Moonglow (29 page)

At some point, Northrup had quietly taken her hand in his, pulling it close. He had yet to give it up. Now and then, he would idly play with the tips of her fingers in a gesture that she realized was subconscious. She had yet to take her hand back, for the touch left her feeling warm and cosseted. Were she to concentrate too greatly upon the sensation, she’d crawl into the circle of his very capable arms and nuzzle his well-formed mouth. Kiss and suck those lips until she forgot everything. A shiver lit through her. God, he’d been delicious last night. And she wanted more. Always more.

Which was insanity. A wife. He’d had a wife. One that he had obviously loved. She had seen that much in his eyes. A wife whose ghost he sought in so many others. And yet the woman had her heart broken by another. Daisy had wanted to ask by whom and why, but instinctively, she knew he would have cracked if she’d asked more just then. She wouldn’t do that to him. Because she cared. She needed to end this… thing between them. Now, before she sank in too deep.

Weary and confused, she turned her head to find the haggard-looking man who rowed them staring at their clasped hands. The muscles along the back of her neck tightened. Words such as “strumpet” and “jezebel” came to her mind unbidden, filling her with thwarted rage. Why was it that her affection for men, her
need
was so very vile, while a man’s was simply touted as natural?

Northrup felt her tension, for he looked down at their linked hands as if suddenly aware of them. His brows drew together in a puzzled frown, and then his nostrils flared and he brought her hand against his flat stomach. His blue gaze settled on the man before them.

“I don’t recall paying extra for the scenic route, Clive.” His expression, for all its outward pleasantness, held a hard glint of warning.

Clive flinched and put his legs into the next row. The oars slapped through the brown water and the skiff cut into the light wisps of fog with a smooth whoosh. “Scenic route’s free for favored customers, guvnor.”

Northrup flashed a set of even, sharp teeth. “Just get us there before I lose my breakfast.”

Clive cackled with good nature. “Never was a good waterman, was you, milord?”

It was then Daisy truly noticed the gray cast to Northrup’s skin, but it was of little matter, for the dark, hulking shape of the barge now loomed before them, the craft rocking gently against the slow-moving waters. Clive maneuvered them to the side of it, where its hull spread out over the water in a wall of dull, black-painted wood.

Barnacles and slick algae clung to the old wooden vessel, various creaks and groans an ominous sound among the clangs and whistles that rang out over the river proper. A ladder made of graying rope and dubious-looking slots
of weathered wood dangled over the side, and Daisy mentally cursed the fashion for narrow skirts.

She was grateful that Northrup went up first, for the idea of stepping onto the ghostly craft alone did not appeal. His step was light and sure, and he soon disappeared over the side. After a moment, his head popped over the edge, and he gave her an encouraging smile.

“Up with you, old girl, or risk missing out on the fun.”

Hands on hips, she glared. “Call me ‘old girl’ again, and I’ll leave you here.”

Northrup merely winked. “I am certain Clive would be most willing to give you another scenic tour of the Thames. Wouldn’t you, Clive?”

“ ’Twould be my great pleasure, milord,” Clive called back, his bleary eyes alight with the prospect as he ogied Daisy.

Northrup held out a hand. Glaring promised murder, Daisy grabbed the ladder.

With Clive holding the bottom and Northrup calling down various cheeky suggestions, she managed it to the top, and despite wanting to kick him rather badly, she happily accepted Northrup’s warm hand and stumbled onto the abandoned deck.

“There’s no one here,” she said, allowing him to draw an arm about her waist and hold her close. The dank air was cooler on deck, a chill that seemed to run over her and coil about her ankles.

A growl sounded deep in Northrup’s throat, and he raised his voice, his gaze not on hers but on the empty deck. “Oh, there is someone here, and if they’ve a mind to keep their throats intact, they’ll leave off.”

On that rather odd request, the air about them stirred and suddenly it was warmer.

Making a sound of annoyance, Northrup led her forward, their steps hollow against the damp wood as they went to the captain’s cabin.

The door opened easily, and Daisy found herself stepping into a riot of color and light. Saffron silk damask lined the walls that glowed like fire in the light of a dozen Moroccan lamps. Her footsteps were muted as they moved over jewel-toned carpets made in the East. Before her, lay a great table of golden ormolu, on which a lavish buffet had been spread. The foul scent of the river receded in favor of roast beef and hot rolls. She could not help but blink in stupefaction.

