Chapter Ten

 

 

 

THERE WAS A clatter, and Ian glanced up. The copper punch cards he’d handed Lady Olivia lay scattered across the floor. The woman herself‌—‌her face pale and her eyes unfocused‌—‌swayed in her chair, looking as if she were about to join the cards. What on earth was wrong with her?

He caught her with his free arm as she slumped forward and lowered her to the floor. Setting aside the device, he pulled his greatcoat off the chair and used it to pad the floor beneath her head before returning the osforare apparatus and its punch cards to their case.

He sat down and stared at the beautiful woman who lay at his feet. Earlier, every time their eyes caught, Ian could swear he sensed a keen intelligence. But whenever he delved deeper, she quickly swept his attempt beneath the proverbial carpet with a flirtatious comment or a contrary observation. Never before had he met such a frustrating woman.

Whether she was brilliant or merely bright, he’d been mad to think he could teach her anything about bone biology in the space of one hour. Even a willing medical student would require more time to grasp the bare basics of bone physiology. Bone pathology and the intricacies of his research were far beyond her reach in the short time left to them.

He’d been encouraged by her pronouncement that she herself had designed and punched pastry recipes, but who did so using a Franconian multipunch? Then again, baking was a form of chemistry, was it not? Timing, temperature and precise measurements. If Olivia had managed to program a steambot to assemble cream cakes, then the delicacies of osteoblast transplantation ought to be within the realm of her programming skills.

Alas, she’d had a rather adverse reaction to his device.

A strong gust of wind tossed the dirigible, sending the hull into a chaotic rocking motion. Lady Olivia’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Was it the needles?” he asked.

Her eyes closed again as she pressed her palm to her forehead. “Not entirely. You did mention blood.”

This situation grew more absurd by the moment. She had tried to warn him. “I suppose that explains your aversion to men of medicine.” What was he going to do with her?

Lady Olivia’s lips curved in a smile, and her eyes slowly opened to catch his gaze. “I’ve recently reconsidered my stance.” Her index finger lifted to trace the edge of her bodice, promising that she could be persuaded to do more than simply impersonate his wife, if only he would agree to her plan.

Given the jump in his pulse, Ian’s heart clearly approved. He shifted uncomfortably upon his chair. Other parts of his anatomy agreed. He looked away. Now was not the time to allow instinct to overrule intellect. If she had any concept of how tempting the offer was, she would never relent. It would be wrong of him to yield. Very, very wrong. He needed focus, not distraction. She would be safer as his assistant in an entirely separate bedchamber.

On the other hand, if they were separated, he would not be able to protect her from other dangers. His eyebrows drew together. No. He shook his head. Her plan was untenable. As a wife she was merely another potential hostage, a tool to use against him. As his assistant, she would be by his side as he worked long hours.

Thud. Something struck the side of the gondola.

“What was that?” Lady Olivia’s voice squeaked with panic as she pushed herself onto her elbows to stare out the window.

“Flying debris, most likely.” Or so he hoped.

There was another loud thud. Ian turned. Not the best of sounds. They were in the middle of a driving snow storm some hundreds of feet from the ground, and their coal supplies were running low.

But as they stared, a small, round face appeared in the window of the dirigible’s door. A girl with dark, wide-set and angular eyes grinned back at them. Black hair flew wildly about her face. She waved a greeting then gestured at the door, smacking it repeatedly.

“How is she—‌? We’re still in the air!” Lady Olivia exclaimed.

In one smooth motion, Ian yanked open the door. Icy air whipped through the cabin as the child leapt inward, snow swirling about her feet. Behind her, a long rope stretched upward, its origin lost in the storm.

“Thank you much,” the girl said. She unclipped the rope from her harness and casually tossed it back into the storm. Ian slammed the door closed.

He stared at her, struck dumb by her unexpected arrival.

“NiHao,” the child greeted them in Chinese, bowing to each of them in turn. Though she wore a padded red silk jacket and pants, both elaborately embroidered with intertwined dragons, her feet were bare. “I am Wei. Sent to deliver you safely to Burg Kerzen.”

Returning the bow, Ian said, “I am Lord Rathsburn. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The girl laughed and her eyes sparkled. Another bright spot in all the dark surrounding the gloom of his voyage. Lady Olivia, he was surprised to realize, was the other.

“Burg Kerzen,” Lady Olivia repeated, stumbling over her skirts as she rose. “Castle Kerzen. Our destination?”

The castle in which his sister was being held. Their approach had not only been noticed but anticipated. “It is,” he said.

“We are close,” Wei announced. “But have no docking platform. The Roost it must be. It is not possible for dirigible landings. Even when weather clear. Which here seems almost never. I come to take you. Like harbor master.” With another bow, the girl ran to the console. Ian followed, watching as she made a number of adjustments.

