by Arnette Lamb
The robe was belted, not tightly but enough to hold the garment together. That wouldn’t do. So she waited until he settled into his routine, and when he walked to the workbench, she carefully tugged the knot from her belt. When he abandoned her jade necklace and returned to the stool, she writhed on the cot. The robe fell open.
Like a whip, his gaze lashed her. Then he ambled across the room and stood beside the cot. To her dismay, he sighed in resignation, closed her robe, and retied the knot. As he turned to go, she hummed a sleepy moan. He stopped, his buttocks high and tight with well-formed muscles, his manhood rising to attention.
Desire for her was not enough, for he returned to his stool and his stitchery. Twice more she untied the belt, twice more he came to fasten it. Neither time did she open her eyes. Years of training had heightened her perception. She could hear the familiar sequence of his actions: the dull rustle of leather, the clicking of jade beads, the shuffling of paper. The heady awareness of his desire. The silence of his concentration.
The stool scooted on the stone floor, alerting her to his next task—the jewelry. Secure in the knowledge that his back was momentarily turned as he moved to the workbench, she reached for the knot in her belt. A hand grasped her wrist. Her eyes flew open. He loomed above her, a very confident man, wearing leather breeches with a seam of pink thread marching down one leg.
When had he donned those breeches, and how had he moved the stool from across the room? The latter he’d accomplished by tying a string to the leg of the stool. The former was a mystery.
“You’ve been pretending sleep.”
“Lot of good it did,” she grumbled.
The scoundrel looked at his machine. “I was inspired.”
“I had hoped for a more personal inspiration.”
It was his turn to grumble. “I thought you would congratulate me. Your presence played a part in my success.”
What was he talking about, and why did he keep gazing at that contraption? Unless . . . “Your engine will work now?”
“Yes, I think so.”
Troubled by her selfishness, Agnes considered the ramifications of what he’d done. “You’ll be free of Throckmorton.”
“Not only the Napier Mill will be free of him. Every textile concern with money and a thought for the future will be free of him. The people of India will have to slave at something else besides spinning thread.”
Captivated by the knowledge that she’d witnessed his greatness, Agnes couldn’t contain her joy. “How? Tell me what occurred. Was it a revelation? Did it come upon you slowly?”
He demurred with masculine grace. “Nay, the curve of your hip was the catalyst.”
She huffed in disbelief and rolled to her side. “Go on with you.” He was teasing her.
“Truly. The irregular vacuum stems from the bulbous shape of the pressure chamber. Mechanically speaking, all that’s needed is an angle iron of sorts.”
She couldn’t stop staring at the manly bulge in his mended breeches. “A what?”
“How can I explain it simply?” he said, more to himself than to her. “Ah, I have it. Imagine, if you will, that your body is the engine and your legs are the pulleys. You do know what a pulley is?”
“Like a windlass?”
Raising an arm, he exclaimed, “Precisely!”
She felt petted, praised.
Then he returned to business. “Now that we’ve established that part, add to the equation an angle iron.” He touched her hip. “Roll over on your back again, and I’ll show you.”
She wasn’t sure she trusted him, not with that lovely bulge pulling at the new seam in his pants and playing havoc with her concentration. But she did as he asked.
All attentive and bright male, he touched her leg. “You see, a perpendicular brace is the key.”
“I thought ’twas the angle iron.”
“Not on it’s own. Bend your knee and turn it out a bit. That’ll make it clear. Yes, like that.”
Cool air teased her private parts, and the yearning in her belly grew. He leaned over her, sighted the engine, then checked the position of her leg. “Lift your leg a little more . . .” Again he followed an imaginary line between the machine and her. “No, that’s not quite it.”
Moving quickly, he returned to the pallet, picked up a short, stout board, and held it at a right angle to the engine. “This is your leg.” With the same detachment he employed when doctoring her, he gauged the position of her leg with the stick. Frowning, he motioned for her to spread her leg more. “But keep it bent. That’s the crucial element.”
