Apparently the money wasn’t the issue at all. If he’d taken the forgery, she wouldn’t have laughed because she’d gotten away with the fortune—she’d have laughed because she’d gotten away with the sketch . . . and made a fool of him. Instead, he’d thwarted her at every turn.
He was treading close to the unforgivable, he realized. His captain possessed a heart of steel, but he’d managed to wound her pride.
God help him when that bracelet came off.
“Zenobia still intends to write those,” he told her. “All of England loves Mina Wentworth. They want more adventures featuring women hunting kraken on airships, and my sister is nothing but practical. I am the romantic.”
“The fool.”
“I’m a man of sense and restraint.” To prove it, he walked to the table and lifted the silver dome from the plate. God, a man could weep. Cubes of seasoned lamb on skewers lay atop fluffy yellow rice. The scent of saffron and garlic wafted upward on a cloud of steam. Archimedes prayed he’d be alive long enough to eat a few bites. For now, he only plucked a swollen purple grape from the cluster beside the plate. He turned to Yasmeen and approached her with slow steps. “My sense tells me that I could derive no greater pleasure than to feed you grapes and lick the sweet juice from your lips. A rational man needs only to take one look at your delicate fingers to know that heaven could be found in the scratches across his back, and then to wake you the next morning with a kiss to your mouth . . . and then I’d kiss you everywhere else.”
She watched him come, heat burning through the cold amusement. “This is sense?”
“And restraint. Because I also know that if I tried to kiss you now, you’d kill me.” Stopping an arm’s length away, he popped the grape into his mouth, and triumphed when she laughed. “Don’t pretend that I’m the only fool in these quarters, Captain. My father’s cabin spat in the face of love and companionship. Yours invites it in. And he certainly didn’t keep a pair of lovebirds.”
“This cabin merely invites my own comfort. The birds remind me of the difference between caged and free—and that cage might free me, one day.” She tilted her head and studied his features, her gaze caressing his face like the flat side of a razor. “Do you love me, Archimedes?”
He couldn’t have mistaken the calculation in her eyes. If he loved her, she was already deciding how to use that emotion against him. God, what a woman. Never accepting defeat, and using any means necessary to win.
When he did fall in love with her, he’d fall painfully hard. It would be as inevitable as death . . . but he hadn’t yet dug his grave.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’ll need encouragement first.”
“Encouragement from me?” She laughed when he nodded. “Then we’re both safe—and you should be relieved. Two men have said they loved me. You’ve probably heard stories of what happened to them.”
He had. One gutted, the other stripped naked and hung from her ship, his ass bared to his own city when she’d flown into the Castilian port. “Loving you would be worth it.”
Her laugh seemed to catch on a bitter note. Perhaps some man had said those words to her before?
Perhaps they hadn’t.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to prove that he meant it. “Our hour is almost past. I need the sketch.”
“I don’t have it aboard—”
“Use the key around your waist.” He regretted the hardening in her eyes, but it couldn’t be helped. “These were my father’s quarters—and my sister reminded me of the hideaway behind the wardrobe.”
Archimedes preferred to forget the hideaway behind the wardrobe. Their father had used it to hide them away whenever they’d spoken out of turn—or simply spoken.
“Goddammit.” She turned toward the wardrobe with a growl of frustration. Her fingers dipped beneath the sash at her waist, withdrew the silver key. “You and your sister. Wily foxes, the both of you. You chose your name well.”
“It was a toss between that and the equally apt ‘Archimedes Stallion.’ But Zenobia won.”
“Yet she still calls you Wolfram.”
“To her, Archimedes Fox is a character, or a disguise I wear.”
“And you? Do you still think of yourself as Wolfram?”
“Only when I’ve done something foolish or I’m about to die.”
“And who are you now?”
“The man who plans to fall in love with you.”
“Wolfram, then.”
“No,” he said, and the gravity in his voice must have surprised her. She paused, looked back at him. “With you, I am always Archimedes.”
Her lips parted, but she didn’t immediately respond—perhaps she couldn’t decide how to respond. Her gaze searched his features for a long moment.