“The Roost?” he repeated.

Fingers flying over the dials, Wei explained, “A spire. A balcony with an iron railing. Count, he insists we call it so.” Her voice sobered. “No one argues with Count.” Wei nodded and locked in the new coordinates before turning to face them. “This weather needs lowering harnesses.” To illustrate, she tugged on the leather straps wrapped about her own torso and between her legs. Then, eyeing them both as if assessing their attire and, finding it wanting, her mouth pulled once again into an adorable grin. “Saddle up!”

Ian had meant to find a field, to circle its perimeter while releasing hydrogen. Such a method of landing would have been rough in this weather, fraught with the likelihood of being smashed against a stand of trees. Best to let Wei guide them in.

Lady Olivia looked at him with panic in her eyes, and he realized dragging him level by level up Captain Oglethorpe’s loading platform had not been—‌at least not entirely—‌a method of monopolizing his time and attention.

Afraid of blood, needles and heights. The statistical probability that she was a spy was low. Given what might await them at the bottom of the rope, he was no longer certain if that was a good thing.

He grabbed his greatcoat from the floor and strapped on his sword before reaching out and catching Lady Olivia’s hand. “Come. Safety harnesses are in the storage hatch.” It wasn’t lost on him that chivalry might severely handicap him in negotiations for his sister’s release, but there was no abandoning Lady Olivia to her fate.

Eyes wide, she followed him into the engine room. “The girl, Wei, does she mean for us to…‌”

“Yes.” He held out his greatcoat. “Put this on so that you don’t catch a chill.” She swallowed, but did as he asked. Ian lifted a harness from the storage hatch. “Slide your arms through here.”

“I don’t think I can—‌” she objected.

“Then don’t think. Don’t argue. Just do as I say. Soon, we’ll be safe in a warm castle where you can use your many charms. It seems our host is a count.” He pulled the belt tight across her chest, checking the buckle twice.

“You’ve done this before?” Her whole body trembled as he pulled her arms through the shoulder straps.

Yes. As required training for a field agent position. “It’s a gear harness. A simple but effective method to lower oneself to the ground when inclement weather prevents a direct docking.” He caught her gaze and gave her a reassuring nod. “Now, you’ll have to forgive the over-familiarity of this next step. I assure you, it is necessary. Please spread your legs.”

Her eyes widened. “My legs?”

Continuing as he’d begun, Ian gave her no time to object. He knelt, reached between her ankles and under her many petticoats to grasp the leather strap that hung behind her. He drew it upward, gathering those many petticoats between her thighs, and buckled it to the strap already secured about her chest. Her face burned a bright red.

Embarrassment was preferable to panic.

In moments, he had himself similarly outfitted. “Ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“Excellent,” he replied, grabbing her hand once more. “Let’s go.”

Wei nodded at them in approval. The girl was nothing if not efficient. A neat coil of rope lay beside the dirigible’s door, secured to an iron beam with knots that would make any sailor proud. His valise and case were stowed inside a cargo net, ready to be lowered.

“Does lady have a trunk?” Wei asked, handing him two automated gear winches.

“No,” he said. “There was a mishap at the launchpad. I’m afraid that is the entirety of our possessions.”

“Good,” Wei said. “Two minutes.”

Ian clipped a winch to his harness, then turned back to Lady Olivia, clipping hers into place as well. Her breaths came in shallow pants. “Sit,” he said, gently pushing on her shoulder. Her knees buckled, and she nearly fell into the chair. “Bend over, put your head between your knees.”

“Can’t,” she exhaled. “Corset.”

Ian swore. Women’s undergarments were absurd. Still, he should have thought to loosen her laces. But to get to those laces…‌ No, there was no time for it now. “Breathe slowly.” He crouched beside her. “You cannot faint again.” He did not wish to risk lowering a limp body in this weather to an unknown platform.

She nodded, making an effort to slow her breaths.

Behind him Wei opened the door. Cold, bracing air blew inward. His belongings scraped against the edge of the doorframe as she pushed them overboard. “Listen. We’ll go down together. I’ll clip my winch to the rope, and I’ll clip yours directly above mine on the same rope. Climb on my back, like a child. Understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Not a drop of blood remained in her face.

“Ready, sirs,” Wei called.

“Use both your arms and your legs. Cling as tightly as you wish.” Ian tugged Lady Olivia onto her feet and led her toward the open door.

Wei hurried over with a rope, expertly clipping Ian’s automated gear winch in place and Lady Olivia’s above his.

The wind howled into the cabin and the gondola swayed.

“I can’t,” Lady Olivia cried. She tried to back away.

Ian caught her in his arms, pinning her hands against his chest. Grasping her chin, he tipped her face upward, locking their gaze. “We need to go. Now. We’re nearly out of fuel. Remaining aboard is not an option. I barely know you, Olivia, but I see untapped strength within. You can do this.”

