by Landra Graf
As he reeled her back in, she sighed. Their cheeks touched once more.
“A perfect dance for lovers.”
The words were wrong, and she stepped on his toes purposely. Backing away from him, she mumbled thank you, turned, and ran.
He moved to follow, but Bastille and his twin body guards blocked his way.
The first mate eyed him suspiciously, announcing, “Dancing is over. Douse the lights, and back to your posts.”
Ian wanted to take back the ill-timed lover comment. No, the comment spoke truth. He wanted Sorella as his bed partner, wanted a chance to hear the noises she made in the throes of passion even if only for a night.
“I’ll escort you to your cabin,” Bastille said beside him.
It seemed he and Sorella wouldn’t be lovers tonight.
***
Sorella lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, restless. Yet she yawned, her vision blurry. Sleep wanted to take over if only her racing mind would let it. Unfortunately, her thoughts kept drifting to Ian. Remembering his hands on her waist as he glided her along the deck in the moonlight made her shiver anew. She’d barely stopped herself from doing the same thing in his arms.
Then that word…lovers…spoken with want and prediction as if he believed it was only a matter of time until she’d let him into her bed. She’d run, desperate to keep her mental gates closed and her door barred, literally. Between the trunk up against it and the metal staff from her weapons cache as a makeshift bar, she’d erected a barrier, a visible line she refused to cross, no matter how tempting the proposition.
When he decided not to come after her, she was ashamed of her momentary hope that he’d not give up so easily. But men didn’t fight for strong women; they bedded them to say they had conquered something unattainable. No, the best way to steer clear of disappointment was to stay away from men and keep all emotions in check. Foolish to think his interest in her was serious instead of merely a chance to make a boring journey exciting. Foolish, indeed.
Chapter Nine
A toss-and-turn night called for coffee. Ian also needed to get off the ship. The single horn announcing their arrival in Hamburg sounded a little after 5:00 a.m. according to his pocket watch. That meant he had a chance to get new clothes, a shave, a haircut, and all the things gentlemen of leisure pursued before a big event. Activities he’d been bred for.
But his first stop involved the kitchen. Then he’d find the gorgeous captain and get her seal of approval for his off-ship venture.
“Bon giorno, Signora Bonita,” he called out as he walked through the small doorway.
Bonita dusted flour from her hands and wiped them on her apron. Instead of the shy smiles and blushes she normally granted him, this morning he received no acknowledgement, no eye contact. She treated him like an unwanted person, too lowly for notice.
“May I have a cup of coffee this morning?”
“No, demone,” she spat at him with pure disgust. Demon.
A deep voice let out a laugh, and he noticed Bastille tucked into a corner, mug in hand, a small stool to support him.
“What have I done?” Obviously, he’d committed some sin in her book of proper etiquette to be called such a name.
“You play with my sweet Ella’s emotions.” Her words were partnered with three jabs of a knife in the air in his direction. “She’s no whore or some pretty girl to be mastered.”
Ian snagged a chair from beside the smiling first mate and pulled it up to the prep table. The damned man was enjoying this too much. “I don’t want to master her.”
“No? Then why the games? Tell her straight…. That’s right word?” She looked past him at Bastille. She nodded at whatever answer he provided. It wasn’t a verbal one because Ian heard nothing. “Yes, tell her without games.”
“I mean her no harm. If she wants more, she’s welcome to it. I won’t force her.”
She clucked her tongue at him. “My Ella is special, si?”
He nodded. No use lying to anyone about that. The way the woman said the captain’s nickname reminded him of the shy, reserved way Sorella had come onto the deck the night before as well as the precision with which she’d hurled a knife at him and scragged two men in the week he’d known her. Special, but deadly.
“You take her to this dance, no… erm, ball. It will make her vulnerable. Pretending to feel things for her when you don’t will do the same.”
He understood. Emotions were seen as a distraction and an obstacle to their work. Too bad his heart refused to listen to such things. If only he could will his desire to stop existing. Remove the engulfing urge to get as close as possible when she was near.
Bonita moved away, then, to the coffee pot, not giving him a chance to respond. Words failed him. How did he explain the passions Sorella awoke in him? Until he’d met her, he’d all but dismissed the possibility a woman existed who protected those she loved and believed in the sanctity of her relationships. Women like that were rarer than diamonds from America.
A loud creak rent the air as Bastille rose and walked over to him. “She’s right. Capitano will need someone to watch her back in this den of wolves you’re taking her to. You go somewhere we can’t follow. Will you guard her with your life? Remove her if the situation becomes too much?”
Did they not know their leader? The woman handled people like carcasses. No doubt she’d carve up the whole room of royal attendees and guests with good reason. She equaled a hurricane battering against the Louisiana coastline. She’d ravage anything in her path, at least from what he’d glimpsed. “We are talking about the same woman, right? Your captain seems to be plenty capable of taking care of herself.”
Bonita slid a mug of coffee in front of him. “This is different. Not like the other times when she’s taking out a man who’d harm a little girl or some spy for that awful gang.”
