The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6

by Jennifer Ashley

  Leisurely, he lit the cigarette, shook out the match, and leaned his head back a little to suck in the smoke. After a few moments, he released the smoke from his mouth, his tongue curling softly as wisps drifted around it.

  Violet realized she was staring at him, her gaze fixed on his lips, which pursed around the cigarette again, like a kiss. Many gentlemen liked to smoke, yes, but Daniel made the movements an art—strong fingers loosely holding the cigarette, lips and tongue almost caressing it and the smoke that trickled from his mouth.

  “Ye need a bit more than that,” he said.

  “What?” Violet jerked. Oh, he meant the rigging. She forced herself into the persona of Violette Bastien again. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur?”

  Daniel dragged in another long pull of smoke, his mouth closing around the cigarette in a sensual caress. The end of it glowed. “Downstairs,” he said, smoke floating out with his words. “If ye had something that released ectoplasm, had it crawl up the walls maybe, you’d have them worshipping at your feet.” He smiled, his gaze going pointedly to her high-topped shoes. “I’d be honored if you showed everything to me.” The double entendre rolled off his tongue as he ran his gaze the length of her skirt again, back to her face.

  Bloody conceited . . . Violet sank down to her heels, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Are you certain it’s honor you’re after? Or my secrets? Thinking to set up a rival business, are you?”

  Mr. Mackenzie laughed out loud—true laughter, no artfulness about it. “Me, a clairvoyant? My friends would laugh me out of London, and my family would tease me senseless. Makes me wonder, though, why you do it? Ye don’t look naturally deceptive to me.”

  “Oh? What does naturally deceptive look like?”

  More laughter. The sound had warmth to it, a little growl, deep and rasping. “Much more innocent than you, lass. Like my wee baby sister. She can give you a look from her big gray eyes, blinking under those golden red curls. Meanwhile, she’s put three frogs in your bed. She’s seven years old, the bonniest lass you ever saw, and the mischief she can get herself—and me—into . . .” Mr. Mackenzie shook his head, his look so fond that it pulled at Violet even as it surprised her.

  Then again, Violet recognized a confidence trickster when she saw one. A man like Mackenzie would throw things like infectious laughter and an adorable little sister at her to get under Violet’s defenses.

  “So why do it?” Daniel asked her again. He sounded genuinely interested, not just flirtatious.

  Violet made herself remain businesslike. Take what a person believes about you and turn it back on him. “To make a living, of course,” she said. “But you’re wrong, Mr. Mackenzie. My mother’s talent is real.”

  “Pull the other one, love. You’re all theatrics—beautiful theatrics. Your wind machine fascinates me, though. I’m trying to build something like it myself. Where did you get it?”

  “I built it myself,” she said, feeling a spark of pride. “Purchased the parts in Berlin.”

  Daniel let out an aggravated breath. “Of course. Bloody Germans. They’re going to take over the world one day. All the same.” He tucked the cigarette into his mouth, got his feet under him, and in one graceful, sinuous movement, rose to his feet.

  He reached a hand down to help her up. Violet studied the sinewy strength of the gloveless hand, virile, tight, powerful, stretching down to her. Daniel expected her to take the offer of help without reluctance, to let him steady and guide her.

  Fortunately Violet had learned a long time ago what a lie such an offer could be. But she was not so terrified of him that she would not at least let him help her to her feet. Any metaphor beyond that was useless.

  Violet put her hand into his. Mr. Mackenzie’s strong fingers closed around hers, the warmth in them palpable.

  Daniel didn’t guide her upward—he pulled hard, lifting Violet nearly off her feet. Her heels tapped the board floor as they came down. Daniel’s hand went to her elbow to steady her, and she found herself pulled against the length of his tall body.

  The twinkle in Daniel’s dark amber eyes made her shake. “Naturally deceptive also looks like me,” he said, his voice low. “From where do you think my wee baby sister learned it?”

  He wouldn’t let go of her. Daniel had a solid grip on Violet’s arm, strong enough that she couldn’t tug away and scorn him with a freezing glance. Freezing glances would bounce from him in any case, or else be caught and thawed by him. There wasn’t a bit of chill anywhere in Mr. Mackenzie.

