TEN
Ivy had never taken a bath with a revolver at an arm’s length away before.
Though if she were to pick at nits, she hadn’t taken that many baths before—at least, not fully submerged as she was now. A cloth and a bowl of water had always sufficed. But this was better.
With a blissful sigh, she leaned back in the steaming tub, trying to block out the noises from the tavern downstairs. Eben had assured her this Port Fallow inn had the best rooms and food, despite the rough and tumble patrons. Considering that Ivy had never stayed at an inn before, she’d had to take his word for it—and she’d have been happy sleeping in a shanty near the city wall, as long as Eben shared the dirt floor with her.
She glanced at the gun again, then at the door, solidly locked. Eben hadn’t said whether he’d worried more about the patrons or the odd chance that a zombie might make it over the wall and across Amsterdam’s old canals, but he’d been adamant about keeping the weapon with her at all times. Knowing this city, she had to agree. Though she’d only been here a few weeks before she and Netta had flown north to Fool’s Cove, she’d heard about more murders and theft than over the course of a year in London.
And within six days, she’d be in Fool’s Cove again.
A familiar ache settled in her heart—and though she sat in the bath until the water cooled, the pain still hadn’t faded. Every day, it remained for a longer time. She feared that by the time she reached home, the ache would have taken up permanent residence in her chest.
With a sigh, she left the bath. The blue dress that Netta had made for her hung in the wardrobe. Ivy didn’t know what Eben had planned for the evening, but he’d requested that she wear it. She slipped it over her head, and though it fastened in the back, a design that usually required assistance from a maid—or a friend—Ivy had no trouble bending her arms around and maneuvering the tiny hooks. She looked inside the small bag that Eben had given her before he’d left the room. . . .and had to sit on the bed when her knees went weak.
Her heart pounding, she withdrew a pair of silk stockings. Her silk stockings, the pair she’d left behind at a London inn, two years before. He’d kept them all this time?
And her elbow, too—but she understood that better. The flange had saved his life. Why keep these?
She fingered the satin ribbons, and hope filled her chest. He’d kept her stockings aboard Vesuvius for two years. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’d want her to stay, too.
But what would she do? Ivy didn’t want to be part of his crew. And though she’d gladly cover the blacksmith’s duties, she knew the work would occupy her only for a few hours a week—at the most—and provide no challenge at all. Within three months, she could outfit every crew member who needed one with a new and better prosthetic . . . but what then?
The room’s door clicked shut. Eben. Facing the wardrobe, Ivy composed herself. She would ask him if she could stay, but . . .
A shiver ran over her skin as realization set in: she hadn’t heard the door unlock and open—and she didn’t hear his distinctive tread.
Oh, blue. The revolver lay on a chair across the room. Ivy carefully kept her gaze from touching the weapon as she turned, hoping that the intruder wouldn’t look that way, too. Her heart racing, she glanced toward the door.
Lady Corsair stood with her back against the wall, frowning as she took in the blue gown. Her green eyes met Ivy’s. “Barker was right,” she said. “Mad Machen plans to openly court you.”
Ivy’s mouth dropped open. That was what this evening was about? Eben didn’t need to do that.
“You didn’t know.” The other woman’s lips pursed. “It must be a last resort. All else has failed, so he tries the old-fashioned method. And the softhearted fool will ruin himself and destroy his crew in the process. Goddammit, Eben.”
Though Ivy bristled at the insult tossed at him, she couldn’t mistake the emotion behind Lady Corsair’s speech. The woman cared.
So did Ivy. “What would ruin him?”
“You would, Ivy Blacksmith.” A hard smile curved Lady Corsair’s lips. “On the sea, you can never show your belly or your throat, because someone will rip them out. And you are the soft spot that Mad Machen is about to show the world.”
“I see,” Ivy whispered. And she did. Too well.
Lady Corsair studied her face before swearing again. She turned for the door.
“Captain Corsair,” Ivy said, and waited until the woman glanced at her. “You sent four men from your airship to my shop in Fool’s Cove, and failed to pay for my work. I expect to be paid now.”
Black eyebrows arched in disbelief. She laughed. “You’re a cheeky one, blacksmith. But you’re not funny.”
She opened the door. Ivy said, “If you don’t pay me, I’ll head down to the tavern, and spin a story about how you generously offered to pay for your aviators’ prosthetics, and were so pleased with my work that you gave me double. But if you pay me now, I’ll only say that you fooled me, and that I haven’t been able to coax a single denier from your purse.”
