He had certainly been prepared to find me suitable. Ho Ming had packed a change of clothing for me in the bottom of the ignored lunch hamper, and would bring along the rest of my gear herself. A private railroad car had been reserved to take us, and the Prairie Lily in a freight car, to Vallejo, and an airship hidden nearby would take us the rest of the way at night.
The gondola of the dirigible was overwhelmingly beautiful in both its engineering and its artistic design. I went from one wonder to another, not noticing the length of the flight, until Miklos drew me at last to the front window.
“I wanted to show you something, so we’ve taken a roundabout way.” He seemed nearly as nervous as when I’d caught him eyeing my derriere that morning. “You haven’t flown before at night, have you?”
I hadn’t. Now I looked out at a splendor of stars in the night sky, slightly dimmed by a full moon high and serene in the sky.
“Sonoma means ‘valley of the moon’ in the language of the Miwok tribe,” Miklos said softly at my shoulder. “But to me the moon is nowhere more beautiful than at the edge of the valley where the mountains rise.” He directed my gaze downward, and I saw that we were flying over a sea of low clouds flowing between a maze of higher mountain peaks, fog to those below but a white glory of reflected moonlight to we who watched from above.
“I…I want you to know, Maddy…” He hesitated. “Since I’ve known you, this moonlight vista always keeps me thinking of you. Not just your lovely short pale hair,” and here he touched my head lightly, “but you, not brazenly gorgeous like the sun, but with a silver glow part mystery, part strength.” He shook his head and turned away a little. “I’m sorry, I’m no poet and don’t generally get so fanciful. I just want you to know that it’s not just the work we can do together, or even the…” He paused, as flustered now as I’d ever seen him.
“The sex,” I filled in for him. “Though that alone would be enough.” I took his hand and gripped it hard. “Don’t worry. I came for more than the work and even the sex, as well. Where we’re going I can’t be sure, but I’ll take a chance on whatever currents are taking us there.”
That was enough for now. That, and a bit of scientific experimentation as to what positions two eager bodies could achieve in an elegant gondola twenty times the size of the one belonging to my dear Prairie Lily.
THE UNDECIPHERED HEART
Christine d’Abo
Miranda raced down the darkened hallway as quickly as her skirts and exhaustion would allow. She knew her face was flushed, smudged with ink and dust, her eyes too bright, as she’d run from the basement War Room to arrive in an unladylike fashion. Harbacher waited in the foyer when she topped the stairway, the butler no doubt anticipating her spectacular arrival once word of their visitor reached her.
“Where is he?” She didn’t have time for pleasantries. “The Blue Room?”
“Yes, mum. The captain looked less than pleased.” Harbacher sniffed. “Shall I bring tea?”
Blood pounded with an uneven gait in her ears as it raced through her body. For three days and nights she’d stood before the wall of barometric tubes, circuits and conduits in the War Room, consolidating dates and readings, measuring wind speeds and temperatures. Her hair had long discarded the elaborate coils and braids her maid had created. Since then hairpins had been shoved this way and that to keep the auburn locks from covering her eyes and distracting her as she shifted through the cipher.
The pulling weight of the portable statistical computation device on her arm reminded her of its presence. She forcibly straightened her shoulders to stop from slipping into the lopsided droop her body naturally adopted. Strange. In her excitement at having finally broken the French code, and determining the perfect opportunity for an attack against their rising forces, Miranda had forgotten she wore it. The bloody thing was so much a part of her she’d long expected to be buried with it secured to her arm.
While she might have wished for a looking glass, her appearance no longer mattered. It wasn’t as if she needed to impress him, the Captain of the Dead. He was here to receive his orders—she was to deliver them with brevity. There was no reason to adjust the neckline of her corset or card her fingers through the wild tangle of hair. Still, she released the bindings holding the device to her arm and handed it to Harbacher. The less machinelike she was, the easier it would be to remember her place and his.
“Tea won’t be necessary, Harbacher. The captain won’t be staying long enough to enjoy our comforts.” Miranda took a step toward the Blue Room, but hesitated when Harbacher didn’t move. “And we are not to be disturbed while I debrief him. Is that understood? This is the matter of utmost confidentiality.”
“Of course, mum.” His disapproving frown spoke volumes. He knew of their history. They all did.
The servants would be all aflap by nightfall, of that Miranda had no doubt. Still, she was following protocol, fulfilling her duty to king and country to the very letter. No one must know of this final push to drive the French from the skies over English soil if they were to win this war.
Miranda waited until Harbacher retreated to his post off the main hall, before resuming her journey to the room where the captain waited.
The large oak door was opened only a crack. Miranda couldn’t see inside and was forced to pause and listen if she wanted to determine his state. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it didn’t entirely mask a soft, steady ticking sound. She knew there was no clock within. Miranda swallowed—the unwavering rhythm broke her heart.
She threw her shoulders back and held her spine rigid. Miranda was chief analyst to the king’s military advisor, not some green girl fresh from the schoolroom. She couldn’t afford to show the cracks that permeated her soul.
Not to him.
