THREE
Twenty minutes passed before Mad Machen came for her. When she heard the door open, Ivy turned away from the porthole windows, Fool’s Cove no longer visible behind them.
With dark eyes, he stared at her until a shout from the decks and a sudden decrease in the airship’s speed sent Ivy stumbling forward. He started toward her, but stopped when she caught her balance. His gaze left her face, landing on the satchel she’d dropped by the door.
Bending, he grabbed up the handle, slung it over his shoulder. “We’re almost above my ship. Come.”
Ivy expected him to step aside to let her pass, but he didn’t move out of the doorway as she approached. Ivy paused, wary. When his brows drew together with his frown, she fought the urge to scramble back.
His expression continued to darken. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
A disbelieving laugh escaped before she could stop it. Clamping her lips together, she lasted only a moment until the rest came out. “Certainly. I’ll start doing that, right away.”
To her surprise, he smiled before sliding the door open. Nerves fluttering in her stomach, she passed him quickly, entering the narrow passageway that led out from beneath the quarterdeck. Cold wind caught her full in the face. Shivering in her thin coat, she started toward the rope ladder at the side of the airship, already longing for the warmer air below. She’d forgotten how frigid even a slight breeze could seem as it blew across the airship’s open decks.
Mad Machen came up beside her. Avoiding his gaze, Ivy looked down, where Vesuvius floated five hundred yards below. The ladder hadn’t been lowered yet. As she watched, two aviators at a nearby capstan unwound a mooring cable toward the waiting ship. Within a few minutes, the crew below had tethered the airship to Vesuvius’s stern, the cable carrying enough slack to form a graceful curve between them.
She glanced over at Mad Machen. His hands braced on the gunwale, he was looking down at the ship with an expression that might have been anticipation. His gaze slid up the mooring line, then unexpectedly locked on hers.
“Put your arms around my neck, Ivy, and we’ll head down.”
Confused, she looked to the ladder, still rolled up near her feet.
Without warning, his arm circled her waist, hauling her back against his solid chest. Surrounded by the heat of his body, she tried not to stiffen.
“No? Then I’ll hold on to you,” he said against her hair, and reached for the mooring line. Snapping a large carabiner over the cable, he gripped the bottom of the steel loop.
Oh, blue. That was how they’d be going down? Spinning to face him, she flung her arms around his shoulders. Muscles bunched beneath her hands. Mad Machen swung them up and over the side, and then they were falling, bouncing and twisting, steel ripping along over the cable. Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open again, staring over his shoulder. They dropped away from the airship at terrifying . . . exhilarating speed.
She laughed, suddenly loving this mad descent. His arm tightened around her back and Ivy abruptly became aware of how she clung to him, her legs wrapped around his thigh, her cheek against his warm neck—abruptly aware that she’d felt safe enough to let go of her fear, if only for a moment.
Then they were slowing at the bottom of the long arc of cable, leveling out. Ivy lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Vesuvius’s approaching decks. Tall and imposing, Vesuvius was enormous. Wide at the waterline, the ship’s black, rounded hull narrowed at the top, and the two rows of gallery windows built up the squared-off stern higher than the bow. Gunports lined the side, and more cannons took up space along the rails of the upper decks. From high above, the ship had appeared small and calm in the quiet waters, but closing in she could barely make sense of the crisscrossing ropes and furled sails, the timbers and spars—and twice as many crew members on the crowded upper deck alone than had served the entire airship, all moving about in chaotic activity.
“Zounds!” she exclaimed, and turned her head as Mad Machen chuckled, a deep rumble that she felt against her chest. The wind scraped his ragged hair back from his forehead, and when his short laugh ended, either the ship or the descent left a wide grin on his face.
Perhaps both.
Without glancing down at her, he said, “Hold tight,” and let go of the carabiner, landing heavily on the poop deck. He stumbled, as if his right leg almost folded, but he wrenched upward and came to a halt, holding her against him. Breathing hard and still grinning, he pulled back to look into her face. His hair stuck up wildly in all directions. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening his dark gaze. She waited for her fear to return, but could only think that this was the man she’d asked for help from two years before, the man she’d met at the Blacksmith’s.
