Mechanical Rose

by Nathalie Gray

  “We deal with all sorts of people. We could not take the chance you would refuse to cooperate. Even if I have grown to trust your judgment.”

  He shook his head in obvious bewilderment. “It never crossed your mind to simply tell me?”

  “Would it have changed anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are lying,” she shot back. He had to lie. No one was that understanding, that unselfish. Everyone wanted something.

  “No, Violet—Eleanor, whatever your name is. Not everyone is a liar.”

  Her heart sank.

  He put the bottle back on the dresser and sat against the edge of the bed, raked his hair back with both hands. Light from a single gas lamp in a corner gave his dark blond hair a soft reddish glow. His lips glistened from the whisky. His gaze riveted her to the spot. “You should have had more faith in me.”

  “Our world is dying, it cannot afford to be gambled on faith.” She struggled to push out the callous words.

  “Then yours is a bleak world indeed and perhaps not worth saving at all.”

  She had tried to hold them in check. But they came. Like a torrent. Tears spilled from her eyes and Eleanor found she could barely stand from the weight crushing her. Like bulrush in the wind, her spine bent, forced her to fold in on herself. She collapsed to her knees. She cried for him more than herself. She had long accepted the life she had chosen with the consequences that came with it. But Leeford had not chosen to be deceived and hurt. He had not meant for Spark’s money to enable his research. His first reaction—and it had come from the core judging by his emotions—had been to tell Spark he would not transact with him. He was a good man. The Society did not kill good men. She did not kill good men. But still she had hurt him.

  Strong arms she did not deserve encircled her. She tried to hiccup explanations, how she never meant to hurt him, or let her affection cloud her judgment, that if she had to do it all over again, she would choose the same course because logic had ruled her life. Would to the day she died. Because she believed in the Society’s motto—that common good did supersede that of individuals. She believed in it. It was in her to do the things she had done, it was part of her, these deadly skills—she had on her person right this instant enough to kill a man in half a dozen ways—and if Leeford wanted anything to do with her, he would have to accept this or nothing would ever come of what they had. If it was still there. Such a tiny, fragile bud.

  “Please forgive me,” she whispered through her hands, behind which she hid her tears.

  “Shh. Say nothing.”

  “I must tell you.”

  “There is no need, Eleanor,” Leeford whispered against the back of her head. He pressed her against him, knelt on the floor by her side so he could gently rock her. “Shh.”

  “I did not—” She swallowed tears, rubbed the rest with her sleeve. “I did not mean to befriend you. You were not supposed to get inside my defenses. As soon as I saw you, I knew.”

  That lean and solid chest, those strong, sinewy arms. She tried to make herself as tight and small as possible so she could fit her all into his embrace. Something she had feared she would never taste again. Perhaps it was the last time.

  “I believe you.”

  Beneath the whisky on his breath, she detected the true man, the smell of him, that intoxicating mix of winter wind and leather, of fresh cotton shirt and deeply masculine scent, the subtle fragrance clinging to his skin. She heard the patient understanding in his voice, the kind of tolerance found only in those who have felt the keen edge of exclusion and solitude, the barbed blade of humiliation.

  Twisting her head so she could look at his throat when he spoke, she pressed her lips there not for a kiss but for the sheer happiness of touching him.

  His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “Since I seem incapable of getting properly drunk, I have a proposition for you.”

  Eleanor squeezed her eyes of the last few tears and nodded.

  “We both agree that Spark is not to get his filthy hands on that prototype.”

  Another nod. She wanted to cry again. From relief.

  “We both agree that something should be done before he gets here tomorrow. So my proposition is that we all leave. With the prototype.”

  She nodded again. “There are safe houses everywhere in the land. Aconia included.” She rubbed her eyes. Her head hurt. “No one but the Society knows about them. We would be safe there. The machine as well.” Her mental gears began to turn, slowly at first, then with more speed and purpose. A plan took shape. “My colleagues have kept a close eye on Spark for years. If he moves, they will know and act accordingly. Follow him here, send agents to the safe houses in case we must use them. It is standard procedure.”

