The Girl With the Iron Touch (4 page)

Something jumped in her chest. She looked down. Between the two swells of flesh on her chest there was a small expanse of her framework not yet covered over by skin. There, through the gleaming rungs of her chasse she spied a red, wet lump of muscle, ebbing and receding in time with the pulsing throughout her form.

What was happening to her?

The old woman came to her, every step halting, punctuated with a dry, grinding sound. Her thin lips clicked upward into a grotesque parody of a smile.

A smile with no emotion behind it. No humanity. The skin of the machine’s face was gray and lax. There was something wrong with it, but what? Her mind knew she should be horrified, but not why.

And it stank. Stank like death, though she had no idea how she knew that. In fact, she didn’t even know her own name. Did she have a name?

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. The thing in her mouth was bigger now, and moved when she spoke, so that the words that came out sounded almost as they ought.

How did she know how the words were supposed to sound? Why did she know so much and so very little? Why was she so afraid?

“Don’t worry, little one,” the old woman said, reaching out and touching her with cold, foul fingers. “We have great plans for you.”

A strange young man stood up when Finley entered the dining room the next morning. He was alone at the table, a half cup of coffee and a plate with a few bites of coddled eggs and ham in front of him.

“Good morning,” he said. “You must be Miss Jayne.” Finley’s gaze traveled down the lanky length of him, from his reddish hair to his shiny shoes. He had a kind face, but she knew that looks could be deceiving. “And you must be?”

He offered his hand. “Silverius Isley. I’m an associate of His Grace.”

She looked at his fingers. They were long and soft— the kind of hands she expected from a man wearing such a well-made jacket. Not a speck of dirt beneath his manicured fingernails. Hesitantly, she put her hand in his. “What sort of associate?”

His entire body went rigid, fingers clamping around hers like a vise. Free hand tightening into a fist, Finley pulled back but stopped when she saw his eyes. They had rolled up in his head so far only white and tiny red veins remained. His weight tugged her forward as he wavered on his feet.

Good Lord, did he belong in an asylum? Was he ill? And what was his connection to Griffin?

Her free hand grabbed his arm to keep him from falling. His body jerked once…twice…then went still. She almost dropped him as the tension drained from him and he went as limp as a rag doll in her arms.

“What…?” He looked around, noticed she was holding him. Weakly, he regained his footing. “Oh, dear.”

Slowly, Finley helped him back into his chair. “You had some sort of fit.”

Isley took a sip of his coffee. The hand around his cup trembled. “What I had, Miss Jayne, was a visit from an apparition.”

Had she heard him correctly? And was he, as Jasper would say, “pulling her leg”? “You mean a ghost?”

He chuckled. “Your dubious tone says more than enough, Miss Jayne. You do not believe in my particular talent.”

“I don’t believe in much I can’t see,” Finley replied defensively.

“Yet you live in the home of a young man who regularly traffics in the world of the dead.”

Fair enough. “I’ve seen what His Grace can do. I don’t know you.”

“No, you do not. Thank you for keeping me upright. In the past I’ve done myself quite a harm during a visitation.” He pointed to a small scar above his eyebrow. “I’m fortunate this is my only souvenir.”

Finley eyed him warily before crossing to the sideboard to load a plate with her own breakfast. Isley was odd, but she was starving, and her stomach didn’t care if he talked to ghosts or saw fairies. She sat down at the table and dug into the eggs, toast and ham like a starving beast.

Mr. Isley arched a brow but wisely remained silent. She may not be embarrassed to eat in front of him, but no girl liked attention called to the amount of food on her plate, or the degree of enthusiasm with which she dug in to it.

“The coffee is still hot,” he mentioned. “May I pour you a cup?”

She swallowed the food in her mouth before answering, “Thank you.”

He tipped the silver pot over her cup and poured just the right amount of fragrant black brew, leaving room for milk and sugar.

“Good morning, all.”

Finley looked up as Jasper entered the room. He was his usual tousled self. “Good morning.” A glance at Isley made her pause. The young man was looking at Jasper like…well, the way Finley fantasized about Griffin looking at her. Jasper, a typical fellow, seemed completely unaware of the attention. He had no concept of just how handsome he was, which made him all the more likable in Finley’s estimation.

