by Zoë Archer
“Goat-fucking bastards,” growled Kallas.
Having conquered the first obstacle, the hulking iron monster of the steamship plowed on, straight toward the caique, threading through the narrow passage.
“The stone pillars,” Athena said hopefully.
Bennett heard the sounds of the cannons being repositioned, orders shouted to men. “Cover yourselves,” he commanded. No sooner had those words left his mouth than the cannons fired again, tearing chunks of stone from the pillars. The caique listed from side to side with the force of the impact.
Bennett wasn’t worried. He let out a breath as the caique neared the end of the strait. The wind gentled like a broken horse, ready to be ridden. While the Heirs attempted to pulverize the stone pillars, making way for their cumbersome iron ship, the caique could navigate the shoals and make their escape. Simple.
Except—
“Captain, you need to see this,” London called back from her position in the bow.
Without speaking, Bennett took the wheel from Kallas as the captain dashed forward. Curses that Bennett was sure hadn’t been invented yet streamed from the captain’s mouth, and, once Bennett saw what so angered Kallas, he decided to add his contribution to the swearing lexicon.
Instead of a narrow, but straight, path through the shoals on the other side of the island, this path twisted and turned, a labyrinth. The boat could run aground a million times over on the sandy banks of the shoals. Oh, it might be traversable, but only with a hell of a lot of guts and even more time.
Time was something they didn’t have. The Heirs’ cannons were working to make mince of the stone pillars.
And then the gun turret turned in the direction of the caique.
Bennett’s blood chilled. The sailboat would be shredded by gunfire before they cleared the shoals. Like a shooting gallery target.
Just as Bennett thought this, the first round of gunfire whizzed overhead, narrowly missing the mainsail mast. Hell. The Heirs weren’t planning on bringing down the boat. They’d take out its sails, leaving the Blades as juicy little plums ready to be plucked once the Heirs’ ship made it through the strait. Jesus, what would Edgeworth do to London once he got his hands on her?
The boat glided from the strait and into the shoals. It was Kallas’s boat, but Bennett had to seize command.
“Kallas, take the helm,” he ordered. “London, stay in the bow, keep your eyes on the path through the shoals. You’ll guide Kallas. Athena, you’ve got the sails.”
Everyone hurried to obey, even the captain, who took no offense in Bennett’s assumption of leadership. Not in such treacherous times.
“What about you?” asked London.
Without a word, Bennett dashed below to the cargo hold, grabbed a few things, then sprinted back on deck. London saw what he held and shook her head.
“No.” Her voice was hard and sure.
But there was only one thing he could do. He checked the rifle. It was loaded, and he had slung a cartridge belt over his shoulder. He tugged off his boots and threw them to the deck. “Yes,” he said. “A diversion.” Then he kissed her, fast and hard.
Before she could argue, he vaulted over the side of the boat.
Chapter 13
The Sorcerer’s Plan
London ran to the rail. She thought she would see Bennett swimming, if not sinking to the bottom of the sea. But he was running. Across the water.
Not on the water’s surface. It rose to his calves. It seemed some minor miracle, or form of magic, then she remembered. The shoals. Bennett ran over the sandy surface, water churning around him. It couldn’t be easy, running on wet sand, yet he did so with fluid grace, holding the rifle confidently. Straight toward the Heirs’ ship, and her father. Men with guns massed on the steamer’s deck just as the gun in the turret fired again, tearing a hole in the foresail.
“I need you guiding me at the bow,” Kallas shouted.
Casting a searching, apprehensive look over her shoulder, London moved to her position. She prayed her last glimpse of Bennett wouldn’t be him racing off across the face of the sea to his death, chased by his reflection.
He wasn’t going to have much cover. Damn. Yet he’d rather take the chance out here, without protection, than let his friends, let London, be taken by the Heirs. He spared a quick glance back to see the caique begin its chancy navigation of the shoals. He couldn’t see London, but maybe that was for the best. His mind had to be clear, no distractions, and she definitely commanded his attention.
