She stared at the thing in her hand and opened her mouth, but then closed it again and simply flicked the fan open instead. Truth was indeed stranger than fiction. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside, but as her companion didn’t seem inclined to share in her mirth at the moment, she swallowed it back and fanned herself.
She saw out her window that they were nearing the airfield. She ought to have been relieved, but oddly enough, the tight energy that remained in the carriage was intriguing, the warmth less intrusive.
The vehicle rolled to a stop with a hiss of steam, and Oliver exited first, then took her hand as she climbed down. With a small, awkward nod, she folded the fan and returned it to him. He raised one brow and put it back in his inner jacket pocket. She pursed her lips to hold back her smile. His expression didn’t change, but he winked at her and moved around to the back of the carriage to give instructions to the gathering airstrip attendants.
Her heart thumped hard in her chest, and she wordlessly reached back into the carriage for her portmanteau. She saw his hat on the seat and picked it up, noting the smooth sensation of the fabric beneath her fingertips. She examined it, taking in the clean lines and absence of frippery or adornment. It suited the man quite well, she decided as she looked at him directing the transfer of her multitudinous trunks. Two of them were to be shipped directly to the ISRO building in Edinburgh, but before she could comment on it, he had already delivered the information to the attendants, along with the accompanying paperwork.
His glance flicked to her, as though to assure himself of her whereabouts, as he explained the last of the instructions for the remainder of the luggage. She made her way closer to him, figuring if she stayed by his side, his attention wouldn’t be fractured as though looking after an errant child. She was struck by the utter insanity of the moment; a month before, she would have laid down on a train track before lifting so much as a finger to make Oliver Reed’s life easier.
She stood next to him as he tested the locks on the trunks before allowing the ’tons to take them away. The other pile of luggage was gathered into a wagon to take to their airship, which was a hive of activity with airfield workers loading trunks and cases into the cargo hold. One of the boxes slipped and nearly fell from the wagon, and Oliver barked a sharp command at the attendant as he grasped Emme’s elbow and ushered her toward the passenger stairs.
His eyes swept the area as he absently took the hat Emme handed him. The airship loomed large above them, the Pickett logo prominent, and Oliver looked up at the enormous balloon.
Emme watched him for a moment before asking, “Have you not flown much?”
He frowned. “I fly frequently.” His free hand gripped the rail as they began climbing the stairs.
“You do not seem comfortable with it,” she observed, wondering if she would upset his masculine sensibilities by pointing it out.
“I said I fly frequently. I do not claim to enjoy it.”
“Excellent,” she said brightly. They drew near the hull but were forced to wait as the line slowed. “Finally, circumstances in which I have the upper hand.”
He shook his head as he positioned her ahead of him and reached his arms around her to grip the handrails on either side. She realized that rather than doing so out of fear, he had caged himself around her like a shield. She gripped her portmanteau with both hands, struck by the solemnity of the moment, by the lengths to which he was willing to go to protect her life. Much to her surprise, it worried her. The thought of him injured or worse while keeping her safe caused a lump to form in her throat, and she swallowed past it.
“You finally have the upper hand?” he murmured close to her ear because she stood one step above him. “What you don’t seem to realize, Miss O’Shea, is that you always do.”
His nearness provided a combination of comfort and disquiet. “Given that you’re a military man, discomfort with heights must have been a nuisance. Did your training involve air-jumping?”
He nodded, a telltale tightening of his jaw betraying his thoughts on the matter. “We trained in both traditional parachute and Jump Wings.”
Her brow lifted in surprise. “My goodness, the thought of leaping from anything using Jump Wings frightens even me.” Jump Wings were mechanical contraptions that strapped onto the arms and around the torso and, when unfurled, allowed the wearer to float to the ground. They were notoriously heavy, however, and difficult to maneuver without a fair amount of strength.
He nodded and glanced at her askance. His lips twitched, just short of a smile. “Even you,” he echoed. “I suppose I should be grateful. If I never use Jump Wings again, it would be too soon.”
Standing on the airship steps, his arms enclosing her in a safe cocoon, she felt content. She looked at him, noting the smoothly shaved skin along his jaw and the contrast between his skin and the crisp white collar of his shirt. He was a distressed damsel’s dream come true, and if she were the distressed sort, her heart might flutter at the close proximity. She noted the subtle smell of his shaving soap, the warmth of his body as it protected her from a light breeze, the arms that were nearly closed around her in an embrace.
Fortunate she was that her feelings for the man were professional. The fact that she was so aware of him spoke volumes about her biological state of affairs. Perhaps when the Summit was finished, she would consider suitors. Clearly, it was time.
Oliver settled next to Emme in the upper passenger section of the comfortable, classically appointed Pickett airship leaving for Edinburgh. The cabin was sparsely occupied, the bulk of the passengers seated one deck below in equally well-appointed, if not slightly smaller seating. A mild weather disturbance was predicted, but as Emme had planned from the beginning to arrive at the Summit’s festivities early, a small delay was not an issue for concern.
He sat in the aisle seat, she in the middle, and the seat next to the windows held her portmanteau containing all of her papers and the two old Blackwell diaries that discussed the “family condition.” His smaller travel case sat beside hers, looking inconsequential.