But her impression then had been wrong. She couldn’t trust this impression, either.
Ivy pulled away. To her relief, Mad Machen let her go, turning to scan the ship. At a word, two men rushed to unfasten the mooring line. A shout from another deck sent hands scurrying up the masts, out onto the yards. Eight men around a capstan began hauling up the heavy anchor chain.
Watching them, Ivy took a few moments to find her breath—and her balance. The deck seemed to roll gently beneath her feet, a gentle rock from bow to stern. Gulls circled the topgallant masts, their raucous cries adding to the voices calling to one another up in the yards, to the orders shouted from below. Booted feet beat the decks as men hurried about, securing ropes. White sails unfurled with the rough scrape of canvas, and the timbers creaked when they filled with air.
Chaos, but a perfectly ordered one. Eyes wide as she tried to take it in, she followed Mad Machen to a lower deck, where Barker stood at a carved balustrade, overlooking the crew.
The quartermaster turned and spotted Ivy. His mouth fell open and his gaze darted to Mad Machen’s face before returning to hers. His astonishment warmed into a smile.
“Well,” he drawled. “Look at you, Ivy Blacksmith. You’ve color in your cheeks now.”
All freckles. “A bit,” she said.
“More than a bit. The blue skies suit you. Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?”
“Yes.” Mad Machen’s slow perusal felt as if he was stripping Ivy down to her skin. “But so did London.”
“That’s true enough.” Barker laughed suddenly, shaking his head. He looked to Mad Machen. “And so this explains why Yasmeen wouldn’t tell us who the Blacksmith had named until after you’d fetched her. She knew you wouldn’t strangle her in front of Ivy.”
A gentle swell rocked the ship. Swaying, Ivy stared at Barker. “The Blacksmith?” So focused on the threat of Mad Machen, she’d completely forgotten what Lady Corsair had told her: they wanted Ivy to build something. “Why did he name me?”
Mad Machen glanced at Barker. The quartermaster’s expression closed up and he nodded, as if that silent look had conveyed a message Ivy couldn’t read.
The captain turned to Ivy. “He said you are best suited for the work.”
“What work?” Of all her talents, her strongest was creating artificial limbs. Nothing like the Blacksmith’s mechanical flesh, but far more precise and integrated than a typical prosthetic . . . Oh. Her gaze dropped. “Your leg?”
“No.”
Mad Machen’s abrupt answer told her not to pursue it. Why? She’d have to know eventually—and the sooner she began, the sooner she could return to Fool’s Cove. “Then why am I here?”
His mouth tightened. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of speaking, but looked away from her, instead. He turned to Barker.
“Send for Duckie. He’ll ready my cabin for Ivy’s stay.”
His cabin. Without a flicker of his eyelids, the quartermaster followed the order. Anger grated in Ivy’s chest like a twisted gear.
The Blacksmith wouldn’t have given her name if he’d known she’d be required to work in Mad Machen’s bed, too. Ivy was certain of it.
“I don’t owe you that service, Captain Machen. Tell your man to put me in another room.”
“You’re taking passage on my ship—”
“Not by my choice.”
“—and you will sleep in my bed.”
By the bleeding stars, she would not be forced. “You’ll have to chain me down first, Mad Machen.”
His smile was sudden and terrifying, a sharp flash of white against his tan. Ivy stepped back, abruptly aware that the only sound on the ship came from the gulls and the creaking hull. The crew had fallen silent. Barker’s eyes had closed, as if he were praying. A blond, gangly boy with a red mark across his forehead rushed up the stairs onto the quarterdeck and stopped, looking uneasily between her and the captain.
Ivy swallowed. Alright. She shouldn’t challenge Mad Machen here. When they had privacy, perhaps she could appeal to his rational side . . . if he had one. And if not, perhaps she could bargain with the mercenary in him.
