by Archer, Zoe
He scowled at how easily she dismissed the idea of her own death. “On your own, trekking in a heavy explosive and then sneaking through their defenses is impossible.”
“I’ll find a way—”
“You won’t. You’re a damned good spy, Lulu, but you can’t do this. Not alone.”
Hell. He shouldn’t have called her that. Her pet name, a name she had permitted only him to use in their most private moments. He’d started calling her Lulu as a jest because it didn’t suit her in any way—a girl’s name, coy and precious—and then it stuck, in the strange backward logic of intimacy.
Intimacy that had been lost. Because of her.
Her eyes widened at his use of her pet name. But this was quickly replaced by anger. “Don’t question my ability to carry out this mission. The Admiralty sent me for a reason.”
She had a point, damn it.
“If this mission is so critical,” he said, “I’m coming with you.”
“Absolutely not.” She knotted her hands into fists. “Whatever you think of me, I’d never want you hurt.”
Covert operative she might be, yet there was no hiding the sincerity in her eyes, or the rasp of her voice.
“If I said no, if I set you down here,” he waved toward the twilight-steeped mountains, “would you continue on with the mission?”
“Of course,” she answered immediately. “This mission is imperative.”
“Then I’m accompanying you.”
“Kit, no.” She stepped around the table and clasped his wrist. This touch alone sent a wave of longing through him, so potent he nearly groaned aloud. All this time, all this hurt, and he wanted her still.
He pulled away. “Unless you’ve been promoted, I’m the highest-ranking officer on this ship. The decision as to where she flies is mine.”
They stared at one another. Both he and Louisa had wills stronger than steel. Neither would bend. He could only wonder which of them would break first.
HE PUT IT to the crew. The final decision was his, but if the mission’s outcome meant certain death, he could not discount their opinion.
Crewmen now crowded the top deck, and those who either could not fit or could not be spared from their duties listened in via the shipboard communication system.
Full night had almost fallen, but they couldn’t risk being spotted below, so the sodium lights remained unlit. The crew formed a large, shadowy mass as they listened to Christopher, standing in front of the pilot house, explain precisely what the mission would entail. Louisa remained off to the side, near an auxiliary ether tank, watching him as much as the crew’s response. She wore a spare coat against the chill, provided by the steward, but it seemed to swallow her with its size. She looked far younger, far more fragile, than he knew her to be.
“There may be survivors,” Christopher said, pitching his voice so it could be heard above the wind and turbine. “There may not. We can’t count on it. All we can rely upon is that we have a chance to do a great good for our country. A chance to end this war quickly. If it means the sacrifice of my life to ensure the lives of thousands of others, I’ll do so, and gladly.”
No one amongst the crew spoke, not a murmur, not even a cough. Every man remained motionless, quiet as the depths of the ocean.
“It’s a high price, one’s life. And one that not everyone is prepared to pay. We all of us sign on to the Navy knowing we face danger, knowing that every time we say farewell to those on the shore, it may be the last time we ever see them. But there is the possibility of death, and then there is the assured truth of it. I’m asking each of you to step toward that future with your eyes open.”
Though darkness had settled over the ship, his enhanced vision enabled him to see the faces of his crew, men young and old, orphans and those with family in abundance, as they contemplated what he proposed. Fear, acceptance, eagerness—he saw all of this, and felt it, too, emanating from the decks below. One hundred fifty souls, each of them his responsibility.
“Now is the time for you to decide—will you give everything for your country? Will you ensure the safety of your families, and the generations to come? Or is the cost too dear?”
More silence, until a young midshipman asked, “If it is, sir, what then?”
Some troubled muttering followed from others in the crew.
“If it is,” Christopher said, and the muttering died at once, “then the Demeter will put you ashore here. You’ll have to find your own way home, and I cannot guarantee you won’t fall into enemy hands, but you’ll be relying on yourself, not me, to make your choices.”
Shocked sounds from the crew, and Louisa covered her mouth, but he still caught her soft gasp of surprise.
“Ain’t that desertion?” someone else asked. “Sayin’ we do make it back home, we’d be court-martialed. Hanged, maybe, or thrown in prison.”
“Anyone who opts to leave will carry with them a letter from me, absolving them from charges of desertion or mutiny. Whether the court will take such evidence into consideration, I can’t say, but I’ll do what I can to minimize the repercussions.”
Another wave of muttering rose up. The master at arms stood ready, should anyone turn raucous, but the crew only debated amongst itself.
Christopher glanced at Louisa. She stared at him, arms clasped around herself. Her hair blown into wild disarray by the wind, in her oversized coat, she was an unknown in this realm of airships. It had been his world these past years, a world entirely separate from her, save for the memories that wrapped in thick abundance around his heart. They were wholly discrete, the Demeter and Louisa, for he wasn’t the same man with one that he had been with the other.
Here she was, however. Watching him with wide, attentive eyes as he tasked his crew to either abandon ship or proceed on a mission that might cost them their lives.
As the captain, and a Man O’ War, he could never abandon his ship. They were bound together until the breath left his body and he was nothing but cold flesh and metal.