“Archimedes Fox,” she mused. The corners of her mouth tilted gently. “With balls of iron and a silver tongue. I admire both in a man.”
His heart almost stopped. Then it began to race, his body tensing—his instincts screaming at him to flee. Captain Corsair would never soften so easily. He was in trouble.
“You’re dangerously close to encouragement,” he warned her.
“I forgot to mention your thick head.”
She reached beneath the wardrobe, pulled on some hidden lever, and stepped back. The large cabinet swung open like a door, revealing the small keyhole in the bulkhead behind it.
“My father always had to shove the wardrobe aside.” And then shove it back into place until he was ready to let them out.
“And the scratches in the boards gave away the location,” she said. “So I improved it. I can move the wardrobe from inside the hideaway, too, so that no one can trap me within.”
Archimedes couldn’t respond.
“There were scratches inside, too.” She didn’t glance back at him as she inserted the key. “All around the lock and in a few places on the walls. Tally marks, as if counting off days. And the name Geraldine, written beneath a bawdy little poem.”
Their father had beaten her for that. “She’s always been a writer.”
“And what have you always been?”
“Lucky.”
“So it would seem. You are not still in there, after all.”
“Oh, he always let us out in time for the sermon on Sunday. In truth, that was crueler than leaving us inside.”
“After hearing a few of those sermons, I have to agree.” She opened the panels and stepped inside the shadowed closet. For a moment, Archimedes wondered whether to worry that she’d stowed weapons inside—but of course she had. And it hardly mattered, because she’d been armed the entire time.
When she emerged, he immediately recognized the converted glider in her hands. His glider, transformed into a reinforced satchel that he’d designed to carry delicate paper artifacts. “You didn’t open it?”
“Of course not. Only a look through the glass as we left Venice, and again when Ginger created the forgery. I have not even smoked in my quarters since I’ve had it aboard.”
Oh, his captain was simply amazing. “I could kiss you.”
“I’ll bare my ass for your lips later.”
He laughed and took the contraption, not bothering to hide the shaking of his hands—excitement and relief, a powerful combination. He flicked open the satchel’s cover and the familiar pain lodged near his heart, the incredible sensation of beholding something beyond price, beyond beauty. How could she not kill him for this?
Intending to ask her, he glanced up, but the words caught in his throat, his voice arrested by her expression. Lips softly parted and eyes bright, her face echoed his emotions as she looked at the sketch, but with something more: longing. Then she blinked, and the familiar hardness appeared. Her gaze met his.
“Why?” he asked hoarsely.
Though he’d only managed to speak part of the question, she understood him perfectly.
“For the same reason you don’t seek revenge. Just as throwing you overboard was completely justified by your stupid attempt to take
my ship, so is your desire to reclaim this sketch. It is yours— and I’ve been a thief, but I prefer to steal only when necessary. And then there is this.” She rolled her sleeve back over the bracelet. “Remove it now, please.”
“Of course.” He set the glider contraption aside. Her fingers were warm and callused, the skin of her inner wrist smooth, her nails strong and curved like claws. He rotated the first copper segment. “You’ll follow me to the Ivory Market?”
“Yes. And when our business is settled, perhaps we’ll make time for something more.”
Her voice was low, throaty. His heart began to pound. Carefully, he turned the next segment. A brief touch against the side of his neck almost made him jump.
The fingers of her right hand slid along his jaw. Her slow smile exposed sharp teeth. “Careful, Mr. Fox. I’d hate to be poisoned.”
Sweat dampened his heated skin. His blood raced. “Only one more segment.”
Her hand drifted across his shoulder, down his left arm. He twisted the copper once . . . then again. The bracelet clicked.
Yasmeen stiffened. Anger and disbelief flashed over her expression, followed by terror. “You fucking bast—”
Her eyes rolled back. He caught her when she dropped.
“Opium,” he said urgently against her ear, hoping she was still conscious enough to understand. “Not poison. Never poison for you.”
Her head lolled forward, her muscles went lax. Copper glinted as an object fell from her right hand and thunked against the boards.
