Burning Up

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to Maili, because she made me realize that I was trying to spell “challenge” just by adding two letters, and this story is all the better for her feedback. And because, years ago, when I mentioned on my blog that I wanted to write steampunk romance, she knew what I was talking about and said she’d want to read it. So she did . . . and I’ll always be thankful she got her hands on this one early.

ONE

By the time Ivy found Ratcatcher Row, a stinking yellow fog smothered the docks. She inched along the unfamiliar street, holding her right hand out to her side and using the buildings facing the narrow wooden walk as a guide. Though only an arm’s length away, the thick mist dissolved Ivy’s only an arm’s length away, the thick mist dissolved Ivy’s gloved fingers into ghostly outlines. On her left, the clicking, segmented shadow of a spider-rickshaw scurried by on the cobblestones, and the hydraulic hiss of the driver’s thrusting feet seemed to whisper a single refrain.

Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Oh, she wanted to. Her humid breath filled the thin scarf she’d tied over her mouth and nose. Her heart pounded as if she’d sprinted through these streets instead of picking her way through the fog, stopping at each building to search for an identifying sign.

But at least she was moving. As long as she could move, she couldn’t be taken.

Seven years ago, after two centuries under brutal Horde rule, the pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn had destroyed the tower that the Horde used to control the nanoagents infecting every person in London. For seven years, Ivy had been free to move as she wished, to feel as she wished—until earlier that night. Only hours ago, she’d been frozen in her bed with her eyes closed, unable to move, listening to strangers search from room to room through her boardinghouse. From blacksmiths to beggars, no one in that cheap tenement owned anything of value. But when someone had come through her door, stripped away her blankets, and prodded at her thighs and breasts as if evaluating her thin body, when the strangers had left and she’d seen the empty beds in rooms that had been earlier filled, Ivy had realized each sleeping person had been valuable—as workers, as slaves . . . which were the only uses the Horde ever had for them.

And if the Horde was returning to London with their controlling towers and paralyzing devices, nothing would stop Ivy from leaving.

A steamcoach waited in front of the next building, rattling and puttering, its gas lanterns penetrating the fog in faint glowing spheres. By the feeble light, Ivy found the establishment’s sign, and almost moved on before her mind registered the painting on the wood: a compass.

The Star Rose Inn. She’d been looking for a picture of a flower, or even a woman, but it was a compass rose. A sailor wouldn’t have mistaken it, but Ivy almost had—yet she was here. Finally here.

Her heart slamming in her ribs, Ivy rose up on her toes to peer through the small glass window. No lights burned within. She’d have to wake up the innkeeper—who’d likely turn Ivy away after taking a look at her—or she could break the lock. A lock hadn’t stopped her when she’d been a child, raised in the Horde’s crèche, it hadn’t stopped her after they’d taken her arms, and it wouldn’t stop her now that the Blacksmith had given her new ones. But even if she broke through the lock, she wouldn’t know which room Mad Machen slept in.

Raising her fist, she hammered on the door. A minute later, a stout man wearing a nightcap and with gray tufts of hair growing behind his ears swung open the small, hinged window. He lifted a gas lamp to the opening. Ivy squinted against the sudden, bright light, and tugged the scarf down, exposing her mouth and nose.

She knew what she looked like. Soot from the day’s work still streaked her face; fog and sweat dampened her red hair. The buckles at the waist of her long coat didn’t hide the thread-bare nightgown underneath, and the trousers tucked into her boots had been old when she’d bought them. The satchel clutched to her chest was nothing but a shirt tied together, and held everything she owned. Her desperation must have hung around her as thick as the mist; she wasn’t surprised when the innkeeper immediately lowered the lamp, swinging the window closed.

“We’re full up tonight. You’ll find rooms on the cheap at The Crowing Cock.”

“Wait!” She curled her fingers around the window frame, preventing its closure. “Please. I’m here to see Captain Machen. I’ve come from the Blacksmith’s.”

She’d never used her connection to her mentor like this before. But two names in London would open almost any door: the Blacksmith’s, and the Iron Duke’s.

The innkeeper paused. “The Blacksmith?”

