by Archer, Zoe
A minute passed. Then another. He heard the lap of water over rocks, the whirr of the jolly boat’s small turbine, and faintly, the hum of the Demeter’s engines. Nothing else.
“It’s secure,” he said. “But no complacency, lads.”
“Aye, sir,” the marines answered.
Louisa had already unfastened her harness, and nimbly jumped over the side of the boat. Christopher handed the tiller to Farnley, then did the same. He trailed after her as she approached the river, his ether pistol in his hand and ready, his gaze continually sweeping the forest.
She crouched beside the moving water and studied it. A mosaic of pebbles lined the bed, and green river grass grew in patches. “Clear as glass. But that means nothing. Some of the deadliest poisons can’t be seen, and there are chemicals that occur in such trace amounts that they are invisible without the aid of a microscope.”
“Didn’t bring my microscope,” Christopher said, “though Dr. Singh might have one.” Which would necessitate another trip back to the ship, slowing their progress.
“No need for such delicate equipment.” To his surprise, she unfastened the first four buttons of her blouse, revealing the top of a plain cotton corset and the lacy edge of her chemise.
He shot a scowling glance toward the marines. The men promptly averted their gazes.
“This isn’t the opportune moment for a bathe,” he said lowly.
“Is it? I’d hardly noticed. The weather being so fine.” She reached down the front of her bodice and tugged out a handkerchief. Fixing him with an exasperated look, she said, “A bit more faith in my judgment, if you please. This”—she dangled the handkerchief in front of him—“is treated with a chemical that changes color in the presence of different elements. If it’s exposed to poison sulfur gas, it turns yellow. It’ll change to green if it contacts the copper alloy the Hapsburgs use for their cannon shells. And if there’s any trace of trinitrotoluene in the water, the fabric will turn red.”
“And if there’s no TNT?”
“Then the handkerchief simply gets wet.”
He fought the urge to growl. “Mind doing up your blouse? It’s been some time since my men have gone on leave.” He himself was too distracted by the sight of her bare flesh.
“As though a few inches of my skin could drive them to a lustful frenzy.” Still, she did as he asked. When she’d restored her clothing, she edged closer to the river. Holding the scrap of cambric by a corner, she dipped it into the water.
She held the handkerchief up. They both waited.
Its color remained the same. The river was free of TNT residue.
“Damn it.” She wrung the kerchief out then stuffed it into her pocket. Standing, she muttered, “Never easy, is it?”
“There’s no challenge in easy.”
“I know how much you enjoy a challenge.”
He followed her back to the waiting jolly boat. “That, I do.”
THE PROCESS WAS repeated two more times: locate a river, test the water. In both instances, the tests revealed no signs of TNT, and thus no munitions plant.
It was their fourth expedition. As Christopher piloted the jolly boat closer to the next river, he forcibly tamped down on his impatience. He’d do nothing good by rushing this process. Every step was important. Yet he felt a small degree of satisfaction to see that Louisa’s tolerance for the process also began to fray. If a spy with infinite reserves of patience was restive, then surely an airship captain more accustomed to battle might be forgiven for seething with frustration.
As he steered the jolly boat to the river, he noted that the trees grew too thick near the bank to land the vessel. The closest he could come was some fifty feet away, in a narrow clearing.
He brought the jolly boat down. “Farnley, Josephson, stay with the boat. Stone, Nizam, you’re with me and Miss Shaw.”
It was an indicator of Louisa’s self-control that she managed to wait for him to issue his orders before leaping out of the boat. And though she cast eager glances toward the river, she lingered at the edge of the clearing rather than darting off on her own.
He took the lead, with Louisa following, and the two marines guarding the rear. The sheen of water appeared ahead, with narrow bands of sand forming banks. Before they broke from the trees, Christopher turned to Nizam and Stone.
“Stay back in the woods. Guard our backs.”
“And your front, sir?” asked Nizam.
He laid his hand upon his ether pistol. “Taken care of.”
The marines held back, arranging themselves to keep watch on the forest while Christopher and Louisa made for the river.
She waited for his nod before emerging from the trees. As she crouched, pulling out her treated handkerchief, he stood, his gaze alert and in motion.
A noise came from the other side of the river. Footsteps. He stiffened, his hand going for his pistol.
Louisa’s shoulders tensed slightly as she caught the sound a second after him. “Wait,” she whispered urgently. “Take off your coat. Bundle it up under your arm to hide your gun. Hurry.”
Though he wanted to demand answers, he had to trust her in this. Quickly, he shucked his coat and covered his pistol with it. He didn’t like obstructing his weapon, but his reflexes were fast enough. He could get to it in half a second if necessary.
“Make sure your men don’t come out,” she hissed.
He held up a hand, silently signaling the marines to stay back.
The footsteps drew closer. They moved in a shuffle, fallen pine needles soughing with each step.
“Hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered. Glancing down at her, it took him a moment to recognize her. For with the subtlest shift in her expression, she transformed completely.
Gone was the sharp-eyed spy. In her place was a fresh-faced lass, almost ten years younger than Louisa’s actual age. Her eyes were wide and guileless, her countenance smooth and untroubled. He had no idea how she accomplished this.
