Heart of Steel

by Meljean Brook

  “Hurry,” she said.

  He raced to the nearest ventilation shaft, took a second to breathe, to steady his arm. The grapnel launched, hitting the ceiling of the shaft but bouncing through. Behind him, Yasmeen laughed with relief.

  “Go up!”

  He dropped his shoulder harness—no chance he’d make it through with it. He climbed, digging his toes into the wall to go more quickly. He pushed his head into the shaft, felt the sun, the breeze.

  His shoulders didn’t fit.

  He tried again, another angle this time, diagonally in the square shaft. His hands were sweating on the rope, his arms aching. Every second was another that Yasmeen was holding the door. No matter how he squeezed, his shoulders didn’t fit through.

  Chest heavy, he dropped back to the floor.

  “No,” she said. “Don’t you—No!”

  “Yes.” He braced his hands against the door beside her—Thank God—slimmer shoulders, and smashed the heel of his boot onto a hand groping along the floor. “It has to be this way. My manly physique is simply too powerful.”

  Her eyes filled. “No.”

  “Yes. Now, on three—we switch.”

  He began to count, and God, he wished he’d kissed her properly first. He wished he’d made love to her as she’d wanted. Hard, fast, angry, slow . . . it didn’t matter now.

  “Three,” he said and took her place, feeling the hammering against the wood, the reverberating growls. “Now shoot me and go.”

  Her gaze lifted to his. The tears were gone, he saw. Her eyes were clear, and hard, and cold. Her killing look, he knew—that heart of steel wrapping completely around her.

  And then she kissed him.

  Warm, firm, his mouth was everything she wanted, needed. But the zombies were growling behind him, and she couldn’t linger. She didn’t have much time, not if she wanted to save him.

  She had to save him.

  Yasmeen drew away, and saw his astonishment, his agony, his hope. It changed to flat denial as she said, “I’m coming back for you.”

  “No—”

  “Don’t you dare die,” she said. “I’m coming. And if you’re not here, you’re going to break my heart, Archimedes Fox. So hold that door.”

  She sprinted for the rope. Seconds later, she stuck her head out of the shaft, looked up. Ceres hovered above—coming to rescue them, after some fucking idiot had nearly killed them.

  Her shout was met with several from the decks. The rope ladder spilled over—out of reach, but she leapt for it, swinging above the harbor cliff.

  On the deck, she ignored everything but the man she wanted.

  “Bigor! I need your diving suit. Now, now, now!”

  With a sharp nod, the marine ran for the ladder. Yasmeen stripped off her jacket, her boots. “Captain! Bring that rope ladder right to the tower door!”

  He stiffened like she’d shoved a burning rod up his ass. “Mrs. Fox, you don’t—”

  “Some bastard on your ship fired a gun and he’s going to die down there! Give me the fucking ladder!”

  Though Guillouet shook with rage, he nodded to the mate. Good. If he hadn’t, Yasmeen would have killed him.

  Bigor returned, carrying half the suit. The two other marines carried the rest. With amazing speed, they helped her into the thick canvas, fastened and buckled the brass over her limbs. The zombies might get a bite in between the brass plates, but wouldn’t break through the canvas. The brass helmet reduced her sight to nothing, but it didn’t matter: If it moved, she was going to kill it.

  The canvas gloves were too heavy for a gun, but machetes were just fine. She gripped the handles. The suit felt like moving with chains tied to her ankles, her elbows. Bigor yanked the hose out of the top of the helmet, and fresh air came in.

  She clanked over to the rope ladder, grabbed on, and dove in. So heavy. She fell to one knee on the stone wall as she landed, and they were on her, but Archimedes was waiting. Her blades hacked and chopped. The zombies growled and moaned, and there were so many but she would not stop, she’d never stop—

  A crack sounded, the snap of wood. The tower door. Oh, by the lady—the door. She whipped around, and through the tiny, blood-streaked window of her helmet, she saw the zombies pushing against it, she saw the door shatter.

  Her heart shattered with it.

  I’m coming back for you.