She complied, exposing her femininity. He was unaffected, save the thickness in his breeches. Growing more uncomfortable, she asked, “What’s a perpendicular brace?”
As if he were addressing a student, he said, “It’s a thrusting wedge, so to speak. You’ve really grasped my theory, haven’t you?”
“I’m confused about two things. How can a piece of wood be likened to an angle iron, and what is the perpendicular brace?”
“Excellent questions, and completely understandable. The brace keeps the specific vacillation of the design in rigid compliance with the whole of the structure—” He scratched his head. “But at the moment, I’m baffled. It worked on paper.”
Bewildered, she tried to make sense of his explanation, but failed.
“Unless . . .” He snapped his fingers. “Could you lift your other leg as well. But keep your right knee where it is. That’s vital, else the pressure goes out the flue.”
He resumed his hand signals, instructing her to bend her other knee.
“That’s the solution?” she asked.
He nodded, checking her position against the machine. He blew out his breath and clucked his tongue in concentration. Then he strolled to the end of the cot, the piece of wood in his hands. “A definite sweet spot in the evolution of harnessing the power of steam.” He touched her knee, but his gaze was fixed on the machine. With slight but insistent pressure, he flattened her other leg to the cot, effectively spreading her wide.
“Truly interesting,” he mused. “I’m always amazed at the correlation of the tabulae rasae to the restrained friction of an armature under pressure.”
He could have been speaking Greek. And why wasn’t he acting on the desire that raged in his loins?
The stick clattered to the floor, and his hand moved into her lap. “Oh, you have a speck of lint.”
Before she could close her legs, he fell on her, his shoulders wedged between her thighs, his hands set curing her arms.
“What are you doing?”
His grin turned sly. “I’m giving you what you’ve been begging for for the last half hour.”
The troll had led her on with his talk of armatures and braces. “You wretch!”
He chuckled. “Spoken by one who purrs and writhes and taunts a man to madness. May I kiss you here?”
“Absolutely not!”
Disappointment captured him, and he said, “Oh, very well. If you insist.” In the next instant his expression turned cunning. “I’ll skip the kiss and proceed to the important part.”
His lips touched her there. She panicked and tried to scoot away but couldn’t gain the necessary leverage to move out of his grasp. An instant later she couldn’t have moved, even if the castle were crumbling around them.
Spreading her completely, he wielded that wicked tongue again, laving and lapping in long, slow strokes. She shivered and clenched her fists, and tried to hold back a moan of pleasure.
“Tell me what you feel,” he said against her most tender spot.
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Forming a coherent thought is not an option now.”
“Good. I must be doing this properly.”
Properly? Like starting a fire from kindling, he nurtured her desire with each touch, tended it, and turned it inside out. At some point he let go of her hands, and they found their way into his hair. The will to resist fled, and she held on to him, waiting for the harmony. Wh
en her release came, the force of it took her by surprise, and she couldn’t control the jerky movements of her loins. His muffled words of encouragement vibrated against her, prolonging her pleasure.
Skin flushed, breathing labored, she untangled her fingers from his hair and patted his head. “You’re very inventive.”
The clever devil blew against her still-throbbing parts. “I’ve also just begun.”
“Please, Edward. I want you inside me.”
“No. It’s too soon after your first time. You’ll be bruised and sore.”
“Get the salve.”
“Absolutely not!”
She almost screamed that he could send his doctoring skills to England, for she wanted his loving now. But the next sounds she made were cries of passion.
When he at last lay beside her on the narrow cot, her robe belted again, her bottom tucked snugly against his naked loins, Agnes asked, “When did you know that I was awake?”
“Awake and teasing me?”
“Aye.”
He pointed to the metal shade on the lamp above the workbench where her necklace rested on the velvet. “See that reflector? It works like a mirror.”
“You watched me?”
“And planned my revenge.”
“Sweet torture is more like it.” On that thought, she drifted into the most restful sleep of her life.