Impulse struck, and he bent, catching her lips with his. He meant it to be a brief, reassuring kiss. One that would distract her from their inevitable leap into a storm. But when she melted into him, when her lips parted as if on a plea, Ian found himself drawn deeper. Angling his mouth to hers, he tasted her. Salt from her tears and a faint hit of honey.

A frisson of recognition ran through his body.

“Aiyaaa!” cried Wei. “No time for this.”

Or time to analyze his reaction. He pulled back and turned, dropping to a crouch. “Climb aboard, my lady.”

Thighs and arms wrapped tightly about his waist and chest. Her face pressed into his neck.

Wei tossed the weighted rope out the door and waited. “Ready,” she called when an answering tug came from below. “Gears set at two. Fast. But not too fast for the missus.”

Wet tears slid across his neck and dripped behind his collar. “Here we go,” he announced. Grasping hold of the winch’s handle, he jumped before Lady Olivia could change her mind.

The wind howled about him, flinging icy needles of snow at his face and hands. The rope twisted and bowed as the geared hoist lowered them downward at a swift clip. In mere seconds he could see the outline of several castle spires. The one they slid toward, a cone-shaped cap set atop a circular tower, flew a red flag. From its side, a narrow balcony protruded beneath an arched window. Their rope disappeared inside.

“Hang on!” he yelled into the wind. Lady Olivia whimpered in his ear, but her grip tightened.

As Ian’s boots hit the window casing, a sudden gust of wind slammed them into the stone wall of the tower, twisting the rope and throwing them back into the air. The automated gear winch continued to lower them—‌beyond the balcony.

Men yelled, and the rope tightened. Hands reached out, grabbing their arms, pulling them inside. At last, his feet mercifully landed on solid wooden flooring. Quickly, he released the clips binding them to the rope. Two burly men, those who had yanked them inside, threw the rope back outside and slammed the window shut against the storm.

“Good morning,” a voice greeted them in perfect, unaccented English. From a narrow doorway on the other side of the circular room, a Chinese man stepped forward. His dark hair was pulled into a severe topknot. He wore a high-collared tunic cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt over dark trousers. Below his knees, tightly fitted boots gripped his legs. An embroidered overcloak with full sleeves hung from his shoulders. A curved sword strapped to his side was the only visible weapon, but Ian knew instinctively that more blades would be hidden in various locations about his person.

Likewise, the German guardsmen at the man’s side also had various sheathed blades strapped to their sides. But no pistols.

Curious.

Lady Olivia slid from his back and moved to stand beside him. She glanced from the man to the guardsmen, and he noted the moment she observed the misshapen lumps upon their jaws. Her eyes widened as one of the guardsmen unconsciously rubbed a swelling tumor that had overtaken a finger joint on his right hand. Soon it would not bend.

Had he mentioned the tumors to her? No. She’d collapsed before he’d had the chance. Her gaze caught his, and ever so slightly, he nodded. She swallowed hard, absorbing the seriousness of the medical disaster. Two guardsmen at this point, but there would be many, many more.

With unsteady hands, she unbuckled her harness and let it fall to the ground. He followed suit.

“I am Zheng,” the Chinaman said with a slight bow. “The count’s huntsman.”

Given the man presented no visible evidence of bone tumors, Ian surmised the man held a position of honor, one that lifted him above submitting to a mad scientist’s experimentations. Ian bowed and stepped forward, but one of the two German guardsmen grasped his shoulder. “Nein.”

The other pulled Lady Olivia from his side. She cried out in protest.

“Apologies, but it is necessary,” Zheng said. “If you will spread your arms and legs, Lord Rathsburn, I’m afraid we must relieve you of your weapons.”

With a show of reluctance, he did as requested. He’d expected this, but had hoped a blade or two might slip their notice.

They took his sword from him first. Then the German guardsmen extracted a knife from each of his boots, then yanked up the leg of his trousers to find the one strapped to his left thigh. Lady Olivia’s stunned gaze raked over him, but the guardsmen had just begun. They found the one fastened at his ribs. The one tucked beneath his waistband at the small of his back. They even found the small knife built into the lapel of his waistcoat.

Satisfied, the German nodded and waved both him and Olivia forward as he lifted Ian’s luggage.

“If you’ll follow me,” Zheng said. “The count awaits you in the great hall.”

Ian held out his hand, motioning toward his case.

“Nein,” the guardsman said, narrowing his eyes and gripping the luggage more tightly. The other jerked his head in the direction of the door. It seemed they were to have a rear guard.

Like the gentleman he sometimes was, Ian held out his arm. Lady Olivia accepted, wrapping her arm about his and tipping her head up to search his face. Who are you? her wide eyes asked. He wished he knew the answer.

