Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (14 page)

“Because I wanted to come inside you the first time I saw you. I was determined to despise you, and I still wanted to feel you wrapped around my cock. Good men don’t think that way.”

A slight smile curved her lips. He thought he saw gooseflesh on her arms. “Of course they do. They just don’t act on it.” She moved closer, her hips brushing the tops of his thighs. “Did you really wonder what it would feel like to be inside me?”

Alastair shivered. Gooseflesh. This was a dangerous conversation, and they had more important things to worry about. “Yes,” he rasped. “God help me, I still do.”

Her gaze locked with his, dark lashes a coy veil. “I think about it, too. This attraction between us, it’s new to me. I think it’s new to you as well. What do we do about it, Alastair?”

This was an invitation if ever he’d been given one. He wanted to bruise her lips with his, wanted to shove his tongue in her mouth, undress her and take her in every position they could try without injuring themselves. He wanted to forget about Stanton Howard and what was going to happen when this was over. He wanted to know how she’d managed to get under his skin so very quickly.

And he wanted to know if she would look into his eyes when he was inside her.

“I’m going to get cleaned up,” he said, stepping back and putting distance between them before he did something he’d enjoy but later regret. “The bed’s all yours. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

And then he walked away.

* * *

Alastair Payne was the first man to ever turn her down. This realization kept Claire awake for a good portion of the night, and it was the first thing she thought of when she woke early in the morning.

Damn him for being so good. And damn her for wanting him so much more because of it. Why were things she could never have so damn attractive?

It was obvious he was just as attracted to her—people didn’t alternate between friendly banter and all-out verbal war unless there were some high emotions involved.

She stretched, recoiling when her flesh encountered the cold sheets on the other side of the bed. The sun hadn’t been up for long, but a bright finger of it shone through the window above her head.

Slowly, quietly, she sat up. Against the wall, beneath a bank of drawn curtains, Alastair slept on a sofa that seemed to struggle to contain the entirety of his impressive self. He’d gone to sleep in those flimsy trousers he seemed to favor, and one pant leg rode up to reveal the entirety of one muscular calf. The blanket had slid from his shoulders, leaving an expanse of skin bare for her viewing pleasure. He was all copper and gold where the morning sun touched him as he lay, so peaceful in his sleep.

She wanted to walk over and dump a bucket of ice water over his head ov ov ov—that, or start kissing various parts of him until he woke up and gave in to her. Then maybe she’d stop thinking about it so damn much. Maybe then she’d be able to concentrate on Howard, because since she met the Earl of Wolfred, she hadn’t been able to think about much other than him.

A ridiculous female she was not. Of course she had her moments where sense seemed to abandon her, but she was not one to obsess over a man—unless she planned to kill him. Then along came a man who kissed her as if he were dying of thirst and she were water, who told her he’d rather stick his privates in a rudder than in her, and who then told her he thought about being inside her. . . .

Alastair Payne, she decided, was a man determined to deny their attraction. She supposed he had good reason—his last dalliance with a Company agent hadn’t ended well for either of them. And she had to admit, a fling between the two of them wasn’t going to end up much better.

Still, she’d like to go on to whatever awaited her in the afterlife, having given a little of herself to a truly decent man. Never mind that sometimes he opened his mouth and was an ass—who wasn’t? Everything he said and did—even the mistakes—was because he was trying to do the right thing.

Claire liked to do the right thing as well—the right thing for her.

And right now she had to do right by her brother. That meant getting into the passenger list and seeing if there were any doctors on board. Perhaps she’d get lucky and find one of Howard’s known aliases, though the very fact that they were known made it unlikely.

She slipped out of bed and into the bath, where she cleaned up; then she dressed in the clothing she’d laid out the night before. The gown was a dark wine-colored soft wool that would be both warm and fashionable and had shucked any wrinkles during the night. She’d prefer a pair of trousers, but with the number of society dames on board, it wouldn’t be a wise idea. And as much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t want to embarrass Alastair.

She brushed and pinned her hair up so that a little bit hung around her face, applied a little color to her cheeks and lips, darkened her lashes, and slipped into the gown. It had a corseted bodice that buckled in the front, making it easier for her to manage.

Alastair was still sleeping when she slipped out into the main cabin. She took her room key and her black leather boots, and tiptoed out into the corridor. Outside the door, she tugged on her footwear, tied each boot, and hurried on her way.

