A Dance Like Flame (Of Magic & Machine Book 1)

by Tammy Blackwell

  He stayed there, fully seated inside her, his kisses almost bruising in their intensity, until a low, throbbing need built inside her. She tilted her hips, seeking out something to ease the ache. The movement caused Ezra to hiss out a word she’d never heard uttered in her presence before. Then, he started moving, and moving was…

  Moving was everything. The rough fabric of his jacket grazing her nipples. The soft slide of his hips against her thighs. The warm, hard length of him, touching places inside her she never knew existed. She was climbing again, the crest just out of reach. Then Ezra’s mouth descended to her nipple and his hand found its way down to where the two of them were joined. His teeth bit into her flesh as his finger flicked, and she began crumbling just as he let out a scream of his own and stilled inside her.

  Chapter 25

  “You should cover yourself, my lady.”

  Ezra handed her a handkerchief before turning to adjust his own clothes. Bits pushed her skirts back over her knees and wrangled her breasts back into their fabric prison, feeling more exposed than she had just moments before.

  She had never been intimate with a man before, but she felt this distance, this coldness, was wrong somehow. Shouldn’t he still be with her on the settee? Shouldn’t he be holding her? Comforting her?

  Funny, she didn’t know she would need comforting, and yet she had not desired to be held and loved so desperately since her parents’ accident.

  “Are you—” The words were no more than a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Are you recovered? The Residual…?”

  “I am well. Thank you.”

  Never, in all the weeks she’d stayed in this house, had she heard his voice sound so emotionless. Her hand itched to strike him just to force a reaction. Anger surged through her, though she wasn’t quite sure what she was angry about. She just knew this was wrong. She felt bad, the worst kind of bad, and it was his fault for being so indifferent with her now after what they had just done.

  “You should have a bath.” He still wouldn’t turn to face her, and that just made her all the more angry. To keep from saying or doing anything rash, she focused on the poker next to the fireplace, uncurling and recurling the ornate design of the handle with her mind. “I’ll ask Mrs. Green to warm the water for you.”

  “It’s well past one in the morning,” she reminded him. “Mrs. Green is abed.”

  That gave him pause, but finally he said, “Then I will wake her.”

  Bits abandoned the poker and stood up, roughly shaking out her skirts as if she could undo the damage they had wrought on the delicate material.

  “No, thank you. I do believe a cold bath is exactly what I crave at this moment.” Perhaps it would numb some of this blazing emotion threatening to consume her. Maybe it could wash away this anger. This hurt.

  Oh. The realization was like a physical blow.

  She wasn’t angry. She was hurt. Her heart was crumbling like a thin sheet of tin left to the elements. If she didn’t flee fast enough, he would see her completely fall apart.

  Ezra’s cold indifference was horrid, but she truly couldn’t take his pity.

  She could not recall leaving the sitting room or her trek through the hall and up the stairs. One moment she was standing in front of the settee, staring at his rigid back, and the next she sitting on the floor of the washroom she shared with Lily, her body, which had trembled from pleasure just moments before, shaking with sobs.

  How could she have been so stupid? She didn’t regret giving herself to Ezra. Truly, she didn’t. She knew one day, when her heart had healed to where only scars remained, she would forever treasure those moments when he gave her pleasure as she helped a man who was always helping others.

  The stupid part was letting herself believe tonight had anything to do with her. That the words he whispered were meant for her. That the sighs and moans of pleasure came because he was with her.

  He was filled with Residual and grief, and very likely had enough of the former to be in true danger of burning out completely. She was a means to an end. It could have been anyone in that room and the outcome would have been the same. She should have known that. Part of her had known it. She just chose to ignore the harsh truth and believe in the fantasy for a short time, not realizing the damage waking up from the faery tale would do.

  At least he’d turned away at the end. That had been a kindness, not that she’d recognized it as such at the time. Now she would never have to relive the disgust on his face when he realized who he had used to slake his need.

