Tethered (3 page)

Nor did it. Archimedes looked up toward
Lady Nergüi
as he leapt off the trunk, and caught a glimpse of Yasmeen’s blue kerchief, her dark braids, her grin.

Perfect.

Dizzy and out of breath, he reached
Lady Nergüi’s
docking station. An Amazon in a sharply tailored jacket and trousers waited beside the cargo lift, her black hair cut short and exposing a neck like an Egyptian queen’s. His final partner, then—but as he spun toward her, her look of absolute horror made him pause. When her gaze flicked upward, he understood.

He stopped and held out his hand in invitation, his grin wide. “So you are not a mythical Amazon, but Adèle Vashon, our new quartermaster?”

She looked to him, to the crowd behind him—which had been shouting encouragement all the while—then up to the
airship again. A hint of panic had widened her brown eyes. “Yes.”

“Your new captain watches,” he said, his hand still extended. “Do you dance like a fool, or snub her husband?”

The Amazon closed her eyes. “I snub you.”

“Good choice. My life would be nothing if she caught me with my arms around another woman.” He heard the rasp of a rope overhead, and his racing heart skipped in anticipation. The laughter and clapping around them quieted. “And here she comes now.”

And what a woman. Lithe, strong, Yasmeen slid down the rope as easily as a dancing man took a step. Like the quartermaster, she wore a short aviator’s jacket, but had brightened the dour blue wool with a crimson sash that cinched her waist. Cold steel glinted at her thighs, where her daggers were tucked into the tops of her tall leather boots. With barely a flex of her hand, she stopped ten feet above the boards.

She looked down at the quartermaster. “You are welcome aboard, Mademoiselle Vashon. Strike the chains when you’re ready, and they’ll start the lift. I’ll meet with you in my cabin as soon as I’ve gone back up.”

“Yes, Captain Corsair.”

“Captain Fox,” she corrected. Her gaze fixed on Archimedes, and he saw no limit to the warmth there. Slowly, with her thighs clenched on the rope, she turned upside down—her cat-green eyes even with his, her hair hanging in a thick curtain. Her voice softened. “And after creating such a spectacle, what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Fox?”

He placed his hand over his heart and sank to one knee. “I’ve come to ask you to marry me, my gentle captain.”

Laughter lit her expression, and was matched by the sound in the crowd. “My current husband might object.”

“Do you care what he thinks?”

“Perhaps not. But I ought to warn you—he’s a jealous man. And quite dangerous.”

That description pleased Archimedes to no end. “I will fight him for your hand.”

“Only my hand?”

“All of you. But if your hand is all that I can have, it would
be far more satisfying than what I have without it: my dreams of you…and my own hand.”

“I won’t cry for you, Mr. Fox. I know how satisfying your hand can be.” Her wicked grin took his breath. Her gaze held his for a long moment, then flicked up…
down
his length. “I like your daggers.”

“I found them at the silversmith’s.” His hands went to the new weapons sheathed at his hips, and he stroked the scrolled guards with his fingertips, watching her face. “As soon as I saw the crimson grips, I was lost.”

So was Yasmeen, as he knew she’d be. “Are they for me?”

“I chose something else for you. But I’ll sweeten my offer of marriage by allowing you to touch them now and again.”

“With an incentive such as that, I
must
accept.” Her full lips curved, and her eyes met his again. “Shall I be called Captain Fox-Fox now?”

“You shall be called nothing but my wife.” He looked to the crowd and called out, “She agreed!” Over her laughter and the cheers, he turned back to her and asked, “Now, will you dance with me as they did?”

He knew it wasn’t a simple question, and he anticipated her refusal. Yasmeen lived by her reputation, and although they’d found that they could express their affection onboard, in front of the aviators, even that was almost always in a playful manner, never in a way that undermined her authority. They’d also had serious moments, quiet and intense amidst a working airship crew, but there was always a line they didn’t cross until they were alone in their cabin. That line was typically any form of embracing, or any display of passion—any act that might make the crew wonder whether her captain’s responsibilities held Yasmeen’s full attention.

