Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

His sudden laughter made her start. “Bryn! That old gnat!”

  “You know it? The pixie?” She stared at him.

  “Know him? Bryn Enfys has been keeping an eye on the Heirs for centuries.” Day shook his head, chuckling. “He’d deliver reports to the Blades’ headquarters in Southampton, and always demanded a thimble of whiskey for his trouble.”

  “An odd coincidence,” she murmured. “Him coming to visit me.”

  “Not so coincidental,” he said, more seriously, “if you’re the daughter of an Heir.”

  She darkened. “He urged me to run away. He said there was something evil in my home and that I had to flee from it.”

  “Bryn knew,” he said, quiet. “He knew you were better than your family and the Heirs.”

  “I wonder, though. What might have become of me, if I had heeded his advice?” She looked up at him. “I wouldn’t be here, now.” But whether that was a good thing or something to make her sad, she could not determine.

  Day slipped the coil of rope over one shoulder, then took her hands in his own, keeping her reddened, chafed palms turned up. He looked at her, and she could not turn away, because she saw that here on the water, his eyes were the exact crystalline color of the sea, liquid, yes, but deeper and hotter than the sea, and he had a way of looking at her as if she, and only she, existed and it was enough for him.

  “Bryn tried,” he said, his voice warm brandy and just as intoxicating. “He tried to liberate you. For years, you’ve been lied to, deceived, but now your eyes are open. It’s up to you alone how to live, what choices you make. You can choose anything, do anything. You’re free.”

  Then, he carefully lowered her hands and walked away. She stared at the space where he had been and began to truly feel, for the first time, that the sea was not so much empty as it was without limits.

  Chapter 7

  Natural Wonders

  London squeezed herself into one of the two small cabins below deck. She had the unenviable task of trying to undress and dress herself in a space no bigger than a closet. She kept banging her elbows into the bulkheads. The cabin held a berth wide enough for a single man, a tiny table, and no mirror. Clearly, pride in appearance wasn’t high on a seaman’s list of priorities.

  “And how does it fit?” Athena’s voice said outside the door.

  “Depends,” London said, emerging into the narrow passageway, “on whether I want to look like I am shrinking. If that is my goal, then I would say we succeeded admirably.”

  Athena covered her mouth, but her laugh escaped anyway. “It is a trifle…loose.”

  “Loose!” London plucked at the sagging bodice of the gown borrowed from Athena. “I’ve room enough to smuggle puppies.”

  “A whole litter,” Athena agreed. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. It is not your fault that my bosom is deficient.”

  Athena scoffed. “Not deficient! You are slim, like a beautiful river reed. While I,” she continued, glancing down at herself, “am built like one of those Cretan snake goddesses, all breasts and hips. So vulgar.”

  “Womanly, not vulgar,” London disputed. She added, with a sly, female smile, “And it seems that our captain approves.”

  “Bah!” Athena threw up her hands in dismissal. “Of course he likes the large breasts—he is a coarse boor who would rut like an animal if given the chance.” The witch’s gaze suddenly went far off, considering this very prospect. Her dusky cheeks flushed before she shook her head as if to clear it of a particularly robust image.

  London smothered a smile and busied herself with adjusting the bodice of the gown. It was a simple but exquisitely made day gown of blue and white striped cotton with a charming bow at the waist. On Athena it would be lovely, but London was several inches shorter than the witch, and considerably less curvaceous.

  “If you’ve a needle and thread, I might be able to make a few temporary adjustments,” London offered.

  “No need for such tedious work,” Athena said with a dismissive wave. “Let me see.” She peered closer at the sleeves. “Too long here.” Her fingers brushed over the cuff.

  London started when the cuff shrank back to the perfect length. “Good God! Is that magic?”

  The witch laughed. “Arachne’s Art, something the Galanos women have practiced for generations. Excuse me, I am not trying to get fresh.” Her hands lightly trailed over London’s bosom, and the bodice shifted until it fit London’s more modest figure.

  “Seems quite convenient.”

