Steam Me Up, Rawley

by Angela Quarles

  “C’mon, Loki, let’s go.”

  Back in the safety of her room, Adele went straight to her camera bag. Jenny had written that she’d stolen something important, something valuable. Though she didn’t know what it was, she knew there’d be people who would pay a lot of money for it. And how she knew was because a client had bragged how he would do the very same.

  And so she’d stolen it and had hid it in Adele’s camera bag; she’d only pretended to bump into her that day on the docks.

  One section in particular had frozen Adele’s blood:

  I was scared. I made like I’d swallowed it, so’s he could see, and let him know that was the end of it. That it was gone. But he wasn’t satisfied. Those poor girls. Unable to reach me, he’d taken his vengeance, acting out on them what he wished to do to me—cut me open to get to what I’d so stupidly stole.

  And now she had it? An object that made another kill repeatedly? Adele sank onto her bed, her bag in her lap, and stared at the corner of her room. What had she gotten into? This was no longer an objective observation and reporting of an incident—she was now an active part of that incident.

  What would someone kill for? She took a deep breath and pawed through her bag. She finally found a small metal canister, about as thick around as her thumb, in a side pocket. This had to be it.

  The brass-colored tube had no discernible seam. Surely it held something inside; the canister itself held no markings and no obvious value.

  She leaned closer to her gas lamp and turned the tube over and over in her palm. There was a seam. She grabbed both ends and twisted. Nothing.

  Finally, after a combination of things, she found if she depressed both ends toward the center and twisted, it moved. At last.

  She pulled it apart. A tiny scroll of rice paper fell out and rolled across the floor.

  Adele chased it and picked it up. Fingers shaking, she eased it open. No larger than her palm, the tiny paper was crisscrossed with tiny lines on its surface in an apparently random manner.

  What in the world? She squinted and rotated it. She needed to make it larger.

  Rawley’s microscope!

  Surely, he’d be nearby. Ever since yesterday, it seemed she stumbled into him whenever she turned around. Most puzzling.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wherein Matters Progress Of An Intimate Nature

  Phillip growled and threw his pencil onto his desk. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Mrs. Riley’s sick daughter. Think on that, you weak creature.

  But, Adele. Larger than life Adele. As in real life, she crowded out everything else in his mind.

  Damnation. The plan to expose himself to her presence had failed miserably, defying rationality. Seeing her more should have made her have less of a hold on him, made his reactions dim as she became familiar.

  Instead, it had increased her pull on him. Now, it was like she was a drug, a drug to which he was hopelessly addicted.

  He’d decided to hide in his office and entertained fond hopes he could work through supper and thereby effect that distance he needed. But if he couldn’t avoid her in his mind either...

  No. More space. That was all he needed to work her out of his system. Then he’d be able to control himself around her and not be driven by impulse. He brushed his mouth. That kiss. He’d never done anything so rash, so inadvisable in his life.

  Yes, time apart... When her spell drained from his system, he could court her and make her his wife. Then Charlotte would be able to live comfortably. And he could focus on the business of being a physician and return to England sooner, where he could apply his skill on unfortunates instead of the privileged. Helping those in need, like Miss Riley, on the side had become necessary for his sanity.

  Besides, he had no desire to become entangled in messy emotions. He rubbed the space over his heart. Emotions that would prove humiliating when not returned. For he’d had time to contemplate, and he’d been correct in his response to Louise. He was a realist, not a coward. And as such, he had assessed himself, his attributes, his limitations, his failings. And in a way, Louise had been right—he did fear he wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been enough for his parents. He hadn’t been enough for his ex-fiancée Sarah. So why did he think he’d be enough for a spirited lady like Miss de la Pointe?

  What a debacle his engagement to Sarah had been. The sting, even two years later, still smarted. Although mainly to his pride. He’d set about methodically choosing a wife from among the country gentry in Devonshire, and Sarah had exhibited all the attributes he required. He’d pressed his suit, she’d accepted and, to his complete humiliation, had cried off several months before the wedding. If he couldn’t hold the attentions of a sweet and friendly girl like her, was there any hope for him?

  But he wasn’t a coward. So he’d face Miss de la Pointe once he was able to purge her from his system and proceed with his courtship. It would require him to put in an effort and thus open himself up, make him vulnerable. The idea of experiencing a rejection of his true self, not just a humiliating one like last week’s, sent a shudder through him.

  She wouldn’t be persuaded by a cold fish, but maybe there was more to him. But opening up meant allowing his emotions to have more say, and he had no desire to become like his mother.

  A soft knock brought his head up.

  Miss de la Pointe stepped into the room, all bundled energy in feminine form. A fresh dose of her drugging presence pumped through his veins. He suppressed a groan. Her eyes were alight with whatever devilish scheme she was involved in at present.

  Damn it to hell. He stood to greet her.

  “May I entreat you for a moment of your time, sir?”

  “Certainly.” He schooled his face and body to betray nothing of her effect on him. “Please take a seat.”

  “There’s been another murder.”