Taking a cleansing breath, Miranda pushed the door wide and stepped inside, unseeing. “Captain Stromguard, thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Only once she’d shut the door with a firm click did Miranda shift her full attention to the man standing before the hearth.
His black hair had grown unfashionably long, the strands curling around his ears. The sharp press of his uniform was accented by the pistol at his side and the air goggles around his neck. The scruff of a beard darkened his cheeks, making him look older than his thirty-three years. The captain held the appearance of a man ready to receive his orders, no matter what hell they might lead him toward.
Miranda laced her fingers together to hide her nervous tremor. “Would you care to sit?”
“No, mum.” His voice was as ragged as her nerves, cold and impersonal. “I would like to begin the briefing, if you would. My men will need time to prep the ships if we are to fly soon.”
Her gaze drifted down to the brass buttons of his greatcoat accentuating the slight rise and fall of his even breaths. Miranda knew it was impossible to see the metal plate that surely covered a generous portion of his chest. Nor would it ever be likely for her to run her fingers around the hard ridge of skin that bound it to the muscle beneath.
“Lady Miranda.”
Shaking her head, Miranda hoped her blush would be lost in the dim light of the room. Absently, she fingered where her computer had been moments earlier, missing her touchstone. “Of course, Captain. It’s your preference.”
Miranda wasn’t sure she’d be able to get through the entire debriefing without her knees buckling. She quickly moved to the leather-back chair in the corner and perched on its edge. The deep seat threatened to swallow her, throwing her off guard as she slid back several inches across its smooth surface. The motion pulled at her skirts, tightening the corset across her sensitive breasts. Lord, she felt as if she was the spectacle in the room.
Clearing her throat, she met his gaze evenly and refused to give in to her own cowardice. “We finally cracked the French spy code and found a weakness in their defense grid. The Admiralty wishes to exploit their discovery as quickly as we are able, lest they discover what we have done. I have orders for y
ou and your airfleet to bomb their fleet amassing on the coast of Le Havre. We plan to destroy the French landing strip, along with their ships. With one strategic attack, we can end this war.”
The captain nodded once, his crystal blue eyes never once breaking contact. “Who broke the cipher?”
Of course he would ask that. Miranda fingered the lace around the waist of her skirts. “As you are well aware, His Majesty employs a team of analysts and spies who ferreted out the relevant information. It was simply a matter of—”
“Who?”
His eyes tracked down her length and back to her face, and Miranda looked away to glance into the fire. “I was the major contributor in breaking their code, as I’m sure you have already guessed.”
The captain stared at her for several long moments, before he finally cleared his throat and frowned. “Then I have no doubt the details are all in order.”
He held out his hand, waiting for the dossier he knew she had secured in the deep pocket hidden in her skirts. Miranda was a creature of habit—one he knew intimately. Ignoring the sudden burst of warmth on her face, she rose to her feet. Miranda pulled the folded leather pouch free from its hiding spot and squeezed its warm bulk before gently pressing it into his hands.
“You’ll find all the details within.” Miranda resisted the urge to bite her bottom lip when the captain brushed his finger down the length of hers.
He’s dead. Dead and not mine anymore.
“Are you sure you don’t wish me to review the details with you, Captain? You may have a suggestion for how to improve the—”
“Lady Miranda,” he said in a voice so soft it would have been easy to miss it. “Of all His Majesty’s analysts, his code breakers and spies, I only trust you.”
Tears burned the back of her eyes as the steady ticking of his heart filled the silence. “You shouldn’t.”
“But I do.” The captain stepped away and made a direct line for the door. “Please inform His Majesty the Second Battalion Airfleet will make English skies safe once more.”
Miranda could hear the ticking of his heart long after he’d left.
The wind whipped up, sending her skirts flapping as she continued the steady climb up the steep stairway to the launch deck. Miranda pulled up the military points of her jacket in hopes of hiding her identity as long as possible. The French would love to get their hands on her, or more aptly, her brain, if given half an opportunity. Her ability to break down the tactical significance of each move the French had made to date was a thorn the opposing military force had been vocal in wanting to remove.
They’d only gotten close to her the once.
“Hey, yer not supposed to be up here!”
Miranda slowed, eyeing the shipman and the glint of the moonlight off his pistol, but did not stop her ascent. “Pray, what do you know of where I should or should not be?”
The thuds of her boots were swallowed up by the strong wind as she stepped fully onto the deck. The shipman on guard opened his mouth to say something, only to snap it shut and stumble back half a step.
“Sorry, mum. We didn’t know you were coming.” As an afterthought, he pulled his hat from his head and lifted his goggles to rest on his forehead. “The Ministry usually tells us when one of you dignitary sorts is on the way.”
The shipman’s left arm had been replaced with a metal prosthetic. Silver fingers curled around the worn woolen cap. Miranda could only imagine what other injuries the man had suffered in his service to the king—and yet he was now regarded as dead to all polite society.
Lifting her chin, Miranda pushed aside her doubts and fears. “Where is the captain? I must speak to him.”
