Chapter 3
Thankfully, Miles Bilson didn’t seem like an idiot, though it was difficult to be certain after only a few hours’ acquaintance. He proved to be an affable, charming bastard, and—as Archimedes had said—good company, but Yasmeen might have enjoyed his company more if she hadn’t read Zenobia’s letters before he’d arrived to dinner. Though she’d known that Archimedes and Bilson had parted ways to better avoid Temür Agha’s assassins, she hadn’t realized that Bilson had abandoned Archimedes while he still suffered from a poisoning.
No matter how amiable Bilson was, the knowledge guaranteed that Yasmeen would never trust him.
Despite her reservations, however, Bilson’s jovial greeting to Archimedes seemed genuine, and his interest keen as Archimedes introduced Yasmeen. She welcomed him aboard and saw that Archimedes’ friend was made to feel at ease in her cabin, which he did quite readily, sinking into the cushions surrounding the low table. As the cabin girls brought in the first course, Bilson launched into conversation with Archimedes, filling in the years that had separated them, and allowing Yasmeen time to sip her wine and observe him.
On the surface, he was much like Archimedes—or perhaps like a brother to Archimedes—sharing many of the same interests, but not so similar that they bored each other. Physically, he held himself in the relaxed manner that Archimedes did. His features were undeniably handsome, though more roughly hewn, and he was barrel-chested where Archimedes was lean. He wore the full beard that the Europeans on the northern American continent favored, and his brown hair was neatly trimmed, his jacket and trousers smartly tailored.
That neatness wasn’t what Yasmeen had expected of a man who’d leased a farm from the natives in the American interior, though she knew her expectations might have been wrong. The interior was one of the few places Yasmeen hadn’t been. Only chartered airships could fly over the native territories, and only along established routes that were strictly enforced by the trade confederacies—which deployed too many mechanical air-walkers to make the attempt to fly off-route worth the risk. She’d never seen an airship consumed by a clockwork swarm, only heard secondhand rumors and tales, but she didn’t intend to test the truth of them with her lady.
Bilson shared tales from the interior, too—and Yasmeen couldn’t decide whether they were true, or whether he might have heard them from someone else—but there was no doubt that he possessed an engaging way of telling them, and a robust laugh that was infectious.
She could see why Zenobia had feelings for him. Under other circumstances, Yasmeen would have quickly warmed to him, too. Perhaps it was because of his familiarity and long history with Archimedes, but he fit quite naturally into the spot across the table, seemed completely at ease. Some men never looked comfortable lounging on rugs and cushions during a meal, as if a simple pillow was a shocking decadence—and perhaps it was. The cushions seemed to invite intimacy, and Yasmeen could not count the number of times she and Archimedes had eaten together, all but entwined, progressing from dessert to lovemaking with barely a change in position. They maintained a small distance when they dined with passengers—or old friends—but that space between them was for their guest’s comfort rather than their own. Yasmeen suspected, however, that Bilson would have appeared just as relaxed if she and Archimedes had been stroking each other in front of him.
And she saw why Zenobia worried now: despite the surface similarities, Bilson wasn’t like Archimedes at all.
That sort of immediate ease simply wasn’t natural. Even Archimedes watched new acquaintances for cues, soliciting their opinions and weighing their responses; he only truly relaxed after taking their measure. For a man of Bilson’s experience, it would be the height of stupidity not to do the same, particularly in the company of a mercenary with Yasmeen’s reputation. Yet he didn’t. As a result, his easy manner seemed to be something that he deliberately put on.
But why? Perhaps only to heighten that sense of friendly intimacy, to remind Archimedes of their long familiarity before asking for his help. Perhaps to avoid any awkwardness, given the way he abandoned his friend. Perhaps he was the sort of man whose pride wouldn’t allow him to show that he was the least bit concerned about Yasmeen’s reactions, no matter how dangerous offending her might be.
Whatever the reason, his manner confirmed Archimedes’ earlier claim: his friend always had a game in play—even if that game was nothing more than maintaining a certain attitude.
Yasmeen hoped that was the only one he intended to play tonight. If it was, she’d be willing to forgive him much, because his presence offered her a glimpse of Archimedes she’d never seen before. Except for Zenobia, she’d never met anyone who’d known him so well—and she was far less interested in the native interior than she was in her husband.
As the cabin girls removed the lamb course and set out the plates of cheese and fruit, Yasmeen took advantage of the pause in conversation. She refilled Bilson’s wine, subtly forcing his attention toward her with his thank-you.
“My pleasure, Mr. Bilson. It isn’t often that we have an opportunity to entertain friends—we are usually en route to some abandoned city or other.”
Her smile must have been as engaging as she’d hoped. With a laughing glance at Archimedes, Bilson said, “I recall months where we never saw the inside of an alehouse, let alone entertainment of any sort.”
“So you often lamented.” Wineglass in hand, Archimedes sank deeper into the pillows, resting his thigh lightly against hers. “I always had a smashing time.”
Relishing every hardship, no doubt. What had driven Bilson to go along with him? “With such adventures in the New World, Mr. Bilson, I imagine that you haven’t missed salvaging?”
“And the zombies?” He laughed. “Not at all.”
Archimedes would have missed them—or rather, the danger and the excitement they offered him. Apparently, Bilson hadn’t experienced the same thrill.
“I do wish I’d seen that da Vinci sketch he’d found, though.” Bilson exhaled on a low whistle, as if in astonishment that Archimedes had ever come across such an artifact. “I’m not sure what’s more impressive—what that sketch is or what it was worth.”
