The Golden Spider (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 1) (37 page)

W
ITH TINY, NEAT,
perfect stitches, Amanda closed the wound.

There was some muscle atrophy, and the brace would be necessary until he regained his strength, a week or two at most. All indications pointed to the spider having rewoven the nerve successfully. Infection was the only pressing concern. While Thornton was still mercifully unconscious, she poured more vodka over the incision site and bandaged his leg. She had every reason to believe the procedure was successful, though she wouldn’t know until he woke.

“Thank you,” she said to Nicu.

“You are very welcome,” he answered. “Your family and mine, we are tied by bonds that cannot be broken.” A frown cut into his features. “We will see Henri stopped. Justice will be served.”

Did the gypsies plan to assist in apprehending Henri? Amanda’s lips twitched at the thought of how Black and his men would react to the sudden swelling of their ranks.

There was a whistle from the front of the vardo, followed by a smattering of Romani. Nicu stood. “No news yet. I will wait outside. See he rests.”

She lifted the knife she’d been given, but used it this time to cut the bindings holding Thornton’s wrists in place. She caught up one hand and began to massage the stiff muscles, wishing the side effects of the Somnic could be willed away. Slowly, his long fingers relaxed, curling gently in her cupped palms. Encouraged, she moved on.

Her fingers worked a cufflink free, setting it carefully to the side. She rolled up his shirtsleeve, admiring his wide wrists and brushing her palm over the sprinkle of dark hairs that covered his forearms. Pressing her thumbs into the dense musculature there, she admired their quiescent strength, marveled at all he’d done with them. These were the arms, the hands, the fingers that worked magic in the laboratory. On her.

Her face grew hot.

But there was lust and there was love.

It occurred to her that somewhere along the way, at some time during these past two weeks, she’d managed to lose a part of her heart to this man.

She leaned forward, her fingers sliding beneath his rolled sleeves, pressing into thick muscles. His arm flexed, his hand curled about her hip. She glanced at his face. Beneath half-open, unfocused eyes, he seemed to watch. Her fingers stilled, but he was not truly awake. For a long moment she let herself stare back into those eyes and wonder.

What would it be like to truly belong to this man? To have him belong to her? To live a life together?

Of all the times to contemplate such questions. What a disaster her life was. Luca gravely injured. Emily panicked. Olivia and Mother hysterical at the social implications. Ned distraught at the effects of his own selfishness. Her own would-be-fiancé complicit with a murderer yet still having the nerve to declare his love for her. Father attempting damage control and quite probably regretting any free will he’d ever granted his children.

All while she’d absconded with her lover and mentor, performed experimental surgery in the back of a gypsy wagon and waited to assist in the apprehension of a murderous German spy.

There was nothing to do but press onward, see this thing through to its conclusion.

Mine.
In a delirium of opiate-induced fog, he’d spoken words that cut right to the core of her.

Yes, she was his, but unless he’d also lost a piece of his heart to her, this, whatever it was between them, had to stop. She’d been wrong to think she could settle for status as his lover, to consent to an ongoing affair conducted in the shadows. One where she must constantly worry about discovery, worry that she would be cast out from the medical community in shame.

She would not press him for more. He’d been clear from the beginning, when she forced him to acknowledge the attraction between them, that he did not want a wife. When he emerged from this fog a whole man once more, she would step aside. Her research project was complete. Once the situation with Henri was resolved, they would go their separate ways, parting as friends and colleagues.

She would perform the surgery once more upon her brother, and if‌—‌when‌—‌Ned walked once more under his own power, her success in the medical community would be assured. Under the cloak of secrecy, Thornton and Lady Huntley would use her neurachnid to install their devices and, with his leg repaired, Thornton would once again accompany Black into the field.

His head jerked in her direction, his unfocused eyes open again, but this time, he spoke. “Sorry,” he rasped. “So sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” she prompted, curious.

But he only shook his head.

