by Anne Renwick
He doubted very much moonlight contributed to the plant’s potency, but hiding their activities from the eye doctor carried weight. “Very well.” Grateful that he’d thought to administer an additional dose of Somnic back at the gypsy campground in the privacy of the vardo Black had conscripted, he hopped to the ground, dropping most of his weight onto his good leg. The brace he wore compensated for the odd twisting of his foot, but provided little in the way of power.
He lifted a hand to his gypsy woman, helping her down. She wobbled for a moment on her heeled leather boots as she adjusted to the uneven ground. Coins and chains tinkled faintly beneath the shawl she’d wrapped about her shoulders for warmth.
With a slight tug, he could pull her against his chest, let his hands wander across her un-corseted waist, her un-bustled behind. Would she slap him? Or might her own hands slide beneath his vest and invite further liberties? Losing. He was losing the battle for self-control. Reminding himself that it was a husband she sought, he released her and turned away. Her marriage to Sommersby was certain to be a disaster. What man wanted a wife who would run about London at all hours of the night risking life and limb? Lady Anne would never behave in such a manner.
But Lady Anne had never made his blood run hot.
“How do we get inside?” Lady Amanda asked, her voice hushed as they walked along the gravel road that led to the factory’s entrance. Tall iron gates rose up before them. “Do we climb?” Doubt laced her voice.
Over Luca’s vehement objections, Thornton had appropriated his tool belt, but only the belt. The tools within its various pouches and pockets he’d replaced with a selection of his own devices—and a few of Black’s. He pulled one such item from a pouch now. It felt good to be back in the field, even if all he was after was an unlikely white bloom.
“No. We use this. Captain Jack’s Tension Torque. Insert the hollow copper coil and the pick,” he demonstrated, “then depress the plunger on the syringe to extrude the alkylsorcin into the lock. Wait three seconds…” He counted them off, “then use the thumb wheel to make a few fine adjustments. And with the flick of a wrist…” He twisted the device, there was a soft pop and the iron gate swung open.
“Impressive.” Amanda looked up at him with admiration shining in her eyes.
It was a heady experience, praise from a lady for the most basic of an agent’s skills. “The alkylsorcin liquefies in a few minutes, leaving no trace.” He pushed the gate wide, its hinges protesting with a screech. “Ladies first.”
She slipped inside, and he followed, nudging a large rock against the gate, holding it in place, but not preventing a swift exit should someone take issue with their presence.
“Keep your eyes out for bobbing lanterns, they indicate…”
“Watchmen,” she finished, then led the way down a well-worn path toward the power house. Weeds, some with thorns, lashed out at their legs—her skirts—as they passed.
Soon they stood at the base of the great chimney. It was warmer here.
A multitude of vines twisted and writhed about the structure. None seemed to possess flowers. He tugged a torch from a pocket and shook it vigorously, activating the bioluminescent organisms within. With a quick adjustment to the lens, he pointed the beam of blue light upward and handed it to Amanda.
She paced around the tower, her face tipped upward, eyes searching.
He should help. Or watch for guards. Instead he watched her.
Her hair had come undone and spilled from its scarf over her shoulders in long, dark twists, brushing against the bare skin of her lower back. Her hips and skirts swayed with each step her long leather-encased legs took. Her shawl slipped free from one shoulder, and she tied it carelessly about her hips, continuing her search.
She turned, aiming the torch higher, her back arched. Above a taut stomach, breasts thrust upward against a thin cotton blouse, tight nipples in clear evidence. He suppressed a groan of frustration and turned away, leaving her to her search, directing his gaze where it ought to be: watching for guards.
It wasn’t right of him to be lusting after a woman he was unprepared to make his. She deserved more from him.
A few minutes later, when he had his lust once again under control, she stepped close, wrapping her arm about his, and spoke in a low, excited voice. “I can see them, but they’re too high to reach. Look.” She tugged on his arm, turning him toward the chimney and pointing with the torch. “There.”