At least he wasn’t wearing his boots. They were already waterlogged disasters, but he could move faster without them.
The sandy bank of the shoals ran right up against the island. Bennett took up position behind the rocks at the opening to the strait. It wasn’t ideal, but better than nothing.
A bang as the gun turret fired again. Thank Ares that the caique was moving in a serpentine direction, otherwise the mainsail mast would have been nothing but kindling. But it had a distance to go before it cleared the shoals.
Time to provide that diversion.
He took aim, steadied his breath. Squeezed the trigger. Hardly felt the rifle’s recoil as it fired.
Men on the steamer’s deck scattered as his bullet dented the wall of the gun turret. A grim little smile curved Bennett’s mouth. Panic was his ally.
He fired again. Another dent in the turret. He’d never be able to take the weapon out with just a rifle. But, as much as he wanted to cut back or eliminate the Heirs’ firepower, his main goal right now was distraction.
And he got that distraction as the gun turret aimed in his direction. He ducked when it fired, shattering rock over his head. The Heirs’ mercenaries added their rifle fire to the assault. Bennett wheeled away, flattening his back against the rocks of the cliff. More chips of gravel as bullets whined and slammed into the cliffs, barely a foot above his head.
He watched the caique slowly moving through the shoals. Halfway there. London was almost safe. But not yet.
He turned back to the strait and the Heirs’ ship. Kneeling, he braced himself on one knee, and shot.
A man went down. Bennett never liked to kill, but he couldn’t afford to be naïve. If he had a chance to take out a threat—especially to London—he’d take it, and face the consequences of his conscience later.
None of the fallen man’s comrades paid him any heed. They kicked the body aside as they sent a volley of bullets Bennett’s way. The gun in the turret added its contribution.
More rocks tumbled down on him, blasted free from the cliff. He glanced up. Not only was the aim of the Heirs’ mercenaries improving as their ship neared, but he’d be flattened by rocks as his cover crumbled.
He ducked back as several boulders crashed down. His mouth curved in a tight smile. The Heirs just provided him with more cover.
He repositioned himself behind the boulders before resuming his sniping. Bullets slammed into the boulders as he fired—the men on deck had already arrayed themselves to get a better angle on him. The gun turret wasn’t as speedy as it swung around.
The cannons had almost completely decimated the stone pillars, which meant the Heirs could be even closer, could take better aim at the boat. He chanced a look back at the caique. Nearly there. London was nearly safe.
Something stung his cheek. He touched a hand to his face and it came away red. So much for his pretty face. But he really didn’t give a damn.
He took out three more men, but, hell, none of them were Heirs. Doubtless Edgeworth had himself safely secreted away in the bowels of the ship, content to let others kill and die for him. Even Fraser and that vulture Chernock were nowhere to be found.
Just as he was reloading his rifle, London’s voice carried across the water as she called his name. Even the sound of her sent his pulse speeding faster than it had been moments earlier, exchanging gunfire with his enemies.
“Come back, Bennett!” she called. “We’re almost clear!”
He fired off one more sa
lvo before starting his sprint for the caique. It was a full-out run, racing not only the Heirs’ guns, but the caique. In a moment, the sailboat would make open water. He’d rather be stranded than have them turn back for him, or he could swim for it, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to pick between those options.
Another sting at his shoulder. Hell. He couldn’t let himself be wounded. There wasn’t bloody time for it.
He ran, legs churning in the water. The caique was half a mile off, but it felt farther out as he skirted the twisted opening in the shoals and dodged bullets.
Finally, lifetimes later, lungs and legs burning, he came alongside the caique. When London’s face appeared over the rail, his heart gave a leap. Jesus, was he glad to see her. She and Athena reached down and, with groans of strain from everyone, hauled him up, just before the boat cleared the shoals.
The three of them fell onto the deck of the caique in a heap. For a mere moment, Bennett allowed himself the pleasure of feeling London beside him, her limbs tangled with his, her breath against his face.
She raised herself up on an elbow, and her eyes widened as she looked at him. “You’re hurt!”
“Kitten scratch.”