“Let me get you some water.” She tried to pull away, but his fingers had curled around her elbow and held tight. She tried to maintain a clinical mindset, telling herself she was glad to feel the return of some muscle control. Yet as his dark blue eyes stared up at her, she found herself waiting. Waiting for…‌ something.

“So many dead. My fault. I brought him here.” His eyes fought a battle to stay open‌—‌but lost.

Ah, she understood now. Guilt. He felt responsible for Henri’s actions, for the death of all the gypsies that died in the madman’s quest to install the phaoscope.

“No. None of this is your fault.” She smoothed the hair from his brow. “You are not responsible for the evil actions of another. Not Lord Huntley’s or Henri’s deeds. This is not your fault,” she repeated.

His head jerked away from her touch, then rocked on his pillow, disagreeing. “It is. Gypsies. Your family. You.” He sighed, slipping deeper into his fog. “Mine. The woman I love. All ruined.”

She shook his shoulder. She needed to hear it again. “The woman you love?”

“Mmm.”

“Thornton?” She hesitated. “Sebastian?”

It was no good; he’d slipped back into his drugged sleep.

Amanda wanted to scream. She disliked this foggy, cryptic version of him. Terse but direct was vastly preferable.

Because he’d left her wondering. Could he possibly be speaking of her? Did he love her, fear he’d ruined her with their affair? Or did he speak of his former fiancée, who had cried off shortly after his injury occurred, wanting no future with a damaged man? Was it possible Thornton loved her, Lady Anne, despite her abandonment?

She pulled away from his limp grasp and stood. Anything was better than sitting there staring at the man she loved, wondering if her sentiments were returned.

Amanda stepped through the partition, walking past the hundreds of boxes containing an endless assortment of clockwork pieces, and climbed down the curved stairs onto the street.

A short distance away, Nicu stood beside another gypsy, Milosh, his assistant. Their heads were bent close together. She could not understand the Romani they spoke, but their tightly controlled voices spoke of disagreement.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

Their heads jerked up. Nicu patted Milosh on his shoulder, pushing him away. He left, but not before she saw an intense look of dislike and distrust on his face. An all too common reaction to a
gadji
who made a nuisance of herself by hanging about gypsy vardos.

“A bit of trouble finding Nadya, that is all,” Nicu answered.

Amanda’s eyebrows rose. “Do you think…‌?”

He shook his head. “She was seen recently in the company of a woman who sought to have her future read in tea leaves. We will find her. Let us worry about it. Is your man recovering?”

Her man.
Perhaps he was. For now. “Sleeping,” she answered. “Has there been no word from Mr. Black?”

Nicu looked confused for a moment. “Your Queen’s man, right?”

She nodded.

“No. Nothing. Perhaps he has already apprehended Henri and is busy with retribution.”

She frowned. If Black had caught Henri, he, or one of his men, would have arrived with the news. No. Whatever kept Black from contacting them must be of the utmost importance. Unless he had also been unable to contact Father? She should send word, assure her family of her safety. “Will you send someone to my father’s house? Let them know we are here?”

Nicu gestured to the clockwork horse attached to his vardo. “I could take you there, but should he be moved?”

“No,” she said. “Probably not. A message should suffice.” Likely Father’s men would then arrive to assure themselves of her safety.

“Very well,” he nodded. “I will send a boy.” Nicu tipped his head. “Will you rest as well? Or is there something more?”

Just the general unease of being relegated to the fringes while others sought to apprehend the eye doctor. The unease of not knowing what developments had taken place. “No. Thank you. I’ll see to Lord Thornton.” She waved a hand in the air toward the door of the vardo.

Nicu nodded politely.

Inside, Amanda busied herself setting the small space to rights, then sat down again beside him on the low stool and spread a clean cloth across her lap. She set about cleaning the neurachnid in extreme detail. Each gear, each spring, each pincer. She tugged the Babbage card Olivia had punched free, returning it to her reticule. It had worked well. Like it or not, Olivia’s talent with mechanical creatures, both steam and clockwork, showed much promise.

