Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (16 page)

And all the while, he never stopped watching her. It was as though the secrets of the universe were hidden in her eyes and he was determined to learn them all. She’d been with other men, and some of those times had been quick and ferocious, rough and frenetic. She’d also been made love to sweetly, gently.

Being with Alastair was like nothing she’d ever experienced before. He was neither fierce nor gentle, fast nor slow, but this was without a doubt the most intense encounter she’d ever experienced. She could feel his muscles tremble beneath her hands, and she knew he was holding back. So was she.

Her resolve didn’t last for long. Alastair shifted his hips, changing his thrust so that the friction between them increased. Between her legs she pulsed, ached. The sensation grew, tightening into a pressure that begged to be released. She arched her hips, shoving her pelvis against his. The tension grew, edging closer and closer to what felt like the edge of the world.

She was close, so close. It was more and more difficult to look him in the eye as her lids kept wanting to close tight. Her neck arched, her skull pressing into the pillow as she hurtled toward that imaginary edge.

“Look at me,” he commanded, the rough growl of his voice sending a tremor down her spine.

Claire forced her eyes open as the first shudder rocked her body. An explosion of pleasure rocketed outward from the part of her wrapped so tight around him. Violent and unexpected, it tore through her, bringing a wail of release from her lips. He didn’t try to silence her; he just kept watching, his eyes darkening as she came. The lines of his face tightened as he thrust faster and faster. And then he stiffened. His eyes fluttered shut, squeezed tight.

“Look at me,” she demanded. She let him see everything; now she wanted the same.

Alastair’s eyes opened, and in them she saw terrible and beautiful things. A hoarse cry tore from his throat as he came. She gripped him tight with her sex and her legs, holding him inside her as he filled her with warmth.

His head bowed, and she reached up to touch the russet silk of his hair. His arms—his entire body—trembled. He lowered onto his forearms, and she wrapped her arms around his torso. He was so warm and hard against her.

After a few moments, he rolled off her, leaving her cold. When he left the bed, it was like a slap to the face. No man had ever left her so quickly, though she’d been guilty of it herself. Shame crawled over her skin like something oily and dark and unexpected. She would never have thought him capable of being so callous.

Then he returned with a washcloth. She could only stare at him as he came back to the bed, nudged her thighs apart and began to gently clean the tender flesh there. What the hell? No man had ever cleaned her before. It felt slightly odd—courtly even. And it was strangely sweet—considerate.

“I shouldn’t have lost control like that,” he told her. “I’m sorry.”

“I believe I was a willing participant,” she informed him a little peevishly. “You don’t have to get all righteous and regretful on me.”

His gaze lifted to hers. “I meant I didn’t intend to come inside you. I should have had more control of myself.”

“Oh.”

The side of his mouth lifted, deepening the groove there. “I’m neither righteous nor regretful, Claire. Were I eighteen again, I’d prove to you just how little regret I have.”

Much to her embarrassment, she actually blushed. “Good. There’s no need to apologize. I have an A.C.D.” The copper ring, or Anti-Conception Device, was mandatory for every female field agent. It was an understood fact that many female agents used their feminine charms to get close to a target, which made the protection necessary. Unfortunately, it was also understood that female agents were occasionally the victims of sexual violence, which also made the device necessary.

“Good to know,” he remarked. He gave the inside of her thigh one more wipe with the warm, wet cloth, then left again. This time when he returned, he pulled back the covers on the bed. “Get in.”

Her naked skin was chilled, so he didn’t have to tell her twice. He slid in beside her, pulling her against his side. He was warm and smelled of spice. She’d never smell cardamom again without thinking of him.

“What now?” she asked, unable to help herself. Why did she have to ruin the moment by asking such a ridiculous question?

“Now we wait,” he replied, running his fingers over her shoulder.

“For what?”

“Until I can do it again.” He smiled at her. She grinned back and cupped his face with one hand so she could kiss him. He rolled toward her, meeting her halfway. The hair on his chest tickled her breasts and rubbed softly against her ribs.

