Wolfred flinched. Or was it a shiver? She couldn’t tell; it happened so quickly and was over just as fast. He pulled his hand away. “Forgive me. The scarring is sometimes . . . sensitive.”
Had he been any other man, she wouldn’t have believed him. She wasn’t an innocent; she knew when men wanted her, but this man—well, she didn’t know what to make of him. “I should apologize for being overly familiar. I’ve never met anyone who was augmented before—other than Five. I mean, Huntley.”
His brow puckered as he leaned back in his chair and crossed one ankle over his opposite thigh. “I thought the Company had been doing such procedures for years.”
“They have. I was never selected for the program. There was concern that the procedure might interfere with my agility and flexibility.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you are rather . . . flexible.”
Was that innuendo in his tone? “What do you mean by that?”
“Exactly what I said. I’ve heard tales of your daring escapades. Did you not once escape through an opening barely large enough to fit a child? In St. Petersburg, I believe.”
Claire hesitated. Should she be concerned or flattered that he knew such details? “The window wasn’t that small. I was simply fortunate that the Russian guards chasing me were on the sturdy side. But what of you? I heard you once disappeared practically into thin air while being pursued by French gendarmes.”
Wolfred chuckled. “I ducked behind a drapery and hopped up on the windowsill so they wouldn’t see my feet beneath the fabric. Then I opened the window and escaped through the back garden. Hardly the stuff of legend.”
“As uninspiring as portly Russians,” she replied with a faint smile. “How very disappointing that neither of us can live up to our reputations.”
“Speak for yourself.” His expression was all mock indignation. “I earned every accolade.”
“I won’t argue. I’ve heard what happens to people who cross you.”
He went very still. Hell. So much for a moment of easiness between them. “Yes. I can just imagine what you’ve heard about that shite. Tell me, did the Company paint me as a fool or a villain?”
She blinked. “Neither. You we [ithppere not the only one played for a fool by those two. The details of how you survived, tracked them down and apprehended both of them were recounted with respect and fear. You are something of a legend, my lord.”
He scowled. “Foolishness.”
Claire wasn’t certain what to say. She wasn’t accustomed to men who didn’t like to hear themselves praised. She was saved from having to say anything by the slowing of the train.
Wolfred consulted his pocket watch. “We’ll be arriving soon.”
When they disembarked at the station, Wolfred put a coin into an automaton torso that sat on a weathered podium. It looked like a metal man with no legs, and it had a large dial in its chest with a tarnished knob. Its right arm was raised, the hand holding the rim of a dented brass bowler hat.
Gears and clockwork parts wheezed into service, clicking and clacking. The aetheric engine kicked in as well. The metal man’s jaw dropped open with a screech. Claire cringed—it needed a good oiling. “Please dial the number of the service required,” it crackled in a heavy brogue. “Dial one for a porter, two for a cab, three for a porter and a cab. . . .” Alastair—she had to get used to thinking of him as such—turned the dial to three. The automaton responded by lifting its bowler hat to reveal a steam whistle coming out of the top of its head. It rent the air with three sharp blows. Then it ground back into its original position.
“That was painful,” Alastair remarked with a wry grin.
“Modern innovation at its finest,” Claire retorted.
His only response was a dry chuckle before a porter hurried to greet them with a luggage cart in tow.
Now they were in a richly appointed steam carriage driven by a man with an accent so thick, Claire hadn’t understood a word he said. Wolfred didn’t have the same trouble, it seemed. He even laughed at something the old man said before climbing into the cab. Porters had taken care of their luggage, carefully stacking and securing it high on the back of the vehicle.
They were alone, and entirely too close in the confined space.
Claire opened the shade to let moonlight inside. She didn’t like tiny little quarters like this. Large rooms like the train car or even the cell the Wardens put her in were fine because they were spacious enough for her to move about comfortably. This wasn’t much bigger than a closet.
“Are you all right?” Wolfred asked.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “I just wanted to see some of the countryside. I’ve never been to Scotland before.”
He glanced at the window. “Can you see much of anything?”
“No, but the moon is very pretty.”
She could feel him watching her, damn him. “What am I to call you when we arrive at our destination? If we are to be lovers, we should have a degree of intimacy, shouldn’t we? I can hardly call you Lord Wolfred all the time.”
“Many people refer to me by my title,” he said, the gravel of his voice filling the ca [illt ourriage. It was soothing. “You could call me Wolfred, or better still, call me Alastair. There will be no doubt as to the nature of our relationship, and it will lend a slightly scandalous cast to the whole thing.”
Claire raised a brow. “Using a man’s Christian name is scandalous?”
“You’re in Britain, Miss Brooks; table legs are scandalous here.”
She chuckled. “Call me Claire. Might as well if we are to be lovers.”
He leaned back against the faded velvet seat. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in his left eye, and for a moment it shone like a mirror. She envied his enhanced vision. He could see her so much better than she could see him.
“Yes, I reckon I ought. I should have a pet name for you,” he mused. “Something obnoxious that will make me sound terribly infatuated with you.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve no idea. Bunny, perhaps. Or maybe sweetling.”
Claire winced. “Surely you can do better than those, Mr. Love Cannon.”
He laughed. “I will have to put my mind to it, if for no other reason than your superior ability to come up with obnoxious and humiliating monikers.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She hid a smile and went back to looking out the window. His gaze was unsettling—it made her feel as though he could see into her soul.
They arrived at the Hart and Hound Inn shortly after two o’clock in the morning, waking the innkeeper—an ill-tempered, round little man with florid cheeks and thick white hair that stood out around his head like a cloud. His mood changed drastically when he realized his late guest was an earl who appreciated his kindness and paid generously for it.
“You gave him far too much money,” she commented over her shoulder as they climbed the stairs to their room. The staircase was so narrow, she was forced to walk in front of him.
“If it gets us a decent room with a comfortable bed and a hot meal in the morning, I don’t give a damn.”
She shrugged. “Your purse.” What was it like to have so much money you didn’t have to be careful with it? She made a decent living as a spy—a better one as an actress—but her total per annum earnings were probably on par with what he spent on shirts during the year.
“Here we are, my lord,” the innkeeper announced with a wide smile. “Best room in the house.” He opened the door and gestured for them to enter.
As she stepped over the threshold, Claire had to admit that there might be something to this overpaying business. The room was large and smelled of beeswax and lemon. Their luggage, brought up while they talked to the innkeeper, was piled neatly in the corner. The wallpaper was cream with exotic birds painted on it. The carpet was thick and soft, and the bed . . . The bed was huge.