Skies of Fire (16 page)

Brushing strands of hair from her face, he gazed down at her. At rest, the acuity of her usual expression fell away. She looked unguarded. Her sharp beauty softened. She seemed almost vulnerable.

She was both. Edged as well as vulnerable. He would never again make the mistake of believing she was simply one or the other.

She stirred, blinking up at him groggily. “Kit?”

“Shhh, love. Sleep.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Perhaps it was a measure of how he’d worn her out, for instead of insisting that she would stay awake, she promptly dozed off. Though when he drew the blanket up to cover her shoulder, she shrugged it away. Always had a mind of her own, even when sleeping.

He stared at the ceiling of his quarters, marking the subtle changes in light. Dawn would arrive soon, and with it, the most dangerous stage of the mission.

Fear for her clawed through him. She could protect herself, could fight as ably as any trained sailor or soldier. But his was a primal fear. It couldn’t be reasoned with or explained away. She was his. He wanted her safe.

She loved him.

God, hearing her say those words had been pure ether. His heart had soared, and even now, it felt as though it flew up amongst the constellations.

But he hadn’t been able to say the words in return. She had demanded that he give her everything, as she gave him all of herself.

The words were there, filling his mouth with their shape and honeyed flavor. They couldn’t move past his lips, however.

In the dark, he smiled, sardonic. This day would see him finding the enemy munitions plant and work to destroy it. A very good chance existed that he’d be killed in the process. Yet his two greatest fears had nothing to do with his death.

He feared for Louisa’s safety.

And he feared the damage she could do to his heart.

He’d laid himself open to her three years ago, and the direct consequence had been unfathomable pain. Even with death looming close, and her sincere apologies, he couldn’t fully trust her not to break his heart again. The lesson she’d taught him before had been too hard won.

Yet he had to wonder—how culpable had he been in her flight? She had been clear in her desire to avoid marriage, not merely to him, but to anyone. He’d asked for her hand anyway, convinced that he could change her mind. She had fled, but he’d driven her away, too.

He muttered a curse under his breath. Nothing was as simple as right or wrong, innocent or guilty. Only degrees of culpability.

Therein lay the beauty of a mission. It had a clarity of purpose. A direct goal. Find the munitions plant. Destroy it. He knew precisely what was required and how to go about executing the objective.

Love, however, was a rocky shore, full of uncertainty and hidden peril. No wonder so many men took to the sea or the skies. Easier when you knew the enemy would simply shoot at you, rather than sneak up with silken touches and then rip the beating heart from your chest, then tearfully apologize for the mortal wound.

He pushed all these thoughts from his mind. What he needed right now was clarity. He had only a few hours left with Louisa, and he fully intended to enjoy them for what they were. A beautiful woman slept in his arms, exhausted by their fiery lovemaking. She loved him. And he . . . cared deeply for her. That’s as much as he could allow himself.

It would have to be enough.

S
TANDING AT THE forecastle of the ship, Christopher gazed at the chain of the dark, serrated mountains rising ahead. They looked like the black teeth of a huge beast, ready to clamp shut around the
Demeter
and make a quick meal of its crew. An unsettling thought for a ship’s captain.

Louisa stood beside him, her spyglass trained on the mountains. Only hours earlier, they’d been naked in each other’s arms. He still felt her there, the imprint of her body against his. Perhaps the last time he’d ever hold her.

He couldn’t think of that now.

Her mouth formed a thin line beneath the lens. “No way to know which of those damned peaks is the one we want. Not from this distance. Can you see anything?”

“Just the tops of the mountains, which don’t tell us anything. If we bring the ship closer, going from mountain to mountain, we’ll be spotted long before we even find the right one.” He gritted his teeth. “Hell. We can’t use the train tracks leading out as a guide. There’s got to be another way to figure out which of these houses our target.”

He leaned against the rail and crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the explosives expert. If you had to pick one of these mountains as a place to assemble munitions, which would it be?”

“They all look the same.” She snapped the spyglass shut. “And I’ve never built arms or explosives on a massive scale before. Components and chemicals, these I know. The construction of a weapons factory? That’s outside of my bailiwick.”

