with a soft tick. As the ticks mounted to minutes, she wondered if the legendary Beefeater stiff upper lip might desert one man. A single bead of sweat appeared from under his enormous fluffy hat and ran down the side of his face. Her entertainment came to an end when the door to Nate’s study opened. He strode across the marble floor and frowned at his wife. He then took delivery of his secret package that was much larger than hers, and the Beefeater handed over the key. The villainous viscount then disappeared back into his study.
Cara chewed her bottom lip. His box looked far more mysterious than hers, which wasn’t even locked. Nate would tell her what transpired behind his closed door eventually, but she wanted to know now. With a sigh, she directed Brick to drop her parcel in the smaller study along the hall from Nate’s. The walls in her room were papered in stripes of deep navy, eggshell blue, and silver. Damask drapes picked up the same cool tones and gave her room a peaceful watery embrace. Her desk sat at a ninety-degree angle to the window, so she could stare out at the garden rather than having her back to the view.
Brick placed the box on her desk, and she sent him in search of coffee and morning tea. Once alone, she used her pocketknife to pop open the small tacks holding the wooden top down. As she pulled the lid off, a dusty smell wafted up her nose and caused her to sneeze. Within the box, nestled in straw, sat an odd collection of books.
“Prince Albert’s books,” she said. Reaching in, she uncovered five volumes on a range of topics. For the first time, she held guides to the ancient myths of China, India, tomes on Viking lore, and the oral gypsy legends of Eastern Europe. The books spanned the knowledge of millennia and detailed brightly coloured artifacts and stories in a range of languages.
“I hope Malachi knows Hindu, Chinese, ancient Norse and”―she squinted at a chicken scrawl running diagonal across the pages― “whatever the heck this is.” So much knowledge rested in her hands and only needed to be unlocked. The calligraphy in the books delighted her senses even as her brain wailed it was more languages she couldn’t read. She really needed to find an artifact that allowed her to instantly understand every language. Perhaps something small she could insert in her ear or wear like glasses for printed text.
Brick reappeared with a tea tray containing coffee and a delicate porcelain plate with a selection of tiny cakes and treats. He set them on the low table in front of the fire.
“Chef trying to fatten me up again?” she said as she dropped onto the chaise, and her shadow poured the freshly brewed coffee from the silver pot.
He laughed softly. “Waste of time the way you run around.”
A knock sounded at the door, and one of the new men entered bearing an envelope. “Message from Lord Dennington.”
Cara waved at Brick who leapt to his feet. The missive from the young buck was not for her, but her protector. She sipped her coffee and watched the play of emotion across his face as he stood by the fire and read the note.
“That’s the third time this week Clarence has written you. Something you want to tell me?” Clarence, Lord Dennington, was an eligible bachelor and man about town, well known for his fashion sense and biting intellect. With a well-placed repartee, he could skewer any opponent. Now he seemed to spend his time penning letters to Brick.
Brick’s gaze shot up to hers and she swore he blushed. As much as a six-foot-six solid concrete pugilist could blush.
“He wants to make an impression this season, and he asks for my advice about his wardrobe.” His fingers ran around the edge of the paper, his gaze flicking to the words in his hand.
Cara took another sip of coffee as her brain kicked into action. “I hear the men about town call you Brick Brummel, and the unnatural winter certainly doesn’t stop them swarming around you whenever we go out. I fear I will lose you to Lord Dennington as his valet.” Once freed from the riverside hangar, Brick had flourished. She encouraged him to let loose his natural ability with fashion and fabric. In just a few months, he earned a dedicated following. Men clamoured for his advice before the season even started. Once the ton returned en masse to London and things were in full swing, Cara suspected she would become the shadow, and Brick would step into the limelight.
“Valet?” He screwed up his face at the word. “I’m not cut out for service with all that bowing and scraping. I’m my own man, I never want to be something kept like a pet.”
“Something else then?” She patted the sofa next to her. This conversation looked like it would turn serious, and she was getting a crick in her neck from staring up at him.
He thrust the letter in his pocket and sat down with a heavy sigh. “He’s a lord.”
Ah. Three little words, and everything dropped into focus. “Do you think Amy looks at Jackson and sees a working class man or do you think she sees the person she loves and wants to be with?”
He leaned forward, arms on his thighs, and stared at the fire. “It’s easier for them. They might be from different walks, but they’re not defying all of society’s conventions. They used to hang men for being w
hat we are.”