A scattering of tiny white blooms on a vine where the chimney jutted free from the building. Beneath the pitch of the roof ran a narrow bank of windows, and beneath those windows, a narrow ledge ran around the building, a ledge wide enough for a man to walk along.
He moved toward the door, readying the tension torque by inserting a new cartridge of alkylsorcin. “We’ll go inside,” he said. “Keep watch. I’ll make my way to the windows. From there, the ledge…” He trailed off.
It could not be him making the journey. Not even with the extra dose of Somnic. He could walk the ledge, but scaling the roof, that was beyond him. Control of his right foot was too uncertain. “I can’t, Amanda. We’ll have to come back tomorrow.” It hurt to admit, but his lower leg was untrustworthy.
“No,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“It’s too dangerous,” he objected. “How often do you walk ledges?”
She had opened her mouth, no doubt to protest, when a beam of greenish-blue light caught her in its glare.
“Well, well, what have we here?” The man’s eyes were alight with glee as he waved his pistol about wildly. “Gypsies. There’ll be no ledge walking tonight. Just a trip to lockup. Unless…” He glanced at Thornton, then turned a speculative eye toward Amanda’s bare mid-section and waggled his eyebrows.
No one but him would be touching her tonight. In one smooth motion, he reached beneath his vest and drew his TTX pistol, shooting the watchman once in the arm and again in the neck.
“Whaaaa….” The watchman’s eyes rolled back into his head as he crumpled to the ground.
“Grab his weapon and his torch.” Thornton turned and made short work of the lock, forcing the alkylsorcin into the keyhole, counting off the seconds before pushing Amanda safely into the powerhouse. He bent over and, grabbing the watchman beneath his arms, dragged him inside as well. As he closed the door softly behind him, a bobbing glow appeared in the distance, weaving behind outbuildings, but drawing close. More night watchmen.
He cursed and closed the door.
Inside, the smell of coal and oil was overpowering. The building was two stories tall, its massive undecorated brick walls devoid of ornament. Tall columns supported the roof. Two silent black cast iron engines dominated the room, flywheels and belts and pistons that turned long drive shafts that extended into the factory building proper. A spiral staircase led upward to a walkway that ran around the room—and beneath the window bank that led to the roof.
Thornton dragged the watchman across the room, tucking him safely out of sight behind one of the great engines in a utility closet.
When he returned, Amanda was still staring at him with wide eyes. “Did you…?”
“He’ll be fine.” In another twenty-four hours or so. “The bullets are loaded with TTX—pufferfish toxin. One bullet slows a man down. Two drops him. Three kill.”
“But—”
“Did you wish him to alert the other watchmen?” Not the time to be questioning his methods.
Amanda shook her head, then turned and darted for the staircase. He followed, unable to call out and annoyed that his steps were not as certain, that she refused to listen to reason. Yet, as she climbed upward, he shamelessly took the opportunity to appreciate the view of long legs extending upward into the shadow of her skirt. She strode along the catwalk that led to the windows, tugging at the casements.
He caught her as she swung one of those long legs upward. “Wait. You can’t go out there wearing those boots. Take them off.”
“Off?”
He demonstrated, tugging his boots off, his socks, one from beneath his brace. “Your stockings too. Bare feet will grip the slate roof tiles. Leather soles?” He made a motion with his hands, demonstrating how she would slip from the roof.
Her eyes widened. Amanda sank to the floor, loosening her boot buckles, pulling them free. Then, casting him a coy glance from beneath long eyelashes, she hiked her skirts up to her thighs, unhooked a garter and began rolling down a silk stocking, exposing more to his view than no man other than a husband ought to lay eyes upon.
He closed his eyes and swallowed his lust. Then turned to the open window. He climbed out onto the ledge and waited, his feet registering years of accumulated grit, his brace making his grip less steady than he liked. Silently, he held out a hand, helping her onto the ledge.
Together they made their way to the chimney. His gaze fell on the small, white flowers and the slick, slate tiles she would have to scale to reach them.