“Lord Northrup,” came a deep voice from the far end of the room. “Precisely on time, as always. And you’ve brought a guest.”

It was only then that she noticed the man lounging in a throne-like black chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The man himself was as stunning as the room, his caramel-colored skin light compared to the shining raven hair that rose from his high brow to flow like ink around an exquisitely carved face. He turned his eyes to her, and a little breath left her. They were eyes of the palest green jade that seemed to glow with an inner light.

Northrup heard the sound and his grip on her waist tightened a fraction. She might have laughed at the possessive gesture. Certainly the man before her was handsome, but there was a coldness in him, an oddness that left her feeling on edge. The man seemed well aware of the effect his appearance had on the uninitiated, but the look in his eyes was weary and resigned, as if he took no joy from it. Daisy was left with the oddest feeling that he resented his own beauty.

He wore not the attire of a proper modern gentleman
but something out of the previous century: blue satin breeches, a lacy jabot at his throat, and a frock coat of aquamarine satin embroidered with tiny chartreuse dragonflies. His voice was smooth and welcoming as he stood.

“Welcome to the
Marietta
, madam.” He bowed with grace before gesturing to the seat beside him. “Please, do me a great honor and join me for a bit of refreshment.” His words ran together in a thick syrup of sound, the lilt in them foreign yet pleasing. An American southerner, if Daisy had to guess.

Famished, she moved to accept the seat to which he gestured, but Northrup put a staying hand on her arm. “I think not, Lucien.” Northrup’s mouth twisted wryly as he glanced down at Daisy. “Many an unfortunate innocent have sat down to sup with a gim, never to get up again.”

Northrup drew out a chair for Daisy, decidedly away from Lucien, before sitting in the one Lucien had offered to her. “Poison or sleeping draughts are their most-loved weapons. Never share a meal with a desperate gim,
mo gradh
. Or risk it being your last.”

Lucien laughed at that, a deep rumbling sound that unnerved her, despite its warmth. “I am greatly aggrieved at the charge, Ian.” His smile was the uncoiling of a snake as he took his seat. “Even if it is true.”

“A gim?” Daisy asked, finding her voice at last.

Lucien’s strange green eyes settled on her, and in the candlelight, they seemed to glow. “GIM—short for Ghost in the Machine,
ma chère
.”

She turned to Northrup, who, for all his talk of poisoning, settled back into his seat with casual grace. “Yes, a GIM. It is what we came to see.”

“Whom.” Lucien’s drawl, though still mellow, had a bit of steel beneath it when he addressed Northrup. “If
you intend to come for a visit, Ian, I expect a measure of politeness.”

Northrup inclined his head, all sense of play having fled from his expression. “Quite right. A thousand pardons. I forget myself.” He placed a hand upon Daisy’s forearm. “Daisy, may I present Mr. Lucien Stone, formerly of New Orleans, Louisiana, now leader for the London faction of the
GIMs
.”

Lucien gave a stately nod as Northrup continued. “Lucien, may I present—”

“The lovely widow Craigmore,” Lucien finished for him. “Your paramour of late, if gossip is to be believed.” When Daisy sat up in ire, he smiled. “Though according to my sources, we are not quite there as of yet. Are we, my dear?”

“I expect you to play nice as well, Lucien,” Northrup warned.

“Mmm.” With a languid hand, Lucien picked up a glass of red wine and took a long swallow, somehow managing to make it look delicious to Daisy’s parched mouth. “Certainly,
mon ami
.”

She rested her hands in her lap for fear of reaching out for the wine. “If the two of you are finished baiting each other, would one of you tell me what or who is a ‘ghost in the machine’?”

Lucien set his wine down. “It is quite a tale, as tales go.” He plucked an icy-looking grape in his mouth and sucked it dry with relish. Daisy’s mouth watered. “There are,” he continued, “certain individuals who possess a great desire for life. Unfortunately, circumstance is never kind, and their life ultimately ends.”

“Doesn’t it for everyone?” Lord but the grapes looked refreshing.

He took another one. “One would think. However, these individuals refuse to go gently into that cold night, as it were. And so they wait, without a body to warm them, a soul drifting in search of a home. When lo and behold, this poor, lost spirit finds an opportunity.”

