Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (19 page)

Claire didn’t think; she just acted. She yanked open the door to the waiting carriage and shoved the woman inside, quickly jumping in behind her. Another aether blast scorched the door panel—she felt the heat of it against her skin.

“I assume that welcoming party was for me?” she demanded.

The dark-haired woman shot her an arch look as she shoved scatter shot into a pistol. “Do you? How very astute you are.” She passed the gun to Claire and began loading another. Then she banged on the roof with a fist. “Go!”

The carriage lunged into motion. Thank God it was a steam carriage and not dependent on horses, which would run wild at the sound of gunfire. There was a loud boom, and the vehicle took off like mad.

Another blast hit the roof—they were firing at the driver. The back window shattered as a finger of lightning-like energy struck it. The other woman cried out, shielding her face from the shards. Then with a strange synchronized motion, the two of them rose up and returned fire out the destroyed window.

Claire grinned as the man in the road fell to the ground. Wardens converged on him as the carriage carried her and her companion farther away.

“Good shot,” the woman commented, a little breathless.

Claire offered her the pistol. “I think you might have been the one to get him.”

The woman stared at the pistol as she took it from Claire’s hand. “This would be a perfect opportunity for you to try to escape.”

“I’m done running,” Claire responded, using her skirt to brush glass from the leather seat. “Besides, I have a lot of information in my head that you might find useful, and I can tell you how to get to my brother. Pain won’t work on him, but spiders will.”

Dark brows rose. “So you have no plans to escape?”

“No. I’m done. I’ll give you everything you want. I would like something in return, though.”

The woman didn’t look surprised. “I’m not sure what I can . . .”

“Please, you’re the head of the Wardens. You can do whatever you want.”

A droll expression took hold of her exotic features. “What are your demands?”

“No demands. I’ll be much less a madwoman if you can keep me in a cell with a view of some sort, and I would like to be kept updated on Lord Wolfred’s recovery.”

After a moment of silence the woman raised a brow. “That’s it?”

“One other thing.”

“Of course.”

Claire almost smiled at her. “Should Lord Wolfred recover and ever want to see me, I want you to forbid it. He’s never to see me again. Do we have an agreement?”

The woman looked stunned, mixed with a healthy measure of curiosity. Then all that melted into resolution. She offered her hand, and Claire took it.

“We do, Miss Brooks. We do.”

* * *

They told him he was lucky to be alive. They told him that if Brooks had aimed just a little bit to the left, he would have been killed. They told him Claire had damn near sliced her own brother’s hand off to save him—and then shot the bastard herself.

And when he asked about her, all anyone would tell him was that she was in custody, cooperating with the Wardens, and being well treated.

That had been over a fortnight ago.

Alastair was almost completely healed now, thanks to Evelyn and her miracle elixir. The burn on his chest from the aether blast had shrunk and was a healthy pink scar that he had to rub special oils on every day to promote healing. The skin felt almost perfectly normal—no pain at all, despite having to heal from the inside out. The scar would last, but it wouldn’t be of much significance.

Evelyn visited his home every day to check on his progress, and she usually took tea with him and his mother, who had canceled her trip to America the night he’d been shot and returned to England with him. She’d even hand-delivered the information he’d hidden ie him and n her hatbox to Dhanya. And God love her, she took care of putting out the rumor that he’d suffered an injury whilst hunting, so people wouldn’t ask unanswerable questions. It wouldn’t do for people to find out the Earl of Wolfred had been shot. They might ask why, or better yet, speculate on whether or not it had anything to do with the shooting on board that steamship where they captured a spy. . . . The Wardens had made certain the ship’s passengers and crew were well contained, but it wouldn’t take much to start tongues wagging.

He’d asked Evelyn about Claire only twice. The first time she told him she was doing well. The second time she said, “She’s asked me not to tell you about her.”

Those words—however reluctantly spoken—were like a punch to the throat. “Ah” was all he could think to say in response. He felt like a proper twat. It couldn’t have all been pretend, could it?

Or did she blame him for having to injure her own brother? He should have been the one to do it. Instead, he stood there, listening as they spoke and needing to hear that she was as shocked as he was—that she hadn’t known her brother was Howard all along and that she hadn’t meant to double-cross the W.O.R.

