FIVE
The ship’s bell woke her. Silently, Ivy opened her eyes to the dark. Mad Machen’s heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, his arm a solid brace of heat between her back and cheek, his arm a solid brace of heat between her back and the cold bulkhead, his hand lightly resting at her waist. She’d curled into him during the night until she almost lay completely on top of him, all but straddling his left thigh.
She didn’t move. The hard length against her hip told her that even if he hadn’t roused yet, his body had. She closed her eyes again, pretending to sleep.
The previous day, she’d taken her meals in the smithy and worked until he’d come for her. Without a word, he’d taken her hand and led her to his cabin. She’d watched the stars while he washed and undressed, and he’d accepted her coin without comment. Their silence had been a swelling pressure that had grown as he followed her into the bed, but one she’d been unwilling to break, for reasons she couldn’t define.
Ivy didn’t want to break it now, either, but this time she could identify the reason: her body wanted his.
She’d felt this before—the hollow ache between her legs, the tightening of her nipples, the urge to crawl on top of another human and feed the hunger. It wasn’t a memory she liked to revisit. Only a few months before the end of the Horde occupation, she’d been cleaning a factory’s chimney when a rare Frenzy had struck. The two members of her sweeper team who were supposed to haul her out of the chimney had fallen on each other. For hours, she’d listened to their grunts and moans, compelled to join them—but trapped within the narrow pipe.
As terrifying as that had been, the alternative could have been worse. A good number of the women she’d known had gotten with child during the Frenzy. And although her hunger for Mad Machen originated from within her instead of from a radio signal, succumbing to it carried the same risk. She barely scraped by in Fool’s Cove. How would she support a child? Netta would undoubtedly help, just as Ivy would her if their situations were reversed . . . but if Ivy had any choice in the matter, she wouldn’t put that burden on her friend. Two years ago, when she’d offered Mad Machen her virginity, her desperation had outweighed any other fear. She couldn’t take a similar risk now simply because her body wanted.
And she couldn’t let Mad Machen take her simply because he wanted, too.
His chest rose and fell on a great sigh. So he was awake. Perhaps staring up into the dark, thinking whatever mad thoughts occupied his brain.
Or thinking of her. Ivy remained limp as he lifted his hand from her waist. His fingers stroked softly through her hair, and a light touch against her crown might have been a kiss. Turning onto his side, he began to ease away from her, his thigh moving deeper between hers as he rolled her gently onto her back. His erection brushed her hip and he froze, his breath hissing between his teeth.
Unable to continue pretending, she lifted her head from the pillow. A short groan escaped him, and she stilled when his big hand cupped her cheek.
“Ivy.” Her name sounded low and rough.
What could she say? Ivy wet her lips. “Captain Machen.”
“Eben.”
Her stomach turned over, a frightening little flip. “I prefer ‘Mad.’ ”
Judging by his voice, she thought he might have grinned. “Go back to sleep. There’s nothing to do on a ship when it’s dark.” He paused, and amended, “That’s not true. There is something, but you paid me not to do it.”
Mad Machen must have felt her smile against his hand. He answered with a deep laugh.
After a moment, he said, “Before you head into the smithy, come topside. Your arms are strong enough to keep you safe climbing into the rigging. You’ll enjoy the view from the crow’s nest.”
This, after threatening that she’d never leave his ship? She couldn’t make sense of him—but she didn’t want to pass up his offer.
When she nodded, his hand dropped from her cheek and he swung over the bed rail. His right foot clanked heavily against the deck. She still needed to adjust his pneumatic valve . . . but perhaps she’d wait until she had no more money to bargain with.
Only six coins left.
She rolled onto his part of the mattress, into the warmth left by his body. The memory of his hard thigh between hers wouldn’t let her be. Clutching the blanket to her sensitive breasts, she squeezed her legs together until she shook.
Ivy didn’t just enjoy the crow’s nest—she loved it. She remained on the small platform for as long as she could stomach the swaying, using Teppers’s biperspic lenses that brought the horizon to within an arm’s length. She watched pods of whales, searched for icebergs and Megs. She held the lenses for so long that her sunburn formed white goggles around her eyes, and only left after she extracted a promise from Teppers that he’d show her how to skylark.
Her bugs had just healed the burn when she returned the next morning—and Teppers fulfilled his promise. She slid down the backstays from the top of the main mast to the poop deck, laughing wildly as she skimmed above Mad Machen’s head. His grin when he met her at the quarterdeck flipped her stomach over.