“A dying body,” Northrup put in, his eyes narrowing on Lucien as the man licked up another succulent grape.

“Yes,” said Lucien. “A perfect home, for the body is soon to be vacated.”

“And so,” Northrup continued, “this spirit pushes out the rightful spirit of the dying body and takes possession.”

“Crassly put but accurate.” Lucien toyed with the stem of his wine glass. “But there is a problem.”

“The body is still dying,” Daisy said. The story had set her heart to a slow, hesitant rhythm and lifted the little hairs along the back of her neck.

He beamed. “Exactly! Fortunately, with every problem comes a solution. For upon possession, if the gods are smiling down”—Northrup’s snort was ignored—“a being appears.”

Lucien took another drink, and Daisy swallowed, mimicking the action and wishing the wine were sliding down her throat. Northrup’s hand fell upon hers. The stern look in his blue eyes had her sitting back.

“He calls himself Adam,” Lucien said, “as he ate from the tree of knowledge, and in so doing learned how to create his own beings. Adam will give the spirit the home it craves, restoring the dying body and turning it into a perfect, ageless shell.”

“You mean”—Daisy swallowed—“you are a spirit using the body of another?”

His smile was all teeth. “In the flesh.” He chuckled. “And a rather lovely body at that, wouldn’t you agree?”

Daisy pursed her mouth, but he kept grinning. “You should have seen my birth form, sweetness. It was plain, odd, and gangly. The crowning glory of breeding cousin with cousin for generations.” He gave a little bow with his head. “I was the very rich, very spoiled son of very white, very ugly planters.” Another grape disappeared through his full, beautiful lips. “Oh, how they would roll over in their graves to learn that I now inhabit the body of a quadroon whore.”

“Perhaps they would think you fortunate for a second chance at life,” Daisy murmured.

“Doubtful,
chère
. One must not overlook the very real price to pay for this second chance, as you put it.” His green eyes iced over. “The spirit must procure other bodies for Adam.”

“And if the spirit does not?”

“Oh, but he must. For Adam builds in a rather clever fail proof.” At that, Lucien undid the middle two buttons of his shirt and parted the linen.

“Good God,” Daisy breathed, holding her own chest, for the sight pained her.

Embedded within the center of his chest lay a little glass window framed in gold, through which, beneath the cage of bone, blue veins, and flesh, pumped a golden heart, a miracle of clockwork gears and moving pistons.

Having seen a man merged with a wolf, Daisy knew the impossible possible. It still did not prevent her from leaning forward, her hand rising as if to touch the little window. She curled her fingers into a fist at the last moment, realizing the rudeness of the gesture.

“ ‘How many goodly creatures are there here,’ ” she quoted softly.

He gave her a knowing smile as he buttoned his shirt.
“ ‘O brave new world! That has such people in it!’ ” he said, finishing the quote for her. “Knowledge is a wonderful thing, is it not? You see, my dear, if the ghost who now drives the machine should fail to comply with his maker’s wishes, his heart will stop and the machine works no more.”

“Is it worth it?” she asked. “To murder innocents in return for a life of servitude?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Oh now, we’ve misled you, Northrup and I. One need not resort to murder. The dying are plentiful, especially in a city such as London. However, one occasionally grows weary of the search and may, if tempted, take an easier route in procurement.”

With a lazy sigh, he poured himself more wine, sending forth a bouquet heavy with notes of currant and black cherry. “And we mustn’t forget the certain, shall we say, benefits one acquires.” He turned his gleaming eyes upon Northrup. “Which, presumably, is the reason you are here.”

Releasing his proprietary grip on Daisy’s arm, Northrup reached into his breast pocket to pull out the unicorn stickpin he had found in the perfumer’s shack and passed it over to Lucien. “I found this pinned to the bodice of a dead woman in Bethnal Green.”

“A lovely piece.” Lucien swirled the pin between his fingers, making the unicorn dance. “But I needn’t tell you what it is.”

Northrup scowled at the pin. “No.”

Daisy leaned closer to peer at the little pin. “Perhaps you could tell me?”

“The lion and the unicorn are the monarch’s symbol,” Northrup said.

Daisy nodded. “The lion for England, the unicorn for Scotland.”

“Aye, but what you do not know is that upon ascension to the Ranulf throne, the British monarch presents a pin such as this to the Ranulf King as a symbol of good faith.”