by Anne Renwick
He bent over the text, scanned the image and the words inscribed beside it, then shrugged. “The largest lobe does present a broad target.” A more refined target—such as the hepatic portal vein—would require abdominal surgery. That wasn’t happening.
“Agreed. The largest lobe it is.”
Though their words were bold and confident, threading through their voices was the slightest of tremors.
Eyeballing the location of the human liver beneath the rib cage on the textbook’s page—and carefully accounting for left-right—he moved a finger alongside the lower edge of his right ribcage to the side of his sternum, attempting to pinpoint the same location to which she pointed. The cure for his condition felt as if it had been reduced to a game of darts played in a public house. Better than a game of chance, but not by much.
He pushed inward, then hissed between clenched teeth as a deep, gnawing ache radiated outward from his fingertip sending tendrils of pain wrapping around his back.
“Luke?” Her face contorted with worry.
“Found a likely spot,” he gasped. And fell back onto the pillows, careful to keep his fingertip firmly in place. “Aim here. I’m ready.” He’d been sick for so long, he wasn’t certain he knew what healthy felt like anymore.
She touched the lint to the lip of the glass bottle, soaking the fibers with alcohol. “If you’ll move your finger.” He lifted his hand, and there was a flash of wet, then cold as the ethyl alcohol touched his skin and evaporated. “Brace yourself.” Lifting the syringe, she smiled, though her body was tense with the effort. “Take a deep breath, hold it, and—whatever you do—don’t move.”
His heart raced. They’d reached the point of no return. He dragged in a deep breath, gritted his teeth and—though every instinct screamed at him to squeeze his eyes shut—focused upon the bed hangings that stretched above while holding every muscle in his body rigid.
A sharp pain bit into the skin beneath his rib cage and radiated outward into his right shoulder. A dull sensation of pressure followed as she depressed the plunger. Then a moment later—for good or ill—it was done.
He exhaled as Natalia pressed a soft piece of lint against the injection site and held it there. For several long minutes—measured only by the thudding of his heart—in which he hardly dared move, their eyes locked.
Concern wrinkled her brow. “Do you feel anything?”
The continued aching throb of the infected cut on his arm, but otherwise… “Nothing—” His eyebrows drew together, and he pressed his palm beneath his ribcage, where an odd, subtle pressure built. “It feels… warm?”
“A good sign.” She lifted away the lint. A tiny pinprick was the only outward indication that anything unusual had transpired. Pulling the blanket over his bare chest, Natalia stood. “Rest. Sleep if you can. I hate to leave you, but I need to speak with Aileen. Before she takes it into her mind to act rashly. Again.”
“Go. She shouldn’t stay here.” Men—for more would follow—seeking a dragon wouldn’t hesitate to stoop to low tactics. A rush of heat flooded his heart. Were the stem cells already on the move? The textbook had shown a direct connection between the liver and the heart. Possible then. He’d wonder about it more. Later. When his mind wasn’t drifting. He felt so very tired…
“Luke?” Concern colored her voice.
“I’m fine. Just sleepy.” He forced himself to finish. “Find out everything she told Ivanov. If he sent reports to anyone but Kravchuk.”
“Of course.” She smoothed his brow. “Now sleep. I’ll be right back.”
He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, then let her go. The sooner she spoke with Aileen, the sooner she would return. As his eyelids grew heavy, he caught a final flash of color. His love wrapping a scarf about her neck, concealing her secret. From everyone but him.
A heavy weight pressed down upon him, sinking him ever deeper into the feather mattress. He listened to the faint footfalls of Natalia’s exit as sleep caught at him, pulling him into blessed oblivion.
A moment later, an odd crawling sensation overtook his innards.
His eyes snapped open. So soon? Anxiety pressed down on his chest. “Natalia?”
The kitchens—with its massive fireplace, enormous cast iron range, and line of steam servants all standing at attention and collecting cobwebs—was meant to be a busy, bustling and warm room. The heart of the castle. Instead, it was reduced to a drafty, cold space. Its only occupants sat, hunched and motionless, at the long, scarred worktable while the ever-present cabbage soup simmered over a small coal fire burning in the range.
