She said things to him. To spur him on. To shock and stimulate. Whispered demands, snarled pleas.
On a long moan, she clawed at her pussy to make more room for his decadent mouth, but before she could ride the rest of the wave, he grabbed her by the crook of the hips and slid her down to him, right up against his thighs. Because he stood by the side of the bed with a perfect angle and height, his cock, less hard but still glorious, found its home once more. He took her. Demanded. Primeval male instincts overshadowing everything else. How she loved him this way. The shy, awkward inventor was gone.
“Ah!”
Her breasts bounced from the assault. He thrust, thrust, thrust. Harder, deeper. Eleanor grabbed her knees and pulled them up to her chest. Stretched to the limit. Delirium. A great surge swelling. His cock pounding. A hammer of flesh. Blue eyes dazzling in the amber light. Long hands around her hips. Taking. Taking.
When the final wave hit, Eleanor forgot which way was up or down. In a brilliant second of bliss, she released just as he thrust and stayed deep in her. Shivers took her. Like a fever. She came and came. All the while Leeford remained still, sheathed to the hilt. Outside a storm pounded.
“Divine Graces,” she murmured at length.
Leeford gasped for breath as he pulled out, rolled on the bed facing down and presenting his back and perfect rounded backside glossy from sweat. His hair stuck out where it had dried.
“That was…” she heard from within the mattress. He puffed a laugh. “Words fail me.”
He rolled slowly off the bed, staggered to the bathroom and returned with a warm, wet facecloth with which he wiped her face and chest.
“You did not have to do this,” she said, taking over after it became evident he was making a mess of things. “I would have kept it a while longer. You have a lovely taste.”
Despite the poor light, she could see his blush.
He collapsed beside her, facedown. With a hand, he caressed her thigh. “My life was utterly boring before I met you. Thank good fortune you came along.”
“I was thinking the same.”
“What? You, the spy and assassin, the woman who scaled the side of my house? I would think your life was already thrilling enough without me. I must be a damper indeed.”
“Absolutely not. Coming here was the best thing that has happened to me. Meeting you is…” She smiled as she patted his thigh. “My duties are oft times quiet ones. A lot of it is studying tedious subjects, learning, practicing.”
“Practicing what?” He rolled onto his back and ran his hand over her belly. His eyes blazed with inquisitiveness.
She should feel awkward speaking about her work to this man who would never do what she could—and had—but his curiosity touched her nonetheless. They may be from different worlds, but still shared much.
“Languages, hand-to-hand combat, climbing—which is my specialty since I do not have a fear of heights. I love heights.”
He shivered. “I do not mind sitting quietly somewhere high, or piloting a dragon, but scaling walls would be beyond me. What else do you study?”
“All sorts of ways to, er, well…”
“To kill?”
She nodded. “I do not test, please believe me. I study.”
His eyebrows arched. “There is a difference?”
“A world of difference. I take no pleasure in it and only use lethal force as a very last recourse.”
“I was only tormenting you.” Leeford raked his hair back from his face. It stuck up in places and gave him a comical look. It went well with his eccentric profession. “But what of the tools you use? Surely you have fascinating ones concealed.” He pointed to her corset, which had fallen to the floor.
“Oh, this is my pride and joy.” She smiled. “This thing is like a small armory. And indeed, I have brought things you will probably find interesting—”
Leeford cocked his head then climbed up on an elbow to look out the windows. “What is that?”
She rolled over so she could take a peek. On the dresser, the bottle caught her attention. Inside, the amber liquid shuddered in widening circles, the kind caused by vibrations.
“Divine Graces,” she heard him whisper as he leaped off the bed and rushed for the windows.
Instead of the stormy night sky they had admired while making love, the windows were now filled with plated steel.
Chapter Seven
He had never dressed with such haste. Nor had he ever seen a woman throw on clothes in such a hurry. She ran out of his room in only her chemise and corset. Lightning illuminated her curvy form for a split second then she was gone.
“Eleanor!”
“I need my things!” came her voice from down the hall. She was fast.
“Meet me in the great room!” he yelled back.
With shirt undone, trousers and boots barely on, he rummaged around his room for his vest, cursed at the lost time but finally found it. He nearly ripped the lining when he fished out his watch and tucked it into trousers pocket with the little timekeeper. Leeford then sprinted down the stairs leading to the second floor, spent a while pounding on Lily’s door without success then made his way in the dark to the great room where he retrieved an old pair of steam pistols from the trunk. Family heirlooms. Ha. One was only charged halfway but it would have to do. And on top of things, he would have to draw very, very near to the target for the shots to be effective. Instead of keeping these for closer study—something for which he had never made time—perhaps he should have procured tried-and-true pistols that shot bullets. How was he to know he would need to shoot his way out of his own home!
Outside, the storm roared. Rain like black whips lashed the windows. He dared not turn on any lights. Not until he had ascertained the danger. Although he knew it must have been Spark outside flying some large dragon.
The folded note on the coffee table caught his eye. After a quick scan, he breathed a sigh of relief. Lily often accompanied Max to Aconia to get supplies. This was where they had gone, had probably left by coach not long after Eleanor and he had taken off. At least they were out of harm’s way. For now.
