The Twisting (10 page)

He stopped before her, sweeping off his top hat. “My dear Miss Masterson. This is the last place I expected to see you.”

The words were stiff, formal, and didn’t quite ring true for the man she remembered. She noted his narrowed eyes studying her, how thin and tight his lips stretched and the erratic pulse flickering above his collar.

Lord forbid, he was as determined as she’d ever seen him.

When his hand extended, her stomach roiled. Annmar didn’t want to offer hers, but was unsure how to refuse. She hadn’t worn gloves since she’d arrived, but he was, thankfully, their color matching his waistcoat. His firm grip swallowed her hand and made the knots in her stomach tighten.

“Good day.” She didn’t add the
sir
. She was no longer in his employ. Neither did she respect him anymore.

He gave a tight laugh. “If it can be a
good day
in the wilds of Blighted Basin.” His lips curled in disgust as he cast a look around. “I nearly didn’t recognize you in these clothes, or with your hair down.” Without dropping her hand, he raked his gaze slowly over her body.

Annmar tugged her hand loose and crossed her arms, suddenly feeling naked without her corset. Darn that Mary Clare for talking her into wearing only the camisole under her shirt, but at least the sturdy bib rose over her bosom. Not waiting to see if his gaze had even returned to her face, she feigned a demure look away, searching for escape. Unfortunately, the bunkhouse doors were closed again. The house, behind her, was a better goal.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Visiting an ill relative?”

That explanation would be easy to agree to, but who knew what suggestion he might make? He might offer to pay for a nurse or accompany her back to Derby. Besides, she wanted him to know the truth. She turned back to gauge his reaction. “I work here.”

His eyes widened, his nostrils flared. “Work? Here? You must be kidding. I’ve lost my best illustrator to this…establishment.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Miss Masterson, whatever she’s paying you I’ll gladly double.” His next move came as if on a playhouse cue: Mr. Shearing reached into his inner pocket for his wallet.

She shook her head, despite knowing it would do no good.

“You’re the best illustrator in Derby, all of the Midlands for that matter. Name your price.” He fanned out five- and ten-pound notes, waiting.

A fortune lay in that bit of folded leather. She squeezed her eyes shut, not daring to even consider speaking, for it appeared any figure she named, he would present—

A whistle came from above them.

They jerked around. The carriage driver had twisted in his seat, craning his neck to stare at them. “That’s a load o’ notes. Won’t earn that workin’ anywhere in the Basin, not even if you took to drawin’ mythical fungals and sayin’ you saw them. I’d take the lot, if I was you, miss.”

Annmar slapped a hand to her mouth and spun away, heated embarrassment a lesser factor than the sheer relief of the interruption.

“Excuse me,” roared Mr. Shearing. “This is a private conversation.”

She took a step toward the house. With Mr. Shearing distracted, she could get away cleanly, or at least get closer to where someone inside might hear her call.

chapter ELEVEN

Behind Annmar,
the driver cleared his throat. “You ’bout ready to go, then? Sir?”

“I am not,” Mr. Shearing said. “Meet me at the inn with my bags. I’ll have your pay.”

Annmar quickened her strides. All the pieces fell into place. Mr. Shearing was the inventor Mistress Gere had tracked down, the one who had a solution to the pest problem, offering sales of machines that might spare Wellspring and other farms in the Basin.

He caught up, clasped her hand again and slipped it into the crook of his arm, putting his other gloved hand atop her suddenly clammy fingers.

Flashes of Paet’s big hands grabbing her arms pelted Annmar. With her head back in that horrible nightmare of the ropen holding her so tight she couldn’t get free, she stumbled along while the carriage pulled out, slowly circling the farmyard and heading down the drive. She’d never seen the carriage that night. She’d seen nothing after Paet hit her, dragged her… She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain.
It’s only a terrible memory now
.
I’m safe.

