The Silver Skull (The Elemental Web Chronicles Book 2)

by Anne Renwick

  “You must be cold,” he said, stating the obvious. Despite the warm water, the simple fact of evaporation and a drafty room had set Olivia’s teeth chattering.

  She glanced up. “Very,” she said through purple-tinged lips. “Alas, this is what passes for a bath in Burg Kerzen.”

  No private space was allotted to them, and she made no apology for her near-nakedness. Amazingly comfortable in her own skin for a young lady of the ton, she did what she must. Practicality. It was what he had sought in a woman—and had seemingly found.

  At the base of his spine, desire stirred. He took in the delicate turn of her bare ankles and toes, the fine lace that edged her combinations and the pale blue satin of her corset. It was laced far too tightly, but still, the primitive portion of his brainstem approved.

  “Let me see what I can do to warm the room.” He crossed to the stove inset within a large, medieval fireplace. Most of the heat it generated flew straight up the chimney, a simple fact of physics that the small amount of coal provided would be unable to overcome. Nevertheless, he opened the stove’s door and dutifully shoveled coal in a futile attempt to do so.

  Behind him, a splash echoed. Olivia continuing her ablutions. To be a drop of water sliding across her smooth skin, disappearing behind her corset as it dove into her tight-laced cleavage. His fingers longed to trace its damp path. Given the temperature in this room, by morning that water would form a thin layer of ice in that bucket.

  By morning. After a night in that great bed. Even fully clothed, she was going to end up huddled against his side, a distraction of the highest magnitude. There was nowhere else for him to sleep. The floor, the window seat, all out of the question if he wished to be alert and focused and not frozen in the laboratory. Not to mention they needed to maintain an illusion of marriage. There would be no keeping her at an arm’s length with both the count and the countess watching.

  Ian slammed the stove door shut and turned about, watching. Lust battled with amusement as Olivia wrestled a padded petticoat free from what he supposed was a steam valet. Not that he’d trust it to tie his cravat. To say its many arms seemed uncoordinated was a kindness. Buttons and boots seemed beyond its capabilities. She tugged the petticoat over her head—sending tangled, golden curls cascading—and tied it about her waist with fumbling fingers stiff from the cold.

  He ought to offer to help. A husband would. Except he wasn’t. Yet with that fiction presented to the count, they needed to be comfortable—physically—in each other’s presence. Within reason. He was a gentleman, and he would not take advantage by forcing himself upon her.

  Ian stood immobile, staring at her enticing form as she struggled to free a silk shawl from the valet. Was it possible? Could she be a spy? If so, who had sent her and why? Did it even matter? Eventually the count would insist upon a demonstration of the osforare apparatus, and he needed her skills if there were to be any hope of carrying that off. What training did she have—if any? Would she be an asset or burden when the time came to attempt escape? Time to set about discovering her secrets.

  So when Olivia hurried to the low stool beside the iron stove and began tugging hairpins free to run her fingers through the tangled mess of her hair, he snatched a brush clipped to the steam valet’s side and followed. At last, a way to touch her that wouldn’t—for the most part—cross the line.

  “Let me.” He brandished the brush.

  Her hands stilled as she caught his eyes. “You needn’t. I can manage.”

  “There’s no need to manage when you have a husband at hand.” He tugged a pin from her hair, threading the lock of gold silk that fell into his hand through his fingers. If she were truly his wife, he would thread his fingers into those locks and draw her face close for another taste of her full, sweet lips. The temptation was nearly overwhelming. He cleared his throat. “We must be convincing.”

  “Convincing? That doesn’t explain the kiss you gave me on the dirigible.” She glanced at him from beneath long lashes. The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Or is that how you treat all your laboratory assistants?”

  He refused to apologize. “I was trying to distract you,” he insisted. Only partly true. Never before had he lectured with a woman’s breast pressed to his arm. He’d had the devil of a time focusing. “I don’t recall you objecting.”