An elderly lady and gentleman smiled at her as she breezed past. She wished them a good morning and kept going. She had reached the end of the corridor and was about to enter the main area of the ship when she heard someone call out.

“Claire, darling!”

She closed her eyes. God must truly hate her. Straightening her spine, Claire turned. “Lady Wolfred, good morning.”

Now that she knew the woman’s identity, the resemblance between her and Alastair was unmistakable. She was a tall woman—a little taller than even Claire herself—and lean. Her coloring was the same as her son’s, though her eyes were lighter and her bone structure more delicate. She stood before Claire in an olive green jacket and matching Turkish thin the sarousers. A wide-brimmed hat and polished maroon boots completed the ensemble. Lady Wolfred was definitely a woman who marched to the beat of her own drum.

“Where’s that dear boy of mine?” She peered over Claire’s shoulder as though she expected Alastair to pop up behind her.

“Sleeping, ma’am.”

Eyes sharp as a lightning strike locked with Claire’s. Obviously she was where Alastair had gotten his flinty gaze, not the augmentation. “Sneaking out while they’re asleep never goes well, my dear. I was just about to scrounge up some breakfast. Join me.”

“Actually, I was just on my way—” Her stomach growled, betraying her.

Lady Wolfred smiled—the same lopsided twist her son favored. “It will wait. Come. There’s so much for us to discuss.”

“Balls,” Claire muttered under her breath, following after the woman like a puppy.

The older woman paused and turned with a much more genuine smile on her face. “My mother used to say that when she was vexed.”

That would teach her to open her mouth. “I know. Alastair told me.”

A pale ginger brow rose. “Did he? Hmm.”

Claire didn’t know what she meant by that, and she didn’t care. She should simply tell the woman she was busy and do what she originally intended, but she couldn’t bring herself to be rude to Alastair’s mother.

Plus, she was curious as to what sort of woman raised such a man. Snooping could wait. Howard wasn’t going anywhere.

Had she really just thought that? She could not lose her focus or stray from her path, not now. She’d given up her freedom for this; she would damn well see it through.

The dining room wasn’t nearly as full as it had been the night before, it being still a little too early to be considered “decent” by most of the passengers.

“I do so enjoy this time of morning,” Lady Wolfred admitted as she seated herself at a small table near a window. “One has a few hours of quiet before the idiots tumble out of bed. I’m in desperate need of some coffee. You do drink coffee, don’t you?”

Claire nodded. She was still thinking on the “idiots” remark. “I did just tell you that your son was still in bed, didn’t I?”

The skin around Lady Wolfred’s eyes wrinkled. “Oh, my dear, I would never refer to my dear boy as an idiot. A fool, occasionally, but his mind is as sound as the Tower of London. You do realize he’s not asleep?”

Claire’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced up as a waiter filled their cups with rich, hot coffee, and waited for him to depart before saying, “What do you mean? He was sound asleep when I left.”

The older woman poured a generous amount of cream into her cup. “That boy takes after his mama, and he is up early unless he has good reason not to be. Second, if the two of you are sharing a cabin, which I can only assume you are—shockingly scandalous, you know!—then he most certainly is awake, because he has thause, it blasted ear of his. I thought he overheard things he shouldn’t as a child, but he never misses anything now.”

Claire stared at her. “His ear?”

The lady nodded, looking entirely too pleased with herself. Still, Claire liked her. Or, at least she thought she did. “Some new Warden technology. They augmented his hearing. He’s had so much done, sometimes I wonder if he’s more machine than man, but then he smiles and I know he’s still my boy.”

“He’s not a machine,” Claire retorted, depositing far too much sugar into her cup and not caring one whit. “He has too much feeling to be a machine.” Augmented hearing? And here she thought she’d been so quiet sneaking out. How long before he came and found her? He probably had a heightened sense of smell as well and could track her like a damn bloodhound.

Lady Wolfred watched her over the rim of her cup, like a cat watching a plump little bird through a window.

“You’re not a Warden, are you?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not.”

“You’re not Company, either.” It was a statement, not a question.

Claire hesitated, just a split second. “No.”

Lady Wolfred studied her with an unblinking gaze. “But you used to be, and now here you are, worrying not that my son might wonder what you’re up to, but whether or not he was hurt when you sneaked out.”

Claire’s head snapped up. “I am not worried about either of those things! Now I see where your son gets his infuriating tendency to think he knows everything.” Damn. So much for not wishing to be rude.

