by Beth Ciotta
Harder.
Faster.
Novels and scientific journals tumbled about them as he nailed his beautiful and perplexing wife against the overcrowded literary shelves.
Deeper.
Slower.
One last thrust . . .
She cried out and he held still. Held back as she shuddered with a tremendous and lingering climax.
Heart pounding, Simon nuzzled her ear. He’d only just begun. He would unravel this woman. He would know her secrets. Motivated by love, driven by passion, he would strip away years of deception and cynicism and lay bare her heart and mind. “I suggest we retire to the bedchamber.”
“I have no need of a bed.”
At once she slid from his body and to the floor, to her knees. Sweet Christ, she took him in hand, working magic on his throbbing member. Adjusting pressure as she stroked, fingers gliding, lips . . . “Ah.” His knackers tightened and his heart stilled when he felt the warmth of her sweet, sassy mouth. At this rate, she would have the best of him in three seconds. “No.”
Simon swept her up and laid her back on the rug, shoved her skirt and petticoats to her waist, and buried his head between her legs. “This.” He ravished her with his mouth. His tongue, his teeth, his lips. He savored. He tortured. He endured as her fingers bit into his shoulders, as they clutched at his hair and pulled, as she bucked wildly beneath his erotic ministrations. When she peaked, his pulse raced and the need to possess her completely, to find his own release, burned with a vengeance. He thought to take her again here, now, sprawled on the floor or perhaps on her knees, but then it would be over much too soon. Where lovemaking was concerned, Willie had made her adventurous streak clear. Her curiosity and ravenous appetite challenged his normally versed control.
“I want you naked,” Simon said, tugging her skirts down and his trousers closed. “Now.”
Chest heaving, she blinked up at him in confusion and he wrestled with a moment of self-recrimination, knowing he was halfway to pleasuring his wife into mental and emotional submission. Believing he had her best interest at heart and prompted by bone-deep passion, Simon snuffed the flames of guilt licking at his conscience.
Sweeping Willie off the floor and into his arms, he stalked out of the library and across the hall, locking them in his master bedchamber. Setting her to her feet, he lazed against the wall with a cocky grin and a lustful gleam in his eye. She’d started this game, but he was the master. If she thought to take charge, she best think again. “Strip.”
• • •
Muted golden light seeped through a crack in Simon’s drawn curtains. Light from the newfangled electric lanterns lining the street in front of his town house.
Willie blinked into the darkened room. When they’d tumbled into this bed, it had been early evening—predusk. Their lovemaking had been shockingly intense, each vying for control. Simon’s stamina had been absurdly and wonderfully impressive. No matter her efforts to unhinge him completely, he had rallied and turned the tables, pleasuring her again and again. When she’d been too sated, too weak in the limbs and mind, to counter with her own passionate assault, only then did he surrender to his own need.
She did not remember drifting off. She knew not how long they’d been asleep. It was all she could do to remember her name.
Wilhelmina Darcy.
Her eyes burned with sudden emotion, her heart squeezed.
She had taken Simon’s name without pledging her love, and even now, even after he’d declared his affections, even now as she lay in his bed, in his arms, a dazzled and dazed recipient of his spectacular lovemaking, Willie had not spoken her heart. She had never considered herself a coward, but in this instance she could not deny her bone-deep fear. She was too unsure of the future to commit her feelings aloud. Speaking her heart would be opening her heart to possible obliteration. Staying silent afforded her a chance to live in denial, should the worst happen. As a writer she could imagine endless scenarios that would involve being ripped or thrown from Simon’s life. Her chest ached at just the thought of it.
“What’s wrong?” Simon tightened his hold and stroked a hand down her bare back.
How could he know her misery? Her head was tucked beneath his chin and although her mind had raced, her body had been most still. “How long have you been awake?” she asked, without looking up.
“A while.”
“Why did you not stir?”
“Given our extreme alliance,” he said with a teasing smile in his voice, “I am not sure that I can.”
