by Anne Renwick
Cursing, he went to investigate.
Ian pulled open the door and glared at the engine, rather hoping he was wrong. But pistons churned, the drive wheel turned, and the axel to the propeller spun. The engine ran like… well, a well-oiled machine.
Another bang sounded beside him. “Help! Please help!” a voice cried from the storage compartment.
Bouillabaisse. A hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Ian swore again. That was the odd scent he’d detected in his bedchamber. All this time he’d been concerned about the mother, when he should have worried about the daughter.
Bang, bang. “Let me out!”
Unthinkable to leave the duke’s daughter locked inside a storage compartment. What the hell was she doing in there? His hand hovered over the handle. Was it possible she worked for her father? Could she be an agent?
His mind rebelled at the thought. Surely the duke would never allow it. Nevertheless, he would tread carefully. For many reasons.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Grumbling a few more choice curses under his breath, Ian yanked open the storage hatch door. A tangled mass of torn, damp silk and warm, soft woman tumbled out. He caught Lady Olivia—mostly—as she collapsed bonelessly to the ground. Lowering her the rest of the way, he crouched beside her.
She wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her face to his chest, weeping. He patted her back. Then stopped. For the love of steam, who consoled a stowaway? He twisted his lips. Someone who stole dirigibles and flew them across enemy lines, apparently.
“Thank goodness you found me. I’ve been locked in there for hours,” she sobbed into his neck, hauling in great gulps of air.
And whose fault is that? With great care, Ian grasped her shoulders and pushed her away. No more coddling the woman who was now his Great Huge Enormous Problem.
Lady Olivia wore the same low-cut gown he remembered from the banquet. Stained, tattered and torn, only a rag picker would find value in its remains. Her hair was now best described as a tangled rat’s nest. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose was swollen and her full lips quivered.
An excellent actress. Any other man would have fallen for it, and even knowing her presence was no accident, he still felt an impulse to still that trembling with the press of his own lips. Did that make him a fool?
“Explain,” he ordered, hardening his voice. Their eyes met and a faint blush rose to her cheekbones. Embarrassment? Or did she too fight a flare of attraction? He had to set aside this raw need that twisted inside of him. Logic needed to prevail.
She lifted a shaking hand to the side of her head. “When the dirigible launched, my head… it knocked against the wall, and everything,” her breath shuddered, “everything went black. When I woke up…” She flinched. “There’s no handle inside that compartment. I couldn’t get out.”
Ian tugged her hand away, gently pushed aside a few golden tangles and found a trace of blood from a small cut and a rather significant lump. Was it possible she told the truth? Did it matter? Truth or lie, her presence compromised his mission. “There’s a medical kit in the front.” He stood, dragging her to her feet and waving her through the engine room door into the cabin. He couldn’t wait to hear her story. Truth or fiction, it would be telling.
On stockinged feet and wobbly legs, Lady Olivia stumbled forward. Her bodice gaped. Her stained and wrinkled skirts dragged at an odd angle, and her hair tumbled, one knotted curl at a time, over a very attractive bare neck.
Ian closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. What the hell was he going to do with her? “Sit,” he commanded, injecting a bit of ire into his voice. “Why are you on my dirigible?”
She sat. “I’m so sorry,” she sniffled. “So very sorry. It was wrong of me to enter your rooms. I just…” Tears ran down her cheeks once more.
He ignored them, turning to yank the medical kit from the wall. He poured a good amount of isopropyl alcohol onto a gauze pad, pressed it against her head, and took a certain amount of satisfaction at the hiss of her indrawn breath as he wiped away a crust of dried blood.
She tipped her face upward to meet his gaze with wide and innocent blue eyes beneath damp lashes, but something about the set of her jaw—or was it the angle of her chin—gave her away.
It was clear that Lady Olivia expected him to play the gentleman, to excuse her bad behavior without comment, without reprimand. No doubt she counted upon it. Disappointment would be hers.