He wasn’t content to kiss her mouth. He had to kiss her eyes, her cheeks, her shoulders, her hips and the back of her knees. He kissed her in places that no man had ever touched, let alone kissed, and when he was done, and she was a tingling jumble of sensations, he pressed his
chest against her back, drew her leg up to hook over the back of his thigh and slid inside her once again. His hand went between her thighs, stroking and teasing her sweet spot as he thrust inside her, until she came again.

This time he didn’t get up immediately to clean her. Instead, he held her tight against him so she could feel the beat of his heart against her back, his warm breath against her neck. Claire knew the exact moment he fell asleep. Her own body was languid and heavy, her mind darkening as slumber pressed down upon her.

A tear trickled from her eye, left a hot tr lenguid aail across her temple and then disappeared into her hair. She’d never been the sort of woman to have many regrets, but the last thought to cross her mind before she fell asleep was that all that was about to change.

After tonight, regret was all she was going to have.

Chapter 14

Alastair and Claire stayed in bed until it was time to dress for dinner, and he didn’t regret a single moment of it. It wasn’t as though there was much they could do at that point. Knock on doors and ask for Robert Brooks?

They barely spoke to each other, but the silence was a comfortable one. They didn’t need to talk, and words would only further complicate a situation that didn’t need anything else heaped upon it.

Their evening clothing had been sent out for pressing after the unfortunate incident involving the Russian and had been returned just a few moments ago.

“Of all the amenities on board, you’d think they’d have a steam closet,” Claire remarked as she fluffed the skirts of the gown hanging on a hook in front of her.

“They hadn’t been invented when the ship was built,” he told her as he sorted through his belongings for a suitable cravat. It would be terribly convenient to have one, however. One simply hung wrinkled clothing in the ingenious contraption, closed the door and filled the tank with water. A push of a button to start the gas flame that heated the tank, and when the clothing was finally removed a short time later, it was wrinkle free. It was not entirely ideal if a crisp pleat was required, but he had to think it was a welcome invention when it came to ladies’ gowns.

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged. “I know when the ship was built, and it was three years before the first steam closet. Not sure how I know that, but I do. What? I wager you have some useless information tucked away in that sharp mind of yours.”

She turned to face him, a surprised expression on her face. “You think I’m sharp?”

“Well, yes.” He frowned. “Surely that’s not a surprise?”

She went back to fussing with her gown. Damn it, he’d embarrassed her. “Most men comment on my face, not my mind.”

“I’m not most men.”

“No. You’re not.” Judging from her expression, he didn’t know if that was a compliment or not. He wasn’t going to think on it much.

He pressed his lips together, debating whether or not to speak. “I’m going to search Howard’s room tonight. I need you to keep him occupied.”

Claire stilled. “I can do that.” There was a flatness to her tone that sent a shiver of trepidation down his spine. He was taking a big chance on her, trusting her not to do anything stupid, but stopping Howard and seizing as much information as they could was more important than bringing the bastard in alive, where he could be used as a bargaining chip.

“Good. By morning this should all be over.”

“And I’ll return to Warden custody.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

She smoothed her hands over the hips of her dressing gown as she turned toward him. Her tongue slipped out to moisten her full lower lip. “I just want to thank you.”

“What the devil for?” If she said for the sex, he’d explode.

“For treating me like a partner rather than a prisoner. I know you were determined not to like me when this began, but you treated me with respect. I appreciate that.”

He thought of some of the things he’d said to her and cringed. “Not always, I didn’t.”

She tilted her head. “I’m guilty as well. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you in case . . . in case I don’t get a chance to later.”

Hell and damnation. “I should thank you, too.”

“For what?”

He would have chuckled at her incredulous tone had the situation been different. “For reminding me that ‘Company agent’ is not synonymous with ‘villain.’ I was feeling pretty jaded before I met you. Are you crying?”

“Of course not!” She turned her back to him. “You’re welcome.”

Silence fell between them then. What else was there say? Nothing that would make any of this easier. They dressed a few feet away from each other—turned away and each consumed by his or her own thoughts.

