Skies of Fire (9 page)

Louisa was no farmer’s wife. Christopher never expected her to be.

The only thing that helped hold her regret at bay was his anger. A clean emotion. If he hated her, there could be no room for anything else. But it was worse, so much worse, knowing that he felt more for her than hatred. She’d seen the heat and need in his eyes, and, God, the same hunger gripped her—it had ever since she saw him in that damned barn.

The vibrations of the engines resonated through her bare feet, up her legs, settling in her belly. The engine drew its power from Christopher, and what she felt wasn’t the engine, but
him
, his energy and strength, reverberating through her secret places.

She pressed her hand beneath her navel, fighting arousal. There were clever doctors who had built cunning devices, some of them powered by steam or operated by a hand crank. Louisa herself had experienced one of these devices and had found the experience to be . . . extraordinary. With her feet bare, her body attuned to the vibrations of the airship, attuned to
Christopher
, she felt herself excruciatingly aware of sensation.

A wry smile curved her mouth. Doubtful that he’d appreciate being told his massive flying ship of war was, in fact, a device for easing hysteria.

Resting her forehead against the cool glass, her smile faded. Three years ago, making Christopher grin had been so easy. He could be serious, but he’d also been quick to laugh. Back then, he would have laughed at the idea that an airship was a huge vibrating hysterical paroxysm machine.

She’d always loved his laugh. Especially drifting over her bare skin. Would she ever feel that again?

Enough.
Other things demanded her attention. Including constructing an incendiary device, evading enemy airships, locating the munitions plant, and then destroying it. And if she and the crew of the
Demeter
survived, so much the better—but survival seemed unlikely.

Yet, out of all of these many, many variables, none of them was keeping her awake. Her restlessness had one source, and she occupied his cabin.

She walked back to the bed, then pulled off the blanket. Wrapping it around her shoulders, she grabbed one of the chairs and set it next to the window. She perched there, knees up, chin propped on her knees. Thus ensconced, she awaited the sunrise.

S
TILLNESS WOKE HER. She wasn’t aware that she had fallen asleep until she found herself in full sunlight, her neck knotted and stiff. Wincing, she got to her feet.

Beyond the window, the sky shone a crisp, unforgiving blue. She observed the serrated peaks of mountains, sparsely dotted with evergreen trees. There were no curls of smoke from chimneys, no roads. This remote section of the Carpathians was too impassable even for the hardy locals to access, which made it an excellent place to repair a damaged airship.

The engines were not running, and beneath her feet the ship felt very still. The turbines might have stopped, but the crew was busy. Men’s shouts and the pounding of hammers replaced the engines’ hum.

Glancing at the clock on the bookshelf, she cursed. Ordinarily, she never slept past six. Here it was, nearly nine, with the whole of the ship busy and her lying abed as though on a luxury steamer.

Technically, she wasn’t
abed
, since she had been sitting in a chair, but the principle was the same. She pulled on her clothes, fighting a groan caused by her stiff muscles, then located a small mirror in the top drawer of a table.

Her appearance was appalling. Face pale against the dark tangle of her hair. She’d seen better-looking specimens on the anatomist’s table. Her fingers served as a comb as she dragged them through her snarled hair. Nothing to be done for her ashen skin, however.

If the captain of this ship had been anyone other than Christopher, she wouldn’t have cared tuppence how she looked. She was a spy, not a fashion etching. Her appearance had nothing to do with how she performed her duties, especially in these less-than-glamorous circumstances.

But the captain
was
Christopher, and she was honest enough to admit her vanity where he was concerned.

His quarters boasted the luxury of a water closet and a sink with running water. After taking care of her needs and splashing water on her face, she left the cabin.

The ship buzzed with activity. She dodged crewmen bearing planks and buckets of nails. One airman carried a high-powered riveter, with a young man hefting the tetrol tank as he followed. As she walked, the crew greeted her respectfully, tugging on imaginary forelocks. None of them had hair long enough to curl over their foreheads. Having battled her own long hair in the winds topside, she could see the wisdom of keeping one’s locks closely shorn.