  Her words fell on him like cold water, dousing his ardor. His skin crawled, and he stepped toward her. “Dear God. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

  “Her name was Jenny...” And she proceeded to tell him the most astounding tale. As she continued, an icy knot gripped his innards. This had crossed into the personal, and she was in danger.

  “...so inside was this,” she concluded, handing him a curious strip of parchment. “I was hoping to use your microscope and see what this is. It’s important enough to kill for.”

  The icy knot exploded in his guts, the shards lacerating nerve endings. He had to dissuade her, stop this line of inquiry. But how? “Are you sure you wish to know?” he asked, his tone subdued and even, so as not to hurtle her farther into her scheme. “You should go to the police.”

  “I will, I will. But first I want to know what this is.”

  Of course she did. He’d hold her to her promise, though. He sighed and strode to the bench where he stored his microscope. The drawing would be hard to see all at once, so he adjusted the magnification to the lowest setting. He held out a hand, and she placed the paper scrap on his palm. As her fingers pulled away, they brushed his skin, and a jolt of desire pierced down his center. He tamped down his body’s reactions and strived to focus.

  He slid the paper into the viewing area and pressed an eye to the lens. Large lines crisscrossing into a pattern bloomed in his vision. Along with writing.

  “Let me see.” She pushed on his shoulder, and heat speared through him. This close he could also catch a whiff of her maddening feminine scent.

  Control. He clenched his teeth, his fists, his muscles, every blasted body part, and mentally shuttered his mind against all lustful thoughts.

  He stepped aside.

  She bent to the microscope, and wisps of her dark hair came loose from her coiffure and fell against her cheek. “Now it’s too big! Can we make it smaller?”

  “That’s the lowest magnification, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll need to copy this section by section onto a larger paper. I’ll be right back.”

  He groaned. She’d shot to hell any measure of precious sp
ace he’d achieved. He’d have to start the detoxification all over again before he could trust himself to behave properly in her presence. Behave as a proper suitor to his future wife. Not these lustful urges. Seeing her bent over just now... He shook his head.

  She returned with a charcoal pencil and a large sheet of paper and dropped onto the stool in front of his microscope, her enticing bum wriggling on the seat until she settled into position. She pieced together the drawing inch by inch, her fingers moving fluidly or with sharp movements, depending on what she was drawing. Such nice, delicate hands. So at odds with her personality. She was by no means delicate.

  Occasionally, she emitted little noises of excitement, and he couldn’t help but transpose them to the noises she might make in bed. With him.

  Damn it to hell, he was getting hard just watching her.

  He turned his back and pretended to work on whatever it was he was supposed to be doing at the moment. Blast if he could remember. Anything to escape seeing her enticing backside wiggle as she scribbled on the paper.

  However, her little exclamations only inflamed his libido further in the absence of seeing her actual movements. Blood rushed through him, pounding in his ears, stirring his cock.

  Damn and blast.

  He stood and paced the room, anything to dispel these inappropriate urges. Perhaps a speck of food. He went in search of victuals and purposely took as long as he could to eat his cold repast.

  Resolutely under control again, he returned. Her lean form was still hunched over and scribbling. Her focus was admirable. With a sigh, he returned to the stool, as worked up as ever, blast it.

  Finally, she set down her pencil and picked up the paper. Her gaze roamed every corner. “I think I have it. What do you make of it?”

  He’d have to get closer. He moved to just outside his arm’s length, leaned forward, and snatched the paper from her fingers. The lines swam. Concentrate, you dolt. Finally, they focused. “It appears to be plans of some kind. Of what, I have no notion. A vessel, I imagine.”

  “That’s what I think too.” She jumped off her stool and stood next to him, leaning over his arm to the paper. Her warmth and scent enveloped him, and his heart beat faster.

  “Do you know anyone whom you trust who could interpret this?”

  She slumped. “My brother.”

  “Well, that’s excellent. You can definitely trust him.”

  Her stillness finally registered in his addled mind. “Can’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. He’s eminently trustworthy.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She met his gaze and seemed to rummage through him, turning him inside out. A small crease marred her pretty forehead. He wanted to reach out and smooth it.

  She sighed and looked away. In a small voice, she said, “We don’t exactly get along.”

  “You appear to get along fine. From what I’ve observed, he loves you fiercely.”

  She paced the room, her hands flinging out to the side. “That’s just it. That’s what makes it all so hard.”

  “What so hard?”

  She stopped, hands on hips, and looked at the ceiling. She took a deep breath and faced him. “Being around him.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “No, how could you?”

  Her anguish tugged at his heart. He’d never witnessed her in such a state. “I’d like to understand, though,” he said gently. Unlike the dramatics his mother practiced with regularity, Miss de la Pointe’s distress was genuine.

  She swallowed hard and continued pacing. “Surely you noticed his hand? That was my fault. It’s my fault he’s a cripple.” Her words were clipped, curt.

  He stepped toward her; he wanted to smooth her edges, ease her pain. “I’m sure you exaggerate.”

  “Do I? I’m not so sure.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  She returned to the stool and perched on it, her hands shaking as she fiddled with them, not meeting his gaze. “When I was thirteen, Rex and I had been fishing at the docks upriver. We’d not caught much, and I was bored. Which, I’ve since learned, isn’t good. Boredom means I search for something, anything to fill the void. And right there nearby, a personal submersible was docked, completely unattended.”

