His Clockwork Canary

by Beth Ciotta

  Simon shrugged out of his coat. He rubbed warmth back into his icy hands whilst keeping an eye on that bloody door and listening for an ominous crash or thud. He heard nothing. One moment stretched to three or four. “Willie?” No answer. “Mina?” Dammit!

  The door creaked open. “Sorry.” She cradled her injured arm as she moved gingerly toward a chair. “I wanted to wash up a bit.”

  “You couldn’t wait until I got back? What if you’d tripped? Passed out?”

  “I managed,” she said, fumbling to tighten the sash of the robe she’d pulled on—a hideous, oversized dressing gown, manly like the rest of the Canary’s wardrobe.

  Brow raised, Simon procured the newly purchased soap from his bag. “For what it’s worth, I brought you a fresh bar of soap.”

  She sniffed and frowned. “It smells girly.”

  “You are a girl, Mina.”

  “Not outside of this room. And I prefer Willie. Mina . . . she’s not cut out for this world.”

  What the devil?

  She nodded toward the food. “Is this for me?”

  “It is. Hungry?”

  “Famished.”

  “I’ll take that as a good sign.” Simon abandoned the soap, and eased into a seat across from hers, wondering at her distant tone and manner. “Something happen whilst I was out?”

  “No.”

  He didn’t believe her. He wanted to pry, but he also wanted her to fill her belly. The faster she regained full strength and health, the sooner they could move on and resume their expedition. “Need help?” he asked as she tried buttering the bread, one-handed, left-handed.

  “I’ll manage.”

  That phrase was beginning to grate. Without asking, he poured them both a cup of tea, then sat back as she peppered her soup. She’d scrubbed her face and combed her hair, tucking the shaggy locks behind her ears and exposing creamy earlobes that he found quite lovely. He remembered suckling those soft lobes—teasing, seducing, making her squirm with desire.

  Simon’s own desire flared and he stifled a colorful curse. There was nothing provocative about her attire, nothing overtly alluring about her fresh face and unfashionable hair, yet he burned to make love to this woman. Shifting, he sought distraction via the tabloid he abhorred.

  “You purchased the London Informer?” she asked.

  “I did.”

  “But you favor the Victorian Times.”

  “I bought this for you.” He peered around the newssheet, noting her look of surprise and the blush of her cheeks.

  “Any news regarding the Triple R Tourney?” she asked, dipping a hunk of bread in her soup.

  “Front page.”

  “Headline?”

  “‘Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

  “Titillating,” she said around a mouthful. “Dawson’s work.”

  “Who’s Dawson?”

  “Artemis Dawson. Managing editor. My boss. The one who insisted I get the scoop on you and your quest, the manipulative sod.”

  “Ah.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  Curious himself, Simon read the article aloud. “‘According to an inside source, Her Majesty Queen Victoria has embraced the Triple R Tourney sponsored by an anonymous benefactor via the British Science Museum. Celebrating inventions of historical significance not only honors Prince Albert’s passion for science, but maintains the queen’s conviction to focus on past accomplishments rather than encourage the pursuit and development of anachronistic marvels beyond our natural scope. Old Worlders celebrate any cause for the reclusive queen’s enthusiasm and therefore rejoice in the mounting excitement of the Triple R. Outspoken New Worlders continue to condemn the suppression of technological knowledge and ideological preachings of the twentieth-century Peace Rebels. Rumblings of an underground rebellion have jubilee coordinators on their proverbial toes, although they have assured our source that the threat of violence will not dampen the festivities. Voice your opinion to the editor. The Triple R Tourney—Royal Rejuvenation or Royal Mistake?’”

  Simon furrowed his brow and skimmed the article a second time. “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Which part?”

  “The underground rebellion part.” Simon eyed Willie closely. Since his return, she’d yet to meet his gaze. “Are you part of the Freak Fighter movement?”

  “What do you know of the Freak Fighters?”

  “Very little. Rumors. News bits.”

  “I do not advocate violent measures.”

  “But you are a part of the movement.”

  That earned her full attention. “What if I am?”

  “Just want to know where I stand. What I’m in for.”

