Burning Up (30 page)

In the quiet, Ivy’s heart thundered in her ears. Smithing was her only trade. She owned nothing of value but her skill.

Nothing but her body.

Sickness roiled in her stomach, tasted sour on her tongue. She’d avoided this route for so long, but perhaps it always came to this. Feeling dull and worn, she lifted her gaze to Mad Machen’s.

“I’m a virgin,” she said.

His broad chest rose on a sharp breath. A flush swept under his skin, his jaw tightening. Though his companions had been quiet, now they were still and silent—as if waiting.

His response was a low growl. “
Vesuvius
isn’t a slaver ship, either.”

“I don’t want to be sold. I want to be free when I get off your ship.” She tried to gather dignity and courage. “I’m offering it as payment. Some men prize it.”

His face continued to darken as she spoke, until the only lightness lay in the whites of his eyes, the tight line around his mouth, the rough scar at his throat. He looked . . . utterly mad.

By the starry sky—she’d made a horrible mistake.

Suddenly terrified, Ivy backed up a step, before whipping around and reaching for the door. “I’ll find another—”

His hand slammed against the door, holding it closed. “You won’t find another. You’ll sleep in my bed. Not just once. For as long as you’re on the ship.”

Barker’s bottle clattered to the floor, as if he’d lurched to his feet and it had dropped from his lap. “Eben, you can’t—”

“Don’t.”

Barker fell silent.

Trembling, Ivy stared at Mad Machen’s fingers, braced against the polished wood. More scars whitened his knuckles. How many people had he hit to accumulate those? Had any of them been women? Clenching her teeth against the scream working up into her throat, she swallowed it down. She strove for an even tone, but it emerged as a hoarse whisper.

“Will you promise not to hurt me?”

She felt him stiffen behind her, and the draw of a ragged breath. His right arm came over her shoulder, his palm flattening against the door, trapping her between. She squeezed the shirt and its few contents closer to her small breasts.

“We’ll sail in the morning.” His voice was low and rough against her ear. His hand dropped to the door handle. “Come with me.”

Tension pulled her muscles tight when his left hand curved around the side of her waist. Stiffly, she stepped back, then hastily forward again when she bumped against his hard body. He guided her out of the parlor, and the only sounds in the cool hallway were their footsteps, her unsteady breath.

He caught her hand when she turned for the staircase. With a lift of his shadowed chin, he indicated down the length of the hall. “My bedchamber is this way.”

Already?
They weren’t yet on the ship. She looked blindly down the narrow hallway.

Mad Machen watched her. “Did you intend to return home first?”

“No.” Not there. Not ever again.

“We leave for
Vesuvius
early. You’ll sleep in my bed.”

The lump in her throat choked her. Tucking her chin down, she followed him to the last room on the right. Using a key, he unlocked the door and moved to the bureau against the far wall, where he sparked a small gas lamp. Ivy took in the wardrobe, its doors open and innards bare. The bed dominated the center of the floor, the mattress larger than her room at the boardinghouse. A blue counterpane covered the whitest linens she’d ever seen.

“Put your things in the wardrobe.”

She wanted to hold on to them. But she wanted passage out of London more. Obediently, she untied the shirt, hung it on the hook. She stiffened as he drew near, frowning down at the items still in her hands.

“This is all you have?”

A pair of silk stockings, given as a gift from an aristocrat’s mistress whose feet Ivy had rebuilt after her Horde prosthetics malfunctioned—and a small flange, dark with age, scarred and worn.

He picked up the iron disk, touched his thumb to the hole in the center. “Not a coin.”

She almost laughed. No, she’d used her only penny to pay the steamcoach driver who’d brought her from Limehouse to the docks. English money wasn’t worth anything in the rest of the world, anyway, whereas French currency—the trade currency—held its value in every port.

“It was my elbow,” she said. “When I was a chimney sweep.”

His gaze fell to her hands. “Why keep it?”

So that she’d never forget what it was to wriggle through hot, narrow shafts, when one slip could mean her death. So that she’d never take what she had now for granted.

She took the flange from him and brought it to her lips. “Because now I’m the only person in the world who can kiss my elbow.”