Disappointment registered on Amanda’s face as she assessed the vines and number of blooms. “Barely enough for one batch.”
Not enough to save her brother’s legs and attempt to treat his.
Then again, he’d never had hopes. Besides, losing both one’s legs entirely was far worse than losing the function of a single foot. “We’ll trace the vine to the ground, dig up the plant at its source. Perhaps it can be coaxed into bloom in winter,” he whispered, as she tucked her skirt into her waistband. “Be careful.”
Amanda nodded, then dropped to all fours, scaling the steep roof.
At the top, she straddled the ridgeline. She pulled a knife from her waist and began by cutting the vine, yanking its suckers free from the brick chimney until the ropy twist fell into her lap. Quickly, she cut free the leaves and flowers, tucking them into the leather pouch attached to her belt and reached for another vine.
He watched as the blue light of a night watchman circled the powerhouse, as it was joined by a second light. Two men now, one gesturing wildly and pointing at the open gate, circled the building positively bristling with excitement. Likely they’d never had cause to even draw their weapons on the job and were itching to do so.
Thornton sighed silently in resignation. He recognized the Welsh Drobwll Disrupters they held, more commonly known as the Whirlpool of Death, a favorite of untrained watchmen. Its blast of electromagnetic waves wasn’t deadly in and of itself, but rather left its victim so dizzy and confused they often staggered in circles, wandering into harm’s way, dying from unrelated causes. One blast from the Whirlpool while on a rooftop and they would, at best, break several bones from the fall.
Would the men think to look up?
No, they did not. They did, however, stop at the door to the powerhouse. One unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. Boots and stockings waited for discovery on the catwalk inside. Would their dedication extend to the second level? Thornton had a bad feeling it would.
As the men entered the building, he quickly ran through options. None appealed as much as undetected escape. Silently, he slid the window shut. Perhaps the guards would think the boots the forgotten remnants of a workers’ tryst.
Not that he was naïve enough to count on it.
Moving along the narrow ledge, he plotted a course that would take them along those lengthy drive shafts and into the main factory. He glanced up at Amanda. Her pouch was nearly full. Not a single white bloom remained on the chimney. Good. They needed to move.
He snapped his fingers, hoping the sound would not attract undue attention. Amanda looked down. “Watchmen,” he mouthed silently, gesturing with his hand that she should slide down to him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AMANDA FELT HER eyes grow round. Had they been discovered? Why did Thornton look so concerned? Certainly there were those “strings” he could pull. But perhaps not before they confiscated and destroyed the amatiflora in her pouch.
Unwilling to leave a single flower behind, she wrapped the final section of vine with its scattered white blooms about her neck and began to descend. Careful as she was, a foot slipped out from underneath her on the slate roofing tiles, and she skittered toward Thornton, her descent down the steep angle of the roof rapidly growing out of control. She slid past, her feet catching briefly on the ledge before the accumulation of grit and dead leaves slid from beneath her—and she felt nothing but empty air beneath them.
Right before she jerked to a stop.
Thornton had caught her belt, holding her in place, her feet dangling. The breath squeezed from her midsection as he flexed his arm, heaving her back onto the roof, dragging her tight against his long, hard length.
Gasping with relief, she pressed her face to his solid chest, her hands gripping strong shoulders. His arm wrapped about her, pulling her tight. Her heart pounded in synchrony with his.
A mind sharpened in a laboratory; a body honed in the field. How many times a week did this man pick locks, run across rooftops and save damsels in distress?
Her thought was only fleeting because he tucked his chin against the top of her head and whispered hoarsely, “We need to go. Now. There are two overzealous men inside searching for us.”
“Our boots. My stockings. Your socks. The guards. They’ll know.”
“Yes. The watchmen have disrupters, not deadly—unless you fall from a roof once hit.”
She swallowed.
“Exactly. We need to move. Now. Follow me.”
Reluctantly, she let go of him.
