by Bec McMaster
tightened and he scrubbed a hand across his mouth.
"Vampires, eh."
"Vampires," she echoed.
"Real actual vampires," he repeated. "Not
like that Drury Lane nonsense. Never thought I'd
see the day where I didn't actually want to hunt
something. But hell... what a sight. What a smell."
His nose wrinkled. "Want a drink?"
"As long as it doesn't have any blood in it."
"I've had enough to recover," he replied,
squatting in front of the liquor cabinet that was
built into the side panels of the room. Glass
chinked and he straightened, staring down at the
bottle in his hand. "Scotch. That ought to take the
edge off things."
Pouring them both a glass, he snagged them in
his fingers and handed her one, sitting beside her.
"To surviving the unsurvivable."
"To killing the unkillable," she added, and
their glasses chinked together in companionable
camaraderie.
"I've radioed ahead to London, whilst you
were tending Debney," Ingrid said. "Given Charlie
and Jack the heads-up on what happened. Garrett
was looking for you. Something about a missing
dirigible the Nighthawks own?"
"Can't imagine where that went," he replied,
offering her a slightly rakish smile that stole her
breath.
Don't be a fool. It's not the first smile you've
ever been given. But Byrnes's smiles were so rare
that they were somewhat shocking in their intensity.
He had the whitest teeth, and looked as though he
intended some sense of mischief when he graced
her with a smile like that.
"The captain's having a minor case of the
conniptions," she pointed out, sipping her Scotch.
She was half tempted to roll her eyes back in her
head. God, that was good. "He seems to think that
he's possibly absconded with the Nightingale
against orders, though he seems to remember
seeing some kind of warrant, and he's fairly certain
the guild master's signature was on it."
"I'll explain matters." Byrnes stretched his
arm across the back of the sofa they shared. "And it
was a good forgery. Garrett won't care. He owes
me a favor or two."
"I thought it was his new toy?" She pointed
out. "Don't men get rather territorial about such
things?"
"Toys can be shared. Garrett will huff and
puff, then ask me how it flew. If it were his wife,
however, that... that would be a different story."
Byrnes's voice softened. "There are some lines a
man doesn't cross, some belongings that a man
doesn't tamper with."
"Perry isn't an object, like a chair," she
pointed out. Leaning back against the chair, she let
her head loll to the side. He was watching her
intently now, his fingers toying with the loose ends
of her hair, and the Scotch held negligently in one
hand.
Byrnes tugged on a lock of her hair. "Don't be
deliberately obtuse. Garrett belongs to her just as
much as she belongs to him." His touch softened. "I
wonder...."
"What?"
"What it would be like to belong to someone."
There was a questioning tone to his voice, but she
wasn't about to believe it.
Ingrid's breath caught. She'd walked into this,
let her defenses down, and now she was trapped
here as Byrnes slid toward her a fraction. "I don't
belong to you," she whispered. "And if you think
I'm falling for that codswallop, then you're
definitely off your game. Caleb Byrnes is a black-
hearted rake who lives for the hunt. Not someone
who dreams of romance."
"Aren't I? I suppose you know best." That
questioning look faded. He smiled again, loose and
relaxed, and instantly back to his old self.
Definitely up to mischief. "It's a good thing I cannot
fool you." The backs of his knuckles brushed
against her shoulder. "It would make you far less
interesting, if you were too easily seduced."
Ingrid swallowed, her lashes fluttering down
as she tracked the movement of his fingers, every
muscle in her body tight with anticipation.
She knew better than to trust his touch, or the
faint self-mocking tone to his voice. What was she
doing?
Something foolish.
Ingrid pushed away and went for the Scotch,
snagging her empty glass between her fingers.
"What's wrong?" Byrnes taunted. "A little hot
under the collar?"
"Weary of wading through sweet nothings,"
she shot back as she poured herself another glass.
"I'm tired, Byrnes, and your insincerity is hardly
convincing. I don't believe you're interested in
exploring forever with me, and if I were to offer
you one suggestion it would be this: what makes
you think I'd want forever either?"
Byrnes stretched one arm along the back of
the daybed, looking coolly unruffled. "Is this a
negotiation?"
"It's... an exploring of options. You want to
bed me," she told him, frustrated by how composed
he looked. Perhaps it was that fact that made him
so irresistible to her: she wanted to ruffle him,
wanted to see him undone, that facade washed
away and replaced by the beating heart within him.
She knew it was there, that passion. She'd seen it
once or twice on their previous case, and it
intrigued her.
