In the end, her father’s fear was what had made her accept Griffin’s offer of employment, because if she’d stayed she would have let her father keep her locked up and let that fear overtake her.
She didn’t want fear to consume Sam. She didn’t want it to drive a wedge between them.
She took his big hands in each of hers, lifting them to kiss his slightly scarred knuckles. When she lifted her gaze to his, she caught him looking at her as though she’d hung the stars and the moon.
That look gave her strength. “I love you, Samuel Morgan. I love that you want to protect me, but you have to trust me to do that for myself. You have to let go of this fear of what might happen, because it will drive you mad. If you can’t do these things then there’s no future for us. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, lad?”
Sam nodded, looking for all the world like he’d just been hit in the face with a shovel. “You love me?”
Of course, that would be the part he grabbed on to. The boy’s head was thicker than rock. “Aye. You’re stubborn and scowly and you drive me to distraction, but you’re the finest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I love you right down to the soles of my feet.”
His arms closed around her. “Emmy, I—” He was interrupted by the door opening. It was Jasper.
“Beg pardon,” the cowboy said, looking back and forth between them. “Am I interruptin’?”
“Yes,” Sam growled. “Get out.”
“Sorry, friend, but I need your muscles.” Jasper didn’t look all that sorry. “Got a stable hand pinned beneath some crates Griffin had delivered. We can’t move ’em, not without the risk of injuring him further.”
Sam sighed—Emily could feel it beneath her hands as well as hear it. “I’ll be right there.” He looked down at her. “Can we continue this conversation when I get back?”
She nodded, feeling disappointed yet giddy. The way he looked at her…well, she knew the next time they were alone was going to be very interesting.
“I have some work in the greenhouse. Come find me when you’re done.”
He smiled—actually smiled! “I will.” Then he kissed her on the forehead and followed after Jasper.
Emily grinned, even giggled a little. It was foolish but she didn’t care. She couldn’t contain it any longer.
She was still smiling when she entered the greenhouse a little while later. Her cat—a sleek and gleaming automaton the size of a panther—was already there. She’d sent a command for it to join her before leaving the house. It made her feel safe, could assist in some experiments and was company for her. It was sitting by the wall, very quiet and still. She’d leave it there until she had need for it.
The greenhouse was one of her babies, and it was the most modern of botanical gardens inside, complete with an underground grotto built to mimic the one beneath Griffin’s country house where the organites had been discovered. Here, she bred a small colony of the wondrous creatures not only for their use, but to study, as well.
She’d barely gotten her gloves on when the door opened. “Done already?” she asked with a grin, expecting to see Sam when she turned.
But it wasn’t Sam standing there. It was something she thought she’d never see again. “You.” She whirled around to look for a weapon, but something struck hard against her head. Stars danced before her eyes as she fell to the floor.
Sam, she thought. And then there was nothing.
Griffin King was thought to be one of the handsomest young men in the Empire. Adding to his attractiveness was the vastness of his fortune and the fact that he was a duke. Yes, many a young lady would fling themselves in front of a carriage for a chance of winning his favor.
If they could only see him now, Finley thought, more than a little peevishly. His reddish-brown hair was a riot of untamed curls and he hadn’t shaved for several days. The skin under his eyes was bruised-looking and the smell of laudanum clung to him like cologne. Since he was hardly an addict frequenting opium dens, she suspected he’d been taking the bitter, vile stuff to help him sleep.
It obviously wasn’t working, because he looked as though he hadn’t slept properly in days. Weeks, perhaps. He had lost weight since returning from New York, and spent more time by himself but, more important, he spent less time with her. They had admitted having feelings for each other in America. They had kissed. Several times.
They had kissed since, as well. At first they spent time together, but now…now Griffin rarely wanted to be alone with her, and when he was it had become painfully obvious that his mind was somewhere else.
Just smashing for a girl’s confidence, that was. Nothing like having a bloke’s attention wander when you were doing your best to divert him.
Finley had had about enough of this nonsense. There was something wrong with him and she was going to find out what it was if she had to hang him by his ankles over London Bridge until he gave in and confessed. Seeing him waste away like this…seeing him obviously suffer and not being able to help him was too painful to continue.
She went to his room as Sam had instructed, and knocked on the door. When he wouldn’t open it, she climbed out the window of her own room, eased along the narrow ledge to the first of his windows and let herself in without being invited.
He was at his desk where he had apparently fallen asleep. He appeared neither surprised nor happy to see her despite having requested her presence. In fact, he looked as though her company was the last thing he wanted, though at least he didn’t seem angry.
If he didn’t want to kiss her anymore, he should be a man and say it to her face rather than treat her like some sort of doxy. She would rather be stranded on a deserted island with Sam than have Griffin reject her, but she couldn’t stand it any longer.
“What the devil has afflicted you?” she demanded, cringing at the sharpness of her tone. She sounded just like that harpy of an aunt of his. She’d tried to be patient with him, but enough was enough. There was something wrong with him, and it scared her to death.
