The Importance of Being Emily (11 page)

When Richard said his vows, he looked at me and only me. Anyone watching would see what I meant to him. I swallowed back my tears, not wanting to mar the occasion with inappropriate emotions, but I knew I’d weep later from pure joy. A tear must have escaped because he lifted his hand and gently brushed my cheek. I saw the liquid on his forefinger before he brought it to his lips and kissed it away.

I had taken my ring off on the journey to the church and transferred my ruby betrothal ring to my right hand. Now he put the wedding ring back. I caught a glimpse of the engraved message inside, known only to Richard and me, and then I gave him my right hand, to remove the ruby and replace it where it belonged. I slid his ring on his left hand after I made my promises. Not all men wore wedding rings, but Richard had elected to do so.

After our previous wedding, Richard had led me to the vestry, where he took me in his arms and kissed me. His reticence at that time would have made him uncomfortable to show such emotion in public, even in such close company as we were now, but today he showed no such disinclination. His kiss was no polite kiss of greeting, but he crushed me close and took my mouth with all the abandon he showed in the bedroom. Except, of course, his hands remained sedately around my waist. I felt his heat and I wanted him.

But for James clearing his throat I might have been the one to take matters further. As it was I found that I’d put my hands around his waist, under his coat, ready to slide them under his waistcoat at the back and drag his shirt clear of his breeches. My lamentable desire to seek skin had led me astray more than once. But only one man’s skin, only one man’s touch, could ever satisfy that need.

Richard drew away with a laugh and without embarrassment, took my hand and led me to the vestry, where we signed the parish register. James and Gervase followed us to witness our signatures. Richard only let go of my hand so that I could sit down to sign the book, while he explained to the vicar, “If our first marriage remains uncontested, then this service is an affirmation of our vows. If not, then you may be required to show the register as proof of our marriage.” The clink of gold coins followed and the vicar’s unctuous assurances that the register would be carefully guarded and shown to any official who required it, but not to the casual passerby.

Richard helped me to my feet after leaning over me to add his signature to mine. Unlike the first time, my name flowed from the pen and I marvelled at how accustomed I had become to it. At one time I had considered becoming Richard’s mistress, when I thought there was no other way I could have him. His hand pressed my shoulder before he raised me up, and once again, heedless of the squawks from the religious behind us, kissed me with the same fervency he’d done before. This time I regained a semblance of my sanity and drew away first, to see his softened, fond smile. The one I saw most mornings now.

“I am so glad,” I said. He didn’t need to know what I meant. He knew it already.

“I will marry you again and again, if need be. I think my mother saw the glimmer of escape, but not my father. He sees the advantage of the bird in the hand.” He released me but slipped his hand into mine.

The plan: Kidnap H.G. Wells. Definitely not part of the plan: Falling in love.

Stealing Utopia

© 2010 Tilda Booth

A
Silk, Steel and Steam
Story

The year is 1897, the place, a Britain that could have been, but never was. H. George Wells is helping lead Britain into a new Golden Age, driven by technological advances and discoveries of the human brain. Then one night a beautiful woman abducts him at gunpoint, and she seems to despise everything he’s worked for. Despite his outrage, he can’t help but be intrigued by this adventuress and her passion for her cause.

Jane Robbins, agent provocateur, has reason to fear her country’s march towards a new world order. Using her wits and her arsenal of spy gadgets to infiltrate Wells’ house, she delivers him to her employer, who plans to use him as leverage to halt the coming Utopia. But when Wells’ life is threatened, she must choose between saving him or sacrificing him to the cause.

Scientist and spy, they are irresistibly drawn to each other even as the future pushes them apart.

Warning: This book contains gadgets, guns, death rays, dirigibles, sexy scientists and a smoking hot Victorian spy who’s as much steam as she is punk. Don’t blame us if it makes you want to slip a pistol into your garter and abduct the man of your dreams.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Stealing Utopia:

Damn and blast. What to do? What to do?
She retrieved her special sal volatile, the one that had put the Scotland Yard man to sleep so effectively outside of Wells’ house, and took a deep breath and screamed, “A mouse! A mouse!”

In a flash, Mary was at her door, barging in without even knocking.

Jane stepped behind the maid and waved the vial under Mary’s nose, causing her to collapse backward straight into Jane’s arms.

“Oh Lord, help! Jack, come quick. Mary’s fainted.”

When Jack came into the room, he rushed to Mary’s prostrate form. With a silent plea for forgiveness, Jane whacked him on the back of his head with the bedwarmer. It wasn’t enough to render him unconscious, but a strong whiff of the ether from her doctored sal volatile was enough to finish the job. She searched through his pockets until she found his keys, then left, careful to lock her door behind her. On cat feet, she ran down the hall, unlocked Wells’ door and opened it.

For the second time that night, Jane walked in on a man in a dressing gown, but on this occasion she had no time for embarrassment. “Get dressed, quickly,” she hissed.

Wells looked up from the book in his lap and stared at her in astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

She almost burst into nervous tears. “For God’s Sake, George, we have no time. Get dressed and come with me, if you want to live.”