Green eyes narrowing, Lady Corsair snapped the door closed and stalked across the room, fingering the handle of the knife sheathed at her thigh. Ivy’s heart careened against her chest with the woman’s every step, but she held her ground, lifting her chin to meet the woman’s gaze.
“I know it’d be easier to kill me,” Ivy said. “Except that Eben’s your soft spot, isn’t he?”
Lady Corsair’s sudden grin should have terrified her—but Ivy knew she was right. She held out her hand.
“Pay me.”
The woman’s grin became something more like a smile. She reached beneath her belt, withdrew a small leather purse, and dropped it into Ivy’s palm.
“It’s all I have with me,” she said. “But it should be enough.”
Ivy couldn’t respond. Her nanoagents had automatically measured the weight in her hand, and she knew exactly how much Lady Corsair had given.
The woman’s sharp smile widened. While Ivy stood dumb-struck, Lady Corsair cupped her hand between Ivy’s legs.
“Funny. I thought for certain the Blacksmith must have added a pair of balls.” She backed toward the door, saluting Ivy as she went. “You’ll do well to keep using those, blacksmith.”
Perhaps Lady Corsair got by using her balls. Ivy preferred her brains.
Her fingers closed over the purse. How strange, to have enough money to buy anything she wanted—and to realize what she wanted most, no amount of money could buy. Mad Machen’s reputation could only be built through stories, though action . . . and it took years.
But there must be some way to have him. She just had to figure it out.
Ivy was sitting on the bed, staring at the pile of gold coins on the bedspread when she heard Eben’s key in the lock. He halted halfway through the door, his gaze drinking her in.
“Look at you, Ivy.”
Even with her heart aching, he could make her smile. She smoothed her hand over the blue satin skirt. “Netta is a wonderful seamstress.”
“Perhaps,” he said, closing the door. “But Netta isn’t wearing it. And soon you won’t be, ei—” His step faltered when he saw the pile on the bed. “What is that?”
She heard the rough note in his voice, the worry. She didn’t know what would soothe it, so she told him the truth. “Fifty livre. Lady Corsair paid me for my work. Overpaid me, actually.”
He barked out a hoarse laugh at her understatement. “Why?”
She’d spent the past thirty minutes trying to understand it. “I think . . . so that I wouldn’t ruin you. So that I could go anywhere I wanted to—as long as it was away from you. She said you meant to court me, that you’d be torn apart for being soft, and that it would also destroy your crew. Is that true?”
His skin paled beneath his tan. Jaw clenched, he turned away from her.
“It is true,” she whispered. She hadn’t been completely certain before—not when the story came from Lady Corsair. But Eben’s reaction said that it was. “Why would you take that risk?”
“Ivy . . .” He shook his head, and the sound that came from him seemed like a laugh, but pain or fear was sculpted into his posture, his expression. But when he faced her, there was only need and hope. “Because you’re worth more to me than anything else in this world. Because I want you to make Vesuvius your home. And because. . . I love you, Ivy.”
Her heart filled, followed by a stabbing pain. His love, her love—it changed nothing. Lady Corsair was still right, and more people than Eben would be hurt. So would his crew . . . and the slaves that Mad Machen could potentially save.
Eben’s eyes closed. His voice was bleak. “You don’t have to say it, Ivy. I can see your answer in your face. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll buy equipment for a blacksmith’s shop, in another city. Maybe in the New World. With this much money, I can go anywhere, do anything.” Except what she most wanted. Her vision blurred as she glanced down at the coins. “Fool’s Cove, first. I promised Netta I’d come back.”
“And I promised to take you there. God.” He fisted his hands in his hair, staring at her in utter torment. Then he lost all expression, and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to leave. His voice was flat as he said, “We’ll sail in the morning.”
He closed the door quietly. Ivy wished he’d slammed it. She wanted to slam it. She remained on the bed instead, rocking back and forth, refusing to cry—and refusing to give in to impulse and throw the money as hard as she could across the room.
Love, money. None of it changed the problem of reputation. Mad Machen saved people for coin, not because he cared. He chased a woman because she’d cheated him—not because he loved her. And the woman who stayed would have to be . . . would have to be . . .
She’d have to be mad.
Ivy’s lips parted. Her heart pounding, she rose from the bed, and collected the money—then she crossed the room and collected the gun. She counted the number of bullets and removed three.
She’d reached the door before realizing that only stockings encased her feet. Spotting her worn black boots, she pulled them on.
They’d work well enough. Money could buy her slippers. Only crazy would get her a man.
