Terror had faded quickly, along with the feeling in her hands. But fear—plain fear—lingered. It muddled her thinking and dulled her senses.

The rope coiled around her ankles had cut off the last of the blood flowing to her feet, making her toes tingle painfully. Making it hard to think.

If she’d consented to Edison’s offer, she’d be free now.

Granted, there were three of the sods, and they were heavily armed, but she’d seen him fight. Edison would have routed those men in a trice.

They’d be on their way to prison, and she’d be eating a fine luncheon by a warm fire at some companionable inn.

Instead, she was tied to an old wooden chair, contemplating what would befall her when her captors returned. The worst of it was, she had no one to blame but herself. Her need to be away from him, from his mesmerizing sensual energy, had led to this.

It wasn’t fair. How could wanting to do the right thing—the sensible thing for all concerned—go so badly wrong?

Ada wiggled her toes, wincing at the tiny needle jabs that cascaded up her legs with each movement. Numb, and growing colder by the moment, her fingers were a lost cause. The back parlor in which they’d stashed her was deadly quiet, but for the scuttling of small creatures in the walls and the sound of her own, harsh breaths. It felt like she’d been there for hours already, but the rays of sunlight seeping like weak tea through chinks in the boarded-up windows had moved barely an inch.

Minutes—not hours—had passed since she’d been bundled into the rearmost room of the abandoned cottage.

The coach had hardly pulled down the overgrown drive to the careworn little home before the ruffians escorting her doffed their stolen naval uniforms and revealed themselves for the hired criminals they were. They’d barely allowed her a moment to relieve herself and take a sip of water before they bound and gagged her and threw her into the back parlor.

At least they’d given her a chair.

The one pretending to be an officer wanted to toss her straight on the dirty wood floor, but one of the more junior men pulled the only functioning chair into the middle of the empty room and set her on it. Then with only the most cursory check of her bindings, they marched out of the house.

She’d taken the opportunity to twist around in her chair to survey the room. But for a second, broken chair, a sad old writing desk missing it’s drawer, and piles of dust and garden detritus blown into the corners, it was empty.

It was only now, now that she was growing cold and stiff, that she surveyed her situation with clear eyes.

They didn’t want her dead.

There’d been many opportunities to toss her body in a ditch once they’d left London proper. And they already had her device, blast it.

So they needed her.

Needed her to divulge the formula for the battery, no doubt. The mechanics would be easy to recreate once they dismantled it. It was the particular combination of chemicals she’d employed that allowed the stored electricity to drain out slowly and evenly that made it unique.

They’d be back for her at some point. She had to get out.

Now that her brain was functioning again, she noticed far more than she had earlier. Dead leaves meant an open window.

Or a broken one.

A cheer, muffled by the rag, escaped her. Not one but two broken windows. Both had boards nailed haphazardly across the fronts, but now that she looked more closely, the panes were shattered, leaving large, wicked looking spikes of glass on the floor beneath them.

She rocked sideways and toppled over, coming down hard on her shoulder. A cloud of dust enveloped her, making her sneeze violently, while the rag cinched over her mouth made breathing difficult. It took several long moments for her to draw in enough oxygen to move again.

Her bound feet didn’t afford much leverage, but she was able to spin herself around just enough to gain purchase on a sliver of glass with the edge of her boot.

She inched it closer, pressing it hard between her shoe and the floor. Once she got it close enough to the chair, she turned herself around until her fingers brushed one jagged piece.

She flexed her fingers several times, but they were stiff and deadened by the tight rope. A muffled thump came from outside the window, sending her heartbeat skyrocketing. Her fingers trembled as her breath came hard and fast behind the gag. She pressed her temple against the floor planks, concentrating hard, willing her clumsy fingers to grab the sliver of glass.

And then she had it.

Now, if she could only turn it between her fingers and saw through the rope. She bit her lip, concentrating hard. With her fingers so numb, and the glass so sharp, it took a moment for her to realize that the sticky feeling at her fingertips was blood.

At least she couldn’t feel the tiny cuts she knew must be scored into her fingertips.

The rope was proving tougher than her skin. She let her head droop back down to the floor and closed her eyes, sucking in a few breaths of dust while she allowed herself a break. It wasn’t working. She wasn’t making a lick of progress against the coarse rope.

And then she felt the vibrations against her cheek. A door slammed, then feet, treading lightly but quickly down the hallway.

Hot tears filled her eyes and spilled over, cascading down her cheeks.

Fear and frustration sapped the strength from her muscles. She felt as if she were melting into the dirty floor. They’d make her give up her chemical formula, and then, once they’d drained her of knowledge, they’d dispose of her. A great sigh inflated her lungs, pressing her ribs into her corset.

A sniffle escaped her, then a great, shuddering breath. She had rather hoped for a more glamorous end.