  “True.” She let her shawl slip to bare a smooth shoulder. “Nor will I object now, even in the privacy of our own chamber. Tell me, Ian, how much further can I persuade you to take this charade?”

  A clear invitation. Or was it a test? Either way, he could no more resist than any other man. His gaze slipped downward, taking in her generous bosom which swelled above the tightly laced undergarment. Behind the satin of her corset, her nipples pebbled. His own body responded. With enthusiasm.

  At least they would not have to feign mutual attraction. Aether. Sleeping beside her would be pure torture. If he slept at all, it would be a miracle.

  Time to quell his desire, to remember his goal. “Consummation is not required. We are already working together. You need not be that dedicated to your work.”

  “Work?” She blinked.

  Though she was the very picture of innocence, her spine stiffened. “As an agent,” he stated bluntly. Until she’d called out in horror when Zheng pointed his knife at the firkin cincture bolt, he’d dismissed every suspicion that she could be an actual agent. But now? He had to explore the possibility. “You planted those acousticotransmitters.”

  “Acousti…” she trailed off. “The contraptions Zheng stomped upon? I’ve never seen them before.” Olivia bit her lip. “But I can see how you’d be concerned. Listening devices… do you suspect… does someone have reason to spy upon you?”

  “Come now. Theft of an escape dirigible. My sister held hostage. The small arsenal they removed from my person. Armed escort through the castle. Experimental devices and potions coveted by our country’s enemy.” Ian shook his head slowly as he spoke. “Playing dumb does not become you, and as you clearly possess much programming skill—”

  “Merely a skill I acquired to better manage a large household,” Olivia objected, her voice a touch strangled. “All my family’s steam servants run like clockwork.”

  She pulled the shawl back over her shoulders, tying it in a firm knot across her chest and obscuring the stunning view. Offer retracted. It was better this way. He couldn’t possibly accept. On the off chance he made it back to Britain in one piece, her father would see him dismembered and fed, limb by limb, to the river kraken.

  He was a fool to think she would confide in him. Why should she? He ran a hand down the side of his face, over rough stubble. He was in possession of dangerous materials, illegally transported. Loyal to Queen and country, she would refuse to tip her hand.

  “Very well, we will play this your way,” he said. “Turn around. I’ve a sister, remember. I know how to brush hair, and you need to warm your hands. They’re nearly blue.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and held her palms out toward the stove. “Tell me about her, your sister.”

  Trust. To win her to his side, he needed to give her reason to trust him. Women liked words. Emotions. He knew this. Yet until this very moment, he’d had little incentive to provide them. If ever there was a time to share a family tragedy, this was it. Time to open a vein.

  He pulled a hairpin free, then another, collecting them in a small pile and delaying the moment as his chest grew tight. Never before had he shared how his story made him feel. How to explain? He took a deep breath and started with the bare facts. “Her name is Elizabeth.” His fingers began to move over her hair, working free the many knotted braids and twists. “And my only sibling. All those who came between us died in the cradle. I myself put my mother in her grave.”

  Olivia sucked a breath. “No. Never say that. Mothers die in childbirth all the time. It’s never the baby’s fault.”

  “That may be, but my father disagreed. My mother was not up to the task
of bearing children, but she insisted and in the end it killed her. In my father’s eyes, his heir and only son stole his one true love from him.” His gut twisted, but he forced the words past his lips. “As a child, my existence was ignored. Every moment of his life was dedicated to curing my sister of the disease that took my mother. He invited one silver-tongued, snake oil doctor after another into our home with their crackpot cures. At best, their treatments did nothing.” He swallowed the rusty nails that had lodged in his throat. “Sometimes they were pure torture.”

  Those screams would haunt him forever. It had been a relief when the family coffers were empty and the charlatans’ visits ceased.

  “Is this why you became a physician?” Her voice was gentle.

  “I believed it the only path to winning his regard.” Had his father ever looked upon him with pride? “Though I never did. He’s been dead a year, and still I feel the need to set things right, not only to cure my sister, but to earn his approval.”