He showed her every part of the ship, and gave her leave to explore on her own. She met the Lusitanian cooks, a husband and wife team whose passionate screams in Portuguese during their fights and lovemaking were legendary among the sailors. She learned that Duckie’s name was Tom Cooper, and he’d gotten the nickname after shooting up six inches in as many months, and that the recurring red mark across his forehead came from his habit of running full tilt through the low-beamed decks. She discovered the ship’s blacksmith had remained in Wales when the bosun approached her for help fixing a broken pulley in the rigging. She spent half of an afternoon with Leveque, the engine master, and though she couldn’t understand a word of his French his love for the machine made perfect sense.
She didn’t know the languages half the crew spoke. French and Portuguese were the trade languages, and she understood a few words, but the men from the New World also spoke Dutch, Spanish, Arabic, and the Liberé that gave Barker his musical accent. On a ship only a hundred and fifty feet long, she saw more of the world than she’d known before—and realized how much she hadn’t yet seen.
And she’d never laughed so often. Had never felt as free. Yet she had to keep reminding herself that freedom was an illusion.
Every day, she came closer to building a monster. She dunked her arm into the tank and watched the squid attack her metal skin, imagining a mast or a person. The claws at the end of his tentacles couldn’t bite into her arm. Wood and flesh wouldn’t be so resilient. Yet Ivy used what she learned to improve the plans.
She wanted to believe that, despite what Mad Machen had said, the machine wouldn’t be used to terrorize and destroy ships. She wanted to believe that the Blacksmith’s involvement meant his intentions were good. But as brilliant as her mentor was, and despite the debt she’d always owe him for taking her into his guild, she knew the Blacksmith could be ruthless when someone crossed him—and there was much about him she didn’t know. If the price was right, he might have agreed to help.
And every night, she slept next to Mad Machen, her body aching . . . and one denier poorer.
Eben braced himself before entering the smithy. The past few days, she’d left this small cabin sporting a surly temper. He thought that meant she’d been making progress on the kraken. If her ideas failed, surely Ivy would be pleased.
Still, she wouldn’t be pleased to see him.
The previous night, when he’d come into his cabin, she’d been sitting at the window. She hadn’t been looking at the stars, but the two coins glinting in her palm. She’d quickly put one away, and given him the other—not quite hiding her fear.
After tonight, she’d have no more coins left, but he wasn’t certain if she was afraid that he’d force her . . . or because she wanted him. A few times, he’d caught her looking at him with heat in her eyes, and he didn’t think it was anger. When her nipples pebbled under her thin shirt, he didn’t always think it was the cold. He thought she might ache as much as he did—but he didn’t know.
Not knowing was tearing him apart.
He stepped inside. Though a gas lamp burned brightly on the worktable, she wasn’t sitting in front of it. Her expression clouded, she crouched in front of the squid tank, her hands braced against the glass and fingers drumming. Her silvery nails pinged with each beat.
Without glancing at him, she snapped, “Say what you’ve come to say. Then leave me be.”
Anger fired through his veins. In front of his crew or not, no one dismissed him on his ship. Closing the door, he stepped toward her—and forced himself to stop. She still hadn’t looked at him. Temper darkened her sharp features, her soft lips in a thin line, her green eyes stormy as she focused on something within the tank.
He glanced inside. The squid and several silvery fish darted about the water. At the bottom, a foot-long metal replica of a kraken lay on its side, its eight segmented arms waving about and tentacles limp, looking as pathetic as a beetle turned upside down.
Eben bit back his laugh, studying her face again. So that was it. She’d been angry at him often enough, but this time it had naught to do with him. He might as well not have even been here for all of the attention she turned his way. And given her dislike for the project, he’d have expected her to crow over her failure, but she was right pissed off that her prototype hadn’t worked.
His practical, careful Ivy apparently had an artist’s temperament.
“I had a friend at university who looked much the same when he couldn’t find a rhyme for his poetry.”
“Like a dying privy louse?”
Eben barked out a laugh. “I was speaking of your expression, not your kraken.”
She snarled. He’d never wanted to kiss her so badly. Deliberately, he added fuel to her fire.
“It couldn’t swim?”
“You’ve got eyes, don’t you? Do you see it swimming about?” Disgusted, she pushed to her feet and dunked her arm into the tank.
His amusement fled. His heart jumped into his throat. Grabbing her waist, he hauled her back.
