The Twisted Tale of Stormy Gale

by Christine Bell

  He stood then and reached his hand out to me, pulling me up to stand in front of him. Spearing his hands through my hair, he urged me onto my tiptoes and bent low to kiss my forehead, my cheek, the tip of my nose, each corner of my lips, then finally my mouth. Gentle kisses this time, filled with longing and tenderness. I moved closer, until our bodies were flush, my hips cradling his thighs, his hard length pressing against my stomach.

  “I want you so much right now,” he whispered into my mouth.

  I moaned in response and pulled him tighter to me.

  His hands left my hair and slid slowly down the sides of my neck, brushing my bare shoulders, slowly sliding my formfitting blouse further down my arms. He watched in the dim light, mesmerized, as my breasts came into view. Finally they spilled forward, aching for his touch. He continued to push the shirt downward, catching the waistband of my skirt as he went, pulling it down too until both garments lay in a puddle at my feet. He straightened, nuzzling my breast for just a moment as he paused, and looked at me.

  “Wherever did you get that diaphanous undergarment?” he asked, his voice like gravel.

  I glanced down at my barely there, sheer black lace, string bikini panties, the likes of which he had certainly never seen.

  “France,” I told him.

  “Je l’aime.”

  He liked it.

  With one finger, he traced the string. He was almost reverent in his concentration. His face was intense and focused, so in the moment. Just watching him was making me crazy. Part of me wanted to shout, “Hurry up!” while the other part just waited, suspended in a sensual haze.

  He gripped my hips for a second, then shifted his hands lower and around to cup my ass. A rush of warmth spread between my legs as he squeezed. I bit my lip, and still he stared.

  “God, you are so beautiful.”

  “You too, Dev. You too,” I whispered back. And I meant it.

  Suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine, I hastily pushed off his waistcoat and reached for the buttons of his shirt to undress him. I could feel his heart pounding underneath my hands and it thrilled me. When his shirt lay open, I rubbed my cheek against his chest, back and forth, then lower, pressing soft, sucking kisses to his tense abdomen. He trembled.

  I unbuttoned his pants, then pushed them down over muscular thighs until he was naked. He was a large man in every sense, and I felt a trickle of unrest as I eyed what he had brought to the party. Holy giant schlong, Batman! I started to think about the limitations of the female anatomy at that point and wondered if maybe Dev needed to find himself a heartier lass, but was distracted as he seized that moment to kiss me senseless once again.

  Filing my concern in the “cross that bridge when we came to it” part of my brain, I wrapped my arms tightly around his neck and fell back against the bed, pulling him with me. The weight of him was luscious. I felt warm and safe beneath him. He pulled his mouth from mine and pinched my earlobe between his teeth and released. He roamed downward, pressing his lips to my jaw, then to the pulse that leaped in my neck. One big, firm hand closed over my breast and I whimpered with satisfaction as he tugged and teased. I couldn’t get close enough, and arched my hips against his, grinding against him.

  He looked down at me and said through gritted teeth, “It’d be better if you didn’t do that.”

  I grinned and, grasping his magnificent, juicy bottom in both hands, swiveled my hips again in a slow circle. He issued a muffled curse and lowered his mouth to my chest, flicking my nipple with his tongue, then drawing it into his hot mouth. It was my turn to curse as my hips pulsed against his of their own accord. He turned his attention to my other breast as one hand snaked down my side, over my ribs, trailing my hip. He half rolled off me to his side, splayed his open palm over the cloth of my panties and squeezed. I let out a squeak and he smiled. He grabbed the cloth and gave a sharp tug, breaking the strings with a snap. A moment later his hand covered my already moist heat and a finger slid down my core. “Oh God, Dev, please, just…” I was too far gone to care that I was begging.

  “Just what, love?” he whispered as he flexed his long finger deep inside me.

  I reached for him then, wrapping my own fingers around his swollen sex, and held him tight, stroking up, then down. He groaned, pulling my hand away, then rolled back to cover me.

