by Archer, Zoe
“This can’t be a big enough bomb.” It was a metal box nearly the same size as a cannon shell for one of his four-inch guns, covered by a lace of wires and tubes. A clock face had been welded to one side of the box, with wires connecting it to the device. “Looks too damned small.”
“Never underestimate the small things.” She stood and stretched, bracing her hands against the small of her back and arching. A series of small pops traveled up the length of her spine. She sighed, and when she caught him staring at her outthrust breasts, she chuckled.
“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice a husky murmur.
He dragged his gaze up to her face. His brain had slowed to a cruising speed. “For what?”
She patted the bomb. “Let’s put this chemistry of ours to the test.”
CREWMEN GATHERED AT the starboard rail of the ship. Those that couldn’t make it topside pressed against the starboard portholes. Still, there wasn’t room enough for everyone, and so news was being relayed from man to man as new developments occurred. Right now, they were silent as Louisa made final adjustments to her bomb.
Those who could see what she was doing whispered to one another. Christopher didn’t need his heightened hearing to catch what the crew said.
“Ain’t possible for that puny thing to do no decent damage on a ground target.”
“What’s she going to blow up with it? A dollhouse?”
Christopher kept his concerns to himself. By the hard set of her mouth, he could tell Louisa felt the pressure of hope and expectation. Everyone needed the bomb to work, for the sake of the mission. Adding his voice to the chorus of doubt served no purpose. He merely watched and offered his silent support.
Turning to Pullman, he asked, “The ship’s in proper working order?”
“Aye, sir.” The first mate’s gaze moved over the deck, assessing. “Told the men we needed the repairs done on the double. They’re raising the anchor, too.”
He glanced toward where a crewman turned on a tetrol-powered crane to hoist anchor. The machine started with a high whine, and heat rippled out from the engine’s exhaust pipe. Steadily, the anchor went up.
“Give the crew my commendation, Mr. Pullman. And an extra ration of rum with dinner.”
“Aye, sir!”
Testing the bomb had several risks. The bomb itself could fail, or be unstable. It could detonate at the wrong time. And if it did explode, the concussion would give away the Demeter’s position to any Hapsburg ships possibly nearby. If they attracted the attention of the enemy, they’d need to make a fast escape, or else be prepared for a battle.
Christopher didn’t like the prospect of fleeing, but he needed his ship at her fullest capability and strength. A skirmish with an enemy airship was simply too risky.
He waited, hands clasped behind his back, as Louisa completed her adjustments. At last, she straightened, holding the bomb in her arms.
“We’re ready,” she said.
At Christopher’s nod, the master at arms shouted, “Make way!”
Crewmen stepped back, forming a path for her as she approached the starboard rail. She’d chosen the starboard side rather than port side because the mountains were tallest on the starboard, and could absorb the sound better.
She balanced it on the rail, then adjusted the dial on the clock. Christopher saw now that it was a timer, and she had set it for fifteen seconds.
“On my count,” Louisa said.
Everyone, Christopher included, held their breath. He, too, waited at the rail.
“Three, two, one. Now!”
She dropped the bomb over the side and immediately pulled out a stopwatch.
The bomb fell, fell. Crewmen with spyglasses followed the downward progress of the bomb. Christopher didn’t need a spyglass and did not lose sight of the small object as it grew even smaller in its descent.
Louisa glanced at her stopwatch, then shouted, “Brace yourselves!”
The bomb exploded.
No one, not even Christopher, expected the size of the blast. It billowed out in a huge, fiery sphere. Astonished swears and shouts rose up from the crew as the airship rocked from the force of the explosion. Had the bomb been on the deck of the ship when it had detonated, the mountains would be littered with the crew and pieces of the Demeter.
Silence followed. And then cheers from the crew.
A throng formed around her as men pushed in to shake her hand. Smiling, she accepted their acclaim with bright-eyed satisfaction.
