State of time, p.12
Daring Done Right, page 12
He circled the perimeter of the building, checking windows and doors, and in a dark alley that smelled vaguely of piss, he found a loose window slit open.
He stacked abandoned crates atop one another until he could reach it, slide it farther open, and squeeze himself through the crack. On the other side, his legs dangled in the air. And electricity crackled through his veins. A dangerous drop. Did he dare? He did the math. The fall could not be too far. He’d seen nothing fatal resting below the window. A mere drop. No real danger.
He gripped the edge of the window tight, then released it. Air whistled through his hair, and when his feet hit the ground, he bent them, curved his body inward, letting his palms slap the floor with a groan. He stood, stretching his lower back, and groaned.
“God, I’m too old for that.” The reminder of his age and lessening agility did nothing to curb the smile on his lips, though.
Exhilarating. The whole damn evening. And not because of the daring. Because he was going to go up against her. Because she had opened for him, shared a bit of herself he’d never known existed, and it was like when he’d read Shakespeare and actually liked it. No going back after that. He’d never see the world or himself in the same way again, but he’d gained something he hadn’t known he needed.
Exhilarating.
He could do without the risk to his life and his family’s future. He’d promised himself to never risk that again. But he’d promised her, too. One more night. Then he could continue reshaping himself.
That Shakespeare-love hidden bit of him kept whispering, No going back.
He strode around the perimeter of the room, looking for identifiable shapes. The large space echoed with the blackness of night around him but for the moonlight pouring from the long row of windows he’d just dropped from. He walked forward with a slow, measured pace and waited for his sight to find itself in the dark. When it finally did, he whistled. Before him rose a structure like none he’d ever seen, all curved wood and glinting silver in the moonlight. It was huge, encompassing the entire warehouse from wall-to-wall, from ceiling to floor.
Russian Mountains, indeed. The contraption mimicked the sloping rise and fall of that natural formation. There seemed to be two… tracks, mirror images of one another and entirely unconnected, made of wood and bolts and metal braces. The tracks were high as the ceiling at one end and ended on the floor at the other end, the mountainous slopes beginning with extreme curves and gentling until the track straightened. The tallest point must be the beginning. Seemed absurd, but why else would a ladder be there, a platform? To climb and wait your turn, of course.
He did so, taking the rungs of the ladder slowly, counting each one as he rose higher and higher until he could pull himself up on top of the platform.
“A cart?” A cart with wheels set into the grooves of the track. Ah. Everything became clear now. He set a palm to the top edge of the cart nearest to him and smoothed it around the corner. “You sit in here, and someone gives you a push. Then gravity does the rest of the work.” He snorted. A tame dare after all. One merely had to sit and enjoy the ride.
Except…
For the darkness.
And the experimental nature of the design. Hadn’t Lady Sarah said no one had yet ridden it? Did that mean it was not yet ready to be enjoyed? Safely. What happened at the bottom of the track? Had Clarke built in a stopping mechanism of some sort?
A light glimmered down just as the sounds of feet and voices filled the air.
“Just a moment. Be patient.” Sarah’s voice. “I saw Mr. Clarke work the mechanism last time I visited. You’ll marvel at it. He’s used the same piping system to carry the gas as the theaters do. Ah. Here it is.”
Then light swallowed up the moonlit dark. The flicker of gas lamps turned the fairy tracks of gleaming silver into works of art, twists and turns, a marvel of engineering.
Even more to marvel at—gas lamps in the warehouse. He’d seen them in theaters, a circus, but he’d not considered the practical implications of such a means of lighting for a man like Mr. Clarke, rumored to work on his inventions all day and all night.
“Lord Flint? You beat us here!” Sarah stood below wearing a wig, mask, and powder. Her two wigged friends stood by her side, and a collection of gentlemen gathered behind them.
Xavier wrapped his hand around the railing that surrounded the platform and yelled down. “Too slow, Dare Queen.”