  Archimedes held on to that. He held and held—the door didn’t. Wood shattered. Hands grabbed at him. He raced across the chamber, heading for the grapnel rope. His shoulders were too wide, but by God, he could hold on until she arrived.

  Boots digging into the wall, he hauled himself out of reach. He heard a sound like a muffled scream of rage and pain. Yasmeen. She’d seen the door go down.

  So he’d let her know he was still inside. His revolvers were in his holsters. Gripping the rope with one hand, Archimedes aimed, fired. God, how many were in here? Thirty or forty? He’d take a good number down, but prayed for a reload to drop out of the sky.

  Or for a woman with a brass suit and machetes. He laughed as she came through the door, mobbed by zombies but slashing them down with brutal efficiency. There was nothing elegant about her movements now, just vicious hacks of her blades that sent heads and arms thudding to the floor. The brass plates were covered in gore.

  “I love you!” he called out, then shot a zombie coming at Yasmeen from behind, and another trampling the clockwork man. He heard more shots now, too—and there were fewer new zombies racing in. The crew on the airship must have been clearing off the wall leading to the tower. He fired until he was out. Only a few zombies left in the chamber. He dropped, triggered the springs at his forearms, and hacked the blade through the zombie that came running at him. Yasmeen finished off the last.

  He heard her laugh, muffled by the helmet. The chamber floor was an inch deep in blood, deeper in twitching body parts. He wiped off the blades usually hidden in his forearm guards and pushed them back in. His shoulder harness dripped; he didn’t think about it, just slung it over his arm.

  The cargo lift waited outside. They stepped aboard, and Archimedes unbolted her helmet, lifted it off, tossed it aside. Her face was streaked with sweat—and tears? Her chest hit his with a clank, and she was laughing again when he kissed her, so deep, unable to stop until they were almost at the deck. He unbuckled the blood-streaked plates, the soaked canvas. Her breeches and shirt were clean, her calves and feet bare.

  When the lift clanked into place, they faced Captain Guillouet’s loaded gun.

  Yasmeen stilled, her hand tightening on his. Archimedes waited, then realized—she didn’t have a gun, and his revolvers were empty.

  “Mr. Bigor, please escort Mr. Fox to the wardroom, and guard him while I speak with his wife. Keep a gun on him at all times, so that she knows not to step out of place.”

  Bigor hesitated for only the briefest moment. Then he drew his weapon, aimed it at Archimedes. “Mr. Fox.”

  “If you hear any kind of commotion from Mrs. Fox, shoot him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take him below.”

  With her gaze locked on Guillouet’s gun, Yasmeen let go of his hand. As Archimedes stepped from the cargo lift to the deck, he said softly, “I’ll be coming for you.”

  Then he saw her eyes, and now he knew cold. Now he knew hard.

  “You’d better hurry,” she said.

  No commotion. Yasmeen could have disarmed Guillouet and taken him down with barely a sound, but she couldn’t halt a commotion if everyone saw her do it. So she would be patient.

  Obviously feeling bold with his pistol aimed at her face, Guillouet stepped close. “Come to my cabin, Mrs. Fox.”

  Wrapping his fist in the hair at her nape, he shoved her in front of him, tucked the gun barrel behind her ear. She walked obediently, noting the expressions of the crew around them. Vashon with jaw set and a disapproving glower, and the twin with an angrier match. Some shock. Some who wouldn’t look her way. Guilt? Uncomfortable?


  As they should be. When a man forced a woman into his cabin, it usually only meant one thing.

  “Who shot the gun?” she wondered aloud. Their quick glances and the pain lancing through her scalp told her without a word. “You, Captain?”

  “Twenty years on a ship and I have never had to shout over my own men,” he said. “And I will not talk over you. Do not speak again until I tell you to, Mrs. Fox.”

  So he’d had to shoot his gun to get the attention of his crew. What had they been arguing over? Wages? Women? Did it even matter?

  Not really. Captain Guillouet wouldn’t be a captain much longer.

  He held the gun on her as they went down the ladder. He pushed her past a staring, wide-eyed Henri.