Archimedes stared at it in astonishment. Another slave bracelet—larger than the one still around her wrist. Good God. When had she palmed it? Only a few seconds ago, she’d been running her fingers over his skin.
He’d known he was in trouble. He hadn’t realized just how close she’d come to turning the tables on him.
Thankfully, the opium had acted more quickly this time. He’d expected to dive into the hideaway until the drug had taken her down, but apparently even Captain Corsair didn’t have much resistance against a second dose. Was it too much?
No. Her breathing and pulse were both strong. She simply needed to sleep it off. He glanced at the bed but immediately recognized the folly of it. She might forgive him the trickery, but she wouldn’t if any of her crew came in and saw her drugged in bed, fully dressed.
She also wouldn’t forgive him if he stripped her naked.
Damn it all. He looked to the hideaway—and hoped she could forgive him this, too.
He didn’t risk the food, no matter how tempting. And if, during the ride down to the docks on the cargo platform, he entertained the fantasy of wearing only a slave bracelet in Yasmeen’s bed and feeding her tender morsels on command, at least none of the crew could discern his thoughts.
That probably wasn’t what she’d had in mind for him. Ah, well. She’d be after him soon enough, and he looked forward to the chase.
With the satchel strapped to his back, he hopped off the platform to the dock. Though the night was in the wee hours, there were still a few handfuls of sailors and aviators about, most of them staggering. The only person not in motion was a robed figure at the west end of the docks—
Oh, Christ save him. Archimedes almost stumbled over his own feet when his heart burst into a rapid pace and his gut urged him to run, then forced himself to continue walking as if nothing were amiss.
Cold sweat gathered along his spine. A man with a taste for danger, he embraced the sweet excitement and challenge of it, but even standing a hundred yards from that woman was nothing like the delicious thrill of being next to Yasmeen. With the captain, there always existed the hope of success.
If the woman at the end of the docks spotted him, there would be no hope at all.
Archimedes walked almost forty yards before casually turning toward the wooden crates stacked along the boarded walk. They’d hid him well before, and they could do the same now. He hunkered down next to a sailor passed out and his clothes soaked in urine—if he was lucky, his own.
Breathing through his mouth, Archimedes forced a crate forward a few inches and created a narrow opening through which he could watch the woman. Judging by the angle of her body, she didn’t appear to be looking his way, though he couldn’t be certain. From this distance, he couldn’t even be certain that she was Temür Agha’s assassin—but the rebel’s personal guard had stood exactly as this woman did now: quiet and watchful, as if nothing escaped her notice.
Hopefully, Archimedes had.
Minutes passed. The awkward crouch cramped the muscles in his thighs, but he’d sat through worse for longer. The woman didn’t move. What was she looking at? Perhaps the harbor itself, studying the boats and airships. He glanced back at Lady Corsair. Like the other airships, her balloon shone like a pearl in the moonlight, and the deck lamps emitted a soft glow.
Or perhaps the woman was simply watching the aerial acrobats.
He saw them now, swooping their gliders around The Grecian Queen. Two of the four broke their arrow formation and spiraled upward, before dipping back around the Queen in a long, looping dive. Late for practice, but some of the troupes that traveled the North Sea guarded new maneuvers as carefully as state secrets, to build anticipation for their shows.
As skilled as they were, these acrobats would be nothing compared to some of the spectacles the woman saw in Temür Agha’s court.
He looked toward the west end of the docks. She wasn’t there. His heart seized, but he didn’t dare poke his head up over the crates. He waited, stiff with tension. Footsteps approached on the boards. Not the assassin. He wouldn’t hear her.
A sailor swaggered into view, with a satisfied puff to his chest that told Archimedes he’d spent time in the bawdyhouse or a serving girl’s bed.
Archimedes cleared his throat as the sailor passed. “Do you see a woman in a black djellaba? A Musulman’s robe,” he clarified when the sailor simply looked at him.
Recognition lit the man’s eyes. “I saw her. A pretty little raven. She turned onto the north dock.”