  “Perfect,” he replied, combed her hair back so he could look into her eyes. His sparkled like sapphires. “But one last thing. I must know out of sheer male pride and the hint of whisky in my veins. What we shared earlier…was, ah, was it real? And please rest assured that you may trample the last trace of my dignity and tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”

  Nothing had ever felt more real than touching him and having him touch her, of feeling him move inside her. She had come alive in his hands. From the inside out. More than mere physical pleasures—she could find those at her own hands or that of other men—Leeford had lit a fire, a light, she did not know could exist in a person such as herself, cynical, intransigent. A woman sent to charm then poison men. “Yes.”

  “Was it a mistake on your part?” Seriousness smoothed his high brow and prominent, angular facial features. For once, no mocking grin played with the corners of his thin mouth as he waited for her answer.

  “It was an accident, but no mistake. I would do it again if I could.”

  He nodded, a sudden new light dancing in his eyes. “You can. If you want to.”

  “Do you?”

  Leeford cupped the back of her neck and pulled her close for a kiss that left nothing to the imagination, to doubt and uncertainty. He wanted her. Divine Graces, he still wanted her.

  Chapter Six

  The salty quality of tears on her lips mixed with the taste of berries as he deposited tender kisses on her mouth. The moment called for gentleness, attention, focus. Now was not the time for carnal abandon. It would come later. His cock hardened painfully.

  What had she done to his simple life?

  There was no pretense in her pain. No artifice. Even if she lied for a living. Ha. A walking contradiction.

  Any other man in his position would have tossed the assassin—an assassin—out on her curvy bottom and slammed the door. Any other man would have been too humiliated, enraged or drunk—a plague on that Gunn blood so resistant to spirits—to accept her apologies. Any affronted male of any species would have fluffed his feathers, stomped about in a great show of self-righteous disgruntlement. Then why did the thought never cross his mind to rage at Violet—Eleanor? It was his due. Was he no man? Could he not hate her as she richly deserved? She had come into his home under a false pretext, had snooped in his workshop to get a closer look at his prototype, had known all along he had associated with a toad like Spark yet said nothing. To top things off, she had shared herself with him in the most complete and personal way. What did he do? When she asked for forgiveness, he gave it to her. Just like that.

  Even if he spent as little time as possible in society—or perhaps because of it—he had seen the truth shining like a pearl when she had pried open the oyster of her life to reveal it to him. He knew pain intimately. The public and ongoing humiliation at the hands of his family while growing up had hurt him in a deep, irreparable way yet he now held nothing but contempt for them, no rage, and maybe a bit of pity. They must be bored indeed to bother with him. So he knew what pain felt like and the many forms it could take.

  While he held Eleanor’s shaking frame, her sobs like nails in his chest, he had come to the conclusion that either he liked her too much to be angry with her, or he was simpl
y incapable of rage. Out of sheer pride, he preferred to think it was the former. What sort of man could not even dredge a bit of good old primeval rage after being treated this way? Plus, he suspected his affection for the woman ran deeper than mere “liking”.

  He presently pulled from her, helped her rise to her feet, brushed with his thumb the last few tears glistening on her cheeks. Her nose was red, her black eyes huge. “Thank you.”

  The simple words had more effect than any long-winded expression of thanks she could have formed—and he knew she wielded words with precision, Spark could attest to that. Strands of hair so black they looked purple hung loose around her face. He coiled one around his index finger to straighten it. A deep blush darkened her cheeks. She sighed.

  “My life used to be boringly predictable—or predictably boring,” he began, brushed the tip of her hair against her ambrosial lips. “What happened to it? Why do I want the same thing from you even now that everything has changed?”

  “Maybe because nothing important has changed?” Clearly she felt unsure. Or hopeful?

  “Is it that you gave this to me…” he said while he pressed a hand to her breast, not in a proprietary or sexual way, but as a gesture of closeness to indicate indissoluble ties. She had given to him the gift of her intimacy. He had accepted. It was his. “And that makes us more than…whatever we are right now?”