Mad Machen didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist and drew her hand to his face, until she cupped his rough jaw.

“Can you feel this?”

She could feel the heat he emitted and each short whisker that formed the scratchy stubble against her palm. And, almost imperceptibly, the electric charge of the mechanical nanoagents in his skin, beneath his skin—like tiny bugs working together to strengthen, to heal, to enhance.

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

The skin beneath her hand warmed. “Good. You’ll soon feel me everywhere.”

Instinctively, she yanked her arm back—then froze, wondering if she’d just made another mistake. He stepped closer, and she fought not to flinch as his hands came up.

Catching her face between his big palms, he gazed down into her eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

Too frightened to do anything else, she nodded. With a low groan, his eyes closed and he lowered his head. Ivy waited, shaking.

His lips brushed hers once, twice. She relaxed, for the barest moment—then his mouth was devouring, the strength of his kiss forcing her head back, hurting her neck. His hands gripped her bottom and hauled her up, and she felt him through her coat and nightgown, thick and enormous against her stomach. Terror began to rise, the reality of what he would do, what she’d agreed to do, and then she was on her feet again.

Mad Machen spun away from her, his chest heaving. He strode to the door and flung it open, pausing only long enough to say, “If you run away now, I’ll come after you.”

The door slammed. In shock, Ivy stared after him, holding her fingers to her lips. Already, she could feel her bugs working to heal the bruised tissues.
Sweet blue heaven.

She’d traded one monster for another.

E
ben headed straight for the bottle. Swiping the brandy out of Barker’s hand, he tilted it back and drank, hoping to dull the need. And if the need wouldn’t subside, drink until he passed out.

“Well,” his quartermaster said. “Now you don’t have to return here to court her.”

Christ.
Eben lowered the bottle, dropped into his chair. He’d have returned, and she’d have been gone. God knew where.

God knew what might have happened to her along the way.

Yasmeen came around, whacking her hand against Barker’s new leg. Obediently, he pulled his feet up, gave her a place on the sofa.

She leaned forward, her elbows braced on her knees. “Court
her
? For two hundred years, the Horde hasn’t allowed anyone in her caste to marry. They were only allowed to breed when the controlling towers put everyone in a mating frenzy, and the babies were taken and raised in a crèche. She grew up without family, without any concept of marriage. Eben, she won’t even know what courting is.”

“Families aren’t always blood. You make your own.” He knew that well; so did Yasmeen. “That’s what they’ve done here for two hundred years. She’ll understand that.”

Yasmeen sighed and sat back. “You can’t take her with you, regardless. Give her enough money to stay here. Tell her to wait.”

Eben shook his head. “She’ll run.”

He was certain of it. She’d been frightened out of her wits, desperate to leave London. Had someone hurt her? He looked toward the door, ready to charge down the hall and find out.
Goddammit. Someone
would pay.

And he’d probably terrify her again. Jesus, her sweet little smile drove him
out of his mind
.

“Did she kill someone?” Barker wondered.

Eben took another long drink, glancing toward the door again. Maybe she had. Obviously not a lover and not for money, but he could name a hundred other reasons why a woman in London might resort to killing. And if she expected a police inspector to come knocking—or someone seeking revenge—it explained her desperation to leave.

Someone the Blacksmith couldn’t protect her against? Eben couldn’t imagine it, but it didn’t matter.
He
would protect her.

Yasmeen yanked the bottle from his hand. “Eben.
Think.
You’re sailing out tomorrow on an Ivory Market run. Will you risk having her on the ship?”

Hell.
Pushing his hands into his hair, he shook his head. Sailing south along the west coast of Africa guaranteed
Vesuvius
would be shot at, boarded, or forced to outrun an airship. The market itself seethed with men who’d eat Ivy alive—some literally. If Eben lost her there, he wouldn’t find her again. He couldn’t take that chance.

“I’ll change course,” he decided. “I’ll take her to Trahaearn’s estate in Anglesey.” The Iron Duke’s Welsh holdings weren’t as impregnable as those in London, but no matter what had frightened her, even Ivy would feel safe at such a place.
No one
crossed Trahaearn.