  “My social and political convictions have nothing to do with you, Simon Darcy.”

  “Oh, but they do, sweetheart.” Simon leaned forward, his gaze intense. “You are going to marry me, Wilhelmina Goodenough.”

  CHAPTER 12

  So little rattled Willie anymore and yet these past few days she’d been shaken about like a rag doll and spun like a top. But nothing had shocked her more than Simon’s matrimonial bombshell. Appetite obliterated, she set aside her flatware and palmed the table. She would not, under any circumstance, betray the trembling of her hands. “Perhaps my senses are addled from the catacombs mishap, but was that a proposal?”

  “It was not. I proposed twelve years ago. On bended knee, heart in hand, if memory serves. You accepted. I’m merely asking you make good on your promise.”

  Willie gaped. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she sought to make sense of the moment. Was she still unconscious? Hallucinating? Was this a dream or some subconscious manifestation of a buried yearning? “Why?”

  “I want to gift you with a certain amount of freedom. As my wife you could tell that manipulative sod, Artemis Dawson, to go to hell. As my wife you would not need to ensure your job at the Informer. You would not need to work.”

  “Never mind that I want to work. I have a family to support.”

  “The family that betrayed you?” He shook his head, held up an apologetic hand. “Not for me to judge. I’m sure they had your best interest at heart.”

  Willie was, in fact, unsure of her family’s motivation. Especially Wesley’s. Her father, however . . . She could not imagine that his agenda was anything but well-intentioned. “Let us backtrack. You want to gift me? With marriage? How is that a gift? It would bind me to you, make me accountable to you.”

  “A limited perception.”

  “An accurate perception.”

  “You twist my intent.”

  “You assume I need saving.”

  “Truly?” Simon narrowed his eyes. “Is it truly an assumption, Willie? Or an obvious conclusion? Your modest and worn wardrobe suggests there is little left over from your salary once you provide for your father. I would wager you live on a shoestring. In addition, in order to maintain your position at the Informer, you are forced to deny your gender and alter your physical appearance. Do you not tire of slathering your beautiful pale skin with that noxious tanning agent? Do you not miss your natural, luxurious red hair? I recall you delighted in fashioning your long tresses into imaginative styles. And I’m quite certain you were keen on pretty gowns.”

  Her heart ached, remembering how she’d once looked, how she’d once felt. But that free-spirited innocence, that girlish indulgence, was long gone. “I told you. Mina is dead.”

  “Not dead. Hiding.”

  Left hand planted on the table for support, Willie pushed out of her chair. Perhaps it was the fortifying meal. Perhaps it was the panicked adrenaline coursing through her veins, but her legs felt strong enough to carry her away from the table. Away from Simon. She leaned against the window sash and gazed through the frosty pane. The chill icing down her spine had nothing to do with the wintry scene and everything to do with the telecoded message she’d received whilst Simon had been out. That infernal device had blipped from her duster pocket and she’d hobbled across the
room in a panicked sweat. Had it blipped in the two days she’d been in a state of delirium? Had Simon heard it? Had he deciphered the code? Did he know she was in league with Strangelove, a man intent on seizing Simon’s targeted invention? Mind racing, guilt churning, she had checked the small screen, mentally altering the numbers to letters.

  Betray me, Goodenough, and I will crush your family.

  She did not need to be reminded of Strangelove’s initial threat, but the message had indeed introduced a sense of urgency to her recuperation. Someway, somehow, she needed to thwart that wicked man. She doubted Strangelove had put all of his eggs in one basket. Surely he had other spies nosing about. And now, because of her, Jefferson Filmore was on the run with an invention that could cause great harm in the wrong hands. What if the Houdinian was careless and fell prey to one of Strangelove’s cohorts? What if Strangelove intended to use the Peace Rebels’ engine for devious means? What if it landed on the black market?

  Willie’s stomach churned with a sense of dread. She couldn’t shake the memory, Filmore’s memory, of her mother. In modern times, Michelle Goodenough had been a security specialist. How was it that she’d ended up in league with Filmore, a fanatical peace activist? Why had they conspired to keep the clockwork propulsion engine in deep hiding as opposed to destroying it?