When they were done, he was dressed in traditional stark black and white. His cravat was ivory silk—a color he was told was more flattering to his complexion than white. Claire stood before him in a gown of stunning wine-colored satin. The rich color made her eyes stand out like jewels in her face. She looked incredible—breasts lifted but not indecently so, waist nipped. Her skirts were full but not so much that she wouldn’t have freedom of movement. The bustle was a froth of fabric, but not the large kind that often made women look as though they had a table beneath their gown. Her hair was pinned up in an artful style on top of her head that looked as though it might tumble free at any moment—seductress hair.

“You’re beautiful,” he blurted.

This she seemed more comfortable hearing. She smiled. “Thank you. There’s actually a pocket for my pistol beneath the bustle. Look.” She turned and showed him the secret compartment. “You Wardens think of everything.”

Not everything. He had yet to think of a way to get her out of this.

He handed her the weapon. “See if it fits.”

It did, and with the bustle in place, it was unnoticeable.

She slipped on a pair of black gloves that matched her boots and gathered up her reticule, which held a selection of gadgets from Arden and her fan—a lethal-looking thing he was glad she’d never pointed at him.

“Shall we?” It was quarter of eight. They were to dine at the captain’s table again.

Claire took the arm he offered. “Of course.”

It was so easy to pretend that they were truly a couple on their way to an enjoyable dinner. He could almost tell himself that the rest of it didn’t exist, but there was a dead man in the ship’s morgue that was evidence to the contrary—a reminder of just how dangerous this mission really was.

When they arrived in the dining room, the space was filled with guests. Jewels glittered like the crystals in the chandeliers, and conversation filled the air. They were the last ones to be seated at the table.

His mother smiled at him from farther down the long table. He smiled back.

“Lord Wolfred. Miss Clarke.” The captain rose to her feet to welcome them. “I’m so glad you could join us after the harrowing events of today.”

“You’ve provided a welcome distraction, Captain Winscott,” Alastair replied, pushing in Claire’s chair. He waited for the captain to sit before seating himself.

“What events?” his mother asked.

He really should have sent her a note. Hindsight was about to give him a huge kick in the arse.

“A man was mortally injured in the cargo hold earlier today, my lady. Your son tried to save him. You’ve become quite the hero to my crew, Lord Wolfred.”

Alastair smiled self-consciously. Beneath the table, Claire gave his leg a reassuring squeeze. His mother, however, had gone pale. She was not a stupid woman. She had to suspect it wasn’t a simple accident.

“If you don’t mind my asking, my lord, just how did you attempt to save the man?”

His gaze fell on the fellow who spoke—a man in his thirties, perhaps, with thick dark hair, muttonchops and round spectacles. There was nothing special about him, except his eyes. He had eyes like a shark.

Stanton Howard. He knew it without a doubt. Claire’s fingers biting into his leg only added to his certainty.

“I assisted in lifting a carriage off the man, Mr. . . . ?”

“Brooks. That is quite heroic indeed.”

“Not heroic enough. The man still died.”

“What a shame.” Howard’s tone would have sounded perfectly sincere to someone untrained. Alastair caught the mocking edge. He also caught how Claire’s fingernails threatened to puncture his trousers at the sound of her last name on the bastard’s tongue.

“It is,” he agreed. His gaze locked with Howard’s, unflinching and direct. “Fortunately I speak Russian, so I was able to give the man a little comfort.”

He didn’t miss the slight gasp that came from a man farther down the table. He might not have heard it over the din at all had it not been for his augmented hearing. Dr. Stephens, he presumed.

“How very fortunate for the poor man that you happened along.” Howard raised his wineglass. “To Lord Wolfred.”

The rest of the table joined in the toast—even Claire. There was a reason she was hailed as an incomparable actress as Claire Clarke. She smiled as if he were her personal hero, acting for all the world as though the man who killed her brother wasn’t sitting just a few feet away.

Alastair thanked them and drank when the others did, but his gaze never left Howard’s. He did, however, manage a small smile.

