by Archer, Zoe
The faint pop pop of artillery caught his attention. The sound came from the village. He ought to steer clear of that . . . except why would there be ground military action out here? He’d received no reports of it. Damned strange.
“Some of ours, sir?” asked Tydings, the bosun.
“There haven’t been ground battles this deep in enemy territory.”
“Maybe a local skirmish.”
He hadn’t heard anything about internal conflicts, but this was isolated terrain, and it was always possible that native factions were engaged in their own disputes. Disputes that, judging by the sound of it, involved dozens of armed troops.
“If it is some conflict between local factions, we’d best stay well away from it.”
“Sound plan, sir.”
“Glad you agree, Mr. Tydings.”
The bosun reddened.
Christopher was about to adjust the ship’s course when something gleamed in the village. A shimmering, like light bounced off a mirror. When the glinting happened again, he knew it was not simply sunshine bouncing across a window. It repeated itself. A flash. Another flash, longer this time, and then another. A pattern. Coming from the second story of a barn at the edge of the village.
His senses sharpened further.
“That’s code, sir,” Tydings said.
“Aye.” Someone was signaling—using code belonging to British Naval Intelligence. “A distress call.” He made another change to the ship’s bearing, steering toward the village.
Whoever was down there, they were allies and needed help. As dire as the Demeter’s situation might be, as her captain he was honor-bound to come to the unknown British agent’s aid.
He cursed when he saw ground cannons being pulled toward the barn. Once the heavy guns were in position, the British agent would either have to surrender or be blasted into pulp and powder.
“Prepare a jolly boat for landing,” Christopher commanded. “I’ll need Royal Marines with good aim for the landing party.”
“You mean to lead the party yourself, sir?”
“If the man down there is Naval Intelligence, he’ll want to speak with the captain directly. Don’t worry, Mr. Tydings. Anything happens to me, there’s enough power left in the ship’s batteries and ether in the tank to get you the three hundred miles to the northern border of Greece.”
The bosun saluted and moved to follow the order. As the marines assembled, Christopher handed the wheel back to the helmsman.
“Keep us circling, Mr. Dawes. The local army hasn’t spotted us yet, and that’s how I’d like to keep it.” Christopher checked to make sure his rifle was loaded with both ammunition and ether. He tucked an ether pistol into his belt.
Properly armed, he made his way belowdecks. The Demeter followed similar configurations of other airships, with charging panels built into many of the bulkheads. They hummed as he passed, generating power from his proximity. Insulated cables ran from the panels, which lead to a central battery deeper in the ship. The ship’s engines drew their power from this battery.
After passing the orlop deck, Christopher reached the hold, where seven marines waited beside the jolly boat. The small metal craft had no oarlocks or sail. Instead, an ether tank was mounted on the center bench, and a small turbine was bolted to the stern, with a tiller attached to the turbine. A swivel gun was mounted in the prow of the boat.
At Christopher’s nod, the marines clambered into the jolly boat, and he did the same, taking up position at the tiller. Sitting on the benches, everyone fastened leather straps around their waists and buckled themselves in securely.
“We’re going to make a quick extraction,” Christopher said, “and then get the hell out of there.”
Once he was certain they were all well strapped in, he nodded at Dawes, standing beside a tall lever. “Now, Mr. Dawes.”
The first mate pulled the lever. The cargo gates opened and the jolly boat plunged downward in freefall.
Christopher had long since grown used to the fall, but two of the marines looked ashen, their lips white, as the jolly boat hurtled toward the ground. He waited until the landing craft had cleared the hull of the ship before throwing the valve that activated the ether tank.
With a jerk, the boat stopped its plummet. It hovered for a moment over the trees until he turned on the turbine. The jolly boat hummed as it surged forward under his guidance.
He steered toward the village, and cursed when, looking over the side of the boat, he saw two dozen uniformed troops surrounding a two-story wooden barn at the outskirts—the origin of the coded signal. Someone on the small second floor of the barn shot back at the soldiers.
As Christopher searched for a place to land, he was careful to keep out of sight of the troops. A wooded ridge stood some quarter mile from the barn. An ideal spot for a concealed landing.
He guided the jolly boat to the ridge, between the trees, then brought the boat down.
“You five,” he said, pointing at the marines, “with me. Farnley, Josephson, you stay with the boat. When I signal, bring her to the barn. Farnley will steer as Josephson uses the swivel gun to soften up the enemy during your approach.”
“What about the cannon, sir?” asked Josephson.
“We’ll just have to get out before they’re rolled into position.” Lucky that the troops didn’t have any draft horses or tetrol-powered engines to pull the heavy guns, or else the timeline would get damned abbreviated.
Knowing that they hadn’t much time, he led the marines down the ridge, all of them careful to keep their steps quiet. As they neared the barn, sounds of gunfire grew louder as did shouts in Romanian—a language Christopher couldn’t speak, but he knew what Surrender or die sounded like in any tongue. The man in the barn continued to shoot, making plain his feelings on those options.
The troops had formed a ring surrounding the barn, and none of them saw Christopher or the marines creep out of the woods. Their attention remained fixed on the cornered British agent. Christopher led his men toward an eight-man section of the encircling enemy soldiers.