She hated being scared.
“I’m fine,” he replied, rather dismissively. “Just a little under the weather. You should go so you don’t come down with it also.”
Finley folded her arms over her chest. “Sam told me you wanted to see me.”
Griffin’s brows lowered over his gray-blue eyes. “No, I don’t.”
That cut. “You don’t have to be an arse about it.” Blast, she was going to cry. She’d never cried over any other bloke but him, and part of her hated him for it.
He looked defeated. Frustrated. Sorry. “Fin, that’s not what I meant.” Slowly, he rose to his feet. He walked as though each step took every ounce of energy he had. When he reached her, he put his arms around her.
He needed to bathe, and the rough stubble on his chin scratched her temple, but Finley didn’t care. She wrapped her arms around his waist and tried to ignore the fact that she could feel his ribs.
“Let me help you,” she murmured.
“You can’t, love. No one can.”
She didn’t believe that. She refused to believe it. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
He kissed her hair. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
She lifted her chin to gaze up at him. His eyes were glassy, and their embrace was less of a hug and more of her holding him upright. That was it. This had gone on long enough. If he wanted to keep secrets, he was entitled to have a few, God knows she did, but she wasn’t going to stand around and watch him fade.
“Are you dying?” she asked.
He looked surprised. “I don’t think so.” And then a shrug. “I don’t intend to.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, but if he wasn’t dying at this moment then they could still fight whatever it was that had a grip on him.
And if there was one thing Finley knew how to do, it was fight.
“Sit,” she commanded. He dropped onto the deacon’s bench beneath the window she had crawled through. She closed the curtains just in case
there was a draft. Then, she went to the small wooden box on his desk and pressed the button for the kitchen. A few seconds later a voice crackled from the horn. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Mrs. Dodsworth, this is Finley. His Grace is in need of food and lots of it. Some tea and scones, as well, please.”
“Right away, Miss Finley.” She thought she could hear the older woman smile.
With that done she then went into Griffin’s private bath. His room was decorated in shades of chocolate and cream, but his bath was much more colorful. The walls were rich cinnamon, the drapes a dark purple. Golds and reds added to the exotic feel. The tub was huge, claw-footed and equipped with a hose for a standing bath, as well. The outside of the tub was painted with colorfully adorned elephants, which he had once told her were inspired by a trip to India.
She’d seen pictures of India in a book once.
Finley turned the taps and dipped her fingers under the faucet until she was certain the temperature was right. She put the stopper over the drain and added a tiny bit of scented oil to the rising water.
She went back into the bedroom. Griffin was where she’d left him, his head against the wall. Had he fallen asleep?
The food would take a bit, so she crossed the carpet to where he sat, bent down and tucked him over her shoulder. Then, she stood.
“Fin?” he asked sleepily. “What are you doing?”
“What you haven’t,” she replied. He wasn’t the only one who could be cryptic. She carried him into the bathroom, where she set him on his feet once again and removed his dressing gown. Then, her fingers went to the buttons on his shirt.
He stared at her hands. “Are you undressing me?”
“I most certainly am.”
“I can do that.”
“Obviously you can’t—because you haven’t and you stink.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled. Was he drunk? No, she didn’t smell whiskey on him. There was a slightly sweet smell…laudanum? Didn’t he use that to sometimes enhance his abilities? Had he become dependent upon it? That would explain so much.
“Lift your arms,” she commanded, and he did. She pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor.
Griffin was nowhere near as big as Sam, and that was fine by her. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The muscles in his arms and stomach were all the more pronounced with his recent weight loss, and his ribs were like blades beneath his skin. Still, the sight of him was enough to take her breath. She wanted to trace her fingers over the veins beneath his flesh just to see where she’d end up.
She hesitated—only a moment—before moving on to his trousers. What was that saying? He who hesitates is lost? She undid the buttons. His fingers closed around hers.
“Finley.”
She met his gaze and held it.
He didn’t tell her to stop. She’d started this, and if she didn’t finish it, he wouldn’t.
She pulled his trousers down—all the way to his feet. He wasn’t wearing socks, so once he stepped out of the trousers that was it. He was naked.
Finley quickly stood up, before curiosity got the best of her. Griffin watched her, a strange expression on his face. An expression that made her tingle all over.
“Into the tub,” she instructed.
He did as he was told. She could see his vertebrae as he lowered himself into the water. He wasn’t quite skin and bones, but he’d get there soon enough.
He sighed.
Finley rolled up her sleeves and turned off the water when the tub was almost full. Then, she grabbed his soap and a washcloth and set to work. She washed his chest and his underarms, then his back. There was something terribly intimate about this moment that went beyond the fact that she wanted to crawl into the tub with him and see what happened next. She felt closer to him than she had in weeks.
There was a knock on the bedroom door, and she went to answer it. It was Mrs. Dodsworth with the food. The housekeeper took one look at her and asked, “Do you require assistance, Miss Finley?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. D. I’ve everything under control.”
