Clockwork Blue (The Lumière Chronicles)

by Gloria Harchar

  His touch ignited coals deep in her abdomen. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. Hard. Her senses sizzled. The taste and scent of him overwhelmed her. Before she knew it, she was on the ground, the earthy smell of grass and dirt mingling with his exotic male scent.

  Malcolm seemed entranced, too. He rolled her over … and they sank into one of her grub holes. "What... ?" he asked. His expression changed, became bewildered. "I don't know anything about pixies, but I know you're bewitching me, Nicola."

  He lifted her away, though his hands caressed the curve of her hip and the delicate roundness of her backside. Bewildered hurt filled her. Her husband brushed dirt from his riding breeches, then busied himself with retrieving Mohammed's reins, not looking at her.

  "You can use your salon for whatever social gatherings you like," he said. "Display whatever dyes you desire. You be the judge of what colors are most favored. Then tell me what to manufacture at the mill. That will be our partnership." He swung into his saddle. "Ah, and I'll be leaving for London in four days' time. Don't expect me to return for a fortnight." He looked into her eyes, then, and she thought she saw pain there. Growling, he whirled his mount away.

  Nicola watched as he rode off. He had rejected her yet again. Her throat wrenched as a sob tried to break loose. Was she so unappealing? She swallowed and blinked away the hotness pricking her eyelids. Would she ever get through to him? Would she ever experience the love that her parents had found? What good were the Callers or magic for that matter?

  Her horse, Brownie, nickered, and Nicola knew the mare felt the same desire to follow Malcolm and his stallion. Instead, she returned to her task of finding worms. One thing made her not lose hope: She was sure his eyes had echoed the torture of yearning she felt in her own soul.

  "A missive for you, my lord." Gaspar held out the parchment.

  Malcolm took it and recognized the seal immediately as belonging to the Duke of Clarence, who could help him very much in the tight textile market of England where Malcolm would see the Clockwork Blue in all its glory. "You may continue to pack, Gaspar. We'll still be leaving as I said yesterday."

  "Yes, my lord." The big man slipped out quietly.

  Malcolm broke the seal, his curiosity high.

  The Earl and Countess of Falconwood are cordially invited to attend the ball on the evening of April I2 at Granger Estates.

  Malcolm gritted his teeth. He'd planned to run away to London to escape Nicola. But now, if he hoped to win the contract to supply new uniforms for the army, his hand was forced. He would have to take her with him.

  As if on cue, Nicola's light steps sounded in the hallway beyond the study. "Gaspar? You're still here. Before you leave, look at this. What do you think?" Her tone practically vibrated with excitement.

  Despite himself, Malcolm was drawn. Before he knew what he was doing, he had left his study and was watching Nicola give a swatch of cloth to the Indian.

  "The color is exquisite. I have not seen a shade like it, my lady," Gaspar said, the marvel in his tone clear. Nicola turned and seemed to notice Malcolm. "Oh, good afternoon, my lord. Are you leaving for London today?"

  His mind willed him to return to his study, but his feet disobeyed. Within moments, he stood next to Nicola. Dimly aware of Gaspar slipping away, Malcolm feasted on the sight of her. Her hair was in charming disarray, the thick locks begging for his hands to burrow deep within. "Not for another two days," he muttered.

  "Oh. Well, then." She looked at him with bright eyes and held up her fabric. "What do you think? These are what I sought from the worms by the river."

  He barely glanced at the cloth. "Similar to your hair, but not nearly as magnificent."

  She blinked in surprise. Then she gave a radiant smile. He was just as shocked. What in the hell had gotten into him lately? "Bring that with you and any other colors you wish to introduce to the haute ton." He turned on his heel, intending to take refuge in the study.

  She rushed after him. "What? Where am I going?"

  "To London," he answered shortly.

  "With you?"

  He halted, mere steps from his haven. "Don't get any notions. This is only a business arrangement."

  "Of course," she replied, her eyes shining as she stepped nearer and cupped her hand around her mouth. "But the mill isn't our only business partnership. My crescendo is nearly ready."

  "Your what?"

  "You remember, my crescendo. I discovered how women could read their crescendo, too. I asked the midwife and she told me."

  "The hell she did!" He'd fabricated. How could anyone tell Nicola of something that didn't exist?

  "Don't curse. It's true, she did. And she told me it all has to do with a woman's temperature, which is why a husband always knows the right time for his wife's crescendo. Although she didn't call it that."

  "What did she call it?"

  "She wouldn't tell me, insisting that she loved your term much better." She patted him on the shoulder and continued, "It's all right. I know exactly how you feel—I was a little confused myself. But I know precisely what to do now, so I'll instruct you on the whole process." She rushed toward the stairs. "I must warn my maid that we're leaving in two days' time. Betsy!"

  He was losing his mind. He strode after her, determined to get a straight answer. "Instruct me on what?" he shouted.