Her heart pounding, she held still as Mad Machen crossed the distance between them. His dark face lowered, stopping with his lips a breath from hers. He murmured, “Here in front of my men, or in my cabin. That is your choice.”
“Your cabin.” Frustration shook through her whisper. “And damn you to a kraken’s belly.”
His brows rose, and a surprised laugh broke from him before his mouth suddenly covered hers, his callused palm cupping her jaw. Not a hard kiss, and not tender—it was a statement, she realized, for the men watching them. A claim, pure and simple.
A claim that went on until Ivy had to employ all of her willpower to refrain from biting him.
He finally lifted his head, and turned to the boy. “Duckie, escort Ivy Blacksmith to my cabin. See that she wants for nothing.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy gathered her satchel from the captain, and looked expectantly to Ivy.
Plastering on a smile, she pulled at her trouser legs and curtsied to Mad Machen. His laugh followed her to the stairs—and Ivy decided she could make a statement, too. A brass finial shaped like an egg decorated the end of the banister. Ivy closed her gray hand around it. Metal shrieked as she crushed the finial between her fingers.
His laughter stopped.
She released the mangled brass, and called over her shoulder, “I await your mighty prick, sir!”
Eben couldn’t stop grinning. Judging by the way his crew kept their heads down and their hands busy, most assumed a storm was brewing, but Barker read his grin for what it was.
“Not so afraid now, is she?”
No, she wasn’t. And not ready to trust him, but Eben knew it’d take time to show her that she could. The reputation he’d built couldn’t be brushed away with a word—and he couldn’t risk that it was brushed away from anyone’s eyes but Ivy’s. Yasmeen had been right about that.
But at least her fear had receded. He couldn’t have borne it if she’d kept trembling at his approach or trying to run. The rest would come.
He eyed the stairs. Perhaps he could start—
“Meg!”
The shout came down from the crow’s nest, where Teppers pointed out to starboard. Two hundred yards distant, a razor-edged dorsal fin sliced through the water, tall enough that if Vesuvius sailed next to it, the fin’s point would reach halfway to the ship’s upper decks.
“A big one,” Barker said.
A damn big one. And with luck, it wouldn’t come to investigate Vesuvius. Even under full sail, a megalodon was impossible to outrun. Altered and bred by the Horde until they were aggressive and territorial, a full-grown megalodon could leave a ship rudderless or damage the hull, even on a vessel as solid as Eben’s—and the shark’s armored plating made it damn hard to kill. The best course was just avoiding them, and if that failed, throw out bait—and then watch Vesuvius’s tail, because once megalodons caught a scent, they were hard to shake.
Out over the water, the dorsal fin turned toward them, then slid beneath the surface.
“Hard to port.” Eben braced his feet and settled in. “Ready the chum.”
It was going to be a long afternoon.
With a row of square windows that welcomed the pale, slanting sunlight, the captain’s cabin was more spacious than Ivy anticipated. Though four cannons strapped to rolling platforms were lashed together at the center of the floor, enough room was left over for a dining table that could seat six, a teak desk piled high with maps and ledgers, two leather armchairs beneath the windows, a weapons cabinet, and a wardrobe. Chests with upholstered lids served as footrests or additional seats. A narrow door by the windows opened to a lavatory. Partitioning off one side of the room was a heavy green curtain—behind which, a blushing Duckie told her, was the captain’s berth. As soon as he left, Ivy pushed the curtain aside, revealing a squat bureau topped by a ewer, a washbowl, and a mirror. A thick mattress lay on a waist-high wooden platform.
Blimey. The bed was tiny. Long enough to accommodate the captain’s height, but almost as narrow as her bed in Fool’s Cove. Certainly not wide enough for two people to lie side by side, especially if one had shoulders as broad as Mad Machen’s. Even hanging off the edge would be impossible; a wooden rail guarded the side to keep the pitching boat from flinging the sleeper to the floor.
What in the blue blazes did he expect to do—lie on top of her all night?
Her stomach rolled. Perhaps that was exactly what he expected to do.