But now she also knew where Alastair got his ability to read her like a dime novel.

To her surprise, the older woman laughed—loudly. The handful of passengers in the dining room glanced at them curiously.

“Smile, darling. Wouldn’t want them to speculate as to why you’re glaring daggers at your future mama-in-law.”

Claire flashed a grin so bright, she hoped it blinded the woman.

Lady Wolfred gave her an assessing look. “Yes, you’ll do nicely, but if you’re not Warden and you’re not Company, then you’ll need to decide just where your loyalties lie, my dear, if you want my son.”

“My loyalty is with myself. What makes you think I want your son?” She should have just denied it outright, but she was curious. At least she knew why Alastair confused her so much; he’d obviously been raised by a madwoman.

“Please. If you are half as bright as you appear, you’re smart enough to know a good catch when you see one.”

“Yes, well, perhaps your son is smart enough to know a bad choice when he sees one.” That revealed a little more than she was comfortable with, but it was out there now. No taking it back.

“Yes,” Lady Wolfred slowly agreed, setting her cup on its saucer. “I would hope that he is indeed. Tell me, Claire, what is it you and my son are after? Or should er?“YeI ask, whom?”

She obviously knew what sort of work her son did. In fact, she talked like a woman who had spent a great deal of her life on the fringe of one sort of intrigue or another. Hadn’t Alastair said she had been involved with the Wardens along with his father? Perhaps the lady might be of some assistance.

“We’re looking for a man who can change his appearance with little effort. We think he’s probably traveling with a doctor or a man with some medical experience. If you’ve spent a great deal
of time around agents, then you know the type. They won’t sit with their back to a door. They watch everyone. They’ll lead conversation but never add to it.”

Lady Wolfred took a sip of her coffee. “I know exactly who you want. His friend is Dr. George Stephens. They came on board with all of us yesterday morning, joined some of us for luncheon, but were absent during dinner. Friendly boys, but quiet. His friend’s name is Richard. No, Randolph. No, wait.”

The woman had already given her more than enough, but Claire was on the edge of her seat, trembling with anticipation despite having barely touched her coffee. “Yes?”

“Robert!” Lady Wolfred grinned triumphantly. “His name is Robert Brooks.”

Chapter 12

Alastair waited a few minutes before peeling himself off the torture device that was the sofa. Claire was still gone—either having breakfast or doing her own investigation. Whatever, it didn’t matter. She obviously wanted time alone, and he wasn’t going to chase after her like some pathetic child or love-struck suitor.

The shower-bath was a gleaming brass contraption that ran water heated by the same boilers that powered the ship’s engines. He stood under the hot spray for a long time, letting it relax his muscles and clear his mind. Afterward, he put special drops in his eyes that he had to use once a month to keep the augmentation sharp, shaved and dressed in a gray merino suit, pulled on his shoes, and left the room in search of breakfast.

He found his mother instead, sitting alone in the dining room.

“Good morning, Mother.” He kissed her cheek. “You look lovely this morning.”

“Flatterer. Will you join your old mum for breakfast?”

He surveyed the table. “It looks as though you’ve already eaten.”

“I can still watch you—make certain you’re eating enough.”

Alastair rolled his eyes, but he joined her anyway. The only person who didn’t seem to want to fatten him up was Claire. Though, to be fair, she probably didn’t care how much he weighed.

The waiter brought him coffee, and he ordered eggs, sausage, toast, potatoes and a pot of strawberry jam. That was when he noticed the third coffee cup on the table. His mother had entertained another guest before him.

“I’m glad to see you’re eating,” she told him. “For a while there I was worried you might waste to nothing but skin and bone.”

Alastair arched a brow as he fixed his coffee. “So worried you decided to journey to America straightaway. If I hadn’t stolen away upon this ship, I wouldn’t see you for another two months.” There was no judgment in his tone, only good-natured ribbing.

“Such a cheeky boy. You get that from your father.”

“Mmm.” He chuckled and took a sip from his cup. “Lucky that’s all I got.”

She clucked her tongue, but otherwise didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she talked about her friend, Buella, with whom she was traveling to New York. Buella’s husband had taken up with a burlesque dancer less than half his age in Paris and was making a fool of himself across the entire Continent. So Buella had taken it into her head to go to America and perhaps take up with some businessman or an actor much younger than she was herself as well.