  “Next time,” he muttered under his breath, and spread my legs with his knee.

  Both of us held our breath as he probed with his thick, hard length and found his mark. Flexing his hips, he stared into my eyes as he pressed, inch by exquisite inch, into my waiting heat. His arms shook with the effort of holding back as my body stretched to receive him. Finally he was buried, seated deep inside me, and it felt so right.

  I tried to savor the sensation, tried to stay still as my body clenched around him in gentle waves. Soon it became too much, and I began to bounce my hips against his, pulling at his backside with my hands. Eyes blazing, jaw clenched, with his dark mop of curls, he looked like some sort of avenging angel come to life. He took my wrists in his hands and held them down against the bed over my head, pulling back and sliding deep as he did.

  I moaned as he pulled away again, only to gasp when he came back, filling me once more. He worked his hips long and slow, despite my attempts to urge him faster. He was relentless, and my body was like a wire about to snap. I started to shake as the pressure began to build, heat suffusing my whole body, skin tingling.

  “Yes, that’s it, love. Come on,” he said, his voice an urgent whisper as he thrust faster and deeper.

  He bent his head low and sucked my nipple into his mouth, giving a long pull as he plunged forward. Then I was flying. I let out a yelp as my body imploded in hard, smashing waves, clenching tight over him again and again. As tremors still racked my body, Devlin stiffened above me and shouted, quaking and straining, pinning me hard against the bed as he came.

  “I love you, I love you,” he whispered into my hair.

  It was some time later before I realized that my entire body had gone numb from his weight and I let out a muffled squeak. He rolled heavily off me, leaving one arm wrapped around my waist. His hand stroked my stomach almost absently as we lay. Neither of us spoke for a long time. I was deep in thought about the irony of fate, my predicament, my feelings for Dev, my loyalties to Gilly and more. I lay quiet, not wanting to disturb Dev from his undoubtedly equally philosophical thoughts. He began to snore. I stared at him, flabbergasted. I was absolutely torn up inside and he was off in dreamland. How could a person have such an emotionally crazy night, all these questions unanswered, all these feelings unresolved, and just conk out?

  With no plan beyond getting the TTMs back in my possession, I extricated myself from under Devlin’s arm with painstaking care. Rising, I gathered my clothes as stealthily as possible, although the effort was wasted as his snoring had picked up steam and taken on epic proportions by that point.

  Once dressed—except for my torn undies—I rifled through his clothes and found my TTM and goggles in his waistcoat pockets. I tiptoed over to my carpetbag and, to my immense relief, found the mercury pin in its hidey-hole. Good start. I put everything in my bag and turned back to Devlin.

  Despite my intentions, staring at his gorgeous, naked body sprawled on the bed, his sweet face soft in sleep, I just couldn’t bring myself to slap the shackles on him. But I couldn’t allow him out of the room until I checked the house and located the second TTM either. I went back and pulled the door key from his pocket and moved out of the room, locking the door behind me.

  I went through the house methodically, opening each door, giving a cursory look and then moving on. My hope was to narrow it down from the twenty-plus rooms to the few most likely locations, making the search a little more manageable.

  Turned out, it was far easier than I’d expected. About eight rooms into my recon, I opened a door and hit pay dirt. Devlin’s workshop. It was a huge room, perhaps a ballroom in a former life, with remarkably high ceiling
s. Clearly it was where he spent most of his time.

  I stood in the doorway for a moment, my eyes flickering from one thing to the next in amazement. The place looked like Rube Goldberg’s childhood playroom. Dozens of odd-looking contraptions, ranging from the simple to the extremely complex, stood on every available service. The centerpiece of the room, however, was a large, pod-shaped flying machine hung by thick ropes from the high ceiling. It resembled a modern-day blimp, but the material looked more like parchment or worn leather. It reminded me of a giant, prehistoric moth that had been stripped of its wings.