Sometime later she was jolted awake by the sound of squealing hinges on the upstairs door and footfalls on the stone steps.
“Cathcart!” yelled a familiar voice. “Rouse yourself.”
14
HOOTS!
Agnes recognized the voice of Captain Cameron Cunningham. Her longtime friend was on his way down the stairs. Glancing at the clock, she fought a groan. It was past eleven.
Over her slashed chemise she wore her robe; nestled against her back, Edward wore nothing. His leather breeches were crumpled on the floor. His tunic lay nearby. A Napier tartan plaid served as their blanket. His arm draped her; his hand cupped her breast. He wasn’t snoring. Was he awake?
“Rouse yourself and light a lamp, Edward,” Cameron shouted. “ ’Tis black as pitch on these stairs.”
It wasn’t black as pitch in the laboratory; a single lamp burned above the engine. But Cameron had reached the landing and couldn’t yet see into the dungeon.
She had to get off the cot. Near panic, she grasped Edward’s wrist. At her touch, his arm stiffened, as if to keep her beside him. Were they alone, she would have enjoyed his possessiveness.
Turning, she scooted free of his embrace and scrambled to her feet. Now what to do? Finding her shoes seemed paramount. As she spied them, her night braid fell over her shoulder. A memory flashed in her mind of Edward brushing her hair and plaiting it. A trail of kisses down her spine had preceded the braiding. Recalling the hours of intimacy they’d shared, she shivered with pleasure.
Cameron’s intrusion dampened the memory. His presence presented greater problems. She would not cower. She was unashamed. Her gaze was drawn to the cot and the sleeping earl of Cathcart. Her lover. As she watched, he rolled over on his back and started to snore. The tartan plaid was too small. The man too large. The sight of his manliness so openly displayed brought a tightness to her belly. Just as she covered him, Cameron stepped into the chamber.
Extremely tall and dressed in a white linen frock coat and breeches, the fair-haired Captain Cunningham stopped in his tracks. The package in his hands fell to the floor.
“Agnes?” he said, gawking.
No wilting, she told herself. Talk about anything except the obvious. Stall for time. She’d think of a plausible explanation. With that in mind, she tucked her shoes under her arm and approached him. “Trimble said he expected you any day. How was Penang?”
Still in the throes of shock, he narrowed his blue eyes and glanced at the sleeping earl of Cathcart. “I had no idea you and Edward knew each other . . . so well.”
A litany of weak excuses popped into her mind. Cameron had been at sea for months. She’d known him most of her life. Her business was her own. “You didn’t expect to come home and find everything as you left it, did you?”
His gaze drifted to the cot. “Nay, but I didn’t expect to find you and—”
“See?” Smiling cordially, she blocked his line of vision to the scantily covered earl. “Isn’t that always the way it is when you’re gone for extended periods of time? When we returned from China, your father had won a seat in the Commons.”
Hesitancy crept into his normally confident demeanor. “Father is well? Mother and Sibeal, too?”
It was the first question he should ask. “Aye, I saw them at Sarah’s wedding. They’re all healthy and eager to see you.” Then she broached the subject that formed the foundation of their friendship. “Any news of Virginia?”
“Nay. She is not in China, nor any of the islands I visited in between.”
“I’ll find her.”
He leaned against the bench, but his gaze kept straying from her to Edward Napier. “When did you . . . ah . . . and Edward . . . ah . . .”
The snoring stopped.
Cold from the floor seeped into Agnes’s feet, and her mind worked at a snail’s pace. Two things were vital. She must get out of this dungeon before Edward awakened, and she needed time to think. “When did I meet the earl of Cathcart?” She sounded cavalier, which made the situation worse. More seriously, she said, “I met him at Sarah’s wedding.”
Cameron retrieved the package he’d dropped on the floor. “I’m sorry to have missed it.”