No time to wonder at this. An elderly man emerged from the forest on the other side of the river. Under his arm, he carried a basket. His other hand held a fishing pole. He wore a peasant’s simple tunic, baggy pantaloons and an embroidered vest and boots. When he saw Louisa and Christopher, he started.
Louisa, too, made a show of surprise. She actually blushed. In a language Christopher couldn’t understand, she said something to the old man. Even her voice had changed, sounding lighter, more girlish.
The elderly man’s surprise faded, and he answered her in the same tongue. His gaze flicked to Christopher, growing cautious.
She spoke again. Laughter tinged her words, and a trill of feminine embarrassment. She made pretty gestures in the air, her hands like birds, thoughtless and lovely.
Whatever she said to the man, it made him chuckle. His response held notes of fond remembrance, as though he spoke of a pleasant time from long ago. This time, when he looked at Christopher, he winked.
Not knowing how to respond, Christopher returned the wink, and the man laughed again. He said something to Christopher.
“Just nod and say, Merita riscul,” Louisa said, her voice pitched so softly that only Christopher could hear her.
He did as she directed, but when he repeated the words, the old man frowned.
“El este din Ungaria,” Louisa said at once.
The visitor nodded sagely. He gestured toward the river, seeming to indicate that he would take his fishing farther downstream.
“Sper ca pestelle musca,” Louisa said.
After a final wave, the elderly man picked his way along the riverbank, until he disappeared around a bend.
Christopher knew better than to start speaking English immediately. She understood, as well, continuing to chatter in that foreign tongue. As she did, she dipped the handkerchief into the water.
A moment later, the square of cambric turned red.
This was the river they sought, the one that would lead them to the munitions plant.
Sti
ll, Louisa did not leap up. She wrung out the handkerchief and dabbed it on her face—though his acute sight revealed that she did not, in truth, actually touch the fabric to her skin. Then, as if she had all the time in the world and didn’t care at all about the location of the munitions plant, she stood and took hold of his arm. She nuzzled close.
“I told him my parents didn’t approve of you, a Hungarian who cannot speak Romanian very well, thus your accent.” Her whisper curled warmly in his ear. “We’d come here for a tryst and were, ah, tidying up before you escorted me partway home.”
“Let’s ensure our disguise.” He turned his head and kissed her, as a man might kiss his lover, uncertain of their next meeting. Which was a fiction all too easy for him to believe.
He knew the marines watched from the trees, and couldn’t bring himself to care. For a hand’s-breadth of time, he and Louisa had each other. With the location of the plant almost revealed, the greatest danger lay ahead.
She kissed him deeply, her lips telling him that she also knew of the imminent peril, and clung to these moments with a shared hunger.
He and Louisa broke apart. She continued to hold his arm as they moved back into the woods. Neither he nor she blinked when the red-faced marines joined them for the rest of the walk to the jolly boat. Hell, he might be dead by the end of the day, and his command of his ship was never in doubt. So he met the marines’ embarrassed gazes without a trace of shame. Doubtful that anyone wondered at his relationship with Louisa. He knew how he looked at her.
And the way she looked at him . . . He couldn’t stop the clench of heat at the possessiveness in her gaze.
“Nicely played,” he said. “The performance back there. You became someone else.”
“Missed my calling as a stage actress. But the rage is for automatons now, anyway, so I ought to stay with spying. It’s more secure work than the theater.”
“And the conditions less dangerous.”
They reached the jolly boat, where Farnley and Josephson waited. “We’ve found our target,” Christopher said. He moved to help Louisa back into the small vessel, but she had already climbed in, agile as a riddle. She might look at him with desire, perhaps even love, yet she remained her own woman, self-sufficient and capable.
At Christopher’s pronouncement, the marines brightened, eager to reach their objective.
“Back to the Demeter, sir?” Farnley asked.
“Aye. And then we strike at the Huns’ heart.” He vaulted into the boat and took up his position at the tiller.
Once everyone had buckled themselves in, he brought the boat up. They rose above the trees, branches brushing against the hull and scattering needles upon the floor. He was careful to keep the boat out of sight of the old man, lest the fellow happen to look up and see an English jolly boat flying through the air.
They joined the Demeter, coming up through the cargo doors in her keel. Pullman and Herbert waited there, and the moment Christopher killed the jolly boat’s engine, he was out of the vessel and issuing orders.
“Chart us a course up the river, Mr. Herbert. Mr. Pullman, spread word to the crew.” He strode into the passageway, followed by Herbert, Pullman, and Louisa. “We’re on the trail. All unnecessary activity is to be kept to a minimum. We’ve got the enemy in our sights, lads, and can’t leave anything to chance.”
“Aye, sir.” Pullman and Herbert saluted and broke away to carry out their orders.
Without speaking, Christopher and Louisa progressed to his quarters. It had been cleaned since last he’d been inside, the berth made. The mattress and pillows no longer bore the indentations from two sleepers. It was almost as it had been before she had come onto his ship. But the air itself had altered, charged with her presence, and faintly scented with jasmine.