Annmar stopped and pulled free, her gaze locked on Mr. Shearing’s gloved hand.
Golden
kid gloves. Mr. Shearing was wearing a color other than his trademark green. His famous business emblem did not grace this coat. Her hand flew to her mouth. It
had been
Mr. Shearing’s scarred hand Jac had seen—he’d been in the carriage Mary Clare had told her about the night Paet hurt her. He had hired the ropens to kidnap her.

A chill ran down her spine, sending a shiver over her.
Mercy
.

Mr. Shearing had been relentless making his indecent offers in Derby, but she’d never imagined he’d be involved in such nefarious activities. Had he searched for her? Or had he just seen her while conducting his other business…which was what exactly?

She glanced over the cream-colored suit again. If Mr. Shearing had deliberately changed his famous appearance to conduct business with Basin dwellers, he had to be hiding something. She couldn’t accuse him of anything until she knew more. “How is it that you’ve come to be here?” she asked.

One brow rose with his smug smile. “I might ask you the same question.”

He knew she belonged here. She didn’t dare play his game and inquire further. She didn’t need to. She squinted, focusing with her Knack and trying to see an underlying ’cambire. Nothing appeared. Maybe because she hadn’t had enough practice with her Knack, but perhaps he was a Knack-bearer, like Mary Clare and Mistress Gere. Or was he a stranger magical sort like Old Terry? Daeryn hadn’t said whether he thought Old Terry was dangerous, but clearly he didn’t like what she’d done. Like the hedge-rider, Mr. Shearing thought nothing of controlling people.

Even stooping so low as to try to have her kidnapped.

Having failed, would Mr. Shearing use his Knack on her…and would she even know if he did?

His smile broadened. “Your parents are from here, or one at least, so you share my origins. I knew an artistic talent like yours could only hail from the Basin.”

So he’d known about her Knack before she did. A shiver ran down Annmar’s spine. In Derby, she’d known going against the industrial magnate would be difficult, yet she’d never imagined he’d seek her out. Mr. Shearing was vile and dangerous, and Annmar wanted nothing to do with him.

“Imagine what we could do together with our combined Knacks,” Mr. Shearing murmured thoughtfully.

It was Annmar’s turn to raise a brow. “Indeed?”

Mr. Shearing lifted a gloved finger. “I already consider you a key to my success, an adviser, if you would. Your drawings can win over a wider clientele than I’m able to do with my talent. I’ve long wanted to expand beyond the people who grow their own food, but it hasn’t been possible for me to do so. You can bring the others in.”

What in heaven’s name was he saying? He had a Knack that influenced farmers and growers? In what way?

Mr. Shearing captured her hand once more and tucked it to his elbow again. “Accompany me into Chapel Hollow.” He pulled her along as he strolled down the drive. “We’ll talk over lunch.”

Her head spun, fighting off the images of Paet again. She had to say something…something that wouldn’t land her in trouble until she had her wits about her again. “I’ve eaten.”

“Drinks—tea, then.”

“I’m working.” That was a good excuse. She gestured to the farmhouse. “Mistress Gere expects me back inside.” Like the day she’d arrived, the farmyard was deserted, but now that she was an employee, she knew they’d hear if she banged on the door. Or screamed.

“A few minutes won’t matter. And I’m sure it would concern your employer greatly to have her purchase of Eradicators fall through, especially considering the severity of Wellspring’s infestation. Don’t you agree, my dear Miss Masterson?”

Annmar stifled a gasp. He’d cancel the sale. She couldn’t be the cause of another disappointment for Mistress Gere and her plans to save Wellspring—especially not after firing the ropens had left the farm shorthanded. Though Annmar hadn’t seen his Eradicator, or drawn it, other Basin farmers had had some success with the mysterious machine.

Before she realized his intention, Mr. Shearing had veered them around the side of the house. “Join me for dinner.” He smiled down at her, his fingers stroking the back of her hand.

The sensation made her skin crawl. His touch had always made her uneasy, but today it was worse, muddling her thinking. She was too warm, and her stomach weighed more heavily with each exchange that didn’t remove her from this dangerous situation.

