Scarlet Devices (10 page)

And so on, the arguments continued. Eliza let the words wash over her as she gazed across the newly opened chasm to the road beyond. At its edges, the gap encroached on the surrounding scrub and forest, but she could see a way around on the right-hand side. It would be harrowing, and she would simply have to hope that the ground didn't give way any further under her steam car's weight, but it was as good an option as any other. And this was still a race; the only way to go was forward.

“Eliza! Where are you going?” Matthew called after her, inevitably.

She had already started her car and backed up to turn off the road when he reached her window and gripped the frame.

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded.

She threw the car into gear and revved it gently, allowing the boiler time to reheat. “The same thing all of you will decide to do when you're through discussing it. I'm driving on to St. Louis and then to the checkpoint. We can't help Lazaris or Van der Grouten, and we need to get to a town and let somebody in authority know what's happened to them. There's no point in lingering here. For all we know the saboteurs are out there in the woods, waiting for us all to assemble so they can wipe out the rest of us at one time.”

“Or they could have set any number of these tripwires up ahead. You need to
think
, Eliza. This is the flaming pit all over again,
already
.”

“Or they could have rigged an avalanche or set a dam to burst and flood the roadway somewhere past Dodge City, or perhaps they're behind that tree there with a bloody big shotgun. Perhaps they know the truth about the tainted air over the Sierra Nevada and they're already on the other side now, ready to have a good laugh when we start plummeting from the sky like so many downed geese. We can
think
all we like, but we can't
know
. In this case the flaming pit is the entire circumstance, Matthew, and you're in it too. It's either go on or stop the race. So I'm going on.”

“Will you wait for me, at least? Let me follow you.”

“You will be following me,” she pointed out, “because I'll be ahead of you. I'll see you at the checkpoint, Matthew.”

 • • • 

W
HEN HE FINALLY
caught sight of her car again, that reassuring blaze of red, they were already past St. Louis. He assumed she had stopped in the city to notify somebody of the accident, but the authorities must not have detained her for long. From the city limit they had another two hours' drive or so to the checkpoint where they would make camp for the night, but it seemed to take days. His mind was full of the horrors he'd seen earlier, the scorched and smoking remains in the charred hulks of steam cars, boilers twisted and skewed into shreds by the force of the explosion. The smell seemed to linger in his clothes.

How could she be so calm, so resolved? For the first time it occurred to Matthew that Eliza had a strength he'd never fully appreciated, one that had nothing to do with physicality and everything to do with determination. Whatever she chose to do, she did with such singular focus and intensity that he wondered if she would ever have the attention to spare for another person in her life.

Dexter should have set Eliza to guard
him
instead of the other way around. If he had, she would have stuck by him with the same bullheadedness she was currently using to beat his time to the checkpoint. She'd been right, of course. They had all decided to continue, in the end, because there was really no other viable choice. Any decision to stop the race would have to be made by the rally committee, not by an assortment of frightened drivers at the side of the road. None of them were willing to backtrack and risk forfeiting the race. That meant proceeding to the checkpoint camp at the very least. All they'd lost by their discussion of what to do was time.

On the other hand, she'd turned to him at the most extreme moment and let him hold her. The simple truth of that gave him hope. But he knew he must borrow a page from Eliza's book, and take a risk if he wanted to advance. He needed to tell her how he felt.

He would tell her tonight. And pray that he survived to see the morning.

The decision made him feel steadier, more purposeful. It gave him another mission to think about, one other than the hopeless task of finding Phineas and the risky venture of attempting to win the rally. A shorter-term goal, but with the potential for longer-term gain.

The mood around the campfire that night was strained. There was laughter aplenty, but it was too shrill and held a frantic edge. The tents were pitched around the edges of the clearing, but most of the racers and the few officials in attendance huddled near the fire far into the night, reluctant to leave the group.

Moreau had taken the opportunity to spring his surprise, opening several of his hampers and boxes to reveal a startling array of portable cooking equipment and all the makings of a feast for the full company. He'd stopped in St. Louis for fresh bread, but he'd brought everything else with him. Camembert with a fricassee of nuts and wild mushrooms, to start.

Matthew joined Whitcombe on one of the logs laid out for seating near the fire. Moreau had already secured Eliza a seat near his portable kitchen and seemed nearly as concerned for her mental well-being as he was for the Watchmaker's. The food was clearly his way of offering comfort, and even in his foul humor Matthew had to admit the method wasn't all bad.

