Saving the Scientist

by Riley Cole

“We help people,” he explained, as it was obvious she couldn’t read it in the dark. “Retrieving lost items is my speciality.”

  She palmed the card, wishing she could ignore the way his warmth infused the thick paper. “Thank you, but I have nothing in need of finding.”

  “Yet.”

  Ada raised her eyebrows. “I have things under complete control. I have a plan, Mr. Sweet, a well-considered plan.” She turned her back to him, reaching for the door handle before she could change her mind. “Good bye.”

  She wrenched the handle, remembering to shove her hip against the door as she swung it open. With the autumn damp, it stuck in a most annoying manner. She didn’t need his help. Didn’t want the strange, breathless feelings, the shaking legs, the desire—that damned physical desire—she’d ignored for so long.

  Didn’t want to know what she’d missed all those years, married to an older man, with an older man’s soft, aging body.

  Yet she couldn’t help staring out into the empty yard, eyes straining for one last glimpse of the first well-made man she’d ever touched.

  Though the night was so dark even her workshop was barely visible in the back corner of the grounds, she stared out, until she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered. Only then did she drag herself up the stairs in her damp dress, to her lonely bed.

  Sometimes the price of being an unconventional woman in a most conventional world seemed far too high.

  * * *

  Zinc chloride. That would do it.

  Ada bolted upright in bed. She fumbled on the nightstand for the matches to light the lamp. If she didn't jot down her thoughts immediately, they’d be lost by morning.

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and scratched out a reminder in the notebook she kept at her bedside for just such occurrences. The smallest amount of zinc chloride should slow corrosion of the anode, making the energy transfer more stable.

  Exactly what she needed to buffer her reaction to Edison Sweet.

  She tossed down her pencil. Though she knew full well why that particular analogy had cropped up, she didn't choose to dwell on it. She blew out the lamp and flopped back down in bed, yanking the covers up to her chin.

  The comparison was an apt one. Chemical reactions behaved in much the same way humans related to each other.

  Not that she had a terrific amount of experience with the later.

  After one disastrous season, her father persuaded her to marry his dear friend, Harrison. It was well done of him. Her wealth, combined with the Templeton assets, created an astonishing fortune, a fortune that grew once her father’s import business acquired the patina of sophistication that came from association with Harrison’s titled friends.

  And Harrison had adored her. He built her laboratories in each of his family homes, bought her exquisite gowns in which she had little interest, and never, ever questioned the large bills from glass blowers or chemical warehouses.

  Nor had he ever once set her body aflame.

  Ada twisted restlessly beneath the sheets. As with molecules, like cleaved to like while opposites repelled each other with ruthless efficiently. Immutable laws decreed that cobalt cleaved to nitrate, and vigorous, vital men of action, were drawn to curvaceous, vivacious, feminine women.

  Not blue stockings.

  Not scientists.

  Ada stared up at the shadowed ceiling. Women who craved knowledge repelled those sorts of men as surely as oil repelled water.

  Why that particular fact should cause a strange sort of bruising in the area of her heart, she didn’t care to examine.

  She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. Someday she might entertain the idea of a lover. While she didn’t care for fashion, couldn’t bother about hairstyles or jewelry or handbags, she did realize she wasn’t overly homely.

  Someday she’d meet a man who excited her senses. A man of science. A man of wit and charm and warm, well-made hands. A man who made her body tingle with anticipation. He might be—

  A sharp crack and the tinkle of breaking glass hitting the ground interrupted her imaginings.

  She flew to the window overlooking the gardens. Having just gone midnight it was darker, if that was possible, than when she and Sweet had wrestled around on the lawn. Still, she was able to discern movement outside her workshop, where the white edging of the windows highlighted the figures in front of them.

  She growled. Twice in one night was the outside of enough. She whirled from the window and grabbed her wrapper off the bedpost, pulling it on as she raced for the door. She was halfway down the stairs when she realized she was barefoot and weaponless.