  “Go on,” he prompted, for her pause had gone on for some time.

  She took a deep breath and turned pleading eyes to him. “I’d always found them fascinating. I’d ridden in one, but I’d never gotten to steer one. I cajoled my brother into taking it for a ride. He balked at first, of course. Said it’d be stealing. I told him we’d be just borrowing it, that we’d return it and no one would be the wiser. I begged and pleaded and used every trick I could think of to wheedle him into it. Finally, he relented.

  “Father had let him steer one before, so he knew the basic handling of it. They’re meant to be easy to use. Oh, did we have a blast charging after various fish and scattering them. I was practically hopping up and down.” Her eyes searched his again, bleak this time.

  “There was this awful lurch and a scraping noise. Later we found out we’d hit a rock. All I know is, one minute we were flying high, having so much fun, the next, water was gushing in.”

  She stopped and hugged herself, hands chafing her upper arms as if she were cold. Her face drained of color, and a sheen of perspiration covered her face and neck.

  Alarmed, he jumped to her side and placed an arm over her shoulder. She stiffened at first, but then relaxed and allowed him to guide her to the settee. He sat and tucked her against his side, smoothing a hand down her arm. “You don’t have to continue. I think I understand.”

  She took several gasps of air. “No. I’ve never talked about this. I...I feel like I need to. I can’t describe the horror, and maybe that’s why I’ve avoided thinking or talking about it. It was just too...big, and I was afraid it would overwhelm me.” Her voice hitched on the last word.

  He rubbed her arm again, either as a response or as encouragement, however she wanted to interpret it.

  “My whole world had gone topsy-turvy in the space of a minute. I hate to admit it, but I panicked. I knew how to swim. That wasn’t the issue. I think...I think... Well, looking back on it now, I’m guessing it was the enormity of what I’d done, that my fear of boredom had caused this, and I was, well, overwhelmed by what it had caused. Anyway, Rex grabbed me around the waist and pulled me into the pressure chamber, and once filled with water, he flung the hatch open and pushed me out. Now I was in the churning, muddy river, and I pushed off the submersible to gain the surface, my lungs burning. I broke free and gulped in air, but Rex didn’t appear. I screamed for help. I dove back in and met him as he came up, but blood swirled around him. He was struggling. I pulled him the rest of the way, and together we swam the short distance to shore.

  “It was only as we got to dry land I was able to see what had happened. His...his left hand was completely gone. He told me later the hatch had slammed down and cut it clean off, above the wrist. He swears he felt no pain, just a rush of energy. How he swam even partway, I’ll never know. He’d inhaled a ton of river water though, and he threw up gobs of it while I applied a tourniquet.”

  She’d been shaking throughout her story, and he held her tighter, wanting to impart the strength she normally had. “So you blame yourself.”

  “Of course I do. If I hadn’t been such a brat, he’d still have his hand.” And at that she broke and sobbed, great, unladylike gasps, and his heart pulsed, aching to soothe. Sensing she’d never let herself fully feel the horror of the experience, or her grief and guilt over her brother, he simply held her close and rocked.

  Finally, her tears subsided, and she pulled away a fraction and wiped her eyes. With a free hand, he fished for his handkerchief in his trouser pocket and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled. “What you must think of me.”

  He tightened the arm around her shoulder. “The tears, or the accident?”

  She smiled lopsid
edly and sniffed. “Both.”

  He held her gaze and brushed her cheek, wiping away tears she’d missed. “The tears are perfectly natural.” A brief flare of fear and vulnerability darted through her eyes. “As for the accident, you were just a child. You didn’t plan that to happen, did you?”

  “Of course not. But I acted without thinking, like I always do, and my brother paid the price, not me. It was my fault, my nature that caused this. I’ve tried changing, I have, but I’ve since come to terms with my failings.”

  “Have you ever talked to him about this?”

  She turned away, pulling her face from his palm. “No. I don’t dare.” She took a deep breath. “I admit, I put some distance between us. He behaved the same way as before. But...I couldn’t look at him, at his hand, without thinking ‘I did this to him.’ And I moved away and, well...the opportunity passed.”

  “Has he ever reproached you?”

  “No! And that’s the damnable part. He’s always been cheerful. All his life. And he didn’t stop. But I always suspected he puts on a brave face around me and only tells me what he thinks I want to hear because he doesn’t trust I’m strong enough and deep down he resents me.”

  He clasped her neck with a free hand and stroked up to cradle her head, forcing her to look at him. “I think you should talk to him.”

  “How?” she whispered. Her eyes searched his face. Seeing his spitfire so vulnerable knotted something inside him.

  “Well, you need to approach him anyway about those plans.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Her gaze darted to the table where they lay.

  “Why do you think he’d be able to interpret them? I thought he was an archaeologist.”

  “Yes, well, before that, he studied engineering. He had a passion for a while, actually after he got fitted with that hand, and wanted to become an inventor-engineer. Studied it in school. Thought himself a regular Charles Babbage. But ultimately he realized his true passion was digging up old stuff.”