Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (15 page)

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Alastair ran so fast, Claire couldn’t keep up with him. Her strong but normal legs were no match for his augmented ones. He seemed to know where he was going, so she pushed on, keeping him in sight even when her lungs began to labor and her muscles burn.

She followed him down staircases, along long corridors, around sharp corners, and down even farther, into the low recesses of the ship. At the bottom of the stairs, just outside the cargo hold, she stopped and braced a hand against the wall, gasping for air. Damn corset.

Claire paused only for a moment, then followed after Alastair. It was easy enough to locate him; she just followed the panic—and the screaming.

A small crowd of people had already gathered—mostly crew. Some wore uniforms that bespoke of a position abovedecks, while others were grimy, coal dusted, and obviously worked down here, rarely seeing daylight, like dwarves in underground mines. Artificial light filled the cavernous space, casting shadows over passenger belongings and transport items.

The carriage that had fallen from its moorings was a bright red Daimler with cream-colored wheels and brass fittings. It didn’t look to be too damaged by the fall. Of course the man beneath it couldn’t say the same.

His screams had diminished since she arrived, and they were now more like anguished cries. She understood only bits of what he said. Her Russian wasn’t as good as it ought to be, though she had spent some time in St. Petersburg a few years ago.

The crew members tried to lift the carriage, with little success. Every time they tried to move the vehicle, the screams began anew—hoarse, tortuous sounds that made her stomach roil.

Alastair pushed closer. “You there, take the side. And you, help him.” He pointed at where he wanted them to be. Then to the others, he said, “I’m going to lift the back, and when I do, I want you two to pull him out. Understood?”

“You can’t lift that thing, mate,” one of the crew cried. “The four of us couldn’t budge it.”

His face was grim, and his gaze the color of cold steel. “When I lift, you pull. Am. I. Understood?”

The man nodded. “Perfectly, sir.”

Claire put her hand on his arm. “Alastair.”

“Stand back,” he told her. “The carriage might slip. Do you have any medical training?”

ther LTck,Of course. I’ll see if I can find a hospital kit.” There would have to be one somewhere—all ships like this were expected to be equipped with necessary medical items should an accident occur. She spotted it on the wall near the door where she’d come in, and went to grab it.

When she returned, Alastair had removed his coat and tossed it over a battered black trunk. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing the defined lines of his forearms.

Her chest tightened as he approached the carriage. The man beneath it looked up at him with shock-widened eyes and said something in Russian. Blood trickled from his mouth.

Alastair responded in the same language, his voice taking an even rougher edge. Then he bent his legs and reached beneath the vehicle with both hands.

Claire’s heart began to pound hard against her ribs.
Be careful,
she thought.
Please be careful
. She held her breath as he began to lift. She could see the muscles of his thighs straining beneath his trousers. His forearms were nothing but muscle and sinew as he slowly straightened, bringing the carriage with him.

Her mouth dropped. He was lifting the damn thing. Granted, he had help, but he was doing what four couldn’t do before. The strain of the task showed in his face. The pinned man screamed as the weight eased off him, but Alastair kept lifting.

“Get in there and pull him out!” Claire shouted at the crew who just stood there, staring. Alastair wouldn’t be able to hold the thing forever, and if it slipped, more people were going to get hurt.

The men did as she commanded, and pulled the screaming Russian out from under the carriage.

Once he saw the man was clear, Alastair set the carriage down. It hit the floor of the bay with a thud that vibrated beneath Claire’s feet. She moved to his side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” As he spoke, he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Give me the kit.”

She’d almost forgotten about the medical case. She handed it over as he went to the injured Russian’s side. He crouched beside the man. One look at his injuries and Claire knew he wasn’t long for this world. She swallowed hard. He looked like a rag doll—boneless and covered in blood.

Alastair spoke in Russian—asking who had done this to him. The dying man responded in broken sentences. Of course this wasn’t an accident. Touring carriages didn’t just fall from secure moorings. And even if they did, passengers weren’t allowed down here. When she heard the Russian groan, “Brooks,” she knew she was right.

Stanton Howard was behind this.

Rage cut through her, pushing her to act. She knelt on the other side of the man, then took the bandages and pads that Alastair gave her. They couldn’t save this man, but they could make him comfortable. She took the sealed syringe of laudanum from the box as well.

The man reached up and took Alastair’s hand. His voice was getting weaker. It was harder for her to pick out familiar words as blood bubbled on his lips.

