by Zoë Archer
Mikhail didn’t answer, only continued to disassemble and clean gun after gun. They made orderly rows on the table in front of him, their parts laid out, ready to be put back together again. It was easy with guns. Break them apart. Give them a cleaning. Reassemble them. Good as new. Reliable.
“She’ll be staying with Khalida for a while,” Levkov continued. “They’ll be working with al-Rahim’s people to get the tribes to cooperate with each other together.”
Already, Daphne was committing herself to her new role. She never did anything by inches. All or nothing with his professorsha. But she wasn’t his professorsha anymore. He’d half a mind to send her a telegraph from Bangkok, just to see if she’d keep true to her word and answer. But he wouldn’t. No use trying to survive on a diet of crumbs when he’d be satisfied only with the feast. All it would do was remind him of what he couldn’t have, what he’d lost.
“How soon can we leave?” Mikhail asked, rubbing oil into the bolt of a rifle.
A brief silence from Levkov. Then, “Now, if you want it. The ship’s good for a few hundred miles before we’ll need to make bigger repairs.”
“No sense lingering. Tell the helm and crew to make ready for departure.” He checked the rifle. It was ready once again for use. He looked up when Levkov didn’t move. “That was an order, Piotr Romanovich.”
His old friend gave his customary scowl. “You didn’t ask her to stay.”
Mikhail barked out a humorless laugh. “A scholar on a mercenary’s ship. Perfect combination.”
“Won’t know until you try.”
With fast, sharp movements, Mikhail took apart another rifle. “She wouldn’t be happy here. Got her grand ambitions for doing good.”
A stab of envy cut through him, that she’d found a cause she believed in, and wanted to make the world a better place. As he’d once wanted.
“That’s it, then?” asked Levkov.
“That’s it.”
The first mate opened his mouth as if to say something more, then snapped it shut. Thank God. Mikhail had no desire to continue to dwell on all the reasons why he and Daphne had nothing holding them together. Nothing but desire, and affection, and respect. But it wouldn’t be enough, just as she’d said.
Without another word, Levkov left the armory. A few moments later, the ship hummed as its turbines spun to life. The airship came about, heading toward its newest destination, and Mikhail continued to take apart guns, pretending he cared that one rifle stock would need some extra polishing to buff out a gouge along the wood. A little extra work, and it would be as good as new. And only he’d know the damage it had taken.
DAPHNE COULDN’T BEAR the sorrowful looks her parents kept directing at her. Painful enough to feel her own misery at Mikhail’s departure, but the way her mother kept saying, “Darling, we’ve all undergone trials. If you ever want to talk …”
Daphne didn’t want to talk. She wanted solitude. So as the sun dipped lower to the horizon, she climbed one of the remaining towers in al-Rahim’s compound. It offered an uninterrupted view of the desert, and the hills turning to ash with the approach of dusk. The enemy rogue airship had drifted away. Either someone in its crew would fly it as far as it could go without its power source, or it already rested on the desert floor, abandoned. If that were the case, doubtlessly scavengers would be along to pick it clean.
There was no sign of the Bielyi Voron. It had flown on half an hour ago.
Her chest ached, thinking of how she and Mikhail had said goodbye. Or rather, how they hadn’t said goodbye. He’d paced from his quarters and vanished, making no appearance as Daphne, her parents, and their assistants had all boarded the jolly boat. Herrera had waited for nearly fifteen minutes, glancing toward the companionway that led to the cargo bay. At last, she’d had to say, “We ought to get going.” So they did, and she wondered now if the hurt would ever lessen, if she might one day wake up and find herself, at last, numb. She couldn’t hope for happiness.
Where would he go next? The whole world was his. She might picture him anywhere—flying above jagged Chinese limestone mountains, or above the smokestack-crowned cities of the United States. She’d hold that tightly, like a sharp-edged gem that cut her even as she clutched it close. And she hoped that, when she did next go to Medinat al-Kadib, a telegram would be waiting for her.
Though she stood atop a tower, she could still hear the hum of human conversation below as the wounded received medical attention, tents were pitched, and evening meals were made ready. Despite the fierce battle that had been fought hours before, life resumed its normal rhythms. She would have to go down there … eventually.
But as she looked out at the western horizon, watching the descent of the sun and hearing the drone of mundane life, another sound caught her attention. A kind of whooshing sound. Very much like … an airship’s turbines.
Suddenly, directly above her, was the Bielyi Voron. She started, and a great cry arose from the people around the compound. It seemed to appear out of nowhere. She actually rubbed at her eyes, trying to dispel what had to be an illusion. But no, the ship still hovered fifty feet above her.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the cargo doors opened, and a thirty-foot rope tumbled down. And then there was Mikhail, sliding down the rope, his long coat flying around him, looking like a bird of prey swooping from the sky. The rope didn’t extend far enough, but he didn’t slow or stop, merely let go, and jumped the rest of the way.
He landed in a crouch right in front of her, shaking the tower. Then he straightened to his full height.
He was terrifying. And thrilling. And wonderful.
And she couldn’t move a muscle. Not toward him, not away. Only stood and stared, as though caught in the throes of a dream.
“The night sky missing the North Star,” he said without preface. “No guidance, no direction. That’s what it’s like, in here.” He slapped his hand in the center of his chest. “You never would’ve found me crying into my atlas, though. I didn’t much care. Those old dreams—making a difference, protecting my country—all long dead. War and my own greed killed ’em. Turned me rogue. It made me drift like flotsam from one job to the next. Steered by the lure of profit. I thought it was all I needed.” He shook his head. “I was wrong. So damned wrong.”
He stepped closer to her, and her pulse beat so hard she felt as though the earth itself shook.