Ivy pulled aside her nightgown collar, exposing the guild’s mark: a chain wrapped around her neck and a hammer poised to strike. When the innkeeper began to shake his head and close the window again, Ivy quickly stripped off her glove, exposing pale gray fingers and silvery nails.

“The mark is supposed to be around my wrist,” she told him. “But my skin won’t take a tattoo.”

He stared at Ivy’s hand before looking into her face again—perhaps searching for a hint of how she had managed to afford mechanical flesh. Finally, the innkeeper stepped back, opening the door.

“I’ll tell the captain you’re here.”

Ivy waited to expel her sigh of relief until after he’d moved to a door at the back of the empty dining room and disappeared up a narrow stair. Cool and dark, with well-scrubbed walls and floors, the inn’s open dining room appeared cleaner than any she’d ever lived, worked, or eaten in. She was accustomed to pubs like the Hammer & Chain: dank and crowded, stinking of soot and sweat, and where fights broke out more often than not. But she returned every night, because the Blacksmith’s workers could buy a hot meal on the cheap, and she went home to a windowless room that smelled of smoke and mildew, and whose north and south walls she could touch with both hands outstretched. This inn smelled of lemon wax and a warm, yeasty fragrance—a scent that reminded her of walking past the bakery in the crisp early morning, while heading to the smithy in the Narrow.

This was a good place. It gave her hope. Her grip on the satchel slowly eased as her nervousness and fear began to subside.

She’d heard of Mad Machen before he’d come to the smithy. Everyone in England had. Born to a merchant family in Manhattan City, the youngest of four sons, he’d been a surgeon in the British Navy when Rhys Trahaearn had attacked his naval fleet. Mad Machen had been among those forced to join Trahaearn’s crew—then willingly remained aboard. He’d been with the pirate captain when Trahaearn had destroyed the Horde’s tower.

Unlike Trahaearn, who’d been given a duke’s title—and the king’s pardon bestowed upon all of his crew—Mad Machen hadn’t reformed. After taking command of his own ship, Vesuvius, he continued pirating from the North Sea to the Caribbean.

But despite all of the stories of murder, insanity, and pillaging, the Mad Machen that Ivy had met at the Blacksmith’s hadn’t been a cruel man. Big and intimidating, with a thick coarse scar around his neck and overgrown dark hair, he’d been a gruff man—but not cruel. Every morning for the past week, he’d accompanied his friend Obadiah Barker to the smithy, and sat with him through the excruciating process of exchanging a steel prosthetic leg for a limb made from mechanical flesh. Mad Machen had borne Barker’s curses and screams without anger; he’d offered a hand for Barker to squeeze—and more than once, to bite. And every evening, he’d carried his delirious friend to the waiting steamcoach.

Ivy had assisted the Blacksmith in the surgery, and attended the two men during the long stretches between sessions, waiting for the flesh to grow. She’d listened to Mad Machen and Barker talk of ships they’d taken and ports they’d visited—Barker speaking a hundred words in his lilting accent to every flattened word of Mad Machen’s—and when Barker’s dread and fear of the next session became overwhelming, Ivy had told him of her own surgery, painting herself as a ridiculous shivering washrag until Barker had begun to laugh. Mad Machen’s gaze had met hers then, and she’d seen his gratitude and appreciation.

She hoped he still felt them now. Her heart began pounding again as the innkeeper returned. He led her across the dining room and up the dark, narrow stairwell. At the top, he opened the first door on the left, revealing a dimly lit parlor.

Though midnight had passed several hours before, Mad Machen wasn’t in bed, as Ivy had expected. He sat in a low chair, a snifter in hand and his long legs stretched out in front of him, knee-high boots crossed at the ankles. He’d unbuckled his jacket. His pale shirt opened at the neck, exposing deeply tanned skin and the puckered white scar at his throat.

He froze with the snifter halfway to his mouth when she entered the room. His gaze swept over her, taking her in, pausing on the makeshift satchel in her hand. Slowly, his gaze rose to her face. Dark eyes locked on hers, he stood.

“Ivy,” he said, in a voice deeper and rougher than she remembered. She realized he’d never spoken her name before.

