Outrageously Yours

by Allison Chase

  Ivy moved closer to the open box. The charge she had felt through the wood now flowed freely through the air, sparking little pinpricks on the exposed skin of her face and hands. When she stood over the stone, the current crawled down her back, her legs, between her breasts. She felt woozy, breathless, and braced her feet firmly on the floor as she leaned to scoop the stone into her palms.

  The instant she wedged it between the coils, a waft of energy shoved her backward. Tiny bolts of lightning danced among the coils. The pistons began to thrust up and down and the center beam seesawed. A red-hot glow traveled along the connecting wires, and soon the first of the magnets began to hum.

  The noise grew to a roar that filled the room. The chandeliers clinked; the paintings on the walls vibrated off their hooks and crashed to the floor; plaster crumbled in snowy drifts from the carved ceiling. Ivy ducked her head and pressed her hands to her ears, but she could not quell the awful pounding of her heart, pummeled again and again against her ribs in rhythm with the driving currents.

  Simon’s generator had never done this before.

  “Sir Alistair, we must turn it off. It’s too dangerous.”

  As if he hadn’t heard her, he stood with his chin raised and his eyes half closed, his lips stretched in a grin that terrified her in its mad exuberance. The revolver had sagged in his grip, and Ivy started in his direction with an impulsive, desperate hope of dislodging it. He returned to his senses and swung the gun toward her.

  “They will come now,” he shouted above the din. “They will hear the uproar and come. We had better be ready for them.”

  He’d no sooner spoken than the ballroom doors rattled and burst inward. Ivy whirled to see Inspector Scott, his fellow constables, and the startled members of the consortium filling the doorway and packing the hallway.

  “What is the meaning of this?” The inspector’s demand could barely be heard, but Ivy read the query on his gaping lips.

  “Gentlemen,” Sir Alistair bellowed back, “for your own safety I must entreat you to venture no farther. But watch as my assistant and I astound you with a feat of science never before imagined.”

  With that, Sir Alistair strode to Ivy, gripped her arm, and dragged her toward the first set of electromagnets.

  “This way.” Simon led Lord Barensforth down the spiraling stone steps. As a boy visiting here many years ago, he’d been strictly forbidden to venture into the manor’s honeycomb of medieval passages, and so of course he had. He knew every secret crevice of the old monastery, where the monks had hidden in times of war, and where they had concealed their treasures from unscrupulous barons and covetous monarchs.

  If Alistair had forced Ivy into one of those crevices, it could take days to find her. But Barensforth had heard the man specifically mention the ballroom, which only made sense. If Alistair sought recompense for the perceived wrongs done him by the scientific community, where better than the place they had gathered to celebrate their collective victories?

  If he’d had any doubts, the clamor rising from inside the ballroom dispelled them. At the landing, he pressed himself to the door that, from the other side, was all but invisible. The wood vibrated against his ear and his flattened palms. The sensation traveled through him until the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Beside him, Barensforth set a hand on the door, then snatched it away. “What in bloody hell is that?”

  “My generator . . . and the power of Her Majesty’s stone.” He slid the door open an inch and put an eye to the gap. “Galileo’s teeth!”

  Inside, Ivy dug in her heels as Alistair attempted to pull her into the energy that streamed between the electromagnets. Even from where he stood, Simon perceived the intensified force of the current, a power even he had never dreamed of harnessing. Such power would kill. Of that he had no doubt.

  There was no time to plan, no room for stealth. Fear and nausea roiled through him until the edges of his vision swam in a sickening haze. If Ivy so much as touched the energy stream, it might instantly tear her apart.

  Thrusting caution aside, he slid the door all the way open and bolted into the room. He sensed rather than saw Barensforth fall in beside him. Engaged in their struggle, neither Alistair nor Ivy saw them coming. Alistair pressed the revolver’s barrel to Ivy’s side, and Simon’s heart all but burst from his chest.

  At the opposite end of the ballroom, Inspector Scott and several of his constables spilled through the doors but jolted to a collective halt, the men colliding with a force that threatened to topple them as a whole.

