The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Violet came against him, the onyx on the bodice sharp under his hands. She looked up at him, a storm in her eyes, her body rigid.

Daniel kissed her. Violet’s lips shook, but she kissed him back, her mouth softening a little under his. Daniel cupped the back of her neck and let the kiss become thorough.

When he drew back, Violet looked up at him with eyes filled with despair but also desire. She’d hurt so much, lost so much. Daniel wanted her with an intensity that nearly crushed him. When they finally came together, the world would shake apart.

But for now, they were in his father’s private train car, with his stepmother and baby sister in the bedrooms in the back, not to mention Violet’s mother. His father would soon stroll back from the smoking car or wherever he’d been to join Ainsley. He didn’t like to be without her for long.

And Violet truly needed to rest. She was drooping, exhausted, too pale. Daniel kissed her lips again, then made her walk with him into the back to an empty bedroom. He kissed her good night at the doorway, Violet’s eyes still full of fear and longing.

Violet shut the door herself, cutting off temptation from either of them. Daniel exited the car and made his way to the platform on the back. There he smoked cigarettes until the frigid winter wind calmed him enough to let him go back inside.

They changed trains in Paris early the next morning, without pausing to sample the pleasures of the city. The new Tour Eiffel dominated the skyline with its steel girders crisscrossed like lace against the morning sky.

Violet hadn’t been to Paris except to change trains since the tower had been built. She gazed at the tower with longing, wanting to go to its very top. Maybe someday. She felt a momentary frisson of delight when she realized that in the balloon she’d ascended even higher.

For now, Violet was happy to move on from Paris, though England was not necessarily where she wanted to go. But they would be staying in Berkshire, Daniel said, a long way from London and her problems there.

Daniel had told her she had to stop running away, but he couldn’t imagine the sorts of things Violet had run from. Daniel had always had a secure life, a caring family.

Daniel’s early life might have been lonely, but watching Lord Cameron with him, Violet could see the man loved Daniel with everything he had in him. Even if Cameron hadn’t known what to do with the energetic Daniel as a boy, he’d never entirely deserted him. That Daniel had been energetic, Violet had no doubt.

Daniel was still energetic. He helped his father direct everything as they changed trains to move on to Calais, and made certain Mary and his parents’ servants were comfortable in their compartments. He helped look after Gavina, taking his little sister around the train when the journey grew dull, keeping her busy. And the whole while, he talked; with his father about sport; with his sister, interesting things they saw out the windows; with his stepmother, music, plays, fashion, and interestingly, cake.

Ainsley had lent Violet some clothes so she could remove her stolen costume and pack it away. What Mary had managed to carry off was mostly their stage accoutrements and a change of clothing for Celine, but nothing for Violet.

Ainsley seemed to think nothing of lending Violet a walking dress and two or three day dresses—for the time being, she said. They would of course go shopping for Violet when they reached England.

Ainsley’s kindness was without artifice, tinged with friendly understanding, and easy to take. Another new sensation for Violet.

Daniel never said a word to Violet about their argument. He didn’t keep his distance from her, but he didn’t try to be private with her either. Daniel included her and Celine in all the conversations, talking easily but neutrally as the train ran on into Calais, where they’d spend the night. He was cheerful at the restaurant where they took a meal, bade Violet a polite good night at their hotel, and retreated to a lounge with his father.

Not until they were on the boat crossing the tossing Channel the next day did Daniel seek out Violet alone.

Violet hung on to the rail in the bow of the ferry, looking forward, the rumbling of the boat’s huge engine somehow soothing. Celine, who hated boats, had stayed in their cabin with Mary. On her way above, Violet had glimpsed Lord Cameron, his wife, his daughter, and Daniel in the parlor for first-class passengers. Instead of stopping to join them, she’d come out here to be alone with her thoughts. The cold wind kept most passengers below, so Violet had the deck to herself.

She watched, mesmerized, as the gray water tossed white foam under the bow. The sea was ever changing, yet always there, tons of water somehow adhering fast to the planet. The bow wave surged and broke, surged and broke, but never stopped the boat, which kept plunging onward.

Warmth came behind her. Daniel brought his arms around either side of her to rest his gloved hands on the rail. “I couldn’t stay away from you,” he said, his breath in her ear. “Seeing you out here with your face to the wind, the courage of you, looking straight ahead into whatever comes.”

“It isn’t courage,” Violet said. “The smoke from the engines is too thick in the stern.”

“Don’t ruin the image, love. And I’m not wrong. You aren’t staring backward—smoke and all—at the retreating shore of France. You’re watching England rush at you, your home, come what may.”

Daniel brushed his lips to her cheek, sweet heat. Violet didn’t dare turn her head, didn’t dare kiss him back. Because once she took hold of Daniel, she’d never want to let him go.