  Bits did not hate herself. Not really. She struggled with pride more than most, often having to remind herself that most of the other young ladies of her acquaintance had many redeemable qualities which made them women of worth, even if they filled their heads with fashion and gossip rather than actual thoughts.

  But she was an intelligent woman who was well aware of what others saw when they looked at her. Plain felt too insubstantial a word to describe someone made of quite so much substance. She’d longed for her sister Sarah’s tiny waist, slim hips, and reasonable, unterrifying breasts since her very first visit to the modiste when the woman had asked, in a French accent that was no more real than Bits’s own, how exactly she was to “cover all of that.”

  Her body wasn’t the type one desired. It was the kind other debutantes tittered about behind their fans and young gentlemen worried about treading on their toes.

  It was the kind of body even a Touched on the brink of burnout did not uncover before an act which typically required at least a few pieces of clothing to be removed.

  Bits could not bring herself to uncover it now either. She couldn’t bear to look at the flesh that made her unworthy of the man she loved. Because she did love him. Before tonight she may have tried to deny her feelings had gone so far, but then he’d stood in the doorway, sad and broken, and she knew she would do anything to make him whole again. That was love, wasn’t it? The willingness to sacrifice pieces of yourself to make someone else whole? She would give her life for him if he required it, but she couldn’t stay in his house any longer. That much was obvious. She loved him too much to watch the distance between them grow, or to return to the polite, formal exchanges from before they had begun to spend time together.

  The truth was, however, she had nowhere to go. She supposed she could return home to London, but that wasn’t really home anymore, was it? Journeying on to Scotland was an option, but what was she to do when she got there? Show up on the Marquess of Driscoll’s doorstep and apologize for being a month late?

  There was only one place she was ever genuinely at home. One place she felt as if she belonged.

  It was time she remembered who she was and where she was supposed to be.

  Resolute, she pulled herself off the floor and washed the reminders of the evening from her skin. She had no trunks, but one of Mrs. Green’s large baskets was able to hold as many articles of clothing as she would need. It wasn’t until she was leaving that she noticed the tea service sitting on the scarred wooden floor just outside of her bedchamber. A note writ in Ezra’s looping scrawl was nestled between the pot and cup. Bits took it with trembling hands, her heart jumping about in her chest as if it had free reign of the entire cavity.

  For the prevention of unwanted children.

  Children.

  She could be with child at this moment. That was typically the desired outcome of what they had done. At least it was in polite society. Of course, that same polite society frowned on children born outside marriage. “Born on the wrong side of the sheets,” Keaton would often say with so much disapproval in his voice one would think he was speaking of beheading royalty in the middle of Hyde Park for entertainment.

  Well, now she knew sheets weren’t actually required at all for the creation of bastards. One didn’t even require a bed.

  Bits stared at the service for a long time, unsure how to proceed.

  For the prevention of unwanted children.

  And
therein was the problem. Maybe it was selfish, but she knew if a child was growing inside her, he or she would not be unwanted. In fact, she wanted that baby very, very much.

  Mind made up, she slipped the note between two of the day dresses she carried and stepped over the tray. She had been aware of Lily’s door standing slightly ajar and the unseeing eyes watching her the entire time, and now she turned to address her observer.

  “Please make sure this tray is gone before Dr. Nash wakes in the morning.” It was the first order she’d given Rose. Lily had assured her Rose wanted to be ordered about, the spell binding her to the roll of a clockwork servant causing her to feel restless without tasks to do, yet Bits felt guilty giving it all the same. She saw guilt and accusation in the glass eyes staring back at her, and she felt them watch and judge her the entire way down the stairs, to the front door, and as she walked the predawn streets.

  The Smith’s home was a well-tended cottage next to the forge. Fortunately, despite the early hour, she saw lights and signs of movement inside. Her hand was heavy when she lifted it to the door, but with all other options closed to her, she knocked. The woman who answered was everything Bits was not. Her waist was so small Bits was pretty certain she could span the circumference with her hands. The arms crossed over her chest were thin and delicate. High cheekbones accentuated a long, compelling face. Her skin wasn’t quite as dark as her husbands, and it looked softer than Bits’s favorite dress.

