Mission: Improper: London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy (16 page)

Gemma teased her for being provincial, but it wasn't the worldliness of the place that had her out of sorts, but the fact was that she had rarely been out and about in three years.

I'm not ready for this.

There.
That was the truth.
The crush of people unnerved her, and the dark shadows and private grottos everywhere only added to her unease.
Ever since she'd survived the ordeal that made her a blue blood, she'd been taking small steps back into a normal life, trying to pretend that everything was all right.
The Nighthawks Guild had become a home to her, and in a way she'd thought she was getting better.
She could manage small excursions away from the guild, could even view crime scenes, but the past few days at Baker Street had started the nightmares again, and desperate for some normality she'd thought that a night out with the rest of the company might improve matters.

She'd been wrong.

Instead, tonight had only revealed the truth.
Whatever was wrong with her was not going to go away so easily.
She was right back where she'd started during that first year with the Nighthawks, when every shadow made her jump and she'd suffered from her hysteria attacks.

A woman's laughter echoed nearby, and a man murmured something to her.
Something explicit enough to make Ava blush.
She stumbled away from them, trying to find the main pavilion.
Even those shadow shows would be better than this.
At least the others would be there.

A branch cracked beneath someone's foot.

Ava froze.

Then it came again, as though some large shape forced its way through the luxurious gardens.

Ava made an inarticulate sound in her throat and brandished the lacy parasol she carried.
"S-stay back!"

The shadow stilled, fading into its surroundings, until she wondered if she were imagining things.

Ava swallowed, her pulse pounding madly in her ears and a rushing sound filling them.
She was on the verge of a hysterical attack.

"It's only me," a deep, roughened voice said, and Ava nearly collapsed against the brick walls in relief.

Kincaid's hard face looked like it had been carved out of stone as he stepped out of the shadows.
She'd never thought she'd have been so genuinely enthused to see him.

"Oh, this spot's already taken," said a pouty young lady, materializing at his side and practically wrapping herself around him.

Kincaid never took his eyes off her.
Ava's corset laces dug in to her ribs, and she was fairly certain she was going to faint.

"Unfortunately, luv," he told the woman, "I seem to have remembered a prior engagement."

The woman gaped.
"What?"

"Here's a monkey," he told the brunette, slipping her a five-pound note.
"Drink's on me."

The brunette's lips thinned, and she said something as she strode away, but Ava was shaking too hard to hear it.
Don't do this
, she told her body desperately.
Not now.
Not in front of him.

Kincaid unnerved her.
He was too large, too broad-shouldered, too...
imposing.
And there was never any kindness on his face, though she'd tried to steer clear of him at Baker Street.

"What are you still doing out here?"
he growled.
"Thought you were going back in to see Gemma?"

"I just came to...
to take a walk, and I've lost my way—or maybe I deliberately wandered off the path, because I saw some sort of exotic greenhouse with these plants that I've never seen before, and I-I wanted to see if I could collect a sample.
I collect ferns you see."
Somehow her mouth was running away from her, all of the words spilling from her lips in a steadily rising stream, until she sounded almost hysterical.
"And then I got turned around...
and I couldn't find my way back, and now...
now I can't...
can't breathe..."

"You're safe now," he told her, watching her with those intense eyes.

"I can't...
I c-can't...."
Not safe
.
Never truly safe again
.
She knew the truth of that statement far too well.

Dark blue eyes smoldered down at her.
She had to look away, but as she moved, his hands came down upon her shoulders and turned her around.
Ava gasped.
Her heart was racing, and she felt like she was about to fall face-first into the greenery.

"Here," he said, and brushed the loose curls at the back of her neck over her right shoulder.
A second later there came a sharp tug, and then her bodice gaped.

"What are you doing?"
She slapped over her shoulder at his hand.

"Unlacing your corset," he replied gruffly, and resumed his task as though she hadn't protested.
"So you can breathe."

Another button popped loose on the back of her dress, and then rough fingers brushed against her exposed nape.
Ava froze, only this time, it had nothing to do with fear.

The cold steel of his mech hand brushed her skin, and another button popped loose.
Then two more.
Ava was gasping by now, but somehow the touch grounded her, made her feel less and less like she was spinning out of control.

"H-how do you know...
your way around a woman's undergarments so well?"
she blurted, then instantly recoiled.
Oh, goodness.
She'd practically handed him a sarcastic rejoinder.
Of course he knew what he was doing.
The way he'd been watching those women behind the silk screen tonight had made her almost uncomfortable, and when he'd sensed her watching him, there'd been a knowing look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry."
Stop talking, right now.
But her mouth wouldn't listen.
"Of course you know what you're doing.
You were out here alone with that woman, after all.
I'm sure you weren't just taking a stroll.
Oh, God.
Don't listen to me!
I'm just....
I d-don't—" She clapped her hands to her mouth, silently praying for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
The movement made her corset and dress sag, and she clutched at them, realizing she could catch her breath now.