“I’ve no time for games, Lady Olivia.” He scowled at her, narrowing his eyes. “No interest in crocodile tears and protestations. You have clearly targeted me.” He watched closely as he posed his question. “Did the duke send you?”
“What?” She drew back, pressing a hand to her chest, blinking a touch too quickly. “No. He… My father—and mother—wish me to marry an Italian baron. Who is three times my age.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t. I simply can’t force myself to comply.”
Ian crossed his arms and waited as she wiped away a few lingering tears.
“It was wrong of me. I apologize.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked away. “I simply hoped to escape. I thought—I hoped—you might take me with you. You are looking for a wife?”
A parson’s mousetrap? So it seemed. Undesirable in the eyes of London society, she was being hauled away to marry in foreign lands. He bit back the harsh words he’d been about to utter. It was entirely possible she told the truth.
In which case Lady Olivia had made a drastic mistake and chosen the most unsuitable man possible to target.
He frowned as he took a long and hard look. She was not at her best, that was true. But she was beautiful. Blonde curls and blue eyes. A pert nose and pink cheeks. And his mind kept circling back to those tantalizing lips. Did they taste as sweet as they looked?
Though when standing she barely reached his chin, her curves were generous. The corset she wore struggled mightily to contain her breasts. His hands itched to curve beneath them and relieve the corset of its duty. His gaze moved lower. Or grip those wide hips and pull her tight against him.
Before the physical evidence of his interest became painfully clear, Ian turned away. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Months? Too long, if he was considering such possibilities. “I am not in the position to offer for your hand, nor will I be forced to the altar,” he said.
“But, everyone will know…”
She trailed off as he moved to stand before the console and waved a hand toward the forward window. The first pink glimmers of dawn illuminated the deep, dark forest that stretched out below them. To his relief, he saw no evidence of patrols.
“We’re about to cross the German border,” he said.
“What!” She wobbled to her feet and moved to stand beside him. “Germany! Why?” Her shock sounded genuine.
“Were you hoping for some quaint French village on the Côte d’Azur with a willing and ready priest?”
Her lips pressed together.
He stabbed his fingers into his hair. Time ran short. “No more games, Lady Olivia.”
“Yes. The French have far better fashion sense.”
His answering laugh was tinged with the absurd. Stuck in the German countryside with the daughter of the Duke of Avesbury. Either she had the worst instincts imaginable when choosing potential husbands, or she’d been sent to watch him. He was, as yet, unable to determine which. Unknown dangers lay ahead or he might have looked forward to teasing forth the truth.
Either way, he couldn’t let her go. Without proper papers, she would not be able to legally return across the border. Invoking her father’s name would do more harm than good; a particularly astute and enterprising border guard with political interests might recognize the duke’s name. Lady Olivia Ravensdale would make a valuable prisoner.
And, of course, she knew where Ian was. Something as innocent as a telegram would reveal his whereabouts to her father, and the Queen would be informed. Nefarious activities would be presumed, cutting off all hope tha
t he could quietly return home. He rubbed the back of his stiff neck. With two women now to protect instead of merely one, this voyage had grown infinitely more complex. Misgivings slithered down his spine.
“We haven’t crossed the border yet,” she said. “Take me back to the Oglethorpe.” Her hands slid along the silk of her skirts, as if she might erase the many wrinkles. “I’ll slip back into my room. We’ll never speak of this again.”
“I’m afraid we’ve traveled too far,” he answered. Bad choices came with unpleasant consequences. Hers could well be deadly. “There’s not enough fuel.” Or time. “You’ll have to come with me.”
Chapter Nine
“YOU WANT ME TO pretend to be what?” Olivia asked. Her slack jaw was no act. Lord Rathsburn had peeled off every last pretense of social veneer and tossed it to the wind. Though she should have guessed he would propose such an action from his earlier declaration at the banquet table. “I can’t be your research assistant. I know nothing of biology.”