A faint sound caught his attention. He whirled on his heels, pistols aimed more or less the same way, and spotted a smallish dark form rushing out of the stairwell. Eleanor emerged into the relative light of the storm, a dark pack in one hand and a peculiar silver pistol that he would have loved to study in the other. She wore her black and purple corset over the rest of her outfit, which consisted of loose black trousers and matching shirt. Flat shoes made not a sound as she traversed the great room, planted a kiss on his cheek. She had tied her hair in a tail.
“We need to act fast. I do not know how long it will take my colleagues to realize what is happening.”
“They are watching us right now?”
She shook her head, pointed above. “They are watching him. Have so for a long time. Where is Lily?”
“She and Max have gone to town so the house is locked tight. Spark will need time to work the—”
Outside, a loud whir followed by a muffled thoop drowned the rest of his words. With violence that made the entire house shudder, something crashed through the window, took a portion of wall along the way before retreating and latching on to the timber and plaster. A grappling hook. One the size of a coffee table.
“Good fortune!” he cried, crouching as debris rained on them. “What is he doing?!”
“Boarding us!” Eleanor slipped her pistol into a sheath he had not seen behind her waist then pulled an item out of her pack.
“Come!” he yelled above the din.
They ran to the kitchen, craned their necks by the windows to see what sort of dragon Spark flew. Leeford whistled in appreciation when he spotted the mammoth flying machine hovering by the house. A dirigible then, not a dragon as he had surmised. Lightning strikes illuminated it in all its monstrousness from gigantic silvery belly to steam engines roaring like white-hot mouths fore and aft along the plated steel nacelle that glistened
in the rain. He had never seen such a large airship. Custom made. And from a masterful design, no less. He could readily determine the excellent craftsmanship that had gone into the machine and ingenious use of space. How could it be? Despite the gloss of success covering his every “invention”, it was a known fact Spark had never mastered even the basic elements of aeronautics during their school years. He must have now. Unless he had stolen the design from someone else as he wanted to do here and now. With the size and power of his airship, Leeford had no doubt the engineer could mount at least half a dozen condensators and use them as airborne cannons. His stomach twisted. The man was mad but rich and resourceful. The scariest combination.
“Is this the gas line?” Eleanor asked, pointing upward at a spot outside the window nearest her.
“From the house to the lighthouse?” Leeford replied, coming near and bending so he could look out the window above the slop stone. “Yes, that is the gas line. It goes all the way down the inside of the workshop.”
“Would the condensator survive an explosion, you surmise?”
“Absolutely. Most of my machines would.” Why did he say this with pride? As if the moment called for it!
“Where is the reservoir? For the gas?”
“Underneath the furnace.” He swallowed. “You are not thinking…?”
She turned to him, his grim little spy, and nodded. “If we can get the condensator before, we could sabotage the furnace to overheat, create a chain reaction. Could you do that?”
It saddened him to tell her that he could. With ease and quickness too. He sighed, closed his eyes for a second. “Yes.”
Pride and relief reflected in her dark eyes. He could not help but wonder what she would have done had he refused to blow up his own workshop. He preferred not to follow that chain of thought. Spark could not get his vile hands on the prototype, no matter the cost to Leeford’s work. Or his home. There was no telling what the man would do, and Leeford knew for a fact he would not live well with the guilt of his machine killing thousands of innocents. There was just so much whisky a man could drink before he drowned in the stuff.
“We will retrieve the prototype first,” Leeford pushed through his teeth. “Then I will prepare a surprise Spark will not soon forget.”
A wolfish grin stretched her mouth. Such a contrast to the lovely exterior. “Put your pistols in my pack. We will need them later, I fear.”
He feared it too.
“Then let us go,” he snarled as he opened the back door, checked upward to make sure no lines dangled from the giant hull hovering above their heads. Spark’s airship seemed to fight for stability against the high winds battering it. It twisted this way and that. The pilot must have been highly skilled but still, nature was so far winning. Spark would not be able to get anyone out until he had used at least two or three more grappling hooks. Leeford gritted his teeth. His poor house.
They ran out into the rain, sprinted along the balcony, jumped the six or eight feet into the tall grass so they would not be such easy targets for an eventual lookout and, bent in half, made their way to the lighthouse.
“How much does it weigh?” Eleanor yelled above the wind and Spark’s roaring airship.
“One hundred and two point five pounds! We cannot carry it down the stairs! Too slippery!” The few times he had moved the awkward thing had required the use of the hoist. Nor could they let it roll down by itself either in case it crashed through the rickety steps and became lodged in the inner timbering. They would never get it out again.
He ran faster than she did so grabbed her hand and helped her navigate the clingy foliage, which, wet and flailing about in the wind, hampered her progress. Clothes stuck and pulled when they reached the landing, which they climbed two by two. While he fished in his trousers pocket for the key, Eleanor dug around her pack.
He unlocked the door. They both rushed in so he could shut and lock it before anyone in the airship had noticed the interior light through the doorway.
