His Clockwork Canary (13 page)

“Baltic oot there, yeah?” The Squire’s cook, known as McLaughlin, greeted him with
a tray of aromatic food. “Ye might consider a cap and mitts fer the future.”

No doubt his hair was wind tossed and his fingers ice-cold as he relieved her of the
tray.

“A bowl of hearty cock-a-leekie soup, a wedge of warm brown bread, and a pot of hot
tea.” McLaughlin gave a curt nod, then waddled off. “Hope yer friend is up and aboot
soon,” she tossed over her shoulder.

As in,
hurry up and get the bloody hell out of here
? Simon was aware he’d courted gossip by refusing to let the chambermaid into his
room, taking the fresh linens and saying he’d fend for himself. The staff knew he’d
moved Willie into his room, and they knew the kid was injured or sickly. The owner
had seen Simon carrying her upstairs the day she’d been o’blasterated.

Had they been up to some criminal shenanigans?

Were they homosexual lovers?

Was Willie contagious?

Let them ponder and talk. The Darcys had been at the root of gossip for decades. Simon
couldn’t care less. What he cared about was seeing Willie fit and under his protection.
What he cared about was catching up to that Houdinian, making him pay for his odious
attack, confiscating the clockwork propulsion engine, and winning the jubilee prize.
Providing for his family and future wife and restoring honor to the Darcy name and
his father’s memory. Grabbing a bit of glory and respect for himself.
That
was what Simon cared about.

Juggling his purchases and the food tray, Simon opened the door to his rented room
and froze. What the . . . ? The bed was rumpled and empty, with Wilhelmina nowhere
in sight. Heart thudding, he set the tray on a table, then noticed the closed door
of the loo. Knocking instead of pounding—or, hell, bursting in—was an effort. “Willie?”

“One moment.”

Her voice sounded weak, but at least she was all right. Relatively speaking.

Simon shrugged out of his coat. He rubbed warmth back into his icy hands whilst keeping
an eye on that bloody door and listening for an ominous crash or thud. He heard nothing.
One moment stretched to three or four. “Willie?” No answer. “Mina?” Dammit!

The door creaked open. “Sorry.” She cradled her injured arm as she moved gingerly
toward a chair. “I wanted to wash up a bit.”

“You couldn’t wait until I got back? What if you’d tripped? Passed out?”

“I managed,” she said, fumbling to tighten the sash of the robe she’d pulled on—a
hideous, oversized dressing gown, manly like the rest of the Canary’s wardrobe.

Brow raised, Simon procured the newly purchased soap from his bag. “For what it’s
worth, I brought you a fresh bar of soap.”

She sniffed and frowned. “It smells girly.”

“You
are
a girl, Mina.”

“Not outside of this room. And I prefer
Willie
.
Mina
 . . . she’s not cut out for this world.”

What the devil?

She nodded toward the food. “Is this for me?”

“It is. Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“I’ll take that as a good sign.” Simon abandoned the soap, and eased into a seat across
from hers, wondering at her distant tone and manner. “Something happen whilst I was
out?”

“No.”

He didn’t believe her. He wanted to pry, but he also wanted her to fill her belly.
The faster she regained full strength and health, the sooner they could move on and
resume their expedition. “Need help?” he asked as she tried buttering the bread, one-handed,
left-handed.

“I’ll manage.”

That phrase was beginning to grate. Without asking, he poured them both a cup of tea,
then sat back as she peppered her soup. She’d scrubbed her face and combed her hair,
tucking the shaggy locks behind her ears and exposing creamy earlobes that he found
quite lovely. He remembered suckling those soft lobes—teasing, seducing, making her
squirm with desire.

Simon’s own desire flared and he stifled a colorful curse. There was nothing provocative
about her attire, nothing overtly alluring about her fresh face and unfashionable
hair, yet he burned to make love to this woman. Shifting, he sought distraction via
the tabloid he abhorred.

“You purchased the
London Informer
?” she asked.

“I did.”

“But you favor the
Victorian Times
.”

“I bought this for you.” He peered around the newssheet, noting her look of surprise
and the blush of her cheeks.