  “It is. It allows us a considerable amount more freedom than other women.” She knelt and took the hem of the dress between her fingers. “We are not tied to our needlework. Or any man.”

  “How wonderful that must be,” London said earnestly.

  Athena glanced up, her eyes grave. “Galanos women value our independence. We make our own paths in this world. If there is something we want, we take it, and do not apologize. Especially not to a man.”

  London said, rueful, “Most women aren’t lucky enough to be born into the Galanos family.”

  “That is true. The majority are yoked from birth. However,” Athena added, giving the hem a tug, “you are now free to choose your path and do as you like. You have the gift of ultimate freedom.”

  London watched the hem of the dress raise until it was the exact height she needed. If the seamstresses of Paris ever found out about Arachne’s Art, anarchy would follow. The fashion houses of France would fall just as the Bastille did.

  “I am not certain it’s a gift,” she admitted.

  Athena rose to face London. “It is,” she said fiercely. “You are finally the only person in control of your life. That does not mean it will be easy, but whatever mistakes you make, the injuries you suffer, and your victories are yours to own.”

  The witch’s vehemence surprised London. It had seemed that little could disturb her calm. But London’s doubt had. “Including the affairs of my heart?”

  “Especially those.” More placid, Athena brushed the hair back from London’s forehead, much as an older sister might. “Bennett can be reckless and infuriating,” she said quietly. “But his heart is good.”

  London’s own heart contracted just to hear his name spoken. “You know him well.”

  “Over ten years have we been friends. And not once have I ever seen him behave the way he does around you. It is more than desire.”

  “What else can it be, if not just desire?” London asked.

  Athena shook her head. “You will have to discover that on your own.”

  London understood. “And what about you? Even an independent woman has her needs.”

  Athena’s smile was just a little melancholy, almost wistful. “I do. But it is almost impossible for me to find a man who can abide by my terms. I require absolute freedom. I leave before he makes demands, before the heat of our animal desires cools into mere toleration. So I go, and he goes, and everyone is satisfied.”

  “Typical,” snorted a man’s voice.

  Athena and London watched Nikos Kallas descend the companion ladder leading from the quarterdeck house to below decks. He stalked up to Athena and glowered at her, filling the narrow space of the passageway with his presence.

  “How like a high-born woman.” He scoffed. “Cold, like the northern seas.”

  “I am not cold,” Athena challenged, drawing herself up. “I am sensible.”

  “Sex isn’t sensible. It isn’t a polite business arrangement. For you, sex is shaking hands and agreeing on the price of fish.” Mocking, he stuck out his hand as if offering it to seal a bargain.

  London looked on, fascinated, as Greek man and woman stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other. They seemed to have forgotten that London was even there, observing everything.

  “Would you prefer if I shrieked and pulled at my hair when it is time to part?” Athena shot back. “Demanded vows of love when there are none to give? I would rather keep my pride.”

  Kallas pointed at her with the stem
of his pipe. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about the beast of desire. I tell you this, Lady Witch, once I get a woman in my bunk, she won’t want to leave.”

  With that parting salvo, the captain stormed past Athena, down the passageway to the cargo hold. London watched him go, then she turned back to Athena. The witch stared at the spot where Kallas had stood, her lips pressed tightly together, breath coming fast. She was furious.

  Or fiercely attracted. London was beginning to realize that it was almost impossible, sometimes, to tell the difference.

  With London and Bennett Day, however, things were much more complicated than navigating the twin poles of anger and desire. It was up to London to find her way.

  Four men hunched over a map in the steamer ship’s wheelhouse. Overhead, a lantern swayed with the rocking of the ship, casting its sulfurous light in arcs, back and forth. Shadows swung like weighted pendulums, almost as dark as the night outside. The men did not speak, but watched the map, one on each side of the table on which it spread.

  Across the surface of the printed sea, moving east by northeast, rolled a single drop of blood. A dark garnet, moving not with the roll of the ship, but under its own power, deliberate and steady. The blood sought something, some place.

  “Where are they headed?” Edgeworth demanded of the steamer’s captain. “They’re moving away from the Cyclades.”

