A noise across the room caught his attention, and he moved quickly to the controls, which had been shoved into a slower function. It was a crude maneuver, used in times of emergency, and he gritted his teeth as he flashed the light around the room. Of course, Emmeline O’Shea would have the wherewithal to engage the emergency procedures on an airship. The engines had been placed into a neutral position, still holding the ship aloft but hovering in a relatively small area.
“Emme!” His shout rang out as he flicked the light back and forth. Another disabled ’ton lay near the door, and he shook his head as he made his way across the room. He admitted a reluctant sense of admiration for Emme’s quick thinking but had to wonder how many ’tons she’d disabled in her life to render them useless so quickly.
What would she do now? Confront Barclay, most likely. His foot was on the bottom stair when he remembered her empty seat in the cabin, specifically the seat next to the window that now held only his travel case.
The few precious minutes he’d wasted outside the lavatory door had given her time to stay ahead of him. His heart picked up its rhythm as he turned and broke into a run to the small room near the cargo hold. He tried the handle, which should have been locked but turned in his hand. It opened an inch but then held fast. Something was wedged underneath it on the other side. The shining brass handle bore telltale scratches from whatever implement Emme had used to unlock it.
He pounded on the door, his fury and fear rising in tandem. “Emmeline! Open this door!” Jump Wings were military grade, hard to maneuver, and specifically fitted to an individual. She couldn’t simply throw on a pair of wings and jump out of a passenger airship.
She wouldn’t.
His heart lodged in his throat.
She would. Of course she would.
He backed up a step and kicked the door hard, satisfied when the hinges gave away enough that he could shove the door open a few more inches. An alarmingly cold blast of air hit his face, and he realized his worst fears were coming to fruition. She was going to jump from the airship. If she hadn’t already.
He shoved with strength borne from fear and dislodged the pole she’d wedged against the door. The room contained rope, tools, and sundry supplies anchored to the walls, and an area that should have held enough tightly folded, compact parachutes for each passenger aboard. Those shelves were empty—Barclay hadn’t lied—but in three specialized compartments were black Jump Wings. The fourth compartment was empty and missing its set of wings.
He rushed to the open door. The world was dark, and he shined the feeble light from his Tesla torch down toward the earth, catching the faintest glint of shiny black Jump Wings as they spiraled down. She was falling fast, much too fast, and he shouted helplessly at her, heart pounding out of his chest. He turned back toward the remaining Jump Wings, shrugged into a set, and fastened its buckles across his chest, abdomen, and around each arm as quickly as he could.
Shouts sounded from out in the hall, and he slammed the ruined door closed before going back to the exit, searching desperately in the black night for a sign of Emme. Feeling faint, desperate, and terrified on every possible level, he rolled from the aircraft, found his bearings in the free fall, and threw open the wings with a loud snap as the segments opened and slid into place.
He’d Wing Jumped enough to be familiar with the process, had even done training exercises with his men at night, but they’d known what they were jumping into. The terrain below was a dark mass of nothingness.
Emme.
He kept searching the area below, confident in his abilities to slow and guide his descent but knowing she was completely, literally untrained. He pulled the wings in and angled for a forward dive, increasing his speed in hopes of catching up to her. He had a rough idea of how far from the ground they’d been flying and adjusted accordingly, counting off several seconds before fully opening the wings again to slow his rapid fall.
Over his shoulder, the moon mercifully inched from behind a cloud, throwing a silver glow to the ground. He noted several things simultaneously. The first was that they were out over the water. The second was the beach; he adjusted the wings to aim for it. The third was Emme, who, to his immense relief, had managed the wings well enough to slow her descent and was also shifting toward the sand and rocks at the water’s edge.
His eyes streamed against the cold wind—they’d not had time to don goggles or proper head gear or gloves—and he squinted, keeping Emme in sight. She pulled on the wings and angled her body toward solid ground. He maintained position directly over her, torn between grim satisfaction that she seemed to be maneuvering the wings, and increasing worry at her erratic movement.
Her wings tipped from one side to the other, violently, and he knew her arms would be straining against the heavy contraption. She was dangerously off-balance, and he couldn’t divine the reason as the winds were steady with relatively little gusting. He saw a dark shape fall as though she’d dropped something, and he realized it was her portmanteau. As he executed a tight spiral and dove again to pick up speed, he saw the luggage hit the rocky beach.
Emme was clear of the water, but his heart lodged in his throat as he watched her try to steady the wings and unfurl them to their fullest as she pulled against the wind and angled her body to make contact feetfirst.
He’d never felt so helpless. He circled and dove, snapping his own wings open wide and pulling so hard his shoulders and chest ached, wondering if he would reach her only to witness her death. At the least, she could have broken bones, untold injuries. And he had no idea where they were.
She finally hit the ground, and he clenched his jaw at her involuntary cry of pain. Cursing and praying simultaneously, he made the rest of his own rapid descent, pulled hard against a gust of wind, and landed thirty feet from her.
