Wilder's Mate (17 page)

The butter was cool, as was the milk for tea. Harland’s icebox system was one of his many accomplishments. The use of the largest local resource—the ocean and its salty water—combined with an ingenious extraction and circulation pump, well it worked quite well. He was proud of it.

Setting the dishes on the table in front of the windows, he wondered what Flavia would think about it.

Then she walked in and he forgot everything he’d planned on asking her.

Glowing skin, hair soft and falling down a little here and there—she was a vision from his dreams.

Her smile lit a fire in his breeches, an occurrence that seemed to be part of his every waking minute since she’d stepped onto Roman Rock and back into his life. Even in the more casual attire she’d chosen, she was the answer to his every sensual dream.

He had a very difficult time not going to her, stripping her free of those clothes and taking her all over again on the Axminster rug. Perhaps from behind again, her buttocks white and round, begging for the touch of his hand, his mouth, his teeth—

“Oh, lovely. Tea. Just what I need.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly a rousing endorsement for sex on the carpet. He gave himself a mental smack and just smiled. “I’m glad. We need to discuss some matters.”

“Yes. The plan.” She seated herself and glanced out of the window. “It’s very thick, isn’t it? The fog?”

He didn’t even bother looking, just set the toast rack near enough for her to reach and popped a small spoon into the marmalade jar. “Not unusual for this time of year. It may clear later, if the wind picks up a bit.”

Such mundane conversation, he mused. As if they hadn’t been naked and intimate such a short time ago.

“So tell me.” She bit down on a slice of toast. “You want to recreate Icarus.” He nodded. “I do. That’s the first part of the plan. Simultaneously, I want to spread the word of what we’re doing.”

She tilted her head and watched him as he poured the tea. “How? Why?”

“The how is easy.” He gestured to the communications machine. “I’ll simply send a message to a few friends that you’ve honored me with your presence and that we’re working together on an exciting project you’ve developed.”

“And rumors will spread.”

“I hope so.” He nodded again. “The only person whose attention will be thoroughly intrigued should be the person who knows what
you’ve
been creating. Anybody else will simply think it’s just another scientific collaboration and not devote much interest to it.”

“It’s bait, isn’t it? Designed to lure the thief here perhaps?” Approvingly, Harland smiled. “Yes. You’re quick to grasp the implications. Whoever stole your Icarus sample will wonder if we’re making more.”

She held up a hand. “There’s more to it than that. Whoever stole it has a piece roughly an ounce or so in size. He’ll try and duplicate it, of course. And that will be a futile endeavor.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t remember the
exact
measurements. My discovery of Icarus was—how can I put this—serendipitous?”

“You mean it was an accident?”

She sighed deeply. “Yes. Completely by accident. I wasn’t paying much attention since my attempts to create a wax additive weren’t paying off. I recall stirring in a little cedarwood essence to add a fragrance.

Then I wiped off my worktable and probably got a little more dust and scrapings into it than I’d originally planned. I did sneeze too.”

“Oh good God. Don’t tell me that nasal effluvia is essential.” She grinned. “No. But my sneeze lifted some vaporous dust, drifted it around and into the mixing dish I was using at the time. All these circumstances combined together and when I looked back at my compound, it was congealing into the form you saw.” She rubbed a hand over her nose in frustration at the memories. “Even then, it wasn’t until I had it in my hand…I was staring at it and wondering what on earth had gone wrong. I sighed and—”

“It elevated.”

“It did.” She shrugged. “I can’t begin to describe my surprise.”

“The exhalations. The contents of your breath. Gases caused a reaction.”

“That was my assumption, yes.”

“Good. I probably have the ingredients we’ll need.” He nearly rubbed his hands together in enthusiasm, but managed to restrain the impulse.

“Don’t get too excited. I’ve tried for so long to duplicate it. I’ve had no success whatsoever.” Her mouth turned down.

“Never underestimate the power of two heads, which is, as they like to say, sometimes better than one.”

She flicked him a mildly irritated glance over the rim of her teacup. “I made the damn stuff. If I can’t do it again, I’m not sure how having you hovering over me is going to help matters.”