The game was now afoot.

* * *

The only thing stopping Claire from tearing across the table and plunging a fork deep into Stanton Howard’s eye was Alastair—and perhaps the disapproval of Lady Wolfred.

And the fact that she wouldn’t have time to make him beg for his life.

Several times during the dinner, she’d felt Alastair’s hand—either on her leg or covering her own fingers. His touch gave her patience and strength. It made her tingle. She did not want her legacy to be the headline
LUNATIC AMERICAN ACTRESS KILLS MAN WITH FORK
.

No, when she killed him, she wanted to savor it. It would not be quick. And before the life drained out of him, he would tell her why Robert had to die.

The real insult wasn’t just that he now used Robert’s name, but that he’d even affected a little bit of her brother’s mannerisms and ways of speaking into this current disguise. It was disturbingly familiar—both sickening and heartbreaking to see bits of her brother in this bastard.

And the way he looked at her. She wanted to kick the smug look off his face. When they’d been introduced, she had the pleasure of seeing his façade slip just a little. Now he looked as though they shared some kind of private joke.

How long could a man stay alive with his privates sliced off and shoved down his throat?

After dinner came dessert and coffee. And then the automaton orchestra began to play as the remains of the meal were whisked away from the tables.

Several of the men left to go enjoy a cigar before the entertainment truly got under way. Howard was one of them. Alastair was not. Neither was Dr. Stephens. Claire fingered the bracelet on her wrist. She could go after Howard and garrote him. But then she wouldn’t see his face.

“Why don’t you go with them, my dear?” she asked the man beside her, sweetness dripping from her tongue.

He gave her a charming smile. “And leave you vulnerable to the attentions of other men? I think not.”

She could kick him, but he wasn’t the one who kindled her anger. He was simply the one keeping her from cornering Stephens and demanding information.

Alastair leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Howard left Stephens behind to watch us.”

She didn’t glance at the young man who was doing a horrible job of pretending not to watch them. “Perhaps you’d take a turn with me then?”

“Delighted.” He stood and offered her his hand, which she took and sqhe ps youueezed as hard as she could to let him know what she thought of the situation. He only smiled.

“You’d better hope I don’t decide to squeeze back,” he warned her playfully.

She wasn’t intimidated. That hand had been all over her earlier—inside her—and she knew how gentle it could be.

They excused themselves to the captain and made their way into the center of the dining room. Word had gotten around of Alastair’s attempt to save the Russian earlier that day, and several people stopped him to praise his heroics. He handled the whole thing with grace and aplomb while Claire twitched next to him. She was all agitated energy—not a good look for her.

And it wasn’t good for Alastair’s plan. She drew a deep breath, slowly exhaled and concentrated on being calm, keeping her eyes open and appearing as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She could take a page from Lady Wolfred. The woman obviously wanted to know what had happened with the Russian and what was going on now; yet she sat at the captain’s table, chatting with the other ladies as though nothing were amiss. Only once did Claire catch her watching her son with an expression of concern.

Claire went through the motions, playing what had to be the role of her lifetime, it so went against everything she felt. She laughed and made conversation, charmed and flirted as the situation required.

In other words, she did her damn job.

“Well done, Agent Brooks,” Alastair whispered into her ear a little while later, when they were finally alone, no one trying to curry his favor or flirt with a hero.

She sighed. “Thank you. Has he come back yet?”

“Twenty minutes ago,” he replied.

Claire started. “I didn’t notice. How could I have not noticed?”

“It was when Mr. Williams complimented you on your cleavage.”

“He commented on the detailed rosette work on my gown.”

“Right along the neckline of your gown. Really, Claire. You didn’t notice that the man practically had his face buried in your tits?”

She glanced down. She wasn’t showing any more chest than any other lady in the room. Less than some. Besides, she knew when a man was flirting with her, and Mr. Williams had not been flirting with her. He had, however, flirted with Alastair. “No. Listen to you, Lord Wolfred, using such coarse language. One might think you were jealous.”