He stepped inside briskly, going straight to the plan for the munitions plant spread upon the table. She stood on the other side of the table, also studying the drawing.
“Here, here, and here.” She pointed to different locations. “These are the places we’ll need to position the bombs. The explosions will breach the security walls, setting off anything combustible within. Should bring the whole place down.”
“We’ll break into three teams, get the bombs situated faster.”
She shook her head. “Security is going to be tight. Two people might barely be able to slip in undetected. Any more and the risk increases. It’ll be me, and whomever from your crew you can spare.”
He stared at her. “Whomever I can spare? The hell kind of talk is that? I’m going with you.”
“But . . .” She looked patently confused. “You’re the ship’s captain. They’ll need you here.”
“The most important part of this mission is getting the bombs planted. The factory has to be destroyed.” He folded his arms across his chest. “There are only two people I’m certain can accomplish that. You. And me.”
“What about the ship?”
“Pullman can look after the Demeter while I’m gone. If the ship manages to survive, but I don’t, she’s got enough ether stored to make it back to neutral territory.”
She stalked around the table. “They don’t just need you as a fuel source. They need you as a captain.”
“My greatest responsibility is ensuring that this operation is a success.” When she started to object further, he said, more quietly, “And I don’t entrust your safety to anyone but me.”
Her protests abruptly silenced. For a moment, she only gazed at him, then she lifted up on her toes and kissed him. Tenderly.
Her smile was self-deprecating as she pulled back slightly. “I wouldn’t trust me, either.”
“I do,” he said at once.
“With the mission. But not your heart.” She pressed her hands to the center of his chest. “I tell you this: If we do make it out of this place alive, I’m going to earn your trust again.”
He covered her hands with his own, feeling their slim strength. The river water had chilled her fingers, but the heat from his body chased away lingering cold.
She said, “I love you.”
Only a few minutes ago, she’d hidden herself behind the identity of a simple country girl. Now, there was no disguise. No subterfuge. She was completely open. Entirely herself. Only for him.
Her gaze held his. Searching. “I know you can’t say it back to me. Not yet.”
He couldn’t deny this. Words formed and dissolved before they reached his mouth. He wanted to speak, aware of their time together ticking away and the threat that loomed. But he couldn’t feed her half-truths. He couldn’t promise her that he’d say the words she wanted some time in the future. There might not be a future. So he kept silent.
Chapter Ten
DEATH LOOMED ON the horizon. It revealed itself in the huge form of a mountain, dark and jagged, stretching up toward a pristine blue sky. It was part of a chain of mountains forming a serrated undulation, yet it stood out from its stone-shouldered companions due to its size. An air of cruelty seemed to cling to its rough surface, threats crouching amidst the shadows dotting its face.
A fanciful notion. Studying the mountain through her spyglass, Louisa understood objectively that it couldn’t exude malice. A mountain had no feelings, no objectives or loyalties. Yet knowing that weapons against Britain were being manufactured within the stone walls, she couldn’t stop the cold unease that slid across her heart.
She turned at the sound of Christopher’s boots upon the deck behind her. He strode up, grim-faced, and stood next to her at the forecastle rail.
“There.” He pointed to a spot about three miles farther down the chain of mountains. Two peaks formed a small shelter that would be hidden from the mountain housing the munitions plant. “That’s where the Demeter will deposit us. You and I will make the rest of the way on foot.”
It was a sound plan. Only a madman would attempt to breach a heavily-guarded enemy position from the ground, and with no more firepower than an ether pistol. Which meant that that was precise
ly the means by which she and Christopher would gain entrance.
“Good thing I’ve got sturdy boots.” None of those delicate kidskin confections most ladies favored would stand up to a three-mile hike, with row upon row of miniscule buttons and soles as thick as calling cards. “And will the Demeter rendezvous with us at the same spot?”
“By that point, subterfuge won’t be an option. We’ll have to signal the jolly boat when we get out. Then it will wait for us in the forest as close to the factory gates as it can get.”
Neither she nor Christopher voiced what she knew they were both thinking. It was highly unlikely that either of them would be alive to signal the jolly boat. A plan was needed, however, should that slim chance come to pass. Only amateurs operated without a plan.
They gazed at one another a moment. All around was the sky, the activity of the ship, yet on the forecastle, and in her heart, she and Christopher were alone.
Her hand found his. “I shouldn’t be so selfish, glad you’ll be down there with me, instead of with your ship.”
His blue eyes were more dazzling than the sky. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” He pressed his palm to hers, warm and large, the most capable hands she’d ever known.
He was all she could hope for.
“Come,” she said. “We haven’t much time. Let’s get ourselves rigged up.” Their hands broke apart as they stepped down from the forecastle. She led him to the magazine and gestured to the object sitting upon the worktable. “We needed a way to transport the bombs that left both of our arms free, in case we encounter resistance. So I made that. It’s not elegant, but it should get the job done.”
He stepped forward and examined her handiwork. She had taken a section of the slotted wooden racks lining the magazine, sized to hold cannon shells, and attached two leather straps to it. The bombs were already fitted into the rack, waiting their destructive purpose.
