The Mysterious Madam Morpho (Blud #1)

The Mysterious Madam Morpho (Blud #1) Page 11

The hurdy-gurdy began to play, and the couples took to the dance in a confused frenzy, their laughter stronger than their dedication to rhythm and grace. But Henry had the knack, and he led Imogen in careful circles, twirls, and dips, pulling her closer each time she spun away from him.

The magic of the caravan swirled around them, and she gave herself up to giddy delirium. Glitter danced among the stars, and a wild breeze mixed the sugary sweetness of candy floss with Henry’s sharp tang of leather and metal and sandalwood. She had not, to her knowledge, ever been held—at least, not since she was an insensible child. The way he held her now, as they danced with the crowd, merged tenderness and strength, excitement and security. Although other dancers swirled around them in a riot of color and a burble of sound, all she heard was the thump of the hurdy-gurdy driving her galloping feet and her dizzy heart. All she saw were his eyes, unmistakable even through the gray-smoked goggles. When he looked at her, she felt like the only thing left in all the world. If the dance had proper steps, she forgot them and simply followed Henry.

He pulled to a halt, dipping her so low she feared the tails of her jacket would puddle in the dirt. The strength of his arm was all that kept her from falling, and her eyes locked with his, unblinking, as he bent toward her mouth. It was a shock, when the cold leather of his mask touched her lips. Only then did she notice that the hurdy-gurdy had stopped and the crowd was clapping and moving away, toward refreshment or further entertainment.

With a mumbled “Forgive me,” he swept her back upright, and she found that her feet felt as if they were no longer connected to her body.

“Such delightful chemistry,” Mademoiselle Caprice said, appearing beside them with an exhalation of bliss. “You must come back and dance again. Oh, it is delicious.”

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” Henry said shortly, “but we must be moving on.”

He made as if to take Imogen’s arm again but stopped himself, muttering, “Altogether too dangerous.” He all but stomped away from her.

She fought to keep her head up, mumbling, “Yes, thank you,” to the bemused daimon before she stumbled off in his wake, red with embarrassment.

Of course, she was a horrendous dancer, as clumsy and clueless on her feet as she was with her heart. But she couldn’t begin to understand why he was so upset. Her father’s dark tempers had been deep and lasting, and she had never discovered exactly what it was about her or the world that set him off. Beauregard’s moods had been disconnected, cold as an empty hallway, and she had felt like an object whenever he was near.

But Henry’s disposition was altogether different in flavor and timing, fiery instead of cold. Even with her gifted mind, she didn’t understand why he seemed to be so often annoyed with her. She would have to find a book on male psychology, and soon, if she wished to keep working with him, much less to grow any closer to him, a hope that she couldn’t deny to herself any longer. She did not want to make the mistake of running from her father’s house to her professor’s museum to the caravan and straight into the arms of a mysterious and reclusive mechanist, and yet she found herself drawn to him.

And she wouldn’t sit around wondering, either. Picking up her skirts, she sprinted to his black, flapping coat and caught his arm.

“We must talk,” she said.

“Is the magic of the caravan not temptation enough?” he said, throwing his arms wide to encompass the wagons and shaking loose her arm in the process. “Merriment, acts of entertainment, the barest hint of danger. Is this not enough to satisfy you?”

“I am not a fool, Henry, and I have already admitted to you that I know very little of interpersonal behavior, but I must confess that you confound me utterly. Is there some underlying issue that drives you? Or am I simply so unlawful, uncoordinated, overeducated, and plain-spoken that you find yourself thoroughly disgusted by my very presence?”

“Disgusting? You?” He took her shoulders in his hands and held her both too closely and not closely enough. “Are you mad?”

“I do not believe so. Are you?”

For a long, charged moment, they glared at each other. They had paused in front of a clockwork tiger, which roared at them fiercely, but neither of them so much as turned a head.

“Very well, madam. You wish to talk? We will talk. But I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

He walked directly toward the tiger, diverting his path at the last possible moment to clamber over its great back. It turned its copper and silver head, and he rapped it on the nose and said, “Quadrangle obtuse perambulator. Bugger off, Garflax.” The tiger froze, the light in its eyes extinguished and the grinding within its metal body cut off. Turning, Henry helped her step up onto the pedestal and over the tiger’s back, releasing her hand quickly. A velvet curtain the color of midnight hung behind the clockwork like a solid wall, and he held it aside and leaped to the squashy ground. Without looking beyond, she landed lightly beside him.