“What it is,” Archimedes answered.
His response drew a chuckle from Bilson, and he looked to Yasmeen again. “That’s why I don’t miss it much. Salvaging was always a puzzle to him: finding a clue in some old letter, searching through journals, trying to figure out where everyone left their valuables. Not that I didn’t feel that same thrill when we found something—and not that I didn’t appreciate the money. But I’d have been just as happy getting in and out, and calling the job done.”
“That’s also why he’s never been popular with the ladies,” Archimedes said.
Yasmeen grinned. Bilson laughed and turned to her, as if looking for an ally now that Archimedes had begun firing. She would be glad to act as one, as long as his return fire told her more about Archimedes.
To her pleasure, Bilson’s first volley did. “Ladies? Let me tell you this. The first year at university, there wasn’t a man less likely to speak to a woman than him. Always dressed in black and buckled up to his chin, and he never took a step out of line. You couldn’t get more than a word or two out of him—and that only if he ever glanced up from a book long enough to look at you.”
Though Yasmeen hadn’t expected that, she also wasn’t surprised. Archimedes had been known as Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste then—and Yasmeen had known another Gunther-Baptiste, once.
She held Archimedes’ gaze. There wasn’t as much amusement there now, but an emotion flat and hard. “That’s how your father expected you to behave?”
When he nodded, Bilson grimaced. “I forgot you know about that bastard well enough, Captain.”
Yasmeen did; she’d killed Emmerich Gunther-Baptiste after he’d tried to roast her alive. Years later, Archimedes and his sister had thanked her for it.
“We assumed he was one of those Separatist revivalists that were cropping up in the northern principalities,” Bilson said. “And though all of the first-year students were quartered together in the same hall, we paid him no mind. A handful of us would often gather in the great room and confer upon ways of getting into trouble—but not him. He was always in the corner, studying the lives of dead men.”
“The dead were more interesting than anything you were up to.” Archimedes turned to Yasmeen. “It was all bluster. They’d formed a brotherhood—”
“La Confrérie de la Vérité,” Bilson supplied, saluting Yasmeen with his wineglass and a wink.
“And it was even more ridiculous than it sounds. They hoped to impress everyone in Johannesland with their anonymous ramblings printed on handbills, but they only impressed themselves.”
“We were quite the radicals.”
“You were all balloons filled with hot air, with no course in mind and no rudder. You weren’t even half the radical that Yasmeen is, and she doesn’t put any effort into it.” At her narrowed look, he lifted her hand, kissed her fingers. “You’re a complete anarchist, my captain. Admit it.”
“I won’t, because it’s not true.”
“Ah, yes—that one exception.” He widened his eyes a bit, laughing at her. “Anarchy has no place aboard your lady.”
“Or any airship,” she agreed. “On the ground, however, it seems a better option than the governments and corruption that most people suffer under now.”
“So you are not a complete anarchist.”
She gave him the sharp edge of her smile. The answering curve of his mouth kindled an immediate need to move closer, to slip into his arms and taste the heat of his lips. God, but she couldn’t think properly when he looked at her like that.
Sipping wine to soothe that familiar burn, she turned to Bilson. Perhaps he hadn’t been radical, but why had Archimedes dismissed those ramblings so quickly? “Now I’m curious as to what you wrote in those handbills.”
“Only the truth,” he replied solemnly, before the humor returned to his voice. “No, Archimedes had it pegged. We didn’t lack for topics, not with the Liberé war and the native disputes in full force, but we only said what everyone else was thinking—though written in a manner that we thought profound and rebellious.”
Archimedes looked heavenward. “Show me a boy in first-year university who doesn’t think he’s both profound and rebellious.”
Bilson ignored him, rocking forward slightly, gaze fixed on Yasmeen. “But one was different. The high magistrate had been exposed for keeping a mistress—which was nothing, except that she was bound to him under an indentured contract. There had been a general outcry, but nothing came of it. The magistrate made apologetic speeches and yet managed to justify his behavior, and soon enough, no one was speaking of it…except some of those justifications began to spread, repeated by other officials, all but overturning the protections in the Laws of Indenture.”
“And somehow, it was all for the indentured’s moral good,” Archimedes said dryly.
Bilson shook his head. “It was an insult to our people. The principalities of Johannesland had been built on the backs of the indentured, and then united under the laws protecting them. So we—La Confrérie de la Vérité—met in the great room, wondering how to expose the hypocrisy, to strip it so bare that no justifications could cling to it. We debated for hours, but had nothing.’”
“God, the noise.” Archimedes closed his eyes, as if remembering. “I couldn’t have borne another hour of the brotherhood’s bellowing that night.”
Bilson snorted. “So we discovered. This one pulls his head up out of his book and says, ‘Good God, you imbeciles! Two hundred years ago in Lusitania, Father Jacobus excoriated the Archbishop of Alagoas for the same hypocrisies. Read his journals, and you’ll find that he’s done all of the thinking for you.’ So we did—and our handbill spurred the reforms later that year. And I discovered that Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste wasn’t just some dull inknose, so I brought him into our brotherhood.”
Ah, of course he had. “And you led that brotherhood, I imagine?”
“We didn’t have a leader, but—”
“You were,” Archimedes said.
Bilson conceded with a nod. “If leadership was determining a direction, I suppose I was.”
So he was. Yasmeen thought she was beginning to see Bilson better now. Archimedes said he always had a game in play, but she’d assumed that his schemes led to some other end: money, excitement, power. Now she suspected that the game itself was his reason. Smuggling would have put him in the thick of power struggles and negotiations…until Archimedes had destroyed Temür Agha’s war machines.