“Not when it matters most.” He could not see her features clearly, but surely, they drew into a smirk. “Come down so we can properly begin.”
Clarington sauntered up beside Sarah, leaned close, towering.
She looked up at the other man. Did she smile?
Xavier stomped toward the ladder, fighting the jealousy growing like unwanted ivy in his chest. Clarington and Sarah stood before one another, adversaries facing off. But Xavier was Sarah’s rival, the only man she should duel with, the only one who could meet her in a challenge.
He didn’t want another man to be her enemy? Ridiculous to covet such a role.
He descended more recklessly than he should have, skipping several rungs at a time and, when close enough to the floor but not quite a safe distance, he wrapped his boots around the outside of the ladder’s poles and loosed his hands, letting his body fall until he hit the ground with a hard thud. The impact jarred through his bones and vibrated his very teeth, and he tried to leave some of his jealousy, irrational as it was, behind him, embedded in the warehouse floor.
He found Sarah’s side in few strides, but he could not do as he wished and cup her hip in his hand to show Clarington who she belonged to.
He glared.
Clarington cocked a brow.
“You’re far too close to the lady, Clarington,” Xavier said. “I suggest you embrace space immediately.”
“Lord Flint?” Sarah cast her voice lower than it was, a tone he’d noticed she always used when donning the wig.
A tone of shadows that sent a shiver down a man’s spine, made him think of—
“Lord Flint,” she said, louder this time. “Are you well?”
No. He did not appear to be.
“I’m fine,” he barked. “How should we do this?”
Sarah smiled sweetly. “Lord Flint, will you join me for a moment?” She nodded to a far corner, then glided that way, not checking to see if he followed.
He did. She drew him all the way across the room with ease.
Once there, her hands found her hips and her ire found her lips, thinning them. “Are you quite done bellowing?” She kept her voice low as the lamplight.
“I wasn’t bellowing.”
“Ha! They likely heard you three warehouses down. All the way across the Thames, even.”
“Clarington was too close to you. I don’t like him. You should give him a lecture about being a slimy son-of-a-bitch.”
“Xavier.”
“Language. I know.” But he grinned, wanting a lecture of his own. When had he begun to enjoy them?
She tapped his forearm. “We are both too good to let Clarington rattle us.”
Was that… was that pride blooming in his gut? As if he’d become a damn garden and she the sun? She’d said we. She’d included him in her estimation of intelligence, and now he had to prove her right, live up to her expectations.
He lifted his chin and straightened his coat. “Absolutely right.”
A whistle from across the room.
They looked over.
Clarington yelled, “Are we to race or have a chat and a spot of tea?”
Xavier raised a brow. “Want me to hit him?”
“Perhaps later,” Sarah said. “He’s right. We should return.”
Yes. Finish the dare. Keep her safe. Find a way to make up for his false words, then they were done. They would only see each other in passing after they left this warehouse. He rubbed his chest. Ached a bit. Odd.
“Xavier,” Sarah hissed. “Are you well? You’re frowning again. Thought I’d fixed you.”
He rocked onto his heels, then his toes as the knots in his belly unraveled and dissolved. “What’s the dare? The specifics, so we can tell Clarington.”
She looked at the mountains of steel and wood beside them, tapping her chin. “The race will start at the bottom of the ladders. We’ll climb to the top, jump into the carts, and ride down. I’ll bet on myself. You, I assume, will bet on yourself, and we’ll let the fellows bet as they like. Mr. Franklin always likes to bet someone will break a leg. No one has yet, but he’s ever hopeful.”
Xavier eyed the mountain beside them. “Someone might this night.”
“Pishposh.” But her voice hesitated, wavered. “Mr. Clarke seemed quite confident it was ready.”
“It had better be.” He didn’t relish the thought of broken bones. Or worse. He shook his head. “It might not be enough for your… cause. You might not win enough. Even from this.”