  She lifted an arm, catching one of his hands in hers. “This illness in your family has something to do with bone?”

  Her soft hand fell away, and he resumed his work upon the tangles in her hair. “At least one family member is afflicted in every generation. My grandfather. My mother. My sister.”

  “A family curse?”

  The vacuous debutant was back. His story must have struck a nerve for now she was trying to push him away with nonsense. He wouldn’t allow it. Though this Olivia might be fun to flirt with, his glimpses of the competent and accomplished woman that lay beneath intrigued him far more. “You’re no fool, Olivia. I wish you’d stop trying to play the ingénue.”

  “Fine.” She huffed. “Explain to me in exacting detail what plagues your family.”

  A minor victory, but it was the first crack in her shell, one he would pry at until he exposed the truth. “They all possessed—possess—brittle bones, a congenital disorder, one they were born with. Do you remember those cells I spoke of, the ones in charge of creating new bone?”

  “Osteoblasts?”

  “Yes.” His spirits lifted. She might yet make a convincing research assistant. “Elizabeth’s osteoblasts are dysfunctional,” he said. “The matrix, the living material that they create is malformed. Calcium and phosphate cannot bind to it correctly. As a result, her bones are brittle and easily broken.”

  “Easily?” Concern laced her voice. “Then your mother…”

  “A broken pelvis during delivery. A severed artery. She bled to death.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Olivia said, her voice soothing.

  Though he’d achieved his goal, Ian found himself sharing a long-buried memory. “It’s a cruel disease, everything seems normal until the simplest of accidents occurs.” The knots in her hair loosened. “One of my earliest memories is of a simple walk along a path in the woods. I was running ahead when I heard Elizabeth cry out. The path was smooth, but for a single tree root. Her slipper caught, and she tripped and fell. That simple fall, one that might have not even caused so much as a bruise in another?” Ian’s throat closed at the awful memory. “It broke her leg. My sister couldn’t leave her bed for months.”

  “How dreadful!” Olivia exclaimed.

  “Many more years and many more bone fractures, and each brought their own special form of misery.” Ian’s hands moved steadily as lock after lock of hair fell upon her shoulders, her curls smooth and silken once more. “So perhaps now you might understand why a gentleman would dirty his hands in the field of medicine?”

  “I suppose,” she conceded. “Yet after all these years, you’re no closer to a cure.”

  Now the question arose: did he trust her? Not entirely. Not yet.

  “I have every expectation of arriving at one,” he hedged, setting the brush aside. He had every reason to believe his transforming serum would succeed. Months had passed and the rats were healthy and hale. The board of directors had approved his petition to move on to human experimentation, using volunteers fully appraised of the risks, of course. “But, no, at the moment I have nothing to offer my sister.”

  Risking the life of his only living relative was not an option until he was absolutely certain.

  “Who is this Doktor Warrick, what is his connection?” Olivia asked, gathering her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck and stabbing the hairpins back into place.

  “He is not a physician,” Ian answered, his nostrils flaring. One year of medical school did not qualify him to lay claim to such a title. “He is the man who stole my original—and faulty—work. He sold it and himself to Count Eberwin, no doubt hoping to disappear before the inevitable and deadly side-effects appeared.”

  “Those lumps and bumps?” She shuddered. “They’re deadly?”

  “Indications of advanced osteosarcoma—bone cancer. By the time the tumors are visible beneath the skin, death is imminent. I’ve nothing to offer at the moment but false hope.”

  “Nothing?” She twisted on the stool to look up at him, distress etched upon the delicate features of her face.

  “The cells Warrick engineered were specifically designed to avoid the body’s natural defense mechanisms. That is what allows them to multiply, to spread and invade, to become cancerous. They have no ‘off’ switch that I know of. Yet.”

  “Is it painful?” she asked.

  “Very.”

  “And you’re certain there’s no way to save them, to cure these guardsmen? Not even with that device?” Olivia stood and began to pace before the fireplace rubbing her hands together. As suspected, the stove insert provided little warmth.

