by Anne Renwick
“Yes.” Ian reached out to steady her hand. “I will assist. We will run our first trials without the needles.”
“Trials. The count will pluck some poor soul from the nearby village.” She shook her head. “This is wrong, Ian. We can’t experiment upon a perfectly healthy young man.”
“I do not intend to do so. The fluid I intend to use will contain none of the transformative ingredient. His treatment will be a sham. Painful—there is no way to avoid that—but harmless.” He dropped his hand and stepped away.
“But the count demands evidence. He is bound to discover our duplicity.”
“Early trials often fail.” He had no intention of remaining in Germany any longer than absolutely necessary, but… “If it becomes unavoidable, we do have one willing human volunteer. Me.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you so very confident in your scientific advances?”
“I am.” He didn’t relish the idea of allowing those needles to pierce his skin, but he would not subject anyone but himself to the first real test. “In the meantime, I will try to direct the count’s attention to curing his guardsmen.”
Olivia took a deep breath, then nodded. “It’s a plan. I don’t like it, but at least nobody else is harmed. For now.”
“For now,” he agreed.
She set down her stack of notes. “Before I begin to punch bits from cards, even paper ones, I need to understand how the osforare apparatus bends, how it moves, how it conforms to different parts of the body.”
“Then allow me to provide an anatomy lesson.” He pulled his coat from his shoulders, unfastened his cuff and began to roll up his sleeve. A blush rose to her cheeks—such seductive innocence. He was surprised to hear his next words emerge as a hoarse whisper. “In which the student is invited to touch.”
“Oh?” She stepped closer to brush a fingertip over the surface of his skin. “Just your arm?” she teased, then glanced at him from beneath long lashes. “If I’m to appear competent, I must be far more familiar with male anatomy and expanses of bare flesh. Arms, legs, back, hips.”
Blood rushed away from his brain, finding itself needed elsewhere as his groin tightened and stirred with interest, remembering all too well the enthusiasm she’d poured into their morning charade. They were alone now, unwatched, and he wanted her as much as she seemed to want him.
“If that is what you want.” How far would she take this game? How far would he? Blood pounded in his veins, and the air was thick with hunger. “We should progress with care and intention. With the knowledge that what is done cannot be undone.” He wasn’t certain if he spoke to remind her or himself.
She nodded and tipped her face upward.
He let his gaze fall to her lips, but only for a moment. “We will begin with my arm.” Ian turned back to the osforare apparatus and, lowering himself to a stool, stretched his arm beneath its curved frame. “Let me show you how this works.”
“Tease,” she whispered.
His answering laugh was soft. Ignoring the electricity arcing between them, he demonstrated how the various joints, levers, and screws could be adjusted to conform to any given surface, then held still as she tailored them to fit his forearm.
As she leaned forward ever so slightly to bend the apparatus about his limb, he took in the view presented to him. The bodice she wore was supportive and uplifting. To the point of creating the illusion that her breasts were moments from breaking free. When she shifted, they surged forward. Perhaps it was not an illusion after all. A man could hope.
Resisting the impulse to tug at his suddenly too-tight collar, he concentrated upon bringing his respiratory rate back under control.
An effort that failed the moment she adjusted a screw and whispered, her lips mere inches from his ear, “Like what you see?”
Caught. A gentleman would apologize. But a lady wouldn’t have asked. A corner of his mouth turned up as he tore his eyes away and forced them to look upward. “Guilty as charged.”
She flipped a lever that clamped steel bars about his wrist, then another lever to lock the device about his arm below his elbow. “You are the first man to admit as much aloud. Today is certainly a day for firsts.”
How could such a flirtatious young lady—one who had been engaged!—have no knowledge of her physical attractions? “Whatever did you see in Lord Snyder to recommend him as a husband?” he asked. “He shared no kisses. No compliments. Did his eyes never stray beneath your chin?”
“Never. He was ever the gentleman.” Her hand stilled, and she twisted her lips. “Do you mean to categorize the act of staring at a woman’s chest to be paying her a compliment?”