“What’s different?”
Bastille chimed in this time. “It’s not our secret to tell. Just swear you’ll protect her.”
An odd place to be put in, for sure, and he’d probably have a good laugh with Sorella over the whole ordeal later. Still, a good merchant never committed to something that left him in the dark and with no reward. Better to change the subject. “Were you and Sorella ever together?”
The old woman laughed and turned away from them.
The first mate’s face twisted in disgust. “Non, that’s like saying I’m in love with my little sister. Now before you leave tonight, you must meet with me. I’ll give you a few things to take in with you.”
“Scans and searches will be tight.”
“These items won’t be detected. A ring with smoke pellets and an EMP chain that will work as another piece of jewelry. If you don’t know how to use them, ask the captain.”
Ian gritted his teeth. “I know how to use smoke pellets and EMP chains. It’s pretty ironic you’re asking me to protect her when you don’t think I’m capable.”
A raised eyebrow and puffed chest were the physical responses in reaction to his offhand remark. For a moment, the possibility of fists flying amid male tension stood at an all-time high. Then Bastille said, “You’re not a bounty hunter. You admitted that the first day.”
Ah, the challenge. “Yes, but I’ve completed over half a dozen random missions for The Cursed, had guns pointed at me, knife wounds sewn up, and been around people ten times more likely than you to shoot me on sight.”
“Have you killed a man?”
The only question that meant anything to anyone except Luther. In his travels, you were judged on the number of kills, not the number of missions completed without death, without injury. Nor were you judged on the ability to wheel and deal information like Satan trading souls for favors.
Ian took a long drink of his coffee, letting the partially sweet, partially bitter liquid sit on his tongue a moment before swallowing. “I prefer to conclude my jobs without death, to deal in sorrow instead.” Then he locked eyes with Bastill
e to ensure his message was received. “But I’ve watched tons of men die by other’s hands, and I can stomach seeing a man or woman’s light extinguished.”
The statement earned him a handshake. He took it, marveling at how his hand was so much smaller than his companion’s.
“You’ll do, Merchant. I’ll see you later.”
The pound of rocks sitting in his gut lightened as Bastille left the room. Ian went back to his coffee, and Bonita placed a roll in front of him.
“Si, you’ll do.” She leaned in, a small sliver of table separating them, and whisked out a paring knife an inch from his nose. “But if you break my Ella’s heart…I’ll cut yours out.” She moved away immediately, not letting the threat linger. She didn’t need to.
He chose that moment to leave the kitchen and enjoy the rest of his breakfast on the top deck while searching for Sorella. He hadn’t agreed to protect her, but he’d do it simply for an excuse to be close to her.
***
Sorella tapped on the door and waited.
A small voice called out, “Come in.”
Once she stepped inside, she left the door open, if only to give comfort. Closed doors usually meant privacy, but did not always guarantee you’d be left alone.
“You told Bonita you wanted to see me.”
Gretchen sat on the edge of the bed, swinging her feet. In the few days since they’d brought her on board, she’d received new clothes, new shoes, and as many bowls of soup as the cook could get her to eat.
She stood up and curtsied. “I wanted to thank you for rescuing me.”
“It wasn’t a problem.”
“I also want to ask you a question.”
Sorella stepped further into the room, bending down on one knee so they were at eye level. “Anything.”
“Are you a princess?” A pink blush stole into the child’s cheeks as she spoke.
“Why? Do you think I am?”
“I heard a story about a girl who’d be a queen when she married, but she ran away instead. Her hair was like yours, and her eyes were really blue, too.”
It didn’t surprise her in the least. Stories passed along in the Americas were as bad as the tales told in Europe. She’d been to the States several times and had been introduced to dozens of people, members of Congress, world leaders, and many other dignitaries, as the future wife of the president’s son. “Well, thank you, but I’m afraid I’m not a princess anymore.”
“That’s sad, but I think you’re a great captain.”
Sorella smiled. “Thank you. And what would you like to be one day?”
She expected to hear her say a princess or a fancy lady, as such was the way of young girls. Sorella’s youth, outside of weapons training and deportment classes, had involved daydreams of fancy parties and being romanced. Soon, however, these had been replaced with the simple desire to do what she wanted when she wanted it. Too bad you need money for that. Instead of something fanciful, though, Gretchen leaned into her and whispered, “A cook.”
“That’s a very practical choice.”
She nodded, her shy smile producing a little dimple above her mouth. “Yes, then I’d never be hungry.”
“That’s one way to look at it.” A cook rarely went hungry, and in the world they lived in, good cooks were always needed to serve in some capacity. “How about we let Bonita train you?”
Gretchen stepped back, looking at the floor. “I’m not good at anything.”
“Yes, but you’re a member of this crew, and everyone in this crew works. Bonita has little to no help, so having you in the kitchen would make things easier.”
“What if I make a mistake?” The question came out soft and filled with fear. Even her chin quivered.