  “Can I help you, miss?” Her accent, however, was anything but soft. She sounded as if she’d spent her formative years in the streets of St. Giles.

  “I am Lady Elizabeth Warner,” Bits said, pulling herself up to her full height, which towered over Mrs. Chanse’s small body. “I would like a room, if you have it. If not, I can stay in the forge.”

  Mrs. Chanse’s lip curled. “We’re no inn. Take your fancy clothes and be gone with you.”

  She started to shut the door, but Bits caught it with her hand. An advantage of being twice the size of this dainty, birdlike woman was there was no way she could be overpowered if she put her mind to it.

  “I can pay.”

  Mrs. Chanse’s eyes narrowed and glinted silver. A shiver of fear went down Bits’s spine, but at least they were silver instead of black. She knew for a fact she would never be able to take on a Bokor on her own. “We’re not so bad off we need the coin of some Untouched prig,” Mrs. Chanse snarled. “Now, go, before I call for my husband.”

  “An excellent idea,” Bits said, and for the first time in her life, she allowed her power to wash over her in the presence of someone other than her family. “He and I have much to discuss.”

  Chapter 26

  Hugh Garroway’s house was the second largest in Corrigan. In fact, at one time, it was the largest and the home of the Oberon. Shealyn House sat empty for nearly five decades after the royal family moved to Breena Manor, no other Touched feeling worthy, nor being able to afford the upkeep, of a house built for kings and queens.

  And then came Garroway, whose sense of self-worth was nearly as obscenely large as his bank account.

  Adella Chanse did not particularly like the man, but likability was not the only factor to consider when forming an alliance. What Garroway lacked in the ability to put others at ease or participate in friendly conversation he more than made up with power, determination, and conviction.

  Fingering the plush velvet of the chair where she sat, no doubt a piece commissioned from some renowned artisan in France, Adella wondered at Garroway’s opulent lifestyle. For a man who hated the aristocracy he certainly emulated them. Did he live like this as a mockery? To display his immense power and wealth? Simply because he could? Or was Garroway’s hatred rooted in jealousy? Did he secretly wish to be one of those he professed to abhor with such passion that he would see them all brought to their knees?

  It was an interesting question. If she knew the answer she might be able to lead the priest where she wanted him to go.

  “You’ve given her a bed?” Garroway sat behind a massive desk carved of ash. Papers scattered the surface, and ink stained the polish. One of his elbows rested on a stack of unopened correspondence, and the other found its home in a bit of toast. “Are you purposefully trying to provoke me?”

  Adella threaded her fingers together in her lap. The cheap material of her dress was so old and worn the once bright red stripes had faded to a pale pink, but it was in perfect repair. In contrast, Garroway wore a custom-made suit of the finest wool, undoubtedly no more than a year old, with stains marring the cuff of his jacket and a hole, from what appeared to be some sort of burn, on one shoulder.

  “She is not who she seems.”

  Garroway grabbed a stack of papers — some of them pages cut from the newspaper, others appearing to be invitations and personal letters — and began leafing through them. “She is exactly who I know she is,” he said, pulling out a page with tea stains decorating the edges. “Lady Elizabeth Warner, born in Kent in 1827 to the Earl of Braxton. The youngest of three children. The oldest child, Lady Sarah Warner, married the Duke of Keaton in 1840. In 1841, her father died, making her brother, Henrick, the current Earl. She was presented to the Queen in 1845, yet has never been seriously courted. She is described about Town as ‘reclusive, aloof, and rather odd.’” He tossed the paper down. “As you can see, I have done my research. There really is nothing you can tell me more about the chit that I would care to know.”

