Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (22 page)

Claire stared at it, then at him. “You were serious.”

He chuckled. “Well, yes. Weren’t you?”

She opened her mouth, about to question him—them. Was this the right thing? The right time? Was it too soon? What if he regretted it later? Then she closed her jaw. There was nothing to question, at least not i
n her heart. She had decided months ago, on the deck of a steamship, that he was the most important thing in all her world. That hadn’t changed. She thought about what they knew about his parents, how his father had done everything to protect the woman he loved. She and Alastair had already proved their love for each other, even if they hadn’t been aware of it at the time.

“You’re the only woman for me, Claire. The only risk I ever took that was worth it, no matter the consequences.”

Of all the things she’d done in her life, nothing felt as right as this.

“Yes,” she said. She raised her gaze to his. “I will marry you, Alastair Payne. I will marry you and take whatever risks life has to offer.”

He grinned and took her hand, holding the ring over her finger. “Ready?”

She took a deep breath. “Ready.”

He slid the ring onto her finger. It fit
perfectly, of course. She wouldn’t have expected anything less. Then he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. And as they left one adventure behind, Claire knew their biggest adventure was yet to come.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Books are a joint project, no matter what any author might say. Of course, we would all like to write a perfect first draft, but it doesn’t usually happen that way. I need to thank my agent, Mirthiinwhat anyiam, for her support, enthusiasm, ability to deal with my craziness, and all-around fabulosity; my editor, Danielle, for her patience and being just so wonderfully easy to work with (also, thanks for all the chats about
Sons of Anarchy
,
Supernatural
and other TV); my friends for being understanding when I can’t come out and play; and my husband, Steve, for listening to me talk about characters and plot, and for wearing a top hat when the occasion calls for it. Finally, thank you to the readers who have taken the time to e-mail me or tweet about how much you enjoyed the first book in this series. Knowing that my books have given a few hours of entertainment makes things like revisions and copy edits all worthwhile. J

Don’t
miss the next exciting novel

in the Clockwork Agents series,

BREATH OF IRON

Coming in summer 2013 from Signet Eclipse

Evelyn Stone literally held a man’s heart in her hands before tossing it into a bucket at her feet. She would examine it and its defects later. Right now she had a patient to fix.

The young surgeon assisting her watched in fascination as she took the mechanical heart he offered and introduced it into the gaping chest cavity. She had very little time to put the device in place and connect it to the circulatory system before the man would die.

It would not look good for her, or for the Wardens of the Realm, if the director of Germany’s Schatten Ritters, or “Shadow Knights,” died under her care. She was supposed to be the best in her field.

She was also pretty much the only one in her field, except for some bloke in America. No one else in Europe that she knew of had made quite the same strides as she where organ replacement was concerned.

Quickly, Evelyn attached the man’s remaining tissue to the mechanical pump and checked the seal. She set aside the part that would fit over the front of his chest like a shield, not only protecting the artificial organ, but providing a convenient port for maintenance.

Once the heart was in place she could relax a little. That was the hardest part. Still, she worked as fast and efficiently as she could, and when the man’s new heart began to beat in a steady rhythm, she breathed a sigh of relief. A person’s heart could only be stopped for so long before lack of circulation did irreparable damage to the brain and tissue.

Above her head she could hear the polite but enthusiastic applauding of her audience. This was the first time she’d performed this sort of operation with spectators watching her every move, evaluating and assessing.

She set her patient’s chest back to rights and fitted the panel for his new heart in place. Later she showed the young surgeon—Dr. Franz Adler—how to properly care for the device, ensuring that it—aan s,to rind the man in possession of it—continued to function at optimum capacity for many years to come.

After the demonstration, Dr. Adler asked her to dinner, just as she’d expected he might.

He began talking about the surgery, the work they did within their respective agencies, and about himself—also as she thought he might—but after a couple of bottles of good German wine, he began to rhapsodize about her “exotic looks,” “considerable intellect” and finally, the beauty of her eyes. That was when she knew it was time to take him home.

“I have never seen anything like that,” Adler told her much later as they lay in bed. “You are a genius. An artist. Your gift is squandered with the Wardens.”

Evelyn smiled. He was handsome and fit and had a delicious German accent that she loved to listen to as he complimented her. Of course, he seemed rather enamored with the sound of his voice as well, but she was sated and such languidness of muscle and spirit gave her patience. Normally she avoided such encounters with peers, especially those also in service to their country, but she’d accomplished something extraordinary that day and she needed to celebrate.