“No,” he backpedaled, sensing he was in hot water. “Not exactly.”
“I find it curious.” Her voice was light and flirtatious as her fingers deftly worked the leather buckles, yanking the bands tighter than strictly necessary. “Tell me, what, exactly, is going through a man’s mind as you stare?”
Her fingers brushed the surface of his arm, sending bolts of electricity through his body as she adjusted a number of parallel spring tension rods to align several metal bars parallel to his ulna.
He ran his free hand over his eyes. “This conversation surpasses anything remotely appropriate.”
“Our entire situation is inappropriate.” She tightened a series of screws above his radius. His entire arm was now encapsulated in several pounds of metal. “But I wish to know.”
He ought to refuse.
“A scientist at a loss for words?” she mocked. “Can you not manage to verbally convey the attraction of my bosom?” Seemingly unaffected, Olivia lifted a tension gauge and began to take spring pressure readings, carefully recording the numbers into a notebook.
A choked laugh emerged from his throat.
Her hand stilled as her eyes met his. “Come now, what is it about these two mounds of flesh that appeals to you so much?”
Resistance snapped.
“Very well. Step closer.” With his free hand, he caught her hip, urging her closer until she stood between his knees, her chest at eye level. “Men are physical creatures,” he began, wishing he dared pull her closer still to press her against his hard length. “Often words fail us.”
She scoffed. “You love to lecture.”
“That may be. But we are in a laboratory. Perhaps a bit of hands on demonstration? A bit of experimentation?” He looked into her eyes and waited. He would not touch her without permission. “Unless you are adverse.”
“Not at all.”
Thank God.
He ran his hand up the side of her rib cage, stopping as the edge of his thumb brushed against the side of her breast. “A man tends to become non-verbal when confronted by such opportunity.”
“Try.” From the look on her face, retreat would not be permitted.
“What do I think?” His gaze drifted downward. “At first, my attention is caught by tantalizing slopes and peaks, by promises hidden in their curves and shadows. Generally, at this point, I would tear my eyes free and force my mind elsewhere.”
“But?”
“But, upon the rare occasion that I am permitted to look, I begin to think about touching.” He ran his thumb across the silk of her bodice, over the generous swell.
She leaned into his touch.
Encouraged, he continued. “I wonder what their soft weight might feel like in my palms.” He slid his hand to cup her breast, lifting it. “And then I think about doing this.” He stroked his thumb across the silk over her taut nipple.
Her breath caught. A most beautiful, satisfying sound. With blood rushing away from his brain, it was a moment before he could speak again.
“I begin to anticipate further what sounds you might make.” He lifted his hand, drawing the tips of his fingers over the swell of her breast, until they rested lightly at the edge of her bodice. He ran his fingers back and forth over lace ruffles that barely concealed the rosy edge of her areola.
His gaze lifted. Olivia’s eyes were da
rk with desire. The pulse at her throat throbbed. Desire growled, threatening to chase away rationality.
“By the time my mind has drifted this far into a fantasy of thought, I’m imagining the expression upon your face should I reach behind, dip my fingers where they ought not be.” He matched his actions to his words. “To pinch this tight peak between my fingertips.”
With the tiniest of gasps, her back arched pressing her breast into his palm. Her eyes drifted shut, waiting.
But he’d already taken this too far. He willed himself to stop, willed the throbbing in his groin to subside. Slowly, deliberately, he withdrew his hand from beneath the row of ruffles. “And that, dearest pretend wife, is all your pretend husband is prepared to explain or demonstrate.” His body knew that for the lie it was, but his mind demanded time to untangle a knot of conflicting desires.
“All?” Her eyes, hazy with desire, opened. “I rather like your approach to laboratory experimentation.” She dragged in a deep breath. “Perhaps another time I can convince you otherwise… for I’ve many more unanswered questions.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
QUESTIONS.