And she expected him to grant her a favor?

Her nervousness came crashing back. Fingers twisting in the satchel, she glanced around the room. Mad Machen wasn’t alone. On an armchair to her right, a woman with an angular face watched her with narrowed, cat-green eyes. A sapphire kerchief wrapped back from her forehead and tied at her nape, the blue tails tangled in the long black curls and tiny braids. Her short aviator’s jacket buckled to her throat, and her hand hovered near the dagger hilt sheathed at the top of her brown, thigh-high boots.

To Ivy’s left, Barker lay on a green sofa, bushy black hair falling back from his forehead. He hadn’t bothered with a glass, but was drinking a deep amber liquid straight from the bottle. His boots and stockings were off, and he held his feet together as if examining them, pale gray against brown. He rolled his head to the side and looked at her when Mad Machen said her name.

“Ivy!” A smile broadened his mouth as he rocked up to sitting—and sat, swaying. With some effort, he focused on her again. “You’ve come all the way to the docks in this soup?”

“Yes.” Her pulse racing, she looked at Mad Machen. His gaze hadn’t strayed from her face. “At the Blacksmith’s, you said that you’d planned to weigh anchor tomorrow morning. I wondered . . . I hoped that you would allow me passage on your ship.”

His brows lowered, and the small movement seemed to darken every feature. “To where?”

“Anywhere.” She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Just away. “The first city you put in to port.”

He didn’t immediately answer, and she became aware of Barker, no longer smiling. A grim expression had settled on his open face. In the opposite seat, the woman stared at Mad Machen, the gold hoops in her ears swinging with the tiny shake of her head.

Mad Machen either didn’t notice them or disregarded them. He strode across the room, stopping only an arm’s length away. Ivy had to lift her chin to meet his eyes.

“Vesuvius has no comfortable quarters. She isn’t a passenger ship.”

“I know. But I can’t afford passage on a—” She broke off when his face darkened further. Hurriedly, she assured him, “I’ll work. I can repair engines, prosthetics . . . or windups, if you have any automata. I can build anything you need.”

“I already have a blacksmith onboard.”

Panic began to take hold. She looked past Mad Machen to the woman, then Barker. “Do you know of any ship that needs one? A ship that departs soon? I won’t ask for a wage—only for board. Please.”

Closing his eyes, Barker shook his head. The woman didn’t respond, only stared back at Ivy, her gaze cold and assessing.

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.

Eben 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.

Lying 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.

TWO

The jokes began as soon as Ivy ducked her head beneath the pianist’s lacy pink skirts. Rolling over onto her back, she lay on the musician’s raised wooden platform and looked up into the gears that formed the automaton’s guts. Luckily, this wouldn’t take long—just a broken tooth on the deadbeat escapement that timed the motion of the feet, and a worm gear out of alignment. She worked, trying to ignore the men doing their best to make the little town of Fool’s Cove earn its name. By the time she’d repaired the escapement, every Hans, Stefan, and Jozef with two brain cells and a drink in his hand had joined in, offering tips for oiling a woman up—including Klaas, the tavern’s owner.

She should have quoted him a higher price.

But they tired of it quickly enough. After a couple of minutes of tuning them out, she realized the tavern had gone quiet. Silent, even.

She paused. With her fingers wrapped around a pendulum rod, she listened to the approaching tread of a single pair of boots, painfully aware of her legs sticking out from beneath pink lace. The skirts lifted, and Ivy found herself staring into cat-green eyes under a ruby kerchief.

Lady Corsair said, “I’ve come to collect what you owe me, Ivy Blacksmith.”

The woman’s smile sent a tremor through Ivy’s legs. Run. But she only came up on her elbows and asked, “Wasn’t repairing every piece of equipment on your airship payment enough?”

The narrowing of Lady Corsair’s eyes was her only answer.

Alright. Lady Corsair’s captain had never asked her to work; Ivy had simply needed to keep herself busy. “So I owe you the price of a passage from London to Port Fallow. I’ll pay it now.”