Frowning, he straightened. “Chemicals.”

“The essential constituents of all explosives. Yesterday proved how specific the process needs to be. A single element out of place results in disaster.” Her brow creased. “You’re thinking something.”

“The byproduct of the energy generated by my telumium implants is ether. It’s the same with chemical reactions, too, isn’t it? To create something, there are byproducts and excesses. Surplus and runoff.”

Her eyes widened. “There are cloth mills that don’t use tetrol or coal. They still rely on energy created by rivers to power their machinery. And the chemicals they use to dye the fabric wind up in the river. It runs all the way to the ocean, polluting the bay.”

“But if you started in the bay,” he said, his excitement growing, “or even farther up the river, you could follow those chemicals all the way to their source.”

“Right to the factory itself. And a factory needn’t use the river as its power to contaminate it, either. Chemicals are often either dumped or leech into nearby bodies of water.” She gave an astonished laugh. “You’ve undervalued yourself, Kit.”

Heat pulsed to life beneath his skin as he remembered her moaning that name—his name, shared only between them—as he’d buried himself in her. Color bloomed in her cheeks now, as well. Good. He didn’t want her to forget a moment of what they’d shared.

But at this moment, what they needed to concentrate on was locating the munitions plant.

He pointed to the glint of water ribboning below. “Half a dozen rivers are fed by the mountains’ snowmelt.”

“Only one of them will take us to the factory. We’re going to have to test each of them to find the one we want.” Her mouth curved as she stared at the valley floor. “We’ve got a busy morning.”

T
HE JOLLY BOAT skimmed over the treetops, its hull barely clearing the upper branches. As Christopher manned the tiller, he continually scanned the ground for signs of Hapsburg troops, or indeed anyone who might be alarmed to see an English boat flying above a Carpathian forest. Armed marines also kept lookout, one at the mounted swivel gun.

Louisa, too, had a rifle across her knees. She remained as vigilant as the rest of the boat’s company. No one wanted to stumble into the hands of the enemy, not when they edged closer to gaining their objective. To have survived as much as they had, only to fall short at this juncture—it couldn’t be allowed to happen.

Something gleamed ahead. Above the rushing wind came the laughter of running water. A river.

He dipped the jolly boat down below the treetops, slowing the vessel for its approach.

“Just ahead,” he called over the wind. “Sharp eyes, everyone.” Where there was a river, there could be troops provisioning or watering their horses. Or a local, terrified at the sight of a British Man O’ War and red-coated marines.

The silver river twisted through the forest, and after a thorough scan of the area, Christopher landed the jolly boat on its wide, sandy bank. He held his hand up, a silent signal for everyone within the boat to wait before disembarking. If the enemy was near, he wanted to make certain that he, Louisa, and the marines could make a fast escape. He strained his sensitive hearing, searching for the tiniest sound—the snap of a twig, the creak of a leather strap—that might indicate soldiers were near.

A minute passed. Then another. He heard the lap of water over rocks, the whirr of the jolly boat’s small turbine, and faintly, the hum of the
Demeter
’s engines. Nothing else.

“It’s secure,” he said. “But no complacency, lads.”

“Aye, sir,” the marines answered.

Louisa had already unfastened her harness, and nimbly jumped over the side of the boat. Christopher handed the tiller to Farnley, then did the same. He trailed after her as she approached the river, his ether pistol in his hand and ready, his gaze continually sweeping the forest.

She crouched beside the moving water and studied it. A mosaic of pebbles lined the bed, and green river grass grew in patches. “Clear as glass. But that means nothing. Some of the deadliest poisons can’t be seen, and there are chemicals that occur in such trace amounts that they are invisible without the aid of a microscope.”

“Didn’t bring my microscope,” Christopher said, “though Dr. Singh might have one.” Which would necessitate another trip back to the ship, slowing their progress.

“No need for such delicate equipment.” To his surprise, she unfastened the first four buttons of her blouse, revealing the top of a plain cotton corset and the lacy edge of her chemise.