  Sweet hadn’t seen fit to return her revolver.

  Shoes she could skip, but it would be the utmost idiocy to face thieves unarmed.

  She squinted into the darkness. The hall table held a vase of flowers and three framed daguerreotypes. The edges of the frames were sharp, but would require a steady aim. That particular skill, she'd never laid claim to.

  The kitchen offered an array of knives. And there was Cook's rolling pin. But those would require getting within arm’s reach of the intruder.

  Not ideal.

  Harrison's family crest. He’d been inordinately proud of the ugly thing. Had it commissioned after he and her father sold the factories. Ugly, and trumped-up as it was, it did contain the requisite swords crossed through the back of the shield.

  She hurried into the parlor, cursing when her little toe caught a table leg.

  She ignored the pain, and jumped atop the hearth, reaching above it to yank a long sword out of the shield above the fireplace.

  The sword slid easily from its resting place, but it was far heavier than she would've guessed, too heavy to manage with one hand. The tip slammed down, biting into the wood mantel.

  Ada shrugged off the damage. Now that she had two hands on the thing, she could at least keep the tip from dragging on the ground. Only just.

  She was barely out the library door before the muscles in her forearms were fatigued with the weight of the ancient weapon.

  The instant she opened the back door, she heard them, male voices whispering urgently in the dark. Things between the thieves did not appear to be going well.

  “Stand aside, or we’ll toss you off.”

  “You’re welcome to give it a go.”

  Ada froze. The sword quivered in her grip. That voice sparked a thrill of anticipation.

  "You an’ who's gang?" a harsh voice responded. "Gonna take more than one o’you.”

  “Probably not.” Sweet sounded sure of himself, exceedingly so.

  Disappointment squeezed her heart. He’d simply waited for her to go to sleep and skulked back to find her device. The betrayal was not unexpected.

  The hurt was.

  Rage shot through her, roiling in her gut, making her limbs vibrate with furious energy.

  “You lying sot!” As if she had no control over her own body, Ada thrust the sword high above her head and barreled toward him.

  "Wait!" Sweet yelled. “Stop!”

  His command only stoked her fury. She lowered the tip to chest level and raced dead at him.

  She was close enough now to make out his solid form. He was backed against the wall of her laboratory, to one side of the open door. A body-sized lump at his feet groaned softly. Two other large forms waited twenty feet back, facing him. All swung toward her, giving her blade their full attention.

  A cold wash of fear caught at her throat, tamping down her rage.

  The math was not in her favor. Three hooligans—four if she counted the lump on the ground—and she had but one weapon. A weapon she hadn’t the least idea how to wield.

  The worry etched on Sweet’s face did nothing to reassure her. The long string of curse words cemented the realization that she’d charged straight into trouble.

  Edison grabbed something out of the satchel at his feet and launched it at the ruffians. A loud snap split the air, then a flash of blinding light seared her eyes.

>   The sword fell from her hands as she threw them up to shield her eyes. The flash lasted no more than a heartbeat, but the dark afterimage—a pulsing black star rimmed with orange light—filled her field of vision. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to blot it out.

  Before her vision cleared, Sweet was on the men, punching one, then the other. The sound of the blows—and the grunts of pain that followed—travelled quickly in the still air.

  As the two of them regained their vision, they hit back. The smaller of the two landed a punch, snapping Sweet’s head sideways. He staggered back, but shook it off and waded back into the fight.

  It was the only blow they landed. Sweet was clearly more skilled, and more agile, than either of his attackers.

  He fought with a grim fury uncalled for in a disagreement between partners. Something in the energy of their blows—a desperation, a rage, a fear—made her doubt her initial conclusion.

  Perhaps he wasn’t in league with these thieves. Perhaps he’d returned to her laboratory for his satchel and been caught unawares.

  Perhaps he really did want to help her.

  Ada snatched up the sword. She gripped the cold handle, letting the heavy tip rest in the grass. Fear for his safety warred with confusion. She wanted to wade in, but the sword was unwieldy, and she wasn't sure she wouldn't hit Sweet.