Louisa was walking—flying—toward her own death. The thought made his insides curl and shudder. And filled him with a bitter irony. She had exploded back into his life with only days left in hers.
He must keep his attention fixed on the mission. Only think of attaining his objective. He’d been living from commission to commission these past years. Now must be no different.
“Those who wish to leave,” he said, breaking through the crew’s debate, “step forward now. If you’re below, come topside. This will be your one chance to turn back. After this moment, we push on and help end this war.”
He waited.
Aside from the wind, complete silence blanketed the ship. Not a crewman moved. His acute hearing strained to listen for any crew moving up from belowdecks. Machinery clanged, and someone adjusted a valve on an ether tube. Other than this, there was no motion, no sound.
A minute passed, and then another. No one stepped forward. Some even took a step back, as if to distance themselves from the possibility of abandoning the ship.
Pride swelled within him, and he let them see it in his face. “Good men. The crew of the Demeter has bollocks of steel. No one can argue otherwise.”
“That’s the truth of it, Captain,” someone shouted.
“We make it back to Portsmouth, I’m buying a round for everyone at The Cormorant.”
“Even me, sir?” asked a boy, second class, a lad no older than fifteen.
“You’ll get lemonade. With a shot of whiskey.”
The boy grinned, and a cheer went up, even from the men below. He felt their determination resonate through the planks and metal, stronger than the engine or the metal grafted to his skin.
“To your posts,” Christopher said.
As the crew dispersed, Louisa drifted toward him. Her movements were purposeful yet lithe, that unique combination that only she seemed to embody. He held himself still as she neared.
She stood close so that only he could hear her. “That was . . .” She
inhaled. “Remarkable.”
“My crew knows its duty to its country.”
“It’s you they’re loyal to. No one wants to let you down.” She lowered her gaze, staring at the brass buckles that ran down the front of his coat. “A terrible thing, disappointing you.”
His jaw tightened. “I expect only what I know someone is capable of.”
“Or what you want them to be.”
“They have a choice.”
“Why?” She looked up at him, and his greedy gaze took in the contours of her face, the line of her jaw, the curve of her mouth. She was not, in the strictest sense of the word, beautiful, her face more handsome than pretty, yet whenever he looked upon her, his heart clanged to a stop. “Why would you give them that choice? Other captains wouldn’t concern themselves with the thoughts and feelings of their crew.”
“This ship isn’t a democracy. I command it. But I can’t drag these men toward death without allowing them to make their own decisions. And this way, having given them the choice, they’ll perform to their utmost.”
“You were always an extraordinary man.”
He glanced at his shoulder. “The implants make me extraordinary.”
She smiled faintly. “You didn’t have the implants when I agreed to dance with you.”
Reminding him of that long ago night acted as an electrical shock, jolting him to awareness. Of the future, and the past. Of regrets and things that would never happen.
“Go below.” He turned away. “Temperature drops fast on deck after dark. You see most of the men have beards—it’s to keep their faces warm.”
“Yet you’re clean-shaven. Or were, earlier today.”
He scratched at his jaw, bristles already coming in. “Don’t feel the cold as much. The implants keep me warm.” Bodily, at any rate.
Despite his command to head belowdecks, she moved past him to stand at the rail. She made a straight, slim figure, silhouetted against the darker mountains.
“Careful.” He moved quickly to stand beside her. “The rail’s a dangerous place on an airship. One strong gust of wind and you could be thrown overboard.”
Despite his warning, she gripped the rail. “So it’s not just a plunge in cold water I have to fear.”
“You can swim, but you can’t fly.”
Hardly any lights flickered below, and those that did were tiny, isolated. Above stretched the dark blue bowl of night, stars as bright as wishes.
Yet his awareness was only of her, the pale shape of her hands upon the railing, and the dark tendrils of hair that blew across her cheeks.
He felt as though the tempest itself stood beside him at the rail—unpredictable, devastating. When no shelter was available in a storm, you had to just ride it out.
“At night,” she said, “it’s difficult to tell how far up we are.”
He did not take his gaze from her or the line of her profile. “Even I wouldn’t survive the fall.”
Chapter Four
THE EVENING MEAL at the captain’s table was a tense one. Difficult enough with the ship limping toward a place of relative safety so they could complete repairs. Their pace was slower than usual as the ship cruised low, close to the mountains so they could stay as unseen as possible. No one was much in the mood for pleasantries or storytelling, aware at all times that if an enemy airship should cross their path, the Demeter wouldn’t be able to truly defend herself.
Having Louisa at Christopher’s table, however, made dinner even more strained.
He tried to keep his attention fixed on the excellent roast partridge and potatoes set before him. Duffy the cook prided himself on setting a fine table for the officers. But the food tasted like pasteboard and coal dust. Over and over, his mind repeated, She’s here. She’s sitting at my table.
Hardly anyone spoke as they ate.
Until, at last, Pullman broke the silence. “How long have you been behind enemy lines, Miss Shaw?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the specifics.” From the corner of his eye, Christopher saw Louisa offer the first mate an apologetic smile. “Suffice it to say that I’ve spoken more English today than I have for months.”