No, it hadn’t all been pretend, because he had seen the look on Claire’s face when her brother turned the pistol on him. He would never forget it, because that was the awful moment when he realized he was in love with her. It was reckless and foolish and positively juvenile of him and he didn’t care. He’d fallen in love with the wrong woman—again. Only this time . . . This time he knew it was wrong, and he didn’t care.

This time, even though he knew it was over, he kept trying to figure out a way to have her. He hadn’t done that with either Arden or Sascha.

On the day Dhanya came to check up on him, he was in his study, going over the accounts for his country estates. On the desk beside him was one of his father’s journals. His mother had given them to him, with the suggestion that the volumes might help him better understand the man he’d mistaken for a traitor. Some of it was difficult reading, as there were private thoughts about Alastair’s mother and even Alastair himself in them. However, his mother had been right, as she usually was. He did feel closer to his father, and to his mother as well.

Oddly enough, reading about his mother and father’s relationship made him feel closer to Claire, too. Like his mother, Claire had simply aligned herself with the wrong people, and she paid a price for it. Except his mother had had his father to protect her. Claire had no one.

“You look hale and hearty,” the director commented from the doorway.

Alastair glanced up and smiled. “As do you. Come in. Would you like a glass of something?”

“Brandy if you have it.” She crossed the threshold, closing the door behind her. “How are you, my friend?”

“Hale and hearty, as you guessed,” he replied, rising to give her a hug. Then he crossed to the small cabinet where he kept his spirits and withdrew two crystal snifters and a bottle. He poured a measure for them both and returned to his desk. He handed her a glass. “Come to check on me, have you?”

“I’ve been checking on you ever since youeveded were brought back,” she informed him. “But yes, I wanted to see you for myself. I also wished to speak to you.”

He resumed his seat behind the desk and leaned back in his chair. “About what?”

“About breaking my word.”

Alastair frowned at her over the rim of his snifter. “What do you mean?”

Dhanya crossed one of her long trouser-clad legs over the other, a small frown puckering the skin between her brows. “Claire Brooks told me she would do whatever the W.O.R. required of her with a few flimsy conditions. One of them was that you not be allowed to visit her if you tried.”

This time it felt like a kick to the gut. “Yes, I heard she wasn’t keen to see me.”

“See, that’s my dilemma. She is keen to see you, Alastair. She’s been driving both Evie and me mad asking about you. Oh, she thinks she’s being wily, but really . . . Women know these things.”

Alastair’s heart—that most foolish of organs—fluttered against his ribs. “What has she been asking?”

Dhanya took a sip from her glass. “How you are, of course. If you’ve recovered. If you’ve asked about her—and then of course she reminds us that she won’t see you. Sometimes she asks about your mother, but it’s clear she really wants to know about you. Occasionally she’ll say she feels responsible for your injury, given that Howard turned out to be her brother.”

“Yes, that was a surprise indeed. Have you gotten much out of him?”

“A fair bit, yes. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?”

She took another drink. “Because I want you to go see Claire. I don’t care if you want to see her or not. The woman barely eats. She just stares out the window. . . .”

“She has a window?”

“Yes. Given her terror of small spaces, I gave her a cell with a view. Not like she’s going to escape. I don’t think she’d try even if I gave her a hammer and a chisel.”

Now he was the one who wore a frown. “Why wouldn’t she?”

“My best guess? Because this is where you are.” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up her hand. “I don’t care what happened between the two of you during those few days you were together, and I really do
not
wish to know. However, it obviously affected the woman. If you have any compassion for her at all, you’ll see her.”

Compassion? He had a hell of a lot more than just compassion. He didn’t know what it was, but he missed her. He’d gone from despising what she was and all she stood for to respecting and liking her in a matter of a day. From there he’d come to find her the most attractive and intriguing woman of his acquaintance. She saved his life.

He would have betrayed the Wardens for her and actually helped her escape, effectively repeating the past and proving himself more like his father than he ever thought. He wouldn’t have regretted it at all.

heth="1em">
“I’ll see her.” Dhanya looked relieved. “What is going to happen to her?”

“There’s going to be a trial,” she confided. “A conclave of Wardens will gather to review her file and weigh it against the service that she’s done for us. They will decide whether she’s locked away for life or whether she’s eventually set free.”

His stomach lurched. “If you let her go, there’s a good chance the Company will try to kill her.” That was usually the case when the Wardens turned a prisoner free. It was almost expected. They didn’t make it public knowledge, but word always got out.

