Tethered

by Meljean Brook

  “Go on, you scoundrel.” Lips pursed, she pointed down the stairs with the tip of her parasol. “I’ll be happy to see the back side of you again.”

  Archimedes laughed. A hint of a smile lifted her mouth. Then her brows shot up, and she patted the side of her skirts, clearly searching for something.

  “I nearly forgot.” She produced a pale card from beneath her jacket. “This gentleman called on you as I was going out.”

  Miles Bilson. Archimedes wasn’t surprised when he read the name. “Thank you.”

  Nodding, Mrs. Kohen started down the stairs. “If you leave any valuable sketches in your room, Mr. Fox, please remember to lock up this time.”

  He would, even though the lock wouldn’t stop anyone determined to get in. Thoughtfully, he glanced down at Bilson’s card. A direction had been scrawled on the back. Archimedes recognized the hotel in Port Fallow’s second ring of residences—Bilson and he had stayed there several times in their smuggling days, more than a decade before.

  Unlike his sister, Archimedes felt no ill will toward the man. Given his tendency to mine every emotion to its further-most depths, if he had felt the least bit betrayed by Bilson’s abandonment, Archimedes would have hunted down his friend and taken his revenge.

  There was no need for vengeance, however. He’d often thought that if anyone had been betrayed, it was Bilson. Archimedes had been the one to destroy a shipment of war machines. Archimedes had been the reason Temür Agha sent assassins after them. Bilson’s life had been threatened and a fortune lost, and it was all due to Archimedes’ impulsive action.

  But Archimedes didn’t suffer any guilt for that, either—and that was another emotion he’d have wallowed in, given half a chance. Instead, he only felt a faint curiosity, wondering why the man sought him now.

  Strange, that. Archimedes rarely felt anything “faintly.” Yet even with Bilson’s card in his hand, he had no real desire to visit his old friend. As far as he was concerned, his accounts with Bilson had been settled long ago. It was possible that Bilson didn’t feel the same, and Zenobia had reason to be worried—but if that was the case, there was no reason to go looking for the man.

  Shaking his head, Archimedes tucked the card into his sack and locked the door behind him. If trouble was coming, it would find him soon enough. It always did.

  And he always enjoyed the hell out of it.

  * * *

  His visit to the silversmith’s shop had been even more fruitful than Archimedes had hoped. He returned to the south dock with a light step—no, a light step wasn’t enough. This sort of success called for dancing.

  Fortunately, the crowded walk was filled with partners. As he passed a tinker’s cart, Archimedes caught the eye of the attending blacksmith—difficult to do, as she was staring at his lime green breeches. Then her gaze rose to his face and he saw recognition fill her eyes when the pieces fell into place: his loud clothing, his astonishingly handsome features, his dashing grin. Yes, she knew who he was.

  Archimedes Fox, Fearless Adventurer.

  With great formality, he bowed—and caught the blacksmith around her aproned waist, swinging her about. Her shriek of surprise became a laugh. Her strong hands tightened on his shoulders, her feet quickly finding the step. Heads turned.

  He dropped a kiss to her flushed cheek and spun away. Nearby, a stout washerwoman with red hands and sleeves rolled to her elbows was watching, smiling. Archimedes started for her. She winked and met him with a saucy toss of her hips. God love bold women. Laughing, he promenaded with her past a group of hooting sailors. He left the washerwoman with a flourish, then picked a little girl in threadbare skirts, her eyes wide and fingers sticky, dancing a wide circle before returning her to a beaming mother. A burly stevedore was next, gamely allowing Archimedes to twirl him around a huffing steamcoach, though with his steel prosthetic arms and hydraulic shoulders, he could have tossed Archimedes over it. As it was, when the stevedore saw a pretty partner more to his liking, Archimedes found himself spun directly into the path of a matriarch wearing velvet gloves and a fashionable lace ruff, and whose protest only lasted until the shouts of encouragement around them spurred her into Archimedes’ arms. Light and quick, her first step was a challenge that he almost failed to meet. The haughty lift of her brow delighted him, and he attempted to lead her on a merry chase, only to find she outstepped him on every turn. His deep bow conceded defeat; she nodded, her mouth disapproving, her eyes sparkling. He winked and turned, spotting a gray-haired woman in traveling clothes sitting atop a trunk, her face lined and weary. With only a bit of encouragement, he pulled her up on top of the trunk and into a jig. She hiked her skirts, exposing a brilliant pair of red stockings. The laughter and the clapping began in earnest then, boots pounding a rhythm on the boards. A jaunty accordion started up somewhere—a street musician would likely be earning a few more coins that day. Exhilarated, Archimedes led them into faster clapping, louder stomping. The docks were always noisy, but this sort of commotion wouldn’t go unnoticed above.

