“They’re both at your disposal.”
“That’s much better. Ah, so is this.” She accepted a foaming pint from the barmaid. “Thank you, Mr. Fox. Now, then. What brings you here?”
“You brought me here. I remembered tales of Captain Corsair and tavern brawls.”
She laughed into her glass, lowered it. “You’ve heard those?”
“After you shot my father, I listened for any news of you.” He lifted his drink to her. “I ought to have bought you one thirteen years ago.”
In truth, he ought to have just killed the old man himself, but he’d still had some vision of proving him wrong. Now, he knew: If a job needed doing, then best just to get it done.
“I was glad to oblige. I’ve never had ambition of being roasted alive.”
“So you had ambition of being bloodied and drunk in tavern brawls. Such honorable pursuits, Captain.”
“Quite honorable.” As if to prove it, she took another drink. Her tongue swiped the foam from her upper lip, and she used the tip of her middle finger to catch the bit left at the corners of her mouth. “I’d made a name for myself in the New World, but I couldn’t get a job in Port Fallow. I offered to go into England—this was still when the Horde’s tower was up, controlling everyone infected by the right nanoagents, and no one else dared to fly in. I lowered my rates to a pittance. But the only offer I got was from a sailor, for that sort of work.”
With a lift of her chin, she indicated the woman who’d just climbed off the boy and was sidling up between twin brothers.
“The offer came with a grab to my tits, so I broke his arms. Then his mates decided to show me that I was nothing but a whore.” Brimming with amusement, her gaze met his again. “I was the only one left standing—and afterward, I picked up a job from someone who’d seen the fight. So I fought until I made a name for myself again. I suppose that was around the same time you were making a name for yourself, too.”
A new name. “Mine came later. About six months after you gutted Bloody Bartholomew.”
“Ah, Bart.” Eyes narrowing, she reached into her red sash and withdrew her cigarillo case. “You had a partner, too, didn’t you? Besson, Barson—”
“Bilson.”
“Yes. And he’s dead?”
“So the story goes.”
“I see—” She broke off, frowned. The expression disappeared in a blink. Without opening the silver case, she slipped it back into her sash. “In truth, he ran from Temür Agha.”
“Yes. He stayed for a while. After the first assassin came, though . . .” Archimedes shook his head. “Last I heard, he took an airship to the heart of the northern American continent and leased a farm from one of the native confederacies.”
“You never thought of doing the same?”
“Staying in one place? I’d be better off dead.”
She nodded. “And so it is with me, too. I also feared that without an airship, I’d have more trouble. But you get around well enough without one.”
“I’m an outstanding example,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Only two months after the Iron Duke threw you off the Terror near England, you were making an enemy of Temür Agha in Morocco. Getting around quite well, and making an outstanding example, indeed.”
Her eyes shone with laughter, another invitation to join in, and he did easily. A crash near the bar silenced them both, their hands dropping to their weapons. Only the twins, wrestling over who’d be the first to have a go. He turned again to Yasmeen, who was watching the fight, her fingers tapping against her glass.
“I would bet on one, but there is not even a scar for difference.”
If she bet on one, Archimedes would put a coin on the other. “We could call them the red shirt and the blue.”
“If they end this fight without the both of them losing their shirts, it’s not worth the wager.” She looked to him. “And what did you think of Ivy’s submersible?”
“Astonishingly brilliant.” He’d seen submersibles before, but none so nimble. “Did she build it for you?”
With her drink to her lips, she nodded.
And that was perhaps even more astonishing. “How is it that you are friends with Mad Machen, Scarsdale, and the Iron Duke?” The Terror’s surgeon, navigator, and captain. “As you said, you’d barely made a name for yourself here by the time Trahaearn blew up the Horde’s tower in London. Yet you seem to know a good number of men who were aboard his ship.”
“You’ve heard that story, too.”
“No.” He was certain.