If she weren’t enjoying Franz’s company she would be alone, probably reliving every last detail of the first organ replacement she had performed. She’d no doubt be very deep in her cups as well, vomiting red wine into the toilet’s porcelain bowl. Sex was so much more relaxing and usually required less clean up—and didn’t leave behind a taste that made her wonder whether something had died in her mouth.

“I cannot believe you are going to leave in a few days,” Franz lamented with a charming pout that emphasized his full lower lip. He was gorgeous, blond and blue-eyed, with a body that ought to be immortalized in marble. He was seven years her junior and thought she was a goddess. She could have done much worse.

She
had
done worse.

“I have to return to London,” she explained. “Besides, you are going to be very busy now that you are taking over the SR’s medical department.”

Long, nimble fingers trailed over her bare arm. “You could always stay and we could run it together.”

Of course, with the understanding that he would be the one in charge. No, thank you. “The Wardens would be lost without me. I cannot turn my back on them.” That was only half bravado. The Wardens would miss her, but that wasn’t what made her go back. What made her go back was that she was good at her job—very good at it—and she wanted to do it where she could do the most good. And, if she admitted it to no one but herself, she wanted to be where she could occasionally hear the latest account of Captain Mac’s daring adventures.

She had no business wanting to hear about him. She had given up that right. She didn’t remain in London just for him; that would be pathetic. She had friends there, a home and a cat. She was important to the Wardens. She would not be so important to handsome Franz, and she refused to be mistress to a man’s career. She had tried that once and it had ended badly.

If she was honest, she would acknowledge that most men would come second to her own work. She really couldn’t fault Franz for having a similar mind-set.

“Bah,” he said. “The Wardens have no idea how fortunate they are to have such an angel in their employ.”

Now he was being grandiose. Perhaps she should give his mouth a new occupation so he would stop talking. Or . . .

“I should go,” she said, throwing back the blankets and slipping out of the bed naked. She had no shame of her body, but neither was she overly proud. She had long, strong legs, a soft belly, good hips and full breasts, which, while not gravity defying, still managed a good degree of pertness. Most men found her appealing because of her mixed heritage. She’d been born in Jamaica, several months after her wealthy Irish-Canadian father decided to marry the granddaughter of a woman who had been a slave and the man who had bought her freedom. Unfortunately, he had neglected to buy his bride a ticket when he sailed back to England. Evelyn’s mother insisted her grandfather had been an earl (sometimes he was a duke) who had been unable to marry her grandmother because of family obligations. Evie had no problem allowing her mother to hang on to that silly thought if it made her happy.

“Where are you going?” Franz demanded, sliding out of bed. The French safe she made him use dangled from his flaccid penis like a little handkerchief poised to wave in surrender. “It is still dark.”

“I’m returning to my hotel,” she told him, pulling on her trousers. “I want to check on your director in the morning and I’m having a breakfast meeting with an old school friend.” It was such a familiar lie that it rolled easily off her tongue. Although this time it was partially true. She was meeting an old friend, just not from school.

“Surely you can stay a little longer?” He graced her with a seductive smile, reaching out to stroke her bare breast.

Evie grimaced. That cajoling tone might work on some naive chit straight out of the nursery, but not with her. He should know the polite and honorable way to play this game. This was why she often went home with her chosen partners rather than taking them back to her rooms. She had learned some time ago that it was easier to do the leaving than to try to show a stubborn lover the door.

She pulled on her shirt, knocking his hand away from her. “No, I can’t.” She tucked the tail into her trousers.

Franz blinked. “But I want you to stay.”

“And I told you I can’t.” She shrugged into her corseted waistcoat. “Thank you for a lovely evening.” She kissed his cheek as an added gesture.

The younger man raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Unbelievable. So we make love and now you leave like I am a whore.”

He was difficult to take seriously when he was naked and had a condom hanging from his limp cock. She sat down on a nearby trunk to pull on her boots. “I’m sorry, did I mislead you into thinking I wanted something else? Did you hope that tonight would be the beginning of a long and loving relationship? Do you want to marry me?”

“No, of course not.” Too late he realized his mistake, and his distaste quickly turned to panic. “I mean, I had hoped that we could enjoy each other’s company for a little while longer and see how things develop.”

Stincedhe had two choices—roll her eyes or smile sympathetically. She chose the smile. “That’s very sweet, and please don’t think that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, but I really do have to go.” With that, she grabbed her coat and rose to her feet.