  Nor did it. Archimedes looked up toward Lady Nergüi as he leapt off the trunk, and caught a glimpse of Yasmeen’s blue kerchief, her dark braids, her grin.

  Perfect.

  Dizzy and out of breath, he reached Lady Nergüi’s docking station. An Amazon in a sharply tailored jacket and trousers waited beside the cargo lift, her black hair cut short and exposing a neck like an Egyptian queen’s. His final partner, then—but as he spun toward her, her look of absolute horror made him pause. When her gaze flicked upward, he understood.

  He stopped and held out his hand in invitation, his grin wide. “So you are not a mythical Amazon, but Adèle Vashon, our new quartermaster?”

  She looked to him, to the crowd behind him—which had been shouting encouragement all the while—then up to the airship again. A hint of panic had widened her brown eyes. “Yes.”

  “Your new captain watches,” he said, his hand still extended. “Do you dance like a fool, or snub her husband?”

  The Amazon closed her eyes. “I snub you.”

  “Good choice. My life would be nothing if she caught me with my arms around another woman.” He heard the rasp of a rope overhead, and his racing heart skipped in anticipation. The laughter and clapping around them quieted. “And here she comes now.”

  And what a woman. Lithe, strong, Yasmeen slid down the rope as easily as a dancing man took a step. Like the quartermaster, she wore a short aviator’s jacket, but had brightened the dour blue wool with a crimson sash that cinched her waist. Cold steel glinted at her thighs, where her daggers were tucked into the tops of her tall leather boots. With barely a flex of her hand, she stopped ten feet above the boards.

  She looked down at the quartermaster. “You are welcome aboard, Mademoiselle Vashon. Strike the chains when you’re ready, and they’ll start the lift. I’ll meet with you in my cabin as soon as I’ve gone back up.”

  “Yes, Captain Corsair.”

  “Captain Fox,” she corrected. Her gaze fixed on Archimedes, and he saw no limit to the warmth there. Slowly, with her thighs clenched on the rope, she turned upside down—her cat-green eyes even with his, her hair hanging in a thick curtain. Her voice softened. “And after creating such a spectacle, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Fox?”

  He placed his hand over his heart and sank to one knee. “I’ve come to ask you to marry me, my gentle captain.”

  Laughter lit her expression, and was matched by the sound in the crowd. “My current husband might object.”

  “Do you care what he thinks?”

  “Perhaps not. But I ought to warn you—he’s a jealous man. And quite dangerous.”

  That description pleased Archimedes to no end. “I will fight him for your hand.”

  “Only my hand?”

  “All of you. But if your hand is all that I can have, it would be far more satisfying than what I have without it: my dreams of you…and my own hand.”

  “I won’t cry for you, Mr. Fox. I know how sa
tisfying your hand can be.” Her wicked grin took his breath. Her gaze held his for a long moment, then flicked up…down his length. “I like your daggers.”

  “I found them at the silversmith’s.” His hands went to the new weapons sheathed at his hips, and he stroked the scrolled guards with his fingertips, watching her face. “As soon as I saw the crimson grips, I was lost.”

  So was Yasmeen, as he knew she’d be. “Are they for me?”

  “I chose something else for you. But I’ll sweeten my offer of marriage by allowing you to touch them now and again.”

  “With an incentive such as that, I must accept.” Her full lips curved, and her eyes met his again. “Shall I be called Captain Fox-Fox now?”