Her knee bounced restlessly, occasionally bumping against his, and he finally clamped his hand down on her leg, which was encased in formfitting breeches. He’d acted instinctively, casually, to calm her or at least keep her from jostling his leg, but as his fingers closed around her knee, he felt an unexpected, dangerous urge to leave his hand there. If he shifted closer to her, she could nestle beneath his arm, perhaps even rest against his shoulder.
He deliberately moved his hand. No sense in complicating their current situation even further by completely destroying all professional decorum and risking her wrath. Their time spent together the last few days—time spent companionably and without hostility—had led them both to unsteady ground where, against all earthly odds, they’d begun to find each other attractive. She was single-minded, however, and determined to execute her planned course. An attraction to him might be diverting for her, but he knew better than anyone that if something stood in her way, she’d crush it.
Therefore, no knee-holding, no comfortable snuggling while en route to her destiny, no impossible—and highly inconvenient, if he were honest—flirtation could take place in their odd relationship. Additionally, he forced himself to remember she was his to protect, and he could little afford the distraction. She was his assignment, and her enemies were desperate to keep her away from the Summit. Feelings that reached beyond the bounds of strict professionalism could undermine his efforts to keep her from harm.
She was scowling at him, and he lifted a brow. “I apologize if my overwrought nerves are bothersome.” She began bouncing her knee again.
He fought a smile and forced himself not to pat her knee again. “Do try to rest. The security team at the airfield conducted an additional sweep of the ship before we lifted off, and I’m confident we are safe. Aside from some possible bad weather, we should enjoy an uneventful flight.”
She sighed and squeezed her eyes closed. His mouth twitched in a smile as he watched her dramatic attempts to relax, and when she opened her eyes with another sigh, he shook his head. “That was pathetic, Miss O’Shea. Perhaps your cousin might be prevailed upon to instruct you in meditation techniques.”
She made a face at him. “She’s instructed me more than once, I’ll have you know. I just . . . I’m restless.”
“I am guessing you didn’t sleep well last night—another reason why it would be to your benefit to rest now.”
“You didn’t sleep well either.”
“Why do you draw that conclusion?”
“Your eyes.”
“What about them?”
“They’re tired.”
He smiled. “My mother made that observation when I was young. She frequently told me I had tired eyes.”
Her mouth quirked up. “I imagine you were a serious child. Probably lost sleep while envisioning your future as a law-enforcing tyrant.”
He laughed softly. “Believe it or not, my dream as a child was not to be a detective. I wanted to be a train conductor.”
She tilted her head. “How adorably normal! I’m not certain I believe you.”
He put a hand to his heart. “My mother would attest to it.”
She relaxed against the seat, angling her body toward him. “If I should, by some miracle, actually sleep, please tell the flight attendant to leave a tin of crackers and soda water.”
“You do not want an entire meal?”
“No. But I suspect I’ll be ready for the snack in a few hours.” She took a deep breath and slowly released it, allowing her eyelids to drift softly closed.
They sat in comfortable silence, and as Oliver relaxed, he wondered if he might be on the verge of sleep himself. As long as they were safe in the cabin, high in the air, he could afford a few hours of rest. The Stirling Engine that powered the ship’s propellers hummed quietly in the night, and the ship rose and descended as it navigated the reported stormy weather.
They had been in the air for a few hours when a slow sense of unease washed over him. He’d dozed in and out of sleep, but something felt wrong. He frowned, listening carefully, and took a quick look around the cabin’s interior. The lights were low, and the handful of passengers were sleeping.
Emme stirred and stretched, but stilled midmovement and her eyes shot to his. “We’re turning.”
He nodded noncommittally. “Another maneuver around the storm most likely.” No, something was wrong, and his stomach tightened.
Emme straightened and reached for the window shade, lifting the curtain and peering out. She looked down, and then up, and her fingers tightened into a fist. “Oliver,” she murmured, “the sky is clear, and we are turning east.”
He didn’t waste time arguing but rose and crossed the aisle to the empty row of seats adjacent theirs. His heart quickened. There might be a dozen explanations—perhaps weather instrumentation showed evidence of a worsening storm ahead and the captain thought to skirt it.
He looked back at Emme, whose eyes were wide. “We must speak with the captain,” she told him. “Something feels . . .”
He understood completely but didn’t want to escalate her anxiety. “I’ll speak with him. You wait here.”
“No.” She stood and exited their row, stepping ahead of him down the aisle. She stopped a ’ton who was preparing to deliver tea. “Why has the captain diverted our course?”
Oliver caught up to Emme as the ’ton regarded her silently, cogs whirring. “I am unware of course alteration,” he answered finally.
“Step aside.” Oliver propelled Emme toward the door leading to the outer deck and stairs up to the wheelhouse. The outer deck was enclosed but felt significantly cooler than the interior cabin. Emme held her arms tightly against her chest as they climbed the stairs, but whether from cold or worry he didn’t know.
“Do not fret unless we find reason.” He raised his brows and waited for a response. She looked at him, her lips tightened. When they reached the top step, she passed a shaking hand across her forehead.