  I spared the dirigible only a fleeting glance and walked forward, picking my way through the maze of creations, focused on one thing. A giant replica of the TTM. Not exactly right, but close enough that I knew exactly what it was. There was no way that had been made in the weeks since he’d won the mechanism from Bacon. No, this thing was elaborate, like it had been years in the making. The implications had me floored. Either Devlin, by some impossible stroke of luck, had created something very similar to Gilly’s invention on his own. Or, as crazy as it was, he had seen the TTM before and was attempting to recreate it himself.

  When I finally reached the display, I stood in front of the device, dwarfed by its size. The intersecting gears were precision, and looked to be made of real silver. The numbers were painstakingly hand painted and decorated with gold leaf. While it was beautiful, it appeared to be in the midst of repairs. A couple of empty spots, a few missing hands; I could only guess that since he had the actual item in his possession, he was retooling this one now for accuracy. Walking around to the back side of it, I confirmed my suspicion. A fresh hole had been bored into it, still sharp-edged, not yet buffed down, mimicking the empty hole that would house a mercury pin.

  I stepped back, bumping into a long worktable. Glancing down, I puzzled at the contents. It was covered in drawings, notes and literally dozens of miniature TTM replicas. As I picked them up, one at a time, turning them this way and that, I realized with dread, he was close, terrifyingly close to figuring it all out. One pin away, really. Who has he shown these to? Does he have other engineers, inventors working with him? This could be far more serious than I had even suspected.

  As I searched gadgets, I found Bacon’s easily. It was clutched in a vise, surrounded by tools as if had been worked on. I released it from the grips, and slipped it into the carpetbag with mine. There was no point in taking the rest of them. He had the knowledge to recreate the mechanics of it. I could only hope that no one else knew and that he had no inkling of what was in the pin that drove it.

  I began to look through the myriad of papers on the worktable. The top ones were drawings of my alternate perception goggles. He had worked fast, creating maybe a half-dozen sketches already, with measurements and various specs jotted all over the pages. I took those and shoved them into my bag as well. Even if the TTM could be recreated, it would be difficult to locate an open wormhole without the APGs. And without the sketches, it would be nearly impossible to make the goggles from memory. Whether any of this would stop him, I couldn’t know, but it would at least slow down his progress.

  As I continued to shuffle through his papers for anything else of any import, my eye fell upon something that stopped me in my tracks. Dropping all but the sheet in my hand, I was stunned to see the face of my beloved Gilly staring up at me. Tears instantly pooled in my eyes, a sob clogging my throat. I ran my fingertips over his sweet face. God, I missed him. Why is this here? I looked harder and realized that he was young in this picture, at least relatively speaking. This was not Gilly at age seventy-six, right before cancer ripped him from our lives. It was Gilly in his sixties, the way he looked when he first found us.

  For no reason except that I wanted it and couldn’t bear to leave it, I folded it carefully and stowed it in my bag as well.

  Shoving back the sorrow that threatened to engulf me, I picked up the sheaf again, determined to unravel the mystery that was getting more mysterious by the second. This time, under the pile, I noticed a tan leather journal. Tamping down a tiny niggle of guilt, I opened the worn, smooth cover to read.

  Chapter Five

  Bethlehem, September 15, 1823

  If I wasn’t insane before, staring at these walls is making me feel that way. I know I shouldn’t complain. At least I have private quarters, miniscule though they may be. Some of the ladies here (whose husbands are not as generous with the hospital as my parents have been) are just piled together like stones, sometimes five to a room. The worst part of it is that many of them seem perfectly ordinary. It is said within these walls that some are no more than victims of their husbands’ anger. Maybe they were disobedient, maybe they strayed, but they seem so normal. I suppose I seem normal as well.

  And I suppose it’s not so bad, really. Sometimes, for those of us who have the capacity to enjoy it, they hold dances in the great hall. During the day they let us into the yard for a while. It’s nice to feel the sun on my face. Father and Mum feel they know best, so here I must remain, with the other unfortunates, until my diseased soul is cured. I don’t know when that will be, because I know what I saw. It didn’t “seem” real. It was real. I am so tired, all of the time, tired.