She looked at Alastair. He was white-faced, angry and sad. He nodded at her, and she pierced the man’s a tht arm with the needle and injected the entirety of it into his veins. Then she took his other hand and held it until she felt his muscles let go.

“He’s dead,” Alastair said. Then, to the crew members, “Take him to the morgue.” He rose to his feet. Claire followed him as he retrieved his coat and left the cargo bay.

“Alastair?”

“In a minute,” he replied.

She fell silent, and she remained so until they reached their cabin, where he tossed his coat on a chair and sat down on the bed, his bloodstained fingers dangling between his knees, his head bowed.

He was shaking.

Damn it, how could she not have realized sooner what effect this might have on him? The man had been crushed by a carriage himself. This must have brought back horrible memories for him, yet he had tried to save the man.

She knelt on the carpet in front of him and placed her hands on either side of his face. The blood on her fingers was little more than dried, rusty smudges almost the same color as his hair.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“No, you’re not, but if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s all right.” She pressed her lips to his forehead. If only she could take whatever he was feeling away from him. She’d gladly suffer it herself if it meant he didn’t have to.

His fingers came up to close over her wrists, but he didn’t pull her hands away. “I told the man I was a Warden, and he told me Howard did that to him. He released the locking mechanism holding the carriage in place. The man was a Russian spy on board to sell information to Howard. Howard was supposed to give him the plans to a Company weapon in return.”

“Howard killed him instead, not only getting the information but keeping the plans as well.”

“God knows how many other buyers he has lined up. The ship could be crawling with spies.”

“You need to send word to the Wardens.” She tried not to think about just how badly this could go.

He nodded. “I’ll telegraph the director. We need to find out just what Howard’s selling and whom else he plans to meet with. At this point he doesn’t know I talked to the Russian. I’m sure he thought the carriage would kill him outright.”

“Or, as with me, Howard’s getting sloppy,” she remarked. “He didn’t check to make sure I was dead, either.”

Alastair’s gaze locked with hers. “No, and I think tonight is the perfect time to let him see that you’re still alive.”

Chapter 13

Alastair was fine after a few minutes. The unpleasant memories and feelings caused by seeing the Russian spy crushed by the carriage had passed, leaving him feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor man for having to die like that.

Still, there was a part of him that wondered if Howard had intentionally killed the Russian thater Lnt>

He took his portable telegraph machine out of its case and quickly sent word to Dhanya about what they’d found out so far. She didn’t respond immediately for a face-to-face chat, so he knew she was out of the office. Damn. Hopefully she’d get back to him soon.

He’d known this wasn’t going to be an easy job when he took the assignment, but it was looking more and more like it was going to become a colossal knob up. Grabbing Howard was going to be difficult enough without having to worry about his associates coming for them—or him. At best he had Stephens, the surgeon, and one other foreign agent on board. At worst the number might be multiplied by many.

What was Claire’s part in all of this? Was he a fool for actually believing she knew nothing about the Russians? Was he stupid for wanting to think she was exactly as she appeared? Luke had insisted she was trustworthy and he had laughed in his friend’s face. Now—well, now he understood the effect Claire Brooks could have on a man.

He wanted to trust her. He wanted to believe the best of her.

After sending the message to Dhanya, he gathered up a small scatter pistol and ammunition to give to his mother. There’d be no telling her to stay in her cabin while there was a party going on, especially not a party that was sure to be full of intrigue. Besides, as it stood, she was the only person who could point out Howard in his current disguise. They couldn’t afford to be blind tonight. His mother would point Howard out and keep watch while Alastair searched the bastard’s cabin. Hopefully his mother would be able to keep an eye on Claire as well.

The best choice of action would be to keep Claire with him, but his mind warned him that she might not be as trustworthy as he wanted to believe. Leaving her free to go after Howard wasn’t a good idea. He didn’t for one moment suspect her of being in league with the bastard—her hatred was too real—but she would attempt to kill him if she could. He just had to hope that he could stop her in time, or that maybe she’d change her mind.

There was a better chance of the sun not rising.

He glanced at her. She was curled up on the bed sound asleep. How she could nap after the morning they’d had eluded him, but he smiled regardless. She looked so harmless asleep—peaceful and unburdened by life as an operative.

The Wardens had better treat her well when they imprisoned her. Maybe they’d offer her a deal of some kind—a shorter sentence for information. Of course, the Company would be gunning for her, so unless she went into hiding, she wouldn’t have much of a future.