It’d take every bit of Ivy’s savings, but she’d rather settle this debt with coin. She sat up, aware of the grease on her fingers, her cheek.

“I don’t want your coin. We need you to build something for us.”

Ivy’s stomach dropped. Building didn’t worry her as much as the other part. “Us?”

Lady Corsair straightened and stepped back, revealing the man behind her. Mad Machen—his face dark, eyes wild.

By the fucking stars, no.

Blood surged to her legs. Scuttling back, Ivy turned, got her boots under her and sprinted for the tavern kitchen. Past the stoves, she burst through the door and stumbled into a muddy yard full of white chickens. Feathers flew as they scrambled out of her path, squawking their alarm. She leapt over a gate, made it into the street.

Lady Corsair came out of nowhere. Catching Ivy by the hair with both hands, the aviator whipped her around to a stop, then yanked Ivy back against her.

Her voice was a terrifying purr in Ivy’s ear. “You’re fortunate I don’t toss you to my men for that, blacksmith.”

Almost blinded by tears of frustration and pain, Ivy spat, “You’re tossing me to him.”

“Two years ago, you cheated him out of a fare. As his friend, I’m only helping him claim what is rightfully his.” Strong fingers tightened in Ivy’s hair. “Look up.”

Ivy blinked away the tears, fighting whatever was working up from her chest—a scream or a sob, she didn’t know. Half concealed by the low clouds, Lady Corsair floated above Ivy’s shop, a long and shallow wooden ship tethered beneath an enormous white balloon. They’d come in under silent sail; her engines were off, the tail propellers still. A rope ladder had been lowered to Ivy’s front door. They’d known exactly where to find her.

“I see,” she choked out.

“Good. Now understand this: my aviators haven’t had a good raid in months. You can keep fighting, and I’ll let my crew run through this town instead of Port Fallow, which can handle them. So what say you, blacksmith?”

Ivy closed her eyes, clenched her fists. She had arms powerful enough to rip this woman apart. Instinct warned her not to try. There was strong, and there was deadly—and she feared Lady Corsair had the edge on the latter.

Her chest aching, she looked toward her shop again. “I have to gather my things.”

Without a word, Lady Corsair let her go. Ivy trudged forward, avoiding the curious eyes of the townspeople coming out to look. Several sped back into the safety of their homes the moment they glimpsed the woman following her.

When they glimpsed the man, too. Though she couldn’t make out the words, Ivy heard the rough anger in Mad Machen’s voice as he questioned Lady Corsair. Felt his gaze boring into her back.

How stupid to hope she might have been safe here on the Norwegian coast, in one of the settlements populated by the descendants of families from eastern Europe who’d fled from the Horde centuries ago—and more recently, from England—but she’d never thought Mad Machen would sail into Fool’s Cove. He couldn’t sail into Fool’s Cove. The shallow water hid jagged towers of stone that ripped out the wooden bottoms of every deep-keeled boat. Ice locked the town in winter. In the spring, giant eels seethed in an electric, twisted mating dance, and in the fall, the herring spawned in the fjord that drained into the cove drew young megalodons who churned the waters in a season-long feeding frenzy. The only route into the town was by airship or the fjord; only a fool would sail in by ship.

But he hadn’t sailed. And the woman Ivy had assumed was his rival was his friend, instead.

She stepped around the rope ladder, resisting the urge to grab each rail and rip it down. When she opened the door, the bell’s jingle welcomed her into the shop. A blue curtain split the ground level room in half. The small window in front showcased the automata she’d built—the practical egg-crackers and handwashers, the fanciful singing birds and jumping frogs—and the dresses sewed by her shopmate, Netta. Seamstress and blacksmith, they both pulled in more coin with repairs than with sales off the shelf . . . but even the repair money was barely enough to keep food in their bellies.

No thanks to bloody Mad Machen.

Only last month, she’d treated an emaciated man who still bore the marks of a whip. She’d made him a new foot, and listened to how Mad Machen had attacked his merchant ship, forced the man onto his crew, used him until he couldn’t walk anymore, then left him to die in a dinghy. Mad Machen . . . who’d been tearing up the coast of the North Sea, searching for the redheaded blacksmith from London who’d cheated him.