“Any news regarding the Triple R Tourney?” she asked, dipping a hunk of bread in her
soup.

“Front page.”

“Headline?”

“‘Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

“Titillating,” she said around a mouthful. “Dawson’s work.”

“Who’s Dawson?”

“Artemis Dawson. Managing editor. My boss. The one who insisted I get the scoop on
you and your quest, the manipulative sod.”

“Ah.”

“What else?” she asked.

Curious himself, Simon read the article aloud. “‘According to an inside source, Her
Majesty Queen Victoria has embraced the Triple R Tourney sponsored by an anonymous
benefactor via the British Science Museum. Celebrating inventions of historical significance
not only honors Prince Albert’s passion for science, but maintains the queen’s conviction
to focus on past accomplishments rather than encourage the pursuit and development
of anachronistic marvels beyond our natural scope. Old Worlders celebrate any cause
for the reclusive queen’s enthusiasm and therefore rejoice in the mounting excitement
of the Triple R. Outspoken New Worlders continue to condemn the suppression of technological
knowledge and ideological preachings of the twentieth-century Peace Rebels. Rumblings
of an underground rebellion have jubilee coordinators on their proverbial toes, although
they have assured our source that the threat of violence will not dampen the festivities.
Voice your opinion to the editor. The Triple R Tourney—Royal Rejuvenation or Royal
Mistake?’”

Simon furrowed his brow and skimmed the article a second time. “I don’t like the sound
of this.”

“Which part?”

“The underground rebellion part.” Simon eyed Willie closely. Since his return, she’d
yet to meet his gaze. “Are you part of the Freak Fighter movement?”

“What do you know of the Freak Fighters?”

“Very little. Rumors. News bits.”

“I do not advocate violent measures.”

“But you are a part of the movement.”

That
earned her full attention. “What if I am?”

“Just want to know where I stand. What I’m in for.”

“My social and political convictions have nothing to do with you, Simon Darcy.”

“Oh, but they do, sweetheart.” Simon leaned forward, his gaze intense. “You are going
to marry me, Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

So little rattled Willie anymore and yet these past few days she’d been shaken about
like a rag doll and spun like a top. But nothing had shocked her more than Simon’s
matrimonial bombshell. Appetite obliterated, she set aside her flatware and palmed
the table. She would not, under any circumstance, betray the trembling of her hands.
“Perhaps my senses are addled from the catacombs mishap, but was that a proposal?”

“It was not. I proposed twelve years ago. On bended knee, heart in hand, if memory
serves. You accepted. I’m merely asking you make good on your promise.”

Willie gaped. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she sought to make sense of the
moment. Was she still unconscious? Hallucinating? Was this a dream or some subconscious
manifestation of a buried yearning? “Why?”

“I want to gift you with a certain amount of freedom. As my wife you could tell that
manipulative sod, Artemis Dawson, to go to hell. As my wife you would not need to
ensure your job at the
Informer
. You would not need to work.”

“Never mind that I
want
to work. I have a family to support.”

“The family that betrayed you?” He shook his head, held up an apologetic hand. “Not
for me to judge. I’m sure they had your best interest at heart.”

Willie was, in fact, unsure of her family’s motivation. Especially Wesley’s. Her father,
however . . . She could not imagine that his agenda was anything but well-intentioned.
“Let us backtrack. You want to
gift
me? With marriage? How is that a gift? It would bind me to you, make me accountable
to you.”

“A limited perception.”

“An accurate perception.”

“You twist my intent.”

“You assume I need saving.”

“Truly?” Simon narrowed his eyes. “Is it truly an assumption, Willie? Or an obvious
conclusion? Your modest and worn wardrobe suggests there is little left over from
your salary once you provide for your father. I would wager you live on a shoestring.
In addition, in order to maintain your position at the
Informer
, you are forced to deny your gender and alter your physical appearance. Do you not
tire of slathering your beautiful pale skin with that noxious tanning agent? Do you
not miss your natural, luxurious red hair? I recall you delighted in fashioning your
long tresses into imaginative styles. And I’m quite certain you were keen on pretty
gowns.”

Her heart ached, remembering how she’d once looked, how she’d once felt. But that
free-spirited innocence, that girlish indulgence, was long gone. “I told you. Mina
is dead.”