  A faint smile lifted her lips. The lamp in the corner of his chambers illuminated her in a slanted, sensuous way. “You have completely lost me.”

  He smiled. “I have lost myself, I admit.” Leeford cupped her chin to raise her face to his. “I think I was the moment you knocked me back on my ass. Literally.”

  “That was only two days ago,” she murmured, eyes half closed.

  “How long does one need to know when a shoe fits, a wine ready, a meal cooked? What is time but a man-made tool?”

  Time had once ruled his life. The many timekeepers clogging his house could bear witness to this. Did he not wear not one but two pocket watches? But tonight, with this mysterious and beautiful woman in front of him, time had lost its appeal. In fact, he would love for it to go away.

  Eleanor turned her head to kiss his fingers. “Would you make love to me?”

  Any other man he knew would have turned her away.

  If he did this, Leeford would hurt himself more than he already was. She had lied to him, deceived him, but her affection felt sincere. And he did want to make love to her in a desperate, tender, loving fashion.

  “How would you want me to do it?” Their disorderly coupling of earlier blazed in his mind’s eye. But for some reason he could not explain, he wanted it to be different tonight.

  “Slowly,” she replied in a breathless way that did wonders to his ego.

  “Slowly?”

  She nodded.

  “Like this?”

  Leeford leaned over and kissed her so softly he did not feel her lips on his even if the heat of them all but melted his reason. With his hands, he traced her figure from hips up to bodice, the many different textures exquisite under the pads of his fingers. Up over her breasts, which rose and fell quickly. Each little steel pearl sown into the corseted dress provided sweet contrast against the satiny fabric.

  “Yes,” she whispered, eyes closed. “Like this.”

  “Before we do, I would like to see you. Without all this.” He undid a button on her high collar. “I would like to see the beauty under the dress.”

  “Remove it.”

  Even if the two words could have been a command, Leeford knew them for the plea they were.

  He reached to her just as she placed her hand over the broach shaped like a rose. “Be careful with this thing.”

  “It looks sharp.” And was ugly, but he did not say it.

  Avoiding his gaze, she shrugged. “It is a weapon, Leeford.”

  “A weapon?” He would have loved very much to see how it worked, but considering she looked awkward and uncomfortable by it, he let the matter rest.

  She avoided his gaze as she unpinned the small metallic rose, put it on the dresser then returned to her former spot. A small, embarrassed smile played with her cheeks.

  “Anything else?” he asked, teasing.

  “You are safe for now.”

  She breathed hard when he unbuttoned the adjusted sleeves, her rigid bodice. Each small release creating havoc in his trousers until the upper half of her dress had opened in front to reveal a purple and black satin corset that gleamed like wet steel. Above it, her pale skin rose and fell. He placed a kiss there, at the dawn of her breasts.

  He caught her hands when she reached for the waistband. “Allow me.”

  “Wait. There is…”

  “Another weapon?”

  She nodded.

  Leeford fought against the grin. “Weapons are to be expected in your line of work.” It did not surprise him. In fact, he preferred that she was armed if she went about chasing ruthless brigands or foolish inventors.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Pushing aside curiosity into the closing mechanism and clever little clasps, Leeford knelt in front of her so he could tug the waistband loose. The three metal clips clicked. He pulled the bottom half of her dress apart then the whole thing so he could lay it on the bed. So she was armed. A tiny silver pistol in an ingenious holster cinched her left thigh. He ran his hand along the leather strap, tugged on the release. The thing fell in his hand and joined the dress. He had never held such a small pistol before, though could draw its schematics simply by looking at it, or design a whole new way of projecting bullets fast enough and hard enough to kill a man. He just had no interest in such work. His challenge for a duel with Spark, who had been an excellent shot on hunts the Gunns had organized—another thing that made him an anomaly in his family, Leeford could not bring himself to kill an animal he would not eat—would have ended in tragedy. For himself. The one physical achievement that no one, not even Spark, had been able to top was rowing. To this day, Leeford held more championships than anyone in the single scull, and his many trophies still gathered dust in his college’s main hall.