  "Shhh." She glanced over his shoulder. "Here comes my Abigail."

  "Nicola—"

  "I'm trying to tell you," she enthused. "We can start our business of making babes as soon as we get to London."

  With an exuberance that made his knees weak with desire—imagining as he did how active she would be in bed—she skipped up the stairs, leaving him standing in the foyer with a death toll chiming for his peaceful solitude.

  I should be getting used to Maestro's perpetual frown, Glissando thought, trying not to squirm on the lumpy seat of cirrus clouds. He'd been enjoying the house party that the Duke of Clarence was giving. He'd tried to convince Allegro to join, but the overly-conscientious pixie had decided to visit Symphony instead. Glissando shook his head. It had been enjoyable to have Allegro with him when they posed as the two old ladies. For the first time they had worked as a team—and later they had spread gossip about Falconwood's heroism, which should help in getting their mission completed. Still, Allegro had a long way to go as far as being a really good agent. In Glissando's inestimable opinion, his partner needed more practice slipping between roles.

  The party had been superb, the lamb cutlets so tender they melted in his mouth. And the fricandeau d I'oseille was to die for... but all his enjoyment had ended with the abrupt arrival of the pompous Major C. In the puff of a mote all luxury had been left behind and now he sat like a mischief maker awaiting his sentence—which was the case, he supposed. Moodily, he glanced up at the Pixie King sitting on his throne of lavender and thought the dark clouds of a hurricane would be more welcome than Maestro's look.

  "Do you have a confession to make?" he boomed.

  "Yes," Glissando answered miserably. "I broke Article 3 by giving elixir to the Duke of Clarence's mistress."

  "And do you realize what will happen?"

  "There could be a slight misalignment between Venus with Neptune—but it's highly unlikely."

  Maestro ignored him. "What else, Glissando?"

  "A radical change in the weather might occur, causing restlessness in Humans."

  "That most likely will occur, you mean," Maestro corrected. "This will endanger not only your mission but others as well."

  "Yes, Your Highness," Glissando murmured, tempted to bring up Lumière history where a change in weather hadn't brought bad results to missions. But he dared not argue. At least not yet.

  "Why did you do this?" Maestro questioned.

  Glissando rose and paced, agitated. "So I could get the Duke's mistress to persuade him to insist that Malcolm bring Nicola to London with him. Aren't we supposed to help them fall in love?" With a flutter of his wings, Glissando droppe
d to his knees, bringing his hands together in supplication.

  "Yes, but—"

  Frustration over the difficulty of a successful union between Malcolm and Nicola welled up inside of Glissando. He jumped to his feet. "And wouldn't that be difficult, if not impossible, to do if they are living apart?"

  "Yes. However—"

  "Don't you want us to succeed in this mission, Your Excellency?"

  The wind kicked up and a clap of thunder rolled from Maestro's eyes, and Glissando realized he'd overstepped his bounds.

  "Do you realize that you used enough elixir to rejuvenate forty pixies on missions?"

  "I hadn't planned on using so much, but Lady Charlotte is a human, after all, and I didn't know how much it would take. Humans are quite large compared to us, and she did have extra fat on her hips—which I admit was quite impressive," he added, rubbing the flat stomach that never seemed to grow, despite his overindulgence. "I promise to help replenish the elixir once the mission is over."

  "You'll do more than that."

  "I will?"

  "After your mission, you'll not only work in the fields of Westerly Winds, but you'll begin now to help restore our supply. After all, you usually take more than your share."

  Dread dried Glissando's throat. "What do I have to do?"

  "You will go for one week without your portion."

  A sense of panic welled up in Glissando as he thought of the Mrasek, and what they would do to him once they discovered he lied about the mission. "But-but I'll lose a lot of my power!"

  Maestro merely lifted his head in regal diffidence. "Not only that, I'll lose my beautiful slip-note tones!"

  "You should have thought of that before you so carelessly wasted elixir."

  "It wasn't a waste," Glissando muttered.

  Leaned forward, his brows like thunderous clouds. "What did you say?"

  "Nothing, Your Most Revered Immenseness," Glissando said with a scraping bow. He didn't wish to irritate Maestro further, but couldn't resist a little dig about the king's own gluttony. Everyone knew Maestro required more than the normal pixie's share of elixir to maintain his powerful position.

  The slur went unnoticed, for Maestro visibly relaxed, letting out a sigh with a tolerant smile. "That's better. Now, I do not want to hear any more about broken laws or poor behavior from you."

  "Yes, Your Beloved Pompousness," Glissando replied, making his voice drop to a whisper at the last. Despondently, he watched Maestro arise from his throne and shoot off in a ripple of his coattails for the distant capital of Symphony.

  He only hoped that a change in weather would be just what they needed to create a blissful union between Nicola and Malcolm.

  Because any disasters might doom them all.

  The whirring of the looms was soothing until Malcolm realized the implications. What were stockingers doing there? He hadn't hired them.