“Damn it, woman, that squid will . . .” He trailed off, staring at her gray hand dripping water.
The squid would do absolutely nothing to her.
She whipped around and stared at him as if he were a lunatic. Her brows drew together. She opened her mouth, then shook her head, pushing past him. “I can’t reach the bleeding thing unless I stick my head in, anyway.”
Eben turned to watch her. Muttering, she rummaged through shelves, pushing around Kleistian jars, tossing aside small gears and cylinders, and emerging with a coil of copper wire and an influence machine, its glass disks sealed inside a vacuum bell. Setting the machine next to the tank, she pushed up her wet sleeve and began wrapping the wire around her forearm. When she glanced at him, he saw curiosity had replaced her temper.
“You attended a university?”
“Yes.”
A wistful expression softened her features. Oh, hell. Something in his chest tightened. He wanted to tell her that he’d hated every moment of society’s rigid confinement and the blasted rules, but compared to the Horde, Manhattan City had been a bastion of freedom. So he only told her, “My parents disapproved of my choice of profession—both surgery and the navy. The only tolerable ship was a passenger ship, and it was best if you owned it.”
“And now you are neither surgeon nor aboard a naval ship. Do they approve of you now?”
“They disowned me.” And he still wasn’t certain whether it had been because he’d remained on Trahaearn’s ship, or because he’d voluntarily infected his body with nanoagents. Belief that the bugs would spread from person to person and eventually change them all into zombies still held strong through much of the New World; his family had been no exception.
“Disowned?” Ivy’s brow had creased.
“They no longer claim me as their son.”
“Oh.” With pursed lips, she looked down at her arm, wrapped from her elbow to her wrist in copper wire. “I suppose I should not like it if my child became a pirate, either.”
He grinned. Their child wouldn’t be. “I consider myself a merchant.”
“Do you attack other ships and steal their cargo?”
Unfortunately often. “Yes.”
“Do you kill people?”
Also too often. “Yes.”
“Then you’re a Captain Cutthroat,” she said, turning to crouch beside the influence machine. “Come and spin this.”
His instincts bristled at the command. He squashed his first response before it left his mouth. His ankle was too stiff to crouch easily, but he sank slowly to his heels while Ivy attached two clamps to the long trailing wires coming off her arm. She fixed the connecting clamps to the nodes of the influence machine, then pointed to the handle that spun the disks, generating the static charge.
“Spin it fast.”
Somewhat bemused, he began. The wheel clicked, the metal plates attached to the glass disks rotating past the discharge brushes and collection combs. Ivy tapped the fingers of her left and right hands together, as if testing.
“Faster,” she said.
The clicking became a whir. After a moment, her fingertips seemed to stick before she pulled them apart. She flattened the hand of her copper-encircled arm against the front of the tank. The metal kraken inside suddenly tilted and skidded across the bottom. It smacked into the thick glass opposite her palm.
“By da Vinci’s blessed pen!” Eben couldn’t contain his astonishment. His hand faltered on the handle.
“Don’t stop spinning.” Slowly, she began to slide her hand up the side of the tank. The kraken followed, as if glued to her palm. “If the current fails, she’ll drop straight to the bottom again.”
And she’d just made her arm into the most powerful magnet he’d ever seen, Eben realized. When the kraken was almost to the top, she reached over the glass with her opposite hand and plucked the machine out of the water. Eben stopped spinning and reached for the clamps.
She pulled away. “Mind the wire—it’s blazing hot. Take this instead.”
The wriggling kraken landed in his palm. He looked for the stop mechanism and didn’t see one.
“How is this powered?”
Ivy began unwrapping the copper wire. “Electrostatic machines. When I have the mechanical flesh, it needs electrical input—but for now they’re to power the propulsion pumps.” When he looked at her blankly, she said, “The squid moves by squirting out water.”
“Like puncturing an airship’s balloon pushes it the opposite direction?”
“Much like.” Her lips twisted. “It won’t work when the squid is metal. It’s too heavy.”
“Kraken are armored.”
“They have an armored shell. They aren’t metal all the way through.”
“Find a way to make it work, Ivy.”
Temper reddened her cheeks, but if she snapped at him, Eben didn’t hear a word she said. He’d found the hatch that opened the kraken’s body, and was staring inside at three tiny automatons, each nothing more than a couple of gears and metal pegs made to resemble legs. They pedaled influence machines, the whir audible.
