A routine life, but still an exciting one—and the only kind of settling down that she would ever do.
Yasmeen flicked away her cigarillo, smiling at her own fancy. Routines, excitement, and a particular version of settling down. She’d have to record that thought and send it to Zenobia—along with an account of the little excitement that was about to take place.
Someone was following her.
A man had been trailing her since she’d left the tavern. Not some drunken idiot stumbling into a woman walking alone, but someone who’d deliberately picked her out—and if he’d seen her in the tavern, he must know who she was.
But he must not be interested in killing her. Anyone could have shot her from this distance. Instead, he tried to move in closer, using the shadows for cover. He needed lessons in stalking. Her pursuer paused when she did, and though he tried for stealth by tiptoeing, his attempts only made him more obvious. Of course, he couldn’t know that Yasmeen was at her best during the night—and that she had more in common with the cats slinking through the alleys than the lumbering ape that had obviously birthed him.
She’d only taken a few more steps when he finally found his balls and called her name.
“Captain Corsair!”
The voice was young and quivering with bravado. He’d either taken a bet at the tavern or was going to ask for a position on her ship. Amused, Yasmeen faced him. A dark-haired boy wearing an aviator’s goggles and short jacket and stood quivering in the middle of the—
Pain stabbed the back of her leg. Even as she whipped around, her thigh went numb. An opium dart. Oh, fuck. She ripped it out, too late. Pumped with this amount, her mind was already spinning. Hallucinating. A drunkard rose from a pile of rags, wearing the gaunt face of a dead man.
No, not a drunkard. A handsome liar.
Archimedes Fox.
Yasmeen fumbled for her guns. Her fingers were enormous. He moved fast—or she was slow. Within a blink, he caught her hands, restrained her with barely any effort.
She’d kill him for that.
“Again?” he asked, so smooth and amused. “You’ll have to try harder.”
The bastard. She hadn’t tried at all. And though she tried now, she sagged against him, instead—and for a brief moment, wondered if she’d fallen against a zombie. Each of his ribs felt distinct beneath her hands.
But zombies didn’t swing women up into their arms. And they didn’t talk.
“My sister sends her regards,” he said against her cheek. “And I want my sketch.”
“I’d have let you have it.” She couldn’t keep her eyes open. Her words slurred. “You just had to ask.”
“Liar,” he said softly. “You’d never have given it back.”
Ah, well. He was right about that. But he might have been able to talk her down to forty percent. She began to make the offer, but couldn’t form the words.
Blissful darkness swirled in and carried her away.
Chapter Three
Perhaps drugging the woman he intended to fall in love with wasn’t the accepted method of kindling a passionate romance, yet Archimedes considered it the most sensible way to proceed. If Captain Corsair had killed him immediately, their relationship would have been just as tumultuous as he could have hoped, but much too short.
As it was, she’d hung on to consciousness longer than he’d expected. Infected with nanoagents, she should have dropped when the opium dart hit her, but she’d managed to reach for her guns. Another second or two, and she could have shot him. Death had galloped close. His heart still pounded from how near it had come.
All in all, a good start.
With a grin, he looked to Sven, whose wary gaze had locked on the captain’s face as if he expected her to wake at any moment. “You’d be wise to return to Fladstrand tonight.”
The young aviator nodded. “Any message for your sister?”
“Confirm that I received her express. I’ll reply to her letter within a few days.”
“I’ll tell her.” He pulled on the woolen cap that would keep his ears from freezing in the open seat of his skipper balloon. “I don’t envy you when she wakes up.”
Archimedes doubted that. Any boy who built his own flyer and regularly raced it around the North Sea had a taste for danger. Even if that taste wasn’t as well-developed as Archimedes’, any man who held this woman should be envied, no matter what she did upon waking.