Alastair listened like the dutiful son, his gaze scanning the room the entire time, following each new person—anyone who might seem just a little bit off. Detached. Stanton Howard was a top-notch agent and actor, but he was also mad, and oftentimes mad people behaved in ways otherwise “normal” people did not.

His breakfast came, and he ate as he watched. His mother continued to talk as he worked, only now she talked about the trip they’d taken to New York as a family when he’d been down from school one summer. His father had called it a vacation, but he’d been there on Warden business.

“You’re so much like him,” his mother mused, her tone both dry and proud. “Always working. Even now you’re working. Couldn’t bear to sit with your back to the door, could you?”

Alastair wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’m nothing like him at all.” He was loyal to his agency, for one thing. He knew his duty.

“I remember a time when you wanted nothing more than to be exactly like him. You couldn’t wait to sign up with the Wardens. You fretted for weeks that they might find fault with you and not take you. You and Lucas Grey were mad as a bag of cats until you were accepted.”

“People change, Mama. I changed. Father changed. If I work hard, it’s to atone for the mistakes he made.”

She regarded him a moment before dropping her gaze to her cup. He thought he spied a tremor in her fingers. “Your father wasn’t a double agent, dearest.”

“What was he, then?” And how the hell did she even know about that? She’d never said anything to him, not even when she had to know her son’s opinion of the man had been ruined by the papers he found in his father’s office and the things he’d heard from other W.O.R. agents.

“A good man trying to protect the woman he loved.”

Alastair frowned. Then it all became very clear. Damn it all to hell. “You?”

She nodded, suddenly looking her age. “I got myself into a spot of trouble. You know I did a bit of work for the Wardens myself in my youth.”

“Of course I know. That’s how you and Father met.”

His mother smiled. “Yes. And some time into our relationship—both professional and pessi

Alastair stared at her, dumbfounded. “I didn’t know that you had any part in it. I didn’t even know that you knew.”

She patted his hand. “I was a coward. I didn’t want you to know the truth about me. I feared it might change how you thought of me, but it’s time you knew the truth. I don’t want you to resent your father for my mistakes any longer. It’s been the great shame of my life.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because that young woman you have with you is a good girl in a very bad spot, I think. And she needs someone like you by her side if she’s to get through it.”

His heart gave a hard thump. “Mother, what are you talking about?”

“Claire. I had breakfast with her just before you arrived. She didn’t give me specific details—she didn’t have to. I know what a woman in danger of doing the wrong thing looks like. If you care about her, you need to help her.”

He tried to force a chuckle, but it sounded like a cough. “Care about her? I’ve known her only a few days.”

“I fell in love with your father the moment I laid eyes on him.”

“I don’t love Claire.” It was impossible. He liked her . . . sort of. Respected her, even, but love? No. He couldn’t love someone he couldn’t trust wholeheartedly, especially not after such a brief acquaintance.

“Maybe not yet, but you might, and wouldn’t you rather she be alive when you figure that out?”

His heart went cold in his chest. She
had
talked to Claire. “Tell me what happened.”

“She asked if I knew of any passenger traveling with a doctor. I told her I did.”

Sweet Jesus. “Howard,” he whispered.

“Howard? No, that wasn’t the name he used.”

“Did you give her the name?”

“Yes. It was Robert Brooks.”

Only a few times in his life had Alastair truly felt the blood rush from his head—this was one of them. He could feel it pooling in his feet. “The bastard’s using her brother’s name.”

“I assume from your tone and expression that this villain most certainly killed her brother before assuming his identity?”

He nodded. “I have to find her. She’ll kill him. Do you know where she went?”

“She said she needed some air. And to hit something.”

He wouldn’t put it past her to find Howard’s room and take his eyes out. He jumped to his feet. “I have to go.” Then, got size=almost as an afterthought, he kissed her on the forehead. “Love you.” Because he did love her, and because confessing to him couldn’t have been easy on her.

And because she restored his faith in his father. They’d talk about it in more depth at another time, but for now it was enough to know his father wasn’t a traitor.

That his father had been a
good man
.

As he took off in pursuit of Claire, the “woman in danger of doing a bad thing,” he realized that maybe he really was like his father after all.

* * *

Robert Brooks
. The name stared up at Claire, mocking her with its neat loops and precise corners. The person who’d written this passenger list had lovely handwriting, and if he stood in front of her at this moment, she’d make him eat the damn list before she reached down his throat and pulled it and his guts out.