“There’s no time to be laying about.” Edison dropped down on the floor next to her and yanked the foul gag out of her mouth. “Are you hurt?”

Relief stole the last of her strength. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the simplest word. She could only stare.

For an instant, she wondered if her mind had broken under the strain. But the hallucination felt so real. She recognized the timber of his voice, the crisp scent of soap and leather and—</p>

“Ada!” Edison cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. The anguish in his eyes jolted her back to reality. “Ada, are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.” She closed her eyes against a fresh spate of tears. “Had I allowed you to join me, I wouldn’t be in this situation.”

He was running his hands over her body, checking her for injuries. Then he caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, wiping away the damp tracks of her tears, and smiled down at her. “I’ll gloat later, if you don’t mind.”

“I certainly will, but I’ve earned it.”

The slightest whisper of a smile tugged at his lips as he whipped a wicked little knife from a vest pocket and began sawing at her bindings. Ada jerked at her restraints, which quickly parted.

She moaned with relief and circled her wrists round and round, trying to restore feeling to her fingers.

“Let’s get you up.” Edison took her under the arms and lifted her to her feet.

She swayed as the feeling in her legs and toes returned.

“Can you stand?” Edison pulled her to him, holding her against him so tightly she had a hard time drawing air.

Not that she minded.

She pressed her cheek to his chest, allowing the strong, steady beat of his heart to soothe her.

“They’ll be back.”

“No, they won’t.” Edison tucked a lock of hair back behind her ear. “All taken care of. Stacked out by their carriage like a cord of firewood. I’ve got a man watching them.”

He set her gently away from him and circled the room. Hands on his hips, he poked a booted toe into each dust pile. When he came to the desk, he stopped.

“What?” She hurried to join him.

“Damned diabolical,” he whispered.

Ada leaned against him, trying to inch him to the side so she could see. He held up a sheet of clean while foolscap. The writing was neat and feminine.

She gasped and jerked back, away from the vile thing.

“Exactly.” Edison folded the note and stuck it in the inner pocket of his vest, then he reached for a jar of clear liquid that had anchored a corner of the paper. He held the jar up to the light still trickling in though the shuttered windows. Unlike everything else in the room, save the suicide note, it was clean and free of dust.

“Dare we open it?” Edison shook it gently.

“Don’t!” Ada grabbed it. Though clear, the liquid had the faintest blue tinge. The color tickled her memory. “Prussic acid.” Her breath caught in her throat, and her fingers trembled. “It’s highly flammable. And most deadly.”

Edison removed the jar of poison from her limp fingers. “Hydrogen cyanide, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Exactly.”

Slowly—with exquisite care—he unscrewed the lid and took a cautious sniff of the air far above the rim. “Awful. Like old socks.”

“And almonds.” Ada blew a strong breath out of her nose, trying to flush out the foul odor. The stench was its unique marker, bitter almonds layered with the putrid sweetness of decay.

“Instantly lethal if ingested.” He screwed the top of the jar back on. “And did you say… flammable?”

“Its flash point is preposterously low. If it vaporizes, even warm sunlight could make it explode.”

Edison glared down at the jar. His chest rose and fell with deep, rhythmic breaths, as if he was attempting to throw off some great emotion.

“Are you all right?”

“I am.” His wide shoulders trembled, then rose and fell as he heaved a great sigh. His gazed hardened. “I will be soon.”

Ada picked up the jar. “We should take this to the police.”

“We can’t.”

“We most certainly can.”

Edison gave her a strange look. “You, Mrs. Templeton, are supposed to be dead.”

Ada gaped at the jar, horrified.

“They were supposed to get the battery, then dispose of you.” He frowned, thinking hard. “But why do it so publicly?” He tapped a finger to his chin. “They could have dumped you somewhere you’d never be found. Why go to all this trouble?”

“So they can claim the battery process for themselves.”

He gazed at her, confused.

“Given time, a good chemist could discern the precise mixture at the heart of the battery,” she explained. “If they’re not in a hurry, they don’t need me for that.”

“Right.” Edison slapped his thigh. “If you died by your own hand, there’d be no investigation. No risk of the murderer being found out. He’d have as much time as he needed.”

Ada hugged herself and shuddered. “Damned diabolical indeed.”

Edison was staring down at the liquid as if it held the secrets to the Universe. Then he nodded to himself and reached for her hands, rubbing her fingers as if to infuse them with his own warmth.

A moment later and he yanked them up to eye level. “You’re hurt!”

Rivulets of dried blood ran between her fingers and down her wrist. It did look rather worse than she would have thought.

She wiggled her fingers. “Hardly more than paper cuts.”

Edison snorted. Admiration—then frightening flash of anger—crossed his handsome face. “We will find them.”