He knocked firmly on the wheelhouse door, then spied movement through the window. The polished wood and shining brass handles matched the rest of the tastefully decorated craft, the hallmark of Pickett Airfleet. The door opened, revealing a man Oliver recognized.
“Ensign Barclay?” He’d known the man in India but hadn’t formed a favorable opinion of him. He was cagey, always giving Oliver the impression of untrustworthiness. He was slight and possessed a shrewd air. He reminded Oliver of a weasel.
The man grinned. “It’s ‘Captain’ now, Reed. ‘Inspector’ Reed, I hear.”
“How long have you been piloting?” Oliver studied the man, alarm bells sounding in his head. “Mr. Pickett hired you?”
“Of course. Pickett hires all his captains.” Barclay smiled. “A new assignment, it is.”
“We’re flying off course,” Emme interjected. “Why?”
Barclay turned his attention to Emme, studying her with beady eyes.
Oliver felt her tense, but she waited for the man to answer her question.
“Miss O’Shea, we are not flying off course but merely avoiding the storm. We are a short hour outside Edinburgh as we speak.”
“I wish to see your weather charts.”
His eyes narrowed at her, and he didn’t bother with a smile. “And I’ll be askin’ you to return to the cabin.”
“Let me see the charts, Barclay,” Oliver said, “and we’ll return to the cabin. If we’re truly still headed for Edinburgh, you’ve no reason not to prove it.”
“This is my domain, Reed, and you’ll return immediately to your seats or I’ll have you detained in the brig by security ’tons.”
Emme shook her head, her lips thinned and tight with anger. “Daniel Pickett is my cousin’s husband, and your days as a pilot for this airline are numbered. If you truly are in his employ.”
She stormed down the stairs, and Oliver looked at Barclay, whose expression was thunderous as he watched Emme’s descent. A sickening feeling settled into his gut. “Where are you taking this ship, Barclay?”
Barclay turned his attention back to Oliver. “You’ll know when we arrive.”
Oliver grabbed the man by his lapels and pulled him close. “You’ll tell me now.”
Vindictive satisfaction crossed Barclay’s features. “Portugal.”
Oliver’s mouth slackened. “Por . . . Portugal?” He shook the smaller man. “Who is paying you to take us there?”
“I follow orders of some powerful people, Reed. Release me immediately.”
“I am placing you under arrest, Barclay, and demand you immediately set course for Edinburgh.” Oliver’s temperature rose, and he felt a vein throb in his temple.
Barclay broke Oliver’s grip and stepped back with a sneer, holding a ray gun—the kind Oliver saw only on the black market.
Oliver inched his hand slowly toward the holster at his side but stopped when Barclay’s eyes widened and he lunged forward, his hand steady on his gun.
“Get back to the cabin,” Barclay ground out through his teeth. “And don’t even think about parachuting. I had them removed. The only thing on board are Jump Wings, and I doubt your pretty friend knows how to maneuver them.”
Oliver stared at the man, breathing hard. “I suggest you enjoy your final days of free
dom, you fool. You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”
Barclay grinned. “Wish I could see Pickett’s face when he realizes one of his fleet disappeared right from under his nose, and with his best friend aboard. Pity you won’t be there to see his face, either.”
“Who hired you?”
Barclay’s grin faded. “Get out of my wheelhouse.” He put the gun in Oliver’s ribs and shoved. “Now.”
Oliver stared at him for a long moment before heading back down the stairs to the passenger cabin. He pulled his scriber from his pocket only to realize he had no signal. They were beyond the Tesla coils’ reach, even if he could plug into a stationary charger. He would have to devise a plan on his own to disarm Barclay and take control of the ship.
He ran a hand through his hair, a sense of urgency filling him, along with a heavy dose of hopelessness. Emme was going to be beside herself, and strangling Barclay would be first on her list of things to do.
He entered the cabin and made his way to their row only to find it empty. He clutched the back of his seat, staring. His travel case was still by the window, but Emme’s portmanteau was gone. Where on earth would she go? They were hundreds of feet in the air.
The lavatory. That must be it. He hurried to the small compartment at the end of the cabin, relieved to find it locked. She must be inside. He stood for a few awkward minutes until the door finally opened, but an older man exited, frowning as Oliver gaped at him.
Surely, surely she wouldn’t . . .
He told himself not to panic as he jogged the length of the cabin aisle to the exit. He took the stairs to the lower decks and began searching. Emme didn’t know there weren’t any parachutes aboard, and by her own admission, she’d never used Jump Wings. He passed a small infirmary and the cargo-hold doors, rounding the corner. His stomach lurched as he felt the ship jolt, and the hum of the Stirling Engine lowered in pitch.
He ran for the engine room, frowning at the lack of light within. Someone had switched off the lamps, and he tripped over one inert ’ton who lay near the Stirling Engine oil drum. Swearing, he pulled a small torch from his pocket. The ’ton’s back panel had been pried open, as evidenced by the bent metal, and the function tins had been pulled free, tossed on the floor beside the robot.
Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts Page 10