Aileen lifted her head from her hands to glance at Natalia with a tear-stained face, before turning her back.
“Lady Kinlarig!” McKay lurched to his feet when Natalia stepped into the room. “I’m so sorry. My granddaughter’s actions are shameful. A betrayal of your trust—”
She held up a hand. “I’ll speak with her directly in a moment.” McKay’s face collapsed, but he held his tongue. “You’ve heard the noise, seen William dashing about the castle?”
“Indeed.” McKay cleared his throat. “My deepest apologies for allowing the lad into our household. He harbors the misconception that he has been granted permission to run off with a large portion of the weapons collection. I attempted to bring the situation to your attention, but Mr. Dryden prevented me from speaking to you, claiming pressing concerns in the laboratory.”
“Is that so?” Luke, her very own guard. Natalia suppressed a smile. It had been a long time since anyone had looked out for her.
“It is.” McKay scowled as he worked to straighten his spine. “Over my objections, William has been hard at work all evening loading the steam wagon. Would you believe he had the temerity to order us to pack our bags, to inform us that we are to evacuate to the Edinburgh townhouse?” He sniffed. “A Kinross has never abandoned his lands, and a McKay has always stood by his side.”
His.
Any plans the last laird might have had for an heir had been cut short before he’d attempted to resume relations with his long-abandoned wife. Had he treated Zia with respect and not as an investment to be sold in times of need, Natalia might well have cooperated with his desire to sire a child. After all, divorce had not been an option—not when Zia was legally recognized as his property, and Natalia had always longed for a family.
Instead, the fool had baited a dragon. Without such basic common sense, it was fortunate, perhaps, that he had sired no children.
As it stood she was the last Kinross, a tenuous and nominal designation only. But to ensure his cooperation and move McKay and his granddaughter out of harm’s way, she would embrace her status as Lady Kinlarig. For the sake of the youngest McKay who now found herself in a fraught situation.
Not to mention the state of household funds, a pressing concern. Selling the castle and its contents would—at the very least—staunch the rate at which their finances deteriorated. It would buy all of them time to make alternative plans for their futures.
“The Laird of Kinlarig’s death has led to a dispute over the legal definition of moveable property, in particular, livestock,” Natalia began. “The men who besiege our castle will not cease their attempts to exert their presumed authority. Until certain matters are settled, we will be more comfortable adjourning to the townhome.” Where her husband had kept mistresses, whisky and aether knew what else. She hoped his paramours hadn’t carried off everything saleable, but odds were faint. “I’m counting on your wisdom and experience to help restore the family’s good name. That task begins in Edinburgh.”
That brought McKay’s chin up. “If we must.”
“We must.” She injected as much authority as she could manage into her voice. “The townhome will no doubt require a firm hand and extensive reorganization. William has loaded the steam wagon and filled its fire box. He leaves at dawn. Wil
l you please accompany him?”
McKay’s eyes glittered, perhaps at the thought of once again having an extensive staff to do his every bidding. “I will, but…” His gaze drifted to Aileen who sat quietly at the table, refusing to look in their direction.
There was one more McKay to convince, and for that Natalia required a few private moments.
“Today’s… excitement has overtired Mr. Dryden and dragged him to bed, but I hope his condition will soon turn a corner.” She tapped the iron shoulder of the motionless steam cook. “Given we are to leave Castle Kinlarig, perhaps we might indulge, use our remaining supplies—coal, flour, sugar—to prepare a substantial breakfast? This steambot, I seem to recall, was most excellent at baking.”
“I’ll see to it, my lady,” McKay said, then busied himself with the task of firing up the steam cook.
Exhausted by the events of the day, she dropped onto the bench beside Aileen. Perhaps, for the first time in over three years of forced coexistence, they might manage to see eye to eye.
“Michael—Misha Ivanov—is a bastard and not worth your tears.” Natalia unhooked the sack of coins from her belt and held it out. “Refusing his money accomplishes nothing save to make you poorer.”
