Table of Contents
Excerpt
Praise for Barbara Burke
The Key to His Heart
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
His cowl was thrown back over his shoulders, his face bare in the chill night air.
Arabella didn’t hesitate. She was across the deck in no time, and before he could stop her, she had her hands up on either side of his face, forcing his head down to look at her and allow her to look at him for the very first time.
By the light of the docking lamps around them, reflected in the snow that had begun to fall, she stared into his eyes.
“They are golden,” she said in wonder. “Just as people said.”
He stared back, unblinking. He hadn’t blinked in twenty years.
“My parts are made of reinforced gold so they don’t rust,” he explained, his voice weary and resigned, as if waiting for her inevitable revulsion to manifest.
Instead she stood closer still. Her raised hands cupped his cheeks, which were cold in the winter darkness. She could feel the edge of a scar under her fingers. It ran from his hairline down to his brow and across his face to disappear beneath sharp cheekbones into the shadows of her hand. It must once have been horrific. Now it was thin and slightly puckered. His mouth was flawless.
“You fraud,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with your face. You have the eyes of a tiger and a scar. Nothing more.”
Praise for Barbara Burke
“Barbara Burke builds a world and weaves a tale that captivates from the very beginning. Would love to read more of this world!”
~USA Today best selling author Victoria Barbour
~*~
“Titillating! Sophisticated! Will rock readers with a stunning new world! Thank you Barbara Burke for introducing me to the world of steampunk!”
~Katherine King, author of Captivated: Stile Series
~*~
Also by Barbara Burke
and available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
RECOMPROMISING AMANDA
NOT2NITE
The Key
to His Heart
by
Barbara Burke
A Steampunk Christmas Fairy Tale
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Key to His Heart
COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Barbara Burke
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2017
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1786-1
A Steampunk Christmas Fairy Tale
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Rowena, my own Beauty,
And to Ross, of course
Andre Barbot, sitting behind the broad mahogany desk that had once belonged to his father, was hard to distinguish in the low light shed by the gas lamp on the corner of the table. He seemed to loom threateningly, larger and more menacing in the cloak that draped his shoulders and the broad hat pulled low over his face.
“Are you suggesting that I should ignore the fact that you not only stole my airship but were foolish enough to do so in such wind and weather that you wrecked it on the rocks?” he asked, trying to keep his temper in check. Josiah Pike, the man quailing in front of the massive desk, was too old to have been one of Barbot’s childhood tormenters—one of the seemingly endless gang of ruffians and wharf rats who took such pleasure in making his life miserable every time he stepped from the door of the fancy house at the top of the hill in Hope Harbour so many years ago. He shouldn’t take it out on the older man. But having to return to Hope Harbour in pursuit of Pike had set the blood beating unpleasantly in his ears. It was not a place he cared to think about. He’d done his best to deny its very existence since he’d left so many years ago. Now he was back and not enjoying the experience.
“Not wrecked, Mr. Barbot,” Pike replied in a quivering voice. “Just a small engine malfunction. My mechanic can get it fixed good as new. Better.”
“Your mechanic?” Barbot roared. “The Rose is the fastest, most streamline and most expensive ship plying the Atlantic airstreams. She’s the envy of every captain and merchant who lays eyes on her. I spent one fortune to purchase her and another to bring her up to my requirements. And now you tell me some outport wonder cannot only be trusted to repair her but actually make her better? Who is this protégé?”
“My…my daughter.”
“Your daughter?” Barbot’s voice was quieter, almost a whisper, yet the menace it held seemed to have increased threefold. His eyes glittered with a strange golden glow from beneath the broad brim of the oversized hat that cast a dark shadow across the planes of his face.
“Yes, sir,” Pike carried bravely on. “She’s working on it now.”
“And who is your daughter that she should have the temerity to touch my property? Wait, of course. Your daughter. Little reason to suppose she would have learned any respect for another’s possessions.”
The little man drew himself up. “Sir, my daughter is only trying to help. She knew it was wrong of me to borrow The Rose without permission and under normal circumstances she never would have touched it. We were hoping to get it repaired before, that is to say, we wanted to—”
“Slip it back before I knew it was gone is what I suppose you’re trying to say.”
The man hung his head. “I had a very good reason for taking it,” he said in a small voice.
“Yes, I suppose most criminals feel justified in their actions. That does not make them right. The question is, what do I do with you, and with your prodigy of a daughter, until the constabulary arrive?”
The man’s head shot up. “Sir,” he cried. “She did nothing wrong! You cannot punish her. She is only home for a short while. She has just been given—has just earned—a position at the International Aeronauts’ Research Facility in New York. Poor Arabella. This would ruin her.”
“Did you say Arabella?”
“Yes, my daughter.”