Silently, Christopher signaled to the marines to wait for his command. As some of the enemy soldiers paused to reload their weapons, giving him the opening he needed, he gave the signal. They rushed forward.
Christopher sprang, pushing away from the ground in a powerful leap. The troops barely had time to turn around before Christopher descended on them. They stared with wide eyes as he dropped down from an impossible height. He swung out with the butt of his rifle, the force of the blow knocking back two soldiers. They flew back ten feet and sprawled, unconscious, in the dirt.
Man O’ Wars seldom fought on solid ground, but when they did the results were always devastating. It was one of the many reasons why they had been created. They were unrivaled weapons who also happened to be men.
Though the marines didn’t have implants like his, they were highly trained. They brought down the closest enemy troops, creating enough of an opening in the cordon to rush toward the barn. One soldier lunged to bayonet a marine. A bullet pierced the would-be attacker’s chest, and he fell. The shot had come from the man in the barn. Whoever the British agent was, he had damned steady nerves and remarkable aim.
Christopher and the others sprinted toward the barn, fighting off the enemy as they ran. The nearest wall had no door, and dashing around the barn looking for an entrance gave the enemy far too many chances to shoot them.
So Christopher ducked his head and, shoulder-first, rammed through the wall. Planks shattered around him. The barn itself shuddered from the impact but stayed upright.
He barreled ahead, allowing the marines to follow through the hole he’d made. Two of the marines fanned out, quickly setting up a perimeter. The other three entered the barn behind him, then they too joined the perimeter and fired back at the enemy. One covered the hole in the barn Christopher had just made.
He surveyed the barn. A set of stairs led to the second floor. He heard the footfalls of the British
agent above. Whoever he was, he did the intelligent thing by taking a higher firing position. The footsteps were lighter than Christopher expected. Perhaps the agent was a young man, or of slight build.
A pair of feet appeared at the top of the stairs. They wore a woman’s buttoned boots, scuffed from use.
The agent walked cautiously down the steps.
Christopher’s gaze traveled from the hay-dusted hem of her skirt, up past the slim curve of her waist and the hands that held a rifle.
He cursed.
A pointed chin. Wide-set hazel eyes framed with dark lashes. Dark brown hair tumbled over a high forehead. He knew exactly what that hair felt like, its sandalwood fragrance as it spread across his pillow, remembered how pain had lanced him when the scent faded. And the sharp stab he felt now was born of pure, unadulterated shock.
“Hello, Christopher,” Louisa said.
Chapter Two
LOUISA SHAW STARED at the man she once knew as well as her own heartbeat. It had been three years since she’d seen him. Her last glimpse of him had been as he’d sprawled in bed, asleep. She’d taken one final look—he would have awakened if she’d tried to kiss him—and had slipped noiselessly out of his flat. Out of his life. Forever. Or so she’d thought.
His transformation startled her. Word had reached her that he’d become a Man O’ War. She’d met other men who’d undergone the transformation. But none of those men had ever been her lover. None of them had touched her body—or her heart—intimately.
Christopher had been a lanky man. Long legs, long arms. A body more lean than bulky. She used to amuse herself by tracing her fingers along the shapes of his ribs until he could no longer hold back his laughter. Never would she have anticipated a decorated naval captain to be ticklish.
He was bigger now, thicker with muscle. His wide shoulders filled the blue wool of his coat, and his thighs pulled tight against his breeches. God, he’d even gotten taller. She had to tilt her head back further to look him in the eye. The size of him, the strength that radiated from him—judging by the crash and the splinters of wood on his coat, he’d just run through a heavy wooden wall—she could hardly believe he was the same man.
His face hadn’t changed, though. Still had the same aquamarine eyes, the same angular jaw, the reddish blond hair, now cut very short. The same mouth she remembered kissing for hours. When Christopher smiled, his grin was enormous, dazzling. Now, his lips pressed thin as he looked at her.
She would deal with his hatred later. Right now, she needed to survive this firefight and complete her mission.
The marines that accompanied him were already spread out around the barn, defending their location. Gaps showed in the old structure’s walls, just the right size for a rifle’s barrel. The report of their guns filled the barn with noise and smoke.
“The Admiralty never told me you were out here.” His voice held the same low, gravelly rasp; only when he spoke now, his words were taut. Certainly not flirtatious remarks or husky murmurs of seduction.
“Operatives’ missions aren’t divulged. Especially when their mission entails going undercover.”
“Just what was your mission?”
She nodded toward the opening he’d ripped in the barn wall. “We need to get out of here.”
“I’m not going to risk your life by running that gauntlet without a plan.” He paced through the barn, gaze alert and assessing. “There’s a way to get you safely out of here. I just need to find it.”
“Command wouldn’t send me into the field unless I could handle myself.”
“They might be comfortable putting your life on the line.” He peered through a gap in the wooden wall. “I’m not.”
“You aren’t in charge of my mission. The decision isn’t yours to make.”
He prowled toward her. She fought the impulse to back up. It’s still him, she reminded herself. No matter what kind of metal has been implanted in his body. No matter if he has the strength of three men or has the means of powering an airship.