Her face fell into a thousand shadows not cast by the gas lamps. “It will have to be. It’s all I have.”
The vague ache in his chest widened into a gaping canyon, dark and lethal, and holding all the howling shadows of her face. He had to fix it. He owed her.
“I’ve an idea,” he said. “Let’s work together.”
“Together? How so?”
“Still a competition, a race, naturally. But if I win, I’ll give your Sharptons the money. That way, no matter the outcome, they win, which is the purpose, after all. Unless of course Mr. Franklin’s right, then perhaps we should take whoever breaks their leg to the hospital. Unless you can fix up such an injury yourself.”
“You’ll… you wouldn’t. You’d help me?”
“I would. I have to. I should not have said those things to you. Consider this my apology.”
“I… I…” She had no words, but the shadows lifted from her face, replaced by an entire, blinding bloody sun.
He went stiff, looked away. “I see I’ve achieved the impossible—dulling your sharp tongue entirely. From rapier to butter knife.”
“You’ve apologized already.”
“Not enough.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He waved off her gratitude and mumbled, “I rather like butter.”
A tiny gasp that reasserted the chaotic energy between them.
He grinned and backed toward the waiting group. He would make it better.
She nodded, then she stilled and blinked. “The door was locked when we came in. Georgiana picked it open. How did you…?”
He winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He left the room whistling and ready to win. For her.
Chapter Twelve
It was darker, almost pitch black, near the back end of the warehouse where the gas lamps flickering light did not reach. Sarah shivered in the shadows as she took position in front of her ladder. She tossed a glance at Xavier, or rather his outline in the shadows. He flashed a grin of bright white teeth at her, and lightning skittered between them, an understanding that settled like a current beneath Sarah’s skin. No matter the outcome tonight, she won and so did the Sharptons, all thanks to Xavier. She felt gratitude to The Brute? Yes. More shocking still, he deserved it.
“Thank you,” she mouthed at him.
His teeth flashed again, a grin not even the dark could hide.
“Ready?” Clarington hissed from behind them.
“Yes,” they said together.
Clarington paused, lifting his arms high and looking toward the crowd of onlookers positioned near the sloping end of the mountains’ tracks. Then he dropped them. “Go!”
Sarah reached high and lifted a booted foot onto the second rung. Xavier possessed more strength than she did, but with her smaller body, she could perhaps use speed and dexterity to her advantage. He’d promised her the prize no matter what, but she still wished to best him. She climbed the ladder two rungs at a time, finding a swaying rhythm to lend momentum to her movements. She grinned, exhilaration coursing through her as she rose quickly and easily. Over halfway now. Two thirds. She rose high. Don’t look down. Almost there…
“Oh!” Her lower body jerked to a stop when it should have sailed smoothly upward. She looked down, and a moment of vertigo made the ground fall away, made her heart stutter. She grasped the ladder with tight fingers and pressed her eyes closed, then she took a deep breath and released one hand, reached down, and tugged her skirts.
Stuck. She tugged harder. The ladder shook. She yelped and grasped the ladder with both hands once more.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Flint’s voice from above.
She swallowed and looked up. All her daring had drained from her body, and it took every bit of courage she had to merely tilt her head back.
He peered down at her, and concern drenched his face as heavily as the moon-lit shadows did.
“I’m stuck.” Her voice a weak whisper. “And when I tug at it, the ladder shakes.” She slammed her eyes closed. “I’m such a ninny.”
“Open your eyes, Sarah.”
No. She could not. She’d just stay right here for all eternity. Wasn’t too bad. Rather comfortable in a hanging-on sort of way.
“Open your eyes now, Queenie. C’mon.”
Had the moonlight turned his gruff voice to liquid gold? How could it wrap around her like a blanket, soft and warm and offering nothing but the strongest protection? His voice sounded like what it must feel like to have his arms wrapped tight around her.
She opened her eyes, found his as soon as she did.
