Delphine Dryden - Gossamer Wing

He rapped smartly on the roof of the car, and the driver shifted from idle to get the vehicle rolling. Charlotte could see Murcheson waving, until the car turned back down the long drive that led away from the factory, back to the road to Honfleur.

“May I?”

Dexter pried the box from her hands without waiting for an answer. Charlotte chuckled at his obvious eagerness. “By all means. Tricksy, isn’t he? I suspect the box is just for added veracity, since I’ve made such a fuss about them. Either that or he’s deliberately trying to confuse me, just for sport.”

“Mmm.” His fingers, long and thick, were nevertheless dexterous; he handled the little trinket as delicately as an egg. Charlotte suppressed a shiver at the sight, and admonished herself for the inappropriate reaction.

Best to simply let it slide into the past. With her mission now literally and figuratively up in the air, Charlotte needed all the focus she could muster.

“Have you solved Murcheson’s mechanical problem yet? I gather they expected you would have it all sorted out the first day you arrived.”

“Their problem is not, strictly speaking, mechanical,” Dexter muttered, his mind seeming more attentive to the problem in his hand than the one back at the submersible station. “It’s geological.”

She waited for him to clarify that, but he offered nothing, simply continued to examine and delicately prod the box. She was sorely tempted to demand it back.

Instead, she turned her mind to the submersible with which she’d just spent an afternoon further acquainting herself. The Gilded Lily was a little jewel-box of a vehicle, each part beautifully, even lovingly, constructed. An engine not unlike that of the tunnel tram gave it a surprisingly long range with very little noise. Built to echo the lean lines of a shark, it would slice through the water like a keen-edged blade.

It’s precisely my cup of tea , she told herself sternly.

For all its wonders, however, Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to enjoy piloting it. She could barely bring herself to contemplate getting in the thing again. Her mouth grew dry as she remembered the experiences of that afternoon.

When the technician had offered to take her for a short trip, she had been excited only until the hatch closed over their heads. From that moment on, she’d been nearly frantic to escape the close, suffocating atmosphere within the cabin of gleaming metal and reinforced glass. The water had seemed heavy and threatening, as though she could feel every bit of the pressure that weighed on the tiny craft. Minutes had passed like hours, and she had practically sobbed her relief when the Gilded Lily resurfaced in the docking bay and she could open the hatch and breathe again.

Charlotte was chagrined at how thoroughly fear had ruled her today. Her response made her all the more determined to give the sub another try and get the better of the dread.

“As good as your airship?”

“What?” She turned her head sharply, irritated at having her reverie interrupted. Dexter was staring at her, the curio box apparently no longer of interest.

“The submersible. Will it be as good as your airship? Get you out and away from the things of man? It might be a ready substitute, if Murcheson and his men decide the Gossamer Wing is too risky after today’s incident. You could move from field-testing one to the other. Dubois’s office is close enough to the water that you might not even have to change targets.”

She couldn’t quite tell if he was teasing her. His brown eyes were warm and kind, but then they usually were. The subtle crinkles at the corners were always there, whether he was joking or not, as if he’d spent too many hours squinting at tiny device parts. The corners of his mouth turned up too, sometimes with a wry curl but usually seeming predisposed to good humor. Now was one of the wry times.

Charlotte bit her lower lip against the impulse to place a kiss right there, at the slightly sarcastic corner of Dexter’s mouth. Returning her gaze to his eyes, she found, did nothing to make her feel more in control. This was a small space and he filled it, as he had a propensity for doing. She could not have him filling her spaces this way.

“Not here,” she said, nodding toward the front of the carriage. The car might be Murcheson’s, the driver his employee, but that hardly meant he needed to hear everything they had to say. Their room too was almost certainly compromised. Dexter would have to search it for bugs before they slept that night.

“Later,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument, “after dining, we’ll walk through the town or on the beach, perhaps. We’ll talk.” Sitting back and contemplating the curio box once again, he let the curl of his lips develop into a full-fledged smirk. “After all, any newlywed couple on their honeymoon must spend a certain amount of time . . . dallying.”

“We can talk,” she agreed, trying for a frosty smile. “I’m not sure I approve of any public dalliance .”

“Conversing into the wee hours, holding hands on a moonlight stroll. Sharing the occasional fond kiss. It’s not as though I’m asking you to do what that secretary was doing, Charlotte. Unless you’d like to, of course.”

His words were like a blow to the abdomen, pushing a startled puff of air from her. The image of doing that , on her knees before him with her mouth and hands hard at work, forced itself into Charlotte’s mind and raked the coals of desire she had struggled for days to keep banked. Instantly wet, breathless and trembling, she blinked the vision away and made herself frown as she replied.

“No, thank you.”

“You’re blushing,” Dexter pointed out.

“The driver—”

“Probably can’t hear us over the engine. Charlotte, we did agree to reevaluate . . .”

“ No .” She threw all her intent into the word, and stared him down, never knowing where the strength to do it came from. After a long, long moment Dexter gave a shrug and a nod.

“Look.”

She followed his gaze down to his hand, where sat a star-shaped wonder, its cunningly hinged lids now open to reveal numerous tiny compartments of varying dimensions. Midnight blue velvet lined the teak and brass. As she watched, Dexter closed and reopened one little lid with a fingertip, and a twinkling tune began to play.

“Like fairy bells,” she whispered, not wanting to drown out the music with anything so coarse as a human voice.

“Mozart,” Dexter said, nearly as low. “Serenade Number Ten.”

“Yes, the ‘Gran Partita.’ I know. Shh.”

They sat and listened until the song wound down, a surprisingly long time given how tiny the mechanism must be. After a pause to make sure it was over, Dexter passed his free hand over the opened box like a magician then presented the restored seamless cube to Charlotte with a polite nod of his head.

“Thank you,” she said automatically. She knew he was expecting her to ask how to open it, and did not care to give him the satisfaction. She held its weight in her cupped fingers, letting the warmth of Dexter’s hands transmit to hers through the wood. It felt good and solid to the touch, all that hardwood and brass. She suspected after she’d handled it awhile, the metal would leave its distinctive sharp smell on her hands. Right now, though, the only scent was of the fresh, clean wood and the oil and varnish it had been rubbed with.

It felt solid and smooth, Charlotte reflected, but it was so complex beneath the surface. And she didn’t know how to open it.

With a sigh, she opened her reticule and dropped the box in, careless of the finish.

SHE’D NEVER KNOWN that earthquakes could be a problem in the English Channel. But evidently, as Dexter explained, it was a significant concern given the placement of the submersible station and the geological instability of the channel floor.