Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  The rooster and its corpulent owner frowned. "What are you talking about?"

  Nicola fingered the edge of the small box she held. "You said he overheard you maligning my business. What did he do?"

  Dawning realization smoothed the wrinkles in the fat woman's face. She straightened her shoulders. "We have grossly misjudged the Earl, Bea."

  "Yes, I believe we have indeed, Pru. He is a model among men. If only more of his gender could strive to be the same." Pru turned to Nicola. "You are delightfully enlightening, my dear. Thank you for straightening out two old fools."

  "Misconceptions happen to the best of us," Nicola replied airily.

  "They do indeed," Pru said. With a twinkle in her eyes, she winked at her friend. "You have given us a lot of ideas as to how to change the Black Falcon's... er, I mean, Falcon's reputation."

  "Yes, I would be glad to see it."

  The manner in which Bea's lips curled at the comers reminded Nicola of someone, but she couldn't put her finger on whom. "Pru and I would be delighted to enlighten the other villagers."

  "Good." She glanced at her box, full of paraphernalia for hats. "Do either one of you have a use for a box full of hats and frippery?"

  Chapter 16

  The afternoon shadows lengthened as Malcolm approached the stables where he'd left his mount. He would spend one more night at Windmere, and then leave early the next morning for two weeks. Anywhere but there would do.

  Two days had passed since that glorious afternoon in Nicola's millinery where he'd lost all control, but he hadn't been able to get her out of his mind. He wanted his wife in a primal way. And damned if he couldn't resist riding past her shop. He knew she would be there. Plenty of daylight was still left.

  Cantering up to the pink-and-yellow building he'd ordered restored for her, he frowned. Mrs. Rooster and her skinny friend were exiting, their arms full of ribbons and hats. After glancing both up and down the street, she snapped her fingers and a long, cylindrical object suddenly appeared in her hand, resembling a key. She locked the door and, after a twist of her wrist the key vanished, the pair turned and walked down the street. The rooster followed, its strut very similar to that of its mistress.

  Where was Nicola? Fierce protectiveness swept over Malcolm. These women were up to no good. He approached them, riding Mohammed almost up on the walk. "What are you doing with my wife's key?"

  Mrs. Rooster's eyes widened. His dark reputation was good to intimidate people, he thought grimly.

  Both women curtsied awkwardly, their arms full. Would they scurry away? No, he wouldn't let them. In order to get answers, he would run them both down if he had to.

  Mrs. Rooster looked up at him in his saddle and smiled. "Lady Nicola told us to take what we want."

  "Her supplies?"

  "Didn't you know? She has decided to quit hat making."

  "What do you mean?" He couldn't believe it unless something tragic had happened. From what he'd heard from these two, he wouldn't put it past them to be involved with deflating poor Nicola. The thought of his bright flower, dimmed with disillusionment, enraged him.

  The thin woman adjusted her supply of red sprigged material. "Lady Nicola is giving away all her supplies. She doesn't want to make hats, after all."

  "She heard you gossiping." He made his voice silky, low and threatening.

  "Yes, she did," Mrs. Rooster admitted. "And she quite agreed with us about her lack of talent, because, you see, she has suspected for quite some time that hat design was not her forte."

  He frowned, wondering why the women weren't scuttling away from him. The rooster owner gazed at him, a pleasant expression on her oblong face. In fact, she looked bloody friendly.

  "Are you feeling all right, madam?"

  "How nice of you to ask. I'm feeling wonderful and, by the bye, my name is Prudence."

  The thin woman cleared her throat, the sound oddly flutelike. "And I'm Beatrice Soprano. We are great admirers of yours."

  He was flabbergasted, and wondered if he'd heard correctly. "You are?"

  "Why, yes. We think it's wonderful that you have returned. You are a great asset to this community."

  He didn't know what to say to that. Had the women been out in the sun too long? Had the rooster crowed too early this morning, giving them both a lack of sleep?

  Mrs. Smith stepped forward and actually patted his foot in the stirrup. "Humility is a good trait in a man. That all men could be as strong of character as you."

  Both women were definitely dicked in the nob. Given that conclusion, he knew Nicola couldn't be as calm about her failure with hats as she let on in front of them. With these strange women's almost elfin features and mysterious ways, they seemed to be from another land, not of earth. Perhaps their interpretation of Nicola's emotional state was as off the mark as their sudden admiration for him. "Where is my wife?"

  Mrs. Rooster smiled. "Oh, she went riding. She told us she does her best creative thinking while she rides. She's probably already hatching a new hobby."

  He would be more apt to believe she was riding in an attempt to overcome despair. "Do you have any idea where she went?" It galled him to have to ask.

  The thin woman cleared her throat. "I believe she likes to ride along the Nene River, just a few miles north of the village."