“They already have.” She relayed to him what happened the night he was shot, when Claire returned to London.

It was as if a giant hand wrapped around his internal organs and squeezed. “She was unharmed?”

“Not a scratch. Killed the bastard, too. She’s quite the shot.”

“Better than her brother.” Absently he rubbed the scar on his chest through his shirt. If Claire had been the one doing the shooting, he’d be dead.

“You could always turn her,” he suggested. It was better than just cutting her loose. He didn’t know if even he could protect her if that happened.

Dhanya’s sharp, amber gaze locked with his. Her nostrils flared slightly as she drew a deep breath. “We could. You know what’s required for that to happen.”

“I do.”

“You would be willing to do that?”

“Without a second thought.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“Nothing worthwhile ever is.”

“Ah.” Dhanya nodded, a slight smile curving her lips. “That’s the way of it, then.”

Alastair allowed himself a reluctant smile as well. “I’m afraid so.”

She took a sip of brandy. “You know that normally I would be against such an alliance. I would be against your doing anything that might injure you or the Wardens in any way.”

“But?”

“You’ve given so much of yourself to this agency, Alastair. Literally. I cannot help but feel that it owes you something in return.”

His heart jumped. “You’ll support me?”

Dhanya drained her glass. “Go see Claire. If you still feel this way after that, we’ll talk. I will do whatever I can to help you. Be certain this is what you want, my friend. You know the consequences should you fail.”

Alastair nodded, allowing the grimness of the situation to temper his hope ever so slightly. “At best I’ll be ruined. At worst I’ll die.”

Chapter 17

Claire picked at the food on her plant> h+3" fate. It wasn’t that it wasn’t tasty—for English fare it was quite good—and it wasn’t that she was nervous about her upcoming trial, though she should have been.

No, her lack of appetite—and the subsequent loosening of her clothing—was because she missed Alastair. She refused to admit it aloud because it seemed too entirely foolish, but she could admit it to herself in the privacy of her cell when no one was watching.

She hadn’t seen him since that night on the ship two and a half weeks ago when her heart decided he was more important than her own brother. To be honest, that hadn’t been a difficult decision. Still, there were moments when she felt almost guilty for it. Some small part of her continued to cling to love for Robert, even though he no longer deserved it. But then, she was beginning to realize that her heart wasn’t the smartest of organs when it came to deciding to whom to give itself.

She took a drink of the wine that accompanied her supper. It was good—slightly sweet—and dulled the ache of self-pity in her chest all the faster with barely any food in her belly. She needn’t worry about rotting in Warden custody; she’d just waste away at this rate.

He hadn’t tried to see her. What did she expect? She’d told them she didn’t want to see him. Did she think he’d scale the side of the building, pull the bars off her window and risk his life and his future to whisk her away? Of course she didn’t, but a girl could dream. It was a foolish, romantic dream, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

Claire drained the glass in one long swallow and filled it again with what was left in the decanter. What a horrible life this was, being a prisoner of the Wardens. Wine every night, crystal and silverware. A window through which to view the world, books to read and company on occasion. Evie—she was no longer Dr. Stone in her mind—came to visit every few days, bringing news and sometimes a treat, such as chocolate or tea.

She hadn’t been tortured; she hadn’t been mistreated. Perhaps this would continue only so long as she proved useful. After all, she had so much information to give about the Company, its spies and practices. The information she had on her own brother was enough to keep her in comfort for a few more months at least. She hadn’t asked about her brother. She didn’t want to know. Perhaps he was dining on steak and wine right now as well. God willing, he’d choke.

Robert’s betrayal scored her to the bone, proving that trust was not something lightly given or assumed simply because of blood. Alastair had been the last person she thought she could trust; yet he ended up being the most trustworthy man she’d ever known.

And none of it mattered because she’d given up her life—or at least her freedom—for a man who did not deserve her sacrifice. What a fool she was.

She thought about Alastair often—every few moments during the day, and some during the night. She remembered his scent, his smile. She missed the grooves around his mouth. She missed how his eyes flashed like a cat’s.

The locks on her cell door disengaged with a now-familiar clink-whir-clink-thunk. It wasn’t Evie’s usual time to visit, and she hadn’t been told that the director would be coming by. She took another drink from her glass as she turned to face the guard. Was it time to fetch her tray already?

