“My bedroom…” she managed to say, turning toward the stairs. She began to ascend the flight with quivery legs. After the first few steps, she felt Simon come up behind her swiftly, catching and turning her in his muscular arms. Before she could make a sound, he lifted her and carried her up the rest of the stairs with almost frightening ease.

He took her to the bedroom, where the sight of his dark form was startling among the pale, timeworn ruffles and tattered lace and the framed needlework samplers that had been sewn by her own childish hands. Undressing her roughly, Simon laid her among the bed linens, which were smooth and slightly stale from having gone unused for so long. His clothes quickly joined her son the floor, then his body slid over hers. She countered his urgency with unequivocal willingness, her arms spreading to hold him, her legs parting easily at his slightest touch. He thrust into her, filling her with a low, thick slide, and she gasped and strained with the effort to accommodate him. Once he had joined her, he became gentler, his urgency transforming into ravaging intensity. It seemed that every part of him had been designed to pleasure her, the satin reaches of hard muscle, the thick fleece that rubbed gently over the tips of her breasts, the scent and taste that drugged her senses.

Overwhelmed by the devastating intimacy, Annabelle felt tears come to her eyes, and Simon comforted her with soft murmurs even as he pushed deeper, longer, taking more of her than she thought was possible to give. His mouth brushed over hers, absorbing her erratic breaths, as he moved in lush, gauging thrusts that caused all her muscles to tighten and strain. She sobbed against his lips, begging wordlessly for him to relieve her. Relenting at last, he quickened his pace and drove her to a piercing cl**ax, their joining raw and exalted and astonishing in its potency.

Minutes later, as Annabelle lay bonelessly over his body, her cheek nestled on his shoulder, she tried to sort through the bewilderment of her senses. She had never been so satiated, every nerve glazed with pleasure. And yet she had perceived something new in their lovemaking…an unattained height that loomed even beyond what they had just experienced…some unrealized possibility that hovered just out of reach. A feeling…a wish…a tantalizing something that had no name. Closing her eyes, Annabelle basked in the closeness of their bodies, while the elusive promise haunted the air like some benevolent spirit.

Increasingly curious about the project that demanded so much of her husband’s attention, Annabelle asked Simon if she could visit the locomotive works, only to meet with refusals, diversions, and assorted tactics to keep her from going to the site. Realizing that for some reason Simon did not want to take her to the place, she became increasingly determined. “Just a short visit,” she insisted one evening. “All I want is one glimpse of it. I won’t touch anything. For heaven’s sake, after listening to you discuss the locomotive works so often, aren’t I entitled to see it?

“It’s too dangerous,” Simon replied flatly. “A woman has no business going into a place full of heavy machinery and thousand-pound vats of boiling hell-broth—”

“You’ve been telling me for weeks how safe it is, and how there is absolutely no reason for me to worry when you go there…and now you’re saying that it’s dangerous?”

Realizing his tactical error, Simon scowled. “The fact that it’s safe for me doesn’t mean that it’s safe for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a woman.”

Boiling like one of the aforementioned vats of hell-broth, Annabelle regarded him through slitted eyes. “I’ll reply to that in a moment,” she muttered, “if I can manage to conquer the urge to crown you with the nearest heavy object.”

Simon paced around the parlor, frustration evident in every taut line of his body. He stopped before the settee on which she reposed and towered over her. “Annabelle,” he said gruffly, “visiting the foundry is like looking through the doors of hell. The place is as safe as we can make it, but even so, it’s a noisy, rough, dirty business. And yes, there is always a chance of danger, and you…” He stopped and dragged his fingers through his hair, and looked around impatiently, as if it was suddenly difficult for him to meet her gaze. With an effort, he forced himself to continue. “You’re too important for me to risk your safety in any way. It’s my responsibility to protect you.”

Annabelle’s eyes widened. She was touched and more than a little surprised by his admission that she was important to him. As they stared at each other, she was conscious of a peculiar tension…not unpleasant, but disquieting nonetheless. Leaning the side of her head against her hand, she studied him intently. “You’re entirely welcome to protect me,” she murmured. “However, I don’t want to be locked in an ivory tower.” Sensing his inner struggle, she continued reasonably. “I want to know more about what you do during the hours that you’re away from me. I want to see the place that is so important to you. Please.”

