Tethered

by Meljean Brook

  He crossed the cabin, caught her face between his hands. His emerald gaze searched her features, as if seeking any doubts. “You don’t fear at all?”

  “No.” Not that he would take her ship. She only feared losing him.

  His focus dropped to her lips. “Kiss me, then,” he said.

  Gladly. He met her halfway—and oh, his mouth. So sweet. His arms slid around her waist. She clung to his shoulders, sought a deeper taste, and with the parting of his lips she began shaking from the intensity of the emotions tearing through her. How could he do this to her so easily? Often, their kisses were playful, fun. Not this one. It brought her heart up out of her chest, filled the space between them.

  Yasmeen never knew what to do when he left her so vulnerable, so open. She kissed him—by the lady, how could she not when it felt as if she would die without it?—and she loved him. God, how she loved him. But she knew the only thing that saved her when she exposed her heart was Archimedes himself, and that she trusted him never to crush it.

  He knew, too. When he lifted his head—not far, just enough to look into her eyes—his breathing was as rough as hers, and already he was helping her find a more comfortable tack. “You made me lose my head, Mrs. Fox. I meant to steal my daggers back.”

  Smiling, she pressed another kiss to his mouth and dropped her hands to her thighs. “Look again, Mr. Fox. I didn’t take them.”

  He was quick, but she was quicker. By the time his hands fell to his hips, she’d already slipped the blades into his sheaths and returned her arms around his neck. His grin matched hers.

  “You gave them back?”

  “I saved you the humiliation of fumbling when you attempted to steal them.”

  “Truly?” His eyes narrowed. “No. You’ve revealed yourself, Captain. Now I know you love me.”

  “It must be love,” she agreed. “You humiliate yourself so regularly, yet I try to spare you whenever I can.”

  Laughing, he caught her waist again, dragged her against him. “And this time, I’m grateful for it. Because God knows, I would only have to touch your thighs and completely forget why I was attempting to grab a pair of knives, instead.”

  He only had to touch her, too—though right now, they couldn’t follow through. With a sigh, Yasmeen laid her head against his shoulder.

  Archimedes groaned. “Our daily visit with Mrs. Fortescue?”

  “Yes.” Though rather than simply adjusting and verifying their direction, they would be meeting with the navigator to establish their new course when they left Port Fallow. Such consultations always took more time. “A longer visit.”

  “I prefer this,” Archimedes said.

  She preferred this, too. His taut muscles, his warmth, the slide of his fingers up her back…Yasmeen couldn’t stifle her soft sound of pleasure.

  “You should stop,” she said.

  He didn’t, and there wasn’t just simple pleasure now, but heat. His hands cupped her bottom, lifted her against him. His mouth sought the curve of her jaw, the sensitive skin at her neck.

  With a moan, she let her head fall back, giving him better access. “I’ll kill you for this.”

  A shudder ripped through him. “Good God, that was cruel. You know how that arouses me.”

  She did. Lowering her face to his, she scraped the sharp tip of her forefinger beneath his jaw, watched the ecstasy tightening his features. Archimedes Fox relished a bit of danger—in any form.

  He closed his eyes. “Don’t sneer at me,” he said. “If you do, I’ll probably come.”

  The laugh burst from her, soothing the burn between them. Yasmeen kissed him, hard, and his reluctance echoed hers when he slowly let her down. She looked away from his flushed features, searching for a distraction. A few minutes remained before Fortescue arrived, but if Yasmeen didn’t find something to occupy herself, their navigator would find them writhing naked on the desk, instead.

  Probably best not to look at the desk now, either.

  Her gaze lit on the pile of correspondence on the table. Not just letters—packages, too. Some that might have been stacks of pages bound together. “Is the Lady Lynx story in there?”

  “It is.” His long stride carried him to the table, but he picked up a small envelope rather than a manuscript. “I plan to read it to you tonight.”

  She would love that. “And is there any other news?”

  “Zenobia wants us to know that the origin of Lady Lynx has been found out.”

  A bit late. Yasmeen automatically took the letter he held out, then read the direction in surprise. She rarely received correspondence, and none of it came to Port Fallow—she collected it from her solicitor. “This was addressed to me?”

  “From Scarsdale.”

  A good friend, but not usually the writing sort. She broke the seal, and her belly seemed to drop. Not a letter. An invitation.

  Watching her face, Archimedes frowned. “What is it?”