Jesus Christ. Everyone who came out of the Blacksmith’s guild was skilled, but the short time she’d worked on this suggested a talent beyond anything he’d seen. Each arm and tentacle meticulously crafted, she’d created a near perfect, watertight submersible. Even something nonfunctional like this would fetch a hefty price in London or the New World, where automatons and clockworks were all the rage. Within a month or two, she could have been living like a queen anywhere she chose to go—yet she’d been creating egg-crackers and singing birds for a town that couldn’t afford them.
The night she’d fled London, Eben had visited the Blacksmith, who’d said she’d already paid for her arms. Knowing how much Barker still owed for his leg, Eben hadn’t understood how it was possible; looking at the automatons now, he suddenly did. The work she’d done for the Blacksmith must have brought him a fortune.
Yet she only had one damn coin. “What the hell were you doing in Fool’s Cove?”
“Hiding from you.”
His gaze snapped up, but she’d turned toward her worktable. His heart beat sickeningly for a few long seconds.
“And Netta’s husband was killed when a steamcoach boiler exploded in Port Fallow. Netta and I pooled our resources, and we made it as far as Fool’s Cove.” She tossed the coil of wire onto a hook. “What did you come here for, Captain Machen. A progress report?”
For you. Like a lovesick fool. And now he found the flimsiest excuse to stay a little longer.
“No,” he said gruffly. “My Achilles tube.”
She hesitated for an instant, and he realized she hadn’t forgotten, as he’d assumed. She’d delayed it, hoping to use it later—perhaps after her coins were gone.
Then he’d be damned if he left without her repairing it. She had one denier left. Tonight would be the last she kept him from touching her.
After a long second, she nodded and took the kraken from him, gesturing to his foot. “Remove your boot, then.”
He did, without glancing down at the prosthetic. Though steel, the skeletal leg appeared thin and weak. He hated looking at it.
Ivy crouched behind him. “Brace your weight on your left leg. You’ll lose your balance when I take this out,” she said, and he heard her fingers loosening a bolt. “How did this happen?”
“Shark.”
She gave a snort of disbelief. “What did you do—go swimming with one?”
“Yes.”
She yanked out the pneumatic, wrenching his leg backward. Struggling to keep upright, he braced his hand on the worktable.
Cheeks flushed, she stood in front of him, the cylinder pointed at his face. “You’re not that foolish. And I hope you don’t think I’m foolish enough to believe that.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think that. But it’s the truth.”
She stared at him, as if waiting for him to explain, and finally turned away. He watched her rigid shoulders as she worked over the cylinder. A moment later, she was crouching next to him again, screwing the pneumatic back into place. Eben retrieved his boot, hauled it on. When he turned back to her, she was standing with her jaw set and her hand out.
“I’m not a member of your crew, Captain. And every man from this ship who has come to me for repairs has walked away without paying. No more.”
The men Yasmeen had sent to Fool’s Cove with their damned embellished stories. “Ivy, if I’d have known where you were, I’d have come to you myself.”
Her lashes flickered, but other than that, she didn’t move. Just held out her hand, waiting.
He wouldn’t pay her in coin. Not when she’d use it to keep him away. But he only had one other thing that she’d want. Reluctantly, he dipped his fingers into his watch pocket and withdrew the bent iron disk he’d carried with him for two years. He placed it in her palm.
Her lips parted as she stared down at the ruined flange that had once been her elbow. A bullet had smashed into the center, filling in the hole and protruding like a mushroom cap through the other side.
“I was wearing it on a cord around my neck. The bullet still knocked me overboard.” He tapped his hand against the side of his leg. “That’s when the shark took it.”
Her fingers closed over the iron piece. Her shining gaze lifted to his. “Thank you.”
For the explanation or for returning the flange, he wasn’t sure. He only knew that if he stayed any longer, nothing would stop him from kissing her. He left—and was amidships before he realized his right foot was moving as smoothly as his left, and he hadn’t thought to thank her in return.
Ivy didn’t know how long she sat holding the flange, staring at the plans on her worktable. Her mind was filled with stories: of a ruthless pirate who attacked passenger ships and made slaves of the crew . . . of a ship’s surgeon hung over the side of a boat.
He’d asked her not to speak of that, and she’d assumed he wanted to hide the madness of defying his captain—perhaps to keep his crew from doing the same. But how could that be? Everyone knew that part. Now she wondered if he didn’t want them to know he’d done it trying to save members of the crew, because that would make him seem soft.