“Not dead. Hiding.”

Left hand planted on the table for support, Willie pushed out of her chair. Perhaps
it was the fortifying meal. Perhaps it was the panicked adrenaline coursing through
her veins, but her legs felt strong enough to carry her away from the table. Away
from Simon. She leaned against the window sash and gazed through the frosty pane.
The chill icing down her spine had nothing to do with the wintry scene and everything
to do with the telecoded message she’d received whilst Simon had been out. That infernal
device had blipped from her duster pocket and she’d hobbled across the room in a panicked
sweat. Had it blipped in the two days she’d been in a state of delirium? Had Simon
heard it? Had he deciphered the code? Did he know she was in league with Strangelove,
a man intent on seizing Simon’s targeted invention? Mind racing, guilt churning, she
had checked the small screen, mentally altering the numbers to letters.

Betray me, Goodenough, and I will crush your family.

She did not need to be reminded of Strangelove’s initial threat, but the message had
indeed introduced a sense of urgency to her recuperation. Someway, somehow, she needed
to thwart that wicked man. She doubted Strangelove had put all of his eggs in one
basket. Surely he had other spies nosing about. And now, because of her, Jefferson
Filmore was on the run with an invention that could cause great harm in the wrong
hands. What if the Houdinian was careless and fell prey to one of Strangelove’s cohorts?
What if Strangelove intended to use the Peace Rebels’ engine for devious means? What
if it landed on the black market?

Willie’s stomach churned with a sense of dread. She couldn’t shake the memory,
Filmore’s
memory, of her mother. In modern times, Michelle Goodenough had been a security specialist.
How was it that she’d ended up in league with Filmore, a fanatical peace activist?
Why had they conspired to keep the clockwork propulsion engine in deep hiding as opposed
to destroying it?

Willie felt the weight of the world, indeed the
fate
of the world, upon her injured shoulder. In tandem Simon was meddling with her heart.
She braced as he moved in behind her, wrapped strong arms around her middle, and held
her in a gentle embrace. The scent of faded soap had never been so tantalizing. The
feel of his stubbled jaw brushing against her smooth cheek never so seductive.

“Marry me,” he persisted in a low, sensual voice. “We were good together once. It
could be so again.”

He said nothing of love, but of course they were very different people now. The love
of their youth was but a bittersweet memory. Even so, a fierce longing scraped Willie’s
soul. “Marriage is not permitted between Vics and Freaks.”

“Anything can be bought in Skytown,” he said calmly. “Even a marriage certificate.”

Skytowns operated “above the law.” Most flew the flag of the Peace Rebels, welcoming
Mods and Freaks to socialize openly on the floating pleasure meccas. The meccas also
appealed to adventurous Vics seeking a scandalous good time, as well as assorted corrupt
and dubious scoundrels. Oh, aye, anything could be purchased in Skytown, but that
did not mean that, once upon the ground, the marriage would be legal.

As if sensing her apprehension, Simon nipped her earlobe, inciting a delicious shiver.
“How far did you take the ruse, Willie?”

Her breath caught as she fought off a knee-buckling wave of desire. “What do you mean?”

“In denying your gender, did you also deny yourself the company of men?”

“Intimacy would not have been wise,” she said. And honestly, she had not deemed any
man enticing enough to risk her anonymity.

“Ten years is a long time.”

Twelve, she wanted to correct. She had not been with any man since Simon. But she
would not admit that, as it would afford him too much power, and she was already bending
to his will. She did not resist when he gently turned her in his arms. Nor did she
protest when he cradled the side of her face, his fingers threading through her hair.
She relished the headiness of the moment, the anticipation of a kiss. Her heart nearly
stopped when his lips brushed over hers, then stuttered back to glorious life as his
mouth laid claim. This kiss was not meant to comfort, she thought hazily. It was designed
to seduce.