“I know.” She pointed at the jar of acid. “You were about to say?”

“It would be to our advantage for whoever’s behind this to believe he’s succeeded.”

Ada frowned up at him, puzzled. “I don’t take your meaning.”

Edison caught her eye, his gaze focussed and intent. “He needs to believe you’re dead.”

* * *

“Dead?” Ada stared down at the horrid note. The evil in it stabbed at her soul. “How will we manage that? Hard to fashion a suicide without a body.”

For the first time since he’d burst into the dingy cottage, Edison grinned. It was a most uplifting sight. He grinned with the lightness of a schoolboy planning a particularly inventive prank and held up the jar. “We’ve got this.”

“And?”

“I forgot. You’re not aware.” He endeavored to look modest. “Explosions are another of my specialities.”

Despite the terror still playing havoc with her stomach, his smile was compelling.

Laughter bubbled up in her, lifting her up and scrubbing away some of the malevolent intent. “The flash point of prussic acid is quite low. An overly warm room could set it off.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “So a slow-burning trigger.”

“And a way to allow the acid to vaporize before ignition. We’ll get a bigger explosion that way, if that’s what you’re after.”

“That’s exactly what I’m after. The bigger the destruction, the longer it’ll take for anyone to realize there’s no body.”

Ada nodded. It shocked her, how quickly her fear had been replaced by giddy excitement. “We must take care how we ignite it.” Formulas flew through her mind. “There are too many variables. It’ll be impossible to calculate the size of the blast.”

“Bigger would be better.”

A shiver of anticipation rippled through her. It would at that. She loved mucking about with chemicals, thinking through different possible reactions, puzzling out what went wrong when she didn’t get the results she’d expected.

And to do so with a like-minded person. It was as if they were two musicians constructing a joint melody.

Edison trod the warped floor, considering. “My man outside carries a pipe. That’ll do for a fuse. Why don’t you check the kitchen for something we can use to contain the vapors? Grab the largest pot you can find. A washtub, even a box would do.”

The kitchen was empty, but she did find a dusty chamberpot in the one bedroom. The bowl would be exactly the right size to create a spectacular explosion. She twirled the old porcelain pot around by its handles and chuckled. A bomb from an old chamber pot. Who would have imagined?

The sharp crack of splintering wood greeted her as she headed back into the parlor with her prize. Edison was breaking the legs off the chairs. He made quick work of the spindly old things, reducing them both to a pile of kindling.

Next he laid some of the pieces out along the floor end to end, like a child’s train track, until it snaked about five feet from the writing desk, where he poured out a pouch of tobacco.

The sight of his firm backside as he hunched over his creation vanquished the last wisps of dread. His hips were lean, widening from his waist to a pleasingly broad back, the whole of it sheathed in hard muscle. Muscle that had felt smooth and sleek beneath her palms.

With a groan, he rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “That should give us time to get clear.”

Despite the cool temperature, he’d left his coat outside. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, baring sun-kissed forearms dusted with auburn hair the same shade as his head. The roughness of his skin, the pure corded strength of him would brush her sides when they—

She shook her head, shocked at the places her mind was straying.

Not that he was any help. Why, for the life of him, had he found it necessary to unbutton his vest and shirt? The sight of his hard, flat stomach moving in and out with his breath kindled a fire deep in her own belly. She wanted to touch him, to taste him. She’d never kissed a man’s stomach, never leaned her head on a bare chest to listen to his heart beating.

Cheeks burning, she glanced away. Thank God he hadn’t felt it necessary to remove the garment completely. She’d go six kinds of insane.

“… don’t you think?” He stepped closer, bending down to catch her eye. “Ada?”

She cleared her throat and thrust the chamberpot at him. “Yes. Definitely. Perfect. Well done.”

He took it. “Are you ill?”

Only with lust. She shook her head. “I’ve never been kidnapped before.” Which had to explain it, these wild, lustful thoughts she seemed incapable of subduing.

“Of course.” He set the chamberpot on the desk and took her hands. “You’re holding up magnificently.”

She managed a wan smile. “Thank you.” Better he thought her a delicate flower than a lovesick widow, ready to tear off the rest of his attire and beg him to make love to her.

He held her hands a moment longer, turning them gently to examine her cuts. “As soon as we’re away, we’ll tend to those.”

“They don’t hurt.” She pulled her hands back before his touch created too much more heat.

“Right then.” His grin all but took her knees out from under her. “Let’s make a bomb.”

He lifted the jar gingerly, careful not to shake the liquid, and opened it. He set the top aside and placed the acid in the center of the desk. Next he flipped the chamberpot upside down over the open jar and stepped back to admire his work.

He gestured toward the door. “I want you safely away before I ignite this.”

Ada crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “And I want to make sure you’re away as well.”