  Adella let the silence stretch out. She enjoyed this part. The knowing of something others did not. The power of it. She almost didn’t want to give it up. Secrets became more diluted every time they were shared, yet if she wanted to reap the benefits of being the one to share such news with Garroway, then she was going to have to talk.

  “Not even if she was a Velchan?”

  Oh, if only there was a way to capture the look on his face and keep it forever. The slack jaw. The eyes grown so wide the whites extended past their normal home within the socket.

  “She’s a woman.”

  One side of Adella’s mouth curled up. “So I have noticed.”

  “Women aren’t Velchans.”

  “There is a woman currently sleeping in my husband’s forge who proves otherwise.”

  Garroway fell back against his chair, cradling his mechanical hand as if it were a child.

  “She’s Untouched and daughter of the Clockwork Earl. She merely knows enough about clockwork to fool a Touched Smith. A message boy for any Ironmaster would probably have an otherworldly knowledge and ability with metals compared to your husband.”

  Adella bristled. She would think he was purposefully trying to provoke her, just as he’d accused her of doing to him earlier, but she knew he wasn’t. A man like Garroway, one who had never loved nor known love, did not understand the devotion and loyalty of a woman whose heart beat only for her husband. If not for Thomas, she wouldn’t be here now. She would have left Garroway to his plans and schemes long ago.

  A bowl of peppermint candies sat on Garroway’s desk. Adella took her time picking one that was not covered in too much dust and stuck it in her mouth, giving her temper time to cool.

  “Do you believe,” she asked around her stolen treat, “a message boy would have the ability to turn his eyes bronze so he may fool a Touched Smith and his wife?”

  Garroway gasped, and the sound was even sweeter than the candy on her tongue.

  “Does Sidhe know?” He ran a hand through his hair, grasping at the strands before releasing them so it stood on end. “Damn. Of course he knows. Nash doesn’t cough that his friend doesn’t know it.”

  Adella considered it for a moment and then shook her head. “No, I don’t think either of them know. Lady Elizabeth came to us early this morning after she and Nash had a lover’s quarrel. I believe she told us in retaliation for whatever slight she perceived from him, though I cannot imagine what the staid surgeon could have done. Maybe his bow was not as deep as the lady preferred.”

  Garroway
was paying no attention to her, his thoughts in some far off place where he was using the Velchan’s ability to further his cause. He waved off her comment with his good hand.

  “No doubt Nash was in a rare mood last night with the duchess’s passing.”

  Now it was Adella’s turn to go slack-jawed. “The Duchess of Sidhe is dead?” They had not been close friends, in fact Adella had only been in conversation with the duchess once when Sidhe was consulting Thomas about a new carriage, yet despite their difference in beliefs, she’d respected the other woman. “You didn’t—?”

  Another thoughtless wave of his hand, as if that was all he was capable of doing. “It was supposed to be the babe. Not my fault she decided to shut me out of the birthing room and relied on Nash alone.”

  She was going to be ill. The killing of babies and duchesses was never supposed to be part of the plan.

  In a sudden burst of energy that made Adella jump, Garroway pushed himself away from his chair and began to pace about the library. “The question is, can we control her, or should we remove the threat?”

  Remove the threat? Could he really be suggesting killing Lady Elizabeth? When had things gone so far?

  “She’s one of us, is she not?” Adella asked, drawing her words out so as not to reveal her true emotions. “It should not be hard to win her to our side.”

  Garroway whirled on her, his eyes flashing silver. “Velchans are not Touched.” Without incantation or potion, his mechanical arm slipped from the living flesh and raised until it was suspended in the air between the two of them. Wires and tubes dangled in the air like a strange creature from some gothic tale. “They are the weapon of the Untouched. They believe themselves gods, the actual rebirth of the Roman god of metalwork. They take from the Earth without giving anything in return. They suffer no Residual, so they take and take from the aether with little regard to how much remains. They create machines of war and death, and when that loses its thrill, they begin tampering with human bodies, turning men to monsters. They are not Touched. They are not even human.”