Simon brooded silently for a moment. When he replied, there was an unmistakable thread of surliness in his tone. “All right. Since it’s obvious that I’ll have no peace otherwise, I’ll take you there tomorrow. But don’t blame me when you’re disappointed. I warned you what to expect.”

“Thank you,” Annabelle said in satisfaction, giving him a sunny smile that dimmed somewhat at his next words.

“Fortunately, Westcliff will be visiting the foundry tomorrow as well. It will be a good opportunity for the two of you to become better acquainted.”

“How nice,” Annabelle said in a brittle attempt at pleasantness, fighting the temptation to glower at the news. She had still not forgiven the earl for his cutting remarks about her and his prediction that marriage to her would ruin Simon’s life. However, if Simon thought that the prospect of being in the company of a pompous ass like Westcliff would dissuade her, he was mistaken. Pasting a thin smile on her face, she spent the rest of the evening thinking what a pity it was that a wife could not choose her husband’s friends for him.

Late the next morning, Simon took Annabelle to the nine-acre site of the Consolidated Locomotive works. The rows of cavernous buildings were fitted with myriads of jutting smokestacks, spewing out smoke that drifted over truck yards and intersecting walkways. The scale of the locomotive works was even larger than Annabelle had expected, housing equipment so mammoth in scale that she was nearly rendered speechless at the sight. The first place they visited was the assembly shop, where nine locomotive engines were in various stages of production. The company’s goal was to produce fifteen engines the first year and double that the next. Upon learning that the cash outlay for the locomotive works was, on average, a million pounds a week, with a capitalization of twice that amount, Annabelle stared at her husband with slack-jawed astonishment. “Good Lord,” she said faintly. “How rich are you?”

Simon’s dark eyes danced with sudden laughter at the ill-bred question, and he bent to murmur in her ear. “Rich enough to keep you well supplied in walking boots, madam.”

Next they went to the pattern shop, where drawings of parts were carefully examined and wooden prototypes constructed according to specifications. Later, as Simon explained to her, the wooden patterns would be used to make molds, into which molten iron would be poured and cooled. Fascinated, Annabelle asked a slew of questions about the casting process and how the hydrostatic riveting machines and presses worked, and why quickly cooled iron was stronger than slow-cooled.

Despite Simon’s initial misgivings, he seemed to enjoy touring her through the buildings, smiling occasionally at her absorbed expression. He guided her carefully into the foundry, where she discovered that his description of it as a glimpse into hell was not the exaggeration it had seemed. It had nothing to do with the condition of the workers, who seemed to be well treated, nor was it because of the buildings, which were relatively organized. Rather, it was the nature of the work itself, a kind of coordinated bedlam in which fumes and thundering noise and the red glow of roaring furnaces provided a seething backdrop for heavily clothed workers bearing brands and mallets. Surely the devil’s minions were not half so well orchestrated as they went about their labors. Moving through the labyrinth of fire and steel, the foundrymen ducked beneath massive pivoting cranes and vats of hell-broth, and paused casually to allow huge plates of metal to swing across their paths. Annabelle was aware of a few curious glances cast her way, but for the most part, the foundrymen were too intent on their work to allow for distractions.

Traveling cranes were set all through the center of the foundry, hoisting trucks filled with pig iron, scrap iron and coke to the tops of cupola stacks more than twenty feet high. The iron mixture was loaded at the top of the cupolas, where it was melted and forced into gigantic ladles and poured into molds by additional cranes. Odors of fuel, metal, and human sweat imparted a hazy weight to the air. As Annabelle watched the melted iron being transferred from vats to molds, she drew instinctively closer to Simon.

Buffeted by the relentless shrieks and moans of bending metal, the startling hiss of steam-powered machinery, and the echoing jolts of a great hammer being operated by six men, Annabelle found herself flinching with each new assault on her ears. Instantly, she felt Simon’s arm slide around her back, while he engaged in a friendly, half-shouted conversation with the flange-shop manager, Mr. Mawer.

“Have you caught sight of Lord Westcliff yet?” Simon asked. “He had planned to arrive at the foundry at noon—and I’ve never known him to be late before.”

The middle-aged foundryman blotted his sweating face with a handkerchief as he replied. “I believe the earl is at the assembly yard, Mr. Hunt. He had a concern about the dimensions of the new cylinder castings, and he wanted to inspect them before they were bolted into place.”