  “The osforare apparatus. I—we—will certainly try. Warrick claims to have improved upon my original cell line. He also claims to have a cure under development. I’ve no idea what—if any—progress he’s made as he’s kept no record of his work, no laboratory notebook.”

  Olivia brightened. “If we can win him over…”

  “Don’t.” Ian shook his head. “Don’t even try. He’s not to be trusted. Warrick thinks only of himself. I doubt he has the slightest inkling of how to help those men. The moment he injected those unfortunate guardsmen with his cells, he condemned them to die.” Warrick had dangled the possibility of a cure before him, and guilt for his part in their creation wouldn’t allow him to flee, not without first attempting to save the guardsmen. “Still, I have set up a number of experiments to see if I might stop the cancer.”

  “A number of experiments… in which, as your assistant, I will be involved.” All the blood drained from Olivia’s face.

  “How on earth do you manage it?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Manage what?”

  “Aren’t spies forever being fired upon by any number of dangerous weapons? Not to mention knives, daggers… and blades too numerous to mention.”

  “I. Am. Not. A. Spy.” She glared at him, a flush of anger returning color to her cheeks. “How many more times must you hear me say it?”

  “Until I believe it.” He leaned backward against the stone wall. “What bothers you most about my work, the blood? Or the needles?”

  “Both. And the pain.” She pinched her lips together. “There’s always so much pain involved. Your device, my sister’s. Every item emerging from a physician’s black leather bag appears an instrument of torture to be inflicted upon a helpless, trusting individual who is in search of nothing but relief.”

  “I see.” Ian gave a clipped nod. “How, then, do you fare with surprise attacks and self-defense?”

  Her eyes flashed, then narrowed. “I’ve no experience with which to judge. Unlike you with your hidden arsenal of knives, I do not moonlight as a spy.”

  “Well, that experience might arrive sooner than later. Keep in mind that the only person keeping us alive is that megalomaniac, Count Eberwin. Should something not go his way, he won’t hesitate to use my wife against me to pursue his delusions of building a stronger—unbreakable—race of soldiers.”

  She nodded. “So that he will find favor
in the eyes of Kaiser Wilhelm II and be allowed to return—along with his wife, Countess Katherine—to Berlin.”

  “Exactly.” Finally. What a relief that she’d stopped playing the simple miss.

  Olivia tipped her head. “And who is she to you, the countess?”

  “No one.” Too long out of the field, he’d hidden his surprise poorly.

  Her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed.

  Ian sighed. “A brief acquaintance during a transportation mishap. The countess alludes to more than she ought.”

  Katherine hid more than she revealed. Why else pursue a path toward bigamy? Not that he was about to share his suspicions with Olivia. Not yet. At the moment the countess’ own agenda aligned with the count’s. Until that changed, he would present Katherine with every reason to allow his pretense of a marriage with Olivia to stand.

  “Perhaps.” Olivia smiled too sweetly. “Time runs short. I ought to dress for dinner, and you need to attend to your own appearance. You wouldn’t want to disappoint the count or countess.”

  “Jealousy,” Ian agreed, “is an excellent reaction to the countess’ insinuations. A perfect excuse for any awkwardness between us.” He couldn’t resist needling her. “But a bit of advice? The key to a successful cover is to maintain a consistent personality. As you have claimed the role of programmer and snagged yourself a husband, it’s time to jettison the feather-brained act.”

  Crossing the room, she jabbed a finger in his chest. “Fine.” Her eyes blazed. “But the outcome of such jealousy is also a quarrel between newlyweds.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  OLIVIA IGNORED IAN’S proffered arm, brushing by him with her nose in the air. She strode down the hallway behind the guardsman sent to escort them to dinner. To think her husband had the nerve to accuse her of being a spy, matched only by his audacity in telling her how she ought to execute her duties. Maintain a consistent role, indeed! She would maintain the role. She would channel her anger at herself—for underestimating his ability to think while staring at her chest—and use it to play the jealous wife in a snit.