The man had given her hair and guild tattoo a significant look. Though the work she’d done on his foot could have fed her for a year, she hadn’t asked him to pay.

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the story, received that look, and hadn’t been paid in return. Mad Machen had a habit of dropping men into dinghies near the cove. For months now, Ivy had suspected he knew she was there, and his revenge had been keeping her frightened and waiting. She should have run then—but she simply hadn’t wanted to run again.

Black hair pulled into a bun at her nape, Netta came up to the front, and the friendly smile of greeting she wore warmed when she saw Ivy. “Back so early, and without a pint to show for it. That Klaas has a tighter fist than a sailor a year out to sea.” She tsked, shaking her head, then moved over to the window. “We have a fish pie today, thanks from the widow Aughton. Now, look at all the busybodies standing about. What’re they sticking their noses into today?”

“Me.” Ivy ran her hand through her hair, trying to think. “I don’t know when I’ll return, Netta.”

If she returned.

“What are you going on about? I—” Netta froze, staring out the window. “That man, is he . . . ? Oh, Ivy—run. Run!”

“I tried that,” Ivy said, starting for the stairs. Every step was like twisting a screw through her chest. Downstairs, the bell chimed merrily as the door opened again. She didn’t look back.

Full of light, with a window overlooking the cove, her room appeared larger than it was. She crouched in front of the chest at the foot of her narrow bed, retrieving a small steel box locked with a rotating combination. She dialed in the sequence, and the box unfolded, clicking as it reshaped into a fat squatting man, his left and right eyes reading a one and a six. Sixteen coins. She pressed his hand down, and thin electrum deniers spit from the smiling mouth into her palm one at a time. When the eyes showed a zero and an eight, she flicked the hand up—leaving half for Netta to pay their rent, so that she might have a shop to return to.

Someone began to climb the stairs—a heavy, uneven tread.

Ivy hurried to her wardrobe. She had a real satchel this time, made by Netta from mismatched pieces of fabric. Ivy filled it with her few changes of clothing, then looked around. Two tattered books lay on the nightstand—children’s primers that Netta had taught Ivy to read. Taking those was like admitting she wasn’t coming back. She left them where they were.

“Bring that with you.”

Mad Machen’s gruff voice came from behind her. Slowly, Ivy turned, her gaze sweeping up from the floor—stopping at his legs. From just above the right knee on down, he no longer filled out his trouser leg and boot. A prosthetic. One he’d had long enough that he didn’t need a stabilizing cane, but he wouldn’t be running after her soon, if ever.

She met his eyes. Dark and somber, they watched her face. His hair was longer, shaggier, and lightened by the summer sun. His cheeks were leaner, browner, and a new white scar cut cleanly through his flesh from his temple to his jaw.

Sometime in the past two years, he’d been through hell. And because she couldn’t take pleasure in it, she turned away so that she wouldn’t feel compassion.

By some miracle, her voice was steady. “Bring what with me?”

“The dress.”

It hung on the wardrobe door. Of pale blue satin, designed to gather beneath her breasts and cascade to the floor, the gown was a New Year’s gift from Netta. A month ago, Ivy had attended one of the widow Aughton’s socials wearing it with borrowed slippers, gloves over her gray arms, and ribbons in her hair. Only a few men had been brave enough to dance with her. They’d heard the stories about Mad Machen, too.

Her hands shook as she lifted the dress from the hook. That terrified her. The one thing she’d always been able to depend on was the steadiness of her hands.

When she turned, he was beside her bed, bending to slide his fingers over the rough woolen blanket. Anger suddenly rose up, stripping the thread of her fear.

The gown crumpled in her fists. “Why not here?”

His gaze flew to hers.

“Use me on the bed,” she told him. “Take what you feel you’re owed. Then leave me here, and let me continue as I was.”

His brows lowered, and he slowly straightened. After an endless second in which he seemed to be holding on to his control, he said, “Our agreement was that you’d be in my bed.”

“For passage. I didn’t board your ship. I owe you nothing.”

“But to pay your debt to Yasmeen, you have to board Vesuvius .” He took a step toward her. “Bring the dress, Ivy.”