Cupid seemed to be aiming for her bodyguards and by the tortured look on Brick’s face, he took an arrow straight to the heart. While Victoria repealed the laws making homosexuality illegal, same-sex couples still walked a fraught path toward acceptance. Although the ton would find the disparity in their social positions far more scandalous.
“You can’t be hanged any more. Lynched is far more likely.” She elbowed him and tried to elicit a smile. “We just need enlightenment to catch up with the rest of society.” She put down her coffee cup and laid a hand on his leg. “Sometimes love’s not an easy path. You’re the only one who knows if he’s worth the risk.”
He turned, and questions and possibilities swirled in his gaze. “How did you know you loved the gov’nor?”
Cara smiled. “Nate decided some years ago that I was the one for him. He didn’t leave me much option after he set his course. Insufferable man made a number of decisions to manoeuvre my life the way he wanted it.”
Humour tugged the corners of his mouth. “It wasn’t solely his choice, you’re more than a match for him. Men have ended up locked in the Pit for less than what you say to him.” His face softened. “He might hunt you, but he could never cage you. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t love him.”
“No, and I can’t imagine my life without him. I’m no expert on the subject of love though. You need to talk to Nan and Nessy next time we are in Leicester.” She patted his tree-trunk leg. “In fact, do discuss it with them, Nessy will lap up all the details. She’s been moping since Loki left.”
He huffed a laugh. “I might just do that. Those two know a few things about life.”
“You’re family, Brick, and whatever you decide, Nate and I will stand up for you and your right to seek a relationship that makes you happy. You know as well as I that you face a hard road. People are scared of anything that is different, but I will gladly slay gossiping matrons on your behalf. I’m staying in today if you want to go see Clarence.” The big man had a place in her heart just like Jackson. She spent so much of her life pushing people away after what happened to her, and now she found herself surrounded by a strange family. These intimidating men with dark pasts made her safe and aroused her protective streak. She would defend their hearts as fiercely as they protected her body.
He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “You’re something special, you know.”
She shrugged and laughed. “Oh, I know. Remind Jackson next time you see him.”
Leaving Brick alone with his thoughts, curiosity finally urged her to knock on Nate’s door. Pushing inside at the barked come, she drew up short: It looked like his box had been booby-trapped and exploded in his study. He stood in the middle surveying a minefield of paperwork shrapnel. Letters, files, and snippets of envelopes were scattered everywhere.
She placed her feet with care so as not to disturb the notes. “What happened in here? Did the box blow up?”
“Not quite, although I am sorely tempted to torch the lot.” He spread his hands. “This is what Victoria knows of her spy network. The box held the accumulated knowledge of her previous spymaster.”
Cara’s gaze wandered over the strewn litter. She picked up a torn envelope; the corner bore the word Berlin, and the other side—a series of numbers. “This is meaningless.”
“No, unfortunately it’s not. The problem with being spy master is it comes with an enormous dose of paranoia, and you either don’t write anything down or it all has to be in code.” He stared at a ripped piece of parchment and added it to what looked like a bird’s nest on the corner of his desk.
And here she was thinking she had a problem with Chinese and Hindu. At least she knew what language she needed to translate.
“I’m trying to arrange the papers by what code may or may not be used. Some have names, others places.” He ran a hand through his black hair. “But there is no apparent logic here, no order.”
“Your predecessor probably didn’t want any information to fall into the wrong hands.” She didn’t envy Nate his task, the thousands of scraps would need to be organised, decoded, and reconstructed. And all that had to be done before he could gather his own intelligence about the many operatives now under his control.
“An understandable fear when you are dealing in national secrets, but I intend to collate all the information into one place. I’m sure we have sufficient safeguards in place to ensure the protection of such a document.” He gave her a wry smile even as tired lines pulled at the corner of his eyes. An enormous task lay before him.
“Rethinking taking up politics?” Victoria offered him a choice, either his seat in parliament or spy master. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to swap. Politics seemed to involve a lot of dinners and drinking, with the odd snooze in parliament.
He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against his chest. Leaflets fluttered into the air with the movement and resettled in a random pattern. He growled in her ear. “Do you think I resemble a fat, complacent politician?”
