Clockwork Stalker: The Dirty Heroes Collection

by Silverwood, Cari

  “I know you’re awake, Wilhelmina Moriarty,” he intoned.

  She froze then rasped a question from her sore throat—the soreness a surprise, but she guessed she’d screamed a lot, “Who are you?”

  “You won’t get free unless I release you, and I’m not doing that unless you agree to some stipulations. I am Sherlock Holmes.”

  “You!” She fairly spat the word and wrenched at the wrist ropes. “How dare you! Let me go!” After a moment she subsided, panting, all too aware of how her exaggerated breathing was making her breasts heave. “I was told you were a gentleman, if still a blackguard and a scoundrel.”

  “Don’t worry.” He sat forward, bringing his face into the brighter light. “Those men didn’t violate you, though I did find this.” He raised a large object and jiggled it.

  It was a moment to identify the thing.

  The French called those godemiche, the English: dildos. Willa swallowed. She was not thanking him.

  “A rescue normally means you set the victim free.”

  “True.” The smile spreading across his face seemed both pitiless and amused. His black hair held slight waves and his eyes… those were as merciless as his mouth.

  Her shiver this time was not due to the cold. He sat back in the chair and crossed one leg over the other, with the dildo sticking up, surely a rude and threatening gesture. His gray suit jacket was unbuttoned, yet every part of him was neat.

  His every-day, British-gentleman appearance seemed so very wrong. If she blinked, perhaps he’d turn into a devil with a tail and horns?

  “Then…” The blockage in her throat was from fear, and he’d see any movement, but she had to swallow before she could say more. “Then set me free.”

  “No. For several reasons.”

  Merde. She only thought the swear word, but again merde.

  “One, you’re a Moriarty and not a plain victim, and I really like the notion of making a Moriarty uncomfortable. Two, for a reason I’ve yet to understand I’m almost forcibly attracted to you, sexually.”

  Merde was too poor a word for that.

  “Three, I suspect you somehow caused this disgustingly involuntary attraction. You’ve cursed my mind so I can barely think past this damnable lust.” His teeth showed. “I saw that machine you want to register at the World’s Fair. Malignant energy? What have you done to me, Miss Moriarty?”

  The silence rankled, thickened, until she must answer.

  “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Please believe me. I did nothing to you.”

  She wrapped her fingers about the ropes and tried to wriggle higher so she could sit up but couldn’t even come close to succeeding.

  “Stuck? Hmmm.” His gaze swept slowly along her body and to her dismay she found herself heating, growing aroused, the nub of flesh below her mons swelling. And she couldn’t hide herself.

  This was embarrassing as well as violating. His gaze, his knowledge of her naked flesh was a humiliation.

  “At least get me a covering, some clothes,” she whispered.

  “No.” He shook his head then stood and circled the table, pausing at the bottom.

  Alarmed, she drew up her legs, before realizing that gave him more to look at. Hurriedly she pressed them flat.

  “Why are you squirming?”

  A glare was her only reply.

  Sherlock paced up the table to her side and hovered his downturned palm above her navel. She flinched. Would he touch her?

  “They say women are the weaker sex, but I’m never sure. You hide secrets quite well.” He moved his palm lower then lower still. As his hand traveled, it was as if he stroked her, until he stopped with it suspended above where the triangle of hair signaled her sex. “What did you do to me?” This time it was he who whispered. “What is malignant energy?”

  “If I tell you, will you…”

  “No. I need more than that. You will not get yourself off the hook by rattling off a few facts. You will cure this affliction of mine. You. Will. Cure it.” He stared at her. “You see, Miss Willa. May I call you that? Ignore that. I am going to anyway. You see, I’m not a gentleman anymore. I will do anything to you that I need to do, to obtain a solution. I suspect this malignant energy has warped me. Your presence, your female scent, your abundantly female body, makes me want to take you into my bed. Or here, on this damned table, with you still a prisoner. Understand me?”