  He didn't waste any more time on them. The urge to protect Nicola was new, and he still didn't understand it entirely. But since he could never give her the husbandly love she apparently wanted from him, it was his responsibility to make her happy in every other aspect of her life. His soul was too black, too twisted for her bright aura.

  He barely resisted the urge to gallop out of town. Mohammed quivered beneath his thighs, and he knew the horse sensed his impatience. When the last building was behind, he urged the animal to a faster gait, all the while wondering what he would say to Nicola when he discovered her. What did he know about making someone happy? Nothing. His brother had been the one to please others, to know the words to say in awkward situations, not him. On the contrary, he'd only managed to rouse distrust.

  Could he convince her not to listen to gossip? That those women were bored and didn't have anything else to do but slander? Was he doing her justice if he lied to her? No. Damn, what would he tell her? Perhaps he could persuade her to pursue the other hobbies that normal ladies enjoyed. Nicola... normal? She was the most unusual, most fascinating woman he'd ever met. Nevertheless, he had to find something to occupy her time. He could offer to hire a tutor to teach her the finer points of sketching, of painting landscapes or portraits ….

  He cut through a field, the shortest route to the Nene River. He barely noted the profusion of wildflowers as he scanned the landscape for a glimpse of his wife. He headed for the line of trees that edged the river.

  As he neared the grove, a movement in a cluster of purple flowers caught his eye. He saw Nicola bent over, poking at something among the foliage.

  She must have heard his approach, because she looked up. "Hello, my lord," she called, frowning a little, then studying the ground.

  Warily he approached her. When he was within a few feet, he hauled back on Mohammed's reins. Dirt smudged her chin, cheeks and gown. Shocked at her filthy state, he stared as she bent down toward the grass. Even her head was bare, the strawberry-blond strands glinting in the sunlight.

  Was she suffering some sort of breakdown? Just to be safe, he gentled his tone. "What are you doing?"

  "Digging for grubs."

  Alarm swept through him. "Why?"

  "Because they're pretty."

  She really was wrong in the upper story. All the upset had gotten to her.

  Dismounting, he dropped his reins and let Mohammed graze. Then, as if she were a frightened colt, he slowly circled Nicola. When he neared, he saw her small shovel with which she was vigorously stabbing clumps of clay. Probably to vent her frustrations.

  "You're upset." Damn, what was he going to do?

  "No, I'm not." She glanced up at him
, eyes wide. Then her mouth thinned as she looked down at the hole she'd dug. "Come on, where are you, you little creatures?"

  To his consternation, Malcolm had no idea on how to approach her. Perhaps if he tried patience as he'd seen his brother do, he could reason with her. "Ah, the grubs are magical, too. Do they talk to you?" he asked, feeling ridiculous for it.

  She rolled her eyes. "Of course not, silly."

  "Then what the hell are you doing wallowing in the mud?" So much for patience.

  "Not now," she muttered, and then intently stared at the soil before stabbing again.

  The conversation wasn't going as he'd intended. Frowning, he decided to try once more, this time no tiptoeing around. "I caught two women carting off a lot of your hat-making supplies."

  "I know. I told them to take what they wanted."

  "So, it's true. You are quitting your hobby."

  "Yes."

  "And you're upset about it."

  "No, I'm not."

  He scowled, surprised. She had been so adamant about hat making from almost the moment he met her. Nobody could release hopes for their dreams so quickly. At least a dozen holes dotted a three-yard radius; obviously, she'd been at her quest for grubs for a while. Worry flooded him.

  He tried to take the digging tool away from her, but she snatched the spade against her chest. "What are you doing?"

  A different approach was obviously needed. "Nicola, I've been thinking about your … pixies."

  That got her attention. She stilled and looked up. "You have?" she asked, her expression wondering.

  The look made him uneasy. "You said you had a discussion with one of them."

  "Yes, with Glissando."

  "The" —he couldn't quite bring himself to say the name— "pixie told you that your hats were awful?"

  "Yes, that was the gist of it. And?" Her intent gaze fixed on him.

  And what? "I was wondering if perhaps your subconscious took over and... ah, told you that making hats was not your talent."

  She was scowling again.

  Rushing his explanation, he thought he'd better say what was needed before she shut him out. Pacing, he began. "You probably started talking to your imaginary friends when you were young, since you didn't have any siblings. There's nothing wrong with that—not at all. And your pretense is the best way to understand things that don't fit into your plans. You are very strong-willed, Nicola."

  She didn't say a word. He tried to determine how she responded to his statement, but her face looked made of wood.

  Slowly, she rose. "Let me get this straight. You think there's no such thing as the pixies, but rather I've made up imaginary people? Or that I talk to another person who lives in my head?"

  He gave her a wary look, watching her neck flush, then her cheeks, a delicate pink that rose from beneath her dress. Did it start from her saucy breasts, or lower?