Even as she felt twice as vulnerable.

A warm coat slung across her shoulders.
"Better?"

"No."
She shuddered, and somehow her hand came up and caught his when he went to remove it from her shoulder.

She could sense the hesitation in him, the reluctance.
"Please," she whispered.
And then his other hand came down upon her left shoulder, and he squeezed.
Ava let out the first full breath that she'd managed since this entire ordeal had begun.

"Sit," he suggested, and those firm hands guided her to the stone bench.

Long minutes ticked out as she sat there.
At first Ava concentrated only on breathing, on trying to regain her equilibrium.
Some part of her couldn't take her hand off his, even though it was made of metal.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispered.
Those hands slipped from her shoulders, leaving her strangely bereft of his warmth, as he settled beside her on the stone bench.

"Happen often?"

"Sometimes.
I thought I was past it.
It's...
being somewhere new, I think."

He stretched his long legs out in front of him, his hands resting on either side of his hips on the bench.
Their shoulders brushed against each other and then his hand came to settle on hers again.

Ava looked down.
His hand dwarfed hers, and his skin was so much darker than her own.
He didn't speak, which made her feel both comforted and a little out of her depth, but seemed content to remain there.

She tugged the coat tighter around her bare shoulders with her other hand.
What a mess she was, with her gown gaping and her corset awry, and her body starting to tremble as it came out of the hysteria fit she'd almost suffered.

"You don't leave the house very often," he murmured.

"It's safe there."
The words came automatically, and she cringed.
She couldn't speak of the horrors that she'd suffered through four years ago.
Couldn't even remember them without dredging up the panic that she felt.

So she mentally began counting, going up in sets of prime numbers.
And through it all, Kincaid simply sat there.

"I thought you hated blue bloods."

"I do."

Ava tugged her hand out from under his and clenched them in her lap.

"But you don't look like a blue blood," he added.
"And you don't act very much like a blue blood.
And I'm trying to come to terms with the whole bloody lot of you in the house."

"Language," she chided.

Kincaid arched a brow at her and withdrew a flask from his waistcoat pocket.
Without the coat, he looked enormous, his shirt straining over those heavyset shoulders and the muscles in his biceps stretching the white cotton.
He lifted the flask to his lips, then paused, staring at her.

"Please don't look at me like that," she whispered.

One of his eyebrows lifted.
"Like what?"

"As though I'm some foreign object you're not quite certain what to make of."
The same way that her father had looked at her when she'd vowed she wanted to enter the medical profession, or the way that her fiancé had looked at her when she'd tried to be more ladylike for him.
And then couldn't resist speaking about stupid things that ladies did not speak of in polite company.

Kincaid lowered the flask.
"I'm
not
quite certain what to make of you," he admitted, and then frowned again.
"And you were looking at me."

Ava's shoulders sank.
It was like Edinburgh all over again, like her father's home, like the entire rest of her life.
The only place she'd ever belonged had been at the guild, and the only man who ever made her feel like a normal young lady had been Byrnes.
He didn't care if she spoke too much, or had a peculiar interest in autopsies and the way the human body worked.
He'd always been interested in what she had to say, as though she were nothing out of the ordinary.

And now he was interested in someone else.

Oh yes, she'd faded into the wallpaper the second Ingrid walked into the room at Malloryn's study, and she knew it.
The worst thing was that Byrnes still treated her exactly the same, and in the past few days she'd come to the realization that whatever she'd thought had been going on between them had clearly only been in her mind.
Not his.

"Here," Kincaid said, his knees spreading so that their thighs touched as he turned to offer her the flask.
"You look like you could do with a little something."

The rich scent of whiskey hit her nose.
Ava's mouth watered, but it wasn't just for the liquor.
Something dark and heated flashed through her body as the
craving
awoke within her.

And wasn't that just the perfect end to the day.

"Sip?"
Kincaid asked, offering her the flask.

She didn't want just a sip.
She wanted to drain the whole bloody flask.
"Bottoms up," she said cheerlessly, and set about doing precisely that.

"Hey, hey, easy now."

Strong hands caught the flask and for a moment she was half turned into his chest and the suddenly quite intriguing scent of his aftershave.
Her vision changed, turning to little more than shades of black and white as the predator within her stirred.
Suddenly she could see the minute hairs on the side of his jaw, the small abrasion from his razor...
and the pulsing thud of his pulse through the vein in his throat.
Everything inside her locked on that.

"Jaysus," Kincaid muttered.
"Thought you was going to spit it all back out."

"My father's Scottish," she found herself saying as she stared at his throat.
A part of her wanted to press herself against him, to push him down upon the stone bench, set her lips to his throat, and....
She blinked as a flash of image came to her; the rich, heated taste of his blood as she suckled at his skin.
It was so intense that it took her breath away.
"I grew up sipping whiskey."