Which might be sooner than he’d anticipated. The long muscles of her back flexed against his forearm as she stirred, turning her cheek away from his shoulder. A line formed between her dark brows. Even unconscious, she was aware that something was wrong. Perhaps dreaming of gutting him—except she’d probably be smiling, if that was the case.
He’d have liked to see her delectable lips curve when she opened her eyes, but he’d work for her smiles later. For now, he needed the sketch, and he’d risk her anger to recover it.
He wouldn’t risk her reputation. A few of the drunks stumbling along the walk or rutting between the crates might have heard her name called or seen her fall into his arms, but they probably hadn’t glimpsed the dart—and most of them probably wouldn’t remember tomorrow, anyway. Those that did would assume she’d taken a man for a night’s sport. When he carried her to the room he’d rented, however, Archimedes had to be more careful. There’d be others about in the boardinghouse, and not all of them would be sloshing stupid with rum. Captain Corsair might forgive him for the opium dart, but wouldn’t forgive a rumor that she’d been taken to his bed, unconscious and completely at his mercy.
Her long coat concealed her distinctive tall boots and black breeches, but the blue kerchief might as well have been a signal flag. He tugged at the silk tails tangled in her braids until the kerchief slipped from her head, then lifted her higher against his chest. Her face tipped back toward his shoulder, obscuring her angular features. The dark and a quick step should prevent anyone from realizing exactly who he held.
A damn quick step. He started into it as she stirred again—his heart still pounding, but feather-light against his ribs.
He’d known that she’d be in his arms one day. And he wasn’t the least bit surprised that he hadn’t gone about it in the usual way.
In the garret that served as his room, Archimedes changed out of the drunkard’s rags and turned to find Captain Corsair awake and regarding him with narrowed eyes. His fingers stilled on the buckles of his emerald waistcoat.
She hadn’t stirred again on the way to his room, hadn’t made a single noise after he’d laid her on the narrow bed. Now she stared at him, her gaze a whetted blade. No confusion or uncertainty clouded her eyes. Only the thin ring of green around her dilated pupils told him that she was still blissed on opium.
“Captain,” he greeted her. Unwilling to take his attention from her again, he left his boots lying on the floor and finished buckling his waistcoat. The emerald silk matched his eyes, and he was certain she’d notice. By the time he’d taken the two short steps to the side of the bed, he was certain she’d noticed everything—particularly the contraption locked around her left wrist and the pile of weapons on the bureau.
He glanced toward the knives and pistols. “How does your airship fly with you aboard? You’ve tucked enough steel and iron into your pockets to weigh down Father Calvin the Blowhard.”
She smiled, and the curve of a soft mouth never seemed to have so many sharp edges. Archimedes knew that if he’d been a sensible man, he’d have run to the nearest priest—blowhard or not—fallen to his knees, and prayed that she wouldn’t come after him. He’d heard of men who’d boldly hunted boilerworms across the Australian deserts freezing in terror at the sight of Captain Corsair’s smile, but the shiver it gave Archimedes had nothing to do with fear.
Instead, he thrilled to the realization he hadn’t had to work very hard for her smile after all.
As there was room on the mattress next to her hip, he sat. Her smile vanished. He suspected that if he’d run his finge
rs the length of her thigh, tension would have hardened her muscles to stone.
But although he wasn’t always a sensible man, Archimedes didn’t touch her. He hadn’t touched her beyond the brisk, necessary search for weapons. And though it had killed him, he hadn’t even touched her warm skin during that brief exploration, not even when he’d spotted the small key on the silver chain around her waist. Some actions crossed a boundary into unforgivable. Captain Corsair was uncharted territory, but he didn’t think he’d crossed the line yet.
No need to mention that he’d sniffed her hair while searching through the thick strands for pins that she could use to stab him. Tobacco and coconut. He’d never smell either again without remembering the silken plaits that weaved the intricate crown, usually hidden beneath her kerchief. Without wondering whether she braided them herself, arms lifted like a dancer’s and her neck arched.