Four by four, he rushed up to his workshop, ripped the tarp off the condensator then helped Eleanor get a line underneath so they could tie a sort of sling around it.
“Ready, one, two, three,” Eleanor said, widening her stance.
The thing rose by a few inches but slid out of the rope and would have landed on the floor had he not slowed its fall by bending over and letting the sling touch down first. After a few unsuccessful tries, he could tell Eleanor was growing frustrated.
“How will we get it out then?” She bent over and tried to “hug” then lift it, but the smooth surface offered no grip. It slid out of her arms and thudded on the floor.
An idea struck him. “We will use the chains to hoist it out of a window,” he said while he rushed to the chains and worked them down to the floor, the pulleys clicking like an army of mad robotic crabs. A frenzied sort of energy boiled his blood. He worked quickly to hoist the machine off the floor, pushed and pulled and yanked until he had it hanging right by the closest window.
A sound from downstairs froze both of them.
“They are here,” Leeford whispered. He knew every creak and groan in this building. Someone had just come in. “We cannot use the window now.” He cursed under his breath.
“The door,” she whispered.
Leeford knew just the thing to use. One of his machines—an aborted project for a wheeled ice maker from years ago—would prove large enough to serve their purpose. They pushed it in front of the door, snug against the jamb so he could wedge a strip of scrap metal in, using an imperfection in the old floor to make it nice and tight. No one was coming through that thing anytime soon.
Using his work gloves, he broke the bulbs on all but one gas lamp then twisted out of shape the pipe that ran along the wall. The smell of gas made him grimace. His eyes stung. They had little time now. While Eleanor waited by the door to the rooftop, Leeford ripped the face off the furnace, twisted the timer so it would automatically turn on five minutes forth. When the mix of oxygen and gas would be right, the enclosed space would become too small for expansion and, coupled with the furnace’s pilot light coming on, a large boom would ensue. He should know. It had taken him weeks to wash the soot off and fix the damage left by that particularly violent explosion a few years ago. One of many this building had endured.
“We have five minutes,” he snarled as he sprinted across the room, helped Eleanor unhook the condensator from the chains. They would have to do things by hands from there on.
Panting and grunting, they rolled, dragged, pushed the slippery-smooth, awkward thing up the stairwell leading to the roof. Leeford closed the door behind them, used his wet shirt as plug along the kickboard. He even tore off a sleeve so he could stuff it into the keyhole. Just in case. He wanted an airtight—or as much as he could—environment for the fireworks that would erupt in less than five minutes.
They emerged on the rooftop where rain all but blinded them. Eleanor rushed to sling the prototype then after having tied the end of a line to the handrail, both rolled it gingerly off the ledge. The sudden weight made them grunt. A few panic-inducing seconds during which Leeford was sure they would drop the machine or be pulled along with it preceded a loud noise from inside the workshop. He yearned to peek inside through the window but did not want to be spotted.
“They broke through the door,” Eleanor groaned. Hand over hand, she kept the line taut while Leeford did most of the heavy lifting. With a clever knot and using the handrail as a pulley, the machine’s weight must have been distributed along the line. Still, he felt the burn through his work gloves.
“I know,” he grunted back. “I heard. We have less than three minutes.”
“How can you tell?”
“Time and I are old friends.”
“I do not see any dragons,” she grunted from the strain. “Any minute, I guess.”
She may have counted on her colleagues to make an appearance but he knew Spark’s oily perfidy too well and preferred to act as though no one
was rushing to help.
Suddenly the weight was lifted. Eleanor leaned over the handrail, cupped her eyes with a hand. “It has reached the ground. Quickly!”
Even though he could not see the airship, Leeford heard the loud thoop that had preceded the giant grappling hook piercing the window to the great room. Spark must have sent his thugs down even before they had secured the airship. Reckless disregard for life—again. Things never changed. Voices rose in the distance.
“Quickly!”
Rain whipped them and wind nudged them as they tied themselves to another line, which Eleanor had secured to the handrail before kicking a leg over it. “Keep your right hand behind you this way then move it up by your side to go down.”
His heart skipped a beat. “We are rappelling down?!”
“You know how to rappel?”
“No!”
“Time to learn.”
Even if he could understand the physics of the enterprise, the weight distribution and the whole concept behind the holds, the thought of rappelling down the top of his lighthouse during a violent storm did not appeal to him in the least. Mimicking her stance and holds, he leaned over the void, backside first, legs shaking and hands slick inside the gloves, then he leaped off the ledge.
The urge to yell something, anything, choked him. He gritted his teeth and tried to follow Eleanor as she bound down the wall smooth and quick. He slipped too many times to count, flattened against the wall, or swung out too far and twisted on his line so that his back connected against the wall instead of his feet. Good thing he could hold his weight with his hands for this was what he did more often than proper rappelling. Cursing but holding on with a death grip, he could spot the ground about twenty feet under him. Eleanor had done something to the prototype. He could see black lines crisscrossed over its silvery surface. Such an ingenious little spy she was.
Mechanical Rose Page 11