He could give her one. The thought stopped him cold. After he took Howard into custody, he could always let her go. He could say she overpowered him. Drugged him. Hell, he could tell them just about anything. They’d have Howard and his doctor. They’d have the Russian’s information. Dhanya would be happy with that. She might not care that Claire got away.

He’d known her only a few days; yet here he sat, contemplating betraying his agency for her, betraying everything he believed in. The woman was a witch.

The kiss they’d shared at the shher, inn was still fresh in his mind. He had her taste in the back of his mouth—like a memory that came easily to mind but was shrouded in fog. It had been a long time since he’d felt a want that deep for a woman.

It was because he couldn’t have her—that was the appeal. When this was over, he’d walk away and leave her to her fate, and gradually he’d stop thinking about her so much. Once the spell she’d woven around him faded, he’d realize there really hadn’t been anything special about her.

His telegraph machine began to click and clack, drawing his attention away from the woman sleeping on the bed. She didn’t even stir at the sound. Either she’d never developed an operative’s habit of sleeping lightly, or she felt safe enough in his presence to allow herself to truly sleep. He should be flattered, but it could just as easily be that she didn’t think of him as enough of a threat to be concerned.

What would she think if he climbed onto that bed and showed her just how much of a threat he could be? She wasn’t the only one who knew how to use seduction as a weapon. As armor. As comfort.

But he didn’t go to the bed. He watched the letters being printed on the paper fed from a roll in the telegraph instead. Being a “good” and “honorable” man was sometimes a pain in the arse.

OBTAIN INFORMATION ON HOWARD’S PLANS AND OBTAIN ALL DOCUMENTS. ASCERTAIN DEGREE OF FOREIGN OPERATIVE INVOLVEMENT. DO NOT ALLOW HOWARD TO ESCAPE. CAPTURE OTHER AGENTS IF POSSIBLE. W.O.R. OPERATIVES EN ROUTE TO ASSIST. BE CAREFUL.

Be careful. He snorted. It wasn’t as though he planned to run up to Howard, slap him in the forehead and cry,
You’re it!
Ever since Sascha, Dhanya seemed to think he had a suicide wish.

At least she was sending extra agents. By early morning this should be over. He turned in his chair and looked at the woman on the bed. Once this was done, he would probably never see her again.

He stood and walked over to the bed where he sat down on the coverlet. Seeing the Russian die earlier had made him realize how close he had come, made him realize for the umpteenth time just how fragile human life truly was. Giving in to his attraction to Claire was not the right thing to do. Maybe there was something wrong with him in that he was attracted to the wrong women, but at that moment he didn’t care.

Right now he was alone with the most incredible woman he’d ever met—a woman who could drive him to distraction and break his heart simply with a few words. Yes, it was wrong, but after tonight, it wouldn’t matter. She’d be gone, and he would have nothing but this. If he didn’t listen to his foolish heart, he would regret it more than listening to his head.

He was four and thirty years of age. He shouldn’t have as many regrets as he did. He certainly didn’t want to acquire any more.

Alastair reached out and brushed the side of her face with his fingers. Her skin was like velvet, warm and soft. She shifted in her sleep, turning her face toward him.

He trailed his fingers down her jaw, to the slender line of her neck. A bit of hair had come free from her pins—a brush of silk against the back of his hand.

Slowly, he lowered his face toward her. He braced his other hand on the pillow beside her. A faint voice in his head insisted that there was still time to cease this madness, that he could get up and walk away.

He ignored it. He couldn’t trust his own judgment. The voice that had told him to trust Sascha was the same telling him to run away from Claire. It was the voice of a scared boy who didn’t want to get hurt again, but Sascha had not been worth the risk. He had known that then, just as he now knew that Claire was.

Alastair brushed his lips across hers. Full and damp, they parted easily for him, and he caught her lower lip between his and gently sucked.

“Mmm.” Claire stirred. He released her lip and reared up a bit—enough so that he could look into her eyes when they fluttered open. A tiny frown puckered her brow. “Alastair?”

Perhaps this was a mistake. Perhaps she didn’t want him after all. He pulled back, but she caught him with a hand behind his neck. She was strong, tugging his head back to hers, and he hadn’t the inclination to fight her.

“You’re not going to run away,” she whispered, her gaze locked with his. “Not this time.”

She kissed him, and when her tongue flicked over his lips, he opened his mouth, letting her inside and tasting her in turn. She was hot and wet, vaguely sweet and potent as fine whiskey. His heart thumped hard against his ribs as a rush of longing raced through his veins. Claire’s fingers curved over the back of his skull, weaving through his hair as he slid his hand down to cup her breast. Full and firm, she filled his palm, the tightened bud of her nipple hard beneath her gown.