  The Greek captain shrugged. “There are many islands in the Aegean. Thousands. Some never make it on to a map.”

  “Lost, do you think?” asked Fraser.

  Edgeworth gnawed on the end of his cigar. “No, they are too direct. They know where they’re going. I just wish we did, too.”

  “Rest easy.” Chernock smiled down at the map. “The Bloodseeker Spell will lead us to your daughter. And if she knows where to find Greek Fire, then we shall know, too.”

  “My ship is faster than any caique,” the captain said. “We lost some time at the beginning, but I assure you, we’ll overtake them. Tomorrow morning, no later.”

  “I’m holding you to that,” Edgeworth snapped. He stalked from the wheelhouse, with Fraser close at his heels. Both men stood on deck, staring out at the darkness. The glowing end of Edgeworth’s cigar made red, angry trails as it journeyed to and from his mouth. Fraser clasped his hands behind his back and pretended to study the stars, while his mind chugged along like the steamship.

  Fraser considered himself a brave man. He’d faced storms, riots, murderous natives, disease. God knew how many damned Blades he’d had to tangle with over the years, with the scars to prove it. He prided himself on never backing down from a mission, stepping over or on anyone who got in his way. He feared almost nothing. Except Joseph Edgeworth.

  The Edgeworths stood as the backbone of the Heirs of Albion. Some ungodly number of generations ago, an Edgeworth forefather helped establish the group’s headquarters in central London. And ever since then, an Edgeworth sat in the inner circle, wielding influence and power the likes of which a monarch could only dream about. Joseph Edgeworth could make an Heir’s life hell, if that Heir fell out of favor. Either death, or the wish for death. There was no part of the world free from Edgeworth’s influence. Should he take a disliking to someone, they’d find themselves with a bullet in the eye or a knife in the belly. Not by Edgeworth’s hand, of course, but his intent would be there, just the same.

  Yet, if a man wanted to make a name for himself in the Heirs, he could do no better than ingratiating himself with the Edgeworth family. Wealth. Influence. Respect. Bestowed and granted in abundance.

  That’s exactly what Fraser had intended when he planned on courting London Harcourt. There’d be no sweeter role for an Heir to play than Edgeworth’s son-in-law. Lawrence Harcourt’s death was a blessing for Fraser and any other able-bodied young Heir. It didn’t hurt that London Harcourt was damned pretty, but Fraser would’ve fucked a sow if it meant gaining Edgeworth’s approbation.

  Damned bitch, Fraser fumed. He could have been in the catbird seat, if not for her whorish ways. Best to take a philosophical approach, though. He wouldn’t have wanted a cuckolding trollop for a wife.

  Still, he could ally himself with Edgeworth now, slut daughter or no.

  “What will you do, sir, when we catch up with them?” Fraser asked.

  Edgeworth took a long draw off his cigar and exhaled the smoke. “Kill Day,” he said simply. “And that other Blade, the Galanos bitch. Chernock recognized her on Delos. He might like to toy with her for a bit, though, before we kill her. She’s a born witch, and bound to know some new magic.”

  Fraser took a breath, and risked, “And…and London?”

  The older man answered at once, “Once she sees how she’d been beguiled by that seducer,” Edgeworth said, “she’ll come back to me like a good girl. She’s my daughter, after all. A female can easily be controlled by any man, but her father will always hold sway.”

  “Of course,” Fraser said quickly.

  “Then she will lead us to the Source, and gladly. That’s what we’re here for.” Each puff on his cigar made the ash glow, a small inferno. “When the Heirs can claim the secret of Greek Fire, we’ll finally have the necessary tools to crush the Blades once and for all. The Primal Source will ensure that.”

  “Exactly,” Fraser seconded. He couldn’t wait for such a moment. What he wouldn’t give to see Bennett Day and Catullus Graves and the rest of them lying at his feet, dead as winter. Or, it might be even more pleasant to hear them beg and snivel, then send them to hell.

  “Don’t worry, Fraser,” Edgeworth said, indulgent. “Once we rescue London and take the Source, I’ll see you properly rewarded. How does an upper-level position within the Heirs sound to you?”