“
Je regrette
,” Moreau announced to the group as they started on the creamy cheese and lightly warmed bread. “I intended a more festive occasion, and the wine I prefer with Camembert is champagne, so . . .” He uncorked the bottles with as little fanfare as possible, and from his seemingly bottomless hampers produced champagne glasses for all of them. It lent the already somber gathering an air of the surreal.

“Where has he been getting the ice?” Whitcombe wondered, studying the pale golden wine that glowed amber in the firelight. Condensation frosted the glass, testifying to the chill Moreau had somehow arranged.

“The hotels, I suppose. Or perhaps he's wired ahead for some things,” Madame Barsteau said from the adjacent log. “He's done it before. Four years ago at the Paris-Dakar, he treated us all to
croquembouche
after a meal of
cailles en escabèche
. I have no idea how it's all managed, but I believe the consortium subsidizes his culinary flights of fancy to help cultivate his image as a suave madcap. And in this instance, I suppose to help him put weight on the competition.”

Looking around at the gathering, Matthew noted the dynamics revealing themselves under the increased tension. Cantlebury, who normally affected complete indifference to Lavinia Speck so as to avoid gossip, was sitting close to her and leaning in to talk quietly. It was just the two of them on their log.

Madame Barsteau and Miss Davis, who were normally quite companionable, sat together but looked wary of one another. Beyond them, Parnell and the other two Dominion drivers, Jensen and Jones, hunkered in a loose grouping that spoke more of isolation from the other clusters than camaraderie between themselves. Any other night, Jensen would be surreptitiously watching Parnell, copying his mannerisms. Parnell seemed to find the hero-worship amusing and occasionally threw out gestures that were obviously intended to gain Jensen's interest, like adjusting the brim of his hat with a certain flourish, or brushing his coat back on one side as though revealing a six-shooter on his hip. Not tonight, though. Tonight neither of them had the spirit for that.

Everyone looked equally shaken. Matthew gazed from face to face, trying to discern whether any one of them might be a plant, an agent of whoever had killed Van der Grouten and Lazaris. He agreed with Whitcombe that the explosion had been large enough even without the factor of the sinkhole to destroy any vehicle that tripped the wire. The bomber had either intended a driver to die, or not cared that death might result.

“Do you think Smith-Grenville really was ill? What if he was poisoned? Are we safe eating this French mess?”

Whitcombe had asked too quietly for anyone else to hear, and Matthew gave his question serious thought before answering. “I don't know too much about poisons, but an agent that slow, one that also caused a fever and other symptoms of influenza? It seems unlikely, and damned inefficient, especially since it's obvious whoever's behind this doesn't mind killing. No, I think it was just bad luck. I only hope none of the rest of us are incubating whatever Barnabas had. And as for Moreau, I think he'd feel it was a mortal sin to taint good food that way. I also don't think he'd be stupid enough to try to poison us all at once if he wanted the win. Surely that would be grounds for disqualification.”

“That's a relief.” The big man swilled half his glass of champagne in one go, earning a frown across the campfire from Moreau. “I would have hated to miss the main course; apparently he's been cooking it up all day. Has a special pot rigged up in his boiler. It's quite ingenious.”

The pot held a savory
boeuf bourguignon
, tender and rich, which Moreau served with a complex burgundy and a discussion of the merits of the pinot noir grape. He delivered that information primarily to Eliza, not to the group as a whole. But Matthew was listening. And watching Eliza, who smiled and nodded and seemed captivated far more than mere courtesy required. The Frenchman was a bit thick around the middle, and graying at the temples, but still exuded a smooth charm that ladies no doubt found appealing.

“He's too old for her,” he muttered at one point, prompting a snort from Whitcombe.

“If you think she's remotely interested in the chef, you're more thick than I thought. And that's saying something, Pence.”

Matthew socked Whitcombe on the arm in a friendly way and was surprised when the sudden motion sent them both swaying. He'd had too much wine, as they all had.

“Was that Phineas's picture you were showing around back in Meridian, by the way? Is Smith-Grenville really still bent on finding him?”