And absolutely no need to mention the short black tufts at the tips of her ears. She’d purposely concealed them under her braids and kerchief, and he suspected that admitting the inadvertent discovery would leave her feeling as violated as shoving his hand between her legs.
She could keep her secrets. One day, when he nibbled on her ears, perhaps she’d reveal them.
“No doubt I missed a few weapons,” he told her. “You’ve likely tucked some away in places that no man would search—at least, no man who intended to live.”
Her eyes narrowed farther, but her gaze turned inward, as if searching out the truth of his statement. When she focused on him again, he saw anger and irritation, but nothing like his sister’s description of the biting cold that had come over the captain’s face before she’d shot Miracle Mattson.
If she hadn’t believed that he’d kept her clothes on and his hands to himself, Archimedes knew he’d already be dead.
“Do you intend to live, Mr. Fox?” Blissed, her accent was strong, but she didn’t slur the words.
“I always intend to live, Captain.”
“You have a stupid way of going about it.”
He grinned. “Not too stupid, as I’m still alive. Would I have been if I hadn’t dosed you with the opium? You’d have seen me rise up out of those crates, assumed I was a threat, and shot me.”
“I wouldn’t have considered you a threat if you hadn’t ambushed me.”
True. “But it wouldn’t have been as exciting.”
This time, her smile didn’t show the edge of her teeth, but he wasn’t fool enough to consider himself safe. “Are you threatening me now, Mr. Fox?”
Until he’d turned around and found her watching him, Archimedes had considered it. The threat would have been simple: If she didn’t turn the sketch over to him, he’d invite half of Port Fallow up to see her on his bed, wearing a slave bracelet. He wouldn’t have made good on the threat, of course. No one else would ever see her like this. But the moment Archimedes had met her eyes, he’d realized that she’d never forgive him for simply speaking that threat.
Threatening her life was another matter entirely.
“Of course I am.” He gestured to the room’s single window, which offered a moonlit view of her airship hovering over the water. “You’re going to invite me up to Lady Corsair and hand over the da Vinci.”
“Or . . . ?”
His gaze flicked to the bracelet. Constructed of copper, the segmented casing concealed the delicate clockworks and springs inside, as well as a dozen small needles that pierced skin and injected a deadly dose of poison. A terrible device, it had been outlawed in most of the New World—and in Port Fallow, was ridiculously easy to obtain. The bracelet could only be removed if the segments were rotated in the correct order; the wrong sequence activated the springs, injecting the poison.
Of course, a bracelet that could be worn without fear wasn’t enough—a slave could run away and live, as long as he took care not to twist the segments. Something had to guarantee the property would come back.
She sat up, running her fingers over the hairline joints in the copper casing. “Did you set the timer?”
“For one hour.”
“These contraptions are notoriously unreliable.”
“So am I.” He rose, ducking his head beneath the steeply sloped roof. “The bracelet flatters you. I wouldn’t bother to take these precautions with anyone else, but I know very well how quick you are.”
After boarding her airship in Venice, he’d stood with his back to the rope ladder, pulled out his gun—useless though it was, the gunpowder soaked through—and aimed it at her. A moment later, Captain Corsair simply hadn’t been standing in that spot anymore. She hadn’t been anywhere on the deck. He’d barely had time to draw a breath before she’d come up behind him—up the outside hull of her ship—and dragged him over the gunwale.
Her lips pursed. “So the bracelet is your revenge, then.”
“Revenge because you threw me off your ship?” Did she think he blamed her for that? Surprised, he shook his head. Someone would have to wrong him before he’d ever take revenge. “You were justified. No, that bracelet is only to make certain that you don’t throw me off it again before you give me the sketch.”
“I might still—and I’ll make certain to drop you to the ground rather than the water this time.”
“Ah!” Elation lifted through him. He braced his hands against the sloping roof and leaned in close. “I knew you spared me. Shall I tell you what I thought as you dangled me over the mob of zombies?”