The older woman smiled. “You’re a good girl, my dear. Just what His Grace needs—someone to take him in hand.”
Finley didn’t think that meant quite what came to mind.
When the housekeeper left, Finley returned to the bath, where Griffin reclined in the tub. A fine layer of suds floated on top of the water, keeping her from peeking and turning this moment into something she hadn’t intended. There’d be time for that later. Right now, she needed to wash his hair.
She poured bathwater over his head, then lathered his hair with the same soap she had used to wash the rest of him. She used fresh water from the hose to rinse it away.
There was one thing left to do. She lathered a brush with shaving soap and applied it all over the stubble on his face. He eyed her cagily, looking more alert. “Have you done this before?” he asked, wiping soap from his lips and making a face when some got in his mouth.
“Of course.” Once. She’d shaved her stepfather when he had an injured hand. He never let her do it again. She placed the edge of the blade against his neck and stroked upward. Perfect. He moved his head to give her better access, and made faces that made it easier for her to shave his face. When she was done, she rinsed the soap away and handed him a towel.
She left the room as he began to stand. “I’ll get you a fresh dressing gown.” She wasn’t certain but she thought he might have chuckled.
Finley found a dark wine velvet dressing gown in his armoire and snatched it from the hanger. When she turned to take it to the bath, she jumped.
Griffin stood before her, warm and damp, with a towel wrapped around his lean waist.
She looked down. Even his feet were perfect. Then, she let her gaze drift lazily upward, lingering on his stomach and chest. A girl could only resist so long before curiosity won.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice sounded rough. She liked it.
“You’re welcome. You should eat.”
“I will.” He took a step toward her.
Her heart began to pound. Her mouth went dry.
Another step. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his skin. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck as he closed the distance between them.
When his lips touched hers Finley dropped the dressing gown. He kissed her like he thought he might never get another chance, setting her heart pounding at a terrible pace. His other arm went around her waist, pulling her against him.
Her hands slid up his arms, curving over his hard biceps, over his shoulders and up his neck to tangle in the damp curls of his hair. If he stopped anytime soon she’d break both his arms. Her heart slammed against her ribs while other parts of her tingled and came alive with trembling excitement. Griffin was the first bloke—the only—that had ever made her contemplate doing something rash, scandalous.
They were alone in his room. This was his house. His aunt Cordelia wasn’t around and nobody cared what they did. When he touched her she wanted…
If he drew her to his bed she wouldn’t stop him. What did that say about her? Everything she’d ever been taught as a girl insisted that such a feeling was wrong— that only “bad” girls had those sort of thoughts.
But her heart didn’t care. She didn’t care. She wasn’t like other girls, would never be like other girls.
He tore his mouth away from hers, even as she tried to pull him back. “Finley, I—”
She pushed against him and kissed him again. He wasn’t stronger than her, would never be stronger than her, not physically. The lights in his room flickered, reacting to a spike in his Aetheric energy. The Victrola in the corner began to play a recording of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, music that sent a shiver down her spine.
They were moving. She held his head so he couldn’t even think of ceasing to kiss her, and now they were indeed moving across the floor toward his bed. Wait… her feet weren’t moving. How could sh
e move without her feet?
There was no floor beneath her feet. They were floating. Griffin’s power wrapped around them like a blanket or a warm breeze, and carried them toward the bed. Finley’s heart quickened. This was it. She refused to think about what could be so wrong with him that he tossed his morals aside, and kissed him as though she might never get a chance to again.
Her legs nudged the side of the bed. Her stomach fluttered.
The door flew open with a loud crash. Finley landed in a graceless heap on the bed—better than the floor— and looked up to see Griffin glaring at Sam. She glared at the behemoth, as well.
Sam didn’t apologize. Didn’t even blush. He took one look at the two of them and didn’t even seem to care that he’d interrupted something important. In fact, he looked terrified.
“It’s Emily,” he said. “She’s been taken.”
Chapter 6
Emily woke with a pounding headache.
Groggily, she put her palms flat on the floor and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her stomach rolled threateningly.
What was she doing on the floor? And why did it smell like old dirt and machinery?
She didn’t want to open her eyes. It was going to hurt when the light hit them, she just knew it. But she also knew that the stickiness on her face and temple was probably blood, and that she was probably in trouble.
She opened her eyes.
Trouble was right. She was in some sort of cell with a cool, dirt floor and rough stone walls. The door was heavy iron with little more than a square in it for looking in or out. There were no windows, just one dim light—which was the only good thing about this situation. There was a small cot made up in homey quilts that looked surprisingly cozy, and a chamber pot in the far corner.
Yet she’d been dumped on the floor like an old rug.
And there were books. Stacks of books, and bits of machinery, as though her captors wanted to keep her entertained. There was also a row of pegs on the wall closest to her, and on those pegs hung several changes of clothing—her own clothing. That wasn’t good. Clothing meant they had taken her intentionally, and that they intended to keep her for a while.