  When Eleanor’s shapely form was revealed to him, all other thought floated away. She was breathtaking.

  Eleanor stood before him, wearing only her corset, matching underthings and black, low-heeled boots. The mix of black, risqué lace and purple satin suited her very well. She was a woman in full bloom, one who knew what she wanted and also how. For a second he tried to guess her age but came up empty. She could be twenty-five or forty. Her eyes were wise and hands experienced but her body strong and firm. And with enough curves to lose a man.

  He sat on the bed so he could look at her as he pleased. “Would you turn for me? Your beauty demands to be admired from every angle.”

  With a small smile, she turned her back to him, stopped when he was about to ask her to. Somehow she must have felt what he wanted. Kindred spirits? He never would have guessed. She unpinned the rest of her hair, let it spill down in bouncy ribbons between her shoulder blades. It was much longer than he had anticipated.

  From the back, Eleanor’s voluptuous body cinched in that corset and with the gas lamp’s amber light caressing it at a very pleasing angle, set his blood to boiling. He would have looked at her until he grew blind. Black lace underthings created tempting mystery between her cheeks. What would he find there? he wondered. Warmth. Solace.

  “You are so…” He sighed. “Beauty is such a small word for what I wish to express. An artist could search his whole life for such perfection of form and symmetry and never come even close. Colors, the very texture of life fade around you. Light means nothing. A culmination, the apex. You are—”

  “Yours.”

  Leeford was on his feet the second she said the simple word. With his hands on her shoulders, he kissed her nape through the purple-black hair. The delicate shell of her ears, the tender lobes.

  “Such a lovely gift when I have nothing to offer in return,” he m
urmured in her ear.

  “You have these,” she replied by running her hand over his. “And this,” she went on, caressing his head. “But more importantly,” she twisted and put her other hand on his chest, “you have this to give.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Compassion, respect, kindness, sincerity. To a woman, there are no greater gifts than those.”

  He doubted he possessed that many qualities but expressed his gratitude at the compliments by kissing the charming little liar.

  Between the underthings and the bottom of her corset, he could spot a portion of her back. That skin! He salivated just looking at it. He ran his hand there, where twin dimples in her lower back made shallow pools of shadow, where he thought his tongue would make a perfect instrument to give her pleasure, to stimulate the sensitive skin. Leeford bent over and did just that. Spasms twitched along her thighs, her rounded bottom, her calves so smooth and curvy. She was curves. She embodied and captured the theory, the intuitive idea of every known curve. To him, she confounded and transcended numbers. Mathematicians and geometers, physicists and artists alike could dedicate their lives to mapping her every rounded plane and recess and still not chronicle an inch of her beauty. His algebraic queen, his lemniscate goddess. Eleanor excited the man and fascinated the inventor. Stirred the primeval male and mystified the thinker. He wanted her. Now.

  With his hand, he wanted to experience her voluptuous body. With his mouth, taste her skin and heat. With his cock, he would unfurl her then make her his. Unite them into one person.

  Eleanor’s heart rate accelerated. Each of Leeford’s hands triggered chaos, beautiful chaos in her sex, which squeezed with impotent avidity as she envisioned his lovemaking. Her clitoris throbbed in demand. Her nipples as well. She had become—he had reduced her to—a knot of nerve endings. Pulsating. Burning.

  “Here,” Leeford said as he slid a small stool closer with one of his feet. “Rest a foot on this.”

  She did and smiled when he knelt in front of her, proceeded to untie her stockings from the garter belt and unlace her boot. Dexterous fingers worked with quick, efficient movements. She had never had such a skilled lover. And one who could so easily guess what she wanted and how. Leeford finished with one leg, pulled off boot and lace stocking, pressed a soft kiss to the top of her foot—creating a jab of need to poke her in the belly—and set about undoing the other. Soon she stood barefoot. Her corset was his next goal. Slowly in a sweet torment, Leeford unclasped the top portion then the few bottom clips, kept the middle for last. Her breasts all but spilled over the edge. Her breathing quickened. Between her legs she had melted.