  At least the third man hadn’t joined the fight. While Sweet and the two men swung away, the large lump rose like a ghostly apparition and skulked off into the darkness.

  She bit her lip and raised the sword, determined to assist in some small way. Maybe she could trip them? Whack them about the legs?

  By the time she staggered forward with the damned thing, he had them on the run. As the ruffians hurried off toward the lane, Sweet rushed over and yanked the sword from her hands. It clattered to the ground with a metallic thud.

  "Just what in the bloody hell you think you were doing?"

  The anger behind his words pushed her back.

  "What I always do, Mr. Sweet. Protecting what's mine."

  Sweet grabbed her by the arm with more force than she thought strictly necessary. "I was protecting your things. You were making the job a great deal more difficult.”

  "I could have handled them.”

  “No, you could not. Don’t deceive yourself, Miss Templeton.” He moved toward the house, hauling her along side. “Those were professionals. Deadly skills. Most unlike the school boys your step-brother hired." He stopped in the middle of the lawn and pulled her close, so close that the opening of her wrapper caught on the buttons of his shirtfront. So close she could feel the beating of his heart, the heat from his body.

  “Do you have any idea what they would have done to you?" He stepped back, taking his warmth with him. “Taking your device would have been the least of it. The very least of it.”

  Ada swallowed hard. Now that the crisis was over, unused adrenaline surged pointlessly through her veins, making her limbs vibrate in an odd, weak way. The sounds of their fighting, the sheer size of the men, had been rather intimidating.

  And now that he pointed out, she did have some vague idea that had she been on her own, things might not have gone well. Still, it was quite ungentlemanly of him to point it out.

  She opened her mouth to defend herself, but Sweet shot up a hand, stilling her. He peered over his shoulder, scanning the hedge that separated her gardens from the street.

  His shoulders relaxed, and he dropped his hand. "I doubt they’ll be back, but there’s no sense standing around in the dark."

  As he turned away, she noticed how stiffly he moved. Maybe he’d taken more of a pummeling than it appeared. And it was colder now. A pre-dawn chill pressed down on them, driving the cold straight into her bones.

  No matter the man’s motives, it was clear he wasn’t with her brother’s lot. The least she could do was offer him a place to get warm. And if, over a cup of tea, she got him to divulge more about his true motives, she’d consider that a victory.

  But she’d best be on her guard. Giving a man of action like Sweet any encouragement would only go badly for her.

  Ada pulled her robe tight. “You may as well come in."

  Even cloaked in darkness, his white teeth flashed appealingly. “I could do with some tea." He raised a hand to his head. "I took quite a rounder to the face. Could do with a cold cloth.”

  The soft appeal in his tone made her want to touch him, sooth away his pain. "I suppose it's the least I can offer.” She did her best to sound no more than minimally gracious. "Tea and a washcloth and you're on your way."

  Chapter 4

  A dram of whiskey would do better, but tea and a cold cloth would suffice if it would give him time to persuade the stubborn woman to let him protect her.

  Edison swiped impatiently at the blood dripping down his cheek from the cut above his eye. The smallest of them had gotten in a lucky shot when Ada distracted him by racing across the yard like a furious Valkyrie, brandishing that ridiculous old sword.

  He grinned. The sword was ridiculous, but the sight of her racing to do battle was not. Seldom had he seen anything so inspiring, so arousing.

  "The kitchen is this way," she said softly, once they'd entered the house.

  Edison took care to stay on her heels. The great house was dark, still sleeping. He didn't want to crash into anything and wake the household. Fortunately her wrapper was light-colored and easy to see. Although he could have followed that delicious scent anywhere.

  Once they entered the large kitchen, she shoved him backward into a chair and struck a match, lighting a paraffin lamp. She carried it over, holding it just above his head and peered down at his cut. “It looks worse than it is.” She pressed a finger to the skin above his eye, probing the swelling flesh.