She snorted lightly against his chest. “I’m certain you have exerted similar energies in similar circumstances.”
“There have been no similar circumstances.”
That brought her head up. “Knowing what I have heard, what much of London gossips about, do you really expect me to believe you’ve led a chaste life?”
“Certainly not. But there has been no one like you. No interludes that can compare.”
Willie’s heart fluttered as she gazed upon his handsome face, into his earnest eyes. Her night vision ensured that his expression was indeed sincere. “In our long yet spotty association, you have said some wonderfully sweet things, Simon Darcy, but that is by far the most romantic.”
His brow furrowed. “More romantic than my declaration of love?”
“Let us not speak of love.”
“I know you care for me, Willie. I know you desire me. And I know, once upon a time, you loved me.”
“Travel down this road if you wish,” she said, pushing off his hard, warm body, “but I shall not join you.”
Simon caught her hand. “What are you afraid of?”
“Losing you,” she said honestly, then broke free and rolled out of bed. She pulled on a shift and dressing gown just as Simon flicked on an incandescent lamp. She felt even more vulnerable, knowing he could now read her expressions clearly. She felt unhinged by their lovemaking and by his emotional commitment. She felt like a despicable rat for not telling him about the portion of the Aquarian Cosmology Compendium within her possession or about her plan to surrender the memory disk to the horrible man who’d threatened her loved ones and livelihood. However, she did not trust Simon not to intercede. He would want to protect her and he would want the ACC. Meanwhile the clockwork propulsion engine would be at risk.
Surely she was right to proceed as planned. Appease Strangelove with the compendium, locate and surrender the clockwork propulsion engine to the Jubilee Science Committee. Queen Victoria would order the engine hidden away, under lock and key. Simon would claim the Triple R Tourney prize, ensuring the financial welfare of their families and restoring glory to the Darcy name. Aye, she would do well to focus on the greater good.
She realized then that Simon had pulled on loose silk trousers and a robe as well. He knotted the sash whilst stepping into a pair of slippers. Was he walking out on their argument? On her? “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know about you, but I worked up an appetite and we missed dinner. I can promise you Fletcher set something aside.” Simon moved closer and pulled her into his arms. “I say we raid the kitchen and discuss whatever you learned from Thimblethumper. The sooner we submit the engine to the science committee, the sooner we can get on with our life. The sooner you’ll realize I’m not going anywhere.”
She wanted to believe, was desperate to believe. She’d been living on her own for so long—her mother gone, her father distant, her brother estranged. She’d trusted no one with her true identity or race—no Freak, no Vic—and therefore no friends. Phin had become her friend and Simon . . . She smiled up into his eyes. “I find I am indeed most famished.”
“It’s settled, then.” He gave her waist a squeeze, guided her into the hallway . . . and straight into Fletcher.
Willie yelped and Fletcher, who balanced an oil lantern in his hands, gasped.
“For God’s sake,” Simon said to the man whilst flicking on an electric wall sconce. “Step into the new age, man, and st
op skulking about like a character in a gothic novel.”
“I do not skulk,” Fletcher said. “And I do not see the need in lighting up the house like a Christmas tree when a lone lantern will illuminate my way.”
“Very practical,” Willie said in the man’s defense. She realized then that Fletcher was staring at her. Self-conscious, she smoothed a hand over her bed-mussed hair, but then realized her eyes held his attention. She’d forgone her corneatacts.
“Ah,” was all he said.
“I hope this won’t present a problem,” Willie said outright.
“No problem,” Simon said. “Right, Fletcher?”
The stiff-postured man raised one brow. “You won’t make it rain inside the house when you’re feeling melancholy, will you, ma’am?”
Willie’s lip twitched. “That would be within my brother’s power,” she said. “But not mine.”
“You’re not one of those shape-shifters I heard about, are you? I would not be keen on cleaning up the shedding fur of a wolf or some such.”