One bold soul, a very young midshipman, moved to kiss her cheek. He took one look at Christopher and settled for a handshake before scurrying away.
“Alright, men,” Christopher shouted above the din, “let’s not linger and give the Huns something to shoot at.”
A chorus of “Aye, Cap’n” followed before the crew dispersed. As men hastened to their stations, Christopher stepped close to Louisa. She stared up at him as he bent down and brushed a kiss on her cheek.
“Well done, Lulu,” he murmured.
The pleasure in her gaze burned brighter, and her already wind-pinkened skin turned a deeper rosy hue. “Couldn’t have done it without you, Kit.”
Men shouted to one another as the ship made ready to fly. The Demeter gave a single, hard shudder when the turbine roared to life. By slow degrees, the ship moved forward, gaining speed as she flew. Mountains unrolled below, including the site of the explosives test.
At Christopher’s direction, the ship was guided up and over the mountain. Once on the other side, it sank lower, using the mountain for concealment.
And none too soon. Just before the Demeter dipped into the shadows, Christopher spotted the prow of a ship. He recognized the gryphon figurehead. It belonged to the Hapsburg ship Kühnheit. And it headed in their direction.
“The enemy,” he muttered. “Investigating the explosion, no doubt.”
Louisa glanced at him, only the slightest tension in her shoulders betraying her unease.
The Demeter slipped lower over the mountain. He lost sight of the Hapsburg ship.
He turned to the helmsman. “Keep her steady and low. Let’s pray the Huns haven’t seen us. We need to play the shy maiden for a while.”
“Stay hidden, sir,” answered Dawes. “Aye, sir.”
The order to remain silent was quietly given to the crew over the shipboard auditory device. Stillness fell heavily, a marked contrast to the cheers from earlier.
Christopher stayed at the rail, Louisa beside him, as the ship skimmed along the side of the mountains. With the rocky peaks forming a barrier, there was no way to know if the enemy spotted them. He kept his hearing attuned to the sound of an approaching airship—difficult to do with the Demeter’s own engines growling and the whistle of the wind. The warning might come too late.
For several tense minutes, the ship flew on, trying to put as much distance as possible between her and the site of the bomb test.
Only after half an hour had passed with no sounds of pursuit did Christopher relax. “Resume normal duties,” he instructed over the audio.
The ship seemed to sigh with relief.
“You’d need a Sheffield razor for a closer shave,” Louisa murmured.
He smiled slightly, and though he had to maintain vigilance, she helped unhook the gaffs of edgy restlessness dug into his heart. “Had a Sheffield razor, given to me by a pretty woman. A shame that a wily, bomb-making spy stole it from me.”
“Requisitioned it,” she corrected.
“Tell yourself whatever fictions you need, but we both know you’ve got sticky fingers.”
“Sticky as treacle.”
Late afternoon light gilded the deck of the ship. It caught in Louisa’s tumbling curls and along the curve of her cheek, sweeping over the straight lines of her shoulders. A few high clouds seemed to catch fire, spreading wisps of flame across the sky.
Louisa on the top deck of his airship as the day reached its burning conclusion: Many times over the years, he’d tormented himself
with this very image. It had been everything he’d ever wanted, and everything he had abjured. Now, with the ship far behind enemy lines, she was truly there. Reality was far more complex than any of his imaginings.
LOUISA HAD ONLY dined at the captain’s table once—the day before. Yet her absence felt like half the lamps in the room had been extinguished.
“Is Miss Shaw not joining us, sir?” asked Lieutenant Brown. Disappointment was writ plainly on his face.
Christopher stared at the place that had been set for her, wishing she was there, as well. “She’s the only person on this ship who can build the three bombs we need. The task may take her all night.”
“If she had an assistant or two, sir, the work might go faster.”
“Already been offered, Lieutenant. She told me, and I quote, ‘I have neither the time nor the patience to school a bunch of ham-fisted sailors on the delicate, dangerous work of timed explosives.’ When I was more insistent that she have help in her work, Miss Shaw told me that the Demeter was my ship, and if I wanted to blow her up, that was my decision.”