So she would reason with him when he returned. She wouldn’t antagonize him, but lay out a rational alternative. With a blanket on the floor, she could sleep in the small space between the end of the bed and the chest of drawers. She wouldn’t mind; she’d spent nights in worse places.
Ivy waited. When Duckie returned, she asked him for an extra blanket and made her spot on the floor. Eventually the sun dropped to the horizon, painting the cabin in orange light and purple shadows. Duckie brought her dinner on heavy plates: a thick fish stew swimming with carrots, leeks, and potatoes and sopped up with crusty rolls; melon slices bursting with juice; and a lemon tart made with French sugar. He didn’t set a place for Mad Machen, who was “leading Meg on a grand chase.” As she wasn’t thrown about the room by a shark ramming the ship, or trying to cut her way out of its belly, the captain must have been doing a fine job of it.
When Mad Machen finally came, she was sitting in a chair by the windows, watching the stars appear against the coal black heavens—a view she never tired of, and that she’d never seen over London’s hazy skies. The moon, sometimes, as a dull red glow through the smoke. Never the stars.
The captain’s gaze found her in the darkened room. She couldn’t see his expression, only the gleam of his eyes. After a long moment, he strode to the berth and slid aside the curtain. Her makeshift pallet made him pause.
Ivy filled the silence. “If I sleep on the—”
“No.” He swept the blanket up and called for Duckie. Wearing only a nightshirt, the cabin boy came through the door an instant later. Mad Machen tossed the blanket to him. “If the nights are too cold, she can have it back.”
“Yes, sir.” Duckie left the cabin as quickly as he’d come.
With the flick of a spark lighter, Mad Machen lit the gas lamp on the bureau. In the dim glow, he looked toward Ivy. “You won’t be cold.”
Clamping her lips tight, Ivy faced the windows again. Rational, she reminded herself. He made it difficult.
And he’d stolen her view. Now that the lamp lit the cabin, his reflection appeared in the glass, instead. He stood at the bureau with his back to the windows, filling the washbowl with water. She glanced away when he removed his jacket, but looked again when she heard his shirt come off.
She’d spent years training at the Blacksmith’s smithy, learning to build machines that ranged from tiny clockworks to enormous steam-powered locomotives. But before the Blacksmith had let her touch a single prosthetic, she’d had to study anatomy. For two years, she’d watched people wearing tight clothes and loose, observed the nude models brought in by the Blacksmith—and during quiet sessions at night, opening the drowned corpses brought in by the body collectors along the Thames—until she understood how every muscle, tendon, and joint within a human body affected balance and movement.
With sharply delineated muscle that moved smoothly beneath his tanned skin, Mad Machen had a form well worth studying.
Stripped down to his breeches, he washed his face, then wetted a cloth and wiped down the back of his neck, his chest, his underarms. He glanced around once, as if checking to see that she still faced the window. After a brief hesitation, he moved to a bootjack. Bracing his foot, he pulled off his left boot—but when his right came off, she turned in the armchair for a better look, frowning.
His breeches extended to midcalf, so she couldn’t see his knee, but the mechanical leg looked to be a standard skeletal prosthetic, made of nickel-plated steel with basic movement at the joints . . . and a badly configured ankle.
“You have a load-bearing pneumatic where your Achilles tube should be.” She stood and crossed the room. Crouching next to him, she fingered the wide cylinder above his heel. “Look at this. Shoddy work—”
She paused suddenly, looked up; he was staring down at her, his expression unreadable. “It’s not by your ship’s blacksmith, is it?”
“No.”
His gruff response released the tension that had sprung through her. In London, there could be no excuse for work like this, but on a ship, there could be any number of reasons—a lack of equipment being the most likely. She didn’t want to endanger a blacksmith’s position over circumstances he couldn’t avoid.
“Alright. Look here. Your Achilles tube is for balance and stability—it doesn’t handle much weight, but prevents your foot apparatus from flopping around like a fish. But this . . .” She tapped her finger against the cylinder, shaking her head. “It’s harder to compress, which limits the range of motion. You probably don’t take note of it except for on an incline or stairs, or when you want to walk quickly—but then it’s stiff. Yes?”
