by Coleen Kwan
She thought of everything he had lost. More than his invention, he had lost his innocence. His belief in people had been scarred. His belief in himself had been shaken. He’d changed, but for the better, she now saw. This Asher was more mature, more astute. Now he was fully his own man.
“But enough of me.” His voice muted as he shifted within an inch of her. “I’m concerned about you, about your future.”
The sensitivity in his eyes made her weak at the knees. She could feel all his magic working on her again, more potent than before, but she strove to keep her voice light. “You’re already doing so much for me. You needn’t concern yourself with my future.”
He moved swiftly, cupping her chin in his fingers before she knew what was happening. “Why is that? Is it because Dorian Monk figures in your future?”
The warmth of his fingers sent a frisson chasing over her. His touch thrilled her in a thoroughly unladylike manner. She wanted to melt into his arms, to lose herself in him.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she answered huskily, fighting to stay in control.
His eyes had always mesmerized her. Now, they glimmered with an ice-hot glow. “Has he asked you to marry him?”
She gasped and pulled away. “Of course not!”
“Oh.” The expression on his face altered. “Why not?”
“Surely that’s a question I’m in no position to answer?”
He gripped the workbench on either side of her, pinning her between his arms. “Minerva, coyness doesn’t suit you. You know very well how Dorian Monk feels toward you. I hadn’t met him two minutes when I knew too. He looked and acted toward you as a man does toward his betrothed. Don’t try to tell me you’re unaware of his intentions.”
His plain speaking made her bridle. “I wonder if it’s any of your business what Dorian’s intentions are.”
His hands on the bench bunched into tight fists. Why was she trying to provoke Asher? Did she want to make him jealous of Dorian’s interest in her? Surely not. No, she simply wanted to retain her self-possession while she remained trapped between his arms.
He glowered at her a few more moments before releasing her. He picked up the mechanical hand again and examined it in brooding silence. Her pulse wouldn’t stop pounding. She should have been relieved not to be imprisoned by him…and yet she wasn’t.
“Dorian is a friend of mine, that’s all,” she felt compelled to say. “And he views me as nothing more, despite your conjecture. He’s never hinted at anything more.”
He shot her a dark look. “Perhaps he possesses more finesse than I give him credit for. The man’s father is your landlord and your creditor. In such circumstances, how could he propose to you without it smacking of coercion?”
Even as she gaped at him, she knew he was right. She had noticed Dorian’s regard of her. He was a confident, fine-looking man with manners to match, and the way he bore his artificial hand only added to his attractiveness. With his family’s prosperity flowing abundantly from the cotton mills, Dorian could have had his pick of countless eager young women. Yet he sought out her company and frequently visited her, showing every sign of being smitten with her. On one or two occasions, she had feared he would even declare himself, but he’d never taken that leap, and despite her relief, she’d sometimes wondered why. Now she knew the answer.
“You’re in a presumptuous mood tonight,” she retorted. “First you tell me to leave my father and set up shop myself, and now you presume to know who my suitors are better than I do.”
“I can’t help myself.” Asher grimaced. “I’ve tried very hard not to, but I’ve always felt…bound to you.”
“You needn’t. I absolve you of all responsibility for me.”
He gripped her by the shoulders. “Bound is the wrong word. Perhaps I meant attached.”
Dear heavens, why wouldn’t her heart stop clattering against her ribs? She moistened her dry lips. She would surely drown in the pure green depths of his eyes if she didn’t say something at once. “I—I’m not your chattel.”
The scent of him ensnared her—he smelt of night air and robust masculinity. His hands on her were insistent yet gentle at the same time, molding her shoulders as a hundred unreadable emotions flitted across his set features.
“No, you’re not, but perhaps I am yours.”
He bent his head toward her. Her mouth tingled, already anticipating—yearning for! —the feel of his lips on hers, the fire of his kiss burning away all her restraint. Lightning desire flared in her blood, followed by a swift kick of alarm. Jerking her arm up, she fended him off.
“Don’t do this.” She could only hiss. “Don’t open up old wounds. I couldn’t bear it.”
“It’s agony for me too, but I can’t help myself.” His voice shook too.
“You must! The past is over and done with. We cannot revisit an old chapter.”
His eyes flashed with defiance. “Why not?”
The force of his conviction agitated her. He sounded so adamant, but she couldn’t ignore the crows of doubt pecking at her. “You don’t know? Isn’t it obvious? We’re both so different now. We’ve changed in so many ways. We can never be those people we were five years ago.”
“Yes, we’re different. We’re better, stronger, freer. Minerva, there’s nothing to stop us now—”
“You’re speaking utter nonsense.” Indignation braced her. Five years ago he’d jilted her without remorse, and now he thought he could pick up where they’d left off, simply because he wanted to. What arrogance. His desertion had caused her much anguish, and she’d vowed never to get so carried away again with any man. Now Asher’s whole being blazed with passion, an inferno that would crumble her defenses if she let him near her. She had to get rid of him before she committed another folly with him. “Please leave my room and never speak of this again.”
