He hadn’t moved, but she noted his tightly-coiled frame, as though he were primed to spring. Movement in his jaw signaled his tension, and she wished he were a shifter. Then she would be able to calm him enough to get back to the upper decks. She didn’t want his death on her conscience, not to mention the havoc such a thing would rain down on Pickett Airships. It would throw a spotlight onto the captain when he most needed to remain innocuous.
“Why do you dislike shifters so much? They are human, you know. As human as you and I.”
“They are nothing like us.” He dropped the cheroot on the floor and ground it with his foot, leaving an ugly smear on the polished wood. “And they have duped the wealthiest and most influential among us.” He gestured upward, and she assumed he referenced the captain.
“I’m afraid I do not know what you mean.”
“You do not?” He laughed. “How clever you must find yourself. You may deceive the rest of the world, but you do not deceive me. You are more involved in the shifter world than anyone except the beasts themselves! Do not insult me by suggesting you’re unaware of certain people’s activities.”
He inched toward her.
Isla stood still, curling her fingers around the hilt of her knife. “Surely you’re not making accusations against anyone specific, Mr. Crowe. Especially someone of status, as you seem to imply. Such a thing might be interpreted as slander, and I’m certain you understand the consequences of making enemies of people of influence.”
His nostrils flared, and he stepped back. “I will never be far from your trail, Miss Cooper.”
“Then I suggest you give my trail a wide berth, Mr. Crowe, because my patience does know limits.” Indeed, she found it wearing thin, and his threats left her feeling a frustrating combination of anger and fear. There were so many variables in play, not the least of which was her own search for her cure, and this man had the power to derail all of it.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs at the far end of the hallway, and Captain Pickett came into view. She inhaled deeply, releasing it quietly in relief. She deliberately turned her focus from Crowe.
“Captain, hello.” She forced a smile as she released her knife and rested her hand on her hip.
He looked between her and her unwelcome companion. “What are you doing?” he asked Crowe.
“Not a thing, Captain Pickett.” The smile was back in place, though Isla took petty satisfaction that it was strained. “Bryce Randolph mentioned that you and he were in the same regiment together in India, were you not?”
Isla absorbed that information with surprise. She’d not realized the captain was acquainted—apparently rather well—with Nigel Crowe’s direct superior. Was that why he had demanded passage? Was he working under Randolph’s orders?
Pickett eyed Nigel, and his mouth twisted in a cold smile. “Please return to the upper decks, Mr. Crowe. I prefer my passengers to stay away from the lower level.”
Nigel glanced at Isla. “All of your passengers? Or do you allow privileges to the prettier ones? Perhaps you hope to give Miss Cooper a personal tour?”
“My activities are none of your concern, and if you give voice to that insinuation again, you’ll find my fist in your face.”
Crowe smirked, but rather than belabor the point, he turned and left.
Isla breathed a sigh of relief and wondered if the entire voyage would be charged with tension because of the government agent.
The captain’s attention turned to her, and she suddenly felt like a misbehaving child who had been caught fighting with a sibling. She lifted her chin, defensive before he even uttered a word.
“Did he hurt you?” The question was gruff, but still caught her by surprise.
She shook her head, disarmed. “There wasn’t time. And I was nigh unto ending the conversation.”
“Perhaps consider avoiding dark and isolated places for the remainder of our voyage.”
Her irritation returned, and she reminded herself that Pickett did not know her well. “I should not have to do that,” she said evenly.
He waved a hand. “We can discuss social philosophy later. Of course you should not have to, but the fact is, you do.”
“I am not foolish. I am aware of whom I can and cannot best. I am not concerned about that one. And I thank you for your defense of me, but I did have the situation in hand.”
“You are assuming you have control over who may corner you in a dark hallway, Cooper.” His gaze flicked to her waist. “I presume you did not enter my locked cabin to retrieve your weapons.”
“Of course not!”
“Then you lied to me.” He held out his hand.
Her temper frayed. “Would you not have done the same? Favor or not, I have no way of knowing what your intentions are, or anyone else’s aboard. When you searched my belongings I had yet to meet the other passengers; I had no idea what I might face.”
She snatched her knife from her waistband and flipped it quickly in the air, catching the blade and handing it to him handle-first. “Here, then.” She used her other hand to pluck two throwing stars from her corset and brandished them as well. “May as well confiscate these also! I might throw them through the wall from my cabin to yours, kill you in your sleep, then stage a mutiny.”
He endured her angry tirade. Holding her gaze, he took the weapons from her and held them up for closer inspection. He raised a brow at the throwing stars, as though reluctantly impressed. “Japanese shuriken.” He glanced at her. “Are you any good?”
Suddenly she was figuratively disarmed again. She frowned and cleared her throat. “Absolutely.”
He studied her for a moment. “Come here, Cooper.” He handed the knife and stars back to her and unlocked the cargo door. A rush of cold air invaded the hallway, and Isla shivered. When she hesitated, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Come.”
“It’s dark,” she muttered.