Another day had passed with no answers. A string of equations wrapped their way down the page before her, but still she’d not arrived at a solution that would allow her to control the negative feedback governor with a simple punch card. Were her skills up to the task?
Olivia glanced at Ian. Deep in concentration, alternately peering through an aetheroscope and pouring over pages of Warrick’s spidery notations, he took no notice of her. He’d avoided her gaze since yesterday’s… encounter. It was quite deliberate, this avoidance, as if he wished to snuff the spark of attraction that kept flaring to life between them. Perhaps it was for the best.
Never let your heart rule your head.
How many times had she heard that phrase recited? With good reason. For her head had certainly been turned by a particularly handsome, young earl. She was forgetting herself, her mission. Mr. Black would chide her. Track Lord Rathsburn. That she’d done. The next logical step would be to keep the osforare apparatus inoperational and out of enemy hands. Yet she’d been working diligently to perfect its operation. Elizabeth’s presence was an unforeseen complication; one she couldn’t dismiss. If not for her, Olivia would even now be slipping from the castle and heading for the border on foot, the device securely in her possession.
As an agent, she was floundering. She had a sneaking suspicion that a field agent would prioritize national security and the return of the device over the health and well-being of a woman she barely knew, but she couldn’t bring herself to abandon Elizabeth.
As a societal liaison… well, she wasn’t after marriage. Not a real one.
Never mind that her thoughts kept straying back to that enormous bed. By the time the guardsman escorted them to their frigid bed chamber last night, her fingers were so frozen, Ian had needed to assist her with the laces of her gown. While he himself undressed, she’d tapped a faint rhythm on the floor, calling Watson forth and secreting the axon thrall bands within him. Perhaps the device might prove useful. It was another secret to keep from Ian, but at least it was a gratifying one. Warrick would not be able to use them to bind Lady Elizabeth to him again.
She slid beneath the bedclothes with every intention of picking up where they’d left off in the laboratory. But when Ian reached for her, tugged her to his side, his hard angles and planes a pleasure to lean against, she was too exhausted to attempt a seduction. As a wondrous heat and a curious sensation of security enveloped her, she’d fallen into a deep sleep.
A new day brought a new—thankfully woolen and high-necked—dress, a brief conversation with Steam Matilda when she delivered yet more broth and hard bread, and a return to the wine cellar where Ian resumed his research, answering her questions in a brisk voice, all business.
Hours later, eyes bleary with fatigue and fingers cramped with cold, Olivia rubbed the back of her neck. Time for a break. Time to reconsider her course of action. She stood and began to pace, blowing on her stiff knuckles, flexing them against the cold, as if preparing to pick a lock.
Lock.
The lock that kept them in this wine cellar taunted her. She hated being confined, and it was ancient, easily cracked. More a suggestion she remain in the laboratory than an actual impediment to her escape. What if there was no cure for Elizabeth, for the guardsmen? The longer they labored in this prison, the sicker Ian’s sister would become. Might her best chance of survival lie in London where an entire team of scientists could focus upon a cure?
She glanced again at Ian. He was so certain of his path. But locked here midst the wine, they knew nothing of the intrigue that swirled about the castle. Time to reconnoiter. She’d slip out for a bit, creep down a hall or two. Climb a spiral staircase or three, pay a visit to Lady Elizabeth. The woman who was at the center of this dilemma might well possess critical insight. Olivia would only be gone a short while, no reason for anyone but Ian—and perhaps not even him—to notice her absence.
Sliding a lock pick from her corset, she opened the door. A guardsman lay unconscious on the floor of the hallway. Sick? She closed the door quietly behind her and pressed a hand to his chest. It did not rise or fall. So young, barely a man, and yet he was dead, another victim of those horrible cells.
A deep sorrow swelled in her chest, but there was nothing she could do for him. Better to move onward, to work to put an end to such future atrocities.
Heart pounding, she slid through the hallways, pausing to listen at half-open doorways. Only once did a guardsman approach. She held her breath, certain she was about to be discovered behind the suit of armor—which provided rather poor concealment—but his glazed eyes stared at his shuffling feet, and he moved as if his every joint throbbed. Her chest tightened. Sentenced to an early death by impatient, immoral men.