Perhaps that was why Bilson hadn’t enjoyed salvaging itself, despite the money and excitement—while partnered with Archimedes, he hadn’t been the one making all of the decisions and determining a direction. Archimedes wasn’t the sort to take orders; he did as he damn well pleased, and the salvaging runs they’d made had depended upon his research.
Yet Bilson had remained in the salvaging business for years—and Yasmeen would have wagered that Bilson stayed because there was one part of salvaging that he did enjoy: the negotiations with dealers afterward.
And it had all begun with a pamphlet. Knowing Archimedes, however, Yasmeen thought that Bilson hadn’t perfectly understood what had happened. He might have invited Archimedes into their group, but Archimedes had likely joined for reasons of his own—probably because they’d finally begun talking about something that mattered to him.
Hell, he and Bilson had probably been partnered for so long simply because Bilson had been engaged in something that Archimedes also wanted to do.
Bilson sipped his wine, gaze unfocused as if lost to memory. “The brotherhood was stronger for having him. We never had quite the same success at home again—perhaps because the Liberé war was such a distraction.”
“But you were all quite the rebels,” Yasmeen said, sending a teasing look to Archimedes. He answered it with a flutter of his lashes.
“No. Not truly. We wrote the handbills anonymously, and we all walked the straight and narrow in public.” Bilson’s gaze sharpened on Archimedes. “Except he didn’t. Not after our second year.”
Oh, she truly did enjoy having this man here. Yasmeen leaned forward. “What happened?”
“He came back to university after the summer recess wearing a god-awful green waistcoat.”
“It was emerald.” Archimedes smoothed his hand down the green silk of his current waistcoat, as if protecting it from similar abuse. “It matched my eyes.”
“And it got him tossed out of the first lecture.”
“The bright color was disruptive to learning,” Archimedes said when Yasmeen looked to him for an explanation. “But I wasn’t tossed out until I asked whether I should remove my eyes for being disruptive, too.”
“And he became worse after that,” Bilson said. “The waistcoats, the trousers—the flirting. God.”
Worse? To Yasmeen, that sounded like he got better. “How long before you were expelled?”
“Three weeks,” Archimedes said. “But I stayed on. There was still studying to be done.”
“He’d won favor with some of the lecturers, in truth. They kept him on to perform their research.”
“And because they thought my eyes were distracting, too.”
Bilson shook his head. “That’s what many of the other lads thought—that all the dandy clothing meant he was visiting the market around the corner.”
“With other men?” Yasmeen hadn’t heard it phrased that way before, but it wasn’t difficult to guess the meaning. Frowning, she looked to Archimedes. “How did you survive that?”
She only realized how much anger and worry had sharpened her voice when his fingers covered hers in a reassuring touch. “By learning to fight,” he said. “I took a few beatings, but eventually made certain they didn’t bother me anymore.”
That probably wouldn’t have stopped them—perhaps something else had. “And there were women?”
“A few.”
“A few more than that,” Bilson countered. “All of the sudden he’s this charming bastard, always laughing and singing like a fool—nothing like the buckled-up inknose I’d known. At first I thought it was an act, some ruse to ease his way into their beds. But it wasn’t. The laughing fool had been under those buckles all that time, I think, and he’d finally let it out.”
“That’s a bit what it felt like,” Archimedes said.
Bilson nodded, his gaze speculative. “I always wondered what happened to you that summer. Was it a girl?”
“No.” His smile held little humor. “A man.”
And probably not in the way he suggested, though Yasmeen would have preferred that to the likely truth. Archimedes had reasons for wanting to kill his father. No doubt one of those reasons had been created that summer.
Bilson accepted that without further question. As Yasmeen refilled his wine, he continued, “At any rate, not long after that I heard about a smuggling job through one of my political acquaintances. I asked the others in the brotherhood if they wanted to join me—though Archimedes was the last one I expected to go. He took to smuggling, though.”
He’d taken to the danger of it, Yasmeen knew. “Did you?”
Bilson shrugged. “It was a job.”
“A job we did well,” Archimedes said. “Until I was infected in Morocco.”
“We did well even after that, when we began salvaging. It wasn’t exactly the same, but we muddled through together.”
“Barely.” Archimedes looked to Yasmeen. “He accused me of running after death.”
“Deliberately running up against zombies is the same thing,” Bilson said.
No, it wasn’t. Not to Archimedes.
After being shot during a smuggling run, one of Temür Agha’s men had saved Archimedes’ life by infecting him with nanoagents—and the influence of the Moroccan tower had all but stifled his emotions. Archimedes had always loved danger and excitement, but after the tower, he’d needed it.
For Archimedes, running from zombies wasn’t seeking death at all; it was just a way of making certain that he was alive.
“I understood why you did it, after a fashion,” Bilson said. “Seeing you affected by that signal…it was like someone blew out a lamp. I hope never to see it again.”
“Me, too,” Archimedes said softly.
Yasmeen slipped her hand into his. It wouldn’t happen again; the tower was gone. Unfortunately, that didn’t erase the memory for him.
Bilson’s gaze flicked to their linked hands. With a deep breath, he abruptly set his wineglass on the table. “You must be wondering about the help I mentioned in my earlier note.”
“I assumed you’d come to it in your own time.”
“Time I shouldn’t be wasting.” He sighed. “Do you remember my brother?”
“Joseph? Or the younger one?”
“Joseph.” Bilson added to Yasmeen, “He was part of our brotherhood, too.”
Archimedes said, “And only there because we always had liquor.”