  “Even the boy paid for his,” Yasmeen said.

  Pain exploded in the back of her head. She stumbled, and black spots danced in her vision. Her claws dug into her palms. He’d whipped her with the gun butt.

  Now, she might not even make it quick.

  He shoved her through the cabin door, locked it behind him. “Stand next to the table, Mrs. Fox, and turn around.”

  With her back to him, her hands flat on the surface. She complied, then watched him over her shoulder. “Will raping me truly make your crew behave, Captain?”

  “I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to touch you.” His hand tugged at his breeches. “But they will see you put in your proper place.”

  “My proper place?” She laughed. “And so this is why you won’t have women on the crew. You can’t stop yourself from raping them after they dared to climb out of bed.”

  “You’ve brought this on yourself.”

  “Oh, yes? Well I must say, for someone who doesn’t want to touch me, your prick seems eager.”

  “Eyes forward!” He moved in behind her, pressed the gun to her shoulder. “You’re fortunate I did not do this in front of my crew and then toss you to them!”

  She was fortunate? No. That might have saved him.

  His hand curved up her ass. Yasmeen whipped around, dropping her shoulder. His pistol fired, the bullet digging into the table, wood chips striking her cheek. Her elbow smashed into his ear.

  He staggered back. Her foot struck his hand. The gun went flying. He turned to run, and she caught him before he made another step, bringing him to his knees with her forearm locked against his throat and her hand in his hair.

  “Alive,” he wheezed. “You need me alive. Or they’ll kill him.”

  “Maybe. But I think I’ll get them first.”

  She twisted past the crack. He dropped to the floor.

  A sudden commotion of running feet sounded down the passageway. The door crashed open. Archimedes burst through, the long blades at his forearms dripping with blood, eyes wildly searching the cabin. They stopped on her.

  She arched her brows.

  His gaze dropped to Guillouet. “Goddammit. Can’t I save you just once?”

  “You’ve already saved me twice, just using your grapnel.” She lifted her gaze to the bruise forming on his cheekbone. “Who was that?”

  “Bigor.” His fingers gently traced her jaw. “He’s still alive, but tied.”

  “Good.” She’d deal with him in a bit.

  He held up his hands, showed her the bloody blades extending from his wrist guards. “And I’m sorry, I surprised and killed the other two marines while getting away. Are you all right?”

  “Just a headache. Why are you sorry?”

  “They murdered your crew.”

  Oh. She shook her head. “I don’t like killing. But I’ll do it if it needs to be done. I’m just glad it’s done.”

  He glanced down at Guillouet and sheathed his blades. “So am I. Now what?”

  “Do you want her?”

  His brows drew together. “Do I want who?”

  “The ship. Ceres. Do you want control of her?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’s mine.”

  For now. Ceres was a lady, but would never be her lady.

  Archimedes followed her as she started for the door. “All right. And then?”

  “And then . . . I’m ready to head to Rabat.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By the lady, she hated leaving Archimedes this quickly. There was much to say—but there was also now a ship to manage.

  His voice caught her in the passageway. “Yasmeen.”

  She turned, caught sight of Guillouet’s body in the cabin before the door closed. That would need to be removed, the wardroom cleaned. “Yes, Mr. Fox?”

  “I kissed you on the cargo lift. Do you need to hang me over the side of the ship?”

  Her gaze snapped to his. His emerald eyes were steady on hers, his features set with determination.

  He would let her, she realized. If it meant making certain her position was secure, he would let her strip him naked and humiliate him.

  Such a man, to let her be, to give her so much. Why had it taken her so long to see?

  She shook her head. “No. That kiss was personal, and nothing to do with rank or our relative positions. All who saw would know that.”

  “All right.” His grin held more than a hint of relief. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  But because he also needed to know, she said, “But now, there is a line, and it will end at that cabin door. When I tread her decks, I am captain. When we’re alone, we can do whatever we like.”

  “Or when we’ve just been saved from zombies.”