“A woman confident in her skills,” Pullman said with a smile.
“After this afternoon, no one can doubt her.” Christopher waved the steward over. “Has Miss Shaw eaten?”
“Mr. Duffy sent Fitzroy down with a tray to the magazine, sir,” Vale answered. “The boy said she took a bite or two. Had her head down most of the time, and told Fitzroy to leave the tray. I can check to see if she’s eaten more.”
“I’ll do it.” Christopher rose from the table. He waved the men back down when they moved to stand.
“Very conscientious, sir.” Dr. Singh smiled over the rim of his wine glass. “Seeing after Miss Shaw’s health. I may lose my post.”
The other officers chuckled.
“And I may have you thrown in the brig for insubordination, Doctor.” But Christopher grinned as he said this, and he strode from the officers’ mess.
En route to the magazine, he stopped in to talk with the navigator. “Miss Shaw gave you the coordinates?”
“Aye, sir. She felt that this chain here”—Herbert pointed to a line of mountains on the chart spread in front of him—“would be the most likely spot for the weapons plant, and that’s where we’re headed. But it’s a big chain, sir, and isolating the one mountain is going to prove a challenge.”
“We’ll navigate that channel when we come to it. Good night, Mr. Herbert.”
“ ’Night, sir.”
He found Louisa just as he expected: hunched over the table, meticulously assembling small pieces of metal. Night had fallen, so the pale green glow of quartz lamps provided illumination as she worked. Open flames from gas lamps posed too much of a danger to the massive amounts of gunpowder stored within the room.
“Come to check on your one-woman munitions plant, Christopher?” she asked without looking up.
“How’d you know it was me and not someone else in the crew?”
“No one else on the ship walks as you do. There’s more weight and purpose in your tread. As though you’re needed somewhere. Which, I imagine, you are.” She offered a shrug, still immersed in her work. “Everyone’s got a particular cadence to their stride. Listen close enough and you’ll hear it. Mr. Tydings favors his right leg. An old wound, I’d wager. And your Master at Arms stomps around as if he were in a bad temper, but when he thinks no one’s around, he walks lighter.”
She missed nothing, his Louisa.
Strange that it didn’t burn like acid to think of her that way.
“My own acute powers of observation detect that you’ve barely touched your meal.” The tray of food sat on a crate, and he nudged it with his hand.
“No time to eat. If we reach the munitions plant tomorrow, the bombs need to be ready.”
“And if you get too hungry, your energy will flag, your concentration will falter, and you might make a mistake.” He grabbed the tray and carried it to her. “You have to eat something.”
She finally looked up. The quartz light painted her face in unearthly radiance, yet fatigue ringed pale shadows beneath her eyes.
“An order, Captain?”
“A friendly request. One that I strongly suggest you follow.” He held the tray toward her. When she opened her mouth to object, he added, “I’m not leaving this magazine until you’ve at least finished the soup and bread. Duffy was very proud of the soup.”
She heaved a sigh but took the tray from him. With no room left on the table, she balanced the tray on her knees. He straddled the other chair, his arms braced across the back, and watched her.
She fixed him with an irritated look. “You really mean to nanny me through my supper?”
“It’s your own stubbornness that impels me to do this. Now, eat.”
“No wonder command comes so easily to you,” she muttered. “Never met a man so convinced of his own primacy.”
“And I’ve never met a woman so determined to work herself to exhaustion.”
After giving him another scowl, she took a sip of soup. Her face brightened. “It’s delicious. Coulis de Volaille, dit à la Reine.”
“Mr. Duffy would weep with joy that you know the name of his soup.”
Between hasty spoonfuls, she said, “Part of my training. Disguises.”
He remembered. She had to be able to blend in anywhere, under any circumstances, from the tables of the elite to the meanest taverns.