Scientists. They were all mad. That much she knew. Still, she’d followed him, and therefore it fell upon her to bring him around to her point of view.
“I find it hard to believe that the sister of Lady Thornton can make such claims.” Doubt laced his voice.
“My sister built some kind of clockwork spider contraption.” She wiggled her fingers. Under no circumstances would she admit to playing any role—however small it had been—in the neurachnid’s success. “It spins new nerves. That is the entirety of my medical knowledge.”
Lord Rathsburn frowned. “Then I hope you’re a quick study. We have about ninety minutes before we land.” He reached inside his coat and, from a pocket, tugged forth a small notepad—its pages curled and worn—and the stub of a pencil. “I can teach you the basics, write down a few key phrases.” He began to scratch away. “As to the rest, simply nod and agree with whatever I say.”
Nodding and agreeing. Parroting and regurgitating. The very behaviors Lord Carlton Snyder had most admired in his future bride. She excelled at such performances. Except no one had ever asked her to play a role requiring her to project scientific intelligence. A confident medical research assistant? No. Not possible. Not if it required she interact with that vicious device. There was certain to be blood involved.
The parson’s mousetrap, though tried and true, was also a bit stale and overused. Despite the unsettling feeling that it was only a matter of time before he would see through her carefully constructed façade, such a role was also her best chance of success. She pressed a hand to her throat. What other fiction had she to fall back upon?
He paused for a moment, tapping the pencil against his lips in thought as he stared at his scribbles. A wave of golden brown hair tumbled free across his furrowed brow, and she longed to reach out and brush it back into place.
Heat crept across her face. Not once in all the long months that she’d been Carlton’s fiancée had she ever wished to touch him. Carlton had been a threat to national security, a snake in the grass to be monitored. A task. Her task. But as much as she wished to serve her country, marriage to such a man… well, it had been a relief when Emily’s scandalous behavior became public knowledge.
“I’d do much better impersonating your wife,” she said, desperate to re-direct Lord Rathsburn. Given how she’d thrown herself at him, the idea should have occurred to him on his own, but the annoying man didn’t even look up from his notebook.
Where had she gone wrong?
He was attracted to her. Of that she was certain. A moment ago, his eyes had taken in her every feature, her every curve, and before he’d turned away, she’d seen desire flare in his eyes.
Yet without so much as a glance her direction, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “I disagree. I was instructed to come alone. I can argue that as my assistant, you are essential. As my wife, you simply become another potential hostage.”
“Another hostage?” Olivia’s eyebrows rose. A new complication. But that was to be expected when one made hasty decisions and assumptions. So Lord Rathsburn did not travel of his own volition. Good. She hated to think the man a willing traitor.
His lips pressed into a thin line. It was clear she was going to have to drag it out of him.
With a resigned sigh, Olivia crossed her arms and dropped all pretext of having cotton wool between her ears. “Fine. Tell me where we’re going and why.”
Lord Rathsburn looked up at her, his eyes narrowed, the air between them charged with unspoken truths. Cogs and pins. He knew. Knew she wasn’t entirely what she pretended to be, for he’d already expected her to know where and why.
How? Where had she gone wrong?
“To a castle in Germany to rescue my sister. They—whomever they are—somehow believe that I can correct a fundamental problem with an experimental cell line merely because they command me to do so. Because my sister Elizabeth is their prisoner, we will not disillusion them. Instead, we will reassure them that such a thing is possible. We will set up a make-shift laboratory and strive to convince them that we are making progress.” He presented his plan as if there was no alternative. “In short, we will lie.”
Olivia was still digesting his words when he ripped off a sheet of paper and handed it to her.
“I promise to explain the situation in greater detail. Soon. But time is short, and you have a great deal to memorize.” He cleared his throat, a sound she recognized as a prelude to a lecture. “We study bone.”
“We?”
“Do try to assume the persona, will you?” He exhaled a heavy sigh. “Recall your sister’s mannerisms and words. Her drive for everything neurological. Adopt those behaviors, but incorporate these terms and phrases.” He tapped pencil on paper. “Can you do that?”