Matthew had the daguerrotype of Phineas in his naval uniform in a protective glassine envelope, and he'd been dutifully showing it to all and sundry whenever he stopped. Nobody had seen the young man, of course. He wondered if Phineas was even recognizable as the man in the picture any more. The last time Matthew had seen him, he'd dropped an alarming amount of weight, his hair was unkempt and his face unshaven. But it was the blank, uncaring stare that changed his aspect so much from the bright, enthusiastic young man he'd once been. Before the opium. The drug had stolen his soul, Matthew thought. Barnabas was convinced otherwise.

“It's only been a year since he lost touch. The last he heard, Phineas was headed for the Dominions. I think Barnabas didn't realize how
big
it is here, until he arrived. Back in London it didn't seem so hopeless. But if it were one of your brothers, would you give up looking?”

“Depends which brother we're talking about. I have several I wouldn't spare a piss for if they were on fire,” Whitcombe quipped. “I take your point, however. If you have another copy of that thing I'll spend some time flashing it about, wherever I wind up when I'm through with the rally.”

“San Francisco?”

“We all know I won't make it that far. It's not like I could pack a cargo dirigible, and that's what it would take to lug my arse over the mountains in any reasonable amount of time. I'll be lucky to make it to Salt Lake by the time the rest of you are boarding the cruise vessel for the ride home.”

The season and circumstances making salad impracticable, Moreau had opted for lightly sautéed haricots verts with a hint of garlic, followed by more cheese. And more wine, so much wine. Matthew watched Eliza across the fire, the heat making an indistinct ripple of her face. She looked like something from a dream, hazy and unreachable. He passed the bottle along the next time one made its way around the company, sensing that he was already nearing the point of inevitable regret where alcohol was concerned. Eliza had been wiser, taking only a small splash of each offering, but she still looked affected.

She had earned a little forgetfulness. They all had, that day. But Matthew didn't think Moreau had earned the right to leer at Eliza's mouth as she forked in a dainty mouthful of vegetables with obvious enjoyment. He narrowed his eyes at the scene, catching Eliza's glare in return. She stabbed a single green bean with her utensil and, holding his attention, bared her pearly teeth. Then she bit the bean in two with a single neat snap.

E
LIZA COULDN'T HELP
but snicker at Matthew's expression when she emasculated her bean at him. She'd been sorely tempted to stick out her tongue. Unkind perhaps, but she was tired of seeing him frown at her when she hadn't done anything to deserve censure. She'd had more than enough of that lately. Besides, the dinner was worth enjoying, and little else that day had been cause for happiness. Moreau had earned a smile or two at the very least.

It might have been the wine, but Eliza had a sense of well-being and belonging in the racers' camp that night and didn't want it spoiled. Mostly, she wanted to do something,
anything
, to put the day's events out of mind. Eating delicious food, drinking excellent wine, these things helped.

Dessert seemed likely to help as well.

“
Clafoutis
?” asked Madame Barsteau, eyeing the pans Moreau produced next. “
Comment confortable
.”

“I thought it appropriate,” he replied.

Over the cherry-filled cake, Moreau served a heavy hazelnut cream. Eliza thought of her corset, her costume choices for the morrow, and ate a large helping anyway. Matthew glared at her again when she separated a piece of fruit from its pastry mortar and ate it by itself, dredging it first in cream. Tipsy, irritated, she repeated the act and watched, fascinated, as his eyes glazed over.

That was not entirely a look of disapproval
.

Interesting as it was to toy with her food and Matthew at the same time, Eliza knew she should retire soon. She'd overindulged in both despair and alcohol, and her only hope of not being miserable tomorrow was to sleep off the wine and tears.

She wasn't surprised, however, when sleep evaded her. Even removing her constricting stays and donning a night rail gave her none of the usual pleasure and ease. Muscles tight, heart heavy, she lay on her cot and tried to clear her mind, but nothing would erase the picture of smoldering rubble, the smell, the glimpse into the hellish pit where two of her colleagues had died.

The only respite was no relief at all—those moments when her mind instead recalled the slap of the placard against her window, the cruel shunning by the ladies of the Temperance Society, even the way Barnabas Smith-Grenville had slumped to the ground.

The night was cooling, but the air in the tent was stagnant and stifling. Giving up on her attempt to sleep, Eliza decided on a walk instead. Perhaps the clear air would clear her mind as well. Donning her slippers and poking her head out of the tent flap, she scanned the campsite. The fire was nearly gone, down to embers that did nothing to illuminate the clearing. Across the encampment, Miss Davis sat in front of her tent, smoking a cigarette, staring into the night. None of the others appeared to be out and about.