“Then you’d learn from it.” A captain knew the fear of mistakes. As a child, she’d been on the receiving end of canings and punches, nothing to leave permanent damage, but enough to remind her to avoid making errors in the future. Until his ransom, her brother had taken plenty of those himself for trying to shield her from punishment. “I don’t beat or starve crew members. Here you either pull your weight, or get off the ship. You can go when you wish to. I refuse to keep people against their will or make them do something I wouldn’t do myself.”
Instead of speaking, Gretchen flung herself at Sorella, wrapping her arms around her neck and squeezing her in a hug. Immobilized by the sweet gesture, she stayed in position, not mirroring the girl’s actions, but being a post to inflict affection on.
When Gretchen finally pulled back, she wore a big smile and said, “Can I start now?”
“Yes, you can.” She stood and moved out of the way as the girl started to move toward the door.
Seeing Ian standing in the doorway, they both froze.
“Don’t mind me,” he said, shifting to the side to let the girl pass.
Sorella wanted to ask if he’d heard the whole conversation, but found she didn’t need to.
“Now you’ll have to do what I ask, or I’ll tell the whole crew the captain is a big drip, suckered in by children and handsome men.”
“She’s a little girl, and nothing like that lug I offed for you in Nordberg. What do you want?”
He stepped through the door, filling up the space and reminding her of how small the room really was. “If I recall, I never said I wanted you to off the guy.” He set the coffee cup in his hand down on the small table near the door. “Since I finished my breakfast, I wanted to talk about getting off the ship to prepare for tonight.”
“I have everything I need.”
Shaking his head, he strode closer. Instinctively, she put a hand on the balisong holder at her waist, more to stop herself from reaching out than because she feared him. “You may have what you need, but if I show up in these clothes, they’ll call the coppers.”
She took in his worn jacket, his white shirt dirtied by days of wear, his trousers in need of a wash, and his dusty brown boots. Valid point. “All right, that’s fine. Anything else?”
“Your crew is worried about our meeting with the canary…eh, the singer. They want me to agree to protect you.”
Of course, Bonita and Bastille would enlist him to watch over her. They’d avoided Germany for the last few years because the government wanted her back so badly. Her wedding was still scheduled to take place in six months. All she had to do was stay in hiding for that long; instead, the desire to find her brother had her doing dangerous things. “Did you agree?”
“No, I don’t do anything unless something is in it for me.”
Her fingers twitched, and she tapped her foot on the floor. Damn men who didn’t say what they meant. “And what do you want?”
The question earned her a smile and the presence of his face less than six inches from hers. She wanted to kiss those lips, taste him again, and wondered if she’d taste the coffee he’d drunk earlier. “I want you and me alone in a room for one hour. I want you to tell me everything.”
“Everything?”
“All the things you’re not telling me. Why people are worried about this ball, why that little girl thinks you’re a princess, and what you told Janken to get him to tell us about Luther and Eva.”
“You’re not asking a lot, are you?” she replied with as much sarcasm as she could muster. He was standing too close.
“No, I’m really not because I want other things, too.”
He dared her with those words and the twinkle in his eye. Dared her to ask what those other things were. She refused to give in. “I agree.”
“With what I want or to wanting other things?” He was truly a master at manipulating words, no doubt a formidable merchant.
“I agree to tell you everything. My only condition—we won’t leave until we have a location for The Cursed.”
His turn to extend his hand. “It’s a deal, and I’ll even protect you, too.”
Touching his palm to seal the agreement was a mistake. It cost her a shiver and revea
led how much he affected her. Surprisingly, he didn’t take advantage of the moment, no leaning in for a chaste kiss, no grazing her bosom, nothing more than a handshake and a release.
The fact he seemed unaffected by their momentary connection aggravated her. No sense in letting him have the upper hand. She unclasped her balisong and flipped it out, bringing the tip up under his chin. “When I want your protection, I’ll ask for it.”
She pushed him to the side and walked out. Let him wonder whether she wanted to kill him or not. She had things to do before tonight.
Chapter Ten
Hamburg, Germany
The afternoon had been well spent preparing for the ball. From a haircut to a fine suit, Ian had been lucky enough to have money from Bastille to pay for it all and still have a few papiermarks left to purchase a rose for his lapel. The first mate had promised to ensure a Teslauto would be reserved to take them to the embassy. The auto had arrived five minutes ago, but still no captain. His captain.
He stood on the Liberté’s deck, tapping his foot. Fashionably late was one thing. Too late, and they might draw suspicion. Crew members were gathered on deck as well, no doubt to witness Sorella in all her evening finery. Even if she wore the dress from last night, she’d attract attention immediately.
He glanced out over the city, dotted in twinkling lights. Not far from the docks, he could hear the sounds of people out for the evening, though beggars and thieves roamed within their circles. From above looking down, the beauty of the landscape acted as a mirage against the true horrors remaining after the war. Injured soldiers discarded for youth and those who’d sacrifice without question. Women and children starving in turn, from lack of funds to pay for food after their own men were killed.