But it wasn’t a guard who crossed the threshold. No guard had the ability to rob her of breath and reason, or the power to stop her heart in midbeat.

Alastair
.

The glass dropped from her hand, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. The sturdy crystal didn’t break, but there was wine everywhere.

Claire didn’t give a rat’s ass. Her every sense was attuned to him. He was all that mattered.

He wasn’t wearing a hat, and the thick waves of his hair shone with copper in the lamplight. He looked tired but gorgeous, his eyes the color of a rainy afternoon. He wore a long gray greatcoat over a black jacket and putty-colored trousers. He was whole. Healthy. Alive.

Tears threatened, burning the back of her eyes, but Claire held them at bay. It took every ounce of her strength not to fall to the floor in a sobbing heap. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

It was so good to see him. It was like feeling rain on her face after days roasting in a desert.

The door shut, locking him in the cell with her. He removed his long coat and tossed it over the footboard of the bed, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. He was all grace and control, that intense gaze never leaving her face. She stood, trembling—weak in the knees—as he drew closer. His scent—cardamom and man—filled her senses and flooded her chest. Claire closed her eyes, wet heat greeting her lashes.

Strong hands cupped her face. She opened her eyes again, unable to prevent a tear from slipping free; a fat drop of regret that burned her cheek. Alastair caught it with his thumb.

“Don’t ever say you don’t want to see me.” His voice was a silken rasp. “Don’t start lying to me now, Claire. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“I’m sorry.” Tears made a blur of his face, and she blinked them away. She didn’t want to miss looking at him. Her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket. “I thought it would be easier if I turned you away.”

“I won’t let you,” he vowed. “I refuse to let you go.”

He would have to. Surely he knew that? There was no future for them, but at that moment, Claire didn’t care. She couldn’t think of it. All that mattered was that he was there with her.

Warm, firm lips came down on hers. Her heart thumped hard against her ribs as she kissed him back, opening her mouth to his, tasting him and the salt of her own tears.

She was not a woman who cried often. She was not a woman who considered herself weak, but with this man she didn’t care. Let him see what effect he had on her. So much of her life had been about subterfuge and hiding her true feelings. Not any more. She would not be ashamed to cry in sheer joy of seeing him.

Pins scattered as Alastair slid his fingers into her hair. The knot slid free, sending the heavy mass tumbling around her shoulders and down her back. Claire’s own hands moved down his chest, across the plane of his stomach and beneath his jacket to press against his back. She could feel the heat of him through his clothes, and it seeped into her fingers, relieving a chill she hadn’t even felt until then.

He kissed her eyelids, her forehead and cheeks, brushing his lips against her skin with a tenderness that made her chest ache.

When he began removing her clothing, she didn’t fight. Why would she when she wanted this as much as he? Her own fingers went to work divesting him of the layers of cloth that kept her from being able to feel his skin against hers.

Finally they stood face-to-face, naked. Alastair’s gaze traveled the length of her with a possessive glint that brought a shiver trickling down her spine. He didn’t comment that she had lost weight, even though she knew he noticed. It was as though he found her perfect regardless.

The scar on his chest from where Robert had shot him was the size of a silver dollar. Pale pink, it marred the golden perfection of his skin. She pressed her lips to the light dusting of freckles around it, and finally against the scar itself, infusing the kiss with every ounce of regret that memories of that night wrought.

His arms came around her, engulfing her in warm strength. He was so strong. So tender. When she raised her head, his mouth found hers again, and for a moment she thought she tasted wet salt on his lips.

He reached down and hooked one arm beneath her knees, sweeping her off her feet like a damsel in a novel. He carried her the few feet to the bed and placed her on the quilt before settling his larger frame beside her. The bed gave a little under his augmented weight but held firm.

Warm fingers brushed her face, her throat, breasts, belly and lower. Claire opened her legs to him, letting him slip those incredibly talented fingers inside where she wanted them most. She sighed into his hair as his mouth closed over one of her nipples, laving the puckered flesh with the warm lash of his tongue. She slid one of her hands down between their bodies and closed her fingers around the length of his cock, moving them up and down. Alastair groaned against her breast, changing the tempo of his fingers inside her so that she gasped.

