His Clockwork Canary by Beth Ciotta Page B

go up in smoke?
    Simon’s temper sparked and snapped like the malfunctioning turbine on the
Flying Cloud
. Strangling the Canary would only land him in prison—or worse. In addition, the blasted
     pressman possessed knowledge that Simon very much needed. Tempering the urge to kill,
     he glanced over the top of the paper at the red-faced sensationalist. “If I were a
     violent man—”
    “But you are not.”
    “How do
you
know?”
    The kid’s cheeks burned even brighter. “I’ve done my research. You have no prior record
     or history of physical violence.”
    “There’s always a first time.” Simon folded the paper and shoved it in under his arm.
     He leaned in, glowering down at the dark-haired, dark-eyed, ruddy-skinned bohemian.
     An intimidating move meant to allow him closer, intimate proximity. His body responded
     in a familiar, intimate way. Bleeding hell.
Mina?
    “I did not write it,” the kid gritted out. “That particular article, that is. My editor
     assigned someone to take my place. Whilst I’m away. With you.”
    Simon merely watched as the Canary fidgeted beneath her coat.
Her
coat. Oh, yes. He would bet his comfortable town house this pressman was indeed a
     bird. And quite possibly his former betrothed. Question was, what was she playing
     at?
    “Did you purchase our tickets?” Willie asked as a whistle blew and a conductor invited
     passengers on board.
    “I said I would.”
    Looking anxious to distance herself from Simon, she tightened her grip on her valise
     and tugged down the brim of her floppy cap. “What car—”
    “The same as mine.”
    “Row—”
    “Compartment.”
    “But—”
    “My expedition. My rules,” Simon said. “I don’t want you out of my sight, Canary.
     Deal or no deal, I don’t trust you.”
    •   •   •
    Flabbergasted. That’s what she was. Flabbergasted, that fate could be so cruel. Jaw
     clenched so as not to spew curses, Willie moved into the private compartment, a confined
     area consisting of opposing upholstered bench seats, hinged doors on either side,
     and windows affording a view of the passing scenery. The inner door snicked shut,
     effectively trapping her within close quarters with Simon Darcy for the next nine
     hours.
    Gads.
    Simon’s valise was already stored in an overhead rack alongside his neatly folded
     greatcoat and dashing black derby.
He
was seated facing north.
    Sitting next to the infuriatingly charismatic engineer was unthinkable. Sitting across
     from him was nearly as daunting. She’d be forced to look at him for the entire journey.
     Worse, he’d have a clear and close view of
her
.
    Irritated, Willie eyed the rack over the empty bench and considered the difficulty
     of hoisting her weighty carpetbag over her head.
    “Need help?” Simon asked, sounding amused.
    Had he known she was a woman, he would have taken her baggage even before they’d boarded
     the train. Apparently, he merely thought her a puny-muscled bloke. At least her masculine
     ruse was secure.
For now.
Feeling Simon’s eyes burning into her back, she plopped the bag on the end of the
     bench and hunkered down next to it. “I prefer to keep my belongings within easy reach.”
    His mouth quirked. “Might want to take off some of those layers,” he said, indicating
     her outerwear. “It’s a long ride.”
    “Mind your own comfort, Darcy,” she said, even as she broke into a sweat. “As to the
     duration of this rail trip, if you had booked passage on a private or commercial airship,
     we could have cut our travel time by half, if not more.”
    “Look at it this way, Canary. More time to get to know me. I assume you intend to
     pick my brain as part of your exposé.”
    Interrogation was indeed part of her plan. Not only for the serialized account that
     would ensure her position at the
Informer
, but as a way of learning more about Simon’s targeted invention of historical significance
     in order to appease Strangelove and to protect her