  “You shall be called nothing but my wife.” He looked to the crowd and called out, “She agreed!” Over her laughter and the cheers, he turned back to her and asked, “Now, will you dance with me as they did?”

  He knew it wasn’t a simple question, and he anticipated her refusal. Yasmeen lived by her reputation, and although they’d found that they could express their affection onboard, in front of the aviators, even that was almost always in a playful manner, never in a way that undermined her authority. They’d also had serious moments, quiet and intense amidst a working airship crew, but there was always a line they didn’t cross until they were alone in their cabin. That line was typically any form of embracing, or any display of passion—any act that might make the crew wonder whether her captain’s responsibilities held Yasmeen’s full attention.

  All of which was perfectly fine, in Archimedes’ mind. It made no more sense to kiss Yasmeen while she was performing her duties than it would to stop for a cuddle while they were searching through ruins and trying to avoid zombies. At any rate, their self-imposed restrictions possessed a wonderful benefit: The hours on deck became a delicious tease, building anticipation for the moments they were alone—when he could hold her in his arms, and do anything they wished.

  “I would dance with you on this dock,” she said.

  Taken aback, Archimedes was speechless for a moment. Her smile widened. She’d meant to shock him, he realized. But still, what he’d intended to say had to be said, even if it meant refusing her acceptance.

  “I would not,” he said. “I could never dance with you as I did with them.”

  “Why?” Her brows lifted, her eyes bright with amusement. “Do you think I don’t know a step or two?”

  “I’m sure you do. But dancing with them was only for fun. A dance could never be only for fun when you are in my arms—not after wishing you were there for so long, and not when I love you so ardently now.”

  She stared at him, all humor bleeding from her expression. Tension quieted the crowd, and they gasped as she let go of the rope, flipping around and landing lightly on her feet. Archimedes rose from kneeling, and though he was taller than she, his shoulders broader, no one could have doubted who was the more dangerous, the more deadly.

  And she gave him no warning. Her fingers suddenly fisted in his hair, hauling his mouth down to hers. He heard the relieved laughter and the applause, then there was only the heat of her kiss, the pounding of his heart. Christ, but he loved a fierce woman. She was an answer to his every prayer. His hands circled her waist and her body pressed against his, telling everyone who could see what he wanted everyone to know: By God, he was hers.

  But they wouldn’t know the rest, the part he’d asked them to play that afternoon. Because now, when Yasmeen looked down from her airship at these docks, when she walked their length, she wouldn’t just see their fresh boards; the sight wouldn’t just serve as a reminder of how they’d burned when her lady had exploded, a reminder of why the dock had to be rebuilt. Now, she’d remember the man who loved her dancing his way down the length of the dock in his lime green breeches and orange jacket; she’d remember the laughter and the music, and a kiss beneath the shadow of her airship.

  All of it for her—and never just for fun.

  She drew back, her gaze lingering on his, the grip of her fingers softening in his hair. “You’re an incredible man, Archimedes Fox.”

  He often thought so, too.

  As if reading that from his expression, she suddenly laughed and stepped back, catching hold of the rope again. “I’ll see you on deck, my husband.”

  And he would wait a few seconds, enjoying the view as she climbed. No matter how many cities he searched, Archimedes doubted he’d ever find a statue as perfectly sculpted as Yasmeen’s backside. Her black breeches hugged each curve and the length of her thighs…where the crimson handles of his new daggers currently protruded from the tops of her boots. She must have lifted them in the second between releasing his hair and taking hold of the rope, and he hadn’t felt a thing.

  With a grin, he started up after her. Some things were mostly for fun—and now he needed to steal his daggers back.

  It would undoubtedly be much easier than stealing her heart had been.

  Chapter 2

  Some days, Yasmeen didn’t know what to do with him. Archimedes truly was the most incredible man—and, she suspected, a far better husband than she was a wife. He displayed affection so easily, so unexpectedly; Yasmeen had no idea how to do the same. She wasn’t even certain how he managed it. How could a man so openly state his possession of a woman without also claiming ownership? Yet he did. How could he create a singing, dancing spectacle of himself, and still quietly soothe her heart? Yet he did.