Franz chuckled humorlessly. “I’d heard you were a cold bitch, and now I believe it.”

Evie didn’t pause. She shoved her arm into one coat sleeve. “What’s the matter? Angry I’m leaving before you have the chance to kick me out? I’m assuming you wouldn’t want to risk your mother seeing me when she gets up in the morning.”

A dull flush suffused his cheeks beneath the golden stubble of his beard. “My landlady is a woman of discretion.”

She fastened a button. “Your landlady is your mother. Did you think I wouldn’t see the photographs and portraits of you as a child when we came in? Did you think I was so enamored of you, I wouldn’t notice the note left on your dresser reminding you to give her your soiled laundry? She signed it ‘Love, Mother’ for heaven’s sake.”

He stared at her with a mixture of horror and humiliation. “Get out.”

“It’s about damn time,” she retorted and yanked open the bedroom door. “And take that condom off. You look ridiculous.”

“Bitch.”

“Give your mother my best.”

Evelyn closed the door behind her and made her way down the stairs, not caring if she was seen or not. She didn’t care if by tomorrow afternoon Franz—and his mother—had told everyone in Germany what a whore she was. That would only make it easier to meet another man next time she traveled there on Warden business. Her reputation as a surgeon had nothing to do with her reputation as a woman. She would always be in demand because she was an expert at what she did, and she would always find a lover because she was an attractive, confident woman. Those few traits drew some people to her and repelled others at the same rate. Life was too short to worry about the ones who turned up their noses and looked down on her.

Mac had taught her that. The bastard.

She stepped outside into the waning hours of a beautiful September night. Perfect for a walk, even though there were plenty of steam hacks in the vicinity. This neighborhood wasn’t far from the airfield where the dirigibles arrived and departed. Consequently, Evelyn’s hotel was within close distance.

She paused on the walk, feeling eyes on her back. She glanced up and saw Franz in a window. She waved. He made a rude gesture that made her laugh. She truly was a bitch. She hadn’t meant to hurt his pride, but if she was truthful, she’d really only been thinking of herself and her own wants and needs.

Regardless, she wouldn’t see Franz again for a long time, if ever. His ambition meant he wouldn’t be content to stay with the Ritters for long. She would enjoy telling this story to Claire and Arden when she returned to London. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a good idea to share it with their husbands, though. Men were oddly sensitive about such things, the babies.

Her bootheels clicked on the walk, echoing softly among the sounds of passing carriages and noise from the nearby airfield. Evelyn fieize="-1" kept a cautious gaze on her surroundings. She could still feel eyes on her. Surely Franz had left his window by now?

Footsteps behind her. Light, but there. She sped up, fingers slipping inside her coat for the weapon concealed there. It might be just another pedestrian, but years at W.O.R. had taught her that paranoia was a virtue.

Do not panic.
What would Claire do in such a situation? Or Arden? Dhanya? They were smart, capable women, each of whom would keep her wits and be prepared just in case. She would do the same.

The footsteps behind her quickened, matching her own. No question now whether she was being followed or not. She clasped her blade, pulling it free of the sheath as fingers wrapped around her arm.

She whirled around, using her attacker’s momentum to drive herself forward so that the edge of her knife came to settle at the base of a long, smooth throat.

“Jesus on the cross, Evie! Are you trying to kill me?”

Evelyn froze. “Nell?” She hadn’t seen the woman in years, but there was no denying her braided gray hair and bright blue eyes, fanned by pale squint lines in her otherwise tanned face. She grinned, revealing unexpectedly straight white teeth.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget me!” The tall, handsome woman came in to hug her, and Evelyn flipped her blade, moving it out of the way so Nell didn’t slit her own throat. She hugged her back.

“Nell, what are you doing in Berlin?” She looked over the woman’s shoulder, expecting to see another familiar face—one wearing a smirk—but there was no one there. That shouldn’t be as disappointing as it was, damn it.

“Picking up,” her old friend replied, releasing her. “You?”

“The usual.” She wasn’t at liberty to discuss her assignment with non-Wardens. Not even former ones.

“Understood.” Nell adjusted the handkerchief that covered the top of her head and was anchored by her braids. “You all done or still working?”

That was something of an odd question, but Evelyn supposed her old friend asked because she had catching up on her mind. It was late—very late—but she wasn’t tired, and it was good to see Nell.

And Nell could tell her all about Mac and rip those old wounds open again. Maybe throw a little salt in for good measure.