“True enough.” Bilson’s smile was short-lived. “He began trading weapons not long after we left the business. I gave him some of my contacts, and now he makes regular runs round the bottom.”
To the smuggling dens in southern Australia. Yasmeen nodded. It was a well-sailed route for both legitimate traders and those carrying illegal Horde technologies, though not one that she often made herself. If Bilson planned to ask for their help smuggling an item, however, she wouldn’t mind flying that course again.
“He’d been doing well enough until a few months ago,” Bilson said. “I didn’t hear from him for a bit. Then I got word that his airship had been taken by New Eden.”
Oh, damn. She met Archimedes’ eyes and saw the dismay that matched hers.
Led by the idealist William Bushke, New Eden was a floating garden city made of airships tethered together—and almost all of them had been taken by force. After capture, no one was allowed to leave the city. Yasmeen had heard rumors of a few escapes, but only knew for certain of one made by her friend, Scarsdale, and the pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn.
And now she saw where Bilson was headed. Archimedes apparently did, too, though he tried to stop his friend before getting there.
“So he’ll be given hard work and religion,” Archimedes said. “Both are likely doing him some good.”
“Maybe.” Bilson’s gaze held steady on Archimedes’ face. “I want to hire you and this crew; I want you to help me get him back.”
Yasmeen’s mouth tightened. So he hadn’t come asking for Archimedes’ help, not truly. He wanted hers, and had just used Archimedes as a connection—all the while reminding Archimedes of their old friendship in order to deepen the obligation her husband might feel.
“No,” Archimedes said. “Not this ship, not this crew.”
Bilson didn’t react, except to look at Yasmeen.
Was he waiting for her to contradict Archimedes? Amusement mixed with sharp anger. Did he think that just because Archimedes had made a decision on her lady, she’d counter it to assert her authority? She didn’t need to prove anything to him.
He apparently tired of waiting for her response. “You let him give the orders on this ship, Captain?”
Humor lightened his voice, as if he were making a joke, but Yasmeen assumed that she was supposed to feel its bite.
She merely lifted her brows. “If he doesn’t think your brother is worth the risk to my crew, why would I?”
And it would be a risk. Aside from the enormous, rigid dreadnoughts that accompanied naval fleets, airships weren’t built for battle; it was too easy to incinerate the balloon. The etiquette of the seas demanded that enemies didn’t target an airship’s envelope, though the wooden cruiser beneath was a fair target. Only the dirtiest pirates and mercenaries fired on a balloon.
William Bushke was dirtier than any of them. As soon as he spotted an airship in the distance, he sent out steam-powered flyers to pursue it. Every captain prayed for cloudy skies if they were unlucky enough to come close to the floating city—and once those flyers came, prayer was all they had left. Bushke gave them a choice: surrender or die. There were no further negotiations, and the flyers would fire on the balloon.
It would have been a terrible risk…yet if Archimedes had wanted to go, she’d have gone with him. She’d have helped him if her husband felt he owed his friend that much.
Thank the blue heavens, he didn’t seem to feel that obligation.
Still, that didn’t mean her husband wasn’t willing to help. He offered, “If you need money to buy mercenaries and an airship willing to go, I’ll give it to you.”
“I have money. And I’ve found someone who would go—but they wouldn’t be good enough to get away. No, I need someone who can get in and out, and get the job done. Someone with expertise.” He looked to Yasmeen. “You. After you killed his father, Archimedes followed your career, sought every mention of you. I heard all about how you scouted for the Liberé and French, how you brought in infiltration soldiers to garrisons fortified with more weapons and men than Bushke has. I know what you can do.”
“And most of it over jungle canopy,” Yasmeen said. Infiltration was far more difficult over the wide-open sea. “I know people who can do it for you, and they might be persuaded by money more readily than we are.”
Bilson’s jaw clenched, and his frustrated gaze shot to Archimedes. “Do the years we spent as partners mean nothing to you? Every time I saved your reckless ass, every time I stood behind you. You won’t even consider honoring that debt of friendship?”
Archimedes met that accusing stare without flinching. “They mean quite a bit, and are the only reason I did consider it. But I won’t risk Yasmeen and this ship.”
Bilson closed his eyes. A long silence followed. Finally, with a tired smile, he shook his head. “You understand I had to try.”
By questioning Archimedes’ honor? If not for that, Yasmeen could have felt sympathy for his dilemma. She left it to her husband to express any, instead.
She was surprised when he remained quiet, watching his friend. He held his wine lightly, but she could see the tension in his forearms, felt it in the tautness of his thigh against hers. Archimedes was on his guard, though his expression gave away none of his wariness. He regarded Bilson with solemn regret—not regretting his refusal, Yasmeen thought, but sorry that his refusal had pushed his friend to insult. Her husband forgave personal transgressions quite readily, but after such words had been said, Yasmeen couldn’t see how they could be completely easy with each other again.
Already, awkwardness had set in. Bilson cleared his throat and attempted to rescue the conversation. “Well. Where are you off to next?”
“England, to kidnap an earl,” Archimedes said, his manner affable. “Then on to Cordoba to look for a statue.”
He didn’t mention their planned visit to Zenobia. Of course, Bilson hadn’t mentioned his visit to Fladstrand the week before, either, which had prompted Zenobia’s express. That hadn’t struck Yasmeen as strange until this moment, but Archimedes must have noticed and wondered why Bilson hadn’t spoken about the meeting with his sister.
Now Yasmeen wondered, too.
