“I’m going to dabble in politics,” she said. “Sir Gideon Scott is interested in several of my ideas and I…” Her heart quickened. “I admit I’ve grown somewhat excited about some of his. He’s not the fool I took him for, but he knows how far he may extend at each step.”
“It’s a dangerous path,” Lynch said bluntly.
“Less so than my previous one.” She took a deep breath. “Do you remember that boiler pack I was trying to smuggle from the enclaves?”
He nodded.
“It’s designed to power an automaton. We call them the Cyclops. They’re built large enough for a man to sit inside them and manipulate them and they’ve enough firepower to handle four of the Echelon’s metaljackets.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed on her. “How many do you have?”
“Not enough. Not yet,” she admitted. “And most likely I won’t pursue the project. You were right. This can’t be won by outright war.”
He scraped a hand over the back of his neck. “That doesn’t ease my mind one whit.”
“What would you suggest? That I pursue a hearth and home, perhaps take up knitting?”
The sudden smoky intensity of his gaze unnerved her. “That’s not quite what I had in mind. Besides, you would probably stab someone with your knitting needle.”
Rosalind couldn’t help herself. Her heart began to quicken, her fingers toying uselessly with each other. Her gaze dropped to them. Damned hands. Always betraying her. “I see. And what did you intend for me?”
“Damn it, Rosa. Do we have to be so formal?”
Again she lived in uncertainty. Looking up, she found the hard line of his jaw clenched. He had never been a man given to much emotion, but she saw it, gleaming in his pale eyes and pinched nostrils. A man holding himself so tightly he was afraid to let go.
But one of them must. Or they’d exist in this exquisite politeness until the carriage pulled up and then he would help her down and offer some platitude and she would probably accept it, watching as he left.
To take that next step scared her. But she wasn’t as afraid as she had been. She’d thought once that to love again would be the worst that could ever happen to her, but it wasn’t. To come so close to losing him had shown her how small such a fear could be.
“I waited for you for the last three nights,” she said in a small, choked voice. “I was so certain you would come for me. But you didn’t. I had to do something with my time. I was going out of my mind—”
“Hell, Rosa. I wanted to come. I thought—you weren’t there. When I turned around you’d gone and… There were things I desperately needed to take care of.”
“Oh?”
“Balfour,” he said gruffly. As she stiffened, he reached out and took her hand. “He won’t bother you again, Rosa. Indeed, he has no desire to hurt you. He’s almost as intent as I in seeing that the prince consort never hears the truth of Mercury.”
Heat flashed through her. “Why?”
“I believe he regrets what happened. No matter what you may feel, he seems fond of you and quite proud.”
Rosalind tore her fingers from his. “It’s a ploy.”
Reaching out, Lynch tried to touch her again but she was too agitated. What was he saying? That in his fury, Balfour had done something he’d regretted? She shook her head. No. He’d killed Nate and crippled her brother. That was unforgivable.
“If it is a ploy, then I am prepared for him,” Lynch said quietly. “You mentioned that he asked you to assassinate several persons for him. I would like the details, when you are ready. I want to prepare a full case against him, in case he decides to manipulate you. I’ve spoken to Barrons about it and he’s prepared to press the case for me.”
“Blackmail?” she asked, swallowing the hard knot in her throat. “I would never have expected it.”
“Leverage,” he corrected. “Balfour once said I am predictable. Maybe I was. But not anymore.” His expression darkened. “I have had enough of being manipulated by those in power. I won’t be threatened anymore—and I won’t have those I consider mine threatened either.”
The look he gave her left her in no confusion as to whom he referred to.
“And us?” she whispered. “What of us? You said—”
“I know what I said.” His face darkened, his eyes going black with heat and need. “Rosalind… When you walked into that chamber…” He shuddered, each word said so precisely that it was clear he was barely holding on. “I know what you intended. I could see it all over your face. Don’t you ever do that again.”
“What was I to do? Let you die in my place? It nearly killed me when Garrett told me what you were planning.” Everything that she’d been holding inside for the last few days boiled up. Heat raced behind her eyes. “You stupid man! You should have told me what the prince consort was demanding! I can’t believe you… You—you didn’t even say good-bye…”
She couldn’t help herself. She was so angry. Or hurt. Or…something she couldn’t quite explain, even to herself. Leaping toward him, Rosalind balled her fist and drove it into his arm. Lynch caught her wrists, dragging her forward.
“Damn you,” she snapped, then his mouth took hers and the words were lost.
She slid her hands into his hair and yanked his face closer to hers. The hard edge of violence rode him, the muscles in his arms quivering with restraint as she raked her hands down them. She didn’t want restraint. She hated it, hated the distant politeness, the way her emotions sat in a hard ball in the center of her chest. She let it all out, biting at his tongue just enough to sting.
As if the move goaded him into action, he growled deep in his throat, one hand fisting in her hair as he arched her back, his other hand grabbing a handful of her arse and hauling her closer. Rosalind’s knees drove into the hard leather seats, her skirts bunching between them as he settled her firmly in his lap. Too many damned skirts. She caught a fistful of them and wrenched them out of the way, and then she could feel the hard steel of his erection between them, separated from her own flesh by his trousers and the barest silk slither of her drawers.
Lynch swept her bustle out of the way, and then his hand drove low between the back of her legs, fingers sliding over the delicate puckered rosebud of her bottom and deeper still, where the silk pressed wetly against her flesh. Rosalind’s head spun, a gasp tearing from her bruised lips.
“Oh God,” she whispered, grinding against him. Suddenly she couldn’t hold herself back anymore. She needed to feel him against her, feel his cool-as-silk skin, taste it on her tongue. Shaking fingers found the buttons on his black waistcoat and then Rosalind was tugging, frantic in her haste, buttons tearing free from the lush velvet—hot and shivery and so close to coming apart that she couldn’t breathe.
The fingers between her thighs slid mercilessly between the thin slit of her drawers. Against her wet flesh. She groaned, grabbed a handful of his waistcoat and tore it open.
“Easy, my love, easy…”
Rosalind kissed the smile from his lips. She didn’t want easy. She wanted now. Somehow she had his shirt open and then she was dragging her mouth down his throat, her teeth rasping against the flat disk of his nipple. Lynch’s hand fisted in her hair, and he sucked in a sharp gasp. He couldn’t quite reach her now, his other hand clenching in the mound of her arse. She needed the respite. She wanted him to be with her this time, and if he kept it up, she’d have come in seconds.
Her hand slid down between them, grasping the straining length of his cock through the tight material of his trousers. Kissing her way down, Rosalind started tugging at his laces, her lips brushing through the line of hair that arrowed south from his navel…