Smiling now, Willie hugged herself, feeling somewhat exposed in her morning gown. “I promise you, I do not shed, Fletcher.”
“Then I foresee no problem, Mrs. Darcy. I’ll see to your dinner now,” he said with a curt nod.
“No need,” Simon said. “We’re on our way to raid the pantry.”
“I see.”
“But you don’t approve,” Simon said with a grin. “Go back to whatever you were doing, Fletcher. I thank you, but we’re fine.”
Willie admired Simon for not taking advantage of hired help. She liked not having to hold to strict conventions. The undercurrents of true friendship between these two very different men bolstered her outlook on a more utopian state where Old Worlders and New Worlders, Vics, Freaks, and Mods could coexist equally.
Fletcher stopped midway to the servants’ stairs that led to an upper level. “I say, Mrs. Darcy, are you able to move objects with your mind?”
“Telekinesis?” She shook her head. “Definitely not.”
“Pity. It would have been a boon in helping to clean up the mess Mr. Darcy will no doubt make of my kitchen.” With that, he disappeared up the stairs in a haunting wash of flickering flames and shadows.
With the distinct impression that she’d been officially welcomed into this household and accepted by yet another Vic, Willie’s spirit soared.
“Fletcher may be mired in old ways,” Simon said as he guided Willie to the landing, “but that vexatious coot has a big heart.”
“He heard that,” Willie said with a slight smile.
“I heard that,” Fletcher echoed.
CHAPTER 32
“So what did you learn from Thimblethumper?” Simon asked as he seated Willie at a small table in the kitchen.
“My findings were quite astonishing and somewhat complex. Would you like me to help you?” she asked as he rooted through cabinets.
“You concentrate on expediting our expedition; I’ll manage dinner.” No matter his good intentions, using sex to ply Willie’s secrets had been a rather seedy affair. In the end he had not been able to take advantage of the moment. Instead of questioning her in the aftermath of their mind-bending alliance, he’d held his curiosity at bay whilst she’d drifted to sleep in his arms. At this point he was sailing on a wing and a prayer that she would come clean of her own accord. “Go on, then. Astonish me.”
Willie blew out a breath. “Let me preface this by saying most of what I learned resulted from a live interaction prompted by minimal time-tracing.”
Simon glanced over his shoulder. “In other words, your interviewing skills are as honed and beneficial as your supernatural gift. Noted and acknowledged.”
She smiled a little and his heart skipped. Christ.
“Bear with me,” she said, “whilst I try to report my findings in a succinct manner. There was much to absorb, and dare I say, I believe you will be as shocked as I was by this revelation.”
Simon couldn’t think of anything more shocking than learning his brother was some sort of bionic man, but he held his tongue and set out plates and flatware.
“I’ll start with the most surprising discovery,” Willie said. “Thimblethumper is in fact Ollie Rollins.”
Simon nearly fumbled a fork. “The missing Houdinian?”
“Indeed. If you recall, I had mentioned that I had seen Ollie Rollins in Filmore’s memories and that he looked familiar. That is because I’d met his much older self in person only a couple of weeks prior. He’s been living under the alias of Thimblethumper for the last several years.”
Simon frowned. “Why didn’t Jules tell me this straight out?”
“He did not know. Thimblethumper shared a plethora of information with the Mechanics, including names and descriptions of prominent Peace Rebels—such as Professor Maximus Merriweather—in exchange for being set up with a false Vic identity and business. He also spilled the beans regarding the existence of the Houdinians, but he never admitted to being a Houdinian. Like Filmore, he’d been utilizing aliases for years. Hence, he dangled a carrot in front of the Mechanics whilst leading them on a bit of a merry chase.”
So, Simon thought, she finally knew for certain the agency Jules worked for. If she was vexed with Simon for withholding that detail, she did not show it. Indeed, Willie seemed fully focused on her unfolding tale. He raided the icebox—chicken, cheese. “If Thimblethumper, that is, Rollins, set the Mechanics on the trails of his own people, then he must be the traitor your mother referred to in your father’s memory.”