“An earl? I hope you receive a hearty ransom for him.” Bilson chuckled, all ease and comfort again when he settled against the cushions. “If you are flying to England, may I ask a different favor? I have a contact in London who might be able to assist me. I would have arranged for passage tomorrow, but if you are—”
“We’ll take you,” Archimedes said, then glanced at Yasmeen. “Captain?”
“Of course,” she confirmed. Archimedes apparently wanted to see his friend off in the direction opposite from his sister’s—and though she didn’t quite understand the source of his worry, she’d do anything to help him. “It’s the least we can do.”
* * *
In no time, they’d hired a porter to retrieve Bilson’s belongings from his lodgings and bring them to Lady Nergüi. While Archimedes showed Bilson to the stateroom on the third deck, Yasmeen informed the steward of their new passenger and returned to their cabin.
She removed her jacket, boots, and weapons, then settled into the cushions around the table and helped herself to the wine. Archimedes’ expression was still pensive when he let himself in.
Yasmeen waited until he closed the door. “We’re no longer visiting Zenobia?”
He eased down beside her, and Yasmeen automatically curled against his side, her head on his shoulder. His hand rested on her hip. His thumb stroked circles just above the edge of her sash, where only thin cotton separated him from her skin. A purr rumbled through her chest. God, but she couldn’t help it. That absent little touch was pure pleasure to her.
And the touch wasn’t so absent now. Archimedes smiled, pulled her closer. “Bilson usually has a standby plan, in the event that his first doesn’t pull through.”
Was that to warn her or to reassure her? “So he’ll ask another mercenary to help him?”
“No, he’ll try to convince us again. He’ll have some reason for us to help him held in reserve.”
And he would need time to deploy it. “Was that why he asked for passage, then?”
“Probably.”
“Will he try to lay more guilt on you?” Or, if he was clever, attempt to convince Archimedes that infiltrating New Eden would be the height of excitement, more dangerous than zombies. “Or will he try to entice you into it?”
He slanted her an amused look. “Do you think I would be enticed so easily?”
If Lady Nergüi wasn’t at risk? “Yes.”
“Yes, perhaps I would be.” His sudden laugh shook through her. “You know me well.”
So did Bilson. Perhaps he hadn’t anticipated that Archimedes’ love for Yasmeen would override his need to pursue a thrill—but surely he must have realized how protective Archimedes was of the people he cared for. After all, Bilson had known Zenobia.
“Would he use your sister in some way?” She hoped Bilson wouldn’t be that stupid, but it would be an effective play. For Archimedes, there could be no more powerful incentive than protecting Zenobia—except, perhaps, protecting Yasmeen…but threatening her never seemed to work out well for anyone. “Is that why we’re making certain he travels to England?”
“I don’t know if he would use her,” Archimedes said. He tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, clearly troubled. “I didn’t think so…until he called my honor into question. He’s already gone further than I’d have expected.”
“Would he hurt her?”
“No. Not physically. But he might try to manipulate her, use her to persuade me—especially if he has guessed her feelings toward him.”
His sister was too practical and too clever for that. “She wouldn’t let him.”
“True. Still, it’s better to take him to England, then let Zenobia know what he wanted so that she’s prepared if he attempts to work on her. He’ll be at least two days traveling back to Fladstrand; we’ll have alerted her before then.”
“Shall we send the express now?”
He nuzzled beneath her ear, sending a shiver racing over her skin. “I’d rather do this.”
So would she. But they’d both make Zenobia a priority.
“I won’t kiss you until it’s done,” she said.
Eyes narrowed, he lifted his head. “You’re sending me away so that you can begin reading her manuscript.”
Yasmeen laughed. She’d forgotten about the story, in truth. Lady Lynx would never come before Archimedes Fox, not for her. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I’ll give you reason to hurry back.”
She slipped her hand into the warmth between her thighs. Archimedes caught his breath and scrambled to his feet, dumping her face-first into the cushions.
“Christ.” He raced across the cabin, followed by her laughter. At the desk, he stabbed a pen into ink, and spoke aloud as he scrawled:
Zenobia—
Bilson is aboard. His brother has been taken to New Eden. He wants us to mount a rescue. We refused. He might come to you, hoping that you’ll help him to persuade us. Remain steadfast, O! brilliant Zenobia. Neither my darling captain nor I wish to become praying gardeners.
Yours,
Archimedes
He suddenly paused, frowning.
“Lady Lynx and the Smuggler’s Secret Scheme?“Yasmeen suggested.
“By God, that’s awful,” he said, even as he added it to the postscript. He tossed down the pen and lifted the paper, pursing his lips and blowing to dry the ink.
Oh, his mouth was beautiful. Watching him, Yasmeen slid her hands beneath her shirt, and gave her imagination full sail—his hot tongue on her skin, the gentle suction of his lips. Her nipples hardened between her fingers.
Her back arched. “Hurry, Archimedes.”
With a tortured groan, he shoved the letter into an envelope and ran for the door. He stopped before opening it, abruptly faced her.
“Don’t move,” he commanded, and turned to lift the latch—then spun around again. “Unless it’s to take off your clothes. And prepare a cigarillo for afterward.”
Yasmeen grinned. “Is that an order, sir?”
“Yes.”
He rushed into the corridor, slammed the door. With her muscles warmed by anticipation and desire, Yasmeen stretched luxuriously, then dipped her fingers beneath her red sash.
She paused. The shape and feel of her cigarillo case had changed…but both were still so familiar.