She’d have ripped it. But Netta had spent hours sewing in secret . . . and Ivy loved the blasted thing. She shoved the gown into her satchel and turned for the stairs. She marched down and threw her arms around a weeping Netta.

“I left money. It’s not much.”

“I’ll get by.” Netta’s strong arms squeezed her tight. “Take care, Ivy. And come back. Please.”

Nodding, Ivy drew away. She heard Mad Machen on the stairs—slow, careful. With her chin high, Ivy swept past Lady Corsair, through the door, and to the rope ladder.

And because it was the last time she could put distance between her and Mad Machen, Ivy climbed to her fate as fast as she could.

Lady Corsair’s sails unfurled before Eben was halfway up the ladder. Within a minute, he was clinging to the swaying ropes, staring down into the shallow cove where small megalodons swam between jagged rocks, their dorsal fins cutting the surface. Yasmeen was furious with him, obviously.

His fury was directed right back. God damn her for keeping Ivy’s location from him. For not telling him who the Blacksmith had sent them to find until after they’d stepped into that tavern.

And with every awkward step up the ladder, he thanked God that Ivy hadn’t been on Vesuvius when she’d sailed from London two years ago—but he didn’t need the sharks circling below as a reminder.

A gust buffeted him against the wooden hull. The impact rattled his teeth and vibrated painfully through his steel leg, into his thigh bone. Jaw clenched, he pulled himself up another rung and swung over the gunwale onto the deck. Most of the crew was at the halyards, hauling at the lines that drew the sails out along the horizontal spars, bringing the triangular canvas forward to catch more air. Yasmeen watched them from the quarterdeck.

He couldn’t see Ivy anywhere.

A familiar tightness gripped his chest. Was she hiding from him? Christ, no wonder. He couldn’t keep a rational head when he saw her, touched her. She twisted him up. Not a damn thing he said came out as it should. He’d wait before seeking her out, regain his wits—so that when she looked at him like a monster, he didn’t heed his instinct and prove her right. That instinct had saved him more times than he could count, but if he wanted Ivy in his life, he couldn’t give into it with her.

And he needed answers from Yasmeen first. Eben hadn’t expected that Ivy would be glad to see him. He hadn’t expected her to flee in terror, either.

By the time he reached the quarterdeck, the airship had gained altitude, skimming below the clouds and bearing toward Vesuvius, anchored just beyond the mouth of the cove.

“Where is she?”

“I locked her in the officer’s mess.” Yasmeen didn’t take her eyes off the men working the decks. “She looked ready to take a dive over the side.”

“What the hell have you told her?”

“Only what you should have—” Her gaze narrowed when an aviator stepped into a coil of rope. Her voice rose, hard and sharp. “Mind that line, Ms. Pegg, or we’ll be feeding your leg to the bleeding gulls! . . . again,” she finished quietly, before glancing at Eben. “All of the men who came to me from your ship that were in need of a blacksmith, I sent to her with a story. I embellished.”

Embellished. Enough that Ivy had thought he’d rape her. She likely imagined that once they reached Vesuvius she’d be whipped, abused, starved. Why not? Half the people who came off Eben’s ship were.

“At every port, I heard that you were asking about her. And I heard the talk that had begun: men claiming that you’d weakened for a woman—and if you are weak in one area, you can be weakened in others. So I spread a different story.” Yasmeen spared him another glance. “Both your ship and this blacksmith are better protected when everyone thinks that you only seek her because she cheated you. You’ve made destroying the Black Guard your crusade, but your first duty is to your men—and there are too many lives at stake for Mad Machen to become Softhearted Eben.”

“I know,” he said grimly. Christ, how he knew. The lives of his crew and the freedom of every person rounded up and chained into the belly of the Black Guard’s slaver ships depended on the reputation he’d earned over the years. Fear was a more powerful weapon than the biggest rail cannon—and every terrified mercenary who’d rather give up his cargo than face Mad Machen saved more lives than a Softhearted Eben ever could.

“Then choose who you will be. You can’t be both.”

