by Anne Renwick
“Good morning,” a voice greeted them in perfect, unaccented English. From a narrow doorway on the other side of the circular room, a Chinese man stepped forward. His dark hair was pulled into a severe topknot. He wore a high-collared tunic cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt over dark trousers. Below his knees, tightly fitted boots gripped his legs. An embroidered overcloak with full sleeves hung from his shoulders. A curved sword strapped to his side was the only visible weapon, but Ian knew instinctively that more blades would be hidden in various locations about his person.
Likewise, the German guardsmen at the man’s side also had various sheathed blades strapped to their sides. But no pistols.
Curious.
Lady Olivia slid from his back and moved to stand beside him. She glanced from the man to the guardsmen, and he noted the moment she observed the misshapen lumps upon their jaws. Her eyes widened as one of the guardsmen unconsciously rubbed a swelling tumor that had overtaken a finger joint on his right hand. Soon it would not bend.
Had he mentioned the tumors to her? No. She’d collapsed before he’d had the chance. Her gaze caught his, and ever so slightly, he nodded. She swallowed hard, absorbing the seriousness of the medical disaster. Two guardsmen at this point, but there would be many, many more.
With unsteady hands, she unbuckled her harness and let it fall to the ground. He followed suit.
“I am Zheng,” the Chinaman said with a slight bow. “The count’s huntsman.”
Given the man presented no visible evidence of bone tumors, Ian surmised the man held a position of honor, one that lifted him above submitting to a mad scientist’s experimentations. Ian bowed and stepped forward, but one of the two German guardsmen grasped his shoulder. “Nein.”
The other pulled Lady Olivia from his side. She cried out in protest.
“Apologies, but it is necessary,” Zheng said. “If you will spread your arms and legs, Lord Rathsburn, I’m afraid we must relieve you of your weapons.”
With a show of reluctance, he did as requested. He’d expected this, but had hoped a blade or two might slip their notice.
They took his sword from him first. Then the German guardsmen extracted a knife from each of his boots, then yanked up the leg of his trousers to find the one strapped to his left thigh. Lady Olivia’s stunned gaze raked over him, but the guardsmen had just begun. They found the one fastened at his ribs. The one tucked beneath his waistband at the small of his back. They even found the small knife built into the lapel of his waistcoat.
Satisfied, the German nodded and waved both him and Olivia forward as he lifted Ian’s luggage.
“If you’ll follow me,” Zheng said. “The count awaits you in the great hall.”
Ian held out his hand, motioning toward his case.
“Nein,” the guardsman said, narrowing his eyes and gripping the luggage more tightly. The other jerked his head in the direction of the door. It seemed they were to have a rear guard.
Like the gentleman he sometimes was, Ian held out his arm. Lady Olivia accepted, wrapping her arm about his and tipping her head up to search his face. Who are you? her wide eyes asked. He wished he knew the answer.
“Later,” he whispered as they reached a narrow doorway.
Manners warred with instinct. Reluctantly, Ian motioned for Lady Olivia to precede him. The spiral staircase beyond the door would only accommodate one at a time. Silently, they followed Zheng down many stairs and through a tangle of disjointed, interconnecting hallways.
Finally, Zheng stopped before an enormous, carved wooden door. Its hinges objected with an ominous screech as he pulled upon an iron ring.
Together, he and Lady Olivia stepped back in time, into an ancient medieval hall with an enormous, unlit fireplace. Dark beams coated with soot supported a ceiling that appeared to have once been richly decorated, but the pattern of intertwining vines and flowers painted onto the plaster was now largely lost to time and disrepair. Despite the snow storm, three tall, mullioned windows leaked a modicum of gray daylight into the room. Two brass chandeliers hung from a central beam. Though each fixture could have held twenty-four candles, only six burned. A single piece of furniture—an ornately carved chair—occupied the space.
A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick, yet well-groomed beard rose from the throne and strode across the room, a fur-trimmed cape swirling about his legs. Ian guessed the man to be in his fourth decade. The count wore a close-fitted military coat of scarlet, his chest crossed with a dark blue sash. Everything else was decorated with gold. Golden epaulets, golden buttons, a golden belt and gold-edged collar and cuffs. Even the multitude of metals pinned to his chest—suspended by multicolored ribbons—were golden.