“Yes. You just haven’t heard all of it.” She angled toward him in her chair, hooking her arm over the back. “It was Bart. So dangerous and handsome. Older, with silver at his temples and scars in all the right places, and tales of when he’d sailed his own mercenary ship. I was twenty years old, and couldn’t have fallen faster if I’d jumped from my lady.”
“In love with him.” Not so innocent, but still young.
“Oh, yes. That wasn’t all, of course. He knew Europe, knew the locations of the Horde outposts. He taught me well and took only a reasonable percentage. Soon enough, I let him move into my cabin. I got pregnant.” Her eyes glittered. “I told him.”
She reached for her sash again. Archimedes pulled out his cigarillo case first, flipping it open. She selected one, holding it to her lips while he lit the end.
“Thank you.” Her exhalation of smoke sounded like a grateful sigh. “I hadn’t planned on a baby, but I liked the thought well enough. I’d raise her on my lady, free to go wherever we wished. Bart, however, decided that he’d rather just have my ship. We went to bed the night I told him, celebrating. As soon as I was asleep he stabbed me through the belly.”
Christ. “So you gutted him.”
“And then some. I don’t often lose control, but . . .” She shrugged. “I had reason. I didn’t have a surgeon aboard my lady, though. I wasn’t healing well and fever was setting in. After two days, I took a risk and hailed the nearest ship.”
“The Terror?” A hell of a risk.
“Yes. Mad Machen cut me open, sewed me up, and kept me aboard for two weeks. Afterward, when the Iron Duke asked me to scout the coast ahead for them, I did. It’s still the only job I’ve ever done for free.”
“And so your heart of steel was born.”
She snorted. “No. I was still young. More wary, but not wary enough yet—and Bloody Bartholomew wasn’t the only man who has wanted my ship.”
And damn them all. “The comte, too?”
“No. By that time, I’d learned. But he didn’t want my ship, he wanted adventure. He paid for passage to Egypt, the Hapsburg Wall, the ruins of Greece. And he was charming, handsome, rich.”
“Nothing at all like me, thank God.” Archimedes couldn’t claim to be rich.
Her laugh was warm and low. “Not as entertaining, at least. But fun. I took him to my bed.”
“Yet you strung him up?”
“He pinched my ass.”
“A bedding usually involves a hell of a lot more than that.” Done well, at least. “I never took you for a prude.”
“He did it in front of my crew.” The humor left her face. “I could have an orgy in my cabin and my crew wouldn’t care. But if I allow a man to pinch my ass while I’m treading my lady’s decks, there’s no reason the crew couldn’t, either.”
A severe punishment for the offense, however—unless that offense wasn’t accidental. “Did the comte know?”
“I warned him. He’d made comments before, innuendos that I told him would undermine my authority. But his pride couldn’t accept that I ranked above him on my ship, that I was master and commander. He had to show my crew that I was under him, in some manner.” She suddenly shifted to the side as a mug flew past her head, shattering against the wall—half the tavern had joined in with the brothers. “And that was the end of my association with the comte.”
“Rich, handsome, charming. As is Scarsdale.”
Sharp amusement curved her
mouth. “Yes, he is. Would you like to hear that I recently spent three weeks in his bed?”
No, he wouldn’t. Not out of jealousy that she’d gone to Scarsdale’s bed—though he felt the swift pain of that—but the jealousy that Yasmeen had gone to Scarsdale when she’d been hurt. After hearing Ivy mention shattered legs that morning, he knew there was more to this story than she suggested.
“Recovering?” At her nod, he asked, “Do you love him?”
“Yes.”
And more pain sliced near his heart. God. Was he so far along already? This was more unsettling—more terrifying—than he’d expected. “Yet you hand him over to my sister.”
“If she’s truly a practical woman, it would be a good match. She couldn’t ask for a more dedicated companion.”
Yet Scarsdale would never love Zenobia as she deserved, because he was pining for the heart of another.
But, no. The amusement in Yasmeen’s eyes didn’t match that of a woman who was longing for an impossible love.
