Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

Juggling his purchases and the food tray, Simon opened the door to his rented room and froze. What the . . . ? The bed was rumpled and empty, with Wilhelmina nowhere in sight. Heart thudding, he set the tray on a table, then noticed the closed door of the loo. Knocking instead of pounding—or, hell, bursting in—was an effort. “Willie?”

“One moment.”

Her voice sounded weak, but at least she was all right. Relatively speaking.

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.”

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.”