“Return the favor and spare me whatever idiot thought it was.”
“No, not idiotic.” He waited until she looked up from the bracelet and met his eyes. “I thought, Finally, the mysterious and beautiful Captain Corsair is holding me in her arms. And I swore that you would again.”
Her brows rose. “And what part of that isn’t idiotic?”
“You’ll see. I have a collection of fine waistcoats and a handsome face.” He stepped back to let her take in the full effect of both, and her smile spread to the edge of a laugh. Perfect. “You’ve already proven susceptible to them, and refrained from killing me at least twice: when you discovered who my father was after I first boarded your airship, and again when you threw me from it. I’m certain that means we’re destined to be together.”
“That it does, but only until our business concludes—and I still want fifty percent.”
If Archimedes could, he’d have given it to her. “You’ll only get the standard twenty-five.”
“I prefer your sister’s offer.”
“Mine isn’t negotiable.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
She regarded him for a long moment before shrugging. “I suppose twenty-five percent is still a goodly sum,” she said. “Can you give me any assurance that I’ll receive it after the auction?”
“Do you trust my word?”
“No.” Despite her smile, her eyes were hard as polished agates. “I’ll take you to the Ivory Market on my lady.”
“Can you give me any assurance that I’ll reach the market alive?”
“Do you trust my word?”
He grinned. “No.”
“Then we don’t—”
“I’ll see that you get your share,” he said. “Because if you don’t, I know you’ll find me—and I’m tired of being chased down for money. So I’ll find you instead.”
“You won’t need to find me. I’ll meet you at the market.”
Of course she would. He expected to see Lady Corsair riding the tailwind of his hired airship from the moment they flew out of Port Fallow. The Swan’s captain would probably arrive in Africa with a few new gray hairs, but with Yasmeen as an escort, no doubt it would be the safest route he’d ever flown.
“Then I’ll buy you a drink when I see you there,” he promised before warning her, “I’ll begin courting you then, too.”
Her laugh was soft and low. With a movement that seemed to exist between a lazy stretch and an acrobatic flip, she swung her legs off the mattress and rose from the
bed. Ah, God. Had she any idea how watching her affected him? Graceful, lithe, strong—and deadly. Her every step seemed to contain a threat. Unhurried, she crossed the small room toward the bureau topped with pistols and knives, and despite the bracelet she wore, every moment he expected to feel her foot smashing in his skull, her fingers crushing his throat.
She only retrieved a silver case from the pile of weapons and slipped a cigarillo between her lips. He reached for the spark lighter before she did, and the captain had no objection when he came close enough to hold the flame to the cigarillo’s tip. She regarded him over his clasped hands. When the tip glowed orange, he stepped back and lit his own.
The captain looked pointedly at his cigarillo. “You court your sister’s wrath. You’re a brave man.”
Not that brave. “I don’t smoke them near her. Only with you.”
“Why is that?”
“They’re expensive, and although a bulging purse in my pants might appeal to you, it also attracts the wrong sort of attention.”
“So they boast that you’re wealthy?” Her eyes were bright with amusement or opium. Perhaps both. “But not rich enough, if you need the sketch so badly.”
“True,” he said. “But that will change after I sell it.”
If he had any money left over after he settled his debt, that was. He felt her assessing stare as he sank into the chair and began pulling on his boots.
Her expression thoughtful, she tapped ash into her palm. “If you sell it quickly at auction in the Ivory Market, you won’t receive as much from the sale as you could from a private collector. You probably won’t even receive as much as the sketch is worth—and my twenty-five percent won’t amount to as much as it could be.”
“It won’t, but I don’t have the luxury of time.”
“I propose a deal, then. I’ll hold on to the sketch—or we can ask a third party whom we both trust to keep it for us.”
Who did a woman like Yasmeen trust? “Is there such a person?”
Heart of Steel Page 6