She rinsed the now empty abdominal vial. Perhaps Father could be persuaded to use some of his influence to delay Georgina’s engagement long enough for the
amatiflora
to bloom once more. That was, provided Georgina’s family could be persuaded to ignore the gossip about gypsies in favor of their daughter marrying a future duke.

An hour or more passed before he stirred again, before his heavy lids once again lifted, fighting against the remaining opium fog. “Amanda?” His eyes were clearer this time, their focus on her face more pointed.

Did she dare ask? Could she bear to learn she was not the woman he loved? That what they shared merely served to quench primitive biological instincts through mutual physical pleasure? No. Better not to press. She’d only damage whatever friendship would be left between them after. Determined not to churn herself into emotional turmoil, she did her best to sound clinical and professional. “Does it hurt much?”

“A dull, diffuse ache,” he rasped.

Now, while he was still under the influence of the opium, was the time to assess his leg. Any pain would be mitigated.

She pulled back the blanket, exposing the bandaged leg, and pressed her palm against the sole of his large foot. “Push,” she commanded.

He did, weakly.

She conducted a complete examination. Plantarflexion, dorsiflexion, inversion, eversion. Weak responses, all of them.

“Did it work?” he asked.

“Yes.” She should feel happier to announce such news. “You’ll still need your brace for some time until the muscles regain their mass. You might have trouble walking at first, but on the whole, I’d say the procedure was a success.”

“Good. May I please have some water?” His voice was hoarse.

Pouring a glass, she perched once more on the mattress by his side. “Drink. Slowly.” She held the glass to his lips. “You’ve lost a bit of blood.”

He drank, then cleared his throat. “Any messages?” His deep voice was clearer now. And seemingly his mind.

Thank goodness she had not inquired about his feelings for her. It seemed he had no memory of his drug-induced ramblings. “Nicu sent word to Black when we arrived. He’s not responded, not yet. I did have him send another message to my father, informing him of our safety.” Strange. She’d thought one of Father’s men would have arrived to check on them by now. Or have sent a message. “All has been quiet.”

His brow furrowed with intense concentration. “How long have we been here?”

Could he be planning to leave already? Thornton needed time. Time to rest. Every additional minute gave him time to recover from the surgery, the drugs. Minutes during which her mind would continue circling around the question of whom he loved, her mind unable to force the question past her lips.

“About three hours,” she answered. “Nicu did say Nadya was recently sighted in the company of a woman, but they can’t seem to locate her.”

“There’s still time then,” he said. Then, surrendering to the lingering effects of the opium, let his eyes slide shut once more. His arm stretched out and wrapped about her waist, tugging. “Come. You need rest.”

“But…‌”

“Fieldwork rule. Sleep when you can.” His arm flexed, his palm shifting to press between her shoulder blades, pulling her against him.

She resisted. “Your leg.”

“Your weight feels good.”

Knowing this might be her last chance, the last time they might spend such time alone together, she caved. Stretching her body out alongside him on the feather-stuffed mattress, she let him tuck her into the crook of his arm. Her face fell on his shoulder, resting where his soft cotton shirt met the rougher wool of his waistcoat. She breathed in the male scent of him. Beneath her ear, his heart beat a comforting rhythm. Steady. Strong. Constant.

Her arm stretched across his flat stomach, rising and falling with each breath he took, and her body pressed against him, her soft curves fitting against his long angles, his warmth seeping into her while the weight of his arm held her fast, held her safe.

“Rest now,” he said.

But how could she? To be held so closely, so tenderly by the man she loved was a moment to be treasured and captured in time. Moments to be stored against the inevitable moment when they must part.

Even as a fog of exhaustion began to engulf her, coaxing her mind to rest, tempting her with sleep, she fought it with every ounce of will that remained.

Chapter Thirty-Six