  Scott must have seen the weapon, must have calculated the danger to Ivy should he and his men continue their stampede. Now they stood in a confused jumble and exchanged glances, some covering their ears with their hands, others pressing their palms over their hearts. All were experiencing the effects of the electromagnetic flow.

  Simon, too, halted and swung out an arm to hinder Barensforth’s progress. They had one and only one weapon at their disposal: surprise. And a single opportunity to use it. If Alistair was to see them, he might fire his weapon or shove Ivy into the current.

  Like the calm at the eye of a storm, instinct and the logical progression of what he must do overrode Simon’s rampant terror of losing Ivy. If he wished to save her, he must think and act rationally, with nothing less than scientific precision.

  He motioned for Barensforth to circle behind the generator. Then he himself picked his way cautiously in front of it, having to duck beneath the sizzling wires connecting the apparatus to the magnets. The current seized control of his heartbeat and each breath he drew, forcing both into an unnatural, painful rhythm. The energy heaved at him from all directions, until remaining upright became an exhausting feat of strength. Ivy and Alistair were now only a few feet away. Simon heard her pleading attempts to reason with her captor. Alistair’s laughter rose above the clamor as he continued to push her closer to the magnets.

  The bastard faced Simon now and should have seen him, but he was so intent on his goal that he saw nothing but Ivy and the surging, sparking energy. Simon was no more than a foot or two from losing her, from watching her beautiful body disintegrate and scatter into a million particles of matter.

  Deliberately, he stepped between her and the stream. Sir Alistair gave her a forceful shove; in the same instant, he saw Simon, and shock registered on his features. Simon opened his arms, caught Ivy, and hurled her with every shred of strength he possessed into Barensforth’s waiting hands. Without hesitation the earl dragged her away, though with an arm reaching toward Simon and her face filled with agony, she resisted her brother-in-law as vigorously as she had resisted Alistair.

  Hot fury flashed in Alistair’s eyes before instantly cooling. His mouth pulled to a feral grin. “It doesn’t matter to me who electroports.”

  Head down and arms outflung, Alistair charged. Simon parried with his own arms to deflect the blow, but Alistair nonetheless caught his shoulder. The force sent him stumbling backward. The roar of the current filled his ears and his skull, and a thousand needles dug into his left shoulder. The pain burgeoned, becoming like burning dagger points tearing at skin and muscle and bone. Not wounding, but destroying.

  The energy spread, seared, took control of his physical self. His vision darkened and blurred. Ivy’s screams faded to a muted hum. He felt himself dying, disintegrating. . . .

  Only one sensation remained: that of his fingers fisted around some part of Alistair. Simon could not have said which part it was. He only knew he had purchase on the man. In a burst of effort he used the leverage to yank Alistair closer. The wafting energy enveloped them both and thrust them in a vortex that reversed their positions.

  Relief flowed like cascading spring water through Simon’s body the instant he no longer touched the charged stream. Pain gripped him, but the devastating effects of the current eased. His vision cleared. Caught off-balance in front of him, Alistair let out a roar, flailed his arms wide, and staggered backward. . . .

 
The current caught him and ripped across his back, arching his body like a bow. Simon’s left arm hung limply, but he reached out with his right and tried to catch the floundering man. The air snapped, and the current lifted Alistair off his feet. An exploding burst of light thrust Simon to his knees. When he looked up, a terrified Alistair stretched out a hand. His mouth opened on a silent scream, and then he dissipated into a glittering swarm of light.

  A blast shook the room, wrenching Ivy out of Aidan’s arms and tossing her off her feet. As she went down, she saw Simon blown back from the force of the energy. He fell to his knees and Alistair . . . Alistair reached out and then—

  He was gone. Simply . . . gone.

  She smacked the floor hard, her knees and hands and elbows reverberating from the impact. Still, she didn’t waste a moment but shook away her disorientation and scrambled to her feet, half crawling the first few steps until she managed to swing upright. As she hurried to Simon, she spared only the briefest glance across the room to where Sir Alistair should have reappeared within the second configuration of magnets. Nothing happened. She reached Simon and sank beside him.