  "Or maybe a combination of the pair," she continued. "I'm also bullheaded because I can't accept facts as they are, so I have to make up this population of otherworldly beings to help get my facts in order."

  "You're beginning to understand, I see. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Nicola."

  "Well, I won't give you an easy way out of this marriage by committing suicide."

  The idea sent a cold splash of water icing his veins. "You'd bloody hell better not." Now he was scowling. "Don't even consider it."

  She gave him a pert look.

  Irritation nettled the back of his neck. "So, if you're not talking to yourself or an imaginary being, just what in damnation are you doing out here?"

  She placed her hands on her hips and her lips quirked sassily. "Talking to imaginary grub worms."

  He grimaced. "Hell, I would rather you were talking to pixies."

  She grinned suddenly. "Remember that the next time you catch me talking to them."

  "Woman, are you going to tell me what you're doing or not?"

  "I'm looking for a special grub worm, perhaps not even a grub worm, but one I saw that was prettier. It was sort of a burgundy color with a hint of bright raspberry. You see, I want to extract the color for a dye."

  "How will you do that?"

  "I'll put the worms into boiling water and prepare a dye bath—twenty at a time, I think. I always like to use a little vinegar and salt to bring out the color... and I think I'll try the phosphates again since the Clockwork Blue turned out so well, and I predict the color to be the same strength as the Blue—so I'll use the same formula for calculating the number of skeins to use."

  He stared at her, shocked. "You're the mastermind behind all these colors at your father's dye house."

  She looked him in the eye. "I am."

  "If you created these dyes, why did you let your father take the credit?"

  "Because men wouldn't take a woman seriously. Only when Papa marketed the dyes, claiming that he created them, did we find success."

  "Tell me, what was it like for you to be sold off, basically, for the Clockwork Blue when you were the one who created the color?"

  "As far as my father sacrificing me to this marriage?" Slowly she straightened, and then gave him a long, slow perusal. "Ask me after we experience the nuptials."

  Her boldness heated his blood, made his fingers tingle with anticipation. The knowledge that she was the artistic one, yet had allowed another to claim her creations, merely defined her strength of character, which attracted him to her more, made her damn near irresistible.

  She kicked at a clump of dirt. "Does it bother you that I'm the one behind the dyes?"

  "No," he replied, irritated that she had been forced to suffer. "If a hobby of making hats didn't bother me, why would your making of dyes?"

  "I knew you were a man of sound judgment, a man to lead all others." She threw her arms around him.

  His body instantly reacted, even as he caught her in an embrace. "Please, no more gushing. I already got a bellyful from the rooster woman and her cohort."

  She pushed away, a bundle of energy pacing before him. He could almost see the ideas forming in her mind. "We will be good together, you and I. I knew the first moment I saw you that we would make great changes on this earth."

  "What are you blathering about?" Confused, he stared at the way her breasts moved beneath her bodice, the manner in which her hips swayed as she paced, the way her skirts clung to her long thighs, the sexy curves of her slim calves and ankles. Blood zinged through his veins. Already he was lengthening, growing hard for her.

  "Now that I'm no longer running a millinery, what do you think we should do with my wonderful salon?"

  "You want to open a dye house of your own?" he asked almost desperately, trying to keep his mind on business and not her body.

  "On the contrary. I would like to augment your business by opening a showcase for the new dyes I create. And move you from the dye house's run-down office. We could see each other more frequently that way. I would host teas and soirees every time I come up with a new color. You will have to attend these functions, of course, if you agree to my proposal."

  "What exactly are you proposing, Nicola?"

  "I want to be your business partner."

  All he could think was that she would be constantly by his side, torturing him with desire—a desire he couldn't bring himself to indulge. Of course, eventually he would have to consummate their marriage, but not yet—not when he seemed to have such a slippery hold on his emotions regarding her. "Thunder and turf, no."

  "Then reconcile yourself, my lord."

  "To what?"

  "To being shackled with a wife who demands conjugal rights at least twice daily."

  Chapter 17

  Malcolm's stare caused Nicola to gulp in sudden apprehension. Heat waves rolled off him like a white-hot briquette in a fireplace, and deep emotion flashed in his eyes. She wasn't certain what generated that penetrating intensity, but she was about to find out. He stalked forward, but she stood her ground, as fascinated as by a pending storm. "Are you taunting me w
ith your womanly charms?"

  "Me?"

  He stared at her, his brow knitted. "Yes, you make me mutton-headed, and I'll not have it."

  "Malcolm, do not jest. Before you came into my life, I was a twenty-three-year-old tomboy who had never been asked to dance."

  "Don't feed me that rubbish. I don't believe it for a moment."

  "It's true," she insisted.

  "You could charm pixie dust from a wizard, you little minx," he muttered and ran his thumb along her lower lip. His skin was rough, salty against her mouth. Then he dipped his thumb along the inside of her lower lip. "And damn if I can't seem to resist you."