Angela Knight - Burning Up

He abruptly stilled. Chest heaving, he pulled away and looked down at his hands, his expression dark.

He’d forgotten, she realized. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to let go of the rail.

So had she.

“You’ll remember tomorrow,” she said, her breath coming in pants.

His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed.

“Yes.” She moved back to make room for him. “The same trade.”

And maybe tomorrow she’d get farther than his biceps.

“The same trade.” This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. “God help me.”

Ivy took that as a “yes.”

Six days later, Ivy lay panting in Mad Machen’s narrow bed, hoping that he would pray for her, too. In all her life, the only name she’d invoked for help was the legendary Leonardo da Vinci’s, whose war machines had halted the Horde’s progression out of Asia and into Europe for almost fifty years. But da Vinci couldn’t help her. He’d been dead for centuries. Mad Machen . . . very definitely . . . was not.

And he was as hideously clever.

She turned her head, confirming the pale sunlight streaming in through the gallery windows. Only half an hour ago, she’d been in the crow’s nest, looking through the biperspic lenses toward Britain’s western shores, pointing out other sails on the horizon. They didn’t have to search for Meg here—fed by a warm Atlantic current, these waters weren’t cold enough for the giant sharks or the kraken. She’d been thinking of that when she’d skylarked down to the quarterdeck, but Mad Machen hadn’t met her with his usual grin. He’d picked her up and swung her facedown over his shoulder, and Ivy had only just recovered from her shock when she’d realized that he was taking her to his cabin. And for a short time, she’d been tempted to risk everything.

She hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only been a few steps from the bed when he’d asked, “Won’t you pay me to stop?”

Which meant that she’d have to earn her coin back with a kiss.

And so she’d ended up on her back in the bed anyway, fully clothed, Mad Machen’s mouth fastened to hers and his hands fisted beside her shoulders. With her legs around his hips and his heavy weight cradled between her thighs, he’d rocked until the needy ache had broken inside her, until she’d cried out as it shattered her hunger and rattled Ivy to the core. Then his mouth had become slow and languid on hers, as if he’d taken the wet heat from between her legs and alchemized her arousal into a kiss.

Once again, she’d been tempted to risk everything—and once again, she hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only just lifted his head when Duckie had knocked at the door, calling through that Barker needed him topside.

And so now she lay alone, wishing for someone to whom she could pray. Only two days remained of their journey—and twenty days to return. She could not hold out. With every hour, her hunger for him became its own desperation, and she would not take a risk simply because she wanted . . . but this desire had become something more like need , instead.

Turning away from the windows, she buried her face in her hands. She knew the danger of this, could remember so clearly Netta’s grief and devastation when she’d lost her man. If Ivy carried on in this manner, she’d be returning to Fool’s Cove the same way. She needed to find some defense, because her fear of Mad Machen had not proven to be enough of one. Two weeks on his ship, and she’d seen little to justify his reputation. He could be hard and gruff and uncompromising, but not once had she witnessed any cruelty.

Now she risked more than a child. And she didn’t even need to take him inside her body to risk her heart.

With a sigh, she sat up—and was almost thrown out of the bed as Vesuvius canted steeply to port. Ivy grabbed the rail, suddenly realizing that the shouts and running footsteps on the deck above weren’t from the usual shift change. They came more often, were more urgent, and Mad Machen’s voice rose above the rest. Oh, blue.

She leapt to the deck just as someone knocked at the door. Duckie waited outside the cabin, his face flushed and eyes wide. Beyond him, men hurried about, climbing rigging and hauling line.

“Miss Blacksmith, the captain requests that you follow me to the engine room. Mr. Leveque needs your assistance.”

No, Leveque didn’t. The engine room was simply the most secure location on the ship. She nodded. “Lead the way, Mr. Cooper.”

She walked beside him down the passageway leading from beneath the quarterdeck. As soon as she emerged, Ivy glanced up. Standing at the balustrade, a grim-faced Mad Machen met her eyes before tipping his head toward the ladder that would take her below. She didn’t argue, but paused for an instant at the ladder’s head, looking forward.

They were sailing toward a sinking ship. Almost as large as Vesuvius , her masts tilted drunkenly forward, the bowsprit almost parallel with the waterline.

Ivy’s heart lurched. Were they going to help it—or attack it?

Duckie called up from the lower deck. “Miss Blacksmith!”

She hurried down into pandemonium. The gun captains shouted orders, directing teams of men who shoved cannons toward open gunports. Boys raced about, placing buckets of water near the guns, spreading sand on the deck. Men began tying their neck scarves around their ears, and instinctively, Ivy covered hers.

She followed Duckie down another ladder, and the next deck was marginally quieter. Ivy shouted, “Why the cannons? That ship is foundered!”

Duckie shook his head. “It’s a slavers’ trick!” he shouted. “They took the captain in once—they won’t get him again. Quickly, Miss Blacksmith!”

He raced along the passageway to the engine room, and Ivy hurried after him, her mind spinning. She’d heard something like this before. Aboard the airship that had taken her to Fool’s Cove, the crew had been abuzz with reports of ships that used inflatables to lift their stern. When another ship answered their signals for help, the crew was ambushed and boarded, passengers taken as slaves. But like the tales of clockwork armies in Europe and tribes of warrior women in South America, like the stories about giant worms on the Russian steppes, or humans that the Horde had bred to animals—no one had actually seen it for themselves or known someone who had, and so Ivy had dismissed it.

She wouldn’t have believed Mad Machen if he’d told her, either.

Duckie pounded on the engine room door, yelling a stream of French. She heard locks opening from the other side, then Leveque poked his balding head out. He smiled at Ivy and gestured her in.

Quietly, he sat at a small desk and picked up a pipe, puffing out rings of blue smoke. The expensive scent of tobacco filled the room. The engine lay silent. Around them, the hull creaked. Fewer boots trampled the deck above, as if all the men were in position and waiting.

Her heart leapt as a cannon fired, a single shot followed by a muffled cheer. Leveque spoke, and though she didn’t understand anything he said, she gathered by his tone that he was telling her everything would be alright.

She’d have to take his word for it.

Only twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.

He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.

On the main gun deck, the men hadn’t stood down from their positions, though they’d obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen’s men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.