Granted, even the Christopher she had known probably wasn’t very fond of her.
I made a decision. It’s over and done. All that remains is surviving. Moving forward.
“Tell me about this covert mission.”
Though enemy troops ringed the barn, with gunfire everywhere and heavy guns being rolled into position, speaking with him proved to be the most unsettling thing of all. She told herself it was simply because his presence here was unexpected, as was the alteration in his appearance, but she knew all these cloaked the real reason behind her disquiet.
“I’d been undercover for months, getting close to a rumored splinter faction within the Hapsburg regime. There are those within who want this war and bloodshed finished, even at the cost of their country’s victory. Finally, I received word that a contact would meet me here and give me vital information. So I came to rendezvous with him. And that’s when we learned we had been betrayed.”
“Where is he?”
She nodded toward a corner of the barn. Christopher swore when he saw the bullet-riddled body sprawled in the hay.
“The troops showed up just after he gave me the intelligence. Surrender isn’t an option, so I tried to fight them off as long as I could.” She held up her pistol. “Thought I was going to have to save one bullet for myself. Then I saw the British airship. A damned lucky break, I thought. It was my best chance of getting out alive.” What she hadn’t known was that Christopher was the ship’s pilot. And power source. Perhaps it hadn’t been as lucky as she’d first surmised.
His expression darkened. “You don’t need to save a bullet for yourself. I’ll get you out of here.” He moved to the improvised doorway, edging away the marine guarding it, and pulled a snub-nosed gun from inside his coat. Instead of firing the gun at the surrounding enemy troops, he discharged it into the air. A streak of light shot from the barrel. “Our escape route will be here in a moment.”
He was only doing his duty. He’d come to her aid without knowing who she was. Their history had nothing to do with his present actions. Yet she was grateful, all the same. It was a cold, rueful gratitude, but there.
“Enemy’s field guns are in position, sir,” one of the marines said. “They’re sighting us in.”
Louisa’s stomach clenched. They didn’t have much time.
A humming sound followed by the rapid pop of artillery snared her attention. It didn’t sound like the enemy’s guns. She darted around him and took up a position by the hole in the wall.
“Appears our ferry has arrived,” she murmured when Christopher joined her. He stood at her back, peering over her shoulder. This close, she felt the tremendous heat radiating from him, and caught the scent of hot metal. Evidence of how much he’d altered.
A jolly boat flew over the treetops. At the prow of the boat, a marine manned a swivel gun, firing it at the enemy. Christopher used his rifle to take down two soldiers, and the boat altered its course, steering closer to where he’d taken his shots. Unable to advance further, the boat landed just beyond the tree line, with the enemy forming an obstacle between the small vessel and the barn. Half of the troops turned their attention toward the jolly boat. The marine piloting the boat quickly took up his rifle and held off soldiers advancing toward the small vessel.
The distinct clank of cannons being made ready rang out.
“We’re cutting a path to the jolly boat,” Christopher said to Louisa and the marines. “That outbuilding”—he pointed to a small stone structure that stood midway between the barn and the tree line—“will block some of the troop movements. The enemy will be closing in on us, so we’ve got to be lively.”
A huge boom sounded. Louisa crouched as the barn shook. Shattered wood rained down.
Rising up from her defensive stance, she saw a huge hole in the ceiling. Through that hole, she noted that half of the second story was gone.
“Fall out,” Christopher called to the marines.
They did as he commanded, one
of the marines taking point as Christopher ushered her and the others through the improvised doorway. With his warm hand at her back, Louisa ran full out toward the waiting boat, firing her pistol at the blocking troops as she sprinted. Her peripheral vision caught glimpses of Christopher shooting at the enemy with astonishing speed.
She and the others fired as they ran. As Christopher had planned, the small outbuilding kept the troops from fully closing around them. The gunner in the jolly boat provided assistance. With bullets whining all around her, taking bites out of the earth as they narrowly missed, she kept all her attention focused on holding back the enemy. It wasn’t the first time she’d been fired upon, and it would not be the last. She hoped.
They held off the soldiers just enough to slip through the barricade. She followed Christopher as he sped through, aware at all times of the enemy’s nearness. The boat was just ahead. Almost there.
The line of soldiers closed behind them. She ran at top speed, Christopher right beside her. He could run faster. She knew it. Yet he was deliberately slowing his pace to stay with her.
Moments before they reached the waiting boat, two enemy soldiers rushed out from the nearby woods. A marine shot one down, but the other was faster and reached Christopher.
Before Louisa could react, he planted his fist in the soldier’s jaw. The man soared back as if a battering ram, not a man’s fist, had hit him.
Suddenly the ground disappeared under her feet, and a band of iron wrapped around her waist. Then she was bodily thrown into the boat as if she weighed no more than a grenade.
Only for a moment did she allow herself to lie in the bottom of the vessel, steadying her spinning head. As she did, Christopher appeared at the edge of the boat.
“Get up,” he snapped, “and get yourself strapped in.”
She scrambled upright and sat on one of the benches and secured the harness. As she fastened the buckle, his hands brushed hers out of the way to finish the job.