Taking a chance, Eliza stepped out and slipped into the woods, treading carefully until she was certain she was far enough from the camp not to draw attention.

She knew the oaks and hickories, but couldn't begin to name all the other trees she passed in the moonlight. Nor did she recognize the creatures making up that evening's symphony, only that the noises were similar to those she was used to at home but different enough to sound new at the same time. The drive, the meal, the tent, the rituals of bedtime, those were all experiences she'd had, to one extent or another. But this—the night air against her barely covered skin, the freedom of walking outside without the constrictions of her usual garments, the forest full of things neither she nor anyone in her family had seen or heard before—this was
new
, truly new to her. And it made
her
feel new, full of potential.

A world of possibility rose in her mind, taking the place of the day's horrors. Twigs and other forest debris crackled under the glove-soft kid of her slippers, and the smell of old wood, rich loam and spring leaves rose around her. Old, but also
new
. And this was only one forest, in one Dominion not so very far from home. What else might she find if she continued looking? Other forests, other landscapes, other people. Other
worlds
. How could she have planned to stay in New York when there was all this and more waiting for her to discover it?

Another sound registered, setting Eliza on alert. A heavy tread on the forest floor, somewhere close by.

“Who's there?” she whispered, cursing herself for her foolishness. It could be anything. A reporter hoping to find some sort of scoop on the racers. A local farmboy bent on mischief or worse. A wolf, a bear. And she had pranced forth into this wilderness to enjoy the night without so much as a good solid stick to swing in her own defense.

Easy enough to remedy. The woods were full of sticks. She grabbed the nearest fallen branch of appropriate size, hoping there were no spiders or other nasty crawlies on it.

“Who goes there?” she called, more confident now that she had her stick.

“It's only me.”

“Oh, for—” Flinging the branch down, she brushed her hands clean then braced them on her hips. “Honestly, this is ridiculous. You stare daggers at me all night for enjoying my food, then follow me out here? Why, to scold me or to rescue me? I don't want rescuing, Matthew. A girl simply needs a few moments of privacy on occasion.”

“Who says I followed you out here to rescue you?” Matthew stepped closer, his eyes unreadable in the twilight gloom. Eliza could see his mouth curving up, a secret smile that made her want to touch his lips. Pushing the thought firmly aside, she folded her arms and stared him down.

“What then? Raccoon hunting? Planning a midnight swim? There are large predators in these woods, you know, you really ought to be more careful.”

He took another step, bringing him within inches of her, and Eliza's plan to stand her ground fell apart. She backed up two steps, then a large tree stopped her retreat. Her heart raced as Matthew pressed the advantage, closing the distance and bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders.

“I'm the large predator.”

A hot thrill swirled through her body, tingling its way through every forbidden zone.

“You've had too much wine.”

“So have you. But it was good wine.”

“I'm your prey, then, am I? Are you planning to de-vour me?”

He was close enough now for her to see the gleam of dark humor and heightened desire that altered his expression, to grasp that she'd said something inappropriate. Eliza felt a flush that had nothing to do with shame. She wondered what she'd said, to make him react that way.

“I might, at that. I'll bet you're delicious. My God, and you're all but naked. Eliza, tell me to go away.”

Oh, inches now. She could feel his breath, warmer than the cooling night breeze against her face. Sweetened by wine and pastry, tempting beyond hope of reason. She didn't wish him away any more than he wanted to go.

He whispered it again. “Tell me to go away.”

But his lips were already brushing hers, stealing away the last of her sense and replacing it with sensation. Soft breath, soft lips and the harsh counterpoint of his day's growth of stubble. Eliza shivered, and the heat inside her flared, unexpected and unsettling.

When Matthew's tongue swept between her lips, she gasped at the novel feeling, the sweetness of the invasion. It was gentle only for a moment, until she ventured to return the gesture. Something seemed to break inside him then and his kiss turned into an explicit assault, while he pinned her to the rough bark of the tree with his lean body.