  “My love.” Anything more she might have uttered was lost in a sob. He stirred the instant her hands closed on his shoulders. A rumbling groan escaped him, and Ivy whisked her hands away. “Aidan, a doctor. He needs a doctor immediately.”

  Aidan relayed the command in a shout that carried over the din of the generator. Then he came up behind her. “Ivy, we have to stop this thing before it takes the house down around us.”

  She shot a look up at the machinery, vibrating dangerously. The pistons were pumping so furiously they appeared about to fly off their housing. Aidan moved to the wires that connected the power source to the magnets.

  “Aidan, don’t!” she shouted. “They’re too hot to touch.” She started to rise.

  Simon caught her wrist. “My shoulder . . . gone . . . ?”

  She heard the question in his voice and fell back to a crouch. Her heart clogging her throat, she gingerly brought trembling fingertips down on his upper sleeve. The lines of his shoulder filled his coat, and the flesh beneath felt solid enough, but what of the muscle? “Not gone . . . but . . . can you move your arm?”

  The strain of doing so robbed the last of the color from his face and broke a sweat across his brow, but he managed to drag his arm an inch or two across the floor.

  “Ivy!” Aidan shouted. He stood in front of the generator, ready to spring into action at a word from her. “We can’t wait much longer!”

  She forced herself to focus. Under normal circumstances, cutting off the steam and tossing the insulated canvas over the equipment would bring the generator to a halt. These were not normal circumstances.

  “The stone,” she yelled to him. “The only way to stop the current is to dislodge the stone. But don’t try touching it with your bare hands.”

  Aidan’s gaze darted about the room. Behind him, shafts, rods, and bolts worked loose from the generator and clanked to the floor. The power didn’t lessen, but became more unstable. The surging current continued to crumble plaster from the ceiling and shake the room’s ornate decorations loose from the walls. Once again Ivy peered down the room, searching for signs of Alistair’s imminent reappearance. Again, nothing.

  Aidan sprinted to the closest hearth. He seized an elaborate brass and iron poker from its stand and raced back to the generator. Once there he wedged it beneath the stone and thrust his weight against the improvised lever.

  Ivy had the fleeting thought that Victoria would not be pleased by the return of a shattered stone, but then Simon lifted his head from the floor. “Ivy, my love,” he said, in a soundless whisper that resonated inside her.

  Amid raining plaster and the rupturing of the generator, she gently cradled his head and shoulders in her lap. His eyes fell closed and she thought he’d fainted, but then his lips parted and a corner of his mouth tilted in something approaching a smile. “My beautiful, brilliant Ivy.”

  This time she heard his ragged voice with her ears and not just her heart. The generator whirred down, small parts continuing to clatter as the energy dispersed and each component slowed to a stop. She tried to speak but couldn’t push the words past the constriction in her throat. His image blurred behind tears.

  “Neckcloth,” he murmured with a gasp. Quickly she untied the knot and slipped the starched linen from around his neck. She smoothed the hair from his brow and used her sleeve to blot the perspiration on his forehead. His right hand closed over hers and weakly he whispered, “Help me sit up.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  He replied with an emphatic squeeze. Heedful of his injured shoulder, she slipped an arm behind his back and helped lift him off the ground. She winced at his grunts of pain and wished he’d lie back down, but she knew better than to insist. When he finally sat upright, he gave his head a hard shake, blinked several times, and dragged in a rasping breath.

  Then, his left arm hanging limp at his side, he thrust his good arm around her and crushed his lips to hers.

  Chapter 27

  “Careful, now. Move her gently to the bed.”

  Ivy issued orders to the footmen who had improvised a stretcher and were presently carrying Lady Gwendolyn into Simon’s bedchamber. Still weakened by the effects of the electromagnetic current, Simon shuffled alongside them, holding his sister’s hand and watching intently over her as if to gauge by the set of her features whether she was experiencing any discomfort.

  It was difficult to tell what Lady Gwendolyn might be feeling through the effects of the laudanum. Simon’s pain was much more apparent, visible in every involuntary grimace, indrawn breath, and clenching of his teeth. It was a wonder he was up and walking at all, and so Ivy became his voice and did everything she could to spare him undue exertion.