A heavy lump formed in her throat even before she saw the silver case, its decorative engraving almost rubbed away from years of constant use. Oh, Archimedes. He’d said that he’d chosen a gift for her at the silversmith’s, but she’d never dreamed he would know to buy this—one of the few items to survive the explosion that had destroyed Lady Corsair. Yasmeen had lost everything else, and she’d been forced to sell the case just to have money enough to pursue her revenge.
She’d never said anything about it, but Archimedes must have known what she’d done—and he must have known that she would never return to the silversmith’s, afraid that her case would already be gone. It was easier to tell herself she didn’t want it than to know she’d lost it forever.
So he’d gone for it. She’d never said anything, but he’d gone for it, and slipped the case into her sash without her noticing.
She looked up when Archimedes came into the cabin. His warm gaze lifted from the case in her hands to search her features. She blinked away the burning in her eyes, swallowing hard.
“You,” she said. It was all that she could manage. Incredible man.
“And you’re still dressed,” he said softly.
She rose from the cushions and met him halfway. His lips parted against hers, yet a kiss wasn’t enough. Through the swelling in her chest, the ache in her throat, she said, “I love you.”
“Of course you do.” Despite the teasing reply, his voice was rough with emotion. “I’m far too manly to resist.”
So he was. And he was the only man she’d ever allow to sweep her up into his arms. She brought his mouth to hers as he crossed the cabin, loving his easy strength. He shouldered through the heavy curtains surrounding their bed, laying her in the center and following her down.
He pulled her shirt from her breeches, found bare skin beneath. His touch sent fire racing across her nerves, searing her senses, taking her breath. Panting, Yasmeen rolled him over, straddling his lean hips.
“Let me, Mr. Fox,” she said against his lips.
He smiled. “I’m all yours, Captain.”
He was, thank the lady. Her fingers made quick work of his waistcoat buckles, but as she spread the emerald silk to reveal the white linen beneath, memory of their conversation with Bilson intruded. She met his eyes. “What happened that summer?”
“I picked a flower, brought it home to my mother, and put it in her hair.” He untied the silk tails of Yasmeen’s kerchief, and coiled one of her narrow braids around his hand. “She blushed and smiled—her smiles came rarely then. When we were children, they came more frequently. But this was the first I’d seen in some time.”
“Your father ruined it?” Yasmeen guessed.
“Adornments are for sodomites and whores. And when he was done with me, he started in on her. Not with his fists,” he added. “He didn’t usually need them.”
With words, then. “But you finally had enough?” When he nodded, Yasmeen stroked her fingers down the green silk. “So you told him with this.”
“Well, it matched my eyes—and I’d always been fond of adornments, anyway.”
His grin wrecked her. She buried her face against his neck, breathed in his warm scent. “I’d kill him again for you.”
“I hope you’d let me have a turn,” he said, running his palms along her spine.
“If you ask nicely.”
“I would.”
“Then let me be nice to you, first,” she said, sliding down.
His groan was the perfect answer. She bared his stomach to her mouth, tracing the ridges of muscle with her tongue. Anticipation pounded through her, was echoed in the thud of his heart. Oh, beautiful man—every morning, an hour spent sparring with a pugilist’s automaton in the cargo hold kept him strong, always ready to run, ready to fight. The life-sized windup machine had cost them a hefty amount, but was worth every denier. His body was a wiry sculpted marvel, taut and aroused beneath her hands, her lips.
A gentle nip low on his abdomen made him shake, hands fisting against the sheets. He shuddered when her mouth closed around him—rigid and thick, hot against her tongue. His moan seemed torn from his chest…then he quieted, as if the sensation overwhelmed even that response.
His erection softened in her mouth.
After a moment of shock, Yasmeen choked on her laugh. Had she finally scared the arousal out of him? She glanced up, ready to tease.
Archimedes wasn’t laughing. A slightly puzzled expression settled over his features as he looked at her.
That was all she saw. No love in his eyes—not even lust.
Pain stabbed her heart. She fought against the instinctive need to curl away from him, to protect herself from that empty gaze. By the lady, what had she done? What had happened?
Had she lost him already?
An uncontrollable ache bloomed through her chest. With effort, she battled the panic threatening to overwhelm her sense. He’d never not been responsive. He’d never not wanted her. Something had to be wrong.
“Archimedes,” she said softly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Realization slipped over his expression…but not in the way that she was accustomed to seeing it. Rather than lively and mobile, his features seemed wooden, his attitude disinterested. “I’m not feeling much.”
His flaccid cock attested to that. She attempted a smile. “Do you need me to do something else?”
“No. I don’t want you now.”
So blandly stated, his words hurt more than a vehement rejection might have. The ache became teeth that ripped at her throat. She stared at him, trying to see beyond the pain, beyond the terrible feeling of helplessness. What was happening?
“Archimedes?”
His gaze locked with hers—and she finally saw an emotion, faint though it was. Fear. “It’s the tower, Yasmeen.”
The tower? She sat up, heart pounding. Bilson had compared the effect of its signal to a lamp burning out…but Yasmeen had never been this afraid of the dark.
“I don’t want this,” he said, and there was no color in his voice, no life…nothing that was Archimedes. Nothing of the man he was.
And he knew. He knew. Even with his emotions muffled, she could see his faint horror bleeding through.
God. How could she help him? Closing her eyes, she forced away the terror, forced herself to think.
“Not the tower,” she said. It had been destroyed in Morocco—but something was broadcasting a signal that affected his nanoagents, stripping away his emotions. Yasmeen had seen a small device like that before: a twelve-inch obelisk atop a heavy base. “I know of something similar to it, though—and I’ll find it. By the lady, I swear I’ll find it.”