  “Capital, sir,” Fraser said, his chest constricting with excitement at the prospect.

  “And perhaps I may give you London, too,” Edgeworth added. “As your bride. That is, if you do your duty.”

  And take Bennett Day’s leavings? Fraser felt sick at the thought. Even though Edgeworth refused to believe it, his daughter was a calculating whore who knew exactly what she was doing. But Fraser couldn’t refuse Edgeworth’s offer. He’d marry the slut, if it helped his cause. Then he could enjoy her a little while meting out her punishment for her treachery. Fraser preferred to take his women hard, especially if they were delicately made. There was something quite wonderful about bruising soft, tender skin.

  “Rely on me, sir,” Fraser said eagerly. “I won’t fail you.”

  Edgeworth scowled then. “Yes—my own daughter’s will wasn’t strong enough, and I’ll not tolerate anyone else’s failure. Now I’m going to bed. No one’s to wake me unless the Blades have been spotted.”

  “I’ll pass the word on, sir.”

  Edgeworth stared at his cigar with disgust, then threw it overboard. Without another word, he stalked from the deck, leaving Fraser alone with his plans for the future. A future with Britain as leader of a global empire, the Heirs heaped with honors and riches in gratitude, especially him. And every last member of the Blades of the Rose nothing but rotting meat.

  Cheered with these thoughts, Fraser went back into the wheelhouse, where Chernock kept watch over the blood-dotted map. Not even the dolorous sorcerer’s glowering could dampen Fraser’s mood. Tomorrow they would catch up with London Harcourt and the Blades. And, oh, the things Fraser planned on doing to Bennett Day. That bitch London would have to watch while Fraser carved up her lover. Yes, tomorrow was going to be a wonderful day.

  Bennett dozed lightly in the cabin. He and Kallas were taking turns at the wheel, spelling each other in three-hour increments. They hadn’t the time to find a beach, drop anchor, and sleep through the night. The Heirs would follow, that much was certain, so it was a matter of staying ahead of them as much as possible. One day, there would come a reckoning, but Bennett would rather it to be some time in the future, preferably with London safely out of the way.

  Across the passageway, she and Athena shared a bunk. Both women
had protested when Kallas and Bennett agreed to split the time at the helm, leaving them out. Yes, there were women Blades, capable women, but the idea of leaving London and Athena alone on deck in the middle of the night was untenable. So, grumbling and complaining, the women went below to a cabin to pass the night rebuilding their strength. All the spellcasting had taken a toll on Athena, and London had been through hell over the last few days.

  Bennett shifted on the narrow bunk, trying to sleep. He punched the wafer that passed for a pillow, but it didn’t help. He grumbled in frustration. He’d need his wits about him tomorrow and the days that followed. Falling asleep was never a problem. He could catch a handful of sleep on a bed of broken glass, and find himself refreshed.

  Of course, he’d never had London Harcourt asleep across the passageway before. He’d already seen her asleep, and just picturing her soft and warm and lithe made him hard. Even the rocking of the bloody boat called to mind the rhythm of two bodies moving together. A damned good thing that Athena shared her cabin, playing Argus.

  In times like this, he’d normally take matters into his own hand. But this was Kallas’s cabin, and Bennett would be damned if he had a wank in some man’s bed. A gentleman had his honor. Other measures were needed. He tried to lull himself into sleep by reciting Latin names for plants. Somewhere around campanula persicifolia, a slight noise at the cabin door sprung him into alertness. Kallas knew enough to announce himself.

  “Don’t skewer me!” squeaked a female voice.

  He lowered the throwing knife. “Hell, London,” he muttered, stuffing the knife back under his pillow. “A little warning, if you please.” He propped himself up on his elbows to look at her.

  “I didn’t expect knives.” She shut the cabin door behind her and leaned against it. The single porthole let in only more night, so the cabin was a small, black velvet-lined box. He smelled her, her warm female scent, close about him. His head spun. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll come in banging the kettle.”