Skies of Fire (10 page)

“
I’m
stubborn?” He laughed again. “This from the woman who, when she was denied entrance to view the Duke of Gorham’s erotic automata collection because it might offend her genteel sensibilities, broke into his London mansion in the dead of night, just for a peek.”

“My memory fails me.” She tapped her finger against her chin. “Yet I seem to recall you were very appreciative of the private tour. Not a word of reproof against me. Perhaps one or two at the beginning of the escapade, but assuredly not when you saw that Indian automaton, the one demonstrating postures from the
Kama Sutra
. That one seemed to pique your interest.”

They had, in fact, been so overcome with desire, they’d very quietly enacted a few of those postures, right there on the hand-knotted Oushak carpet. Images inundated her now, remembering their fevered urgency, their partially-clothed bodies illuminated only by the pale blue glow of her quartz torch.

The very same images had to be engulfing Christopher, as well. His breathing roughened, and his cheeks darkened.

“We’re equally culpable.” His voice was a rumble.

“In that, at least.” She, herself, sounded breathless. She was acutely conscious of the nearby bed, of the tension between them, and the omnipresent press of shared history. “A morally suspect spy and an impossibly tenacious airship captain. Who better to steal into the depths of enemy territory and destroy what they desperately need?”

His gaze continued to hold hers. “I’d say we’re the perfect lunatics for the job.”

T
HE OBSTACLES IN their path were numerous, dangerous. And enigmatic.

Locating the munitions plant was one such hurdle. Conquer that, and there stood another: How were they to raze the factory?

Louisa balanced on the rear two legs of her chair, her heels propped on the table. “What are the
Demeter
’s armaments?”

“Sixteen six-inch and four fourteen-inch guns. Four Gatling guns mounted topside for closer combat.” Christopher paced around his quarters. He’d shed his coat, and in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat she could see even more the changes the Man O’ War process had wrought on his body. His fine white cotton shirt pulled against the hard muscles of his arms, and the dark blue wool waistcoat and its brass buckles emphasized both the breadth of his shoulders and the tapering narrowness of his waist.

When he turned away as he paced, she indulged herself and took a good look at his arse. Snug wool trousers cupped what had to be the most delectably firm backside she’d ever seen.

Good God, she was no better than a stevedore leering at the girls selling oysters.

But, oh, she’d liked digging her nails into his arse when he was inside her, urging him on, feeling his thrusts. Would it be different now, with the transformation he’d undergone? More aggressive? Rougher?

She bit her lip. That sounded heavenly.

Unaware of her thoughts, he continued, “The crew has access to ether rifles and pistols, as well.”

“What about . . .” She cleared her throat, her voice having gone raspy. “What about aerial bombardment of a target on land? Is the
Demeter
equipped to drop bombs?”

“We’re capable of loading and unloading cargo, but that’s it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “D’you mean to say that there are other navies that actually use such heinous practices?”

She shrugged. “This is war. Technology evolves faster than morals.”

“Let’s hope Britain doesn’t descend to that kind of barbarism. I didn’t join the Navy to play Lord Destructor on high, leveling troops or, God, killing civilians from some comfortable, removed distance.” He made a noise of disgust.

“Whether you or I agree with the ethos doesn’t matter. That kind of warfare is almost here. In fact”—she tipped forward, bringing the front two legs of her chair back down onto the floor with a bang—“I’d be willing to wager a whole quarter’s pay that they’re making that kind of aerial bombs at the munitions plant. Makes sense. They’re going to great lengths to keep its location secret. Why construct an armaments factory so far away from military installations unless the armaments themselves are highly dangerous—and classified?”

Christopher’s mouth flattened into a line. “Then we find that factory and wipe it from the earth.”

“But it’s the
how
of it I’m trying to determine.” She pushed to her feet. Looking at the plans, she noted what must be ground gun installations. “If we positioned the
Demeter
right beside the munitions plant and simply unloaded all our guns into them, without a doubt their ground defense would shoot us down before we could do enough real damage.”