Her scowl was fierce and beautiful. Before she could scold him, Kallas’s command sent them all hurrying to their positions. They adjusted the sails to let the wind carry them as fast as possible from the shoals and the island. And the Heirs, still negotiating the strait, continued to fire on them.
Kallas proved himself again, harnessing the wind and currents to speed them away. Bennett didn’t allow himself a sigh of relief until the boat was well out of the cannons’ range. Even when the Heirs’ ship breached the strait, there was still the matter of the serpentine shoals. Not only was their vessel much bigger than Kallas’s caique, they also didn’t have his uncanny seafaring knowledge to see them through the dangerous sand banks.
“I think, for now, we have bested them,” Athena said. She strode to the captain and seemed to debate for a moment whether she should throw her arms around him. Instead, the witch settled for a congratulatory handshake. “Nicely handled, Captain,” she said.
Kallas accepted it with a wry smile. “And to you, Lady Witch.”
Athena released the captain’s hand and went to Bennett. She tsked when examining his wounds, but said, “These will heal quickly with a poultice.”
“Later,” said Bennett.
He watched as London carefully tied off the jib and then lowered herself to sit on the deck, hands pressed to the center of her chest.
Alive. She’d made it through alive. And only slightly bruised instead of crushed under a boulder or smashed to pieces by a giant stone pillar or shot by cannons. Or captured by the Heirs. Jesus. Bennett needed a drink.
“You’ll need to repaint your boat,” Athena said to Kallas.
Bennett adjusted the mainsail, tied it off, then went to London. He needed to touch her, to hold her.
“I’m fine,” she said as he approached.
“I’m not.” He gathered her up in his arms and held her tightly, his heart beating against hers.
When he felt her shuddering, his heart wrenched. She wasn’t a Blade, with danger an old, familiar friend. What the hell was he thinking, dragging her into jeopardy? London was a woman bred to the salons of the gentry—cultured, erudite, not a gallivanting fool like him.
“Please, love, don’t cry,” he murmured into her hair.
Then she looked up at him. And his heart stuttered then pulsed back to life.
She was laughing.
“That was exciting,” she said. Her whole body shook with laughter, her dark eyes sparkling.
Something melted inside Bennett. “Exciting?” he demanded. Then, “It was, wasn’t it?”
His fear was gone, replaced by unbound happiness—not merely from cheating death again, but from London’s joy, her limitless hunger for experience. His head spun with it; he felt his blood throughout his whole body, thundering to life.
At once, he hardened. He needed inside of her. Now.
She caught the instant need in his eyes. Her laughter quieted and was replaced by her own immediate desire. Her hips pushed against his so he felt the warmth of her cradling his pulsing cock. Their kiss was a hot explosion, deep and desperate. She clung to him as he pulled her close, as close as possible. The wet heat of her mouth, her searching hands. Holy God, she was a hell of a woman.
Without speaking, he broke the kiss, took her hand in his, and strode with her toward the quarterdeck house. They would go to his cabin. Or hers. He didn’t care.
“Aphrodite and Adonis,” Kallas said, dry, “before you run off into the woods, we’ve a few more matters to address.”
Growling, Bennett rounded on the captain. Damn it, Kallas was right. But tell that to his body, his body that wanted London so badly Bennett felt he could power dozens of steam engines with the heat of his desire.
“We sail east now,” London said. The husky undercurrent in her voice nearly undid Bennett.
“Toward what?” asked Athena.
Bennett glanced at the mirror, lying on a table in the quarterdeck house. Its surface cast a reflective circle of light onto the roof of the small structure. “Toward wherever the Source wants us to go.”
London, holding the mirror in her hands, stared down at it. Her own face looked back at her with searching eyes. If she had been back in England, in some acquaintance’s drawing room, her appearance would have qualified as an utter disaster. Hair in wind-tossed snarls, face dusted with freckles, gown stained with seawater.
She wasn’t in England any longer. And she loved how she looked. Like a woman experiencing the world. A woman feeling herself grow and change. Surrounded by people, by a special man, who encouraged that growth, that change. A gift. She had been given a gift, and would not squander it.