Aileen caught up the heavy pouch, then turned red-rimmed eyes to meet Natalia’s gaze. “You can’t possibly wish me to work in your city townhome, not with me in,” Aileen flapped a hand at her waistline, “in such a situation.”
McKay sucked in a shocked breath of air. He turned, trundling to the far side of the kitchen to riffle through an assortment of recipe punch cards.
Three years of accumulated resentments towered between her and Aileen and was not an easy wall to scale. Yet, for the sake of the child’s future and McKay’s pride, she’d see it surmounted. “There’s no need for us to work at cross purposes. Nor must we be friends to form an alliance. Shall we set aside all personal differences and speak plainly?”
For a long moment Aileen said nothing, and Natalia’s hope began to flag. Perhaps bitterness ran too deep?
“How do you propose I remedy my situation?” Aileen asked, her eyes narrow.
“Take a new name,” Natalia said. “Attach the title missus before it. As our families dwindle, so too do those who can prove that you are not, in fact, a young widow. Particularly in the city.”
Aileen looked doubtful. Such was not a traditional stance here in Britain where housekeepers were generally unmarried and childless. “You would let me continue as a housekeeper, after…”
“If you wish to keep the child? Yes.” She dropped her voice. “Perhaps I ought to abandon you, but I feel a certain responsibility, given my presence at Castle Kinlarig precipitated our current situation.” She smoothed her hand over the scarf at her neck. “Dragons. Unwelcome men misrepresenting themselves while stalking our grounds before dropping into our courtyard astride pteryformes.”
Aileen’s face twisted. “Mr. Dryden called him Misha?”
“Misha Ivanov. His Russian name. Michael is an anglicized form. He was sent here to collect information about the dragon, about my work.”
“And found seduction the path of least resistance.” Aileen slumped under the weight of the inescapable truth. Her lover was a married man. A hard-hearted mercenary. A foreigner not welcome on British soil. They had no future.
The time for difficult questions had arrived. “I need to know how much and exactly what you told him.”
“Michael—Misha—wished to know about the town rumors that the castle housed a flying reptile. I told him you had a pet lizard. Whatever you call that creature’s method of flapping about the halls, it’s certainly not flying.”
True.
“It wasn’t until after we…” Aileen cleared her throat. “He asked if I was your laboratory assistant and was disappointed when I told him I wanted nothing to do with chemistry or poisons. But he started pressing for more information. That’s when I knew he had no interest in textile mills. I confronted him. He told me it was a matter of British security.” She lowered her eyes, her voice petulant. “I didn’t want to go anywhere near that awful beast, or step into that foul-smelling laboratory of yours, but by then I had begun to suspect…” Her hand fell upon her abdomen. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t risk him leaving me.”
“That’s why you’ve been trying to befriend Zia.” Irritation zinged through her, tempered by sympathy for the situation Aileen had found herself in.
Aileen nodded. “He gave me a yellow rock earlier, promised no dragon could resist such a treat. He told me as soon as he could confirm you weren’t a threat, we could marry and move to Edinburgh.” A fresh tear trickled down her cheek, and she slapped it away. “I was a fool. He’s a spy, but not one of ours.”
If only she and Aileen had been on speaking terms, if only Natalia had insisted upon meeting her suitor, they might have nipped their situation in the bud. But there was nothing to do save keep a keen eye so that they might avoid such a situation in the future should Russia ever show interest in her again. Assuming they survived this encounter.
“So will you go?” Natalia asked. “To the Edinburgh townhome?”
“I don’t see how,” Aileen stated. “Michael and that other man will never let you pass. We won’t reach Stirling, let alone Edinburgh. Not so long as they have,” she flapped a hand, “those beasts to fly upon. They will swoop down, confiscate your dragon and lead you away in chains.” She slanted a questioning glance at Natalia, at the scarf about her neck. “What about your skin disease interests them so?”