“Later,” he whispered as they reached a narrow doorway.

Manners warred with instinct. Reluctantly, Ian motioned for Lady Olivia to precede him. The spiral staircase beyond the door would only accommodate one at a time. Silently, they followed Zheng down many stairs and through a tangle of disjointed, interconnecting hallways.

Finally, Zheng stopped before an enormous, carved wooden door. Its hinges objected with an ominous screech as he pulled upon an iron ring.

Together, he and Lady Olivia stepped back in time, into an ancient medieval hall with an enormous, unlit fireplace. Dark beams coated with soot supported a ceiling that appeared to have once been richly decorated, but the pattern of intertwining vines and flowers painted onto the plaster was now largely lost to time and disrepair. Despite the snow storm, three tall, mullioned windows leaked a modicum of gray daylight into the room. Two brass chandeliers hung from a central beam. Though each fixture could have held twenty-four candles, only six burned. A single piece of furniture—‌an ornately carved chair—‌occupied the space.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick, yet well-groomed beard rose from the throne and strode across the room, a fur-trimmed cape swirling about his legs. Ian guessed the man to be in his fourth decade. The count wore a close-fitted military coat of scarlet, his chest crossed with a dark blue sash. Everything else was decorated with gold. Golden epaulets, golden buttons, a golden belt and gold-edged collar and cuffs. Even the multitude of metals pinned to his chest—‌suspended by multicolored ribbons—‌were golden.

Pretentions to royalty.

Hopes of negotiating his sister’s release faded in the face of such an autocratic and ostentatious display, leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

Heels clicked as Zheng and the guardsmen snapped to attention. “Graf Otto von und zu Eberwin-Katzeneinbogen,” Zheng announced. “You may address him as Count Eberwin.”

Ian doubted he’d ever manage to address the count by his full title. After the slightest of hesitations, he forced himself to bow to the man who held his sister hostage. No need for open hostility; if the count equally despised Warrick, an alliance might be forged.

Olivia performed a deep and courtly curtsey, one worthy of Queen Victoria herself.

The count’s gaze swept over her, taking in her bedraggled state with no more than a quirk of his eyebrows. “Herr Rathsburn,” he growled, fixing Ian with a glare. “Already, we have problems. Although lovely beneath her rags, you bring an uninvited guest into my home.”

With dread knotting his stomach, Ian performed an introduction. “To meet your demands, I require the help of my assistant—‌”

“Lady Olivia.” She took a step forward before Ian could stop her. She curtsied once more. “Creator and programmer of the osforare apparatus, a device necessary to assess the malfunctioning cells of your men.”

His shoulders relaxed. Not quite correct, but close enough. He’d been certain not a word of his discourse had lodged in her brain. He nodded agreement, grateful she had accepted the need for his protection. “A critical component of implementing a cure,” he said, pausing for effect. “That is, if one can be developed.”

Count Eberwin paced back and forth before her, drawing his thumb and forefinger over the length of his beard as he frowned. “I see. Lady Olivia.” He stopped directly in front of her. “Is that not the form of address the English use for an unmarried gentlewoman?”

“It is,” she answered.

Ian detected the slightest tremor in her voice, and guilt elbowed him in the stomach for putting her in this position.

“Fräulein Olivia…‌?”

“Stonewythe, Olivia Stonewythe,” she said, supplying a family name that would do nothing but chase its tail should the count choose to make inquiries.

Ian’s opinion of her rose another notch. She knew labeling herself a Ravensdale would invariably connect her to the Duke of Avesbury, a man who antagonized the German Emperor Wilhelm the First at every opportunity.

But the moment Count Eberwin scooped up Lady Olivia’s hand, pressing it between his palms, a new concern reared its ugly head. Ian did not care for the possessive light that blazed in the count’s eyes as his gaze raked over her form, taking advantage of her ruined and gaping bodice to ogle her bosom.

He’d been wrong. She might not become a hostage, but Olivia’s status as his assistant would not keep her safe from unwanted male attention. Ian’s teeth began to grind. How far would the count press his advantage?

As far as was within his power. Any man who would subject his guards to experimental bone treatments and kidnap a helpless, sick woman in order to force a man to his will was unlikely to consider anyone’s wishes but his own.

Ian stepped forward and wrapped his arm about Lady Olivia’s waist, drawing her to his side. He’d not see her molested. “My lady forgets herself,” he said. “Pardon her inaccuracy, we’ve only just married. She is now properly addressed as Lady Rathsburn. Your…‌ invitation necessitated that we advance the date of our wedding so as to eliminate the requirement of a chaperone.”

Annoyance twisted the count’s lips. “I see. Frau Rathsburn.” He dropped Olivia’s hand. “A pity.” He turned to a nearby guardsman and barked, “See my wife is informed that guests have arrived.”