  “Yes.” She approached him, took his hand in hers. “And even in that cabin, I will not kiss you while we stand over a dead body. I will not kiss you when there is work that must be done. I want nothing more than to kiss you now, as I desperately need to.”

  “But you won’t.”

  “I can’t.” She sighed. “And I can’t order you to do the same, because you are not part of my crew—but I ask the same of you.”

  “You will have it.” His fingers squeezed hers. His gaze didn’t waver. “And I am not crew, but I would like to stand behind you. Not above, not below. To back you up, should ever you need it.”

  Her heart filled, and she nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fox.”

  “Always, Captain—” He paused. “Are we still married?”

  She laughed. There was no need to be; they no longer relied on al-Amazigh for their passage to Rabat. But, in truth, Yasmeen had come to enjoy it. What did it matter that these bonds were not official? She liked to bear them.

  “I think we must be,” she said. “I don’t know an institution in the world that would grant a divorce to us.”

  “True.” With a grin, he bowed over her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm before letting her go. “Then we are well and truly stuck, Captain Fox.”

  Unsurprisingly, she encountered a mix of emotions and shouted questions when she went above and called for all hands on deck. Though some were dismayed when Yasmeen succinctly laid out that she’d killed Guillouet while he attempted to rape her, she didn’t see blame. That, more than anything, gave her hope for this crew.

  For almost an hour, she fielded questions about wages. I will split between you whatever the captain held in his strongbox, minus Ceres’ costs. The purser will verify my numbers. About their destination: We will continue our expedition to Rabat, and deliver Mr. Hassan home. About taking women into the crew: I will be here, but I do not intend to stay aboard long enough to hire new crew. How long would she stay? We will return to Port Fallow, where Mr. Fox and I will depart and leave the airship in your hands.

  The last surprised them. The speculation about who would become captain then overtook the decks. Yasmeen held up her hand. When they quieted, she gave them the only advice she could: “Choose a captain who knows that he serves the ship and the crew, first. You will be taking orders from this person; choose someone that you trust will have your interests at heart, as well as his own, every time he makes a decision—even if those decisions are not what you want to hear.”

  She looked to the Vashons. He
r gut told her that one of them—or both—would be Ceres’ captain. That could be either a brilliant arrangement, or a disaster. “And if it is between the two of you, do not treat her like a whore, fighting over who will have a first go.”

  They both grinned.

  Probably a disaster. “Now, there are bodies on this ship that will be cared for and given proper send-offs, and a wardroom to clean. Aviators on watch duty, attend to your posts; all others report to the first mate for your details. In an hour, I want to see all mates and masters in the wardroom with their ledgers. Heave around, then.”

  They broke up and headed to their posts, a few muttering . . . but fewer than she expected. Not a bad crew at all.

  She didn’t know what the hell Guillouet had gotten so wrong with them.

  She was incredible. Archimedes watched Yasmeen take over the ship, and by mid-afternoon, all was running smoothly. Even Engels the bitter navigator deferred to her command as they plotted the course to Rabat. She hadn’t yet fired the engines, however. They still hovered over the Brindisi harbor as most of the crew went to the mess, and Yasmeen asked the Vashons to bring Bigor up on deck.

  Hands bound behind his back, his nose broken from Archimedes’ fist, clothes askew, the marine no longer appeared buttoned up and straightened out, but still held his shoulders back, head high.

  The Vashons pushed him to his knees near the cargo lift, and he kneeled, his expression flat—not resisting, not trying to escape, which made Archimedes wonder whether his sanity had broken or his pride was indestructible.

  “Clear the decks, please,” Yasmeen said.

  The crew still on watch didn’t hesitate. Archimedes wasn’t crew—and he wouldn’t leave her alone with the marine, anyway. He stood behind her, ready to back her up if needed.

  When the last aviator had descended the ladder, she said, “Mr. Bigor. You understand that this has nothing to do with your following Captain Guillouet’s orders today.”

  He gave a sharp nod.

  “If you did not board Lady Corsair two months ago, slaughter my crew, and steal my gold, please say so now.”