  Edison jerked back. “Ouch.”

  “The cut’s small, but you’ve got quite a lump here. Your eye might blacken.”

  His cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had landed a solid facer. “You distracted me.”

  She left him to grab a piece of sackcloth, which she held under the faucet while she gave the handle a few pumps.

  Edison studied the well-appointed kitchen. Copper pots sparkled above a large stove. Porcelain dishes were stacked neatly in open cupboards along both walls. The rough table she'd plopped him at was large, larger than even Mrs. Hapgood's table in their own kitchen. It stood to reason. Her home was grand, it would require a great many servants.

  Edison flinched as she moved toward him with the damp cloth. Whatever her intentions, the woman had all the delicacy of a fishmonger.

  This time she surprised him. Squinting in concentration, she brushed her fingertips over his abused temple. Her touch tickled pleasantly, relaxing the taut muscles in his back and neck. She dabbed at the small bit of blood while she brushed the fingers of her other hand through his hair.

  Edison let his eyes close, allowing himself to enjoy the pleasing sensations. Her touch, her scent, the light breaths that caressed his forehead lulled him, loosened muscles strained from absorbing blow after blow.

  He relaxed back into his seat while she scrubbed the drying blood from his cheek with tiny, gentle strokes. When she cupped his chin in her soft palm, he allowed her to move his head gently back and forth.

  Lips pursed in concentration, she examined him for further bruising. While she worked, he studied her. He'd known she was tall, and obviously slender, but he hadn't fully appreciated her graceful curves. The rounded breasts, now at eye level, as she tended to his wound, had much to say for themselves. As did her trim hips. Nor was her face lacking in beauty. Lively, intelligent eyes, and surprisingly lush lips that curled in a most pleasing, most kissable manner.

  Edison flexed his bruised knuckles. He shouldn't want to kiss her. The woman had made it clear his presence was an imposition. Still, a man couldn’t help but imagine. Her perfume alone would be a potent secret weapon. It must render every man she crossed
all but useless. It certainly scrambled his own brain.

  She straightened and tossed the pink-stained cloth down on the tabletop. “That incendiary device was quite well done. Magnesium? With a touch of potassium nitrate?”

  Her question shocked him, blowing away the lazy tendrils of desire coiling in his belly. “Exactly.”

  Her delicate nose wrinkled. “How do you keep the magnesium stable? It has a poor shelf life.”

  “Linseed oil.” Edison blinked slowly. Could he be in a dream? He’d never met a woman so knowledgeable—or so interested—in his work.

  She smiled. “Of course. The oil stabilizes the burn, prolongs the flash.”

  “Quite well.” He sat up, fascinated by her pensive expression. “Adds at least twenty percent to the burn time.”

  When she smiled, her dark eyes twinkled delightfully. "A lovely color as well. How did you achieve that deep lilac?”

  Edison allowed a satisfied grin to curve his lips. “Saltpeter. And a touch of strontium. Deepens the color.”

  “Right. It would do, wouldn’t it?”

  For a heartbeat, he felt as if they truly connected, one science-minded soul to another. And then her expression darkened.

  She grabbed up the dirty cloth and backed away from him, as if she’d gotten a whiff of sewer gas. "I'll get the kettle on, shall I?"

  The pump squeaked as she filled the kettle. The stove clanked sharply as she set it down. Two mugs thunked down on the table in front of him.

  Then silence. Eyelids lowered to disguise his interest, Edison watched her flit about the kitchen. For a woman with an investigative mind, her moods were more changeable than he would have expected. He folded his arms over his chest, content to appreciate the graceful sway of her hips beneath the thin wrapper.

  Whatever the cause, the energy in the room had shifted. Living with two driven women himself, he knew a thing or two about the sensibility of silence. Edison stretched his legs out toward the warmth of the stove and waited.

  “I didn't ask you to stay,” she said, as she poured the tea. “In point of fact, I made myself quite clear. I don't need your assistance."