Men and women packed the tavern. From somewhere in the back, automaton musicians badly in need of repairs to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through the crowd, and she supposed it said much about the patrons here that not one glanced a second time at the revolver she carried in her right hand, though a few did stare at her guild tattoo. Rising up on her toes, she tried to scan the tables and the bar, but there were too many people, most of them taller. She debated for an instant whether to circle the room, looking for Eben—but now that she’d resolved to do this, she decided to go full bore.
Hiking up her skirts, she clambered atop the nearest table and stood. A single fierce look silenced the protesting men whose drinks sloshed wildly in her wake—though she noted they were amused rather than afraid.
That would do, too.
She spotted Eben at the bar, and her heart clenched. He sat alone with his shoulders slumped, his expression desolate. He held a small glass loosely in his hand. When he lifted it toward his lips, Ivy raised her gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The glass exploded. The deafening crack of the revolver faded to silence. Even the song died, which hadn’t been played by broken automatons, Ivy realized—just very bad musicians. She found herself facing a roomful of pistols, but she only had eyes for the one in Eben’s hand. It pointed straight back at her.
His face whitened. A glass shard had cut his lip; blood spilled over his jaw. She saw his mouth form her name, and she shouted over him.
“Mad Machen!” She aimed for his heart even as he lowered his gun—as did everyone around them. No longer concerned for their lives, they cleared a path between Ivy and Eben, and settled in to watch. “You heartless brigand! You’ve tracked me to the ends of the earth to have your revenge, and you’ve used me in your bed. You’ve forced me to work in Vesuvius’s smithy. No more. I demand that you set a course for my home, Captain. And you will do it now, or I will put a bullet through your mad brainpan.”
Eben’s expression darkened. Slowly, he rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. His voice was low and dangerous. “So you think you’ll take command of my ship, do you?”
“You have forced me to this point, Mad Machen. Do you think that I will stay in your smithy forever? No longer will I watch as you make a fortune with my windups, forcing me to slave away on your ship and selling them at every port.”
“You’ll do whatever I say, Ivy Blacksmith. You’re mine, as is every coin you earn.”
She adjusted her aim when he stalked toward her. “Stay there, or I will shoot your leg from under you!”
She planned to make him a better one, anyway.
He didn’t stop. Ivy fired. The bullet slammed into solid steel just below his right knee. He stumbled forward to keep his balance. A murmur ran through the crowd.
Jaw hardening, Eben straightened. The look he gave Ivy sent the men around her table scrambling for distance. He approached, and when he was within a few feet, Ivy pointed the revolver at his groin.
“Next will be your prick, sir. And you know that my hands are too steady to miss.”
His grin was a mad thing, filled with blood and wild laughter. “Then I will force you to graft on a new one. Perhaps something smaller, that you can take more easily.”
He continued forward. Ivy pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click. She only had time to shriek before he swept her feet from the tabletop. Tossing her facedown over his shoulder, he strode for the door. She pounded her fists against his back, screaming for help.
Thank the blessed stars, not a single patron came to her aid. And she was gratified to hear, just before Eben pushed through the exit,
“She’s as bleeding mad as he is!”
Ivy found herself in the nearest alley, up against the nearest wall, with Eben kissing her as if he’d never stop. She didn’t want him to. Threading her fingers into his hair, she tasted his sweat and his blood—but the tears were hers.
“I love you,” she said against his mouth the moment he gave her a chance to breathe. “I love you. Did you know?”
His eyes closed and he shook his head. “Not until I saw you on that table. You are mad. And, my God, I love you for it.”
Laughing, she kissed him again. After a moment, she said, “You have to punish me for challenging your command.”
“By forcing you to set up a shop aboard Vesuvius?”
“By keeping me with you forever.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And I will have clean air, a view, work for my mind and my hands—and you. Everything I want. So take me home, Captain.”
“That’s an order I’ll follow.” Lifting her up, Eben cradled her against his chest and turned for the docks.
Ivy smiled and lay her head on his shoulder. “Would you have let me return to Fool’s Cove?”
“No. When courting fails, the next step is abduction.”
She laughed into the night—until she caught a glimpse of his face. His expression was serious. Her mouth fell open. “Weren’t you joking?”
His sudden grin didn’t make her any more or less certain. Alright. She’d let him have that one.
“Do you know,” she told him, gently touching the almost-healed cut on his lip, “that I’ve never once held a gun before today?”
His grin remained only until he glanced at her features. He came to a stop. “Now you’re not serious. That glass you shot was an inch from my head.”
“But it’s true.” She wiggled her fingers, silvery in the moonlight. “I knew my aim would be perfect. And it was, don’t you agree?”
He studied her face a moment longer, before starting toward Vesuvius again, a smile deepening the corners of his mouth. “God help me,” he said.
Once again, she took that as a “yes.”