It was an unusual name. There couldn’t be more than one of them in the small village.
“Your daughter is called Arabella?”
“Yes.”
Barbot thought back to one of the last times he had ventured into the environs of the small huddle of shops that marked Hope Harbour’s downtown. He’d been a teenager and lonely, craving the companionship of someone, anyone, other than his tutor or the vigilant servants who tried so hard to pretend they were his friends, that they interacted with him willingly, that there was something about him that was not hideous.
It had been a mistake. The whispers had started almost immediately. The adults dared not say anything to his face. He was the merchant’s son, after all, and his father held what amounted to the power of life and death over the struggling fishermen who toiled endlessly to strike a balance between their large families and small incomes. Their children were bolder. The young ones hadn’t
hesitated to stare and back away, some wide-eyed, some giggling uneasily as they tumbled in rambunctious groups and gangs out of the schoolhouse. But the older ones were the worst. Braver than their younger siblings and impatient with the caution of their elders, they did nothing to try to conceal the disgust that swept over them at the sight of him.
“What do you want?” one of the leaders had asked. “You don’t belong here. Go back up to your big house and leave us in peace.”
“Yeah,” someone called from the back. “Piss off, you freak!”
He could still hear the shouts. “Freak.” “Monster.” “Mutant.”
And then a girl’s voice had called out. “Stop it! Leave him alone! You’re nothing but a bunch of bullies!”
A young girl, no more that twelve, had appeared between him and the group of teenagers, quivering with righteousness and indignation, her back to him as, head high, she confronted the older children.
“Stay out of it, Arabella,” one of them warned. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know there’s a bunch of you and only one of him and I know who started it,” she shot back.
There was something in the way she stood there so defiantly, so sure, she was right that turned the tide. One boy who had picked up a rock dropped it as though he had no idea how it had appeared in his hand. Another shrugged and nonchalantly distanced himself from the group.
“Let’s get out of here,” someone muttered, and they wandered off as if nothing had happened. Before she could turn to face him, before he could see the look of revulsion form on her face, the teenaged Barbot had also left. He departed for St. John’s a few months later, vowing never to return. But he had never forgotten the girl named Arabella. The girl who had defended him.
The man was watching him, a puzzled and leery expression on his face. Barbot stared back, his gold eyes, as always, expressionless.
“You are fortunate,” Barbot said. “I owe Arabella Pike a debt. If she is able to repair The Rose, I will not press charges.”
“Th-thank you,” the man stuttered.
Barbot held up a gloved hand before he could continue. “However, she must stay with me while she works on the airship and accompany me on the first flight afterward to ensure everything is in working order. I leave for Montreal in three days. I expect my ship and your daughter to be ready.”
“But how will she get back?”
“I will be returning to St. John’s in the new year. She can get transport to Hope Harbour, if that is what she wishes, from there.”
“But she’ll miss Christmas,” the man protested, half to himself.
“You’ll both miss Christmas if you’re in jail! Try my patience no further.”
The man seemed to come to himself with a start. “No, no, indeed. You are most kind. I will tell her as soon as I get home. She’ll be happy to accompany you. Yes. Happy to.”
****
“Oh, you are a lovely girl, aren’t you?” Arabella cooed, rubbing one hand along the burnished copper of the massive boiler as she pulled her goggles up onto the top of her head with the other. “We’ll have you back up in the clouds where you belong in no time at all, you beauty.”
“Arabella, are you talking to that airship?” an exasperated voice asked from behind her.
“Don’t you mean ‘are you talking to that airship again’?” Arabella turned with a grin on her face, her green eyes glinting with mischief. “Mechanical things need love too, you know Louisa.”
Her younger sister sniffed disdainfully, ignoring the engine while running her gaze over the grease stained trousers, ragged vest, and man’s shirt Arabella chose to wear when working.
“You’ve got some sort of…lubricant in your hair,” she said, reaching out and picking daintily with her handkerchief at a long loose copper strand. “I wish you’d pin it up and cover it while you’re working.”
“I did,” Arabella replied, looking around abstractly. “My cap must have fallen off somewhere.”
“Well never mind that now. Father’s home, and he sent me to fetch you.”
“I hope everything’s all right,” Arabella said as she gave the boiler a final absent-minded pat and wiped her hands on the seat of her trousers.
“I’m sure he was able to make that beast see sense,” Louisa assured her.
“He’s not a beast,” Arabella chastised as the headed back to the house.
“He’s worse than a beast. He’s a monster, hardly human at all.” Louisa sniffed. “I’ve heard his eyes glow red and whir when he gets angry, and you can hear the tick-tocking of his heart as he paces on dark nights while normal folk are sleeping.”
“Well at least he has a heart, which it doesn’t sound like you do.”
“It’s not real, though. He’s an abomination.”