Pretentions to royalty.
Hopes of negotiating his sister’s release faded in the face of such an autocratic and ostentatious display, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat.
Heels clicked as Zheng and the guardsmen snapped to attention. “Graf Otto von und zu Eberwin-Katzeneinbogen,” Zheng announced. “You may address him as Count Eberwin.”
Ian doubted he’d ever manage to address the count by his full title. After the slightest of hesitations, he forced himself to bow to the man who held his sister hostage. No need for open hostility; if the count equally despised Warrick, an alliance might be forged.
Olivia performed a deep and courtly curtsey, one worthy of Queen Victoria herself.
The count’s gaze swept over her, taking in her bedraggled state with no more than a quirk of his eyebrows. “Herr Rathsburn,” he growled, fixing Ian with a glare. “Already, we have problems. Although lovely beneath her rags, you bring an uninvited guest into my home.”
With dread knotting his stomach, Ian performed an introduction. “To meet your demands, I require the help of my assistant—”
“Lady Olivia.” She took a step forward before Ian could stop her. She curtsied once more. “Creator and programmer of the osforare apparatus, a device necessary to assess the malfunctioning cells of your men.”
His shoulders relaxed. Not quite correct, but close enough. He’d been certain not a word of his discourse had lodged in her brain. He nodded agreement, grateful she had accepted the need for his protection. “A critical component of implementing a cure,” he said, pausing for effect. “That is, if one can be developed.”
Count Eberwin paced back and forth before her, drawing his thumb and forefinger over the length of his beard as he frowned. “I see. Lady Olivia.” He stopped directly in front of her. “Is that not the form of address the English use for an unmarried gentlewoman?”
“It is,” she answered.
Ian detected the slightest tremor in her voice, and guilt elbowed him in the stomach for putting her in this position.
“Fräulein Olivia…?”
“Stonewythe, Olivia Stonewythe,” she said, supplying a family name that would do nothing but chase its tail should the count choose to make inquiries.
Ian’s opinion of her rose another notch. She knew labeling herself a Ravensdale would invariably connect her to the Duke of Avesbury, a man who antagonized the German Emperor Wilhelm the First at every opportunity.
But the moment Count Eberwin scooped up Lady Olivia’s hand, pressing it between his palms, a new concern reared its ugly head. Ian did not care for the possessive light that blazed in the count’s eyes as his gaze raked over her form, taking advantage of her ruined and gaping bodice to ogle her bosom.
He’d been wrong. She might not become a hostage, but Olivia’s status as his assistant would not keep her safe from unwanted male attention. Ian’s teeth began to grind. How far would the count press his advantage?
As far as was within his power. Any man who would subject his guards to experimental bone treatments and kidnap a helpless, sick woman in order to force a man to his will was unlikely to consider anyone’s wishes but his own.
Ian stepped forward and wrapped his arm about Lady Olivia’s waist, drawing her to his side. He’d not see he
r molested. “My lady forgets herself,” he said. “Pardon her inaccuracy, we’ve only just married. She is now properly addressed as Lady Rathsburn. Your… invitation necessitated that we advance the date of our wedding so as to eliminate the requirement of a chaperone.”
Annoyance twisted the count’s lips. “I see. Frau Rathsburn.” He dropped Olivia’s hand. “A pity.” He turned to a nearby guardsman and barked, “See my wife is informed that guests have arrived.”
Chapter Eleven
THE COUNT IS MARRIED?
Yes. And looking for a mistress. Olivia suppressed a shudder.
The moment Count Eberwin had turned his considering gaze upon her, fear and revulsion had slithered in, curling together in her stomach. Though she hated to admit it, Lord Rathsburn’s assessment of the situation had the accuracy of a kraken sharpshooter standing on the gilded bow of the Queen’s Royal Barge.