They caressed each other and tasted each other for what felt like hours. He brought her to climax with firm, unhurried strokes of his tongue, and she took him into her own mouth until he pulled her hair and begged her to stop. And then he pushed her back on the mattress as he knelt before her, lifted her bottom so that it rested on the top of his thighs, and slid inside her with one smooth thrust of his hips. Claire cried out in delight.

He held her like that, for a moment, until she opened her eyes and met his gaze. Only then did he lean forward, supporting his weight first on his hands, then his elbows, so that they were pressed together from chest to foot. His pelvis pressed against hers, every rolling thrust stroking not only the sensitive recesses of her body but the aching, greedy knot that his tongue had sweetly tortured just minutes before.

His breath fanned her cheek, warm and moist, as his stormy gaze locked with hers. No man had ever looked at her with such unabashed longing or sexual confidence. He knew exactly what he did to her body and how much she liked it, just as she knew the effect she had on him. The muscles in his back trembled beneath her hands as she dug her fingers into his flesh, urging him deeper inside her. He teased them both with slow, measured thrusts that slowly drove the tension between them higher and higher. And all the while, he looked into her eyes and let her see everything he felt.thiinto How much of her emotions could he see?

How could he have brought her to this? She had no shame, no pride where he was concerned. She didn’t even know his middle name or his favorite color. Hell, she didn’t even know if he had siblings, and here she was offering her heart on a platter. She would kill for him. She would die for him.

She came then—a great shudder of pleasure that took her by surprise. He just kept moving inside her as every nerve in her body lit up at once. She thought he might have gasped, or said something, but she didn’t hear the words. And when the last of the sparks subsided, she opened her eyes to find him still watching. She wrapped her legs around his hips and arched up, forcing him as deep as he could go.

His pace quickened then. Claire gasped as her sensitive flesh ignited once more. He made her climax a second time before his own body stiffened, his groans of release mingling with her own cries.

For a while they stayed as they were, reluctant to break apart. Eventually he left her long enough to lie down on the bed, then pulled her close. Claire stroked the strong curve of his shoulder.

“Why are you here, Alastair?”

“I couldn’t go without seeing you any longer.”

Her heart swelled at his words, even as it ached. “You shouldn’t have come. This is just going to make it harder to say good-bye.” She started to rise, but couldn’t break free of his grip.

“I’ve no intention of saying good-bye.”

The lines around his eyes and mouth were deeper than she remembered—that was her fault. “There’s no future for us. What are you going to do? Move into this cell with me?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“No.” She pushed against his chest, wriggling so that they were eye to eye. “You can’t do that to me. I won’t let you give me false hope, because I’ll cling to it. Life will go on for you and you’ll move on, but I’ll still be here, hoping for something I can never have.”

His gaze never wavered. “I’m not going to just let you go.”

“You have to.”

“No. I don’t. And neither do you. You have to have faith.”

She laughed humorlessly. She would have never thought him capable of being so cruel. “In what? In you? I have faith in you, but even you can’t fix this. I am an enemy of your government.”

“Do you care about me?”

She stared at him. “How can you even ask me that?”

“Tell me.”

“Yes. I care for you.” She couldn’t help but add, “More than I should.”

“I care about you, too. It doesn’t make sense, and yes, it’s inconvenient as hell, but I’m not just going to sit back and let you go, not after you saved my life.”

“What you feel is gratitude.”

“You’re not stupid, Claire. Don’t pretend to be now.”

She came up on her elbow. “If not gratitude, then what, Alastair? Love?” She held her breath.

“Maybe,” he replied. “It could be.”

Claire sighed. Her heart seemed to crack. “You’re not stupid, Alastair,” she said, throwing his words back at him.

He turned his back to her and sat up, reaching for his discarded clothing. He grabbed his trousers and stood up, pulling them on with quick, jerky movements. Claire watched as he did so, unembarrassed by her nudity and wishing she could enjoy his.

“Don’t leave like this,” she entreated.

He pulled his shirt over his head and jammed the tails into his trousers. “How would you have me leave, Claire? You obviously wanted to piss me off, push me away. Now that you’ve succeeded, you wish to take it back?”

“I . . .” She didn’t know what the hell to say. He was right, and she felt like a damn idiot for it. “I don’t know. I don’t want you to be angry with me, but surely you can see that this situation will only lead to heartache—for both of us.”