He shot a scowling glance toward the marines. The men promptly averted their gazes.

“This isn’t the opportune moment for a bathe,” he said lowly.

“Is it? I’d hardly noticed. The weather being so fine.” She reached down the front of her bodice and tugged out a handkerchief. Fixing him with an exasperated look, she said, “A bit more faith in my judgment, if you please. This”—she dangled the handkerchief in front of him—“is treated with a chemical that changes color in the presence of different elements. If it’s exposed to poison sulfur gas, it turns yellow. It’ll change to green if it contacts the copper alloy the Hapsburgs use for their cannon shells. And if there’s any trace of trinitrotoluene in the water, the fabric will turn red.”

“And if there’s no TNT?”

“Then the handkerchief simply gets wet.”

He fought the urge to growl. “Mind doing up your blouse? It’s been some time since my men have gone on leave.” He himself was too distracted by the sight of her bare flesh.

“As though a few inches of my skin could drive them to a lustful frenzy.” Still, she did as he asked. When she’d restored her clothing, she edged closer to the river. Holding the scrap of cambric by a corner, she dipped it into the water.

She held the handkerchief up. They both waited.

Its color remained the same. The river was free of TNT residue.

“Damn it.” She wrung the kerchief out then stuffed it into her pocket. Standing, she muttered, “Never easy, is it?”

“There’s no challenge in
easy
.”

“I know how much you enjoy a challenge.”

He followed her back to the waiting jolly boat. “That, I do.”

T
HE PROCESS WAS repeated two more times: locate a river, test the water. In both instances, the tests revealed no signs of TNT, and thus no munitions plant.

It was their fourth expedition. As Christopher piloted the jolly boat closer to the next river, he forcibly tamped down on his impatience. He’d do nothing good by rushing this process. Every step was important. Yet he felt a small degree of satisfaction to see that Louisa’s tolerance for the process also began to fray. If a spy with infinite reserves of patience was restive, then surely an airship captain more accustomed to battle might be forgiven for seething with frustration.

As he steered the jolly boat to the river, he noted that the trees grew too thick near the bank to land the vessel. The closest he could come was some fifty feet away, in a narrow clearing.

He brought the jolly boat down. “Farnley, Josephson, stay with the boat. Stone, Nizam, you’re with me and Miss Shaw.”

It was an indicator of Louisa’s self-control that she managed to wait for him to issue his orders before leaping out of the boat. And though she cast eager glances toward the river, she lingered at the edge of the clearing rather than darting off on her own.

He took the lead, with Louisa following, and the two marines guarding the rear. The sheen of water appeared ahead, with narrow bands of sand forming banks. Before they broke from the trees, Christopher turned to Nizam and Stone.

“Stay back in the woods. Guard our backs.”

“And your front, sir?” asked Nizam.

He laid his hand upon his ether pistol. “Taken care of.”

The marines held back, arranging themselves to keep watch on the forest while Christopher and Louisa made for the river.

She waited for his nod before emerging from the trees. As she crouched, pulling out her treated handkerchief, he stood, his gaze alert and in motion.

A noise came from the other side of the river. Footsteps. He stiffened, his hand going for his pistol.

Louisa’s shoulders tensed slightly as she caught the sound a second after him. “Wait,” she whispered urgently. “Take off your coat. Bundle it up under your arm to hide your gun. Hurry.”

Though he wanted to demand answers, he had to trust her in this. Quickly, he shucked his coat and covered his pistol with it. He didn’t like obstructing his weapon, but his reflexes were fast enough. He could get to it in half a second if necessary.

“Make sure your men don’t come out,” she hissed.

He held up a hand, silently signaling the marines to stay back.

The footsteps drew closer. They moved in a shuffle, fallen pine needles soughing with each step.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,” he muttered. Glancing down at her, it took him a moment to recognize her. For with the subtlest shift in her expression, she transformed completely.

Gone was the sharp-eyed spy. In her place was a fresh-faced lass, almost ten years younger than Louisa’s actual age. Her eyes were wide and guileless, her countenance smooth and untroubled. He had no idea how she accomplished this.