His arms and legs were leaden as he fumbled with the fastenings. His fingers were cold and numb, and he stumbled forward across the rocky shoreline, wings dragging and scraping, until he finally released the buckles. He fell to one knee and picked himself up again. He couldn’t reach her quickly enough, couldn’t help her, couldn’t save her . . . His breath came in harsh, desperate gasps, and his lungs burned.
“Emme!” He skidded the last several feet, finally scrambling on hands and knees to her side. She was sitting up, gasping for breath, unable to pull her wrists free of the contraption and unfasten the bindings.
He lunged at her, pulling at the fastenings, his words a hoarse torrent of frustration and bone-deep fear. He knew in the back of his mind that he was ranting, cursing, and not making any sense. He was furious, terrified, and not giving her even a fraction of a second to respond. He finally freed the last of the harness and pulled her arms through, shoving the heavy accessory away, where it clattered against the rocks.
He put his hands on her shoulders, ran them down her arms, her torso, her legs. Her frantic gasps for air began to even out. She moved carefully, which suggested no spinal injury, although he couldn’t be sure. If there were broken bones, though, they would be in her legs. She stayed relatively stationary, placing a hand on his shoulder for balance, until he reached her left ankle and she cried out in pain.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Oliver, Oliver, I am so sorry! I couldn’t . . . I didn’t know where he was taking us . . . I just acted so quickly . . .” Her words came in a torrent, and she sounded much as he had, as though there were a million things to say and no way to express them coherently.
He took a deep breath and sat on the ground next to her, energy stores depleted.
“I am so dreadfully sorry, Oliver. Why on earth did you follow me? I hoped to be gone before you realized . . . You are terrified of heights, and you followed me—Oliver, blast you to Hades, why did you follow me?” She cried hoarsely, her hand clutching his shoulder. “I knew you could handle the captain, and I don’t have time to be abducted,” she babbled. “You were safe. I knew y
ou could manage . . .”
He closed his eyes wearily and wrapped his arms around her middle, pulling her onto his lap. Her tears continued in earnest, and she put her arms tightly around his neck, sobbing.
“Who hates me so much?” she cried. “Why is someone working so hard to destroy one simple visit to a gathering? I am—” Her voice broke. “I am kind. I am a kind person. Who would be so hateful to someone who wants the best of life for everyone?”
His heart cracked, and his own eyes burned. He held her close to his chest and grasped the back of her head and neck, placing a kiss on her tangled hair. “Hush,” he finally managed. “There, now, you’ll make yourself sick.” He rocked slightly and continued to murmur in quiet tones, tapping into a well of patience he didn’t know he possessed. His own feelings were still a mass of anger and fear, but some of the frustration dissipated as he realized she was in agony over the fact he’d followed her out of the airship.
“As if I would let you jump to your death alone,” he said quietly. He rested his cheek against her forehead as she sniffed and her breath hitched. “You should know by now that nothing would stop me from following you.” He paused and closed his eyes. “Emmeline, tonight exceeds even what I’ve come to expect from you.”
Her breathing slowed, but her tears continued to fall onto his neck and roll into the hollow of his throat. “Oh, Oliver. I am so sorry. I will never be able to apologize enough. I just—I was so angry. I knew in my bones that if I didn’t get off that ship, I would never arrive in Edinburgh.
“It is my life—” Her voice broke again. “I have given all that I am to this thing, and that someone wishes to sabotage such a good purpose . . . I do not understand the evil of the hearts of some. It baffles me. It makes no sense. I will die defying somebody’s despicable attempts to destroy me and what I aim to do, but—” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I did not intend for you to make that same choice.”
She sniffled. “Job responsibilities or no, you are not obligated to risk yourself for me.” She lifted her head. “Truly. It is enough. Everything about my life is a jumbled mass of craziness, and if your life is forfeit because of it, because of me . . . I cannot have that.”
He shook his head and placed his hands on either side of her face. “I will not stand aside as the most vibrant, passionate person I know is in danger from those who are not worthy to spend time in her company. Whoever is behind this is foul, and I’ll not see you destroyed at their hands. I will not allow it to happen.”
Her brow wrinkled, and her eyes were glossy with tears. “You need not maintain such fierce devotion to a job.”
He shook his head again. “You cannot possibly believe I’m sitting here with you right now simply because of fealty to my work.”
She grasped his wrist and closed her eyes, causing tears to spill over. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again. She opened her eyes, wide and vulnerable, as though begging him to understand her reasons for her desperate behavior. “I had to do it. I didn’t have time to negotiate with the captain because we were nearly over the water.”
“I know.”
She turned her lips into his palm and kissed it softly, closing her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered against his skin.
“Emme, I understand why you did it. Don’t apologize anymore. I forgive you.” He meant the last as an attempt at levity, hoping for a smile.
She opened her eyes, and the sad regret there gave him pause. She was so different from the woman he thought he’d known. Far from the entitled person he’d decided she was, her passion for others ruled her head and her heart. Her biggest regret from her insane airship bail was for him.