“Testy.” He grinned.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to be. But you’ve arrived at the point where my frustration knows no bounds.”

“We’ll take it step by step. I’ll sneeze if I have to.”

“Gracious. Why didn’t I think of that?” She raised an eyebrow dryly.

“Trust me, Flavia. Between the two of us, we should be able to succeed.”

“And if we do, then what?”

“Then…
then
we hope the lure of more Icarus, or perhaps the idea of a written formula, will be sufficient to entice your thief.”

Their love rides on a spring and a prayer…

Wild Cards and Iron Horses

© 2010 Sheryl Nantus

During the recent Civil War, a soldier risked his life to save Jonathan Handleston—and lost. With the help of an advanced metal brace on his crippled hand, Jon now travels from one poker tournament to the next, determined to earn enough money to repay the man’s debt.

Prosperity Ridge is supposed to be the last stop on his quest, but his brace is broken and he needs an engineer to repair the delicate mechanisms. The only one available is Samantha Weatherly, a beautiful anomaly in a world ruled by men.

Sam is no fool. Jon is no different from any other gambler—except for his amazing prosthetic.

Despite a demanding project to win a critical contract to develop an iron horse, she succumbs to the lure of working on the delicate mechanisms. And working with the handsome Englishman.

Like a spring being coiled, Samantha and Jon are inexorably drawn together. Sam begins to realize honor wears many faces, and she becomes the light at the end of Jon’s journey to redemption. The only monkey wrench is Victor, a rival gambler who will stop at nothing to make sure Jon misses the tournament.

Even destroy Jon’s and Sam’s lives.

Warning: Contains crazed card games, gears and springs galore and a wild ride that’ll have you
panting at the end of the book.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wild Cards and Iron Horses: Sam looked down at the brown paper parcel, shaking her head as if waking from a dream. “Oh, yes.

Your brace is repaired.” She went to the half-wrapped bundle and began pulling the paper off. “I intended to come over to Mrs. McGuire’s and meet you there.” The words rushed out like an oil leak. “Of course, then we would have had to come back here and do the fitting. I don’t think Mrs. McGuire would let me go up to your room and allow us to complete our dealings there.” She felt the tingling down her spine, settling in her stomach with a butterfly’s flutter.

Jon got up from the stool, now steady on his feet. Taking his jacket off, he draped it over the stool and began the now-familiar routine of disrobing in front of Samantha, who diverted her eyes, as was proper. A few minutes later, he walked over to the table. Jon leaned over it, his upper body totally bare.

She pulled the last piece of parchment off the metal brace with fumbling fingers. “Do you need my help to adjust…?” The words trailed off as she studied his bare chest, the light furring of dark hair a stark contrast to his fair skin. The trail led down to his bellybutton then lower, dipping into the darkness below his belt buckle. “The brace is very comfortable,” Sam murmured.

Jon leaned into the brace, flipping the clamps that attached it to his upper and lower arm muscles. The strap went across his chest, the well-worn leather pulled tight with the buckle pressing against the red indentation on his skin.

She watched, fully transfixed as he slipped the belt tail through a holder, laying it flush with his chest.

The leather edge flapped against his skin, eventually snuggling safe into place.

He turned to look at her, grinning. “‘Comfortable’? Did you try it on?” She let out a light hiccup, intently studying a knothole in the tabletop to avoid his gaze. “I felt it was important to see if the device worked as required, specifically the fingers. So I needed to wear it to be sure.” Sam looked up, just slightly, staring at his muscles twitching and shifting in the metal brace.

“Ah.” Jon flexed his fingers, watching the little finger curl and uncurl on command. “As good as new.” He tilted his head to one side, still smiling. “How did you like wearing it?”

“An amazing invention.” The words tumbled out, her internal voice shouting for her to calm down and stop babbling like a young girl on her first social outing. “I would have loved to have seen its construction. I would recommend, however, that you contact the manufacturer and ask if they could provide you with some emergency replacement pieces for the future. Improvisation can only go so far, and while I enjoyed working on you…on it and would do so again in a minute, I think…” She was breathless, her last words coming out in a whisper. Her eyes dropped down to study the knothole again. Surely she had made enough of a fool of herself that he would have nothing else to do with her now.

