“Are you dying?” she asked.

He looked surprised. “I don’t think so.” And then a shrug. “I don’t intend to.”

She didn’t like the sound of that, but if he wasn’t dying at this moment then they could still fight whatever it was that had a grip on him.

And if there was one thing Finley knew how to do, it was fight.

“Sit,” she commanded. He dropped onto the deacon’s bench beneath the window she had crawled through. She closed the curtains just in case there was a draft. Then, she went to the small wooden box on his desk and pressed the button for the kitchen. A few seconds later a voice crackled from the horn. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Mrs. Dodsworth, this is Finley. His Grace is in need of food and lots of it. Some tea and scones, as well, please.”

“Right away, Miss Finley.” She thought she could hear the older woman smile.

With that done she then went into Griffin’s private bath. His room was decorated in shades of chocolate and cream, but his bath was much more colorful. The walls were rich cinnamon, the drapes a dark purple. Golds and reds added to the exotic feel. The tub was huge, claw-footed and equipped with a hose for a standing bath, as well. The outside of the tub was painted with colorfully adorned elephants, which he had once told her were inspired by a trip to India.

She’d seen pictures of India in a book once.

Finley turned the taps and dipped her fingers under the faucet until she was certain the temperature was right. She put the stopper over the drain and added a tiny bit of scented oil to the rising water.

She went back into the bedroom. Griffin was where she’d left him, his head against the wall. Had he fallen asleep?

The food would take a bit, so she crossed the carpet to where he sat, bent down and tucked him over her shoulder. Then, she stood.

“Fin?” he asked sleepily. “What are you doing?”

“What you haven’t,” she replied. He wasn’t the only one who could be cryptic. She carried him into the bathroom, where she set him on his feet once again and removed his dressing gown. Then, her fingers went to the buttons on his shirt.

He stared at her hands. “Are you undressing me?”

“I most certainly am.”

“I can do that.”

“Obviously you can’t—because you haven’t and you stink.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Was he drunk? No, she didn’t smell whiskey on him. There was a slightly sweet smell…laudanum? Didn’t he use that to sometimes enhance his abilities? Had he become dependent upon it? That would explain so much.

“Lift your arms,” she commanded, and he did. She pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor.

Griffin was nowhere near as big as Sam, and that was fine by her. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. The muscles in his arms and stomach were all the more pronounced with his recent weight loss, and his ribs were like blades beneath his skin. Still, the sight of him was enough to take her breath. She wanted to trace her fingers over the veins beneath his flesh just to see where she’d end up.

She hesitated—only a moment—before moving on to his trousers. What was that saying? He who hesitates is lost? She undid the buttons. His fingers closed around hers.

“Finley.”

She met his gaze and held it.

He didn’t tell her to stop. She’d started this, and if she didn’t finish it, he wouldn’t.

She pulled his trousers down—all the way to his feet. He wasn’t wearing socks, so once he stepped out of the trousers that was it. He was na**d.

Finley quickly stood up, before curiosity got the best of her. Griffin watched her, a strange expression on his face. An expression that made her tingle all over.

“Into the tub,” she instructed.

He did as he was told. She could see his vertebrae as he lowered himself into the water. He wasn’t quite skin and bones, but he’d get there soon enough.

He sighed.

Finley rolled up her sleeves and turned off the water when the tub was almost full. Then, she grabbed his soap and a washcloth and set to work. She washed his chest and his underarms, then his back. There was something terribly intimate about this moment that went beyond the fact that she wanted to crawl into the tub with him and see what happened next. She felt closer to him than she had in weeks.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, and she went to answer it. It was Mrs. Dodsworth with the food. The housekeeper took one look at her and asked, “Do you require assistance, Miss Finley?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. D. I’ve everything under control.”

The older woman smiled. “You’re a good girl, my dear. Just what His Grace needs—someone to take him in hand.”

Finley didn’t think that meant quite what came to mind.

When the housekeeper left, Finley returned to the bath, where Griffin reclined in the tub. A fine layer of suds floated on top of the water, keeping her from peeking and turning this moment into something she hadn’t intended. There’d be time for that later. Right now, she needed to wash his hair.

She poured bathwater over his head, then lathered his hair with the same soap she had used to wash the rest of him. She used fresh water from the hose to rinse it away.

There was one thing left to do. She lathered a brush with shaving soap and applied it all over the stubble on his face. He eyed her cagily, looking more alert. “Have you done this before?” he asked, wiping soap from his lips and making a face when some got in his mouth.

“Of course.” Once. She’d shaved her stepfather when he had an injured hand. He never let her do it again. She placed the edge of the blade against his neck and stroked upward. Perfect. He moved his head to give her better access, and made faces that made it easier for her to shave his face. When she was done, she rinsed the soap away and handed him a towel.

She left the room as he began to stand. “I’ll get you a fresh dressing gown.” She wasn’t certain but she thought he might have chuckled.

Finley found a dark wine velvet dressing gown in his armoire and snatched it from the hanger. When she turned to take it to the bath, she jumped.

Griffin stood before her, warm and damp, with a towel wrapped around his lean waist.

She looked down. Even his feet were perfect. Then, she let her gaze drift lazily upward, lingering on his stomach and chest. A girl could only resist so long before curiosity won.

“Thank you,” he said. His voice sounded rough. She liked it.

“You’re welcome. You should eat.”

“I will.” He took a step toward her.

Her heart began to pound. Her mouth went dry.

Another step. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his skin. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck as he closed the distance between them.

When his lips touched hers Finley dropped the dressing gown. He kissed her like he thought he might never get another chance, setting her heart pounding at a terrible pace. His other arm went around her waist, pulling her against him.