The only sound in the room, mixed with the faint hum of the ship’s engines, was their combined breaths—shallow and humid. His fingers squeezed, thumb and forefinger rolling her tightened flesh until she moaned against his lips.

Alastair shuddered. He wanted to taste her skin; he wanted to hear more of those little moans of pleasure as he claimed every inch of her body—and her soul.

When she tugged on him, he went readily. She hooked him with one leg and turned. He rolled and landed on his back on the bed with her sprawled on top of him. She sat up, calves hugging his thighs, and began struggling with the buttons on her dress. “Damn thing,” she muttered. Then she grabbed the gaping fabric with both hands and pulled. Buttons flew in all directions—one bounced off Alastair’s cheek.

He laughed and reached up to help pull the bodice off her shoulders. She pulled her arms free with a grin and then fell forward, bracing a palm on either side of his head and leaning down to nibble on his lips. She rolled her hips, pushing the warmth between her legs down on the hardness between his. Alastair groaned and reached for the strings of her corset, untying and loosening them with quick, deft fingers. He threw the lacing across the room, then did the same to the garment itself.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she chided, unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“So are you.” He pulled at her chemise, but she pulled away and slipped off the bed to stand beside it.

Alastair watched, his mouth dry, as she slid t asulled he damaged gown over her hips to fall in a froth at her feet. She reached down and grabbed the skirt of her chemise, pulling it up to reveal shapely calves in silk stockings, suspenders and garters. Short little bloomers of pale pink were revealed next. Between the legs of them was slightly darker—damp. His cock hardened even further.

She pulled the delicate linen over her head and stood before him, loose bits of hair tumbling around her pale naked shoulders, breasts standing high and firm, pink nipples tightly puckered.

“You’re bloody perfect,” he told her.

She actually flushed as she brought her hands to the tie on her drawers. She plucked at the string, and then pushed the flimsy fabric down, letting it fall into the pile of gown.

She left the stockings on.

Alastair rose from the bed and went to her, sliding eager hands over the curve of her hips. “Perfect,” he repeated.

“Your turn,” she said, pushing the open waistcoat over his shoulders.

He didn’t hesitate. First he toed off his boots as she tugged on his shirt, pulling it up and over his head. Her soft palms stroked his shoulders, down his chest. One skimmed down farther and rubbed the eager bulge in his trousers. He hissed.

Claire smiled. “Why, Lord Wolfred, is that for me?”

His lips tilted as their gazes met. “If you want it.”

“Oh”—her fingers squeezed—“I do.”

Quickly he unfastened the buttons. His trousers fell to the floor and were immediately followed by his small clothes and stockings. Naked, he stood before her, pride and other parts swelling at the obvious desire in her green eyes.

“You’re perfect,” she told him. “The most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I want you inside me.”

He swept her off her feet and into his arms, turning to place her on the mattress and kneel between her spread legs. He kissed her mouth, her jaw and throat. He took each nipple into his mouth and sucked until her back arched and she cried out. Then he slid lower, twirling his tongue around the dip of her navel, and down farther until he found the soft hair between her thighs.

She smelled of heat and arousal, and when he parted her with his fingers, he found her pink flesh glistening with moisture. He held her open as his tongue stroked the hardened crest of flesh there. Claire gasped and arched her hips. One of her hands came down on the back of his head, pushing down in a silent plea for more.

He gave it to her, lapping at her salty slickness, pushing his tongue inside her, sucking and licking until her body lifted, tight as a bowstring, and a hoarse cry tore from her lips.

He came up and guided himself into her, feeling the tight warmth of her body yield to him. Her wide green eyes were open, and her gaze locked with his, so bright and trusting. At that moment he understood what she’d said about a woman looking into the eyes of a man she wanted to be with. Whatever else might happen between them,
this
was what he would take away with him.

Ctinto be wilaire wrapped her legs around Alastair’s hips as her body opened to him. He filled her; he became part of her. The things she saw in his stormy eyes scared her as much as they thrilled her. As a spy he could hide his emotions, but as a man he was as open as a window on a perfect summer day.

He began to move inside her, a sweet friction that sent shudders of delight coursing through her entire body. She set the rhythm of her hips to match his, undulating beneath him. Every inch of her was aware of him—even the places they didn’t touch. A glance down and she could see where they were joined—the gold of his skin against her paler flesh. She gripped his arms, braced tight on either side of her, and arched her neck as he plunged even deeper into her.