“Yes.”
His voice had deepened, but Ivy didn’t glance up to gauge his expression. She lifted the leg of his breeches and examined the knee. Rudimentary, but fine. Her fingers itched to build a more advanced joint, but fixing what he had would have to serve.
“If you show me to your smithy, I’ll adjust the cylinder’s valve so that it compresses under minimal weight. It won’t be perfect, but you’ll have a smoother stride until the pneumatic can be replaced.”
“Not tonight.”
Ivy closed her eyes as his answer sank through her. Pushing to her feet, she walked back to the window.
He might have sighed, but she wasn’t certain. The creaking of the ship and the clank of his foot as he moved toward her covered the sound. He stopped by the table and glanced down at her plates. She’d eaten from all of them but one.
His brows lifted. “You don’t like lemon tarts?”
She didn’t know; she hadn’t tried one. “Duckie said the sugar came from the Antilles.”
Two hundred years before, the Horde had used cheap imported sugars and teas to infect almost everyone in Britain with their nanoagents. Ivy didn’t know anyone raised under Horde rule who sweetened their food with anything but honey.
Sitting back against the table, he paused with his hand over the tart. “May I?”
“Yes,” she said, grateful that unlike some descendents of the merchants and aristocrats who’d fled when the Horde had advanced across Europe—and who still considered themselves Englishmen, though they’d never stepped foot on British soil until after the Iron Duke blew up the Horde’s tower—Mad Machen didn’t try to convince her that she had nothing to fear from sugar imported from the New World.
Of course she didn’t; she was already infected. She didn’t reject sugar out of paranoia, but pride. Apparently, he understood that.
He ate quietly. She watched his reflection and hope began to rise in her chest. The downward cast of his shoulders told her that fatigue sat heavily on him. If exhausted, surely he wouldn’t want to force her into his bed.
That hope died when her gaze slid down to his loins. She couldn’t mistake the bulge that had formed behind the flap of his breeches. Though tired, he was obviously imagining what came next.
He finished the tart and straightened. “It grows late, Ivy. Let’s go to bed.”
Her teeth clenched. If he tried to force her, she would kill him. And if Ivy killed him, she wouldn’t make it off this ship. Desperate, she cast around her mind for something—anything—that might appeal to him. She only had one thing. Unfortunately, she had very little of it.
She stood, digging into the pouch tied at the waist of her trousers and withdrawing a thin denier. She held the money out to him.
He frowned at the coin. “What is this for?”
“I’ll sleep in your bed tonight. This is to sleep unmolested.”
His gaze flew to her face. His dark brows drew together, and shadows moved over his expression. Ivy’s hand didn’t shake; the rest of her did.
After an endless moment, his fingers closed over hers. He took the coin. “Get into the bed.”
She went quickly, before he could change his mind. Her knees sank into the thick mattress and she stretched out on her side, her back hard against the cold bulkhead. His uneven tread carried him to the bureau, where he snuffed the lamp, and she followed the sound of his steps to the bed. He rolled in beside her, a solid block of heat that almost flattened her against the side of the ship. His hands found her waist.
Ivy tried to shrink back and couldn’t. “You agreed you wouldn’t—”
“Crush you? Hold still.” His rough voice brooked no argument. He hauled her against him, her head cradled by his shoulder, her leg over his thighs. “And relax.”
Her laugh burst out, tinged with hysteria. He truly must be insane.
But as the minutes passed, the tension did ease from her body. Despite everything, she was comfortable—and warm. So warm.
Not that she wanted to become accustomed to this. “How long will we be sailing?”
He didn’t answer for a long moment, and by the heaviness in his reply, she realized he’d almost been asleep. “Fifteen days.”
She stared into the dark. Fifteen. And she had only eight coins.
Seven now.
Mad Machen stirred again. “And twenty days more for the return journey. We’ll be sailing against the wind.”
Five weeks altogether—and only coins enough for one.
Smoking hell.