And Imogen saw for the first time what occurred under the tent in the empty circle of space within the ring of wagons.

11

“What is this place?” Imogen asked, and he chuckled.

“Inquisitive as you are, you never thought to look past the clockworks’ curtains? I’m surprised.”

“I’m inquisitive but not foolish. I suspected there was a mechanism to prevent one from doing so.” She tried to soften her snippy tone before he picked up on her qualms regarding the safety of his large clockworks, adding, “And of course, I’ve spent most of my time here in your wagon, as you may recall.”

The space was covered by a patchwork tent cobbled together of silks, skins, sheets, and distracting bits of costume. A long line of lights was strung between the poles underneath, the orbs glowing a warm golden orange and giving off a slight, charming buzz. Underneath the tent, areas for working or relaxing were set up with props and furniture in various states of disrepair.

“Is this a portable attic?” She ran a hand along a velvet fainting couch. It was missing a leg, and it wobbled under her touch. With a huff of annoyance, she dragged a wooden crate over to prop up the corner of the couch and pressed a hand against it, testing her fix. Satisfied, she turned back to him with an expectant air.

“When the caravan stays for longer than a week outside a big city, we put up the tent.” Hands in pockets, he rocked back on his heels. “It was Lady Letitia’s idea. Where she comes from, there are no Bludmen, and their circuses put up a huge tent to contain both the performers and the audience. So bit by bit, we built one, but only for ourselves. Now the carnivalleros can practice their acts or gather out of the rain and away from their living quarters, about which they can get quite tetchy. The Bludmen, I believe, especially appreciate it here. No one trusts them in close quarters, and in bad weather, they start to feel a bit downtrodden. And cagey.”

“But all this . . . junk?” She picked up an umbrella that had turned inside out and struggled to put it back the right way, but the stubborn thing resisted.

“It’s a bit like a free market.” He shrugged. “People bring their broken and unwanted things to share. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, as they say.”

“I always thought that sentiment a bit cruel.”

“I myself have a soft spot for things discarded by men who think themselves great,” he said gently. “My work is to see the masterpiece hiding underneath. To fix what has been broken.”

“What if the object in question isn’t broken at all?”

She kept her back to him, and she was aware of his closeness as he stepped under the tent and stood close enough to touch her. But something held him back.

“Then I think perhaps it’s a case of finding the right mechanism to bring it alive.”

She sighed and spun around to face him, brow drawn down. “Perhaps you expect me to simper around the truth and trade dainty metaphors, but that is not my temperament. I am a scientist, and I find that the data are not adding up. You woo me with words, sir, and you dance with true passion. Why, then, do you turn away from me? You say I’m not disgusting, and yet every time we draw together, you storm away. Is it my naiveté, my lack of polish? The price on my head? Explain your behavior at once.”

“I’m not a scientist, Imogen. I’m an artificer.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’m better with my hands than my words.”

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, one hand cupping the back of her neck in a way that made her gasp. With his other hand, he ripped off his mask, goggles, and hat in one motion and stared into her eyes with a fervor and passion that nearly made her knees collapse. When she opened her mouth to protest, he kissed her.

Pressed against him from lips to thighs, she swooned as if they still danced to the frantic music of the hurdy-gurdy. His lips were hot against hers and soft, compared with the rasp of his beard. His mouth moved against hers, his tongue parting her lips and questing intimately within. She answered as best she could, her scientific mind finally silenced by her body’s sudden hunger. She gripped his shoulders through the layers of his jacket, thrilling at the muscular strength and power of the man.

Her limited experience had not prepared her for this hot fury, for Henry’s grasping hands and claiming mouth and their shared, feverish desperation. For the strange sensation of his breath on her cheek, his hands tracing her jaw, his tongue probing with an ancient rhythm that she found she already understood. They were like a closed circuit, thrumming with electricity.

He pulled back to look at her, breathing hard and eyes wide. “Damn the consequences,” he muttered, and he shoved back her hat to let her hair tumble free, kissing her hard enough to make her rock unsteadily on her heels and grab for his jacket. She fell backward onto the couch, and he managed to catch her waist and lower her gently. He knelt beside her, stripping off his gloves and drawing long brown curls the color of cinnamon sticks over her shoulders and running his fingers through them.