“I’m sorry?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.” She followed him into the cargo hold, where he flicked on a wall-mounted Tesla lamp and closed the door.
The hold was neatly organized, a combination of the passengers’ personal belongings and oil barrels used for operating the engine. There were also crates marked Port Lucy against the far wall. She’d forgotten that Pickett conducted legitimate trade with other countries and governments.
He pulled her elbow when she hovered near the door and motioned with his head toward the far wall, which was stacked waist-high with crates. “Show me your star-throwing skills.”
She looked at him in surprise. “It will scratch the wall.”
He shrugged. “It’s a cargo hold. I have no issue with a few nicks and scratches on the walls. But perhaps you brandish your weapons more for deterrent than actual use, which I can certainly understand—”
She whipped her knife from its sheath and lodged it in the target wall before he finished his sentence.
“Well, well. So the good doctor is more than just talk.”
She rolled her eyes, and he motioned at her other hand. “Now those.”
With a quick flick of her wrist, she stuck the stars fast in the wall on either side of the knife. She smiled, satisfied.
“Impressive.”
“I ought to be able to hit anything moving or stationary, considering how much time I devote to it.”
He looked at her askance. “When do you have time to practice knife throwing?”
“Between clients. After dinner. Early morning before work.” She winced. “Used to be early morning. Not so much now.”
He eyed her, and then moved to the far wall and retrieved the stars and knife. “Who taught you to use these?”
“A gentleman from Japan owned a sword and knife shop near my home. Taught my friend, Will, and me. He was tickled a little British girl had such an interest in katana and shuriken.” She smiled. “H
e was a good man. Very patient.”
Pickett extended the stars, and she took them. “They typically aren’t used for the final blow like a knife would be, but are often tipped with poison. The star scratches the skin, the poison seeps in . . .” She drew a thumb across her neck.
He raised a brow and handed back her knife. “And you wonder why I confiscated your arsenal.”
She smiled in spite of herself and shook her head. “I can count on one hand the times I’ve actually used these things in an altercation. The ray gun is usually deterrent enough.”
“I suppose you’re equally precise and deadly with the gun.”
“Mais bien sûr.” She grinned. “Perhaps you should be grateful I’m here and can act as your protection, Pickett.”
“If I return your gun, what guarantee do I have that you won’t accidentally blast a hole in the side of my ship?”
“You do not know me well, so I will forgive you for asking that.”
His lips turned up at the corners, and he nodded toward the door. “We should return before Crowe spreads rumors and ruins your good name.”
Daniel stood in the wheelhouse, pretending to read an instruction manual on Tesla lamp repair. One moment he had been ready to kill Nigel Crowe—who had clearly been harassing the good doctor—and the next, he’d had that same doctor in the cargo hold, showing off her skills and impressing him to no end. Intriguing him to no end.
He was as baffled as he’d ever been in his life.
He found her beautiful, surely, but she was so unlike any other women of his acquaintance that he was riveted, fascinated. She hunted large, deadly animals. She operated a thriving business. She commanded the respect of experts in her field. She was half his size and Crowe’s, yet between the two, he’d put his money behind her in a fight.
And when he’d come upon her and Crowe in the dark corridor, realized he was up to no good and that she had a hand at her side, likely ready to bury a knife in Crowe’s chest if he assaulted her, Daniel found he couldn’t even be angry that she’d lied to him about not having any more weapons.
He’d seen her wearing her ray gun and knife the first time they’d met, but today was different. Was that the reason he’d lost his head? Because the woman hadn’t only been wearing the accoutrements but also knew how to defend herself with them? He tipped his head, considering. Yes. Yes, that would be the cause. He didn’t know a man in the world who wouldn’t find that alluring. Unconventional? Absolutely. But the world was on the brink of a new century, and society evolved along with technology.
“Samson, do you know of many women who brandish weapons? Employ them with skill? It would be an attractive habit, I should think.”
His ’ton kept his attention on the weather pattern charts he had spread on a counter. “Your sister has a ray gun, sir.”
Daniel grimaced. “Never mind.”
Samson smiled. “Are you thinking of one woman in particular?”
“No. . . . Perhaps.”
“And you seem to be searching for validation of your attraction to women who are armed?”
“Not just any woman, I suppose,” he mumbled and wished he’d never broached the subject with a ’ton who comprehended entirely too much about human emotion and motivation.
“If I were a human, I presume I would find Dr. Cooper an attractive woman. Her features are symmetrical, her hair is a rich shade of brown that appears deep red in the sunlight, and she controls her physical body smoothly. She doesn’t stumble about even when the ship catches a good breeze.”
“Symmetrical features, nice hair, doesn’t stumble.” Daniel flipped another page in the manual, which, now that he looked closer, he realized was written in a series of numbers and characters he couldn’t decipher.
“I sense you are flummoxed, sir.”
“My life is extremely complicated these days. I do not need the distraction.”
“Therefore you expect to be impervious to attraction?”
“It would help.” He sighed and tossed the manual on the counter. “If we are caught, Crowe could see me imprisoned and tried. There is no room for mistakes on this trip, and yet it is chaos personified.” He frowned. “I haven’t time for . . . anything, really.”
