The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

As far as Violet was able to make out, Daniel was a man who lived as he pleased, did what he wanted, then moved on to his next interest, next town, next woman. The likelihood of Violet meeting his pampered little sister and brother was so small she didn’t bother to answer the suggestion.

But she made her decision. “Very well, Mr. Mackenzie. Call tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, and I will place my device in your hands. I will require a receipt. And its replacement if damaged.”

Daniel’s eyes warmed with his smile. “That’s more like it. I’ll be here.”

Violet gave him a nod and tried to step away, but Daniel’s strong hand closed around her elbow, keeping her in place.

“Good night, lass. Sleep well.” Instead of letting her go, he kept hold of her and brushed his thumb lightly over her lower lip.

The warmth in the touch made her shake. Violet had always held herself rigid, because she had to. Any bending or breaking would be disastrous for her.

Now Daniel stood close and merely touched her, fingertips sending a trickle of fire through every nerve. If Violet leaned into his tall body, she’d just fit under his chin. His large arms would come around her, pulling her close, keeping her safe.

The image of him holding her was so palpable that when Daniel removed his touch from her face, Violet was startled to find herself standing a foot away from him. So much empty space between them . . .

She cleared her throat. “I truly am pleased you’re all right.”

Daniel’s amusement vanished to be replaced by something dark and dangerous. “You know, lass, I think that’s the sincerest thing you’ve said all night.”

Violet pulled back, uncertain how to respond. She swallowed, trying to keep her voice steady. “Well, good night, Mr. Mackenzie.”

His gaze held her as solidly as an iron chain. “Good night, lass.” Even though he wasn’t touching her, Violet couldn’t move until he released her.

As he had at the other boardinghouse, Daniel stepped back and tipped his hat, then stood still, waiting for her to go inside. This time he didn’t smile, but watched her with his unnerving scrutiny.

Violet finally made herself turn away and walk the few steps to the house. Her hand trembled on the door latch, and she found the door locked.

A maid answered her knock immediately and let her in. The foyer was bone cold, but Violet was still hot from Daniel’s touch.

She went up the stairs, clutching the wooden railing for balance. Once inside her bedroom, in their little suite of rooms, Violet moved to the front window and lifted the curtain to look out.

Daniel was still there, scanning the windows, waiting to make sure she’d gone into the right boardinghouse this time. He saw Violet, broke into his smile, and gave her a lazy salute. Violet lifted her hand in farewell, then forced herself to let go of the curtain, cutting off Daniel from her sight.

Daniel arrived at precisely ten the next morning to be ushered into a dreary parlor on the ground floor. He’d had to talk swiftly to be admitted at all, but finally the landlady agreed that Violet could speak to him in the parlor, if they kept the door open, and he departed right away.

Two middle-aged ladies fled through a far door as he was let into the parlor from the hall—probably nothing masculine had walked into this room in a decade. He heard whispers and giggles from behind the cracked-open door, which he pretended to ignore.

This parlor was not as crowded with keepsakes as the sitting room at the Mortimer house in London had been, but there were enough tables draped with cloth and covered with trinkets that would make brushing past them a disaster. Daniel navigated the safest path he could to a side chair under a gaslight, where he sat, pulling his kilt modestly over his knees. The giggling intensified. Likely the ladies had never seen a man in a skirt before.

Violet walked into the parlor, thanking the severe-looking landlady who had come with her to it. Giving the far door a hard look, Violet moved to Daniel, who had sprung to his feet.

“You are punctual,” she said.

“One of my many skills,” Daniel said, trying not to be obvious about feasting his eyes on her. “Punctuality.”

Violet didn’t look as refreshed from a night’s sleep as she might. Her eyes were red-rimmed, though her hair was pulled neatly into her pompadour, her shirtwaist buttoned to her chin, her skirt holding nary a wrinkle. Even with her slightly haggard look, her skin was flawlessly smooth, and her eyes—those dark blue eyes that could reach a man’s soul—fixed on him and wouldn’t let him go.

Violet held out a wooden box about two feet wide and one high, with heavy hinges and a sturdy clasp. “Take good care of it. It cost me a bit.”

“Oh, I will, lass.” Daniel took the box, unfastened the clasp, and peeked inside. The machine didn’t look like much—a metal casing, fan blades showing through a cage, and a few wires.

Violet gave the box an anxious glance as Daniel closed it, as though she’d handed a stranger her only child. “What will you do with it?”

“See if it will enhance an engine idea I have. I don’t have the engine here, but my friend down the coast has something close, and a vehicle for testing it. He’s letting me loose on it with my theories today, trusting man.”

“What kind of vehicle?” Violet asked, interested. “Is it a motorcar?”

The excitement in the question changed her. For a moment Violet the careful woman vanished, as did the Violet who used blunt rejoinders to keep those who might hurt her at bay. Daniel liked this Violet, curious and interested.