Shoving the visual memory of Lord Rathsburn’s horrid medical contraption deep into the dark recesses of her skull, she’d claimed ownership well-knowing that professing to be a research assistant was something she’d pay dearly for when forced to confront the details of the device’s mechanisms. What she hadn’t expected was to draw the count’s fierce attention.
He cut a handsome figure, Count Eberwin. Tall, dark and fit. But the imperious man had a gnarled and malevolent mind. The bite of his gaze alone, promising midnight visits to her chamber, had shaken her. The manners he displayed were nothing but a thin veneer. Here, deep in the thick woods of Germany, the count might discard propriety at any moment without repercussions. Without a husband to claim her, no objections would be heeded if he chose to take her without consent.
Her heart had pounded against her chest. What nightmare had she jumped into by reinterpreting her orders, by placing herself in the field? She knew female field agents often took a man to their beds, exchanging pleasure for information. If the count found her physical charms appealing, she should view it as an opportunity to serve her country, but the thought of doing so with this particular man made her throat close in fear.
Until Lord Rathsburn’s arm had wrapped about her waist, until he’d claimed her as his own, Olivia had forgotten to breathe.
With the bone-deep honor of a gentleman, Lord Rathsburn had set aside his own concerns, doing the very thing he’d most wished to avoid, and rescued the woman who had forced herself into his company.
She owed him, and would do her best to repay the favor by swallowing her fears and programming his contraption.
With a hard smile, the count turned away. “Zheng, if you will present Herr Rathsburn’s luggage, we may begin.”
Zheng stepped forward and set Lord Rathsburn’s luggage upon the floor. He flicked open the valise, dumping clothes at his feet.
A muscle jumped in Lord Rathsburn’s jaw and his fingers tightened at her waist, but he stayed silent.
Zheng roughly tipped the case that held both the chemicals and the osforare apparatus onto its side, and Olivia flinched at the brutal disregard for her earlier words explaining the importance of the device they transported. He slid a dagger from his hip and pointed the tip at the firkin cincture bolt. Attempting to pry such a bolt with a knife would trigger a chemical fusion reaction, damaging the contents.
“Don’t!” she yelled at the same time Lord Rathsburn called out, “Stop! The combination is four, seven, two, eight.”
As Zheng opened the case holding both reagents and the osforare apparatus, he met her gaze with a blank stare over the cold fog that emerged. His move had been deliberate, a test to elicit information. How much had she given away?
“I hear we have guests, Otto.” A woman swept into the room from a far entrance to lay her hand on the count’s arm. “Are these the newlyweds?”
Guardsmen snapped to attention. Zheng slowly rose from his crouch.
The count grunted. “So they claim.” He raised his voice. “My wife, Gräfin Katherine von und zu Eberwin-Katzeneinbogen.”
Olivia resisted the impulse to squint. This woman—the countess—looked disturbingly familiar.
“Ian? Is that you?” The countess pressed a hand to her chest as she stepped forward into a beam of dusty light, and Olivia’s heart stuttered.
Beside her, Lord Rathsburn tensed. It seemed he also knew this woman. Given that he made no move to greet her, Olivia concluded not all was sunshine and roses between them. His face an unreadable mask, Lord Rathsburn bowed. “May I present my wife, Lady Olivia Rathsburn.”
The countess turned her attention toward Olivia, yet no flicker of recognition crossed her face. Thank goodness. She did, however, lift her chin ever so slightly that she might emphasize her superiority by looking down her nose upon this inconvenient wife.
Olivia curtsied. “Countess.”
The countess swept up her hands with her own. “How wonderful to have another English lady present in our castle. You must call me Katherine, and I shall call you Olivia.” She winked at Lord Rathsburn. “Your husband and I once shared a most memorable experience.”
A wink? Really? In front of the bride? That spoke volumes. The feverish burn of jealousy and dislike crept across her skin. She ought to be disappointed with herself. Such uncontrolled and inappropriate upwellings of emotion might be convincing, but they were not promising for a career in the field. Katherine was tall, elegant and well-dressed. Everything she was not. Her only claim to status involved invoking her father’s name, and that she could not do. Not here.