She went to pass him, but he shifted his stance and remained obdurately planted in front of her. “We’ve both made mistakes in the past, but now’s our chance to learn from them—”
“That is precisely what I am doing.” She barged her way past him and flung open the door. “I refuse to make the same mistake twice.”
“A mistake?” His mouth compressed. “Are you saying I was a mistake?”
Trembling, she leaned against the door. “Please leave, Asher.”
He stood-stock still, the fire dying from his face. Her resolve faltered as the ardor withered from him. No woman in her right mind would turn a man like Asher away. Could she be making a colossal mistake here? Instead of sending him away, should she surrender to her longing and grab on to him? Before she could decide, he stalked out the room.
Chapter Six
The instructions arrived in the morning post. There were only two lines:
Midnight, Moston Bridge. Come alone.
The word alone had been heavily underscored. Minerva wordlessly passed the note to Asher across the breakfast table.
“Moston Bridge?” he asked.
“It’s on the River Irk. An industrial area, mostly cotton mills and a few tanneries. Not really safe at any time of day.” She pushed away her plate, the sight of her half-eaten toast suddenly sickening her.
“I’ll scout out the area later today.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He clenched his hands on the tablecloth. “You’ll do no such thing.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m not a weak female in need of protection.” Brusqueness was her only defense against her anxiety. He glowered at her across the table.
“You asked for my assistance,” he said heavily. “The least you can do is pay heed to my advice.”
From the tightness of his lips and the ridge between his eyes, she knew he hadn’t yet forgiven her for last night. Beneath her petticoats, her knees shook. Last night she’d be
en a fool. Instead of seizing what happiness she could with both hands, she’d acted like a frightened prude. Instead of spending the night in Asher’s arms, releasing her pent-up ardor, she’d tossed about in her lonely, spinsterish bed, finding neither sleep nor satisfaction.
She tempered her voice. “It’s so difficult to remain here, inactive, when I know things are happening.”
“You’ll have a difficult enough job tonight.” Still frowning, he rubbed his jaw. “You will have to turn up at the bridge. I can’t see any way around that. The kidnapper will know instantly if I try to impersonate you.”
“Of course I’ll be at the bridge.” Despite her assurances, she found herself swallowing down an unpleasant pungent taste in her throat.
“The hard part for you will be convincing the kidnapper that he has the real millennium machine. I’ll show you how to trigger off the hydrogen peroxide, but you must do so as late as possible, or you risk the fuel running out before we have your father back.”
Minerva nodded and gulped again, but the bitter bile refused to subside.
“We’ll rehearse what you have to do after breakfast,” Asher continued. “I have some spare vials of hydrogen peroxide. You must practice until you’re confident you can bamboozle our enemy. And when we arrive at the bridge, you’re to do exactly as you’re instructed. No silly heroics, Minerva. Leave me to take the risks.”
“And—and where will you be in all this?”
“I’ll be hiding somewhere close by but out of sight. I’ve no idea what will happen, so we must be prepared for every eventuality.”
It struck her forcefully that she was putting him in danger. Real physical danger. The thought of him being injured, and because of her, made her skin grow clammy. Whatever happened tonight, she couldn’t let Asher come to harm.
* * *
When Asher had cruelly disappointed his parents by refusing to join the clergy, his father offered to buy him an army commission. Many Quigleys had distinguished themselves in the military, but Asher had declined. Now, as he stood in the hallway, waiting for Minerva to join him, an hour before their appointment at Moston Bridge, he found himself wishing he did have some formal training in combat. The feeling intensified when he saw Minerva descending the stairs, her face pallid, her steps spasmodic. Hell’s bells, when it came to basic fisticuffs, he acquitted himself well enough, but he was an inventor, not a soldier. Was he putting Minerva’s life in danger? He glanced at the “millennium machine” wrapped in oilcloth on the hall table, and his doubts multiplied. So much depended on this trick contraption of his. Would it be sufficient?
“I’m ready.” Minerva gave him a ghost of a smile as she patted down the skirts of her gray woolen dress. He himself had dressed all in black so as to avoid detection.
“It’s dangerous out there.”
“You’ll be there, won’t you?” She held his eye steadily.
Her steadfast bravery braced him. She was willing to put herself at risk, and she was depending on him. Therefore he had to keep her safe.
“Here, I have something for you.” He held out a small pin to her.
“Oh? What an unusual pin.” Several slender wire loops protruded from one end of the thin gold shaft, while a milky green stone sat in the center of the loops. “What is that stone in the middle?”
“It’s jade. According to the Chinese, it brings good luck and wards off evil spirits.” He fastened the pin onto the shoulder of her dress, careful not to disturb the wire loops.
She gave him a faint smile. “So we’re resorting to charms now, are we?”
“Just covering all eventualities.” He helped her with her cloak before picking up the millennium machine.
Outside, he ushered her into the gig he’d hired. The horse’s hooves clip-clopped loudly through the quiet streets as the pitch-black night closed in on them, the moon obscured by thick cloud that hung low over the city. Infrequent bursts of rain pattered against the roof.