  He was all heat. And Violet was so cold.

  She smelled the smoke on him, whiskey from earlier tonight, and dust from her floor. Daniel held the cigarette loosely, and the smoke curled around Violet as though trying to pull her into an embrace with him.

  Daniel’s face was hard, but not as hard as that of his father, or at least what Violet had seen of his father in the newspapers. Daniel’s dark hair had been cut short, but he’d managed to rumple it so one part of it stuck out in a different direction than the rest. The lamplight burned red highlights in his hair, subtle ones that would show only in strong light and only to someone standing close to him.

  Daniel lifted the cigarette. Without releasing Violet, he took another pull then offered the cigarette to her.

  Violet eyed the dark stick and its faint glow at the end. She knew that some scandalous women smoked alongside their lovers, but Violet had never formed a taste for it. She found she preferred the warm, herbal scent of pipe smoke in any case, although cigar smoke was what clung to most gentlemen these days.

  She imagined Mr. Mackenzie’s fancy ladies wouldn’t reject an offer to share his smoke. The young debutantes he’d be courting, on the other hand, to put an heir in his nursery, would be shocked and turn up their noses. Or they might giggle at Daniel’s audacity.

  The thought of those giggling, perfect young debs with their soft fingers and no worries in their spoiled little heads made Violet almost snatch the cigarette from him.

  She closed her lips around it. Violet had learned when she practiced on cigars—ghostly smoke appearing in a room while her mother was in her trance never hurt—that if she closed up her throat and didn’t let the smoke into her lungs, she could tolerate it.

  Daniel watched her, standing so close that she could smell the shaving soap he’d used before he’d ventured out tonight. She also caught the scents of cigar smoke mixed with that of the cigarette, plenty of whiskey, and a woman’s heavy perfume. Her heart burned.

  Violet exhaled the smoke little by little, while Daniel fixed his gaze on her. As the last of the smoke trickled out, Daniel leaned down and fitted his lips over hers.

  The pressure was barely a kiss at all, only a resting of his lips against hers, allowing her to feel his smooth mouth, the bite of warmth, the strength of him.

  No hesitant kiss of a man who knew he was being more forward than he ought. Likewise, it wasn’t a commanding kiss—it gave more than it demanded.

  Daniel eased back, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, lass, I knew ye’d taste fine.”

  She could only stare at him. Time for a biting quip, the wit Violet had learned that put a forward gentleman into his place. Time for the half-amused, half-scornful look the Parisian courtesan called Lady Amber had taught her—it stopped men before they got above themselves, Lady Amber had assured her.

  But Violet’s heart pounded, and she couldn’t move. Flashes of white light slapped her eyes, and the flickering lamp across the room didn’t help.

  “Ye all right, love?” Daniel asked, stooping to look into her face.

  The quiet question almost killed her. Violet wanted to wrap her arms around him, to hang on to him until everything, absolutely everything was all right again.

  But that way lay danger, and terror so great it immobilized her. Lady Amber had tried to help Violet become right again, but Violet had long ago faced the sad fact that she never could be.

  “Yes. Fine.” She made herself sound brisk. “The hour is lat
e.”

  Daniel touched fingers to Violet’s chin, the caress so gentle her knees threatened to buckle. Violet thought he’d kiss her again—hoped—but Daniel only took a step back, ground out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot, and said, “Now, show me this wind machine.”

  Without waiting for her to escort him, Daniel left the room.

  Violet had to hurry after him, her heels clicking on the bare floor. He moved fast, his long stride carrying him down the stairs before Violet could catch him.

  By the time she reached the ground floor, Daniel was already in the dining room, all the candles lit, he standing in the middle of the room, turning a slow circle. “Your bobbing ghost lights issued from that register,” he said, pointing upward. “The icy breeze of death from . . . ah.”

  He walked unerringly to the wallpapered panel and removed it from the wall. Behind the panel lay the cables that ran the machine, which issued the air through the register below it. Daniel had the machine unhooked and out of its slot in two minutes—it had taken Violet an entire day to put it in.