“He’s your friend,” Archimedes realized.
Now a full smile shaped her lips. “Yes. We did try the bed once. But we were both laughing so hard by the middle that we couldn’t make it to the end.”
He couldn’t imagine. Laughing with her, yes. Not being able to finish? What kind of man would look at her, touch her, and not be...
“Ah,” he said. “He’s a—”
Archimedes cut himself off before disaster struck.
Her brows lifted. “A what?”
He knew many words for men who swived other men, but not a single one that wouldn’t insult the man she loved. “A friend.”
She offered him an appreciative nod. “You’re a clever man, Mr. Fox.”
“I thought I was. But although I believed that I was taking clever advantage of your drunkenness to discover so much about you, I’m coming to realize that nothing you’ve said has been anything you didn’t intend to say. And I wonder why.”
She hesitated. The sounds of the brawl intruded, a nearby table collapsing beneath the weight of tussling men, but he didn’t think that was why she waited. She was gathering herself.
Finally, she said, “After I swam to Vesuvius, I spent those first three weeks in bed. The next weeks, I spent writing letters and talking to solicitors. I had money in trust for my crew, you remember. A significant amount.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve used it often. When an eye is lost, a leg, a hand—I’ll pay for the replacement or give them a retirement. A true retirement. With the amount I gave, combined with what they earned on my ship, they wouldn’t need to work again. And those who died in service to my lady . . . my crew made a prince’s wages, but dead, their families lived like kings. I didn’t expect to pay it all out at once, however.”
Twenty-five crew members and a king’s sum to the families of each. “So it’s all gone.”
“Yes. But it shouldn’t have mattered.”
Because of the strongbox. God.
She must have seen the realization in his face. “Yes. And if I correctly interpreted a few things that your sister said while we were in London, I believe we are in the same situation, Mr. Fox—though yours not as dire.”
It was true. “I haven’t had a significant find in some time.”
A laugh slipped from her. “No?”
“No. Enough for room, board, a few extras.” He lifted his cigarillo case as an example, then understood why she was laughing. He had made a significant find. “And the sketch, of course.”
“Yes, the sketch. Though now there are two sketches of interest to us: the forgery, because whoever possesses that must have taken it from my lady and killed my crew. And the original, because whoever has it stole a significant sum from us both—and stole your freedom from Temür Agha. So I’m proposing an arrangement between us.”
“To find the sketches.”
“Yes. You know people. I know other people. Between the both of us, we will hear word of at least one sketch. Perhaps we’ll be lucky and find the original and the forgery in one person’s hand.” She sat back. “The arrangement I propose is to share information and retrieve the sketches together. No trickery. No slave bracelets.”
“And not much money.” Not that it mattered. If she hadn’t proposed this, he would have.
“No. Do you find that a significant obstacle, Mr. Fox?”
“It never has been before.”
Satisfaction and determination set her expression like stone. “Good. I have a few items to sell. They won’t amount to much, however, so I doubt we’ll be buying information. Your charm and my blades will have to do.”
Fascinating. She was friend to the richest man in London, yet relied on her blade? “You won’t borrow it from the Iron Duke?”
“A debt has more weight than the coin that pays it,” she said. “I don’t like to owe anyone. Especially friends. Why do you not borrow from your sister?”
“Oh, no. I’ve heard that story before: To support the needs of her wastrel brother, a sister shackles herself to a leering, dissolute rake who beats her every night and brings diseases home from a whorehouse every morning.” He shook a clenched fist. “I vow I will starve and throw myself at my own leering rake before I subject Zenobia to that.”
Laughing so hard that tears formed in her eyes, almost a minute passed before Yasmeen caught her breath. She wiped her cheeks. “You’re the most absurd romantic. She’d leave you to rot first.”
“That’s true enough.” Both statements were. “So do we have an agreement, then?”