Or perhaps he didn’t want her to speak of it, because she might learn that he’d lied.
Of only one thing, she was certain: Lady Corsair had known she was in Fool’s Cove, but Mad Machen hadn’t. Ivy absolutely believed that he’d have come after her, just as he’d threatened in London.
Every other story, however . . . she simply didn’t know what to believe.
With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead, trying to push away the ache. She turned her head to study the squid’s tank. Its movements were a thing of beauty, but no matter how hard Mad Machen wished it, she couldn’t simply do the same with metal. If she had something to counter the weight, perhaps, and give it buoyancy—and the buoyancy would have to vary, depending upon the depth needed. She’d never seen such a device, but it would be necessary for the right effect. It couldn’t just be something that floated. A kraken always forced to float on its side wouldn’t be terrifying; it would simply look dead.
Of course, that begged the question: how many sailors had actually seen a kraken, and knew whether it looked right or not? Surely the nightmare of one was worse than the reality.
Shaking her head, she glanced at the other fish in the tank. The small herring seemed to have no trouble remaining at one depth while still. A few weren’t moving, yet they didn’t sink or float to the surface. How?
And if she discovered how, could she replicate it?
Her heart gave a wild thump. She returned to the worktable . . . and gave the plans a quarter turn. Oh, blue. This could work.
No. This would work.
It was well after dark when Ivy finally made her way topside, but when she came up the ladder to the upper deck, she saw that Mad Machen hadn’t retired to his cabin yet, either. He stood on the quarterdeck, his feet braced, his hands clasped behind his back. She climbed the stairs and joined him at the balustrade.
Standing close to him, she asked quietly, “Does it need to look like the real thing?”
The deck lamps cast feeble light across his expression, but she couldn’t mistake his smile. “Give it giant eyes and tentacles, Ivy, and the rest won’t matter.”
Good. Hugging herself against the cold, she looked out over the water. The moon was full, throwing silver across the waves. She imagined a tentacle rising up from the surface, the suckers glistening like wet mouths, and gave herself a good scare. Shivering, she glanced back at Mad Machen. He’d been watching her.
“My leg hasn’t given me any trouble,” he said. “Climbing ladders and stairs is almost as easy as it was before. Thank you.”
She nodded, then gasped when he pulled her in against his side, his arm circling her waist. His heat surrounded her. She let herself melt into it, but had to warn him, “I smell like fish.”
He laughed quietly against her hair. “Cookie told me that you’d come and cut out fifteen fish bladders—and he asked that you be given galley duty. He said you handled a knife better than a Castilian assassin.”
“Thanks to the bugs in the mechanical flesh.” She lifted her right hand. Moonlight reflected in her fingernails. “They’re so precise, I could engrave my name on a grain of sand . . . if my heart didn’t beat, and I didn’t breathe. Even I’m not as steady as they are.”
“Nothing on a ship is that steady.”
Mad Machen was. When he stood like this, big and solid beside her, Ivy felt as if she could lean against him forever and he’d never falter.
“Why are you out here so late?” The last time was when the megalodon had chased them north. Her gaze skimmed the water again. “Was there trouble?”
“No. I was waiting for you.”
And her last coin. Ivy’s throat tightened, and her heart drummed hard against her ribs. Not since her first day in Port Fallow had she been without any money at all. She’d barely been an hour off the airship when Netta’s husband had spotted Ivy’s guild tattoo and hired her to repair his cart’s steam engine. She’d never had a lot of money, but she’d always had some. She’d always had a tiny bit of security.
Now she’d have none. And what would it gain her? A single day.
Mad Machen withdrew his arm from around her waist, gave her a little push toward the stairs. “Go and ready yourself for bed. I’ll wait here until you’ve finished.”
A single day, plus the time it took to prepare for bed. Ivy nodded and headed down. As always, Duckie had hot water ready—perhaps he’d been listening for her to come up from the smithy. The captain’s soft soap erased the clinging scent of fish. She brushed her hair until it crackled with enough static to deliver a wiregram, and for the first time, she dressed in a nightgown instead of the trousers she’d been sleeping in. Clutching her last denier, Ivy climbed into bed and waited.
When he came in, she rose up on her knees and held out the coin before she could change her mind.
He smiled faintly, but it faded as he approached. His face darkened. “Your hand is shaking.”
“Take it. Please.”