Before leaving for China, Cameron had been aware of Sarah’s plans. Explaining the ill-fated betrothal to Henry Elliot, the earl of Glenforth, and Sarah’s quick marriage to another would take too much time. “Sarah did not marry Henry. ’Tis a very long story. I’ll tell you all about it later, and you can tell me about the voyage. How long will you be in Glasgow?”
“A day or two at most. I’ve a craving for my mother’s scones, so I’m going home to Perwickshire. MacAdoo’s taking the ship on to London tomorrow.”
MacAdoo Dundas was Cameron’s oldest friend and his first mate on Cameron’s ship, the Maiden Virginia.
An ungraceful exit beckoned, but Agnes took it. “Then I’ll have to get to the docks today if I want to see him, won’t I?”
Although he made no sound, Agnes could feel Edward coming awake. She’d traveled the world. She’d faced assassins. But facing Edward Napier now worried her more.
Cameron put the package on the workbench and lighted one of the lamps. “Whom did Sarah marry?”
Amid a rusting of fabric, Edward yawned and said, “She married Henry’s brother, Michael Elliot.”
Agnes almost felt sorry for Cameron. A year her senior and a close friend of Clan MacKenzie, he was obviously confused about what he should do. Edward made the situation worse when he gathered the tartan loosely around his waist and joined them.
Mussed from sleep, his thick, wavy hair in wild disarray, and his eyes gleaming, he extended his hand to Cameron. “Welcome home, Cam.”
“I apologize for not knocking, but Bossy said nothing about . . .”
“About why Agnes would be here with me?” All proprietary male, Edward gave her a lazy grin.
Cameron rolled his eyes. “That, and why Sarah married Michael.”
“Michael and I have solved two of Lord Lachlan’s problems.”
Problem? Agnes took offense. “You’re the one with a problem.”
“Hum.” He scratched his chest. “You took care of that rather nicely.”
Agnes had to get away. She remembered her necklace! A perfect excuse for her presence in the laboratory. Chin held high, she marched to the end of the table and snatched her jewelry. “Oh, here it is, my lord. I’m so sorry to have awakened you.” She waved it at Cameron. “Lord Edward was nice enough to repair my necklace.”
Edward, the troll, threw back his head and laughed. The tartan slipped, and he made a show of securing it. As he did, his gaz
e met hers. He looked pointedly at the leather breeches on the floor. Cocking an eyebrow, he seemed to say, “Shall I put them on now, Agnes?”
The challenge in his eyes spurred her to desperation. “Lord Edward, perhaps you’d care to tell Cameron how it is that I damaged my necklace.”
His expression cooled. He didn’t like being reminded of her sacrifice on his behalf.
Cameron’s frown deepened. “I am surprised to see her here in a robe.”
“I recall mentioning that very thing to her last—”
“Aye, you did, my lord,” she rushed to say. The blighter wasn’t embarrassed that they’d been caught. Informing him of the consequences should change that.. “I’m sure I needn’t remind you of what my father will do if he receives the wrong impression of what has passed here.”
Undaunted, Edward snatched up his breeches. If he dropped that tartan, Agnes would drop him.
Cameron said, “Lord Lachlan’ll nail your hide to the city gates of Tain, Edward, if you’ve dishonored her.”
Confidence settled over Agnes. “Not to mention what my mother will do.” But she knew that the duchess of Enderley would push for a wedding, and if anything annoyed Agnes, it was being forced.
Hoping for a graceful exit, she fussed with her hair and tried her best to mimic her sister Lottie. “I had my heart set on wearing my necklace today, and we mustn’t let this—” She twirled her fingers to include the people, the room, and the moment. “—unfortunate and innocent moment be misunderstood.”
“Innocent being the functional word,” Edward murmured ruefully.
“You do have a way with words, my lord,” Agnes said with finality and moved to the stairwell.
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Agnes?”
At Edward’s ominous tone, she slowed. “Nay.”
“What of your handsword and stiletto?”
Hoots. Retracing her steps, she gathered the weapons. “Thank you, my lord.”
“In the event that you are curious, Cam, she seduced me both before and after I repaired her necklace.”