All trace of laughter faded. “As long as we both understand: We are partners. I will not give you orders, and even if I take you to my bed, you will do nothing to undermine me or assume superiority. If you betray me, I will gut you.”
If I take you to my bed. This was one of the finest moments of his life. “I understand.”
“You don’t have anything to add? No stipulations of your own? Warnings?”
“I’ve already given warning that I intend to fall in love with you.”
Her gaze hardened. “The time for games is past, Mr. Fox.”
“It’s not a game.” He matched the gravity of her tone. “Not for lack of trying, I’ve never been in love. I desperately want to be. And I’ve come to realize that you’ve been in my thoughts so long, you’re the only one for me.”
“I won’t encourage you.”
“It’s too late for that. You encourage me with the way you blow the smoke from between your teeth when you’re frustrated. You encourage me with every quick thought and irritated glance. The flick of your eyelashes, the fullness of your lips.” He let his gaze slip over her features, worshiping each one. “Your sneer.”
Her lips smashed together, and she seemed to fight another laugh before finally relaxing into a smile. “Very well. Fall in love with me, if you like. But don’t expect me to do the same.”
“I don’t.”
“All right, then.” She leaned forward, green eyes locked on his. “Shall we seal our agreement in blood?”
“I’ve already promised you my heart.”
“Not our blood.” She tossed a glance to the next table, where a tangle of men beat each other senseless. At the bar, a whore had her legs locked around a sailor’s thick neck and her hands over his eyes while a female aviator pummeled his stomach. The other end of the tavern was a mass of shouting and punching, tables tipping and glass breaking. “Theirs. And we’ll see how well we watch each other’s backs.”
Archimedes grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. Far quicker than he, she was already across the room before he stood—and he took a few seconds to watch Yasmeen’s very delectable back before a burly woman picked up a chair to swing at it. With a whoop, he dove in.
His head throbbed again, but not with drink—and instead of Yasmeen’s knife at his throat, her arm supported his waist. She hadn’t stopped laughing since pulling him up from the tavern floor and half-carrying him out to the docks. Her arms were warm and
strong, and Archimedes thought that he’d let himself be coshed over the head more often.
Which might, he realized, be the sort of thought only a coshed brain would have.
Her feet slid on the icy boards. Archimedes braced his own, caught her against him, his arm hooked around her waist. Heaven. Swearing, she steadied herself and lifted her hand, signaling for a steamcoach idling near a cabstand. As soon as it began puttering toward them, she looked up into his face. Her fingers touched his forehead and came away with a bit of blood.
She shook her head. “I yelled a warning that she was behind you.”
He’d heard, he’d looked. “She winked at me.”
“Idiot,” she said, with no real bite to it. “Barmaids live to smash brawlers over their heads and steal their purses. You’re lucky she only got away with your waistcoat.”
He sighed. “My favorite, too.”
“I like the blue best.”
“Then it’s not such a loss, after all.”
They both backed up a few steps as the rattling coach slid to a stop next to them. Yasmeen called the direction of his boardinghouse up to the driver. Then to the docks, where she’d row out to Vesuvius? Archimedes didn’t ask, didn’t dare presume. He opened the carriage door, and though she rolled her eyes when he held out his hand, her fingers folded over his as she climbed aboard.
He’d barely seated himself before she climbed aboard him.
His breathing stopped. She straddled his legs, the inner muscles of her thighs taut. His hands caught her waist. The coach lurched into motion. She fell against him and he felt the press of her breasts into his chest, the play of her fingers through the back of his hair. In the dark, he couldn’t see her expression, but there was no mistaking the warm purr in her voice when she said, “Perhaps we ought to seal our agreement in another way, Mr. Fox.”
A devil’s choice. Archimedes clenched his teeth against the answer his body demanded him to give. She was still drunk. This would just be a fuck—for her. He wanted more.
But he didn’t want to reject her. Her pride was an enormous thing, and even his tongue might not be able to soothe this wound.
Heart of Steel Page 12