  Speechless she stared back, knowing she was in his power.

  “The only thing stopping me is my brain. I resist. I think.” He thumped his chest. “I know that this is not Sherlock Holmes! Not as I should be.”

  “Oh.” She licked her lips and then froze because he was watching her mouth.

  “Yes. Even that is dangerous. You… naked, tied up. Gah! I’m on the verge of doing what I must not do. Your freedom will wait until you agree to be my servant until this affair is completely sorted out. Until I am myself again.”

  She closed her eyes. “I did not make you into anything, Mr. Holmes. I fear you are simply insane.”

  “Then you do have a lot to worry about.”

  Her heartbeat bumped at her temples and chest, then she felt his breath brush her face. She opened her eyes and found him inches away.

  Kissing distance away.

  That she was tied up should have made her reaction impossible.

  The betraying heat of arousal blossomed further, and her inhalations hastened and became horribly ragged. She struggled to make herself breathe slower, opened her mouth, and reined in her filthy thoughts. This man was an enemy. One shot enemies. A woman did not welcome them between her legs and into her bed. Or vice versa. Bed was first surely?

  Confused, she couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I’ll be gentle.” Again with that smile that settled into a rigidly straight mouth, then a thorough study of her face. “I repeat, is it possible this malignant energy has something to do with what I described?”

  What? She shook herself from her fears and, frowning, considered his theory. “Perhaps? Truthfully, I’ve only measured it, not produced it. Even if I agree to be your damnable servant, I’ve no intention of doing it for more than a day!”

  Immediately, she wished she hadn’t said the last bit. Better to have promised the world.

  “Truthfully?” He turned away, leaving her feeling as if a storm had washed over her. “I don’t believe you. Not yet. Facts are what sway me. The coincidences are too great. For this to appear on the airship and for you to be an expert in something new and never heard of by scientists, it is too much.

  “Do you not know of my connections with the law and Inspector Lestrade?” He paced further away, and she could almost think he recited a shopping list, his tone was so dry. “You are poor, on the verge of being penniless. Despite your surname, you appear friendless, with no connections. And I can show Lestrade that you are associated with the buying and selling of the women on that airship. You are a pariah, a criminal, and you will do my bidding.”

  Saying nothing would be giving in. She never did that without trying all avenues.

  “I’m no criminal. I don’t know for sure who did what with regards to anything on the airship. I paid for my ticket with the small task of being in charge of the bill of lading of the cargo. I know there were wrongdoings, but those were not my doings! I’m a self-taught engineer, a widow, and someone stole what my father left me—thousands of pounds. If we are talking criminal activity, I suspect you stole from the Bank of England!”

  She was so furious tears leaked.

  “Really? I can prove I stole nothing, Miss Willa. On the other hand, if I hear hoofbeats I expect horses, and you are a horse, my dear.” He turned back to her.

  What was this? An insult?

  “Horses? More like unicorns if you speak of this imagined curse, Sherlock Holmes. Let me go! You have no solid proof of any of this.”

  “I don’t need any. I am disturbed enough…” Again his gaze followed the curves of her body. “… to actual
ly fabricate evidence to keep you in line. If your revolver were used to shoot a hole in my shoe, Lestrade would heartily put you in jail. I know people, you don’t.”

  “Maybe I will take that chance.”

  That was better than being his servant. Surely? No matter how much this situation was strangely and bizarrely making her wonder what lay under his shirt and trousers. The man had a good physique, strong hands and arms, and an infuriatingly commanding air.

  It was the commanding air. Her late husband had lacked that.

  “You’d regret it. Our British jails are a cesspit of humanity. You see, I have changed far more than even I like. Lately, I’ve been doing things I wonder about… Have you not wondered what happened to the men who caught you and drugged you, tied you to this table?” He gestured.

  Her throat dried. Her tears of rage seemed stupid now. Premature.

  Had he killed them? She should have considered this. The drug had slowed her.

