Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

“Are you saying I required a transfusion?” Using her good arm, Willie untied the strings of her long nightshirt and peeked inside. “So you took me to a skytown?” she asked, noting the bandages applied to the right side of her upper chest, shoulder, and arm. She remembered nothing of a treatment. She remembered nothing at all of the past few days.

“There was no time to arrange for air transport to a skytown.”

Her pulse stuttered. “I warned you not to take me to a conventional hospital. Was there a ruckus? Did they refuse to treat me and then relent? Where did they find Freak blood? I can’t imagine they had a supply on hand.”

“I brought you back here,” Simon said. “The physician came to me. A Freak physician. Her skills were quite remarkable, although she did warn that it would be some time before you retained full use of your right arm.”

Instead of wondering how in the universe she was going to write her stories with a bum arm, Willie homed in on the curious doctor. “You located a physician who was not only a Freak but a woman ? Does she practice openly? How can that be? Freaks are denied the right to pursue such positions.”

“Which explains your determination to masquerade as a young Vic man. The ruse afforded you the opportunity to flourish as a journalist for a major newspaper. But it does not explain why you failed to confide in me, the man you professed to love , twelve years ago. Or at the very least when we initiated this quest!”

Willie’s temper flared. “I told you, I thought you would reject me. I was young and impressionable and my parents constantly warned me off mixing with Vics. You are not a persecuted minority. You are free to work where you will and to marry whom you wish. I am not!” Incensed now, she shot to her feet. Unfortunately, her noodly legs crumpled.

Simon caught her in his arms, held her close. “Too much, too soon. The doctor warned me.”

Willie looked up at him, her heart in her throat, tears in her eyes. “I explained in the letter that my parents learned of our plans and that they were taking me away. They reminded me that Freaks are forbidden to wed Vics. The marriage would be illegal, and you would be shunned by polite society. Daddy cautioned I could ruin your life, your career. Mother preached that if you knew I was a Freak, you would forsake me. Deep down, I did not believe that part. In the letter I confessed my race and asked you to meet me in a month’s time at Gretna Green if you truly loved me.” Her chest ached with the betrayal. “I stole away that day, made the journey on my own. I waited two days, but you never showed.”

Simon closed his eyes briefly and cursed. “I never saw that letter, Mina.”

What had her parents and Wesley done? All these years she’d thought Simon had jilted her, when in truth they’d finessed it so that she had jilted him . In chagrin and heartbreak, a river of tears flowed.

“Ah, Christ. Don’t cry. Don’t . . .” Simon cupped the back of her head, then lowered his mouth to hers. The kiss was tender, comforting, and, oh, so magically wondrous. Misunderstanding her moan of delight for one of discomfort, he broke off all too soon and lowered her onto the bed. “I’m going to step out to get you a warm meal. When I return, you can fill me in on the exact skills of a Time Tracer, and then we will formulate a plan for tracking that damned Houdinian.”

Poleaxed, Willie gaped as Simon pulled on his coat. “Knowing who I am, what I am . . . you still want to work with me?”

Simon paused on the threshold, stealing her breath with his intensity. “Oh, I want much more than that, Canary.”

• • •

Simon placed a special order with the inn’s cook for his sick “friend”; then he stepped out onto the sidewalk, welcoming a gust of frigid wind. Never had he been so aroused by a simple kiss! A damned chaste kiss by his standards. One meant to comfort. Instead, Wilhelmina had moaned, a soft husky moan that betrayed her pleasure. Raging lust had steeled his shaft, warring and meshing with stirring compassion. Laying her on the bed, seeing her stark black hair fall away from her now naturally pale face, he’d ached to rid her of that nightshirt and to caress her every curve. He longed to make her damaged body soar. To incite pleasure that would override any pain. Simon had watched her suffer, and although he still had issues with their past as well as her recent journalistic antics, his guilt regarding her injury trumped all else. Severe muscle and nerve damage, Dr. Caro had said. What if the Canary’s ability to pen or type her tales had been forever compromised as a result of her pushing Simon out of harm’s way?

In addition to that troubling scenario, he was also now saddled with the knowledge that her family had conspired to keep them apart. If only her brother had delivered that damned letter. Simon would not have waited an entire month. Impetuous and madly in love, he would have tracked down Mina and whisked her away. Learning she was a Freak would not have diminished his love. Although . . . if such an alliance would have truly hindered his career, perhaps he would have hesitated. He could not imagine not being able to provide handsomely for his wife or lover.

Of course, if he won that jubilee prize, they could both thumb their noses at society and settle comfortably in a more tolerant or remote setting. The least he could do for Wilhelmina Goodenough in gratitude for saving his life was to ensure her well-being. He could protect and provide for her best by claiming her as his own. For once and for always. You and no other.

Daunting, but doable.

The biggest hurdle, he imagined, would be getting Wilhelmina to agree to the alliance. She had grown headstrong and independent over the years. Obstinate, even. And she was proud. She would not appreciate a proposal based on his gratitude and guilty conscience. He would have to be most calculated in his wording.

With that in mind, Simon poked his head into a sundry shop where he purchased a fragrant bar of soap, fresh bandages, and the latest issue of the Informer . He preferred to read more reputable broadsheets, but this was for Mina. Willie. What the devil should he call her?

Heading back toward the inn, Simon glanced at several window displays, thinking, once she’d convalesced, he’d have to take the Canary shopping for more feminine attire. He wasn’t keen on people mistaking his future wife for a bloke. As to her race, or rather the restrictions and prejudices regarding Freaks, he’d have to ponder that vexing problem at greater length.

“Baltic oot there, yeah?” The Squire’s cook, known as McLaughlin, greeted him with a tray of aromatic food. “Ye might consider a cap and mitts fer the future.”

No doubt his hair was wind tossed and his fingers ice-cold as he relieved her of the tray.

“A bowl of hearty cock-a-leekie soup, a wedge of warm brown bread, and a pot of hot tea.” McLaughlin gave a curt nod, then waddled off. “Hope yer friend is up and aboot soon,” she tossed over her shoulder.

As in, hurry up and get the bloody hell out of here ? Simon was aware he’d courted gossip by refusing to let the chambermaid into his room, taking the fresh linens and saying he’d fend for himself. The staff knew he’d moved Willie into his room, and they knew the kid was injured or sickly. The owner had seen Simon carrying her upstairs the day she’d been o’blasterated.

Had they been up to some criminal shenanigans?

Were they homosexual lovers?

Was Willie contagious?

Let them ponder and talk. The Darcys had been at the root of gossip for decades. Simon couldn’t care less. What he cared about was seeing Willie fit and under his protection. What he cared about was catching up to that Houdinian, making him pay for his odious attack, confiscating the clockwork propulsion engine, and winning the jubilee prize. Providing for his family and future wife and restoring honor to the Darcy name and his father’s memory. Grabbing a bit of glory and respect for himself. That was what Simon cared about.