  Willie felt the weight of the world, indeed the fate of the world, upon her injured shoulder. In tandem Simon was meddling with her heart. She braced as he moved in behind her, wrapped strong arms around her middle, and held her in a gentle embrace. The scent of faded soap had never been so tantalizing. The feel of his stubbled jaw brushing against her smooth cheek never so seductive.

  “Marry me,” he persisted in a low, sensual voice. “We were good together once. It could be so again.”

  He said nothing of love, but of course they were very different people now. The love of their youth was but a bittersweet memory. Even so, a fierce longing scraped Willie’s soul. “Marriage is not permitted between Vics and Freaks.”

  “Anything can be bought in Skytown,” he said calmly. “Even a marriage certificate.”

  Skytowns operated “above the law.” Most flew the flag of the Peace Rebels, welcoming Mods and Freaks to socialize openly on the floating pleasure meccas. The meccas also appealed to adventurous Vics seeking a scandalous good time, as well as assorted corrupt and dubious scoundrels. Oh, aye, anything could be purchased in Skytown, but that did not mean that, once upon the ground, the marriage would be legal.

  As if sensing her apprehension, Simon nipped her earlobe, inciting a delicious shiver. “How far did you take the ruse, Willie?”

  Her breath caught as she fought off a knee-buckling wave of desire. “What do you mean?”

  “In denying your gender, did you also deny yourself the company of men?”

  “Intimacy would not have been wise,” she said. And honestly, she had not deemed any man enticing enough to risk her anonymity.

  “Ten years is a long time.”

  Twelve, she wanted to correct. She had not been with any man since Simon. But she would not admit that, as it would afford him too much power, and she was already bending to his will. She did not resist when he gently turned her in his arms. Nor did she protest when he cradled the side of her face, his fingers threading through her hair. She relished the headiness of the moment, the anticipation of a kiss. Her heart nearly stopped when his lips brushed over hers, then stuttered back to glorious life as his mouth laid claim. This kiss was not meant to comfort, she thought hazily. It was designed to seduce.

  Willie gave over, reaching up with her good hand and grasping the back of Simon’s neck. She pulled him closer, opened her mouth, and took the kiss deeper. Oh, aye, she remembered how it was done, what Simon liked. Eyes closed, her mind regressed. At once, she was sixteen and consumed with heart-pounding, stomach-fluttering love for the young rogue who’d stolen her heart. Fearless and curious, eager to please and to be pleasured, she saw no shame in exploring the sexual universe with the man who’d pledged deep affection until his dying day.

  Lost in passionate euphoria, Willie pressed against her lover, feeling the evidence of his arousal, which only intensified her fierce and consuming hunger.

  Groaning low, Simon unknotted her sash, reached beneath her robe, and palmed her breast through her thin nightshirt.

  Blimey.

  She could scarcely breathe. Yet she needed more. She straddled his thigh and continued to rock her hips, giving over to the sensual pressure building in her core as the kiss turned wilder, his touch more brazen. It had been so long and never this riotous.

  Willie exploded—an earthshaking climax that left her breathless and weak in the knees.

  “Good God,” Simon said, holding her close. “Did you—”

  “Aye.” She rested her cheek against his chest, entranced by the rapid, heavy thud of his heart. Once she recovered, she was most certain she would be embarrassed by this brazen display, but for now, she simply marveled in the magic. It was as if the years had faded away. Willie’s defenses floundered as did her energy.

  Shoulder throbbing and her right arm queerly numb, she did not protest when Simon lifted her into his arms and laid her upon the bed.

  Raw desire sparked in his eyes. “If it weren’t for your shoulder—”

  “My shoulder need not factor in.” She ached far more in other places. Rusty in the art of flirting, she quirked what she hoped was a saucy grin. “I’ll just lay here and enjoy.”

  “Sweet Christ.” Simon blew out a breath, then pulled his shirt over his head. “I’ll be gentle.”

  “I was hoping for spectacular,” she said whilst ogling his magnificent bare torso.