  The device was a fan encased in a metal box, turned by gears hand-cranked by the lever in the room above. Tubes of water circulated around the fan, cooling the air that came out of the machine to a chilly temperature.

  Daniel examined the device closely, turning it this way and that. “Oh, what I couldn’t do with this.” He turned it over again. “You know, if you hook this up to electrics, ye could get more power from it, get the fan to turn faster.”

  Violet watched his quick eyes take in every facet of the machine, his fingers running over it. “Mind if I take this away with me?” he asked. “Won’t keep it long. I’m trying to build something like it—as a part of something even bigger.”

  His gaze held interest, a focus more intent than Violet had seen in him since he’d entered the house. Gone was the lazy aristocrat, bored by the entertainments of his acquaintances. Gone even was the roué who’d dared her to take the cigarette, who’d kissed her lips with such finesse.

  He was alert, interested, and had a razor-sharp intellect. Dangerous.

  Daniel held in his hand evidence of Violet’s fraud, the fact that she took money from people and pretended she brought forth spirits in return. Mr. Mackenzie could rush out of here and take the device to the police, or worse, a newspaper. The police could arrest and imprison Violet and her mother; the press could stir up a mob to chase them out of the country—again.

  Though Daniel’s eyes didn’t hold the vindictive glee of a man wanting to expose her, he might show the device to his friends. What if Mortimer discovered the secret?

  “No,” Violet said quickly. “I need it.”

  “To impress gents like Ellingham? You know, your gift is enough without props. You had them in the palm of your hand, love. You’re a master.”

  “Not really. My mother has the true gift.” Violet’s mother, Celine, could hold a room—indeed, a concert hall—in thrall with her trances and her conversations with her spirit guide. Violet didn’t trust her own talents to keep an audience’s attention without effects.

  Daniel looked at the device with a kind of hunger Violet had seen men reserve for courtesans. Not an average gentleman, was Daniel Mackenzie.

  Daniel looked over the device one last time then replaced it in its niche. He closed the panel, dusted off his hands, and straightened up. Violet found him standing in front of her, very close.

  “Mortimer brought me here tonight because he owes me money,” he said. “He was banking on me being so impressed by your performance that I’d forgive the debt. He used you. I don’t like that.”

  Violet shrugged. “He is my landlord. He can come into the house whenever he likes.”

  Daniel frowned. “Don’t stand still and resign yourself to him. He’s a right bastard, and if I’d had less compassion tonight, I would have let the bone-breaker have him.”

  “Bone-breaker?” Violet hadn’t seen such a person in the dining room, only Mortimer’s friends, fair flowers of the English aristocracy.

  “A man who works for a man to whom Mortimer owes even more money. Except the bone-breaker now works for me.” Daniel leaned forward a little, taking all the space around Violet. He didn’t do it deliberately, as though he tried to intimidate her. He merely leaned to her, uninhibited, as though they were great friends. “I don’t like you beholden to Mortimer. If he gives you trouble, you tell me, eh, lass? Right away. Promise me?”

  Violet opened her mouth to say something like, Why on earth should I? But the breath for the words drew in his warmth, the scents of smoke and liquor, and the words melted on her tongue.

  Daniel was speaking again before Violet could drag her thoughts together, and she only caught the last words.

  “And all this has given me a beautiful idea.”

  A smile replaced his scowl so quickly that Violet blinked. Mr. Mackenzie’s lightning-swift changes of mood were astonishing and a little bit frightening.

  The next moment, Violet found her back to the colorful wallpaper, Daniel an inch away from her, his touch on her face. He was shaking his head, his smile vanishing again, his voice low, almost as though he spoke to himself.

  “You’re the loveliest lass I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Mr. Mac—”

  “It’s cold here.” Daniel’s words cut through hers, drowning sounds and thought. “Come home with me, and let me warm you.”

  Violet had taught herself a hundred retorts for forward gentlemen, but they dissolved under Daniel’s heat, and then the touch of his mouth. Daniel kissed her, replacing her breath with his.