“I’d still be able to recognize you,” he said, “no matter how you obscured yourself.”
“None of my intended targets knows me as well as you do.”
His gaze strayed to her mouth. He could never forget her taste, nor the feel of her lips against his. Desire roared to full wakefulness. To take her hair down and run his hands through the dark cascade. To nuzzle against the juncture of her neck and shoulders, inhale her warm, sweet fragrance. To feel the taut softness of her calves, her legs, and to take his hands higher . . .
“Don’t.” There was something almost desperate in her voice. “I can’t . . . think about that now. I need all my wits, and you’ve a way of stealing them. Especially when you look at me like that.”
He tore his gaze away. The effort not to touch her made his hands ache.
To distract himself, he studied the progress of her work. Two cannon shells sat on the table, as well as the components for assembling another bomb—a morass of wires, gears, and bits of metal. Telumium shavings glinted within an enameled cup.
“These are for harvesting more gunpowder.” He tapped one of the cannon shells.
“That’s actually one of the bombs. I’m housing them within empty shells. Unscrew the top, and you’ll see.”
He did so. Inside the shell was a complex network of wires surrounding a metal box, with another clock face surmounting the device. He raised his brows. “Ingenious.”
A quick flare of gratification shone in her eyes before she suppressed it behind a façade of professional disinterest. “Makes them easier and more discreet to transport. No one in the munitions plant will have cause to wonder why we’re strolling about with cannon shells.”
He replaced the top of the shell. “You’ve thought of everything. When it comes to using subterfuge, I haven’t got your talent.”
“A stand-up fight and full steam ahead.” She smiled. “Explains why you’re such a good ship’s captain.”
He shrugged off her praise. “I do what I’m supposed to.”
“This isn’t the first ship I’ve ever been on.” She pointed at him with her spoon. “I’ve seen many captains in action. Some are good at commanding but have little concern for the men themselves. Ships run by fear or intimidation. Some captains are too anxious to be liked, and there’s no discipline. Everything falls apart.”
“Captain Gregg and Captain Villiers. Those were two captains I sailed with when I was a young seaman. Gregg was a right bastard. Caned and birched us boys at the slightest perceived offense. Still have a few scars.”
“I’v
e seen them,” she said quietly.
Despite the unpleasant memories, heat coursed through him, remembering her hiss of sympathy the first time she’d seen the light web of scars on his back, and how she’d gently traced her fingers over the raised flesh. Her touch had turned sensuous, and they’d tangled together in the already knotted sheets.
He forced both recollections from his mind. “Villiers was a great one for telling a story or making the crew laugh, but when we found ourselves caught between the French and Brazilian navies, no one knew what to do, least of all him. If it hadn’t been for the first mate, we wouldn’t have made it out alive.”
“There, you see? You are a good captain. Not everyone is able. You’ve just proven my point.”
“And you haven’t finished your soup.”
“Though you’re rather overbearing.” She returned to her meal, however.
In short order, she not only ate her soup and bread, but the stewed venison, glazed carrots, and gooseberry fool, along with a glass of Burgundy.
She dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin. “Hadn’t realized how hungry I was.”
“And now you’re in the pink of health.” The shadows beneath her eyes had lessened, and a bloom of color crested her cheeks. “You can’t complain now about me being high handed.”
“The only thing worse than the pronouncements of an overbearing man is proving him correct.” Still, she gave him a quick smile. “Thank you. For . . .” Her gaze skittered away. “ . . . taking care of me.”
“My pleasure.” And it was. Seeing the color return to her face and the ebbing of her fatigue filled him with a profound satisfaction. He couldn’t pretend that he would feel the same about any guest who happened to be aboard his ship. No, it was her alone, tending to her needs, seeing her cared for, that gratified him.
You damned fool. It’s happening all over again, and you can’t stop it.
Needing distance, he stood. He plucked the tray from her lap and took several steps backward.
“Yes,” she said with a nod, “I’ve another bomb to build.”
