She rushed toward the sound. In a dark corner of the workshop, he lay on his back, arms out to the side, face streaked with soot, yellow hair caked in the stuff.
Her hands flew to his face, rubbing against his cheeks, checking for wounds, then on to his neck, which lacked a cravat, and across his shoulders. She patted at his chest and torso.
“Miss Clarke,” he said, “Miss Clarke.”
Still, she checked for wounds, bleeding, bumps, broken bones.
“Lillian.” He grabbed her wrists. “You’d best stop that.” His strong grip on her arms brought her back to reality.
She met his eyes, and in the dim candlelight, she was surprised to find them concerned. For her?
“You are dressed for bed and essentially lying atop me. I’m but a man, and you are a bloody siren, so if you do not remove yourself from my person, I will not be held accountable for my actions.” He grinned. “Rubbish, that. I will be held accountable. I’ll hold myself accountable, but I can’t promise not to enjoy the bit before the accountability and guilt.”
She slapped him on the chest, then rolled away from him. “You’re almost dead and cracking jokes about ravishing me. I should not be surprised.” She pushed to her feet and retreated far away from him. Survival that. She’d actually preferred to hear more about the ravishment. She was thoroughly out of love with Lord Devon, but her body still very much lusted for him and reacted strongly at the suggestion he might lust after her.
He sat up and rubbed his head. “Glad not to be entirely dead. Ears are ringing. Think the explosion was more bark than bite, really, all flare and no substance.”
Thank God.“What did you do?” she asked.
“I moved one of your father’s contraptions. I think. Not quite sure.” He pointed toward a mangled pile of parts in the corner of the room. “Was rummaging around in that, looking for inspiration.”
It was her turn to groan. “Never move one of Papa’s contraptions. They are volatile things.”
“He told me that. I should have listened better.” He rubbed his temples, then stood up. “Do I look a fright?”
“Yes.” Even soot-covered and shocked, he still looked marvelous. And now, unfortunately, her fingers knew what he felt like, too. She shook the memories from her fingertips.
He strode toward her. “I’ve upset you. You’re shaking.”
She laughed. She was shaking but not for the reasons he thought. “What are you doing here so late?”
“I’m so close. I’m so close, and I have so little time left.” He raked his hand through his hair, sending soot flying in all directions.
“So little time?”
He turned back to his sketchbook, mumbling. “See here,” he said, pushing his notebook toward a contraption on the table. “In theory, it should work. I placed the heat source here. Heat rises,” he mumbled. “The heat infuses the grounds, and then the steam drips down into the pot.” He picked up the pot in question, the contraption, and shook it. Drops of liquid flicked in every direction, one landing on Lillian’s hand.
She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. Coffee. Of course. “May I see?” She reached for the contraption.
“Aren’t you worried about my tendons?”
“Your fate is sealed since you blew up Papa’s contraption, so I might as well help you.”
His face fell. “My God, you’re right. Your father’s going to drop a boulder on me or something.”
“Oh no.” Lillian took the contraption from his hands. “He’ll be much more creative than that.” She turned the device this way and that, opened it up, looked inside, addressed his sketches in the notebook, flipping back and forth. Then she popped it on the table and eyed him. “Have you considered raising the heat source?”
“I do not take your meaning.”
“The heat source. You have placed it below the container with the grounds.”
“Yes.”
“And a fire below a pot boils water.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you talking to me like I’m a child? I just read those books that you recommended, and believe me, they were no child’s work.”
She clapped her hands. “You read them! Marvelous.”