  “What did you do to them?” she said, horrified.

  Though perhaps they had deserved death? Or even dismemberment. Would he? If anything, killing her molesters was just, and Sherlock was known for his love of the law. Though not for jumping ahead of it?

  She forced a smile. “You know, I don’t care.”

  “Interesting. It speaks volumes about you, Willa.”

  He thought her bad? How ironic. If he had murdered them, then he was worse. “I’ve never murdered anyone.”

  “Perhaps. I haven’t dug up all your history, yet. How many skeletons are in your closet? What happened to your husband in India?”

  “A local influenza. I would never—”

  “No?” He leaned a hand on the table and slowly drummed those long capable-looking fingers near the edge. She couldn’t help twisting her neck a little to look—better than seeing his face. The drumming made her think of a spider running, and she was in such a predicament. Every second he kept her tied up intensified her dread.

  Any decent man would have released her and let her cover herself.

  Like most people she did have skeletons, and she would let him see none of them, despite his not-so-subtle threats.

  “I know about your laudanum habit. It’s a weakness, but then again, so is my cocaine one. We both know the doctors are shaking their fingers at us. I don’t need a signed document from you, Willa. Just a small, yes. You are going to obey me, to answer my questions and do as I ask, or I may be inclined to do worse to you. Far worse.”

  The room shivered into perfect and malevolent clarity.

  This was not the Sherlock she’d been told of.

  “Say the word I want, Miss Moriarty.” He held up the black wooden dildo and rotated it, musing as he watched it turn, as if the thing fascinated him.

  “You will not use that. I know your reputation.” It was a bluff. This time her swallow was treacle slow, while he studied her with assured eyes.

  “This?” He tossed the dildo and caught it. “Whatever gave you that idea? Where were you going next, woman? My associates tell me you’re almost out of funds. Were you really going to give up on your aspirations? On the World’s Fair?”

  The man was giving her whiplash. The truth had often been her best answer, and she’d seen in the past how lies could bite back.

  “I was returning to France to get a job.”

  “Ahhh. Then I offer you this.” He leaned his hip on the table, waving the dildo like a conductor. “I’ll amend my threat. I won’t tell Lestrade about your involvement in the trade of those women. I will promise to get you into the World’s Fair, once your device is mended. I will get your money from the bank and find out who stole it. Good?”

  He glanced at her.

  Too good. “Yes. So far.”

  “In return, you will work for me and obey me in all things and help me solve the problem of whatever afflicts me. If you renege on the agreement, I get to do whatever I feel like to you, including helping Lestrade to investigate you.”

  “I…” She lifted a hand and was jerked to a halt. Ropes, remember. His terms were generous, and she was suspicious. “Obey. In what way?”

  Sherlock’s mouth twitched at one corner.

  Say yes and maybe she could still escape him? Threats only worked while you were near the man making them.

  “In every way.” His gaze drifted to her breasts, lower. “I won’t deceive you. I have lusts that have arrived, uninvited with this… this illness. If not you, I fear it will make me do something rash to some other female. On the airship, I had dark desires when I saw the caged women.” He paused. “I also saw how easily you respond to me. Which I find very curious.” He raised his head. “You will obey me in every way, Wilhelmina Moriarty, or this deal is off.”

  “Oh.” In every way. He’d seen her response? A blush roared to her cheeks. Such devious amusement showed in his expression. The humiliation was nearly intolerable. “You cannot really suggest…”

  “I can. You’ve been married. Sexuality is not new to you.”

  “That’s asking me to be a shlyuha! No lady would agree!”

  “From memory, that’s Russian for whore? You’re a Moriarty. There is a predilection for evil in your family.”

  “There is not! Damn you.”

  “Thank you. I fear we may both be damned.”

  Her mind ran through all the many impossible ways to escape, but mostly she wished she’d never looked in the window of this house.