Halfway to the turret room, the clanking of Steam Matilda’s spider-like legs met her ears. Olivia froze. Then ever so carefully, peeked around the corner.
A tea tray. Despite the fear that banded her chest, her stomach growled. Loudly.
“Halt,” she called in German. Steam Matilda stopped. Such a delicate porcelain tea service must belong to the countess. Did she dare divert the steamboat, deprive Katherine her small luxury?
Olivia’s stomach growled again. “To the tower. To Lady Elizabeth,” she ordered, crossing her fingers that her programming would override that of the countess’.
With creaking joints, Steam Matilda turned and altered course. Olivia followed. At the turret room’s door, the posted guard straightened at her approach, his hand falling to the hilt of his blade.
But a meek woman was rarely seen as a threat. She directed her gaze to his boots. “Sent by countess,” she said, deliberately mangling her German. “My guard… too much pain,” she waved at the spiral staircase behind her. “He waits below.”
A slight hesitation. A grumble. But with stiff fingers, he unlocked the door.
Olivia followed Steam Matilda into the small turret room. “Good afternoon, Lady Elizabeth.” The guardsman locked her in.
No fire burned in the grate, and with every gust of wind, panes of glass rattled in their casement. At least the voltaic prod was gone, no bizarre medical equipment was in evidence, and Lady Elizabeth was dressed and seated in a chair. The thick wool blanket wrapped about her shoulders slid to the floor as she stood, mouth agape. “How—”
“I came alone.” Olivia poured a cup of hot tea and handed it to Lady Elizabeth through the iron bars that separated them. Her cheeks were a healthy pink, not flushed with fever. Thank the aether. After that horrible procedure… “The door to the laboratory was unlocked,” she said, spinning the tale she would stick to, “and I rather thought we should speak.”
“Please, call me Elizabeth. We are, after all, sisters. I am so pleased that Ian has finally married.” She tipped her head and regarded Olivia with a touch of suspicion. “I have to admit the announcement rathe
r took me by surprise.”
Though it pricked her conscience to let that fiction stand, it was all that stood between her and the count’s unwanted advances. “As it will my own parents when we return.” She thought of Ian’s delightful kisses and hoped she glowed with starry-eyed delight as she lied. “We eloped, saying our vows aboard the airship. Though this isn’t the honeymoon I would have chosen, your rescue was paramount.” She poured her own cup of tea, wrapping her chilled fingers around its heavenly warmth. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This castle is so very, very cold. I rather expect I shall be made to regret stealing the countess’ afternoon tea, so we ought to make the best of it before we are found. Cream cakes?”
Elizabeth accepted the delicacy with a twist of her lips. “The cook means well, but she’s a simple village woman and terrified of the rusty, old steambots. Nearly everything emerges from the kitchen raw in the center or baked into a brick.”
Olivia tasted the cream cake. “A bit short on sugar, but otherwise consistent with my recipe.”
“Your recipe?” Elizabeth looked at the steambot doubtfully, but took a bite, humming in delight. “Oh, it’s wonderful.”
“Steam Matilda brought me a tray my first evening and, well…” It was no secret that her presence was tolerated at Burg Kerzen for her programming skills. “I’ve talent with mechanical household staff. I dismantled her, polished her various parts and pieces, reassembled her. And, having sampled what passes here for brown bread, I may have slipped a baking program into her card reader while I worked. If I could only spend a few hours in the kitchens…”
They shared a smile.
Elizabeth set down her tea cup. “What are the plans to remove me from this prison?”
“That is what I wish to discuss,” she began. “As yet, there are none.” Elizabeth’s face fell. “The cell transplant you received altered Ian’s plans. I left your brother pouring over Warrick’s scribblings, trying to discover if his boasts are fact or fiction. If he finds any glimmer that Warrick’s words are more than a brave-faced lie…”