“Our heavy guns are all ether powered.”

“Still won’t be enough. This,” she said, pointing to the schematic, “is solid stone, doubtless several yards thick. We’ve already talked about it. They’d make it impervious to an airship’s attack. The only way to take it down is from the inside. This is a state-of-the-art facility. Sabotage would be out of the question, so I know I’d have to bring my own explosives in.”

He raised a brow. “Planting bombs was your strategy all along, before the
Demeter
came along.”

“It was, but I’d hoped to take advantage of her strength to help me in my mission.”

“
Our
mission,” he said. “And with what were you intending to construct these bombs, had our paths not fortuitously crossed?”

She grinned. “I earned very high marks in my explosive-device training back at Greenwich. With a few key elements, most of which I can scrounge or concoct, I can build a bomb that would turn the Black Forest into the Black Matchsticks.”

He rolled his eyes. “Only you would boast about your bomb-making skills.”

“Remember that time I tried to cook?
Tournedos Mirabeau
. Nearly burned your lodgings down.”

“And yourself. Your skirts caught on fire.”

“Which you tore off and threw out the window. Scared the bobby outside half to death.”

It was not her most dignified moment, in a life frequently characterized by a shortage of dignity. “I may not be able to cook a meal,” she continued, “but I
can
cook explosive devices.”

He looked thoughtful, then strode to the door and opened it. “Follow me.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’re in espionage, so I suppose it can’t be helped that you aren’t very trusting. In this instance, though, you’re going to have to be.”

Back through the ship’s passages they went. She mentally reviewed the schematics of the
Demeter
, trying to ascertain their destination. Admittedly, when she’d looked at the plans, she’d been concerning herself more with all the places on the ship Christopher would visit frequently. But she didn’t recognize the passageway down which he now led her.

He stopped before a door, then nodded toward it. “Go on. Open it.”

“There isn’t a famished tiger behind this door, is there?”

“His roaring at night is so tedious. Now, open it.”

She did so. And clapped her hands together like a girl stepping into a toyshop.

It was a long chamber, almost the length of the ship, and lined with racks. Within the racks were cannon shells.

Christopher grinned. “Welcome to your kitchen.”

Chapter Six

D
ANGER LAY AS close as the nearby mountains, looming and gray. Christopher couldn’t be at rest, not so long as his ship and crew were imperiled. Louisa was on his ship, too. It was his responsibility to keep her protected. Even had they been far from any ship, so long as she was near, he had to ensure her safety.

His duties kept him occupied all day. The repairing of an airship wasn’t an easy matter, and though his crew and the master carpenter had been well-trained, he found himself called upon continually to make decisions and direct operations. He remained on his feet throughout the day and even took his midday meal standing up.

Despite the fullness of his hours, he continually found himself walking down the passageway that led to the magazine.

He stepped inside and watched Louisa as she worked.

“Is the soup ready yet?”

He stepped into the chamber and surveyed her workspace. Someone had procured her a table, now covered with a waxed canvas cloth, and here she sat. A series of mirrors and prisms had been set up to bring the sunlight into the magazine, illuminating innumerable parts spread out upon the table. Wires, disassembled shells, and clockwork gears formed a chaotic mass that he couldn’t decipher. It had to make sense to Louisa, for she bent over this jumble with a frown of concentration.

“You’d better take tea,” she muttered without looking up. “It’s going to be a while.”

Reflected light flared over the lenses of her spectacles as she tightened the nut around a bolt joining two pieces of metal. More tools were arrayed beside her, including what looked like a watchmaker’s screwdriver and pliers, a soldering iron, and a ebony-handled straight razor.

He picked up the razor and examined the handle.
To CR, Stay sharp, Love, LS.

“This is mine.” He kept it and the rest of his toiletries in a locked cabinet.

She did glance up then, briefly. “I thought it would be impolite if I asked one of the crew for their razors.”

“But theft from me isn’t impolite.”