“Jasper, this is Mr. Isley, a friend of Griffin’s. Mr. Isley, this is Jasper Renn.”

Jasper nodded in greeting. “Pleased to meet you.”

Isley cleared his throat, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. “Likewise.”

The American filled a plate and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Enjoy your breakfast,” he said before leaving the room. He hadn’t had breakfast at the table since moving in. He would never feel he belonged if he insisted on putting distance between himself and the rest of them.

Then again, maybe he didn’t want to belong. Isley watched him leave. “I say, is he a real American cowboy?”

Finley smiled. “He has the hat, too.”

“Extraordinary.” This was said with just a hint of wistfulness.

“Indeed.” Isley didn’t know how much. Jasper could move so fast it seemed like the rest of the world almost stopped around him. He also seemed to prefer girls to blokes, but who was she to dash Isley’s apparent infatuation?

“I hope he didn’t break his fast elsewhere because of me?”

Oh, poor thing. She’d gone from wariness to wanting to pat his hand. “No. Jasper often takes breakfast in one of the rooms facing the stables so he can see the horses.” She didn’t figure Jasper would mind her saying that. It was better than telling Isley that Jasper couldn’t seem to stand the sight of any of them for long.

Mrs. Dodsworth entered the dining room. “Mr. Isley, His Grace requests that you join him in the blue parlor. If you would follow me?”

The young man dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and rose from the table. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Jayne.”

“You, as well, Mr. Isley.”

He stopped in the door, and partially turned to look at her. “Miss Jayne, would you have known a young blond man with blue eyes and a small brass bar in his left eyebrow?”

Finley swallowed hard, her toast lodged in her throat. Lord Felix. He was the son of her former employer, and the last time she saw him he’d tried to force himself on her. She’d knocked him senseless. He was also dead. “I’m not sure.”

He smiled slightly. “Perhaps my vision showed me the wrong person. It has been known to happen. I thought he must mean something to you.”

“Why would you assume that?”

“Because the spirits showed me his murder when I touched your hand.”

* * *

“I’m not letting you go alone.”

Emily put down the hammer before she could be tempted to use it on Sam’s metal-enhanced skull. Slowly, she turned from her workbench far below King House and faced the infuriatingly overprotective, overbearing, overly gorgeous mutton head standing a few feet away.

Not long ago in this very room she’d saved his life for the second time when a fight with Finley turned bad. He was so very concerned with her life that he seemed to forget he was the one who had almost died. Twice.

“Are ye volunteering to come with me, then?”

“No. I’ll go by myself.”

She didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “Oh, right, Mr. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’ What happens if you encounter a chunk of metal intent on beating you into the ground?” It was unfair of her to bring it up, but he’d almost been killed by a machine once, and he’d been deeply afraid of them ever since.

So had she, and it wasn’t made any easier by being able to communicate with the logic engines in the things.

“Better I face it alone than have to worry about you,” he retorted.

All thought of unfairness went out the bloody window. “You foolish, ridiculous, backward—” Her tongue seized when he grabbed her by the arms and hauled her close.

“Seeing you fight that Kraken almost did me in, Em. I can’t go through that again. The thought of losing you…” Sam’s gaze locked with hers. “I can’t live in a world without you in it.”

Oh.
Oh.
A few pretty words and her heart melted. Her resolve, however, didn’t waiver. “You’re going to have to accept it, boyo, because I can’t wait here for you to return, wondering if I’ll be able to put you back together again. You’re not going without me.”

“Stubborn wench.”

“Thick-skulled jackanapes.”

“That’s your fault, isn’t it? You put metal in my head, no wonder it’s thick!”

She stared at him a second, fighting the laughter bubbling up inside her. It was no use; it poured out from her belly until she had to wipe her eyes, and even then it was difficult to stop.

“This is funny to you, is it?” Sam demanded.