He grinned. “There you are. Now, the logical thing to do is—”
“Descend the ladder.”
His grin expanded into a smile that lit up the night and popped a dimple into his right cheek. “Precisely. Knew you knew. Go on, then.”
What a dimple. How had she never seen it before? Had he manifested it just to distract her from her fear? She shook her head to ward the sight off like an unwanted ghost. It might just haunt her like one, too. Then she took a trembling step down, placing her boot on a lower rung, then another, and another, until she found the rung where her skirts had snagged tight on a bolt.
“Ah.” She breathed out a loud exhalation. “Found it.”
“You’ll have greater stability if you put your arm between the rungs, hang on to a high one from above with your elbow.”
She did so and saw she had greater purchase and strength using her entire forearm instead of just her fingers.
She darted a grin up at him. “Thank you.” The expression of gratitude came out breathy. From the work. Not from the dimple.
“What the devil is going on up there?” Clarington called out. “This is supposed to be a race. Are you helping her, Flint?”
“Quiet, Clarington,” Xavier barked. “I’ll do as I please.”
And it pleased the Dare King, it seemed, to help her. Due to some miracle, they’d turned partners.
She loaded her weight into her hooked arm and released the other hand to free her skirts.
“There! I’ve done it.”
“Get up here, then. The race needs to be close. It’s the best way. It’s no fun if I beat you easy.”
She scrambled up the ladder, minding the bolts this time, and soon joined him on the platform.
She turned and looked over the railing into an almost near darkness that dropped heavily into nothingness. She quickly closed her eyes. “So high up.”
He chuckled, the sound ringing nearer her ears than she’d thought, and in the dark, a heavy weight settled against her back, almost touching, no consuming her. “Never would have guessed you’re scared of heights.” He leaned forward, wrapping his hands around the railing on either side of her, his body enveloping her.
She whirled around to face him and opened her eyes. “I’m not scared! And what do you think you’re doing?” She didn’t try to escape, though. “You can’t be so close to me. What if they see?”
His nose hovered mere inches from her own, and his lips commanded her attention as they twisted words into being. “I am assuring myself you’re well after that little ordeal. We’re nothing but vague shadows up here. No lights. No windows on this end. Those boxes over there partially block their view. Now… are you well?”
She nodded, throat dry.
“Unharmed?”
She nodded again. “And grateful. I think perhaps I’d like to give you something. In thanks.” Her lips spewed nonsense, and her heart had never fluttered quite so fast. She’d ask Mr. Sharpton about it later, inquire as to its cause in the pages of her medical tomes.
“What boon will you give me, Sarah?”
“A kiss. For good luck.” Her voice breathy and unrecognizable in the dark space between their bodies.
He dipped, and the tip of his nose grazed her own. “Need luck that badly? That you’re willing to kiss me?”
She snorted. “Not luck for me. Luck for you.”
Then she kissed him. Oh, pure folly, certainly. She did not care. The faint taste of champagne lingered on his lips, and the kiss seemed, like that drink, a concoction brewed to intoxicate her. One of his arms moved, and he pressed his hand into the small of her back, pushing until their bodies met and mingled as closely as their lips, their breath.
She’d thought the rush of daring had made her feel alive. She’d thought the precariousness of her position on the ladder, skirts stuck, body dangling from a single hand, had pumped fear through her body.
But neither experience compared to the kiss. It flooded her with life and fear in equal measure. It was the most daring thing she’d ever done—kissing a man who hated her, whom she hated.
“Madness,” she breathed. “We hate each other.”
“But we love this.” His voice a wanton whisper against her ear as a large hand moved slowly lower from the small of her back to—
She yelped, squeezed her eyes closed against the onslaught of delicious pleasure his hand on her arse gave her. He placed a kiss against her cheek. She swallowed hard, tilted her head to give him more room to explore the sensitive underside of her jaw, the tingling lobe of her ear.