Willie gave over, reaching up with her good hand and grasping the back of Simon’s
neck. She pulled him closer, opened her mouth, and took the kiss deeper. Oh, aye,
she remembered how it was done, what Simon liked. Eyes closed, her mind regressed.
At once, she was sixteen and consumed with heart-pounding, stomach-fluttering love
for the young rogue who’d stolen her heart. Fearless and curious, eager to please
and to be pleasured, she saw no shame in exploring the sexual universe with the man
who’d pledged deep affection until his dying day.

Lost in passionate euphoria, Willie pressed against her lover, feeling the evidence
of his arousal, which only intensified her fierce and consuming hunger.

Groaning low, Simon unknotted her sash, reached beneath her robe, and palmed her breast
through her thin nightshirt.

Blimey.

She could scarcely breathe. Yet she needed more. She straddled his thigh and continued
to rock her hips, giving over to the sensual pressure building in her core as the
kiss turned wilder, his touch more brazen. It had been so long and never this riotous.

Willie exploded—an earthshaking climax that left her breathless and weak in the knees.

“Good God,” Simon said, holding her close. “Did you—”

“Aye.” She rested her cheek against his chest, entranced by the rapid, heavy thud
of his heart. Once she recovered, she was most certain she would be embarrassed by
this brazen display, but for now, she simply marveled in the magic. It was as if the
years had faded away. Willie’s defenses floundered as did her energy.

Shoulder throbbing and her right arm queerly numb, she did not protest when Simon
lifted her into his arms and laid her upon the bed.

Raw desire sparked in his eyes. “If it weren’t for your shoulder—”

“My shoulder need not factor in.” She ached far more in other places. Rusty in the
art of flirting, she quirked what she hoped was a saucy grin. “I’ll just lay here
and enjoy.”

“Sweet Christ.” Simon blew out a breath, then pulled his shirt over his head. “I’ll
be gentle.”

“I was hoping for spectacular,” she said whilst ogling his magnificent bare torso.

He grinned at that, tripping her pulse further as he peeled off his trousers. They
had never made love in the light of day. She had not realized the thrill she’d missed
out upon. Simon Darcy’s body was a work of art much like the engineering marvels he
designed.

“I’ll save spectacular until you are fully healed. For now,” he said whilst skimming
his hands up her thighs and hiking her nightshirt to her waist, “you’ll have to settle
for skilled.”

She parted her legs, expecting him to enter, to ease her ache, but instead he lowered
his head between her thighs and pressed his mouth to her intimate juncture. Oh, aye,
this was new. This was scandalous. Yet she had no wish to stop him as his lips and
tongue worked astonishing magic.

His palms branded her quivering thighs. His mouth drove her to distraction. She scaled
passionate heights she’d yet to experience. She felt positively dizzy. Deliciously
wanton. Clutching his broad shoulder, she cried out his name as her body trembled,
then shattered with glorious, heart-pounding release.

Bleary-eyed, Willie stared up at the cracked ceiling. “Oh, aye. Most skilled,” she
managed, her chest and lungs burning, her body sated.

Simon moved over her, on top of her, his gorgeous face looking down at her. “There’s
more. If you deem yourself able.”

She would not have thought it possible, as she was fully satisfied, but she experienced
a desirous pang. Living in the moment, she held his gaze, trailed her left hand down
his strong back, and wiggled her hips. “Do not disappoint, Mr. Darcy.”

“Challenge accepted, Miss Goodenough.”

She was slick with want, delirious with need, and yet he hesitated when he breached
her womanly walls. She surmised he was surprised by the tight fit, but then he kissed
her wantonly and plunged deep.

Willie’s emotions danced as Simon reawakened the woman she’d abandoned long ago. So
beautiful, so exciting . . . so
troubling
. She pushed the latter thought aside. She would live in the moment because this moment
might not come again.

“Willie,” he bade as he rocked her to orgasm. “Open your eyes.”

But he would then see her as a Freak. She ignored his command until he stilled.

He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, nipped her lower lip. “I want to see you when
I come. The real you,” he emphasized.

That caught her off guard and her lids flew open.

Simon cradled her face and held her gaze as he resumed his skilled and sensual mating.

Mesmerized, enchanted, and seduced, Willie climaxed in tandem with the love of her
youth.

“Sweet Christ,” he whispered as he collapsed upon her.

Indeed,
was her only coherent thought.