He wiped her tears with his thumbs, reluctant to lower his hands. Her eyes flickered from his to his mouth, and she inhaled deeply, slowly. It was going to happen, inevitable, really, he decided. Perhaps on some level he figured he’d known from the very first time he’d thrown her over his shoulder that someday he would kiss Emme O’Shea.
She leaned into him, her arms tightening, and he needed no further encouragement. He met her lips with his, fitting them together perfectly, like two parts of a now-completed whole. He carefully pulled her closer, wrapping his arm around her and slanting his lips across hers while shoving his hand into the glorious mass of her unbound hair, her pins having been lost several hundred feet in the air.
He had wanted to kiss her forever. Her response was equally passionate and unrestrained but somehow even better than he could have imagined. Perhaps they were giddy to simply be alive, but he allowed himself to enjoy the fact that she met his ardor completely.
She pulled back and eventually opened her eyes. She exhaled softly against his lips and again brushed her mouth against his in the lightest of caresses. “You’re very good at that,” she whispered.
He smiled against her mouth. “So are you.”
“I don’t suppose we can just stay here for a while.”
“Here? On the rocky beach?”
“Yes.”
“No,” he sighed, “we should move. If we can remain hidden, this may be a better strategy for avoiding your enemies. I highly doubt they would have predicted such a turn of events.”
She shifted in his arms, one hand cupping the back of his neck. She rested her head against his shoulder, and her whole body seemed more languid, as if all of her energy had drained from her in one moment.
He smiled. “Now she wants to rest,” he murmured, rubbing his hand along her side, amazed she had come through the fall relatively unscathed. “Does your ankle hurt still?”
“Yes.” She nodded as strands of her hair lifted in the wind and snagged on his stubble. “Most abominably.” She lifted her head. “Not to worry, however. I shall find a walking stick, and we’ll be on our way.”
He raised one brow, which she regarded with a scowl. It was a pattern he was beginning to recognize. “A walking stick will solve the problem?”
“Yes.”
“You’re indignant.”
“You’re insulting my plan.”
“No, no, it’s a perfectly sound plan. But, Miss O’Shea, I suspect you have a broken bone inside that stylish riding boot. We may require something more substantial than a walking stick. For now, I’ll carry you on my back until we can locate civilization.”
She bit her lip. “I’d rather you carry my portmanteau, if you don’t mind.”
He remembered her mad tumble from the sky, off-balance from that blasted piece of luggage. “How were you carrying that?”
“I’d fashioned a length of rope around the handles and tied it to my waist and balanced it between my knees. The knot began slipping, and I finally had to let it fall.”
“Thankfully,” he muttered. “If you’d tried to land while still maneuvering that thing—”
“I couldn’t leave it behind. It contains the Blackwell family diaries and all of my documentation for my address to the international assembly.”
He managed a smile. “Priorities.”
“You may find it ridiculous, but I should be quite lost without that bag. It would negate all of this effort, which would be a shame.”
He inclined his head. “We are in total agreement on that score. To waste the efforts of this night would be a tragedy.”
“So you’ll carry the portmanteau?”
“No. I’ll carry you.”
Her lips twitched in a smile. “As you said—priorities.”
Emme’s ankle throbbed until she thought she’d be sick. The crushing pain added to the terror still racing through her because she’d jumped from an airship, making her dizzy and miserable.
Oliver had told her to stop apologizing, but she’d known he had an aversion to heights and Wing Jumping. She’d had no other options. She had hoped he wouldn’t follow her, that by the time he realized what she’d done, the ship would be too far out over open water to ev
en allow him the option.
He carried her on his back for nearly a mile, with her carrying the portmanteau and having him pause so she could switch it between her hands, until he began to stagger and she finally insisted they stop.
The world was still dark, and rolling meadows stretched into the distance. Using her scriber, they’d been able to determine a rough idea of their location, but it was far from precise. Oliver estimated their walking distance from the nearest city at one hour and had fashioned a walking stick for her from a gnarled tree limb.
“My ankle is not broken,” she repeated as they stood at the side of the road.
He studied her with his hands on his hips. “You cannot move it an inch without screaming in pain.”
She frowned. “I wouldn’t say I’ve been screaming in pain—”
He looked at her flatly. “You’ve been screaming in pain.” He’d insisted earlier that she keep her boot on, knowing once she removed it, her ankle would swell.
She bent down and placed a tentative hold on her ankle, testing it from every angle with her fingertips and biting her lip against the pain. She straightened and said, “Nothing grinds together, and there are no protruding bones. It is merely a sprain.”
“Also no small thing.”
He massaged the back of his neck, and if she weren’t so distracted by her own discomfort, she’d have offered to do it for him. The kiss had been beyond description, and quite likely the only thing that could have distracted her from the pain not only in her ankle but in her shoulders and back as well. She’d decided she could fashion a career out of kissing Oliver Reed and be forever content.
He looked into the distance and then behind them. A light rain had begun to fall, and he motioned toward a nearby copse of trees. “We’ll hunker down there until either an opportunity presents itself or I’m struck with a sudden flash of brilliance.”
Brass Carriages and Glass Hearts Page 11