“You can’t change course.” Yasmeen’s disgust showed itself in a curl of her lip over sharp teeth. “If she must leave town, buy her a seat on a locomotive and tell her to wait for you in Wales.”

Eben shook his head. He wouldn’t be satisfied unless he
saw
her settled in a safe location and persuaded to remain there. If he simply gave her money, she’d be gone—too afraid of him to stay. He needed at least a few days for Ivy to learn she had nothing to fear from him. If he changed course and took her to Wales on
Vesuvius
, he’d gain the time he needed.

“I will only be delayed a few days,” he said.

Yasmeen’s snarl deepened. “Which could easily become a week—or longer. Trahaearn’s paid half up front. If you don’t pick up the cargo on time, it’ll go to another ship, and we’ll lose the rest of our money.”

“I care fuck all about the money—”

“Because you’re a mad fool.”

Eben stared at her. She didn’t back down. Yasmeen never would when gold was at stake. “I’ll cover the loss, pay you the same as Trahaearn would have,” he offered.

“And Trahaearn will never hire me again. Will you pay for every loss?”

He couldn’t. His pockets were deep, but not that deep. And there might be someone else he needed to pay off first. Mechanical flesh didn’t come cheap—and if Ivy still owed the Blacksmith, he’d send his collectors after her.

In this fog, it’d take Eben twice as long to reach the smithy in the Narrow. Leaving now, he could return before Ivy awoke . . . if she ever managed to sleep. So he’d return before she got it into her head to run.

Eben stood. “I won’t let her go, Yasmeen.”

“Softhearted Eben.” She sat back with a bitter hiss, her finger curled into claws. “You spitting idiot.”

So he was. Eben turned to Barker. “Watch the stairs and don’t let her leave. I’ll return before dawn.”

Somehow, he’d convince her to stay in Wales. And to wait for him.

L
ying in the cloud-soft bed, Ivy was staring up at the darkened ceiling when she heard the tap at the window. An unmistakably feminine figure was silhouetted against the thick yellow mist.

Ivy sat up and swung her feet to the floor. Moving closer, she recognized the blue kerchief and the glint of gold hoops. Why would the woman who’d been in the parlor with Mad Machen be outside Ivy’s window? And why had she climbed a ladder instead of simply knocking on the bedroom door?

Curious, Ivy unlocked the window—and immediately saw that she’d been wrong. Not climbed
up
a ladder, but
down
. The woman stood on the bottom rung, her hands wrapped around the rope rails.

An airship? They weren’t allowed to fly this close to London. But as Ivy peered upward, she realized no one would see the ship. A few feet above the woman’s head, the ladder disappeared into the fog.

“I’ll take you as far as Port Fallow,” the woman said. “You won’t come to harm on my ship.”

Startled, Ivy studied her face. Judging by the hardness of her green eyes, the offer to take Ivy to the notorious port city built on Amsterdam’s ashes hadn’t come from the kindness of her heart. And although Ivy sensed that this woman didn’t often bother explaining herself, she had to ask, “Why?”

“It serves me and my crew.”

Ivy glanced upward again. “The crew of what?”

“
Lady Corsair
.”

Oh, blue.
For a moment, Ivy felt faint. The woman hanging outside the window was Lady Corsair. She had another name, maybe, but everyone knew her by the airship she captained. This woman had a reputation for killing anyone who questioned her, was a mercenary who would do anything for money.

Ivy didn’t have any. “I can’t pay you. I can only work.”

“I don’t want your money or your labor. A debt is far more valuable than coin.”

And far more frightening when left unpaid. “What will I owe you?”

Lady Corsair grinned, flashing teeth that seemed too sharp. “I’ll decide when I need it.”

Ivy hesitated.

The airship captain shrugged and began climbing. “Mad Machen has returned. You can take his offer, instead.”

Ivy’s heart began to hammer. Turning her head, she strained to listen—and heard the heavy tread on the stairs.
Oh, blue heavens.
Mad Machen would take her if she remained here.

She glanced toward the bed, and the sight of the rumpled linens spurred her into action. He was too near to take the time and gather her things. Ivy scrambled through the window, grabbing on to the ladder. Exerting almost no effort at all, she let her arms carry her up the rope, and vanished into silence and the fog.