He pictured Ivy’s face—a sight that had helped him fight through hell. And he felt the strange, cold presence below his knee, a constant reminder that there were others who hadn’t been strong or lucky enough to break free.

Maybe he couldn’t be both. But he could damn well try.

THREE

Twenty minutes passed before Mad Machen came for her. When she heard the door open, Ivy turned away from the porthole windows, Fool’s Cove no longer visible behind them.

With dark eyes, he stared at her until a shout from the decks and a sudden decrease in the airship’s speed sent Ivy stumbling forward. He started toward her, but stopped when she caught her balance. His gaze left her face, landing on the satchel she’d dropped by the door.

Bending, he grabbed up the handle, slung it over his shoulder. “We’re almost above my ship. Come.”

Ivy expected him to step aside to let her pass, but he didn’t move out of the doorway as she approached. Ivy paused, wary. When his brows drew together with his frown, she fought the urge to scramble back.

His expression continued to darken. “Don’t be afraid of me.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped before she could stop it. Clamping her lips together, she lasted only a moment until the rest came out. “Certainly. I’ll start doing that, right away.”

To her surprise, he smiled before sliding the door open. Nerves fluttering in her stomach, she passed him quickly, entering the narrow passageway that led out from beneath the quarterdeck. Cold wind caught her full in the face. Shivering in her thin coat, she started toward the rope ladder at the side of the airship, already longing for the warmer air below. She’d forgotten how frigid even a slight breeze could seem as it blew across the airship’s open decks.

Mad Machen came up beside her. Avoiding his gaze, Ivy looked down, where Vesuvius floated five hundred yards below. The ladder hadn’t been lowered yet. As she watched, two aviators at a nearby capstan unwound a mooring cable toward the waiting ship. Within a few minutes, the crew below had tethered the airship to Vesuvius’s stern, the cable carrying enough slack to form a graceful curve between them.

She glanced over at Mad Machen. His hands braced on the gunwale, he was looking down at the ship with an expression that might have been anticipation. His gaze slid up the mooring line, then unexpectedly locked on hers.

“Put your arms around my neck, Ivy, and we’ll head down.”

Confused, she looked to the ladder, still rolled up near her feet.

Without warning, his arm circled her waist, hauling her back against his solid chest. Surrounded by the heat of his body, she tried not to stiffen.

“No? Then I’ll hold on to you,” he said against her hair, and reached for the mooring line. Snapping a large carabiner over the cable, he gripped the bottom of the steel loop.

Oh, blue. That was how they’d be going down? Spinning to face him, she flung her arms around his shoulders. Muscles bunched beneath her hands. Mad Machen swung them up and over the side, and then they were falling, bouncing and twisting, steel ripping along over the cable. Ivy squeezed her eyes shut, then popped them open again, staring over his shoulder. They dropped away from the airship at terrifying . . . exhilarating speed.

She laughed, suddenly loving this mad descent. His arm tightened around her back and Ivy abruptly became aware of how she clung to him, her legs wrapped around his thigh, her cheek against his warm neck—abruptly aware that she’d felt safe enough to let go of her fear, if only for a moment.

Then they were slowing at the bottom of the long arc of cable, leveling out. Ivy lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Vesuvius’s approaching decks. Tall and imposing, Vesuvius was enormous. Wide at the waterline, the ship’s black, rounded hull narrowed at the top, and the two rows of gallery windows built up the squared-off stern higher than the bow. Gunports lined the side, and more cannons took up space along the rails of the upper decks. From high above, the ship had appeared small and calm in the quiet waters, but closing in she could barely make sense of the crisscrossing ropes and furled sails, the timbers and spars—and twice as many crew members on the crowded upper deck alone than had served the entire airship, all moving about in chaotic activity.

“Zounds!” she exclaimed, and turned her head as Mad Machen chuckled, a deep rumble that she felt against her chest. The wind scraped his ragged hair back from his forehead, and when his short laugh ended, either the ship or the descent left a wide grin on his face.

Perhaps both.

