Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (8 page)

“You’re in Britain, Miss Brooks; table legs are scandalous here.”

She chuckled. “Call me Claire. Might as well if we are to be lovers.”

He leaned back against the faded velvet seat. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in his left eye, and for a moment it shone like a mirror. She envied his enhanced vision. He could see her so much better than she could see him.

“Yes, I reckon I ought. I should have a pet name for you,” he mused. “Something obnoxious that will make me sound terribly infatuated with you.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve no idea. Bunny, perhaps. Or maybe sweetling.”

Claire winced. “Surely you can do better than those, Mr. Love Cannon.”

He laughed. “I will have to put my mind to it, if for no other reason than your superior ability to come up with obnoxious and humiliating monikers.”

“Mmm-hmm.” She hid a smile and went back to looking out the window. His gaze was unsettling—it made her feel as though he could see into her soul.

They arrived at the Hart and Hound Inn shortly after two o’clock in the morning, waking the innkeeper—an ill-tempered, round little man with florid cheeks and thick white hair that stood out around his head like a cloud. His mood changed drastically when he realized his late guest was an earl who appreciated his kindness and paid generously for it.

“You gave him far too much money,” she commented over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to their room. The staircase was so narrow, she was forced to walk in front of him.

“If it gets us a decent room with a comfortable bed and a hot meal in the morning, I don’t give a damn.”

She shrugged. “Your purse.” What was it like to have so much money you didn’t have to be careful with it? She made a decent living as a spy—a better one as an actress—but her total per annum earnings were probably on par with what he spent on shirts during the year.

“Here we are, my lord,” the innkeeper announced with a wide smile. “Best room in the house.” He opened the door and gestured for them to enter.

As she stepped over the threshold, Claire had to admit that there might be something to this overpaying business. The room was large and smelled of beeswax and lemon. Their luggage, brought up while they talked to the innkeeper, was piled neatly in the corner. The wallpaper was cream with exotic birds painted on it. The carpet was thick and soft, and the bed . . . The bed was huge.

But there was only one.

A maid had just lit the fire, and she bobbed a curtsy to Claire as she scurried from the room at the innkeeper’s insistent gesturing.

“Will you be needing anything else, my lord?” he asked.

Alastair shook his head and handed him several coins. “That will be all, thank you.”

The man thanked him profusely and backed out of the room. “Good evening to you both.”

When they were alone, Claire turned to him. “Thank you.”

Wolfred tossed his greatcoat over the back of a chair. “For what?”

“This.” She waved a hand. “It’s lovely.”

He stared at her a moment. “You’re welcome.” He removed his jacket and began loosening his cravat. “There’s a private bath. You may make use of it first.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Claire looked for toiletries and a nightgown in one of the bags provided for her, and she found everything a traveling woman might need and more. She grabbed a brush, tooth powder, face cream and a soft nightgown and wrapper that was new and smelled of jasmine.

At that moment she didn’t care if she was going to be in a state of undress in front of Wolfred. She didn’t care if they were going to share the same bed. She just wanted to feel that nightgown against her skin and settle her tired bones on that thick mattress. Her days on this earth were numbered—if the Wardens didn’t end her, the Company would—so she intended to enjoy whatever luxuries came her way.

She didn’t even care when she saw him outfit the door with a portable alarm system. It was little more than a bell with a combination lock that had to be entered correctly or the bell would begin to clang. She wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she’d be more offended if he didn’t take precautions—it proved that he thought her his equal. She made quick use of the facilities but vowed to indulge in the claw-foot tub the next morning if there was time. When she returned to the main room, Wolfred stood in the middle of it in nothing but a pair of loose linen sleeping trousers that hung low on his hips.

Sweet God in heaven.

He wasn’t pale like most redheads. Instead, his skin had a natural golden hue. His shoulders were broad and well defined, with a smattering of freckles across them. Auburn hair covered his sculpted chest, narrowing as the trail disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Beneath that warm skin, his ribs were faint ridges, his stomach so flat it was almost concave. He was muscled there as well, like the statues she’d seen once in a museum in New York. And his arms . . . He had biceps a woman couldn’t even begin to get her hands around.

It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and even longer since she’d been with one she was truly attracted to. Alastair Payne was the worst possible man for her to want. He was also probably the last man she would ever see in a state of undress. Given that realization, there could be no harm in looking.

And he was staring at her as though he liked what he saw. He would never act on it; she knew that. But if some time in the night her hand “accidentally” slipped between his legs, he just might be persuaded to do what came naturally.

That, or he’d go looking for that dirigible rudder.

“It’s all yours,” she rasped, gesturing to the toilet with her bundle of dirty clothes. She was as jittery as a virgin, for pity’s sake. This was how it felt to have met one’s match. She would have to be very careful not to reveal her intentions to him.

“Thank you.” He brushed past her, and she caught a whiff of his scent. He smelled like man—warm skin and exotic spice.

“Cardamom,” she whispered.

“Did you say something?” He was already several feet away.

“Nothing,” she replied, and hurried to her bags to put her things away.

Once she was alone, her thoughts turned briefly to escape, but she had to admit that it would be a foolish risk. She also had to admit that she didn’t want to escape. Tomorrow she would find Howard, or he would find her, and then she would face whatever fate had in store. This was the last time she would ever sleep in such a decadent bed, especially with a man. Never mind that he might just as easily gut her in her sleep. He would certainly have to deal with her once she killed Howard. She could forget about him laughing at her wit then.