Her hands slid up his arms, curving over his hard biceps, over his shoulders and up his neck to tangle in the damp curls of his hair. If he stopped anytime soon she’d break both his arms. Her heart slammed against her ribs while other parts of her tingled and came alive with trembling excitement. Griffin was the first bloke—the only—that had ever made her contemplate doing something rash, scandalous.

They were alone in his room. This was his house. His aunt Cordelia wasn’t around and nobody cared what they did. When he touched her she wanted…

If he drew her to his bed she wouldn’t stop him. What did that say about her? Everything she’d ever been taught as a girl insisted that such a feeling was wrong— that only “bad” girls had those sort of thoughts.

But her heart didn’t care. She didn’t care. She wasn’t like other girls, would never be like other girls.

He tore his mouth away from hers, even as she tried to pull him back. “Finley, I—”

She pushed against him and kissed him again. He wasn’t stronger than her, would never be stronger than her, not physically. The lights in his room flickered, reacting to a spike in his Aetheric energy. The Victrola in the corner began to play a recording of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, music that sent a shiver down her spine.

They were moving. She held his head so he couldn’t even think of ceasing to kiss her, and now they were indeed moving across the floor toward his bed. Wait… her feet weren’t moving. How could she move without her feet?

There was no floor beneath her feet. They were floating. Griffin’s power wrapped around them like a blanket or a warm breeze, and carried them toward the bed. Finley’s heart quickened. This was it. She refused to think about what could be so wrong with him that he tossed his morals aside, and kissed him as though she might never get a chance to again.

Her legs nudged the side of the bed. Her stomach fluttered.

The door flew open with a loud crash. Finley landed in a graceless heap on the bed—better than the floor— and looked up to see Griffin glaring at Sam. She glared at the behemoth, as well.

Sam didn’t apologize. Didn’t even blush. He took one look at the two of them and didn’t even seem to care that he’d interrupted something important. In fact, he looked terrified.

“It’s Emily,” he said. “She’s been taken.”

Chapter 6

Emily woke with a pounding headache.

Groggily, she put her palms flat on the floor and pushed herself into a sitting position. Her stomach rolled threateningly.

What was she doing on the floor? And why did it smell like old dirt and machinery?

She didn’t want to open her eyes. It was going to hurt when the light hit them, she just knew it. But she also knew that the stickiness on her face and temple was probably blood, and that she was probably in trouble.

She opened her eyes.

Trouble was right. She was in some sort of cell with a cool, dirt floor and rough stone walls. The door was heavy iron with little more than a square in it for looking in or out. There were no windows, just one dim light—which was the only good thing about this situation. There was a small cot made up in homey quilts that looked surprisingly cozy, and a chamber pot in the far corner.

Yet she’d been dumped on the floor like an old rug.

And there were books. Stacks of books, and bits of machinery, as though her captors wanted to keep her entertained. There was also a row of pegs on the wall closest to her, and on those pegs hung several changes of clothing—her own clothing. That wasn’t good. Clothing meant they had taken her intentionally, and that they intended to keep her for a while.

Slowly, she pushed herself to her bare feet, bracing her hand against the rough wall to keep from falling as her head threatened to explode. What the devil had they coshed her with? An iron bar?

No. She’d been struck by an arm. A metal arm. Automatons had abducted her from King House. Why? Who had sent them? And why would they take her? Yes, she was the smallest and the weakest of their makeshift family, but it wasn’t as though she was anyone important.

Unless, of course, the people behind her abduction knew about her “talent” with machines. That was impossible, of course. However, her knowledge of mechanics, logic engines and invention wasn’t something she ever sought to hide. She’d even had some of her papers on the topic of the future of automation and the possibility of “adaptable” machines published by the Royal Society.

But machines didn’t need sophisticated logic engines to learn and adapt. She knew this because of the Queen Victoria automaton the Machinist had constructed.

Queen Victoria. The memory flooded her mind, bringing a rush of dizziness that made her want to vomit. She had seen that awful creature before being knocked out.

Once it had looked like a real person, moved and acted like a real person, but all of its organic compounds had been taken from the actual queen. A flesh-and-metal hybrid that could adapt and change because the organites in its living tissue made it sentient.

She thought they had destroyed it. Obviously someone had put it back together and hadn’t done a very good job of it. If it was running about on its own, this was very bad, indeed. The Machinist had programmed it to take the place of the true queen. Was it still trying to obtain that goal? Or had it moved on to something else?

The machine that had ripped Sam apart had acted against its programming because of organite infestation. Someday another automaton would do the same thing and then the organites wouldn’t be their secret—not anymore. And if it wasn’t machines, it would be someone looking into all the “special” humans that seemed to be cropping up. Eventually people were going to want the beasties for themselves, and then the world would be in a lot of trouble.

But that was not what she needed to fret over at this time. She’d never been the sort to fly into histrionics and she wasn’t about to start now. She had survived worse things than being kidnapped, and she would make it through this, too. She would survive. She would escape, and she would put an end to the “Victoria” once and for all.

First item of business was to clean up the blood and give herself a thorough inspection. Fortunately, there was also a looking glass in the room. It was ancient, its wooden frame warped and scarred. The mirror itself wasn’t in much better shape, but it didn’t matter that it made her appear as long and as wiggly as an apple peel, she just needed to see the damage.

The wound on her head looked worse than it was, as those injuries often did. Once she cleaned up the blood she could see that it was more of a lump than a cut. A nasty bruise was beginning to form around the area, and she realized she was most likely concussed. Fortunately for her, she had enough organites in her system that she’d heal much quicker than she ought.