There had been a time when he would have laughed, as well. Finley and Jasper wouldn’t believe her, but Emily remembered a time when consternation and anger weren’t etched into his handsome face. A time when he didn’t take everything as a personal insult. A time when he hadn’t treated her as though she were made of the thinnest glass.

She took his hand in his. “Smile a wee bit, Sam. Please? Just for me.”

“I don’t think your safety is anything to smile over.” He made it sound like something nasty.

“You don’t find much worth smiling over anymore.” She tried to keep the disappointment from her voice, but he stiffened at the remark, regardless.

“No, I don’t.” Hesitation turned his expression from anger to uncertainty. “I don’t like being like this, Em. I can’t seem to stop it.”

Was that her fault? When she put him back together the first time, had it been a mistake? She refused to think of it like that, but there was no denying that he had changed.

She swallowed. “Do you blame me?”

He started. “No. You saved me. I wouldn’t be alive if not for you.”

“You wouldn’t be partially metal, either. You wouldn’t be so unhappy.”

“Do you regret it? Do you ever wish you’d just let me die?”

Pain pierced her heart. “No, Sam. Lord, no.” She reached up and took his rugged face in her hands. He was so big, so strong. So vulnerable. “I would give anything for you to be happy again.”

“I’m happy when I’m with you.”

Tears burned the backs of her eyes. “Oh, lad.”

He picked her up as though she weighed no more than a child and set her on the workbench so that they were practically eye to eye. His size and strength should frighten her—men often did frighten her—but with Sam she never felt anything but safe. He treated her with tenderness when she was used to violence.

He was the first—and the only—male she ever thought it would be nice to have touch her.

“I have to go,” she explained. “If we run into an automaton that hasn’t learned language I’m the only one who can communicate with it. We’ll have a device that interferes with mechanical armatures. I don’t know if it will affect you or not.” Meaning that this was one time when she was the best person for the job and he was not. “Finley will be with me. You know she won’t let anything hurt me.” Though, if metal went berserk, she was just as capable of bringing it down as Finley, perhaps more so.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he said in a soft tone. “I don’t want to boss you around. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

She brushed a thick lock of hair back from his brow and lightly touched the furrow there. It dissolved almost immediately. There he was. There was her Sam. “Sometimes people get hurt,” she told him. She’d been hurt before, but she was still alive. She was still able to feel love and physical attraction despite what had been done to her.

“But I can’t put you back together,” he whispered. Mary and Joseph, but he broke her heart. “You already have, Sam.” And it was true. “I can’t begin to count the ways you’ve mended me.”

He kissed her then. Her heart leaped—not in fear but in joy. Butterflies tangled their wings in her stomach. Sam’s kiss and touch made her feel things she thought had been taken away from her by rough, cruel forces.

Sam cupped her face as he pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. You won’t ever lose me, I promise.” And she meant it. “And someday, I’m going to make it so that all you want to do is smile.”

He kissed her again, and it was a long time before either one of them spoke.

* * *

Emily caught her skulking around outside the blue parlor, the horn of an ornophone against the door as she tried to listen to the conversation taking place on the other side.

Mr. Isley and Griffin were discussing ghosts, but she was having the devil of a time hearing the full extent of their conversation. Something they were doing created a low-grade noise that partially drowned out their voices. Blast it all. How was she ever to know what was going on?

“What are you doing?”

Finley jumped. Fortunately she did so quietly. She could only hope the device made it just as difficult to hear what was going on in the corridor. She tiptoed toward her friend, her finger to her lips so Emily would shush. If Griffin caught her it was going to make it that much more difficult to find out what he was keeping from her.

The library wasn’t far, so Finley gestured the other girl inside and then closed the door.

“I was trying to eavesdrop on Griffin’s meeting.”

“That much was obvious,” Emily replied disapprovingly. “Why?”

The redhead’s wariness was to be expected. As good friends as the two of them had become, Emily’s loyalty belonged to Griffin first. And Emily favored a more direct approach than Finley did.

“Because the bloke he’s talking to says he saw Lord Felix’s murder when he touched my hand.” She folded her arms over her chest. “And I want to know if he is what he seems, or if he’s a charlatan.”