Away from them. Thank God. Archimedes tossed the sailor a gold sous and took off at a run.
That silver-tongued bastard.
Blissed and spinning, Yasmeen kicked out four times before her foot connected with the wardrobe lever. She felt total shit: cotton-mouthed, feverish as hell, her lungs aching. She didn’t trust her legs to stand. Opium had never affected her like this before—and it wasn’t the first time she’d taken two darts in less than an hour. But her head wouldn’t clear. Her eyes burned. She smelled smoke.
Smoke?
“Captain?”
The voice echoed in her head. Yasmeen struggled to her knees, fell against the hideaway doors. They slid open, vomiting her onto the cabin floor. The pattern on the rug beneath her cheek blurred. The edges of her vision narrowed, darkened.
“Captain! You have to come!”
Strong hands grabbed her wrists. Wool burned across her back, and Yasmeen recognized Ginger, blood dripping from a gash on her forehead, cheeks wet with tears.
Dragging her toward the door . . . because there’d been smoke.
Oh, Lady. No.
Viciously, Yasmeen bit her own tongue. Blood flooded her mouth. Clarity flooded her mind. She pushed her feet under her. Ginger hauled her up.
“I’m up.” And steady enough. “To the bell, girl. Wake the crew!”
The girl shook her head, more tears spilling. Her tunic was soaked in blood, Yasmeen realized. Too much to only come from the cut on her head. “They’re dead, Captain. They’re all dead.”
“What? How?” Had the boiler exploded? Without waiting for an answer, she raced for the corridor. Her feet slipped just outside her cabin door. Her hands slapped against the bulkhead, and she caught herself before—
Oh, God. Sarah. Thema. The two girls lay in the passageway, throats slit.
Yasmeen stared, horror and disbelief filling her stomach with bile. Behind her, Ginger’s chest heaved on a wretched sob.
Hardening herself against the sight, the sound, Yasmeen drew her pistols. “Who did it?”
“I didn’t see. I ran to your quarters. They hit me coming through.”
They. Yasmeen stopped breathing and listened. No steps. No sounds but a deep crackling. “Are they still here?”
“I don’t think so. I closed the ladders to the lower decks, Captain, and cut off the air. But she’s burning down below.”
Burning. The word slashed across Yasmeen’s heart, but she forced herself not to feel it. “Take a glider, Ginger. Go to Vesuvius. Tell Mad Machen everything you know.”
“But—”
Yasmeen turned, looked at the girl.
Ginger’s mouth snapped closed, and she nodded. “Yes, Captain.”
By the time the girl unhooked the glider from the bulkhead, Yasmeen had searched the remaining cabins on the deck. Not one of her aviators had been caught in bed. Though some were in their smallclothes, each had daggers in their hands or guns at their sides.
They were all dead.
The iron covers over the hatchways to the lower decks blazed hot as a stove. She’d have risked a burn to save her crew, but she didn’t dare open them. The rush of air would blow any fire into a conflagration and kill anyone left alive. The only hope for Lady Corsair’s crew was to drown her.
She met Ginger at the ladder leading topside. Yasmeen climbed to the weather deck first, but it was impossible to shield the girl from the carnage. Steeling herself, Yasmeen moved carefully through the bodies to the tether line anchoring the airship to the dock. She hauled back the capstan’s lever. Her lady gave a great shudder as the machine began to wind the tether cable, dragging her down to the water.
Ginger came up out the hatchway and unfolded the glider. “Are you coming, Captain?”
Yasmeen didn’t know. “Go, Ginger. Now.”
The girl ran for the side and jumped. A heated updraft lifted her, and the glider wobbled, but she quickly gained control.
One made it off alive, then. It could never be enough.
Yasmeen turned back to her crew. Anger and desolation followed her around the deck. Pegg, blond hair matted with blood. Pegg the Mister, his staring eyes fixed in his wife’s direction. Bebé Laverne, who’d once saved the entire crew with a derringer she’d hidden between her ample ass cheeks. Rousseau.
Heart of Steel Page 8