“Yes, of course, mum. The captain was on the command deck last time I saw. Wanted to personally check the attack route calculations and wind currents and such before we launch at dawn, he did. I can let him know yer on your—”
“Thank you, Shipman. I know the way.”
The last thing she wanted was to give the captain any reason to avoid her. Miranda needed to do this: say her piece, offer him what few reassurances she could regarding the quality of her assessments. There would be no cause for errors, no chance she’d misread the signs or been fooled by a clever French ploy. Tucking a stray strand of her hair behind her ear, she strode across the deck to the still opened bay door.
The howling wind outside was silenced as she navigated her way through the narrow corridor to the control room. The crew was all gone, no doubt drinking or whoring before they would have to leave on their mission, and the hum of the engines and the hiss of steam through the piping were the only sounds. Miranda’s stomach flopped as she approached the closed porthole door. On the other side was the captain, her captain, the man she’d wronged more than any other. Flexing her fingers, she quickly rapped on the door before she lost her nerve.
“Come!”
The captain was bent over an air chart with a glass on the navigation area, muttering softly. He’d shed his military greatcoat and waist jacket, and he’d rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing the pale skin and lean muscles of his forearms. The blue wool of his pants was pulled tight across his firm buttocks, leaving nothing to her imagination.
“Give your report, then leave. I don’t need distractions this evening.”
Miranda closed her eyes and let his voice wash over her. For the briefest of moments, she could picture things as they had been. The way he’d touch her cheek before pressing a kiss to her lips. How his large hands would cup the swell of her hips, pulling her closer than was proper. The fullness of his cock as he’d rut against her thigh.
The steady ticking of his heart jarred her from those pleasant memories, reminding her of all she’d lost because of her carelessness.
The captain growled as he turned to face her. “Shipman, I said to—”
“Hello, Frederick.”
He froze—eyes wide. “Lady Miranda? What in blazes are you doing here?”
The remnants of her confidence disappeared. Her chin dropped and she found herself unable to look higher than the tops of his boots. “I needed to offer you my personal assurances that the mission data is correct. You have no need to worry for the safety of you or your crew. I don’t care what the Ministry says, I wouldn’t risk any of your lives.”
When Frederick didn’t speak, Miranda’s nerves ratcheted higher. She forced herself to look up once more, this time stepping closer to where he stood. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and revealing a few wisps of chest hair.
“I ran and reran the scenarios, making sure the formulae were correct. There is no doubt in my mind that the French will send at least thirteen airships and ten hoppers over the channel in two days time. We’ve caught glimpses of the ships on the coast, preparing for the attack.”
“Lady Miranda—”
She wanted to press her hands to her ears to block out the ticking. It grew louder with each step closer she took, but she continued. “The weather patterns will be in their favor then, giving them the advantage of both wind and cloud cover.”
“Lady Miranda—”
“We will only need seven ships, each carrying twenty tons of drop explosives to cripple their fleet. With the spy information about their landing field—”
“Mandy!”
She snapped her mouth shut. Frederick stood only a few inches away, his blue eyes flashing with anger and concern. “Yes?” she whispered.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Each word was said deliberately. They felt like screws being wound into her chest.
“Yes, it was. The calculations were all wrong, the timing was all wrong. I should have realized the intel I’d received was a ploy to pull the fleet and soldiers away. I hadn’t anticipated them sending their assassins for me. Lord, how do they even know who I am?” She let out a shuddering sigh.
They’d made love that night for the first time. Her pussy had throbbed from the sweet torture his body had inflicted and her nipples ached fr
om where his mouth had nipped and sucked her until she could take no more. She’d been pushed to the limits, exhausted by too many late hours bent over her calculations and reports. Their night of lovemaking had left her wrung dry, mind floating and body blissfully numb.
“Mandy, look at me.” When she didn’t move, he lifted her chin with the crook of his finger. “I’m still here.”
“But you’re dead.” This time she couldn’t stop the tears, didn’t want to. A single stream rolled down her cheek to catch on the edge of her jaw. “You should never have been where you were. Dammit, why did you step in front of that bullet? Your heart…”
For the first time since Frederick’s rebirth, Miranda reached out and pressed her hand to the metal plate that comprised half his chest, barely concealed by the thin fabric of his shirt. He covered her hand with his, pressing down so she could not escape.
“As we flew, we could barely make out the ships flying in formation with us. The fog made it impossible for us to see the ground. That was the only indication I had there was a problem, that the French had lured us away to go after a different prize. There was nothing wrong with your information or calculations.”
“Why you?” Why us was what she really wanted to know, yet dared not vocalize. “It’s not fair.”
“The rules are there to keep our society sane.” He reached up and brushed her hair from her forehead. “It would be chaos if people lived forever, built on parts that never wore out. There must be consequences for the gift. But never doubt that I would step in front of a thousand bullets to save your life. No hesitation.”
Without warning, Frederick caught her by the back of her head and kissed her deeply. Their last kiss had been nearly two years earlier, three nights before he took a bullet to the chest to save her life.
Their teeth clacked as she fought to get closer, soak his warmth into her body and make it a part of her. Her pussy pulsed with need as she spread her legs, inviting him to press his thigh between.
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