It wasn’t as though anyone who worked on the ship could know that Howard was traveling under her brother’s name. It would be simple enough to get acceptable identification, false as it was. But this . . .
insult
felt personal—as though Howard had known they’d come for him, and he wanted to rub a little extra salt in her already-raw wounds.

She was not going to kill him quickly.

“I suspected I’d find you here.”

Despite all else, the sound of Alastair’s voice brought an unexpected smile to her lips. “That doesn’t surprise me.” Her smile faded as she raised her gaze to his. They were all alone in the captain’s office. The woman had handed over the passenger list without hesitation. It was amazing what people would do when they thought you were one of the good ones. “The bastard’s using my brother’s name.”

He didn’t look surprised. “I know. I spoke to my mother. She told me.” There was just the right amount of sympathy in his tone. “Do you have his stateroom number?”

She could lie and tell him no, so that she could sneak off later by herself, but it would be as easy as glancing at the page in front of her to see the truth. “Yes. He’s in first class. Number A18.”

He didn’t remark on the fact that it was not too far from their own cabin. “The captain’s hosting a party tonight in the ballroom. If Howard’s there, we can search his cabin and hopefully discover what he’s up to.”

She frowned at him. “He’s a Company agent. What else do you need?”

“He’s on this ship for a reason. A man that gifted with disguise doesn’t permanently alter his face unless he’s done something so vile, he’ll have practically every agency in the world after him. Howard is up to something, and I want to know what it is before we make a move against him. He could have more than one associate on board, and that increases the danger to all the other guests.”

Claire returned her focus to the passenger log so he couldn’t see the impotent rage in her eyes.

“We’ll get him, Claire. There’s nowhere he can run to in the middle of the ocean. ofer eyes.”

“Not unless he has a submersible like we do. Hell, he could steal yours, Alastair.”

“For his sake, I hope not. It’s programmed to lock down if anyone tries to take it. No one can get in or out except for me.”

Of course not. It must be nice to think of everything. She used to be like that. At one time she would have also planned to search Howard’s room and gather as much information as they could. Now she just wanted him to die a slow and torturous death. Everything else paled next to her desire for revenge. At this moment, it didn’t even matter if Alastair hated her afterward.

She closed the leather-bound book. She knew the cabin number, and staring at her brother’s name for much longer was going to surely drive her insane.

“Your mother is a very interesting woman.”

His lips quirked. “That’s a remarkably polite way to put it. She’s quite something, yes. I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble.”

“She did—a bit.” Claire frowned. “I think she likes me.”

“Oh, she does. She wouldn’t pretend if she did not. You’re a little bit like her, you know.”

“Complimenting a woman by saying she reminds you of your mother is a good way to remain single for the rest of your life, my lord.” She rose to her feet as she spoke.

Alastair chuckled. “In this case I’m not entirely certain it’s a compliment.”

“That’s good to know.” She wasn’t the least bit insulted that his comparison between herself and his mother wasn’t entirely complimentary. It would be a little too disconcerting if it was, especially since he claimed he wanted to sleep with her.

Now, that would be a pleasant way to spend the rest of the day. Forget all about Howard, and her fear that he was going to win after all. Even if—when—they caught him, it wouldn’t bring Robert back.

In fact, at that moment, she didn’t even understand her need for revenge. She hadn’t seen Robert in a long time. He was always busy or gone on a mission. They hadn’t been close since shortly after they joined the Company, perhaps even before. He used to pick on her something terrible at times. He had spent as much time as he could away from home, away from their father, with whom he often clashed.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

Entwining her fingers with his felt as natural as breathing. “Where?”

“For a walk.”

“Is that really what we should do right now? We should plan; we should follow Dr. George Stephens.”

“The last thing we want to do is call too much attention to ourselves,” he reminded her. “Let’s go for a walk and see who we can run into.” As soon as the words left his mouth, a female crew member ran into the room.

“Where’s Captain Winscott?” she demanded, her cheeks pale, eyes big as horseshoes.

“She was d">td">going to the bridge,” Claire informed her. The poor thing looked as though she might be ill at any moment.

Alastair’s brow knit in concern. “What’s happened?”

“There’s been an accident in the cargo hold,” the woman informed them in a voice that was both sob and gasp. “A steam carriage fell off its rigging.”

“Is anyone hurt?” Alastair demanded, stepping closer and bringing Claire with him.

A tear trickled down the woman’s cheek. “A man. It fell on a man.”