She kissed him, and his lack of response tore her heart out all over again. Feet bare and throat aching, she paused only long enough to tuck a pistol into her sash. She wouldn’t have to go far; the device didn’t have a wide range. She would search every person between her airship and the end of the south docks—and search twice, if they appeared wealthy. The device was difficult to obtain, and had to be smuggled in from Horde territories. It wouldn’t have come cheaply.
She glanced back at Archimedes, now sitting at the edge of their bed. He regarded her without a hint of fire, without a hint of laughter. Who the hell had taken that from him? Anger swelled, replacing the pain and fear.
Perhaps the person who’d activated the device hadn’t meant to affect him. Yasmeen would tear them apart anyway.
She hauled the door open, stepped into the corridor—where Bilson waited, sorrow etching deep lines beside his mouth.
Bilson, who’d once smuggled Horde weapons, who would know how to procure such a device…and who would know exactly which signal would affect Archimedes.
Goddamned Bilson, who always had a plan on standby.
He only had enough time to open his mouth. Then her fingers were around his throat, slamming him back against the wooden bulkhead. His hands clamped on her wrist, desperately tried to force her to release him. He froze when her claws dug into tender flesh, drawing blood.
“Three seconds,” she hissed. “Tell me where the device is.”
“I’m not alone.” It emerged on a wheeze. “Kill me and he’ll die—and you won’t ever know who did it.”
He’ll die? Yasmeen snarled. It wouldn’t be Archimedes who died here. She’d rip through Bilson’s neck…except he didn’t have the device with him. A quick look confirmed it. And he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to just leave it in the stateroom. Someone else had to have it.
She drew more blood. “Who is it?”
Bilson looked to the side. Yasmeen followed his gaze. Archimedes stood at the entrance to the cabin, watching them without expression.
Beneath her hand, Bilson’s throat worked. “I’m so sorry, my friend. But my brother needs your help.”
Archimedes gave no response. Not concealing his reaction—not even having one.
A scream ripped through Yasmeen’s chest. She refused to voice it. Archimedes had made his way into her heart, but it was still made of steel. Maybe she couldn’t kill Bilson right now. She could give him a reason to tell her where the device was.
Bilson’s body tensed when she pulled her pistol from her sash. Ah, yes. He’d probably read that Lady Lynx never drew her gun unless she intended to use it.
That was one thing Zenobia had gotten perfectly right.
Yasmeen placed the muzzle against his left shoulder and fired. Bilson howled, then clamped his mouth shut. His feet stomped the boards as he attempted to manage the pain.
Gunpowder smoke stung her eyes, her nose. Over the ringing in her ears, she heard the shouts of her crew. Ginger popped her head out of the cabin-girls’ berth, saw Yasmeen, and waved the other girls away from the door. Longcock’s heavy step sounded on the deck, with Vashon’s quick behind him.
Yasmeen glanced at the quartermaster. “See that the aviators on watch hold their positions, mademoiselle. Tell the others to stand down.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Vashon disappeared up the companionway. The first mate didn’t move, his augmented bulk filling up the corridor.
“Mr. Longcock?”
His pale gaze moved from Archimedes to Bilson, pinned against the bulkhead and breathing shallowly through clenched teeth. “I’m not on watch, ma’am.”
All right, then. He wasn’t needed on deck, and was also Archimedes’ friend. Obviously, a much better one than Archimedes’ stinking rat partner. She focused on Bilson again. “Is the device on my ship?”
Bilson didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to. It would have to be aboard Lady Nergüi to pose any real threat. The device had such a short range that they could fly out of danger within minutes.
But that also meant his associate was a member of her crew. They hadn’t taken on any other passengers in Port Fallow…only Vashon, the new quartermaster.
No. That was a dangerous route for a captain to take; an airship couldn’t function if she couldn’t rely on her aviators. So she would trust each member of her crew, until one of them proved untrustworthy.
Or until Bilson gave up a name. She pressed the muzzle harder against his shoulder. “Who has it?”
Bilson’s face whitened, but he shook his head.
In a flat voice, Archimedes said, “That won’t work, Yasmeen. He won’t break.”
Perhaps not, but as the minutes passed and Archimedes remained smothered by that device, Yasmeen thought that she would enjoy trying.
“Go on,” Bilson rasped. “Torture me, and my associate will realize that you won’t help me—and use the device to kill him for that, too. You have no choice, Captain. Help us, or Archimedes will pay for your refusal.”
Idiot. If the device was on her ship, it was only a matter of time before she found it.
She smiled, and Bilson tensed again. Good enough. She released him, stepping back. “If your associate stops the signal, I’ll see that a surgeon is brought to you. If it remains on, you’d best pray that wound doesn’t turn gangrenous before we rescue your brother.”
Bilson hunched over, holding his shoulder. “If you take us to New Eden, we won’t activate it again—and won’t kill him. Do we have an agreement, Captain?”
“We do, Mr. Bilson.”
The lie came easily. Yasmeen only intended to discover who held the device—and then destroy them both.
He nodded and turned toward the third deck companionway. Would he be foolish enough to lead them straight to his associate?
Farther down the passageway, Longcock met Yasmeen’s gaze, his blond brows lifted in query. She nodded. The first mate would keep an eye on Bilson, then, and let her know who the man spoke with. She would stay with Archimedes until this horror had passed. While under the device’s influence, perhaps he didn’t care enough to need her with him—but by the lady, she needed to be with him.
The glint of steel in Bilson’s hand stopped her from returning to the cabin. Wary, Yasmeen watched him. Surely he wouldn’t be foolish enough to attack Longcock? But, no. Injured arm held awkwardly to his side, he swept the dagger over his head. The blade clanged against an exposed copper pipe running the length of the deckhead.