Jon put his shirt on, shrugging the fabric over his broad shoulders and the brace. “An excellent repair job. And I’ll follow up on your recommendations. They’re preparing to make it available to more people.” He flinched, fumbling with a button. “A sad reality of armed conflicts is that innovation tends to follow in order to deal with the results of such.” Jon glanced over at her father and Gil, the two eagerly finishing off the last of the tarts. His voice dropped, almost to an intimate whisper. “Have you considered getting an artificial arm for your father?”

Sam took a step back, folding her arms in front of her. This was an old argument with a new opponent. “Father’s too proud for that, at least right now. Besides, it would be too much money.” She shrugged, meeting his gaze head-on. There was no use in mincing her words. “As you may have noticed, out here things are much more expensive than they are on the coast. While we can produce our own food and items to a degree, we still need to import much more than we can make ourselves. Including such luxuries as artificial limbs and the means to fit and maintain them. And everyone wants to make a profit.”

“I have noticed that.” Jon nodded. “I do think you should think about it. The science, the people I have seen in England, they would make his life much more comfortable.” He curled his fingers into a fist, the metal bands pulling the slender digits inward. “But I would understand if he chose not to, for his own reasons and not financial ones. I often wonder about my own decision.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad you decided to keep your hand.” Sam took the crippled right hand and pressed it between her own two warm palms.

Looking up, she saw a matching smile. The deep blue eyes locked with her own for what could have been a minute, an hour…

“This pastry is delicious,” her father roared from the other table. “I’d forgotten how good. We need to order from them more often.”

The shock startled Sam out of her reverie and she moved back a few inches, releasing Jon’s hand. He let out a low sigh at her withdrawal, sending her pulse racing.

“Yes, the bill. The bill.” She went to the other desk and picked up a piece of paper. “We have an itemized bill here for you, Mr. Handleston.” Sam cleared her throat, making one last attempt to be as professional as possible. “I think you’ll find our rates are quite reasonable…” She paused, seeing his wide smile, the softness in his face bringing unbidden tears to her eyes.

“What you’ve done for me is priceless, Miss Weatherly. And I thought I told you to call me ‘Jon’.” He took the page from her, scanning down the columns. “Everything seems reasonable, more than.” His good hand pushed into one of the waistcoat pockets. “Unfortunately, I don’t have enough on me at the present to pay.” Jon put up a hand. “But I do have an account at the bank, my dear lady. I don’t carry around large wads of cash, no matter my profession.”

“Good idea.” Her father glanced over, a trace of raspberry jam on the edge of his mouth. “Why don’t you accompany him to the bank, my dear, and simply deposit it to our own account? That’ll save an extra trip for everyone.” He nodded to Jon. “I trust you to escort my daughter, sir. At least to the bank,” her father added with a hint of laughter in his eyes.

“And I shall.” Jon bowed slightly, returning the wide smile with interest.

Sam rolled her eyes. When it came to affairs of the heart, her father was about as subtle as a runaway steam engine. After walking into the back room, she emerged with a delicately made shawl, a cream-colored piece of whimsy that somehow fit with her work shirt and her dark blue jeans. The shocked looks when she re-emerged banished all doubt she had about buying the shawl only a few weeks earlier in an impulsive moment.

“Shall I pick up something for later on?” She let out a laugh, seeing the mess the two men/boys had made on the worktable.

One raspberry tart had been cleanly dissected, the fruit scooped out with fingers and spread across most of the daily newspaper, while the chocolate creampuffs had exploded over both faces.

“Uh…maybe not for me.” Her father wiped the edge of his mouth with a finger and licked it clean.

Gil let out a moan, clutching his stomach. “And I think Gil here needs a bit of a lay down.”

Sam nodded. “There’s some baking soda in the cupboard if you need to mix something up.” Turning to Jon, she gestured towards the door. “The bank should be open for another hour or two, but we should hurry.”

“Take your time coming home,” her father called after them. “Maybe stop for a cup of tea or something. No rush.”