Finding the galley proved an easy feat, having studied the schematics as well as following the scent of fresh coffee. Heat from the large, dial-covered oven filled the chamber.

“Good morning, ma’am.” The cook, standing by a mechanized mixer, smiled, and his weathered face pleated like an accordion.

“Good morning, Mr. . . .”

“Duffy, ma’am.” He elbowed the boy winding a clockwork spit. “And this here’s Fitzroy.”

At Louisa’s smile, the cook’s boy reddened and mumbled before turning back to his work.

“I know it’s late, and I’ve likely missed breakfast, but I was wondering—”

Before she had finished her sentence, a warm roll and enameled cup of coffee were pressed into her hands.

“Ah, bless you, Mr. Duffy.” She took a sip of the coffee and felt herself reborn.

The cook shook his head. “Captain Redmond, he thinks I don’t know how to treat a visitor. ‘Make sure you set some food aside for Miss Shaw,’ he tells me.
Three times
. Don’t I run the finest airship in the fleet? Depend on it, we see a goodly share of combat and not too many guests, but I’m no Army cook. I know how to behave like a gentleman.”

“And you cook even better than the Emperor of Venice’s personal chef.”

“Oh, you’re a fabulist.” Duffy’s already rubicund face turned even redder.

“It’s true. I’ve sampled dishes from the Emperor’s own table—without his knowledge, of course—and nothing compared to last night’s partridge.”

“If I didn’t work my crew so hard, Mr. Duffy would have them all fat as guinea fowls.”

Louisa spun to find Christopher standing in the doorway of the galley. Seeing him in the light of morning, wearing his long, buckled coat and tall boots, her heart pitched like a ship on a storm-tossed ocean.

If
he
didn’t sleep well, it didn’t show. He looked just as handsome as ever, though his beard had come in a little more, red gold gleaming along his jaw. He hadn’t been able to get to his razor that morning, because she’d been in his cabin.

Warily, she scanned his expression. Ever since they had accidentally encountered each other the day before, each moment bore a fraught tension. He’d all but slammed from his quarters the previous night. Did that strange alchemy of hate and desire persist into the morning?

His feeling may have continued, but all she saw in his gaze now was cautious reserve. As though uncertain what either of them might do—anything between a throttling and a kiss.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Duffy said. “But I think you work me hardest, keeping that furnace of yours well-stoked.”

“No engine ever had less complaint about the fuel.” Christopher strode into the galley.

She had plenty of opportunity to move out of his way, but her sluggish feet did no such thing. When he grazed past her, his heat was more powerful than the oven at her back, and that faint scent of hot metal replaced the smell of coffee. A moment too late, she murmured something inane and stepped out of his path.

A muscle tightened in his jaw as they brushed against each other. The galley became impossibly small.

And then the moment was over. Duffy handed Christopher a meat pie with a caution. “Careful, sir. Right from the oven and hot as blazes.”

“It takes a lot to burn me, Mr. Duffy.” Yet Christopher’s gaze was on her as he spoke. In four bites, he wolfed down the pie then chased it with a mug of cider. Brushing a scattering of crumbs from his sleeves, he said, “I’m glad to have found you, Miss Shaw. We have a considerable amount about the mission to discuss, and I didn’t relish the idea of chasing you all over the ship.”

“The search wouldn’t have been that difficult,” she said. “There’s only so many places I could go.”

“You can be elusive when you want to be.”

She deserved that. “I forget, on occasion, where the job ends and my own life begins. A habit of mine that wants correcting.”

After a moment, he gave a small, tight nod. “Will you come with me?” He gestured at the door.

She bolted down the last of her coffee and ate her roll quickly. Glancing up, she saw all the men staring at her.

“Didn’t know ladies ate like that,” the cook’s boy said.

“Fitzroy!” Christopher snapped. At the same time, Duffy smacked the back of the boy’s head.

“Your pardon, ma’am.”

She only laughed. “I’m a field operative, not a lady. When I’ve got thirty seconds to eat my dinner before the guards resume their patrols, I can’t afford social graces.”