Their silence grew more watchful as they approached Moston Bridge. Here the surrounding area was decidedly decrepit, with the roads rough and shoddy and lined with hulking, sooty factories. At this hour the workers had long since departed, and only the odd nightwalker lurked, slinking away as the gig rattled past. Stagnant refuse clogged the gutters, and as they neared the river, the stench became riper, a fetid miasma of indescribable odors.
Asher pulled the horse into a narrow lane a few blocks away from the bridge. Earlier that day he had reconnoitered the area and chosen this lane as their waiting spot. Thick shadows from the surrounding buildings cloaked them. From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the bridge and its approaches. In the faint light of their oil lamp, he checked the time on his fob watch. Twenty minutes to midnight. He turned off the lamp completely and total blackness enveloped them.
Beside him, Minerva shivered again, despite her thick winter cloak and stout boots. Without a word, he clasped her gloved hand in his and squeezed it tight. He heard her sudden intake of air, and for a second he thought she would pull her hand free, but she didn’t, and the feel of her hand curling around his sent a nebulous thrill through him.
“Rest, now,” he said to her in the dark. “I’ll rouse you the moment I see something.”
She rearranged her skirts, and a few minutes later he felt her head nodding against his shoulder. From her hair drifted up the scent of roses, an evocative perfume that ruffled his senses. He shifted his body closer to accommodate her, and his blood quickened as her curves nestled closer. Hunger stirred in his loins. The muscles in his thighs twitched, warming as her body pressed against him. Zounds! How sweet she feels, as delectable as Turkish delight! This was hardly the time and place, but he burned to pull her close and ravish her with kisses.
“Asher—” She shifted a little away from him. “What is that I feel poking into my side?”
“What…?” He blinked in confusion. By thunder, surely he wasn’t…? “Oh, that.” He chuckled, reaching into his coat. “Don’t be alarmed. It’s only my ray gun.” He drew out the weapon to show her.
“Since when did you possess a ray gun?”
“I found it handy in my travels.”
“But ray guns aren’t very reliable, are they?” A note of anxiety crept into her voice.
She was right. Ray guns were still a rare commodity and not fully trusted. Some had a nasty habit of exploding in the bearer’s hand, especially the cheaper Continental models.
“My ViperRay hasn’t let me down yet.” The gun had cost him a large sum, but it had saved his life on several occasions. He repocketed it and tried to sound reassuring. “I don’t use it unless I’m forced to. It’s simply a precaution.”
She nibbled her lip and shivered. “Let’s hope you won’t have to use it.”
Silence fell once more. This time she didn’t lean against him, and he didn’t take her hand. Folding his arms across his chest, he stretched out his legs and focused his attention on the bridge ahead.
The minutes crawled by. The rain bursts became more regular, intensifying into a steady drizzle. A lone streetlight on the riverbank cast a hazy illumination on the murky waters and the dilapidated stone bridge. Not a single thing stirred. On such a miserable night, even the rats thought twice before venturing out.
Asher’s head nodded forward as sleep stole up on him. A moment later he jerked upright, some sixth sense warning him something had altered.
“What is it?” Minerva whispered as she started awake.
“Up ahead,” he murmured into her ear. “There’s movement on the other side of the bridge.”
A group of three figures shuffled onto the bridge from the other side of the river. He strained his eyes but couldn’t make out anything clearer. The group straggled to a halt in the center of the bridge, right at the apex of its curve.
“It’s time.” Mine
rva’s voice quivered as she picked up the millennium machine. “It’s time for me to go out there.”
Asher tensed. Every instinct in him shouted to hold her back, to keep her by his side. He gripped her shoulder. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
A faint reflection off the water glinted on the whites of her eyes. “Yes, I’m sure. Now let me go and get my father.”
The instant he released her, she leaped from the gig. His vital organs constricted, and he grabbed reflexively for her, but his hands came up empty.
* * *
The hood of her cloak fell back as Minerva hurried toward the bridge, lugging the wrapped millennium machine replica with both hands. A flurry of rain slapped across her face. Uneven cobblestone gave way to heavy mud underfoot as she slogged across the street. Inside her gloves, her palms were slick, and a clammy hand had seized the back of her neck. At the foot of the bridge she paused, blinking in the mizzle, peering to see what lay ahead.
Two burly men stood at the top of the bridge, propping up a third between them. The man being held sagged like a deadweight between his captors. His head was bare to the elements, his wispy white hair plastered by the rain across his skull. Even in the dark and the rain she knew who he was. Her chest squeezed.
Father! She thought she had cried out, but only a horrified wheeze came out of her throat. Clasping the millennium machine, she began to struggle up the bridge, the muscles in her legs protesting at every step.
“Stop there!” one of the men yelled out.
She froze in her tracks. Drifts of rain swept down between her and the men.
“Father! It’s me, Minerva.” This time her voice carried, but her father didn’t stir. His head drooped lower; perhaps he was comatose.
“Shut yer trap. You’ll speak when yer spoken to.”
The threat sparked new strength in her. She took another step closer. “If you want your precious millennium machine, you’ll make sure my father suffers no more harm.”
“Yer in no position to order us around. We call the shots here.”