  He stood in the darkened doorway of the workroom for a moment, watching men and women, their heads bent as they manipulated the different colored strands through the machine to create beautiful patterns. One of the men glanced up and abruptly stood, bowing and pulling on his sandy forelock. He had the biggest ears Malcolm had ever seen.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but we're only doing as Lady Nicola asked. That is, we're making cloth with the new dye. She wanted us to use the orange blossom pattern."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because nobody else has the pattern," the stockinger said with a smile. One tooth stuck out farther than the others. "Gor, m'lord, we were hoping you'd honor us with a visit soon. We are all great admirers of yours, m'lord. For you to allow us to make our cloth in the manner we were meant without the hosiers standing over our shoulders is an immense relief. And such a fine wage we've never seen. Lady Nicola told us to not let the cat out of the bag because you can't support all the stockingers in England. At least not yet," the man added with a wink. "Hey, look everyone, here's the Earl come to honor us with a visit!"

  Several women scrambled to their feet, curtsying and scraping.

  Malcolm looked into the face of the man who started the disturbance. His eyes were wide and there was a strange smile upon his lips, as if he were in awe. Malcolm shook his head, disbelieving. Surely it was fear he saw in those hazel eyes.

  "M'lord?" The man stooped and grabbed something from underneath a loom. "Please accept our little token of appreciation." The stockinger handed him cloth in the most intricate design he'd ever seen: Gold and green silk with little winged creatures embossed in the fabric, creatures that looked suspiciously like pixies.

  Malcolm stared down at the gift, wondering what was going on. "For what?"

  "We heard about your fight for justice for us. We want to show you our appreciation."

  Malcolm touched the cloth, amazed at the complexity of the pattern and the silky feel. "What exactly did I do?" The stockinger looked startled. Then a wide smile spread over his swarthy face, showing the gaps between his teeth. "Ahhh, I've got the lay of the land. You don't want to let on. It will be our secret then. We'll just call the gift a wedding present."

  "What is your name?"

  "Toby Miles, m'lord."

  Malcolm drew Toby aside and stared at him hard. "Toby, tell me what exactly is going on here. I want to know why everyone is suddenly singing my accolades."

  A woman rushed forward and knelt. "Oh, m'lord, you are so humble it makes me teary, it truly does. Why, every time I think of how you faced down that horde of militiamen to save your wife's poor cousin, my blood runs cold."

  Bewilderment crashed over Malcolm. "You must be mistaking me for someone else."

  "And to send little Tommy to the apothecary for his ailments is too generous by half."

  "I did?"

  Toby must have felt sorry for him, because the man patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right, m'lord. We won't say another word about it. Will we, folks?" He looked at the other stockingers. "We know you want to keep up your fierce appearance."

  The stockingers voiced their agreement.

  "From whom did you hear this about me, anyway?"

  "I believe I heard from Robert over there." Toby motioned toward a young man with a profusion of freckles. Robert turned bright red.

  "And I told Robert, I must confess," said a woman with frizzy hair. She grinned abashedly.

  "And I told Janet," another woman with a bulbous nose piped in.

  "Who started it?" It was too much. Malcolm didn't know what to say, how to act, in front of all this admiration.

  "We couldn't tell you, m'lord," Toby said. "But we're like family, and mum's the word. We would never hurt one of our own."

  Family? He wondered if Nicola's make-believe pixies had thrown some sort of magical pixie dust on these people to make them so accepting of him. Although pixies were a fanciful notion, they seemed less odd than these people finding him admirable.

  Nicola. Suddenly the whole misunderstanding made sense.

  As if conjured by his thoughts, Nicola stepped into the workroom. "Good afternoon, my lord." She smiled brightly. "I see you hold one of the most intricate patterns our stockingers know."

  "It was a gift."

  "Really?"

  "For my bravery at facing down several militiamen in order to save Ramsey." He lifted his brows and gave her a significant look.

  Toby stepped forward. "Begging your pardon, m'lord, but I heard it was more like a hundred. Your lady wife must hear the true accounting of your bravery."

  Malcolm decided it was best if he and his lady wife didn't have an audience for their true accounting. Grasping Nicola by the upper arm, he pulled her into the foyer. "And that I helped little—who was it, Tommy?—with his ailment. Why, I sound like a veritable saint."

  She folded her hands in front of her, the pose making her appear calm. Confident. "You are much more than that."

  "What?"

  "Yes. And you refuse to admit that there's inherent goodness inside of you." />
  "I didn't do any of those things," he practically growled.

  "But you would have."

  "Are you responsible for these rumors, Nicola?" A fear he didn't understand rose within him.

  She blinked. "Of course not."

  He had to get away. Too many of the stockingers were still giving him looks of admiration. He wanted to yell that he wasn't a saint. He was the devil incarnate. The urge to get away overwhelmed him. "I'm leaving for London in the morning. Will you be ready?"