  He grinned at that, tripping her pulse further as he peeled off his trousers. They had never made love in the light of day. She had not realized the thrill she’d missed out upon. Simon Darcy’s body was a work of art much like the engineering marvels he designed.

  “I’ll save spectacular until you are fully healed. For now,” he said whilst skimming his hands up her thighs and hiking her nightshirt to her waist, “you’ll have to settle for skilled.”

  She parted her legs, expecting him to enter, to ease her ache, but instead he lowered his head between her thighs and pressed his mouth to her intimate juncture. Oh, aye, this was new. This was scandalous. Yet she had no wish to stop him as his lips and tongue worked astonishing magic.

  His palms branded her quivering thighs. His mouth drove her to distraction. She scaled passionate heights she’d yet to experience. She felt positively dizzy. Deliciously wanton. Clutching his broad shoulder, she cried out his name as her body trembled, then shattered with glorious, heart-pounding release.

  Bleary-eyed, Willie stared up at the cracked ceiling. “Oh, aye. Most skilled,” she managed, her chest and lungs burning, her body sated.

  Simon moved over her, on top of her, his gorgeous face looking down at her. “There’s more. If you deem yourself able.”

  She would not have thought it possible, as she was fully satisfied, but she experienced a desirous pang. Living in the moment, she held his gaze, trailed her left hand down his strong back, and wiggled her hips. “Do not disappoint, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Challenge accepted, Miss Goodenough.”

  She was slick with want, delirious with need, and yet he hesitated when he breached her womanly walls. She surmised he was surprised by the tight fit, but then he kissed her wantonly and plunged deep.

  Willie’s emotions danced as Simon reawakened the woman she’d abandoned long ago. So beautiful, so exciting . . . so troubling. She pushed the latter thought aside. She would live in the moment because this moment might not come again.

  “Willie,” he bade as he rocked her to orgasm. “Open your eyes.”

  But he would then see her as a Freak. She ignored his command until he stilled.

  He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, nipped her lower lip. “I want to see you when I come. The real you,” he emphasized.


  That caught her off guard and her lids flew open.

  Simon cradled her face and held her gaze as he resumed his skilled and sensual mating.

  Mesmerized, enchanted, and seduced, Willie climaxed in tandem with the love of her youth.

  “Sweet Christ,” he whispered as he collapsed upon her.

  Indeed, was her only coherent thought.

  CHAPTER 13

  Simon had enjoyed many a tryst. Numerous alliances far more risqué than this recent dalliance with Willie. Yet his mind and body reeled in the aftermath. Never had he felt so focused, so driven, so lost.

  Lost in the moment. Lost in her beauty. Lost in the passion.

  Mystifying.

  Terrifying.

  Was it possible that he’d never fallen out of love with Wilhelmina Goodenough? Even though she’d broken his heart? Even though twelve years had passed and she was nothing like the young girl he remembered?

  She was, in fact, more. Vastly complicated and assured trouble. Life with this woman would not be easy. Or boring.

  Simon stared up into the darkening room, contemplating the future. Typically his mind churned with visions and calculations. Advanced designs that were not only functional but impressive. He had goals, monumental goals, and though he felt compelled to marry Willie—indeed, he would marry her, even if only in spirit—he could not yet imagine how she would fit into his life. The fact that she was a Freak was challenging enough, but her involvement in an underground movement, a movement ripe for radical upheaval should their cause go unrecognized, could prove inconvenient, if not detrimental to his career. On that score, her parents had been spot-on. In order to construct his more inspired creations, Simon needed the support of various government agencies and, upon occasion, assorted officials. This meant walking a fine line politically and not ruffling feathers. Willie’s association with the Freak Fighters would most definitely ruffle stodgy and fearful Old Worlders. If protests and demonstrations turned ugly, if Freaks and their supporters turned to more extreme measures resulting in violence and mayhem, New Worlders would be wary as well. A rebellion such as this would too greatly resemble the civil rights movements of the twentieth century. Movements that sought equality for Negroes and Indians in the United States, Catholics in Northern Ireland, and blacks and women in the United Kingdom, to name but a few. All cited in the Book of Mods and many resulting in bloody conflict.