All of which was perfectly fine, in Archimedes’ mind. It made no more sense to kiss Yasmeen while she was performing her duties than it would to stop for a cuddle while they were searching through ruins and trying to avoid zombies. At any rate, their self-imposed restrictions possessed a wonderful benefit: The hours on deck became a delicious tease, building anticipation for the moments they were alone—when he could hold her in his arms, and do anything they wished.

“I would dance with you on this dock,” she said.

Taken aback, Archimedes was speechless for a moment. Her smile widened. She’d meant to shock him, he realized. But still, what he’d intended to say
had
to be said, even if it meant refusing her acceptance.

“I would not,” he said. “I could never dance with you as I did with them.”

“Why?” Her brows lifted, her eyes bright with amusement. “Do you think I don’t know a step or two?”

“I’m sure you do. But dancing with them was only for fun. A dance could never be only for fun when you are in my arms—not after wishing you were there for so long, and not when I love you so ardently now.”

She stared at him, all humor bleeding from her expression. Tension quieted the crowd, and they gasped as she let go of the rope, flipping around and landing lightly on her feet. Archimedes rose from kneeling, and though he was taller than she, his shoulders broader, no one could have doubted who was the more dangerous, the more deadly.

And she gave him no warning. Her fingers suddenly fisted in his hair, hauling his mouth down to hers. He heard the relieved laughter and the applause, then there was only the heat of her kiss, the pounding of his heart. Christ, but he loved a fierce woman. She was an answer to his every prayer. His hands circled her waist and her body pressed against his, telling everyone who could see what he wanted everyone to know: By God, he was hers.

But they wouldn’t know the rest, the part he’d asked them to play that afternoon. Because now, when Yasmeen looked down from her airship at these docks, when she walked their length, she wouldn’t just see their fresh boards; the sight wouldn’t just serve as a reminder of how they’d burned when her lady had exploded, a reminder of why the dock had to be rebuilt. Now, she’d remember the man who loved her dancing his way down the length of the dock in his lime green breeches and orange jacket; she’d remember the laughter and the music, and a kiss beneath the shadow of her airship.

All of it for her—and never
just
for fun.

She drew back, her gaze lingering on his, the grip of her
fingers softening in his hair. “You’re an incredible man, Archimedes Fox.”

He often thought so, too.

As if reading that from his expression, she suddenly laughed and stepped back, catching hold of the rope again. “I’ll see you on deck, my husband.”

And he would wait a few seconds, enjoying the view as she climbed. No matter how many cities he searched, Archimedes doubted he’d ever find a statue as perfectly sculpted as Yasmeen’s backside. Her black breeches hugged each curve and the length of her thighs…where the crimson handles of his new daggers currently protruded from the tops of her boots. She must have lifted them in the second between releasing his hair and taking hold of the rope, and he hadn’t felt a thing.

With a grin, he started up after her. Some things were
mostly
for fun—and now he needed to steal his daggers back.

It would undoubtedly be much easier than stealing her heart had been.

Some days, Yasmeen didn’t know what to do with
him. Archimedes truly was the most incredible man—and, she suspected, a far better husband than she was a wife. He displayed affection so easily, so unexpectedly; Yasmeen had no idea how to do the same. She wasn’t even certain how
he
managed it. How could a man so openly state his possession of a woman without also claiming ownership? Yet he did. How could he create a singing, dancing spectacle of himself, and still quietly soothe her heart? Yet he did.

She knew exactly what he’d done on that dock. He would never reveal his reasons or take credit for it—just as he never said a word when she woke from nightmares of shattering doors and ravenous zombies, and simply held her quietly, without questions, without asking her to acknowledge her terror by speaking of it. This had been the same. He’d
known
how she’d felt when they’d tethered
Lady Nergüi
on this spot, but he would never ask her to admit to her grief. He simply tried to make it better.

Yasmeen wished she could do the same for him. Of course, that would mean finding something that grieved her husband—not so easy when he was so determinedly good-humored, and he confronted every obstacle with an exuberant whoop.

By the lady, how she loved that about him. And she had no wish to pain him, simply so that she could soothe it. Better to leave such emotional manipulations to those who’d enjoy expending their efforts on them.