She wriggled in his firm embrace, testing his hold. “Perhaps not, and this profession does dovetail with the collection of artifacts.” Any document he created to wrestle order to the spy network would be safe at Lowestoft. The security on the estate was far better than that protecting the crown jewels in the Tower of London.
“As my loving wife and second-in-command, I’m sure you will be keen to assist with bringing order to this chaos.” His lips skated over her neck.
She snorted. “More cryptic paperwork? No thanks, I’m knee-deep in my own.”
He sighed, released her, and took another fistful of scraps from the large box. “The sooner we sort this lot out, the sooner we can return to Russia. I have found mention of two double agents operating in St Petersburg that neither Nikolai nor I were aware of.”
Returning to Russia meant spring in Siberia. Not many women would find the idea a powerful motivator, but not every woman left behind a dragon hatchling playing in the snow. Sergei sent occasional updates and drawings, but it wasn’t the same as feeling the critter croon against her palm as she scratched his head.
“Why didn’t you open with that? You know I will tackle a mountain of paper if I get to visit Sergei and his family.” She picked up a sheaf that contained a series of numbers. The neat rows looked achingly like words, if one changed the digits for letters. “If all this is so obscure, how do you know you have double agents?”
He rummaged through the piles and held up the corner of envelope she found. City on one side, numbers on the other. He flipped it back and forth between his fingers. “Both sides are used, meaning the operative has been turned.”
“Clever, so it’s not just what is written down but how it is placed.” Mandarin looked more appealing every minute compared to this lot.
“Once I make headway here, Sergei will only be one stop of many we will make.”
“What do you mean?” She picked up a handful of scraps and flicked through, trying to decipher meaning within the random phrases.
“I need to locate all the empire’s agents, double agents and handlers. Then I intend to assess each one, which means we will be jaunting around the globe for some time, I am afraid.”
What a terrible life, journeying to exotic lands on dangerous missions. “Travelling the world? I’m sure I’ll cope. Somehow.”
Tossing the papers into the air, he captured her again and drew her close. “I’m having a new airship fitted out just for us. With a much roomier master cabin.”
pril unfurled and despite Victoria’s decree that it was now spring, the ground remained frozen. Nate divided his time between the Lyons cargo business and shut in his office, decoding cryptic pieces of paper. Cara immersed herself in the ancient texts, trying to find something, anything, which could explain the endless cold.
The start of the 1862 season suffered a setback when most of society remained outside London, preferring the relative warmth of the countryside to the arctic city. Unrest grew with
in the remaining population from those with nowhere to go and no means of escape. The newspapers reported crowds taking to the streets and grounds outside Buckingham Palace. The high iron railing and patrolling soldiers kept the malcontents from the palace plaza, but their numbers swelled in the frigid air.
Spring settled throughout Europe—except for London. The solid Thames was now used as a main route by foot traffic and sleds, and dirty brown sludge piled up along the embankments. Businesses using old-fashioned boats found their suppliers unable to reach them and had to pay higher fees for their cargo to those airships able to land on the ice. Lyons Cargo did particularly well with their skilled captains. Fishermen had to trek miles to find a break in the ice and many faced financial ruin.
The homeless died huddled in doorways during the night with only old blankets for protection. Dead carts, not seen since the days of plague or the typhoid epidemic, ploughed the streets early in the morning, clearing out the stiff bodies that became doorstops and trapped nervous citizens in their homes. The corpses couldn’t be buried in the solid earth but were taken away to the west for cremation. The black plume of smoke marred the sky as the souls of the unfortunates made their way to heaven. At street level, people averted their eyes or crossed themselves if they thought about the origin of the grimy pollution trail high above their heads.
Those fortunate people with the means to leave London did and flowed to the surrounding countryside, seeking relief from the pervading cold and gloom by working farms or descending on distant relatives with rural estates and homes. The population thinned, even the socially conscious nobles abandoned the city and declared 1862 the year of the house party. Socialites made new calendars centred on hunts and balls in castles far from the bitter atmosphere of London and the dour gaze of the still mourning monarch. Victoria refused to budge, and it became a battle of wills between her and the frozen Thames. Bookies even took odds on which would thaw first, queen or river.
The recent deaths by divine fire still sparked fevered imaginations and preyed on the fears of people touched by one too many artifacts in the space of under a year. No one believed the papers when they reported that the man responsible for the gruesome deaths, Dalkeith, was a disgruntled servant and no agent of God. Much easier to think the events were related and that God turned his back on London.