  Bethlehem, September 28, 1823

  It seems strange that three months have gone by since I first arrived. It feels like forever, yet no time at all. Today was difficult for me. For a fee, several times a month they allow people fascinated by the macabre to come in and stare at us, even in the curable wing. Today was such a day. I can’t say why it bothered me more today, to have them stare and point. I have heard that the incurables are sometimes poked and prodded with sticks. It is a wonder that these visitors are not required to stay here as well. Wouldn’t it seem that only a wicked mind, a broken soul, could delight in another’s misery so?

  Most of the time, it feels as if it all must be a dream, or a nightmare. But I know, too, that this is my punishment. Not for being a lunatic, or diseased, or possessed by demons, or for any of the reasons doctors give for my being here. No, I’m being punished for not saving those children. I had the chance. I could have done something, but fear stopped me. And now, here I am. Unable to search. Unable to convince anyone else to search.

  Would that I could close my eyes just once and not see her dirty little face, her oft belligerent, brave countenance in my mind. Would that I might sleep one night through without waking, wondering if they suffered a fate far worse than mine. Would that I…

  Bethlehem, November 11, 1823

  They tell me that I seem to be responding to treatment. Before last month, it had been limited to mustard plasters or leeches. The leeches are disgusting creatures, but those treatments are mild compared to those of some of the other patients. Because my condition wasn’t improving, the doctors have moved to something entirely new called the tranquilizing chair. I…I do not like it. I will do whatever it is I need to do and tell them whatever it is they want to hear in order to not have it again. If I supply the proper answers to their questions, perhaps there will be an end to this.

  I have not seen Mother or Father in quite a while now. I understand their not wanting to be here, and hope, for their sake, that the speculation and gossip of the ton had…run its course. I know I’ve embarrassed them. And I know they fear that I have ruined my chance of ever finding a suitable wife, but I cannot find it within me to mourn that fact.

  I just want to go home now. I long for the freedom to ride my horse, to go outside when I choose, to eat what I like. Yet at times I wonder, would freedom be better? Will I even be truly free until I know about what happened to Molly and the boy? I cannot stop my brain from imagining some new horrors that they might be subjected to. If I could just know they were all right, I would be all right.

  Bethlehem, November 23, 1823

  I’ve settled into a routine of lies for the past month, denying my eyes and what I know to please the doctors here. To the point that I’d almost even convinced myself. I’d begun
to hope that, rather than replaying that day over and over, rather than obsessing about it and what I could have done differently, that maybe as time passed, the event would be less affecting, that maybe I could go on as if it never happened. But in a moment of clarity—and they seem to occur less and less of late—I realize that I don’t want to forget. I need to remember, need to write down my thoughts about that day in the event that all these “treatments” make me lose sight of my thoughts altogether, in order to preserve the truth, so that if I ever get out of this place, it will serve as a reminder. But not today. I can’t face it this day. Tomorrow, then.

  Bethlehem, November 24, 1823

  I suppose I should really start at the beginning, and the beginning was January 2nd of that same year. I hadn’t ever really noticed the urchins on Fenchurch Street. I am sure they’d always been there, but preoccupied with my own import, I’d never truly seen them before that day. They were a part of London, part of the setting, no different than the cobbles or the vendors or the gloomy winter weather, and as such, I paid them no mind.

  On this particularly cold day, I was on my way home, wrapped snugly in my heavy wool greatcoat. Scurrying down the street, arms full of sketches I’d done that week at my art lessons, I was looking forward to a blazing fire in the hearth and a cup of warm chocolate. Distracted, I tripped on a loose stone and landed hard, vellum flying everywhere. Cursing my stupidity, I looked around to see if anyone had noted my mishap. Three grubby, solemn-faced children milled nearby. One of them, a girl, stepped forward and silently began picking up the scattered sketches. I stood quickly and began to scoop some up as well, mumbling my reserved but polite thanks (though, to my everlasting shame, I clearly remember hoping that the filthy little thing didn’t smudge them).