  Let me warm you.

  Upstairs, he’d stunned her with a quiet press of lips. This time he kissed her fully, pushing her back against the wall, his mouth on hers.

  Violet couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t stand. She put her hand to the sideboard next to her to steady herself, and Daniel’s strong hands came around her waist.

  He parted her lips with his, his body a firm length of heat. No one should be so strong and vibrant at this hour of the night, no one this overwhelming. Violet’s knees were buckling. Only Daniel’s arms and the solidity of the sideboard kept her from falling.

  Daniel brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth, so softly he made her shake. Then he licked his way inside her mouth again, the taste of him bold, dangerous.

  Black spots spun before Violet’s eyes. She gasped and found her mouth full of Daniel, tried to break away only to be wedged between the sideboard and wall, blocked by Daniel’s body.

  Because Daniel was a handsome, virile, funny, intriguing, and sensual man, the situation should have had her melting in surrender. And Violet might have, despite her better judgment, if the panic hadn’t come.

  Daniel’s face vanished, to be replaced with flashes of another—a red-bearded man with a white, mean face, small eyes, and hands that took and hurt. Sixteen-year-old Violet screamed and beat on her attacker. No, no, please no! Someone help me!

  But no one came. Her fists contacted an unyielding body, a weight she couldn’t move. Violet screamed again, terror swallowing her. This can’t be happening! This can’t be happening!

  “Lass?” a voice asked from far away. It was a voice Violet wanted to reach, one that meant safety, but waves of panic poured over her and wouldn’t let her free.

  “Are ye all . . .” the distant voice said, and then it grunted.

  Violet’s vision half cleared to see Mary, her maid, with the bolster from the parlor sofa in her hands. Violet’s attacker backed from her, rubbing his neck.

  Her panic returned. She needed something stronger than a pillow to stop him. Violet’s hand connected with a heavy vase on the sideboard. Without stopping to think, she lifted it, brought it around, and bashed her attacker on the side of the head.

  Violet heard a heavy groan, a “Lass,” and Mary’s startled cry.

  Her vision cleared completely. Violet was standing in the dining room of the London house, a vase in her hand, a rou
nd-eyed Mary next to her holding a red velvet bolster.

  Mr. Mackenzie, blood on his face, stared at Violet with a stunned expression. He said, “Lass,” one more time.

  Then he fell over like a tree in a high wind, crashing headlong onto the dining room floor. The vase slipped from Violet’s numb fingers and shattered next to him.

  Mary dropped to her knees, the bolster rolling away, her hands going to Daniel’s cold face and closed eyes.

  “He ain’t breathing,” Mary said frantically. She patted his cheeks.

  Violet sank next to Mary, her movements wooden. She stared down at the handsome face of Mr. Mackenzie, his lips pale now, his chest not rising.

  Mary hastily unbuttoned his coat then tore open his waistcoat and shirt, pushing aside his undershirt to jam her hands to the space over his heart. Dark hair curled over his chest, his pectorals well defined. “I can’t find his heartbeat,” Mary said.

  Violet’s numbness left her with a jolt. She brushed Mary aside, and leaned down to put her ear to Daniel’s bare chest, trying to hold her breath and listen.

  She heard nothing but the pounding of her own heart. The room whirled around her, undulating as though the machines were running again, the spirits rampaging.

  Violet lifted her head. “Mary,” she said, barely able to squeeze out the words. “Oh God, I think I’ve killed him.”

  Chapter 5

  Mary got to her feet in panic. Violet shook Daniel, patted his cheeks, pried open one eye. He never responded, and his skin was growing clammy and cold.

  “Mary, quickly, go for the doctor.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Mary said, voice filled with fear. “Miss, if you’ve killed him . . . Oh Lord, he’s a rich man, and we’re nothing. We’ll go to prison. We’ll be hanged.” Mary’s hands fluttered. “What about your poor mum?”

  “Stop! Stop, let me think.”

  But Violet couldn’t think. She sat back on her knees, the room still darting and spinning. Mary waited to be commanded, because Violet always knew what to do.