  A World’s Fair entry. Her freedom if she helped him. Her money returned, and perhaps revenge on the salaud who stole it? Was his foul requirement so bad? She made herself think. It was and it wasn’t. She’d almost fallen into worse ways, once—when Frederick died.

  After several seconds that were definitely longer than any scientific measurement of time, she said a quiet, “Yes. I agree.”

  “To obey me?”

  “Yes.” Parts of her cringed. What had she done?

  Her words echoed, settling into her bones and flesh like the ashes of a fire drifting down. She’d destroyed a little of herself saying that. It was not merely her yes that bothered her. No, not at all. It was the incandescent and carnal thrill she’d felt saying it, while this man with the hawk nose, the tousled dark hair, and the scythe-like brain stared down at her. No doubt, he’d noted all of her words and planted them in some deep, dark, and permanent cache in his mind.

  Firmly, she added, “If any of your promises fail, you will compensate me.”

  “Of course.”

  Said too easily. How much could she trust this new version of Sherlock Holmes?

  “Your first piece of obedience will be to lie still while I untie you. Say, yes, sir.”

  Then he halted, watching her closely.

  Or else he wouldn’t do it, was the unspoken part of that.

  Ohhh, he provoked her so easily.

  She pinched her lips, struggling against her natural inclinations, but then obeyed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Willa shut her eyes while he put those heavy male fingers to work undoing the knots, slipping off the ropes, and caressing her wrists. He smelled so good to her that she was concerned for her own sanity.

  Then she looked at him, into his blue-green eyes, and she held his gaze.

  He thought he owned her? She would prove him wrong.

  7

  The Rules

  With the final loop of rope slipped from her wrist, Willa struggled to rise, and he assisted her with one hand at her back and the other clasped on her fingers. She was clearly surprised that he helped her. The bun at the back of her head was in disarray—the pins and so on must have fallen out. Her loosened hair fell over her eyes, the little curls swaying. The redness, as before, entranced him. It was such a pure and lovely shade.

  That she looked out through the strands like some trapped wild animal, with the rest of her unclothed and her small hands shifting nervously from the table to her thighs, that too entranced.

  “Your coat?” She wrapped her arms
over her breasts.

  There really needed to be some rules in place early. Sherlock cocked his head, thinking.

  “Put your arms down and let me see you, then I’ll let you get dressed. Your clothes are there.” He pointed across the table to the other side. The men had dumped everything of hers in a pile.

  “What?” Willa peered out at him, arms locked over her precious assets, and how well that emphasized the fullness beneath, for her breasts bulged above her arms. He’d pay to see the perfect pale brown circles of her areolas. Or he would if she were a whore.

  She was not one. She was something that could be far better than a whore. Even now the possibilities were unwinding.

  Already he suspected her of truthfulness.

  A rarity in some people and a shock to find it in a Moriarty.

  “Willa. Lower your arms.”

  “I am—”

  “My servant, and more.” He moved his legs further apart, standing solidly, and realized he craved more than simple obedience. He craved willing obedience where she agreed because of reasons he only glimpsed. This was new territory for him but ever so intriguing.

  One step at a time.

  “I promise not to hurt you.”

  She blinked several times then ventured, slowly, “You already scared me.”

  “And I saved you from worse.”

  He stepped closer to her until he could rest his chin on her head, if he leaned in.

  “Do as I say. Lower your arms, then you can dress, and I will give you something to eat. You must be starving.” The sandwich she’d eaten would barely be enough for a mouse.

  “And if I don’t?”

  He saw the shiver, saw the nip of her teeth on her bottom lip, and wanted to shove his hand between her legs and feel her there.

  Holding himself back was a good exercise. He must remain himself as much as goddamned possible. He took several breaths.

  “Then I will give you to Lestrade. As I said I would.”

  Of course she didn’t know what he did, that he’d paid those men to abduct her, drug her, prepare her for him. The new Sherlock stomped on the truth when he had to. Ironic, when he wanted her to help him get back to normal.