When another pass of his hand left her skin positively itching, she glanced down. He’d removed his gloves. She yanked free and backed away from him. Why had he suddenly bared his hands? “No, thank you.”

“You still look like the same girl.” His smug smile returned. “Woman, I mean. Are you?” His wide eyes bored into hers, his pupils dilating as he leaned forward.

Annmar forced a light laugh and glanced around. “Of course I am.”
The same one refusing you.
Her gaze returned to Mr. Shearing. Another shiver coursed through her. The way his eyes hungrily undressed her was just as disturbing here as it had been back in Derby. At least there, he’d kept a proper distance. It took every ounce of willpower Annmar had to plant her feet and stare back, something she never would have done before leaving the city.

Before she realized his intention, Mr. Shearing smoothed a hand over her shoulder and neck to tilt her face upward. He studied her with narrowed eyes. “Mixing with these uncivilized people is no place for an innocent woman like you, Miss Masterson. Return to Derbyshire with me.”

She brushed his hand away, trying to step out of range at the same time. She stumbled.

He caught her arm and pulled her close, his hard body crushing her chest while the odor of cigars filled her nostrils. She tried to turn aside, but his lips came down on hers.

Her gasp opened her lips. He pressed in, his thick tongue exploring her mouth and filling it with the taste of acrid smokiness.

She shuddered backward, no longer crushed, but neither was she free. She raised her hands to shove him, but he artfully wrapped an arm around her shoulders and propelled her forward.

“You have the mettle to do this,” he breathed at her ear, and stroked his fingers down the back of her neck, the touch bristling her nerves like a roaring over her body. “My offer still stands,” he whispered. “Let me give you that shop. You’ll be happy, set up in business for yourself. You’ll gain a steady and prosperous clientele to grow your livelihood, as well as”—his arm tightened around her—“an experienced man to lead you down other roads.”

That’s all he ever wanted, a clear voice said from deep within her. Oh…
damn
. Just thinking the word strengthened her resolve. Refusing him would threaten the harvest for Mistress Gere and everyone else, but she would risk it to be free of him.

With a shove, she pushed Mr. Shearing back. Now apart from him, she saw they had arrived at Wellspring’s gate. How could she have let him compel her this far? She’d had no intention of leaving the farm. She crossed her arms and glared, but the indignity of his unwanted kiss created a heat over her chest. “No.”

He frowned, an expression she’d never seen on his face. “Lord, woman, give me a chance to better my offer.” His hand shifted to holding his lapel, a position she’d witnessed many times when a client disagreed about the equipment or the price. “Or do you no longer wish to be employed in Derbyshire?”

Dash it all. The magnate could have her work shunned, easily. She was nobody compared to his prominence and wealth. He’d destroy her dreams.

But better to lose her dreams than herself. Annmar stepped back.

He took a long breath, rolling his shoulders, and straightened his jacket. He anchored
both
hands on his lapels. “Return to Derby with me. We’ll come to an agreement, I’m sure of it. I’ll put you up in The Grand while you decide.”

The poshest hotel in Derby. The hotel where she and Polly promised they’d spend their honeymoons. Which was probably the type of activities Mr. Shearing had in mind.

“Or, give me one night’s test run, shall we say, on this prototype engine of yours. Spend the night in my suite. I’ll give you what you ask, within reason, travel expenses, money for a new wardrobe.” He loomed closer, his gaze fixed on hers.

“No, I—”

“Certainly,” he roared, and grabbed her arm.

Images of Paet’s bushy hair and snarling lips crashed over her as Mr. Shearing marched her forward. They passed through the stone gate pillars. Annmar felt a thickness in the air. It hung heavy, dragging over her skin in a sticky way.
The fence post—that night Paet threw me into it, the fence post felt like honey.

This
was the barrier from Mistress Gere’s Knack on the property line. All this time hearing the others talk about it, Annmar had had no idea what they meant. This was real.

But how did she make it work for her?