“Did you?” Olivia straightened her spine—it would not do to let any weakness show—and returned the woman’s false smile. She pulled her hands free and wrapped them about Lord Rathsburn’s arm with a tight grip, staking her claim. At least those ingrained aspects of her training held true. She had spent numerous years learning to feign love and loyalty. Protecting her target was merely professional instinct. Lord Rathsburn was her husband now—if only her pretend husband—and a bride would not tolerate another woman attempting to steal away her groom’s attentions.
She glanced at him and noted a dark stain high upon his cheeks. At least her husband did not recall this past event with fondness. My husband. Ian. She needed to remember to call him that. Even in her mind, if they were to maintain this charade. She prayed his history with the countess wasn’t recent. The count didn’t seem the forgiving type.
“You forget yourself, Katherine,” the count boomed. “They have arrived at my behest to solve the problems of the silver skeletons.”
“Did The Doktor not puzzle out the problem while I was away?” Katherine pouted, but she retreated meekly to her husband’s side. “I miss Berlin, and I miss Augusta. You know Wilhelm won’t allow us to visit again until this matter is resolved.”
Olivia’s chest tightened in dismay. Did Katherine refer with ostentatious familiarity to the wife of the German Emperor, Wilhelm the First? If so, this situation she’d inserted herself into was no trifling matter. Whatever Ian had discovered, created… if the emperor was the driving force behind this failing project, they were in trouble. As in likely-to-end-their-days-in-whatever-passed-for-a-dungeon-in-this-castle trouble.
“Did your recent visit not console you?” The count patted her hand absently. “Soon, liebling. Herr Rathsburn and his wife will fix this small inconvenience, and I will see you and your many pretty dresses returned to Berlin.”
“Small?” Ian unleashed his tongue at last. “How long do your guardsmen survive once bone replacement is complete? Years of military exercises and training so that your guardsmen may gain what? A few months of unbreakable bone?”
“Enough!” the count barked. “Your complaints are irrelevant. You will fix it.” He snapped his fingers. “Zheng, search for hidden tracers.”
Zheng nodded and crouched once again before Ian’s luggage. From one of the many loops on his wide leather belt, he pulled a silver-capped glass tube. Shards of various opaque crystalline material filled the cylinder.
Nuts and rivets. Where had he managed to secure an e
fflux detector?
Fear pricked at her spine. Was the crystal decay signal strong enough to detect if the acousticotransmitter had not been activated? Ian glanced down at her with a furrowed brow, and she realized she’d forgotten to breathe. Olivia forced her lungs to take careful, shallow breaths.
Zheng waved the glass cylinder over Ian’s valise, then over his silver case. Both times, the crystals emitted a weak, pulsing yellow light. “Evidence of bioluminescent decay. A weak yet nearly undetectable source of power.” He turned toward the count. “It is as you surmised. Not only do the Queen’s agents suspect Herr Rathsburn’s defection, they have taken steps to tag him, no doubt in hopes of locating his ultimate destination.”
Ian frowned.
“Find them,” the count ordered.
This time, Zheng moved the crystal-filled tube slowly over the scattered contents of Ian’s valise. When the crystals began to glow a deep gold, he paused to push his fingers against the lining and—with the quick slash of his knife—drew forth a small, metallic device to hold it in the air. Its tiny light pulsed a faint green.
There was a hiss of indrawn breath from the count.
Olivia did her best to blink in surprise. The device, designed by her brother-in-law, was brilliant. A mechanical refinement of the middle and the inner ear, it was originally implanted directly into the skulls of the Queen’s agents. This particular version was modified for extracranial use. An extremely useful tool. Until, of course, it was found.
“A transmitter of sorts,” Zheng announced.
He pulled a screwdriver from his belt and pried away the copper housing to reveal fine wires, three strange, misshapen lumps and a tiny, golden, coiled tube. What he couldn’t see, what was visible only beneath a specialized aetheric microscope, were thousands of gold microfilaments spiraling inside that tube.
She held her breath. If German engineers were provided the chance to analyze the acousticotransmitter, to reverse engineer it…