Simon glanced down at Annabelle. “We’ll go outside,” he told her. “It’s too damned hot and noisy to wait for Westcliff in here.”

Relieved at the prospect of escaping the relentless clamor of the foundry, Annabelle agreed immediately. Now that she had gotten a thorough look at the place, her curiosity was satisfied, and she was ready to leave—even if that mean having to spend time in the company of Lord Westcliff. As Simon paused to ex change a few last words with Mawer, she watched as a steam-powered blower was employed to force air into the large central cupola. The blast of air caused hot metal to run into carefully positioned ladles, each one containing a thousand pounds of unstable liquid.

A particularly large heap of scrap iron was dumped into the charging door at the top of the cupola…too large, apparently, for the foreman shouted angrily at the foundryman who had loaded the truck. Narrowing her eyes, Annabelle observed them intently. A few rough shouts of warning from the men at the top of the gallery heralded another air blast of the steam blower…and this time, disaster struck. Boiling iron swiftly overran the ladles and dropped in bubbling wads from the cupola, some of it catching in the traveling cranes. Simon paused in midconversation with the flange-shop manager, both of them glancing upward at the same time.

“Jesus,” she heard Simon say, and she had one flashing glimpse of his face before he shoved her to the ground and covered her with his own body. At the same time, two pumpkin-sized clots of hell-broth dropped into the cooling troughs below, setting off a series of instantaneous explosions.

The impact of the blasts was like a succession of full body blows. Annabelle had no breath to cry out as Simon hunched over her, his shoulders curving in a shield over her head. And then—

Silence.

At first it seemed the motion of the earth itself had been brought to a jarring halt. Disoriented, Annabelle blinked to clear her vision, and was assaulted by the harsh brilliance of fire, the looming shapes of machinery silhouetted like monsters from the illustrations of a medieval tome. Intermittent blasts of heat struck her with such force that they threatened to peel the flesh from her bones. Flurries of metal chips and filings flew through the air as if they had been shot from a gun. She was surrounded by a whirl of movement and chaos, all of it blanketed in stunning quiet. Suddenly, there was a popping sensation in her ears, and they were filled with a tinny, high-pitched tone.

She was being pulled from the floor. Simon gave a hard tug to her arms, bringing her up in one powerful motion. Helpless against the force of momentum, she landed against his chest. He was saying something to her…she could almost make out the sound of his voice, and she began to hear the bursts of smaller explosions and the roaring undercurrent of fire as it fed hungrily on the building. Staring at Simon’s hard face, she tried to comprehend his words, but she was distracted by the sting of more hot metal chips that peppered her face and neck like a swarm of nasty biting insects. Driven by instinct rather than reason, she couldn’t stop herself from swatting foolishly at the air with her hand.

Simon shoved and dragged her through the pandemonium while trying to protect her with his body. An elephantine boiler barrel rolled gently before them, placidly crushing everything in its path. Cursing, Simon jerked Annabelle backward as the object rumbled by. There were men everywhere, shoving and swarming and shouting, white-eyed with the will to survive as they headed to the entryways on both ends of the building. A new set of eruptions shook the foundry, accompanied by rough cries. It was too hot to breathe, and Annabelle wondered dazedly if they would be roasted alive before they reached the door of the foundry. “Simon,” she shouted, clinging to his lean waist, “On second thought…I’ve decided that you were right.”

“About what?” he asked, his gaze locked on the foundry entrance.

“This place is too dangerous for me!”

Simon bent and hoisted her over his shoulder, carrying her over toppled cranes and collapsed equipment, with his arm clamped tightly around her knees. Dangling helplessly, Annabelle saw bloody holes in his coat, and realized that the blast had embedded metal filings and splinters in his back as he had covered her with his body. Crossing obstacle after obstacle, Simon finally reached the triple-width doors and set Annabelle on her feet. He startled her by pushing her firmly toward someone, shouting for him to take her. Twisting, Annabelle discovered that Simon had given her over to Mr. Mawer. “Take her outside,” Simon commanded hoarsely. “Don’t stop until she’s completely clear of the building.”

“Yes, sir!” The shop manager seized Annabelle in an unbreakable hold.

As she was compelled forcibly toward the entrance, Annabelle looked back wildly at Simon. “What are you going to do?”