“It’s all changed,” he continued, his gaze holding hers. “Because of you. You’ve given me back my North Star.” He reached down between them and took her hands between his own, engulfing her with his size and heat. Yet she felt his tremors.
“I want …” His voice roughened, and he had to start again. “I want to join your fight. Protecting those caught in the middle of the war.”
“The fight brought you back,” she said quietly.
“Not the fight,” he answered hotly. “Your fight. I want it to be mine, too.”
“There’s much to be done. Not just here, but all over the world. Lives torn apart by the war.”
“Then we fix them,” he said with complete confidence that the two of them could do just that.
She felt compelled to say, “Not an easy prospect.” Because she wanted no more illusions or deception between them, and what lay ahead would be a continual challenge.
“Nothing worth doing, or having, is simple.” His grin made everything inside her heat and soften. “A professorsha taught me that. Besides,” he added, “if there’s any two people who can take on impossible tasks, it’s you and me. An unbeatable armada of two.”
She liked the sound of that.
“And will your crew be satisfied with this arrangement?”
“To hell with them if they aren’t. There are plenty of nefarious ways an airship crewman can make a living.” He raised a brow. “Trying to talk me out of this?”
“God, no,” she answered at once, appalled by the very notion.
His expression grew tight, focused. “Whatever you need of m
e, I’ll give it to you. My ship, my strength.” He swallowed hard. “My heart. They’re all yours. For as long as you want them.” The trepidation in his eyes nearly undid her. This nearly indestructible man feared what she might say.
She struggled to catch her breath. “And if I want them forever?”
It took him a moment to fully understand her answer. His eyes narrowed. “Honestly?”
“When it comes to you and me,” she said, her throat aching, “I’ll always be honest. And I honestly want and need you, Mikhail. For now. For always.”
A grin spread across his face. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Then I accept your terms, professorsha.”
They kissed, sealing their vow, and the sky darkened with evening, and the world seemed to open with infinite possibility and limitless direction.
EXPLORE THE
ETHER CHRONICLES
If you loved SKIES OF STEEL, don’t miss the rest of Zoë Archer and Nico Rosso’s smart, sexy Ether Chronicles collaboration
Coming in November 2012
NIGHTS OF STEEL
by Nico Rosso
Bounty hunter Anna Blue always finds her fugitive. But her latest mission is filled with mystery—a high price for an eccentric inventor. A twisted trail. And a man tracking her every step. Her biggest competitor in the Western territories, Jack Hawkins, is also hunting the bounty. Two of the best at what they do, neither is willing to back off.
When a rogue Man O’ War flies his airship out of the coastal fog, guns blazing, Anna and Jack are forced to team up, or die. But it isn’t the danger that has them ready to flare like gunpowder. For years they’d circled around each other, but never said a word, thinking their interest was just rivalry. Deeper, though, a hot passion draws them together. Fighters and outsiders, they never thought they’d find a kindred soul. Can they survive this mission long enough to track the most elusive fugitive—their hearts?
Available Now
NIGHT OF FIRE
by Nico Rosso
Night of fire, night of passion
US Army Upland Ranger Tom Knox always knew going home wouldn’t be easy. Three years ago, he skipped town leaving behind the one woman who ever mattered; now that he’s seen the front lines of war, he’s ready to do what he must to win her back.
Rosa Campos is long past wasting tears on Tom Knox, and now that she’s sheriff of Thornville she has more than enough to do. Especially when a three-story rock-eating mining machine barrels toward the town she’s sworn to protect.
Tom’s the last person Rosa expects to see riding to her aid on his ether-borne mechanical horse. She may not be ready to forgive, but Rosa can’t deny that having him at her side brings back blissful memories … even as it reignites a flame more dangerous than the enemy threatening to destroy them both.
SKIES OF FIRE
by Zoë Archer
Man made of metal and flesh
Captain Christopher Redmond has just one weakness: the alluring spy who loved and left him years before … when he was still just a man. Now superhuman, a Man O’ War, made as part of the British Navy’s weapons program, his responsibility is to protect the skies of Europe. If only he could forget Louisa Shaw.
A most inconvenient desire
Louisa, a British Naval Intelligence Agent, has never left a job undone. But when her assignment is compromised, the one man who can help her complete her mission is also the only man ever to tempt her body and heart. As burning skies loom and passion ignites, Louisa and Christopher must slip behind enemy lines if they are to deliver a devastating strike against their foe … and still get out alive.
About the Author
* * *
ZOË ARCHER IS a RITA® Award–nominated author who writes romance novels chock-full of adventure, sexy men, and women who make no apologies for kicking ass. Her books include The Hellraisers paranormal historical series and the acclaimed Blades of the Rose paranormal historical adventure series. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Zoë and her husband, fellow romance author Nico Rosso, live in Los Angeles.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
The Ether Chronicles
by Zoë Archer
Skies of Steel
Skies of Fire
by Nico Rosso
Nights of Steel
Night of Fire
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
By Kerrelyn Sparks
TURN TO DARKNESS
By Jaime Rush
An Excerpt from
THE FORBIDDEN LADY
by Kerrelyn Sparks
(Originally published under the title For Love or Country)
Before New York Times bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks created a world of vampires, there was another world of spies and romance . . .
Keep reading for a look at her very first novel.
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday, August 29, 1769
“I say, dear gel, how much do you cost?”
Virginia’s mouth dropped open. “I—I beg your pardon?”
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You’re a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what is your price?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board The North Star, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks ’til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
“How . . . how dare you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming and—” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder—did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that’s it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for you to admire something disdainfully haughty, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, si
r, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little faux pas. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “C’est la vie and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it Grey Mouton.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You parlez français? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