“Goddammit, Ivy. I’m not—”
“Please.”
His fingers folded over hers. With another curse, he took the coin and turned away.
Ivy sank down, hugging her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and listened to him undress, to the splash of water and the scrape of a razor. She heard him return to the bed, but as the seconds passed and he didn’t lie down beside her, she opened her eyes.
He stared down at her, his chest bare and his face a stark mask. “Earn it back.”
Her heart thumping, she sat up. “How?”
The wary note in her voice spread shadows over his expression. He seemed to struggle, his lips paling as they thinned. Ivy fought not to shrink back, sensing that her fear would only make his reaction worse.
After an endless moment, he said gruffly, “You’ll kiss me.”
Oh. That wasn’t so bad, was it? She frowned.
Mad Machen’s brows drew together. “What?”
She rose up on her knees again and moved toward the rail. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. She covered it with a light response. “I’m trying to decide what kissing a man in exchange for money makes me.”
“I’m only a denier away from forcing myself on a woman. What does that make me?”
“Cheap,” she said, and the warm flush building inside her heightened as he laughed.
His laughter stopped abruptly when she pursed her lips and raised her face to his. He drew back.
“Not a peck. A real kiss, so that you’ll have a good taste of me.”
Everything inside her tightened. A good taste. She knew what he meant. Not just touching lips, but a lick inside his mouth—and he’d taste hers.
Nervously, she wet her lips. Her gaze fell, and a deep hollow ache suddenly opened inside her. His thick erection jutted against his breeches. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted him. But she didn’t dare risk a child, not when the only money she had was being earned with a kiss. Biting her lip, she averted her eyes. No need to look down. His mouth was temptation enough.
“I want inside you, Ivy. I can’t deny that. But you don’t have to worry that I’ll take it beyond a kiss.” Mad Machen came forward again, gripping the bed rail. “I’ll keep my hands right here. You can touch me wherever you like, but I won’t let go of this. Alright?”
“Alright,” she whispered.
She scooted closer, until her knees hit the rail. His broad chest rose and fell as quickly as hers, each breath shallow and ragged—then stopping altogether as she pressed her mouth to his.
Oh. Warm and firm, his lips fit perfectly against hers. She waited, remembering how he’d shoved his tongue into her mouth two years ago, how her neck had hurt when he’d forced her head back, but he didn’t move. The only sound between them was the creaking of the bed rail as his hands tightened on the wood.
And her hands . . . He’d given her permission to touch him, the chest and arms that were an anatomist’s dream. Every night as he’d undressed, she’d admired him from across the cabin. Her eyes feasting, her hands empty. No longer.
Spreading her fingers, she slid their tips up the back of his hands, from knuckles to wrist. He breathed in sharply against her lips. The muscles in his forearms strained. Beneath his warm skin, nanoagents raced through his veins so quickly—as if his heart pounded. Hers did, too. His biceps bunched beneath her palms, and shook with effort, as if he carried a great weight rather than holding himself still. She parted her lips, and he froze, rigid as metal. But not beneath his skin. His blood raged like fire, nerves snapping with sensation, nanoagents enhancing it all and pulsing their messages to her fingers.
She tasted him—and suddenly she couldn’t concentrate on her hands, only the heat of his mouth. Hunger wound inside her, tight as a spring. Again, she licked between his lips, searching. She couldn’t define his flavor, not something she’d had before but just was him, slick and hot, and she wanted more.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, Ivy pulled herself higher, closer. Her nipples felt like small, tight rivets, and rubbing their tips against his hard chest started a throbbing ache between her legs.
Then Mad Machen kissed her back, his tongue sliding against hers, and the need burst through her. Her hands buried in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, the electrical storm of his mind like an ecstatic vibration against her fingers. She moaned low in her throat. His arms came around her waist, hauling her closer against him. Ivy kissed him deeper, loving the feel of him, the ache, the taste. All of it. This was worth more than a denier. She couldn’t imagine any amount of coin that could match this.
He abruptly stilled. Chest heaving, he pulled away and looked down at his hands, his expression dark.
He’d forgotten, she realized. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to let go of the rail.
So had she.
“You’ll remember tomorrow,” she said, her breath coming in pants.
His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.
“Tomorrow,” he echoed.
“Yes.” She moved back to make room for him. “The same trade.”
And maybe tomorrow she’d get farther than his biceps.
“The same trade.” This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. “God help me.”
Ivy took that as a “yes.”