She’d always had a gift for language. Her mother, he recalled, was Italian Argentine, though he’d never met the woman. Louisa had grown up speaking English, Spanish, and Italian. Yet those were only three of the many tongues she knew.
His hands tightened around his cutlery as he remembered all the wicked things she used to whisper in his ear late at night. Even when he didn’t know the language itself, he’d known its intent.
“Shall I fetch you another knife and fork, sir?” asked Vale, the steward.
Glancing down, Christopher realized that he’d bent the cutlery into twisted shapes. Damned strength. He needed to keep aware of it at all times, especially now.
He felt Louisa’s shocked gaze on him, and his face heated. The other officers at the table also stared. As well they should. Always he’d been careful with what the Navy termed his amplified potential—or what he called his bloody great strength—keeping himself firmly restrained so no one was accidentally hurt. His losing control was a sight none of his crew had yet witnessed.
Simply having her aboard his ship was a threat. But the mission took precedence over his own wellbeing.
“I’ve got it.” He wasn’t interested in performing like a circus attraction, so he held the knife just underneath the table and straightened it out. The same service followed for the fork.
Another awkward silence descended as everyone resumed eating. The only sounds came from the hum of the engines, the footfalls of crewmen, and the clink of knives against plates.
Louisa took a sip of wine. She made a small hum of appreciation. “This wine is excellent. Grüner Veltliner?”
“One of the spoils taken from a Hapsburg dreadnought. We’d engaged them in the skies above Luxembourg.” Young Lieutenant Brown beamed proudly. “Captain Redmond gave ’em a drubbing even their grandbabies wouldn’t forget.”
“Did he, now?” A smile warmed her voice.
“Aye, ma’am. Didn’t look too good for us at the beginning. Dreadnoughts are damned—I mean extremely—big. Far bigger than a destroyer like the Demeter. But the captain, he wouldn’t back down. Got us to fly under the Hun ship, and we softened up the hull. When they were limping, he led the boarding party himself. Faced off against their captain. It made quite a sight, I can tell you. Man O’ War against Man O’ War.” He whistled. “Like one of them battles in a Greek myth.”
“Mr. Brown,” Christopher growled. “Miss Shaw only asked about the wine. She doesn’t want to be bored by your prattle.”
The lieutenant reddened, turning his chastened gaze to the table. “Beg pardon, sir.”
“I found Lieutenant Brown’s recounting of the battle fascinating,” Louisa said. “By the time I learn the details of most engagements, they’ve been whittled down to the driest, most bureaucratic language imaginable. Naval dispatches don’t attempt to compete with serialized novels.” She glanced around the table. “I don’t suppose anyone on board has a serialized novel I might borrow? My reading material has been sorely lacking since I’ve been undercover.”
Immediately, several officers offered the use of their personal libraries. Taking a drink of wine, Christopher fought the urge to roll his eyes. Having a woman onboard, especially an attractive one like Louisa, could turn the most battle-hardened sailor into a babbling boy.
In his case, her presence turned him into an angry, snarling beast—not the man, or commanding officer, he wanted to be.
“What of you, Chris—Captain Redmond?” she asked. Her fingers curved over the top of her wine glass. “Have you any books I might borrow?”
“Planning on doing much reading, Miss Shaw?”
“Only if I need help sleeping.”
An unfortunate picture of her in his bed sprang into his mind. She’d never needed much sleep, and had kept him busy into the early hours of the morning.
/> “There’s nothing on my bookshelves that would appeal to you.”
She raised her brows. “I didn’t know that your telumium implants gave you the ability to read minds. How else might you know what stories I want to hear or what books might interest me?”
The men seated around the table stared back and forth between Christopher and Louisa, fascinated by this exchange.
Bloody hell. He needed to control himself.
“You’re welcome to any book, of course.” He reached for a platter of more roasted partridge and dished several servings onto his plate. “Except my personal log. That I keep under lock and key.”
“Never tell a spy something is locked away.” She smiled. “We treat it as a dare.”
God—how he wanted to smile back.
Instead, he returned his attention to his food. Louisa and the other officers chatted politely about mutual acquaintances in the Navy, and at her urging, Dr. Singh, the ship’s surgeon, recounted the plot of a popular clockwork melodrama that had lately played at the Gaiety Theater in London. She laughed at all the comic parts and slapped the table approvingly when the villain of the piece was apprehended. By the time the dessert of pears poached in brandy had arrived, Christopher felt ready to combust.
So many damned memories. And the longing . . .
He dragged in a breath. This was unacceptable. He was a grown man and the captain of an airship. More important, he was the captain of an airship deep behind enemy lines. He needed to master this, for the sake of the mission. And his own sanity.
When the plates had been cleared, he cleared his throat and stood. “Miss Shaw, grab your coat. I want you to join me topside.”
She raised her brows. “Why?”
Right. He needed an explanation. “Your fieldwork in the area can fill in gaps in our charts.”
“Is that an order, Captain Redmond?”
“Please,” he said belatedly.
The officers assembled around the table all gazed at her, seemingly eager for her response. And when she rose, every man got to his feet. “Five minutes,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”