Edison opened his mouth to protest, but wisely bit down on any response. “Fair enough. Let’s get our prisoners on their way, then we can discuss this.”

She followed him out of the cottage to find a tall, round gent standing between a hansom cab and the carriage that had delivered her. Stacked like cordwood between the two lay the three toughs who’d attacked her, their hands and feet bound.

The leader of the group glared up at them. “You’ve no idea who you’re fooling with.”

Edison ignored him and motioned the older man to his side. “Can you help me load this lot in the carriage? I’d like to offer you a proposition.”

The man’s jowls quivered as he studied the nasty group. “It’ll be a tight fit.”

Edison gestured toward the larger carriage. “Take the carriage, the horses too.” He leaned close. “Keep them. This lot’ll have no need of them.”

“Sod all.” The man’s eyes widened. “A hansom for a clarence? Doesn’t seem right.”

“You’ve earned it twice over.” Edison grinned at him. “And it’s not one for the other. If you don’t mind me borrowing your cab, I'll return it in good condition.”

“That would give me a fleet. I could put the wife’s lazy git of a brother to work driving.” His smile bloomed as the possibilities grew. “You’ve got a deal, Mr. Sweet.”

Edison gave him a firm nod. “I’ll help you load up this baggage then.” Before he moved, he pressed a hand against the older man’s chest. “They’re only to go to Inspector Micah Burke. That’s crucial. Straight to him.”

The man tilted his head, clearly wondering at Edison’s unusual request, but he nodded. “I’ve had far stranger requests, can’t say I haven’t.”

Edison laughed. He scooped her battery off the floor of the coach and set it down in the smaller hansom. Then he and the driver tackled the more difficult load. Though it took but a few moments for the two men to pile their baggage, shouting and wriggling into the carriage, by the time Edison latched the door, Ada was trembling with cold. The sun was still high in the sky, but it shone weakly, its power waning with the season.

With a brisk snap of the reins, the old cabby took off for the lane. Edison had one arm in his coat sleeve when he saw her discomfort. He whipped off the garment and held it out to her.

She shook her head. “You’ll be the one up top.” She jutted her chin at the waiting hansom. "You’ll need it more than I.”

He strode forward and wrapped the thin suit coat over her shoulders. “Who said I’ll be up top?” He tugged the fabric more firmly around her, pulling her close enough that she could feel the heat from his body warming the air between them. “I intend to travel in comfort. You’ll have to share, Mrs. Templeton.”

He let go of her and moved to open the carriage door. Once she was settled inside, he hurried back inside to ignite the bomb.

It seemed to take forever for him to return. Ada sat forward on the seat, his coat clutched tightly around her, straining for the slightest sound, praying it wouldn’t be an explosion.

In reality, he came running out only seconds after he’d left. He jumped into the seat next to her and snapped the reins, guiding the horse away at a fast clip. Once they turned onto the lane, he urged the animal on faster, running him just below a gallop until they reached a wide spot in the road, a quarter mile away.

He turned the carriage back around so they faced the cottage and jumped out, standing at the horse’s head. He spoke softly to the beast, massaging the animal’s neck and face.

Ada stared at the tangle of trees and bushes that concealed the little house, her heart in her throat. Would the explosion be too big? Too small? Would it work at all?

In the end, her old life caught flame with more of a muffled whoosh than a bang.

One instant the old cottage slept peacefully beneath straggly, unpruned trees, surrounded by an unruly wall of holly bushes. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, a ball of fire spewed out the windows, the doors, even the crumbling chimney top. Then the whole of the house—the walls, the roof, the doors—blew outward.

A faint breeze, pushed along by the fireball consuming the small home, brushed her cheeks with fire-heated air.

Edison stood with the horse, rubbing circles along its neck, until the first bits of roofing clattered to the ground. “That’ll do it.” He gave the horse a final pat. “Should take some time before anyone realizes there’s no body.”

No Ada Templeton.

She melted back against the hansom’s seat and watched her old life disappear as the fire gobbled up the last of the walls.

Edison returned to the coach and climbed in.

Ada couldn’t stop staring at the flames. “What now?”

“Now we hunt down whoever planned this.” Flames were reflected in his eyes as he, too watched the fire dance. “We run them to ground, then turn your life back the right way round.”

“I mean now. What do I do right now?”

The weight of their plan sank in. Ada Templeton no longer existed. She couldn’t show her face at the dressmaker or the Amateur Scientific Society, couldn’t sleep in her own bed or walk down her own street.

“Who am I to be?” she whispered.

Edison shrugged as if the possibilities outweighed the losses. “Seems to me you can be anyone you like.”

Ada flopped back against the cushions and screwed her eyes shut.

That was precisely the problem.

The woman she wished to be was a woman she didn’t dare become.