Something in her voice must have made him understand that this was no trick, for he jumped up and grabbed his trousers, putting them on under his robe without even asking her to turn around. She looked behind her up and down the hall to make sure that no one was coming, and by the time she’d finished checking, he was already at her side, pulling on his shirt, jacket in one hand, feet stuffed haphazardly into his shoes.

She led him down the back stairs, to the entrance to the garden, but then she stopped, at a loss where to go next. There were guards all around the house, and she had no idea how she would get George past them.

George grabbed a raincoat off a peg by the door, a voluminous affair made to cover a much more massive man than him. He put it on, shrouding himself, then turned down the gaslight next to the door, leaving the entryway in darkness. “Now what?”

She spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. Through the glass panel of the door she could see the shadowy outline of one of the guards, just yards from them, standing like a stone under one of the eaves, out of the rain. “I don’t know. Easton has men at all the exits.”

“Easton?”

“You know him as Mr. Smith.”

“Ah.” He pondered for a moment. “We’ll need a distraction.”

She nodded, hands clenched tight. “I’ll go to the front, call to the guards, and you can escape out the back.”

“What will they do to you when they realize that you’ve helped me escape?”

Images of Flewellyn as she’d last seen him, giving his wife a kiss before they’d all piled into the coach the night of the kidnapping, entered her head. “Nothing. I’ll be all right.”

“You’re lying.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he put his finger on her lips. “We’ll leave together. Where’s Easton? Perhaps we can use him as a hostage for our escape.”

“Too dangerous. Last I saw, he was sleeping in his study, three sheets to the wind. Overpowering him should be easy, but in his state he’ll be a liability.”

George cocked his head. “Inebriated, eh? Can we get to his study without being seen?”

“I think so. But we don’t have much time.”

Twice on the way to Easton’s study they’d had to hide to avoid being seen by servants or guards. The first time they’d ducked into a dark alcove, and George, pressed against her, had said, “I know you carry a pistol. Do you have any bullets? Two or three of them? Yes, that will do very well.”

When at last they slipped into Easton’s study, Wells had loosened the casings on the three bullets she’d given him.

His actions made no sense to her. “What are you going to do?”

Ignoring her, Wells stared at Robert Easton, still snoring in his armchair. “I think I know him. But from where?”

“We don’t have time for this.”

George shook himself and grinned at her. She felt an unfamiliar flutter in her stomach at that grin. “Right, I just need… Ah, here it is.” To her astonishment, he pulled out a silver teaspoon from his pocket and walked over to the large brass clock on the mantelpiece.

“Where did you get that?”

“Stole it the second night I was here. Easton was kind enough to point out that Mary only watches the knives.” He turned the clock around and quickly opened it using the spoon to loosen the screws. “One never knows when a spoon might come in handy. Have you got a pound note?”

Jane couldn’t quite see what he did with the note but after no more than two minutes he announced, “Done. We’d best get out of here and hide. We have…” he turned the hands of the clock to read 11:55, “…five minutes.”

They hurried back the way they came, waiting at the foot of the back stairs. They didn’t wait long. Just a couple of minutes after they reached their hiding place, a faint chime followed by a muffled boom and the sound of Robert Easton yelling in panic came to their ears.

Throwing open the back door, Jane called out, “Something’s happened in the study. Hurry, I think there’s trouble.”

The guard from the back came to life, running through the rain and into the house. He barely glanced at George, who looked like just another guard in his purloined rain slicker. “You stay here and watch the door.” The guard took off for the interior of the house.

As soon as the guard was out of sight, Jane and George ran out into the garden. They could see the other guard by the garden entrance drifting away from his post, trying to see what the commotion was at the front of the house. When his back was turned, the two of them slipped past, their sounds and movement masked by the fortuitous rain.

The Importance of Being Emily

Robyn Bachar

Magic, matchmaking and murder...

Lord Willowbrook’s spring ball is supposed to be a magical celebration, but Miss Emily Wright is bored. The only outlet allowed for her magic is matchmaking—for others, not herself. Why bother? The only man she wants, Michael Black, is a man she can never have.

Suddenly the guests are abuzz with news of a young sorceress found drained of blood in the parlor. The mystery calls to her, and since she is the only available seer in all England, she jumps at the chance to prove herself.

Michael has spent his life preparing for his ritual death, when he will join the Order of St. Jerome as an immortal chronicler. Now that dream hangs in the balance, his mentor accused of the murder. Worse, gentle Emily, the woman he silently loves, is walking into a world of horrors beyond her imagination.

Torn between duty to the order and desire to keep her safe, Michael fights his growing need for a love that can never be his. All the while the real killer stalks the shadows of Willowbrook Hall, homing in on the next victim.

Warning: This book contains a tough but tortured seer, a hero with an expiration date, scandalous kisses, scheming vampires and bloody corpses.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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The Importance of Being Emily

Copyright © 2011 by Robyn Bachar

ISBN: 978-1-60928-460-2

Edited by Sasha Knight

Cover by Kanaxa

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: May 2011

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