“A logical assumption,” Willie said as she worried the edges of a linen napkin. “Except Rollins didn’t seek the protection of the Mechanics until after my mother’s death. It was then that he felt most vulnerable. Then that he saw the world as he knew it crumbling around him. Her death is what drove him into informing on other Mods—although he swore he never put another PR in harm’s way. He cooperated with the Mechanics because he was desperate to live out his remaining days in peace. The same reason he resigned his post with the Houdinians in the first place.”
“He resigned?” Simon asked. “Whilst your mother was still alive?”
“Aye.”
“Perhaps that was enough for her to label him a traitor. After all those years, to suddenly break their sworn pact. To leave the protection of the engine to her and Filmore alone. Surely she felt pressured and betrayed.”
“Probably.” Brow furrowed, Willie reached for a slice of fresh bed and slathered it with butter.
Simon didn’t comment when her right hand fumbled a bit, but damn, he worried that her injury still caused her difficulty.
“So much information and still so many holes,” she said. “My mind is awash with summations and theories. And Rollins was only helpful in certain aspects. He seems to be teetering on the edge of a breakdown.”
“All the more reason not to be alone with the man again,” Simon said earnestly. “If he snaps—”
“Warning noted,” Willie said, his eyes narrowed.
“Easy.”
“Sorry.” She shook off her irritation whilst Simon poured them each a glass of red wine.
“Perhaps we can fill in some of the gaps together.” He took his seat and together they sampled bits of Fletcher’s delicious fare. “We have our three Houdinians. Your mother, a security specialist. Filmore, a peace activist—”
“A radical peace activist,” Willie said, whilst picking at her cold chicken. “A professor who specialized in political science, most specifically sociology. Quite brilliant, according to Rollins. Definitely paranoid and, at this point, dangerously unstable. Driven to compulsive, obsessive behavior due to the extraordinary failure of the Peace Rebels and his solitary focus upon protecting the clockwork propulsion engine. Believing he is a vital force in nurturing mankind, he has now taken the role of protector to the extreme—the sole guardian with the aid of an occasional mercenary.”
“Sounds like a bloody lunatic. Although that’s often the
case with fanatics.” Simon staved off thoughts of pulverizing the man who’d been responsible for Willie’s near-fatal injuries. Instead he focused on everything Willie had learned. Impressive that she’d convinced Thimblethumper/Rollins, the tight-lipped curmudgeon, to be so damned forthcoming. “How does Ollie Rollins fit into this?”
“He was one of the several Americans who’d united with the Brit faction of the Peace Rebels. A mechanical engineer and a fierce and loyal supporter of Professor Jefferson Filmore and his high-profile lectures regarding the end of the world. Filmore was a most passionate and persuasive man. Again, according to Rollins.
“On the day the Peace Rebels voted to destroy the Briscoe Bus,” she went on, “Filmore convinced my mother and Rollins that it was in the best interest of mankind to preserve the engine that had catapulted them through time. As you had pondered, Filmore foresaw the need for a backup plan. An escape pod, should things not work according to plan. A way to travel even further back in time—in the name of global peace. Filmore, who had indeed had an intimate liaison with my mother,” Willie said, cheeks flushing, “and who continued to command her devotion and allegiance even after they were no longer intimate, knew he could trust Mickey to devise a security plan to keep the engine safe. At the time Rollins had also been under Filmore’s charismatic and idealistic spell and had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the professor’s backup plan. When and if the time came that the trio felt compelled to activate their emergency exit, Rollins would build the vehicle and install the engine.”
“Yes, well, things did go wrong,” Simon said. “Abominably wrong. Instead of changing the world for the better, the Peace Rebels instigated a global political divide as well as a transcontinental war.” He sipped his wine, marveling as always at the mayhem. “Why didn’t the Houdinians jump dimensions in an effort to right that wrong? That was the motivation behind their pact, yes?”