Slowly, carefully, quietly they picked their way across the steepled roof that ran above the crankshafts that extended from the powerhouse to the main factory. When they reached the far side, Thornton pried open a small window, then clasped his hands, offering her a foothold.
She slid through, collapsing in a heap on the narrow metal catwalk that ran around the inside of the building. Thornton landed beside her.
Overhead, glass panels in the roof let in the faint rays of moonlight and illuminated the immense room beneath them. Pulleys and cables and wires suspended giant metal hooks to lift and drag long lengths of heavy sailcloth material. Large, geared rollers fed the sailcloth into the endless lines of powerful sewing machines that stretched across the floor.
“This way.” Thornton’s metal brace clanged softly on the catwalk. He swore under his breath and adjusted his steps to make no sound.
Heart pounding, she followed.
Down a metal staircase, ducking beneath windows on the off chance the moonlight would cast a silhouette, they reached the oily factory floor. They skirted the machinery and iron columns, hastening through the dark shadows they threw.
Amanda had lost all sense of direction, trusting Thornton to find the way. There it was, a metal door marked exit.
They were only some ten feet away when it opened.
Thornton grabbed her, pulling her into a dark shadow behind an enormous spool of metal wire. His back pressed to the wall, her back pressed against his stomach, his chest. Thornton’s arm wrapped tightly beneath her breasts, silencing the tinkle of chains and coins, holding her securely in place. He slid his other hand beneath his coat, drawing forth the pistol he’d used earlier and pointing it in the direction of the watchmen.
She swallowed hard, willing the two men to walk away.
“We should go back, search the powerhouse again, top to bottom,” one watchman grumbled.
Several heavy, clattering thuds sounded.
“Trysting lovers aren’t worth the effort,” snorted the other watchman. “‘Sides, you’ve got their boots now. Sell ‘em. We’ll split the profit. Take the silk stockings home to the wife. Maybe she’ll let you back in her bed.”
“They pay us to keep people out, Bill.” There was no humor in the voice belonging to the first watchman. “We should go back. Meet up with Jack.”
Bill sighed heavily. “Do what you want, Joe. I’m for my break.” His footsteps faded away.
Joe hesitated, but moments later, the metal door c
langed shut behind him. Presumably, he headed back to the powerhouse. And to look for Jack.
“Don’t move,” Thornton whispered. “We’ll give Joe a few minutes. If he continues on, we grab our boots and make an escape.”
His warm breath against her bare neck sent shivers running down her spine. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the thud of his heart. The press of his leather trousers against her through the thin satin of her skirt. She could feel every molded contour.
He was aroused. Impressively so.
Despite his words, despite his impassive face, here was the evidence he wanted her. That their kiss had not been a fleeting interest. The thought lit a fire in her blood. She could feel the heat of it now, rushing to the surface of her skin. Their predicament had put her exactly where she had so longed to be. She shifted, pushing backward against the hard column that pressed against her lower back.
“Amanda.” He growled a low warning, the vibration against her neck sent a tingle of electric webs across her skin. Every nerve was on edge now, screaming to feel the brush of his skin against hers.
Hardly believing she dared, she rolled her hips suggestively, invitingly, and his erection pulsed against her. At last the advantage fell to her.
The fingers of his free hand dug into her hip, holding her motionless. “I won’t take what belongs to another man,” he warned.
She tipped her head back against his shoulder, looking up into his dark eyes. “I’m not his,” she whispered. “Nor is there any… agreement.”
“I’m not looking for a wife.”
She dragged her lips across the rough stubble of his jaw. A thrill shot through her. “Noted.”
Distant footsteps sounded on the factory floor.
They froze.
~~~
The footsteps faded away once more, but still his heart pounded, propelling the liquid fire that was his blood everywhere except into his brain. He could no longer remember why, exactly, he’d been so intent on pushing Amanda away. Perhaps it was time to return the favor and give her a small taste of the flames she ignited in his veins.