She went to the bed and climbed in, sinking into the soft mattress. The sheets were cool, but they were made of velvety flannel that soon warmed around her. By the time Wolfred—Alastair—returned from the toilet, she was already half asleep.

He extinguished the lights until there was nothing but the glow from the fire, then pulled back the blankets and slid into bed beside her. It didn’t feel the least bit strange to have him there. In fact, she had to resist the urge to inch closer to his delicious warmth.

“Claire?”

“Mmm?” To her embarrassment, she yawned as she opened her eyes.

He was propped up on his elbow, all russet and gold in the firelight. “Can I trust you not to escape? I don’t want to have to shackle you to the bed.”

That might not prove entirely unpleasant, she thought. Nonetheless, she appreciated that he hadn’t trussed her up at all, though that was probably because he’d armed the door, and most likely the windows as well. “I’m not going anywhere, Alastair.”

It was probably the fire, but she thought she heard him hiss—like a sharply indrawn breath. “You’re not going to kill me in my sleep, are you?”

Did he actually believe her? She yawned again and closed her eyes. The damn things refused to stay open any longer. “No. I’d want you awake for that.”

Silence descended, and for a moment she thought he was going to watch her all night just to make certain she didn’t break her word. “I’ve decided what I shall call you.”

“Oh?” She snuggled deeper into the downy embrace of her pillow. He had the sort of voice that could lull a woman into oh-so-pleasant dreams. “What?”

“Belle.”

“As in beauty?” It was sweet, but not terribly original. Robert had called her something similar when she was a child. Good enough for a mistress, she supposed.
< [oseatino LT S/p>

“No, as in hell’s.”

Then he rolled over, and she was glad that his back was to her so those damn sharp eyes of his couldn’t see her smile.

* * *

Alastair woke with Claire, her nightgown riding up her thighs, curled up against him, and an erection so hard, he could have broken ice with it.

This was deuced inconvenient. Thank God she was still asleep; otherwise he’d be mortified. She was warm and firm, with feminine softness in all the right places, and she smelled good, like cake. Worse, she felt so terribly right pressed against him, as though she belonged there.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Number one, she had been Luke’s lover, and he seemed to have an annoying habit of sharing his friend’s taste in women. Second, she was the last woman he should want; therefore it made a perverted sort of sense that he wanted her as much as he did.

He was surprised, however, to have slept through until morning. He truly thought she’d try to get away from him in the night, despite giving him her word. That he’d expected her to break her promise left him feeling slightly lowered. That she hadn’t only confounded him.

Quickly and carefully he eased himself out of the bed. The room was not nearly as chilly as he expected, having heating pipes that were obviously turned on in the wee hours to make up for banked fires. Damn, he’d hoped the chill might ease the raging cockstand tenting the front of his trousers.

No wonder Luke had climbed into Claire’s bed. She had to be one of the earthiest, most sexual creatures he’d ever met. There was no coyness to her, no artifice as there was with many women of his acquaintance. It wouldn’t occur to her to tease or flirt unless she intended to follow through, because she was doing it for either business or pleasure. She must have reminded Luke of Arden a little that way—all brash and blunt.

He could speak plainly with her, be brutally honest if necessary, and she would give it back. She’d taken his remark about the dirigible rudder—a desperate lie, but oddly true at the time—and turned it into a joke between them. There shouldn’t be any warmth between them at all, no camaraderie; yet they didn’t seem able to avoid it. He’d set out on this journey determined to dislike her, and after some sixteen-plus hours in her company, he was already losing the battle.

He wanted to ask her more about betraying her agency. About how she came to the decision. Oh, he knew it was because of her brother, but there must be more to it. If she explained it, perhaps he would understand his father a little better—a man rumored to have betrayed the Wardens, though it was never actually proved.

But he wasn’t going to think about his father while sporting an erection that seemed to have been forged from gregorite.

Claire was entirely too likable when she wasn’t trying to provoke him. Though he had to admit to being guilty of provoking her as well. He should have known better. Nothing could happen between them. In a few hours he would meet with another W.O.R. agent already in attendance at the house party of Lord and Lady Dunrich. He’d be foolish to walk into such a situation without backup he could trust—he’d [rususe learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to Sascha.

Once he’d made contact, all that would be left would be to take the Doctor and Stanton Howard into custody. Claire would draw them out, he and the other agent would apprehend them; then they’d return to England, and he would very likely never see Claire again. She would be taken back to her cell, and left to whatever future the Wardens offered her, and he would be back to trying to atone for a life of mistakes that weren’t his own. He hoped his father paid for his sins or found absolution—whether in heaven, hell or somewhere in between.

Such thoughts should have been as effective as a bucket of ice water on his libido. They were not.

Alastair took clean clothing from his valise and went to the bath, where he filled the sink with hot water and slathered his face with shaving soap. As he swiped the sharp blade of his razor over his jaw, he thought about how he’d reacted last night when Claire said his name. The woman had a way of making ordinary words sound sensual as hell.

And the way she’d looked at him when she came out of the bath . . . He’d known quite a few women over the course of his life, and none of them had ever looked at him like that. Not even Sascha, who’d gone out of her way to seduce him. Sascha had looked at him in a manner that suggested she thought of all the things he might do to her. Claire looked at him as though she was thinking of all the things
she
might do to
him
—arousing as hell, and very tempting.

Thinking about those very things did nothing to ease the insistent tightening in his groin.

He rinsed soap residue from his face, blotted the water with a towel, and then massaged a small amount of lightly scented oil into his skin to ease the redness shaving sometimes left on his face.