  She knew exactly what he’d done on that dock. He would never reveal his reasons or take credit for it—just as he never said a word when she woke from nightmares of shattering doors and ravenous zombies, and simply held her quietly, without questions, without asking her to acknowledge her terror by speaking of it. This had been the same. He’d known how she’d felt when they’d tethered Lady Nergüi on this spot, but he would never ask her to admit to her grief. He simply tried to make it better.

  Yasmeen wished she could do the same for him. Of course, that would mean finding something that grieved her husband—not so easy when he was so determinedly good-humored, and he confronted every obstacle with an exuberant whoop.

  By the lady, how she loved that about him. And she had no wish to pain him, simply so that she could soothe it. Better to leave such emotional manipulations to those who’d enjoy expending their efforts on them.

  She would expend her efforts on enjoying her husband and commanding her lady. Aware that he was climbing the rope after her, however, and with her lips still warm from their kiss, Yasmeen was sorry that command had to take precedence at that moment.

  On deck, she spotted the new quartermaster waiting by the gangway. Adèle Vashon was observing the crew, her gaze moving from aviator to aviator, as if judging their performance—as if judging whether it was a crew worthy of the time she’d be putting into it. The woman didn’t have to straighten when the second mate announced the captain on deck; her shoulders were already back, her spine ramrod straight—and when Vashon faced her, Yasmeen saw that same considering look directed her way, as if deciding whether she would be a worthy captain.

  Yasmeen’s throat tightened as grief suddenly slipped up, took hold. Goddammit. She could never prepare for this. She only had to hear a laugh, to catch a movement at the corner of her eye, and for an instant she would see her old crew before losing them all over again—and Adèle Vashon’s assessing, critical gaze reminded her so much of Rousseau, the Frenchman who’d been her right hand for a decade. Hell, but she missed him. And if Vashon was even half the quartermaster that Rousseau had been, Yasmeen would be satisfied with her.

  With a scrape of his boots against the hull, Archimedes came up over the gunwale. She caught his eyes, lifted her brows, and stroked the handles of her new daggers.

  His grin promised retribution. Yasmeen looked forward to it. Later.

  “Mademoiselle Vashon—with me, please.”

  The quartermaster joined her at the ladder leading to the second deck. The woman was taller than
Yasmeen; not many women were, and it would be to Vashon’s advantage with the crew, helping to command their respect—at least initially. The first quartermaster Yasmeen hired for Lady Nergüi had been tall, too. No matter how much he’d demanded respect, however, he’d never been able to command it.

  Yasmeen was glad to be rid of him. Despite impeccable references, he hadn’t known how to handle a crew; she hoped that a woman whose family name was synonymous with excellent aviation would. Having met two of Vashon’s mutinous cousins, however, Yasmeen wouldn’t count on the name alone.

  At least this Vashon had the good sense not to comment on the unusual décor in Yasmeen’s cabin. In their cabin. Archimedes loved the low dining table and lounging pillows as much as Yasmeen did, and so they’d kept that part of their living quarters the same as Yasmeen’s previous cabin. The shelves of books were new, however, and all his—as were the two additional crates of books waiting to be unpacked, and the oversized wardrobe. The desk allowed them to work facing each other, and had been clearly set up as a shared space, with two inkwells and chairs for them both.

  Now Yasmeen slid his chair out and gestured for Vashon to sit. As she took the opposite side, with her back to the shelves, Archimedes entered the cabin.

  Yasmeen wasn’t surprised. He’d taken an interest in every aspect of her—their—airship, and though he’d pretend to be occupied by another task, she knew he’d be listening to every word, coming to his own conclusions about their new quartermaster.

  If any other man had done the same, Yasmeen would have been irritated by how far he’d overstepped. Not with Archimedes, however. He had no desire to run her ship, only to know everything about it—just as she often read the research that preceded his salvaging runs. She wanted to better know what he loved, to understand it. Luckily, his work was just as fascinating as the man, and she enjoyed it almost as much as he did. He’d become equally invested in her ship.

  He tossed his bulging canvas pack onto the low table. “If you don’t mind, Captain, I’ll lounge here and sort my correspondence.”