Arabella stopped abruptly and glared at her sister. “His heart is as real as yours, even if it’s made of metal. He can’t help what he is. Show a little compassion.”
“What compassion has he ever shown us? He should have stayed in St. John’s instead of chasing Father as if he were a common criminal.”
“Let’s see what Father has to say before we pass judgement,” Arabella suggested, taking her sister’s arm companionably and making her way toward the higgledy piggledy collection of houses that constituted Hope Harbour.
They found Pike pacing in the large front room, his expression worried.
“Father.” Arabella placed a hand on his arm to stop the restless movement. “What did Mr. Barbot say? Did you explain? Will he press charges?”
“No, he was angry at first, very angry. I felt sure…anyway, he has agreed to consider the matter closed.” He held up his hand to halt his younger daughter’s exclamations of relief. “There are conditions.”
****
The next day Arabella stood in front of the large gray house, studying its blank windows and their unforgiving planes of glass, figuratively girding her loins for the coming meeting. Telling herself that she was not afraid. Certainly not. There wasn’t any reason to be afraid. Marching to the door, she raised her hand to knock just as it swung open of its own accord. She stepped into the broad entranceway, a staircase in front of her and closed doors to either side. She was completely alone.
“Hello?” she called, her voice unnaturally high.
There was no response.
Approaching the door on her left. she turned the knob slowly and pushed gently against the smooth wooden panel. Inside the room a table had been laid with an assortment of foods the likes of which had never been seen in Hope Harbour, especially in December. Instead of the stewed beef and root vegetables that was a daily staple for those lucky enough to put food on the table, there was a wealth of exotic fruits, vegetables, and meats, glistening colorfully and smelling of a world far away from her small outport. The table was set for one, but there was no one there. She knew the house was usually uninhabited when its master was away, and she had no idea what Mr. Barbot’s dietary requirements were or if he had brought anyone with him. She was about to back out of the room when she noticed a scrap of paper on the table.
Please eat, it read. I will meet you on board The Rose after lunch.
She sat down at the table on the very edge of her seat, uncomfortably aware of her grease-stained trousers and ragged cuffs. She had scoffed at Louisa’s suggestion she dress in ‘something decent’, insisting she was there to fix an airship, not go to a ball. But now she felt like a grubby child—an unsophisticated grubby child well aware it was out of its depth.
There was only one thing to do. She filled her plate with as much of the exotic fare as she could manage and started to eat.
****
Arabella paused at the gangway of The Rose. It already felt different from the ship she’d worked on over the last couple of days. She no longer had it to herself. She was about to meet her…her what? She wasn’t sure. Not employer—he wasn’t paying her. Not quite jailer. Definitely not master. Commander? He had certainly
commanded her attendance.
And he was on board. The ship’s prow, jutting forward past the bowels where the steam engine whistled and clanged and forward of the massive side sails that gave the appearance of wings, offered a panoramic view of the surrounding land and seascape. Standing there, his back to her, was Barbot.
Arabella’s first thought was that he was smaller than she’d expected. She’d been twelve the last time she’d seen him, defiant but afraid. In the intervening years, he’d grown in her imagination. Perhaps it had been the terms used to describe him—monster, unnatural beast—when anyone spoke of him. But now all she saw was a man of average height and build, legs apart for balance, hands in soft black leather clasped behind him, a long cloak rippling in the never stilled wind off the ocean. His head was raised, as if scenting the air, and his hair, long and rippling brown locks intertwining like branches stripped in the winter storms, blew behind him. He stood alone, his stance natural and automatic, as though he were used to solitude; was always somehow apart.
She cleared her throat. “Good afternoon.”
The words had hardly left her lips before the hands shot out from behind his back to lift the great hood which hung down his back over his head. When he turned toward her she could see little beyond its dark shadows.
“Good afternoon, Arabella.” The words were tentative, the voice quiet. On the one hand, it was unexpected. On the other, it was just as she had imagined. It was the difference between the image that had built up over the years in the village and the image she had imagined for herself, remembering the strange boy who seemed so lost in the rough and tumble of outport poverty. “Welcome aboard.”
It was a more gracious reception than she had any right to expect and a feeling of relief washed over her. Perhaps the next couple of weeks wouldn’t be as torturous as her midnight imaginings had led her to fear.
“Thank you,” she said, approaching him with her hand outstretched.
The hood tilted slightly, and she realized he was looking down at her hand, a hand, she suddenly realized, that sported broken and, she had to admit, bitten, fingernails and ingrained grime in the knuckles. She suspected the palm was none too clean, either. Her face flamed, and she made to pull it back. Before she could do so, Bardot lifted one gloved hand and slowly brought it forward. It was all the encouragement she needed as she clasped it firmly.
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