  “His wedding.”

  “To a woman?”

  Unfortunately, it was the only sort of marriage Scarsdale could have. “It’s his duty to produce an heir,” she said. “Goddammit. As long as his prick still works, he can do his duty. Why couldn’t he go on as he was and marry when he was an old man? And why the hell invite me? Perhaps he hopes that my presence will horrify the wedding party so much, the bride will flee.”

  But, no. Though she wished it, Yasmeen knew that wouldn’t be why. Scarsdale had many friendly acquaintances, but few friends. She was one—and he wanted her there for that reason alone. Still, as his friend, she’d make damn certain he absolutely wanted this.

  Casually, Archimedes said, “Since the navigator is coming soon, perhaps we ought to decide where we’re heading next.”

  Yasmeen glanced up at him. “Not Cordoba?”

  “Eventually. But I thought we might visit Zenobia first, to make certain she’s all right. Afterward, why not detour to England and visit Scarsdale?”

  “Oh, you are a brilliant man. Unless I’m convinced that he truly wants this marriage, we’ll abduct him and tell his bride that I had my way with him. No gentle-bred miss would want him after that.” She narrowed her eyes at him when he laughed. “Why do you think Zenobia might not be all right?”

  “She received a visit from my old partner. It upset her.”

  His old partner…“Bilson?” She headed back to the desk after all, and found a note she’d tossed there earlier. “This arrived shortly after you left this afternoon. Then you distracted me with your dancing, and I forgot. It’s from Miles Bilson.”

  Archimedes’ dark brows drew together as he read the note. “He’s requested a meeting. He thinks I can help him.”

  No doubt Archimedes could. But Bilson had probably asked because Archimedes was the sort of man who would. “What kind of help?”

  “It doesn’t say.”

  And he wasn’t expressing much interest in finding out. “You don’t seem that eager to meet your friend.”

  He glanced up. “I enjoy his company quite a bit. But I know him well; he always has some sort of game in play. Perhaps not this time, but I’d be a fool not to wonder if I’m part of a greater plot.”

  And he wasn’t a fool. “Why was Zenobia upset by him?”

  “She had tender feelings for him—I hadn’t even realized. But she’s also certain that he’s here for money, and that he felt cheated when I sank those war machines.”

  Yasmeen’s protective instincts sharpened. “Do you think he felt cheated?”

  He shook his head, studying the note again as if to discern Bilson’s intentions from the slant of the letters, the darkness of the ink. “I can’t say. I don’t think so. But it’s been years.”

  A seed of resentment could have grown enormous in that time. “And you’re famously rich now.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you feel you owe him for the botched job with the war machines?”

  “No.” He glanced up from the note with a wry grin. “But if he asked, I’d pr
obably give the money to him.”

  That was the lovely thing about possessing a ridiculous fortune—they could give away small fortunes, and hardly notice the difference. “And if it’s not money that he’s after?”

  Yasmeen would deal with Bilson herself, if Archimedes asked her to. She knew he wouldn’t, however, and left the decision open to him.

  “I’ll go out and meet with him tonight,” he said. “Then at least I’ll know what he wants.”

  “Invite him aboard for dinner, instead,” Yasmeen suggested. “And introduce your old friend to your new wife.”

  She met Archimedes’ sharp look with a smile that had terrified other men. He only chuckled, shaking his head—not refusing, but considering. She watched him struggle against his hope that Bilson’s request would be nothing, and his worry that if it wasn’t, Yasmeen might be caught in between.

  Just as protective of her as she was of him. Yasmeen softened her smile, stepped close. When he met her eyes, she said quietly, “Why did you dance on those docks today? Lady Corsair wasn’t yours, her crew wasn’t yours—you didn’t love them as I did. Yet you helped me today, when everything else I saw reminded me of how much it hurt to lose them. And your dealings with Bilson aren’t my business, I know—but if he’s here to take some sort of revenge on you, to hurt you…then let me stand behind you and help you in return.”

  His throat worked. He lowered his head, dipping his mouth close to hers. His voice was rough as he said, “You have my heart, Mrs. Fox.”

  “Good. After you stole mine, I’m in need of one.”

  He smiled against her lips. “Bilson’s request will likely be nothing.”

  “Does he have a brain in his head?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it will be nothing,” she said, and reassured him with a kiss.

  Only an idiot would believe he stood a chance in hell against this.

  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 n
ot 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.”