“Requisitioning, not stealing.” Showing no remorse, she returned to her work, her hands busy with minute pins and screws. She’d taken the mass of her hair and fastened it up to keep it out of the way, but her efforts had been hasty, and several loose tendrils curled around her face and down the smooth line of her neck.

The urge to run the tips of his fingers along that silken curve made him knot his hands into fists.

“Tell me how I can help,” he said. “More shells. Other materials from the ship.”

“A cup of tea would set my heart aflutter.”

He scowled. “Perhaps you didn’t see the bars on my sleeve.” He held them up. “Three of them.”

“You asked.”

“I’ll send a boy down to wait on you.” Annoyed at how quickly he rose to the bait, he headed toward the door.

“Don’t need waiting on,” she called after him. “Just a cup of tea. Extra sweet.”

He was already out in the passageway, so she couldn’t hear his muttered, “I remember.” He used to tease her that she wouldn’t have a single nub of a tooth left, the way she drank her sugary tea.

Allow me this much,
she’d retort.
It’s my one vice.

Your most innocuous vice,
he would answer.

I’ll show you vice
. And then she’d done just that.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But it was no good. No matter where he was on the ship, no matter how entrenched in his duties, her presence haunted him. All he had to do was walk fifty yards, and he could see her again.

His anger at her past desertion kept slipping from his grasp, and their recent conversations only proved that he still loved talking with her, the dance and play of their words. Enjoying her company felt like self-betrayal, leading himself through a treacherous, stormy sky.

Returning topside, he continued to supervise the repairs, answering a hundred questions an hour. The smell of wood and metal hung over the ship, familiar. He drew it deep into his lungs. And yet he caught the faint scent of jasmine—her favorite fragrance. He dismissed the idea. There were several decks that lay between them, and even with his heightened senses, it would be ridiculous to think he could catch her scent all the way up there. Besides, she’d been on a covert mission. Unlikely that she’d periodically doused herself with toilet water.

Still, she formed a bright phantom at the back of his mind, impossible to ignore.

When afternoon light stretched shadows across the deck, he ventured back below. Back to the magazine, and her.

He found her standing with her back to the door, hands on her hips. She faced the table. On it sat an assembled mass of wires, tubes, brass, and wood. The object nearly covered the entire table. The bomb.

“That’s not the posture of a woman reveling in her success.”

She glanced over her shoulder at his approach, then back at her handiwork. “I haven’t armed it yet, but don’t break out the celebratory rum anytime soon.”

“It’s finished, isn’t it? Your work is complete. Though it’ll be damned tough to sneak something that big into the munitions plant.”

“I can’t make it any smaller. Not if I want it to have enough force to damage the internal structures of the factory.”

He edged her aside and picked up the bomb easily. “I can carry it.”

She stared at him for a moment, and he remembered that she hadn’t truly seen a demonstration of his Man O’ War strength. Lightly, he set the explosive device back down onto the table.

“The ship will need her captain during the operation. You’ll be wanted up here, not on the ground.”

“Mr. Pullman is prepared to captain the ship if I’m needed elsewhere.”

“And you’re willing to play stevedore?”

“Whatever the operation necessitates.” He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to scuttle the mission?”

“We may have to.” She shook her head. “Bad news, Captain.”

“Tell me.”

“We need
three
of these bombs to destroy the munitions plant.”

He cursed. “Even my strongest crewmen couldn’t lift those things. Certainly not far enough.”

Swearing, she kicked the leg of the table. “I went over my calculations four times. Everything in this bomb is exactly as it’s supposed to be. There’s no room for adjustment.” She swore again, elaborately, and he recalled that she’d spent years around sailors, with the language to prove it.

“Can’t be done.” Pulling off her spectacles, she tossed them angrily beside her tools. “We’re up to our arses in Hapsburgs and have a real chance to strike a blow against them, but it doesn’t bloody matter because the sodding bombs are too sodding big.”

“Hold.” He faced her, cupping her elbows with his palms.