Which meant she must find the Source.
She felt as though her fingertips just grazed the edge of an answer, but the more she reached for it, the more she pushed it away. And it was difficult to concentrate, knowing that her father and the Heirs of Albion were so close behind them. She hadn’t seen her father on the ship back at the strait, but knew he was there, felt his presence. What would he do, if he caught up with her? Would he punish her? How? But even that mattered not at all. She knew with certainty that her father would kill Bennett, kill Athena and Kallas. She couldn’t care about her own fate when faced with the surety of her friends’ deaths.
She refused to let that happen. She would surrender to ensure the lives of her friends, if that’s what it took.
Yet she hoped it would not come to that.
Athena tended to Bennett’s wounds, reminding London how very close he had come to either serious injury or being killed. She fought a shudder.
“The mirror told us to head toward the rising sun,” she said, pushing aside her dark thoughts, “which means east. But the sun isn’t rising now. It’s just afternoon.”
“There are old tales,” said Kallas, “sailor’s lore of an uninhabited island on the other side of the strait. Some believe the tale began with Odysseus when he came home from Troy. It’s said there is great treasure on the island, but no one’s ever been. Crossing the strait’s too dangerous.”
“We’re on the other side of the strait now,” said Bennett with a grin.
“Then I’ll find it,” Kallas said. “We can anchor there for the night. Give us time to mend the sails and get some fresh water.”
“Is it safe from the Heirs?” asked London.
The captain grinned. “It’s said that only Atlantis is better hidden.”
With a yelp like a startled dog, the gunner fell, knocked back by the fist of Joseph Edgeworth. He yelped again when Edgeworth lunged forward across the wheelhouse, grabbing the gunner’s neck, and slammed his head into the bulkhead. The gunner’s eyes glazed over as blood dampened his hair and smeared onto the metal behind him.
“Why didn’t you keep shooting at the boat?” Edgeworth sna
rled. “You were supposed to take out its masts.”
“The sniper…” The gunner’s words slurred as unconsciousness beckoned. He choked when Edgeworth’s grip tightened on his throat. His fingers struggled to pry away Edgeworth’s hand, but the older man’s hold could not be broken.
“Was a bloody distraction. One you fell for.”
The gunner couldn’t answer, on the verge of passing out.
“Mr. Edgeworth,” Fraser said in English behind him, “sir. It might not be good policy to throttle a member of the crew to death.”
“Why the hell not?” Edgeworth didn’t turn around, but watched with satisfaction as the gunner’s face purpled. “Teach them a lesson for disobeying orders.”
“Punish the man, yes.” Fraser stepped closer, his tone conciliatory. “Make an example of him. But killing him won’t put the right fear into the rest of the crew. Suspicious and frightened men aren’t as easy to control.”
Cursing aloud, Edgeworth realized that Fraser’s assessment was correct. He needed the steamship crew to obey his every command without thought, without question. Money and a bit of intimidation worked well, made them compliant. But if they felt their employers might turn on them, the crewmen could rally against the outnumbered Heirs. Murder Edgeworth and Fraser and Chernock as they slept, if not worse. Better to keep the crewmen’s lives than receive the rest of their payment. Self-preservation trumped even greed.
Edgeworth released the gunner, then, as the man struggled to regain his senses, hurled a fist directly into his face. The gunner crumpled to the deck, utterly insensible. For good measure, Edgeworth kicked the man’s chest and belly, but the gunner was too far gone to even groan, so it wasn’t particularly gratifying.
“You’ve a brig, right?” Edgeworth barked to the captain standing nearby. When the man nodded, Edgeworth said, “Take him there. No medical attention. No food or water for three days.”
The captain nodded again, his eyes flat and expressionless. Crew were scum, disposable, but harder to replace far from port. He signaled to two sailors, and they stepped forward to drag off the unconscious gunner. Each took an arm and hauled the gunner away, suspended between them like a cut marionette, his legs dragging behind him.