Eliza knew how the sexual act was performed, the various parts that came into play, even the definitive feat of male hydraulics at the end. She'd seen a mare covered by a stallion, several incidents of cattle mating, and once—to her mother's eternal horror—an extended session between one of her father's foxhounds and a delicate spaniel bitch, on the lawn during a formal garden party. Neither those illuminating observations, nor her two previous kisses with bold young men at parties, nor her one experimental Sapphic interlude while away at University, had prepared Eliza for the swell of emotional and physical response to Matthew's attentions. She simply hadn't realized his tongue sweeping over hers would cause her heart to palpitate that way, or that his hands . . .

Oh.
Oh
. He pulled her closer with one hand at the small of her back, but with the other he drew a teasing line from her waist upward, coming to rest with his thumb and index finger bracketing one of her breasts. Her nipple swelled, knotting itself into a keen point of anticipation beneath the barely adequate covering of her night rail. Thin, impractical cotton lawn that might as well be transparent for all the good it did to conceal her response to him.

She didn't want to conceal it. This was a night for her to embrace new things, and this was the most wonderful new thing yet. She wanted Matthew to do more, more things she could react to, more magical conjuring of these fantastic urges from her body that had previously been so predictable to her. His touch seemed to turn her into a different creature, a wild and impetuous beast, and she wanted to rampage into the night and do every shameless thing she could with him.

He tasted of wine again tonight, still sweet but with a souring bite, and of hazelnut cream and of something that made her suspect she wouldn't care if he'd just eaten a handful of scallions—she'd still want to keep kissing him. Neither of the other boys nor the girl had tasted so good, felt so good, and now Matthew's hand was slipping up again, crumpling delicate fabric against skin.

Eliza arched into his touch, a moan escaping her lips for the first time since they'd started. Two fingers on her nipple, an exploratory tug, were apparently enough to turn Eliza into a wanton. She let her head fall back,
thunk
, against the tree, not caring about the flash of pain on her skull when it was followed so closely by a jolt of pleasure everywhere else.

“God, more,” she whispered, and cried out again as Matthew lowered his head and pressed his lips to the tender crest of skin above the neckline of the gown. A neckline that was sliding lower, she realized with a start. He'd undone a few buttons and pulled the fabric down and away on one side, freeing one of her breasts. Before she could protest—not that she planned to—his lips captured her nipple. Kissing and, for the love of God, sucking the peak, which Eliza would swear was directly attached to that sweetly aching spot between her legs.

Seeking pressure, relief, Eliza hooked one leg around Matthew's, tucking her foot behind his knee and then his hip to bring them even closer. She recognized the hard ridge against her lower belly and instinctively angled herself to rub up against it, a firm touch against that needy, swollen place that seemed to demand all her attention. He helped, hitching her higher with strong hands that lingered afterward. His fingers curved, roamed, following the contours of her buttocks in a sensual sweep.

“I was only planning to talk to you,” he murmured the next time his mouth pulled free, as though it made any difference now what he'd planned. The night air cooled the dampness on her skin, then his breath heated it again, keeping her focused on the warring sensations. When he spoke, his evening stubble rasped against her bosom. “I wanted to tell you I've grown very . . . fond of you.”

“Fond?”

“
Very
fond.”

“I see.”

“I thought you should know. But this wasn't how I envisioned the conversation proceeding.” He straightened up, eyes closed, breathing far too rapidly.

Eliza tried an experimental sway of her hips into him, increasing the pressure between them, and found Matthew's answering hiss and counter-push quite rewarding. He was no predator, but she thought she might turn him into one if she tried. For the moment, the power was hers. To frustrate or sate. To deny or to grant. Eliza was inclined to grant.

“The only problem I have with this conversation is that there's far too much conversing in it.”

“It's normal to reach out after a shock, I suppose. After a death. A physical connection reminds us we're still alive. But I . . . I'm—what are—
ohhh
.”

Fair was fair. He'd unbuttoned her, so she unbuttoned him. And sucked on his nipple, again in accordance with the principle of fairness. But in keeping with the evening's theme of novelty, she'd added a hint of biting, and he seemed to appreciate the innovation.

“Where did you learn to do that?”

“You just did it to me.”

“Well yes, but not exact—
aaahhhh God yes but stop,
better stop now, that's quite enough.”

To Eliza's great indignation, he stiff-armed her, gently but implacably separating their bodies and keeping them apart by holding her away at the shoulders.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” he squeaked.

“I just wanted to feel it. It was right there, I could hardly go on ignoring it.” Even through the fabric of his trousers it had been firm and hot in her hand, a thick muscular length that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She would have liked to investigate more closely.