The slick bastard, Yasmeen realized. He was using the pipes to signal someone on the ship.
A terrible, haunted moan came from behind her. Archimedes? The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
He charged out of the cabin, unleashing a primal scream of rage and hate, unlike anything she’d ever heard from a man…and had never imagined coming from Archimedes. Stunned, Yasmeen barely had a moment to step out of the way. He tore down the passageway, face contorted with fury. Bilson’s eyes widened and his grip on the dagger firmed.
He wasn’t as fast as her husband. Archimedes dodged the slashing blade. His fist smashed into Bilson’s jaw. Yasmeen watched in fierce satisfaction as the man staggered. Archimedes’ knee rammed into his stomach, crumpled him to the boards. Pinning Bilson’s dagger to the deck with his foot, Archimedes yanked the man up by his bloodied shirt, then pounded another blow to his face.
Was Archimedes going to kill him? Yasmeen’s relief at seeing her husband released from the device transformed into mounting worry. She rushed forward, caught his wrist as he brought his fist back for another strike.
Yasmeen held on as he attempted to swing, and was almost hauled over his shoulder. God, he was strong. She braced her feet.
“Stop! Archimedes, you have to stop! If you go too far, they’ll use the device to kill you!”
“Good.” Roughly, he shoved her back. His voice was hoarse, his eyes tormented. His knuckles bled. “I’d rather be dead than feel nothing again.”
Gutted, she stared at him. He’d rather be dead?
No. She was never going to lose him.
He picked up Bilson again, drew back his fist. Yasmeen leapt, grabbing Archimedes’ hair, yanking him away.
“Enough!” she shouted into Archimedes’ ear, whipped him against the bulkhead. The wood shuddered against the impact. Blindly, he fought her, trying to rip out of her grip—a man driven mad by what his friend had just done. His pain overwhelmed her, became her own. By the blue heavens, how could she help him? How could she ease this? She didn’t know, and her fear and horror reached up to choke her. “Please, Archimedes. Please.”
His eyes seemed to clear…not completely, but just enough. His devastated gaze locked on hers. He stopped struggling and began to shake, uncontrollable tremors that rattled his frame.
“You’re all right. I’m here.” Yasmeen released her grip on his hair and gently cupped his face between her hands. His beloved features blurred in front of her. “You’re all right.”
With a ragged, sobbing breath, he clutched her to his chest. His face buried in her hair. His shaking intensified when, behind them, Bilson’s gave a pained groan.
Archimedes lifted his head, the sheen over his eyes making them appear brilliantly green. His hair had come free of the leather tie, an unruly tangle that looked as wild as he had moments before—and still was, she saw. He was just barely containing the emotional eruption.
“God, Yasmeen. I have to go. I need to run.”
Her throat aching, she nodded. Archimedes wasn’t like her. The airship wasn’t big enough for him—he needed more, and especially now. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.” A violent shake of his head followed the response. “No.”
God. How could she agree to that? She couldn’t let him go alone when he was like this.
But she also couldn’t imagine what was going through his head. Whatever it was, he obviously couldn’t bear for her to see it.
“Not to the city wall,” she said. Zombies crowded Port Fallow’s wall—and even though he needed to bring himself back, to seek danger…out there, he wouldn’t be reaffirming life. He’d only find death. “Promise me, Archimedes. There’s too many. Promise me.”
Nodding, he pressed an unsteady kiss to her lips. “I love you.” His voice was broken. “More than I can…God.”
He abruptly pulled out of her arms. Yasmeen watched him disappear up the companionway, trying to breathe past the pain in her chest. She looked to the first mate. He glanced at Bilson, who was struggling to his feet—the bastard obviously wasn’t going anywhere, and he’d already communicated with his associate on board.
With a short salute, Longcock headed off after Archimedes. Whatever her husband got into, the first mate could help him if he needed it.
And Bilson…She wasn’t done with him yet.
Archimedes’ old friend spit blood from his mouth as she approached, regarding her with disgust. “You let him go alone? You ice cold bit—”
She whipped around. Her bare heel cracked against his jaw. Bone snapped. Bilson’s eyes rolled back, and he dropped to the boards.
Yasmeen looked up at the sound of steps. Vashon stood at the head of the companionway, staring at the unconscious man, her expression impassive except for the barest widening of her eyes.
“Would you like us to move him, ma’am?”
“In a moment.” They couldn’t kill him yet, but they could make certain the device wouldn’t only affect Archimedes. She glanced toward her cabin, where Ginger still waited by the girls’ berth. The girl hadn’t flinched—but then, she’d seen much worse. “Run for Tom Blacksmith and Anisa Stoker, and bring them both to Mr. Bilson’s stateroom.”
As the girl started off, Yasmeen reached for Bilson’s uninjured arm and sent a significant glance to his boots. Vashon caught on, lifted his feet, and they began sliding him toward the companionway.
Walking crab-like to avoid the trail of blood they were leaving, the quartermaster asked, “Do we need to call for a surgeon, Captain?”
“No.” And normally, Yasmeen wouldn’t cross this line and infect a man without his consent—but Bilson’s goddamn game had pushed her over. He’d hurt Archimedes. The man was lucky she wasn’t flaying him alive. “He only needs the blacksmith.”
The nanoagents would heal him more quickly than any surgeon’s tricks could. And if he was smart, he’d be damn grateful that Yasmeen hadn’t ordered the ship’s blacksmith to bolt his mouth shut while he was at it.