"Well, I wouldn't say no," he murmured. "You
and me... We've already proven we'd be an
explosive combination."
"And if you win your three challenges–"
"Of which I am now up to two," he pointed
out.
"Of which you are now up to the second
challenge," she conceded, "then you may get a
chance to do so. Though the first challenge remains
open throughout this case, Byrnes. Renege on your
promise to work with me, and you may kiss your
chance of getting me into bed good-bye."
He considered that, hands clasped between
his knees. "Fine."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." His smile held mischief.
"Because it sounds like you want to fuck me too."
Ingrid shrugged, though her body screamed
yes. It had been a while, and Byrnes was... a little
bit of a secret weakness. "I'm not entirely certain
yet. I want to make sure you're not playing games
with me in response to that situation last year."
And I don't want to find my heart trampled
beneath your boots.
She glanced away. If she were being honest
with herself, she could admit that it would be easy
to fall for him. She'd never met a man so
frustrating, so... challenging. For the first time in
her life she could be herself with a man, and he
actually seemed to like her for it.
"So," she murmured, "give me one good
reason why I should give you a chance to get into
my bed... and I m
ight seriously consider it."
"Because I make your heart race and your
breath catch. And don't bother denying it: I'm a
blue blood. I can hear the pulse thumping through
your veins."
A smile danced over her lips. "Running from
a vampire made my heart race too, Byrnes. Don't
flatter yourself."
"You want me."
Ingrid snorted in a most unladylike manner.
Toying with Byrnes always brought out this side of
her. "Is this a litany you repeat to yourself of
nights, or simply the result of your overexaggerated
sense of importance?"
"Let's examine the evidence then," he shot
back with a devilishly crooked smile. Holding up a
finger, he said, "One, you could have simply
delivered that letter to the doorman at the guild.
Instead you had to sneak in, leave your perfume all
through my room—when you never wear it
normally—and slip the letter under my pillow."
"Maybe it was to prove to myself that I could,
hmm?"
"Or," his voice lowered to a growl, heat
flashing through his pretty blue eyes, "maybe it was
because you knew how much it would provoke
me."
"Maybe," she admitted, sipping her Scotch.
"Provoking you does get me all hot and bothered."
Those blue eyes glittered and he smiled as he
took the empty glass from her and sat it aside.
"Two," he continued, as he slid closer to her, "you
could barely take your eyes off me before, when
you walked in here unannounced."
"You are pretty to look at."
All sharp cheekbones, hard, lean body, and
dangerous grace.
"Three"—his mouth brushed against her ear
—"you wouldn't be keeping me at bay half as much
if some part of you didn't crave me."
She bit her lip, a shiver running over her skin.
True.
"Admit it, Ingrid. You want me in bed with
you."
"Maybe I do want you. But would falling into
bed with you be worth my while? Convince me,
Byrnes."
"And how do I convince you?" The devil had
that look in his eye. "Without any practical
experience?"
"You've got a tongue," she suggested, sitting
back and sliding the toe of her boot up his calf
even as she fanned herself with Ulbricht's secret
folder. "Use it. Tell me how good it would be."
Again that smile. A little thrill went through
her lower abdomen. Byrnes didn't move, however,
just looked at her, and that one look communicated
all manner of suggestions. "I would like to use my
tongue, but I fear communication isn't my best use
of it." His gaze slid lower, down over her breasts
and then back up again: a slow, heated perusal.
"There are other applications where it excels.
Right here. Right now. You... naked and wet
beneath me—"
Her breath caught. The improvised fan in her
hand slowed. "Tempting... but no."
"Damn it, Ingrid." His intensity returned to
her. "Why?"
"Because it suits me."
"You like being chased," he accused.
"And you like chasing."
Those fingers drummed on the table for a
moment, quick flashes of expression crossing his
face one after the other. She could see the moment
he settled back into nonchalance, his mouth
thinning and his eyebrow arching. "I know it's
going to happen, Ingrid. But I can be patient and
wait for you to come to terms with this. Even if it
takes you weeks."
"And then?" she asked softly. "What happens
after we crash and burn?"
That halted the softening of his smile. "We're
both adults, Ingrid. When this ends, it doesn't have
to be messy."
Ingrid pushed to her feet to head toward the
viewing deck. Maybe it was her recent sense of
vulnerability
following
the
telegram
she'd
received, but the idea didn't sit well with her.
"Indeed."
Sometimes she wished he didn’t have to be so
bloody honest all of the time.
