Beth Ciotta - His Clockwork Canary

He appeared this side of miserable and her confidence soared at the knowledge she could so easily drive him to the brink. Quirking a teasing smile, Willie indulged in another fantasy. “I have faith that you will allow a bride her pleasure.”

She straddled his impressive arousal, moaning with sinful bliss as she slid over him, as he filled her deeply, completely. Gripping his shoulder, she closed her eyes and rocked her hips. The motion. The friction. The erotic thrill of being in control. He gripped her waist, aiding her in her quest, urging her to soar. Apparently her restraint was as taxed as her husband’s, for she felt her body tensing, quivering. Her senses spiraled higher and higher and then . . . she soared. “Sweet heaven,” she whispered whilst collapsing upon his chest.

“Indeed,” he said, stroking his hands over her bare back.

She smiled against his neck. “That was . . .”

“Spectacular.” Simon framed her face and kissed her deeply, finessing her body beneath his own. He nipped her lower lip, kissed her cheek, her chin, her neck. . . . His hands caressed and teased as did the gleam in his eye. “I wonder,” he said, whilst taking delicious control, “if I can invent something beyond spectacular?”

She gasped as he touched her most intimately, most scandalously. Was such naughty delight a boon to marriage? Aching to explore ecstasy beyond her known realms, Willie trusted in the moment and the man and opened to wondrous possibilities.

JANUARY 21, 1887 PERTH, AUSTRALIA

The land of the kangaroo. Or as the Mods called it: Oz.

Why anyone would choose to hide in this mosquito-infested, abysmally hot and humid, godforsaken land was beyond Bingham. Along with his sparse yet top-notch crew, he had navigated the skies over Europe, the Mediterranean Sea, Arabia, and the seemingly never-ending Indian Ocean. Due to volatile weather and mechanical malfunctions, the journey had taken two days more than Bingham had anticipated. Worse, a horrendous storm had blown them off course, pushing them south of their appointed mark and assaulting Mars-a-Tron so viciously that Captain Northwood had been forced to ground the enhanced zeppelin in order to facilitate vital repairs. Another delay, although as Northwood had pointed out, it could have been worse. At least Perth, a coastal city in Western Australia, had resources.

“How long?” Bingham had asked.

Northwood stood hat in hand, shoulders bolstered, as if bracing for an assault of the personal nature. “Five to six days. Maybe longer.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Unavoidable.”

“Money is no object.”

“Naturally,” Northwood said. “Locating and obtaining all of the required components is the issue. Then as you heard from our chief engineer, the repairs are of a laborious nature.”

Bingham held his temper. The damages were not Northwood’s or Judd’s fault and Bingham had no desire to cross the Great Victoria Desert in an unreliable airship. As abominable as a summer down under was here on the coast, the conditions would be far worse in the isolated dunes and plains of the expansive desert named after Queen Victoria herself. How ironic if Her Majesty the Queen proved the death of Viscount Bingham when he conspired to be the death of her . The notion of his demise did not amuse.

Instead of risking his neck, Bingham sanctioned the repairs on Mars-a-Tron . Meanwhile he arranged ground transport across the city to a worldwide establishment known as the Adventurer’s Club. Bingham had frequented the London branch upon occasion and had deemed it worthwhile to purchase an annual membership. Familiar with the sort who haunted the enterprising social club, he knew this would be the place to acquire suitable transport and guidance over the Great Victoria Desert, into South Australia, and beyond to the southwestern corner of Queensland—where Professor Merriweather had been spotted by his Mod Tracker, Crag.

Upon entering the rustic building, Bingham noted the swashbuckling decor. Paintings and photographs of heroic feats and remote terrains. Brilliant examples of taxidermy as practiced on varied exotic creatures. Assorted displays of archaic and progressive instruments pertaining to navigation and weaponry. This society championed the perseverance and ingenuity of fearless adventurers. Scouts, pilots, navigators, scientists—those willing to brave uncharted or dangerous territories in the name of exploration and discovery. It also attracted adventurers with less noble intent. Soldiers of fortune. Bingham’s preferred recruit.

A uniformed steward approached, his expression wary. “Be of service, mate?”

Bingham flashed his membership card. “I require access to your Reception Room, a cool drink, and swift and reliable transport to Queensland.”

“An expedition?”

“Private mission. No questions asked,” he added with a meaningful look.

“Sounds like a job for the Rocketeer.”

The name meant nothing to Bingham. “Is he the best you’ve got?”

“He’s the best there is.” The steward jerked his thumb toward a room to the right. “Teletype, telephone, telegraph, and, as with all of our worldwide branches, worldwide reception. I’ll see to your other two requests, Lord Bingham. Welcome to the Adventurer’s Club.”

The man left and Bingham strode toward the Reception Room, ignoring the curious looks of the few members seated at an ornate bar and swilling beer. He was not here to socialize or to exchange tall tales. He was here on business and with luck would soon be on his way.

His vision acclimating to the shaded and dark-paneled ambience, Bingham welcomed the cooler air as afforded by numerous brass and mahogany ceiling fans. He’d dressed down by his standards and yet the oppressive humidity had caused his shirt to stick and his brow to perspire. The damnable insects worsened his discomfort and mood, as did the disruption of his telecommunications device. He was unaccustomed to being uninformed. After clearing the worst of the bad weather, he’d noted several incoming messages on his telecommunicator. Too many to retrieve in their entirety.

Alone in the small Reception Room, Bingham utilized a custom-made wire enabling him to connect his portable device to the club’s teleprinter, an ingenious machine developed via modern technology. According to his sources, this form of communications had originally been developed in the early 1900s. A few short decades from now. Bingham fairly salivated imagining the communication wonders he would discover once he traveled forward to the 1960s. Satellites, computers, televisions. He’d read about them in the Book of Mods. Heard them gossiped about within the scientific realm as well as the black market, where old stories regarding the future ran rampant via corrupt Peace Rebels. Gossip and conjecture be damned. Bingham would acquire the knowledge enabling him to manufacture those marvels. He would be ahead of his time. A miracle man. A technological kingpin.

Heady with thoughts of colossal wealth and power, Bingham stared at the stream of coded messages now transferring onto paper and mentally translated the numbers to letters.

His mother wondering how he fared.

P. B. Waddington reporting an increase of Triple R entrants. Two new inventions submitted to the committee. An electric battery from biblical times and a functioning steam engine from the first century.

Not caring a whit about either discovery, Bingham moved on.

A trusted snitch claiming Amelia Darcy had been spotted in London.

Bingham frowned at that one. Dunkirk had declared Miss Darcy dead. If Dunkirk lied about that, had he lied about Amelia’s unearthed treasure? Had the Scottish Shark of the Skies double-crossed Bingham, instead striking a deal with Amelia Darcy and the Sky Cowboy? His temper surged.