  In all the confusion in the ballroom, no one had seemed to notice their impetuous kiss, but now that everyone had calmed down, it became necessary to maintain a respectable, manly distance between them. She ached to hold him, to sit with him at his sister’s bedside and stroke his hair, kiss his forehead, and whisper that everything would be all right.

  Instead she stood sentrylike at the foot of the bed and watched as he drew the covers up over Lady Gwendolyn.

  “Gwennie, I’m so sorry . . . for everything.”

  Ivy’s startled surprise mirrored Simon’s when the girl opened her eyes. “He . . . hurt me,” she said with a raw simplicity that stabbed at Ivy’s heart.

  “I know, Gwennie.” Simon leaned over her and kissed her brow. “But he’ll never hurt you again.”

  Her hand came up, her fingers groping weakly at Simon’s coat sleeve. “I thought . . . he loved me.”

  Simon questioned Ivy with a despondent glance, one she answered with a slight shake of her head. He nodded his comprehension and patted his sister’s cheek. “He did love you,” he lied. “It’s just that . . . Alistair wasn’t himself. He’d become ill . . . in his mind, Gwennie. His view of the world became distorted. Twisted. I’m sure he didn’t understand how terribly he’d wronged you....”

  Ivy saw the distaste in the downward tug of Simon’s lips, in the dangerous narrowing of his eyes. If the generator hadn’t killed Sir Alistair, Ivy feared Simon would have. She rejoiced that such a decision had been taken out of his hands.

  The physician from the village arrived and examined both Simon and Gwendolyn. For the latter, he prescribed rest, a diet rich in cream and eggs, and, much to Simon’s dismay, more laudanum, but in diminishing quantities each day until her body no longer craved the drug.

  The man fretted much more over Simon’s condition, tsking over the state of his shoulder and pronouncing his pulse and heart rate “of concern.” He again prescribed rest, adding that Simon should seek an environment free of distressing influences. Simon smirked at the suggestion and thanked the man.

  Afterward, Gwendolyn slept while Simon kept watch over her and Ivy watched over him from the wing chair near the he
arth. She herself dozed on and off, rising occasionally to coax Simon to drink some tea and eat some of the bread and cold meat brought up from the kitchen. His sister awoke shortly before midnight. A bit of color restored to her cheeks, she appeared more lucid than they had yet seen her.

  Propped against the pillows, she ate a few bites and sipped cool water. When Simon tried to persuade her to lie back down and sleep, she refused with surprising vigor and with a mulishness Ivy found touchingly familiar.

  “I’ve lost enough time in slumber,” Gwendolyn declared in a voice still hoarse from disuse. Then her stubborn frown faded and remorse peeked from behind pale blue eyes much like Simon’s own. “I took it for you, you know. The stone, I mean. I thought it would help you in your research.”

  “I know.”

  “But then I realized how foolish that was. Good heavens, I stole from the queen!”

  “Don’t worry.” He smiled gratefully at Ivy. “I happen to know someone who is a rather good friend of Her Majesty and is willing to intervene.”

  “Really?” Before he could elaborate, Gwendolyn shook the thought away. “I went to Alistair believing he could help. You didn’t know the truth about last winter, and you and he were still such close friends. I tried to write to you, but Alistair said he would arrange a meeting between us, and that he would make everything all right. I foolishly believed we could all begin anew, with Alistair openly declaring for me, and you being glad about it and forgiving me, and ...” She dissolved into sobs, and her brave face fell away to reveal the distraught and frightened young girl she was.

  “He was always so charming,” she said as the tears fell. “So solicitous of my needs. He was handsome and clever and so much more sophisticated than the men my own age. He made me feel . . . elegant and special. Oh, Simon, can you ever forgive me?”

  “Gwennie, don’t be silly. Of course I forgive you.” He slipped his good arm around her, pressed his cheek to her hair, and held her while she cried. Ivy saw a tear or two glistening in his eye, and her throat clogged with sorrow and joy and relief. Soon afterward, Gwendolyn drifted off to sleep, her even breathing signifying what was probably the first tranquil slumber she had experienced since she’d fled Buckingham Palace.