“Perhaps you ought to have courted the woman from Bath your mother chose for you years ago. You would have hearth and home settled by now. No surprises, no complications.”
Daniel scowled at the ’ton. “I do not recall programming you to sound like my mother, and yet that was a remarkable imitation.”
“I promised to look after you.”
Daniel stared. “When? When did you promise my mother anything?”
“More specifically, I promised your grandmother when they visited the offices in London. I believe she might have mistaken me for a human friend.”
“Mmm. Her eyesight is fading.”
“Yes. I told her of a shop in London that specializes in a wide variety of vision issues and solutions. The right pair of spectacles may make all the difference for her.”
Daniel shook his head and crossed to the door, unsure of exactly when he’d fallen down the rabbit hole. He was inconveniently attracted to a woman he’d just met—a woman who had threatened him with exposure if he didn’t allow her passage on a restricted flight—and his ’ton had become his grandmother’s confidant. “I will be in the library should you need me.”
“Very good, sir. Shall I translate this manual you were attempting to read?”
“No, I don’t need it. All the Tesla lamps seem to be in working order. Trying to busy myself, I suppose.”
As Daniel left the wheelhouse, he heard Samson say, “I did wonder why you were attempting to read computation code.”
Nothing in the library caught Daniel’s interest, and for once he regretted having such a proficient ’ton. He supposed he should be grateful for the lack of drama, especially since having a government agent aboard determined to catch them all breaking the law was enough of a powder keg on its own. He had general business paperwork to tend to, but he couldn’t summon the interest to do it. He considered doing inventory checks on their food stores, but he’d done that before departure. All the ’tons were working properly, each working piece of the engine and the enormous propellers functioned beautifully. The small party enjoyed quite literal smooth sailing throughout the afternoon, and Daniel found himself pacing with no real destination in mind.
He made his way down to his cabin as the dinner hour approached, and freshened up. He heard the doctor moving around in the cabin next door. When he was ready, he knocked on the outer door of her cabin.
She opened the door and looked like the self-assured Dr. Cooper he’d first met. She was calm, no traces of her earlier irritation present. She’d dressed for dinner in a blouse, corset, and skirt, shoulders back, smile in place, and as she turned to lock the door, he noted the slight bump of her sheathed knife at her side.
He swallowed.
“Ready?” She started down the hallway but turned back when she reached the stairs. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?”
“Yes.” He stood rooted to the spot.
She paused with a foot on the bottom stair. “Is something amiss?”
He shook his head. “I realized I still haven’t returned your arsenal.”
She smiled and shrugged. “It can wait until after dinner.”
He nodded and covered the distance to her in a few strides. He placed a hand at her back, noting the stark contrast in their sizes. How on earth did a woman so small take down dangerous shifters and defend herself against real physical danger? An image of her knife sailing through the air in the cargo hold flashed through his mind, and he reasoned that was probably how she managed her profession. Skill, practice, study, and wits. Preparation, effective tools, and probably a bit of luck. His hand spanned her waist, and his thumb brushed against the sheath
ed knife at her side.
He gestured with his free hand. “After you, Dr. Cooper.”
She climbed the steps but said over her shoulder, “Watch the knife, Captain. I’d hate to have to pull it on you.”
He certainly hoped she wouldn’t. She’d likely find herself pushed up against the nearest wall and kissed senseless. At which point, she might slip the knife between his ribs, which, he reasoned, might not be such a bad way to end a life well-lived.
They crossed the upper deck, and when they neared the wardroom, she stopped him with a touch on his arm. “Captain Pickett, I apologize for my impatience earlier. I was rude when you were merely expressing concern for my safety.” She paused. “I am certainly not infallible, quite the contrary. I am, however, unconventional, and I realize it. I suppose . . .” She locked onto his eyes, her own a sea of green. “I work hard in a field largely populated by men, and not only must I be as good as they are, I must be better. If I fall short, make a mistake any of my contemporaries might make, I risk seeming incompetent.” She spread her hands. “So I find myself adept at throwing sharp weaponry and soothing agitated predators but sometimes lacking skill in conventional exchanges.”
Blast, but the woman was breathtaking. Hers was an unconventional beauty that grew more stunning, more interesting, with each conversation.
He realized he should probably say something. “These circumstances are unusual, Cooper,” he said in a clumsy attempt at comfort. “I imagine if I were facing your challenges, I might be short-tempered as well.”
“Captain! Dr. Cooper!” Alfred Quince’s balding head appeared as he climbed the stairs from the passenger cabins.
“Mr. Quince.” Daniel smiled. “I trust you enjoyed your day?”
“Indeed! Mr. Bonadea and I have created the framework with which to begin our study of Port Lucy. I have a renewed sense of hope that this next phase of my life will find its share of joys.”
Cooper’s features softened. “You’ve been apprehensive, Mr. Quince?” She took his arm and walked slowly with him into dinner.
Kiss of the Spindle Page 6