After handing her empty mug back to Duffy and thanking the cook for an excellent, if brief, breakfast, she and Christopher walked back toward his quarters. They passed yet more men busily working to patch the ship.

“How long will the repairs take?”

He looked grave. “She took some bad hits to her hull, and a few of the ether tubes need to be replaced. The engines are struggling, too. I’d give it until tomorrow morning, at least.”

“Damn. This is a good spot for repairs, but the longer we stay in one place, the greater the likelihood that we’ll be spotted—either by an enemy airship, or someone on the ground. It’s hard terrain, no confusion about that. But nothing is certain, especially where war is concerned.” Nothing was certain where
anything
was concerned, yet she didn’t give voice to that.

They reached his quarters, and she followed him inside. The cabin boy had already been through, since the berth was tidily made and the chair moved back from the window. She exhaled in relief. She didn’t want Christopher to know how restive her night had been.

As he walked to the table where the plans for the munitions plant were spread, something caught her attention.

“Those are different boots from the ones you wore yesterday.”

He glanced down. “The heel had started to come off, so I changed them.”

“When?”

“Hmm?” Bracing his hands on the table, he returned his focus to the plans.

“When did you change your boots?”

“This morning,” he murmured absently.

“When I was still in here.”

This got his attention. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Which meant he’d seen her slumped in the chair by the window. For some reason, knowing that he had clear evidence of her disquiet made her uncomfortable.

“Thought about carrying you back to the bed, but I knew you’d be suspicious when you woke up in a different place.”

“Ah. Well.” She struggled for something, anything, to say. “Thank you.” She moved to the table and stared hard at the plans, as if she could lose herself in their mysteries.

“Louisa,” he murmured.

She glanced up, and felt herself transfixed with the vivid blue of his eyes, brighter and deeper than the sky outside.

“I didn’t sleep well, either,” he said.

“Perhaps we need to develop a drinking habit.”

“There isn’t enough rum.”

She drew a breath. “Christopher—”

But it seemed he had reached the limit as to how much of their history he was willing to discuss. He said, “These plans indicate a substantial structure. One of the main factories for munitions to the enemy.”

Talking about enemy weapons-manufacturing was a less explosive topic. “Precisely why it needs to be destroyed.”

“A building this size,” he mused, “carved into the side of a mountain. Doesn’t seem that many locations would fit the pattern.” He scratched at his chin. “A munitions plant needs to deliver its finished product. There’d be train tracks leading right to it. We need only find those tracks and follow them to our target.”

“The factory is in a remote location, but those tracks must head into the industrialized parts of the territory. The
Demeter
would be flying over heavily populated areas.”

“May as well paint the target on her hull ourselves.” He muttered an oath.

“I might not be able to deliver us right to the plant’s door,” she said, “but I do know of a chain of mountains, about a day’s travel from here via airship. The mountains we’re skirting now aren’t substantial enough for the plant, but any one of those peaks might conceivably house a giant munitions factory. No bull’s-eye on the hull required.”

“Can you give the coordinates to the navigator?”

“Of course. I can pilot the ship, too, if you like.”

His grin came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it felt like a shock of electricity coursing through her.

“
Demeter
is mine. If anyone’s leading her to strike at the enemy’s heart, it’ll be me.”

“Hungry for glory?”

“For victory. With me at the wheel, our chances soar.”

This time, she was the one who couldn’t stop her smile. “Spoken with humility, as always.”

“Do you think you could do better?”

“Afraid to find out?” she countered.

He planted his hands on his hips, revealing the ether pistol he had strapped to his waist. “You’ve never piloted an airship before.”

“But I have taken the wheel of an ironclad, and a cutter. Can’t be that different.”

He outright laughed, and the sound was a velvet glove stroking across her skin. “Naval Intelligence must draw their ranks from the greatest minds in the nation. Either that, or the criminally insane.”

“A combination of both works best.”

“Spoken as one of Intelligence’s finest. But the ship is mine.”

“I concede,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Only because you’re so bloody stubborn. We’d be at this all day.”