The role of wife would have been preferable, but she had no intention of ending her days in a dungeon. So, until she collected more information and could judge the situation firsthand, she would accept his assessment. She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Standing beside her, he pointed to the first of many diagrams scribbled upon the paper. “Bone is a living tissue composed of both organic and inorganic substances.”
“Organic?” she asked.
“Living,” he answered through gritted teeth.
“Then inorganic is non-living?”
“Correct.” His voice was tight. “There are two cell types you must remember. Osteoblasts and osteoclasts.”
“Cells. The basic building blocks of all life forms.” Yes, it seemed she had absorbed something from her sister’s ramblings after all. “They are the organic part,” she concluded, flashing him a pleased smile, quite proud that she followed.
But Lord Rathsburn’s flat regard offered no praise. “Yes. Together these two cell types maintain bone homeostasis.”
Homeostasis? Olivia frowned, but stayed silent.
“Osteoclasts break down bone tissue. Osteoblasts build it. Provided their activity balances each other—that they maintain homeostasis—the bone remains healthy.”
That wasn’t too hard. One kind built bone, the other destroyed it. “Go on,” she said.
“Now for the inorganic portion.” His finger moved down the page. “The non-living minerals, elements really, are calcium and phosphate. Together they form hydroxyapatite, a calcium phosphate mineral that composes seventy percent of our bone.”
He was beginning to lose her. Thank goodness this was all written down. It was going to take her at least five minutes to force her lips to pronounce the hydroxy word.
And Lord Rathsburn’s finger was only halfway down the first page.
“Calcium phosphate is the predominant form of calcium found in the milk of all bovines.”
“Bovines?”
“Cows.”
“Why not simply say that to begin with?” she asked. Such a mouthful when a three-letter word would suffice.
“Because bovine is a more accurate term.”
“Only if you’re speaking to someone who also speaks
medicalese.”
“Medicalese?” His eyebrows rose.
It was Olivia’s turn to sigh. “Two living cells, one to build, one to break down. Drink milk to maintain your minerals. Close enough?” she asked.
“To start.”
Thus began a long-winded, overly detailed and tedious explanation of the intricacies of bone development and maintenance. In mere minutes, Olivia’s eyes began to cross.
Any chance that she would be able to assemble such unfamiliar vocabulary into anything resembling an intelligible sentence was so remote as to be impossible. She would be caught in the lie and immediately be thrown into whatever prison they were keeping his sister. If she were going to accompany him, it was time to reconsider impersonating his wife regardless of the risk.
Verbal reasoning hadn’t worked, but perhaps she could persuade him by other means.
Slowly, Olivia slid a stockinged foot across the floor until it bumped against his boot, then shifted her weight in his direction. Her skirts swayed, wrapping themselves about his leg. She leaned, and her bare shoulder skimmed the fine wool of his coat.
Oblivious, he kept talking.
Olivia leaned in closer, tilting her face as if to study the papers he held. Instead, she studied him. The faint shadow of a beard darkened his jaw. His lips were so expressive, so earnest and serious in their explanation. She longed to see him relaxed and smiling once again.
She pressed the side of her breast against his elbow. “Mmm,” she murmured.
His breath caught ever so slightly, and she was almost certain he stumbled over a word. Alas, it wasn’t one she could pronounce or define, so she couldn’t be certain.
“Lord Rathsburn,” she said, placing a hand lightly atop his. The fine, crisp hairs dusting the surface of his skin brushed her palm.
His words tripped and staggered to an uncertain halt.
Tipping her face upward, she stared into his bright, blue eyes and asked a question she knew would unbalance him. “I’m sorry, but I’m hopelessly lost. Is bone matrix organic or inorganic?”
He released the notebook pages into her hands and stepped back. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “The osteoblasts lay down the matrix so it is necessarily organic. I believe I mentioned that some ten minutes past.”