She would expend her efforts on enjoying her husband and commanding her lady. Aware that he was climbing the rope after her, however, and with her lips still warm from their kiss,
Yasmeen was sorry that command had to take precedence at that moment.

On deck, she spotted the new quartermaster waiting by the gangway. Adèle Vashon was observing the crew, her gaze moving from aviator to aviator, as if judging their performance—as if judging whether it was a crew worthy of the time she’d be putting into it. The woman didn’t have to straighten when the second mate announced the captain on deck; her shoulders were already back, her spine ramrod straight—and when Vashon faced her, Yasmeen saw that same considering look directed her way, as if deciding whether she would be a worthy captain.

Yasmeen’s throat tightened as grief suddenly slipped up, took hold.
Goddammit.
She could never prepare for this. She only had to hear a laugh, to catch a movement at the corner of her eye, and for an instant she would see her old crew before losing them all over again—and Adèle Vashon’s assessing, critical gaze reminded her so much of Rousseau, the Frenchman who’d been her right hand for a decade. Hell, but she missed him. And if Vashon was even half the quartermaster that Rousseau had been, Yasmeen would be satisfied with her.

With a scrape of his boots against the hull, Archimedes came up over the gunwale. She caught his eyes, lifted her brows, and stroked the handles of her new daggers.

His grin promised retribution. Yasmeen looked forward to it. Later.

“Mademoiselle Vashon—with me, please.”

The quartermaster joined her at the ladder leading to the second deck. The woman was taller than Yasmeen; not many women were, and it would be to Vashon’s advantage with the crew, helping to command their respect—at least initially. The first quartermaster Yasmeen hired for
Lady Nergüi
had been tall, too. No matter how much he’d demanded respect, however, he’d never been able to command it.

Yasmeen was glad to be rid of him. Despite impeccable references, he hadn’t known how to handle a crew; she hoped that a woman whose family name was synonymous with excellent aviation would. Having met two of Vashon’s mutinous cousins, however, Yasmeen wouldn’t count on the name alone.

At least this Vashon had the good sense not to comment on the unusual décor in Yasmeen’s cabin. In
their
cabin. Archimedes loved the low dining table and lounging pillows as much as Yasmeen did, and so they’d kept that part of their living quarters the same as Yasmeen’s previous cabin. The shelves of books were new, however, and all his—as were the two additional crates of books waiting to be unpacked, and the oversized wardrobe. The desk allowed them to work facing each other, and had been clearly set up as a shared space, with two inkwells and chairs for them both.

Now Yasmeen slid his chair out and gestured for Vashon to sit. As she took the opposite side, with her back to the shelves, Archimedes entered the cabin.

Yasmeen wasn’t surprised. He’d taken an interest in every aspect of her—
their
—airship, and though he’d pretend to be occupied by another task, she knew he’d be listening to every word, coming to his own conclusions about their new quartermaster.

If any other man had done the same, Yasmeen would have been irritated by how far he’d overstepped. Not with Archimedes, however. He had no desire to run her ship, only to know everything about it—just as she often read the research that preceded his salvaging runs. She wanted to better know what he loved, to understand it. Luckily, his work was just as fascinating as the man, and she enjoyed it almost as much as he did. He’d become equally invested in her ship.

He tossed his bulging canvas pack onto the low table. “If you don’t mind, Captain, I’ll lounge here and sort my correspondence.”

“Very well, Mr. Fox.”

In truth, Yasmeen was happy to have him there. He sank onto the pillows centered in the pool of afternoon light that spilled in through the two large portholes, directly in her line of sight—and an appealing sight it was. Summer had streaked his brown hair with gold, and as the months passed without a cut, he’d tamed the ragged length with a leather tie at his nape. After a lazy morning, he’d skipped a shave, leaving his jaw roughly shadowed. Now, making himself comfortable, he loosened the linen around his neck. What an incredibly appealing combination that was—the orange silk of his waistcoat,
the white shirt, the tanned skin at his throat. She loved to bury her face in that spot, to feel the lean muscles underneath that outrageous clothing.

It was strange how many people underestimated him, who only saw the color he wore and not the strength beneath it. That had been another failing of the last quartermaster, who’d acted as if Archimedes didn’t exist—who’d treated him like a pretty boy with an empty head.