Everything. “I have no idea.” She needed to return to Luke’s bedside. If the transplant had been successful, the dragon stem cells would begin their work soon, and he ought not be left alone. “I won’t be traveling to Edinburgh. Not yet. Mr. Dryden and I have other arrangements for Zia.”
Aileen’s lips twisted. “More details I shouldn’t know?”
“For your own safety. For mine.” And because Natalia didn’t quite trust her. “You can’t share what you don’t know.” She would ask once more. A final attempt to save Aileen from herself. “Will you go?”
“I’ll go,” she said, but grudgingly. “I can’t promise I’ll stay, not forever, but I’ll help my grandfather set the house to rights.”
“Good enough.” Standing, Natalia raised her voice, inviting McKay—who now had the steam cook huffing and puffing—back into the conversation. “Pteryformes are nocturnal, that is why you must leave at dawn. The steam wagon will travel the most obvious route to Edinburgh, your destination and intentions not at all a mystery. Expect Ivanov and Kravchuk to track you as dusk falls, perhaps sooner. Hide nothing. Do what you must to keep yourselves safe. With luck, Mr. Dryden, Zia and I will be well away.”
McKay, realizing that the two women had finally come to terms, unbent, turned and stopped feigning deafness. He held up a punch card. “I’ve a likely recipe for cream cakes.”
In an unprecedented move, Aileen threw her arms about Natalia, giving her a brief, but fierce hug before hopping away, color high upon her cheeks. “Thank you. I’ll bring a tea tray up?”
Her housekeeper—no matter their newly reconciled state—couldn’t be allowed to learn of the dragon eggs. If questioned—and she would be—news of them would be sent home to Russia, redoubling efforts to track them. A lost dragon was one thing. Rumors of an improbable cure would fade to myth. But whispers about a clutch of eggs would invite speculation about a breeding colony of dragons in the mountains of Scotland, and her former countrymen would never cease their hunt.
“What, brave the dragon who nips at your ankles?” She shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips as she filled a large pitcher with cool water for Luke. “No need. Leave it outside the laboratory door.” A door which would be locked. “Mr. Dryden and I have our own preparations to make.”
A touch of mischief crossed Aileen’s face, and she winked. “Ones I’m better off not kno
wing about?”
She certainly hoped so. It was Natalia’s turn to blush.
Chapter Eleven
Luke clutched at the bedding. A thousand clawed kraken tentacles gripped his intestines. Spiders with needle-like legs crawled through his veins and arteries. Fire ants ran beneath his skin turning every square inch of his flesh to ash.
Thud. A heavy weight landed on his chest, forcing all but his last breath from his lungs. Flick. A lash of a damp tongue. Swish. A rough tail skittering across bed sheets.
He pried open scalded eyelids and found himself staring into Zia’s golden eyes. The dragon had somehow managed to flutter-hop onto the bed, onto his chest. Concerned enough to leave her eggs in order to investigate disturbing sounds from the above bedchamber. She flicked her tongue out to touch his nose, then she nudged her smooth snout beneath one hand and tossed it in the air, slipping beneath to ensure his palm fell upon her head. Pet me.
“Natalia?” he rasped.
Silence.
His legs were tangled in twists of bedclothes and every pillow had been tossed to the floor. He pushed at the dragon, panting at the effort of shifting her bulk. But Zia’s weight was significant, and he couldn’t breathe. Disappointed or disturbed, Zia moved to the bottom of the bed, pinning his feet beneath her stomach as he gasped for air.
Tap, tap, tap. The sound of boots on the stairs.
He turned his aching head. “Natalia?”
“Zia!” Natalia scolded as she stepped into the room. “Down.”
With an irritated flapping of wings, the dragon departed, stomping noisily across the floor, before slinking back down the stairs, no doubt to oversee her unhatched eggs. But not before pausing to stare for a long moment at her mistress, as if to accuse her of abandoning her favorite man.
Luke was in complete agreement. “Need water,” he whispered.
In a heartbeat, Natalia was by his side, holding a cool glass to his dry, cracked lips as he took in great gulps of water. “Aether, you’re burning up.”