LEAVING Debney shivering by the dirigible,
Ingrid and Byrnes headed toward the main
thoroughfare to find him a steam cab.
Byrnes strode with his hands in his pockets at
her side, his gaze turned inward as dawn began
silvering the sky. He looked faintly ridiculous in
Debney's borrowed coat.
"So what's our next move?" Ingrid asked,
feeling equally ridiculous. She'd been forced to
borrow a pair of pants from Debney and a great
cloak that hung around her ankles, covering up
what was left of her pretty ball gown. Fur rimmed
the collar of the cloak, itching her skin. All she
needed was a highwayman's mask.
"Right now?" Byrnes seemed surprised. "As
soon as we get back, I'm going to go deliver the
coded letter to Malloryn, and then I'm going to get
some sleep. It's been a busy couple of days."
"Really?" Ingrid arched a brow. "Considering
the coded papers are stuffed down my corset, I
was planning on giving them to Malloryn to decode
myself."
Byrnes gave her a certain look that made her
catch her breath just a little. "We shall see about
that."
A shadow skittered near her ankle, and
Ingrid's heart felt like it leapt through the back of
her throat. Leaping forward, she found herself on
top of a house's brick wall, balancing precariously,
before she could even think about it.
"What is it?" Byrnes's coattails flared as he
spun, a knife springing to his hand. Prepared to
face danger, he obviously found nothing worth
fighting, and cast her a dubious look.
Oh God. She would never live this down.
Ingrid shut her eyes as the rodent's smell caught her
nostrils. "Nothing. Just a rat."
The expression on his face was almost
laughable. "A rat?" Byrnes's voice was soft. He
sheathed the knife then extended a hand to help her
down.
Ingrid shook her head. A cold flush had
sprung through her veins. She didn't want to get
down. She hadn't seen where it went. "Just give me
a moment, Byrnes."
The way he looked at her, as if making silent
calculations in his head, sometimes made her
nervous. Like now. Then his face cleared; a
decision made. Moving forward, Byrnes swept her
into his arms and turned to stride away from the
mess in the gutter and the small squeaking she
could still hear. A sound that made her feel ill and
forced her arms to lock tightly around his neck as
she tried to look for the rat.
"Ingrid Miller." Byrnes's voice was as soft as
honey, his arms like steel. "Are you going to tell
me that you don't hesitate to launch yourself at a
vampire, and yet a tiny, insignificant rat sets you
quaking
?"
"Shut up."
A brief laugh sounded in his throat, his eyes
crinkling with amusement. "Worry not, fair maid. I
shall save you."
"If you like your teeth where they are, then I
would take my advice," she growled.
Byrnes merely laughed again.
Though she'd been hesitant initially, Ingrid
forced her body to relax. He was taking her away
from the nasty rat, that no doubt had an entire
contingent of friends. Some things were worth
forgiveness. Resting her head on his shoulder, she
let him carry her.
Sensation began to leech into her. Again she
felt that kiss, that sense of longing. Again she just
wished she could let him do to her what was
promised. Ingrid stroked his collar, not daring to
do more, but wishing she could. Falling into bed
with him should be easy, so why did it feel so hard
to take that step?
I don't want to be discarded at the end. Not
like that.
Then what was the answer? Because it was
going to happen. She and Byrnes were burned in
the stars together, a promise made but unfulfilled.
She knew she wouldn't have enough willpower to
last the distance. Ingrid rubbed the gilt thread of
his embroidered collar between her finger and
thumb.
Maybe she should just take the plunge now,
get it over and done with, and move on herself,
before he could?
"So that's what it takes," he said gruffly.
"What do you mean?"
"A little bit of gallantry has you patting me
like a cat." He smiled. "I'm learning your
weaknesses, Miller."
She sighed. So was she.
And she was starting to be afraid that her
most dangerous weakness was one that remained
somewhat unrevealed to her.
"Here," Byrnes said, setting her down on the
footpath with a faint flourish.
Ingrid patted her cloak into place. "Thank
you."
With his hands in his pockets, Byrnes strolled
beside her. "Why are you afraid of rats?"
Just the word sent a shudder of dread through
her. "I'm not."
"Really?"
Ingrid turned her face away, feeling that
queasy sensation return. "I would rather not speak
about it." But that didn't mean that she wouldn't
remember it. Viktor's face sprang to mind, slack
and gaping in the shadows of memory. A little boy,
locked in a cage on the ship the English raiders had
dragged her to as a child. He'd been half-dead
when they put her in the cage next to him, and not
quite all-the-way dead when the ship's rats had