Without glancing down at her, he said, “Hold tight,” and let go of the carabiner, landing heavily on the poop deck. He stumbled, as if his right leg almost folded, but he wrenched upward and came to a halt, holding her against him. Breathing hard and still grinning, he pulled back to look into her face. His hair stuck up wildly in all directions. Amusement crinkled the corners of his eyes, softening his dark gaze. She waited for her fear to return, but could only think that this was the man she’d asked for help from two years before, the man she’d met at the Blacksmith’s.

But her impression then had been wrong. She couldn’t trust this impression, either.

Ivy pulled away. To her relief, Mad Machen let her go, turning to scan the ship. At a word, two men rushed to unfasten the mooring line. A shout from another deck sent hands scurrying up the masts, out onto the yards. Eight men around a capstan began hauling up the heavy anchor chain.

Watching them, Ivy took a few moments to find her breath—and her balance. The deck seemed to roll gently beneath her feet, a gentle rock from bow to stern. Gulls circled the topgallant masts, their raucous cries adding to the voices calling to one another up in the yards, to the orders shouted from below. Booted feet beat the decks as men hurried about, securing ropes. White sails unfurled with the rough scrape of canvas, and the timbers creaked when they filled with air.

Chaos, but a perfectly ordered one. Eyes wide as she tried to take it in, she followed Mad Machen to a lower deck, where Barker stood at a carved balustrade, overlooking the crew.

The quartermaster turned and spotted Ivy. His mouth fell open and his gaze darted to Mad Machen’s face before returning to hers. His astonishment warmed into a smile.

“Well,” he drawled. “Look at you, Ivy Blacksmith. You’ve color in your cheeks now.”

All freckles. “A bit,” she said.

“More than a bit. The blue skies suit you. Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?”

“Yes.” Mad Machen’s slow perusal felt as if he was stripping Ivy down to her skin. “But so did London.”

“That’s true enough.” Barker laughed suddenly, shaking his head. He looked to Mad Machen. “And so this explains why Yasmeen wouldn’t tell us who the Blacksmith had named until after you’d fetched her. She knew you wouldn’t strangle her in front of Ivy.”

A gentle swell rocked the ship. Swaying, Ivy stared at Barker. “The Blacksmith?” So focused on the threat of Mad Machen, she’d completely forgotten what Lady Corsair had told her: they wanted Ivy to build something. “Why did he name me?”

Mad Machen glanced at Barker. The quartermaster’s expression closed up and he nodded, as if that silent look had conveyed a message Ivy couldn’t read.

The captain turned to Ivy. “He said you are best suited for the work.”

“What work?” Of all her talents, her strongest was creating artificial limbs. Nothing like the Blacksmith’s mechanical flesh, but far more precise and integrated than a typical prosthetic . . . Oh. Her gaze dropped. “Your leg?”

“No.”

Mad Machen’s abrupt answer told her not to pursue it. Why? She’d have to know eventually—and the sooner she began, the sooner she could return to Fool’s Cove. “Then why am I here?”

His mouth tightened. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of speaking, but looked away from her, instead. He turned to Barker.

“Send for Duckie. He’ll ready my cabin for Ivy’s stay.”

His cabin. Without a flicker of his eyelids, the quartermaster followed the order. Anger grated in Ivy’s chest like a twisted gear.

The Blacksmith wouldn’t have given her name if he’d known she’d be required to work in Mad Machen’s bed, too. Ivy was certain of it.

“I don’t owe you that service, Captain Machen. Tell your man to put me in another room.”

“You’re taking passage on my ship—”

“Not by my choice.”

“—and you will sleep in my bed.”

By the bleeding stars, she would not be forced. “You’ll have to chain me down first, Mad Machen.”

His smile was sudden and terrifying, a sharp flash of white against his tan. Ivy stepped back, abruptly aware that the only sound on the ship came from the gulls and the creaking hull. The crew had fallen silent. Barker’s eyes had closed, as if he were praying. A blond, gangly boy with a red mark across his forehead rushed up the stairs onto the quarterdeck and stopped, looking uneasily between her and the captain.

Ivy swallowed. Alright. She shouldn’t challenge Mad Machen here. When they had privacy, perhaps she could appeal to his rational side . . . if he had one. And if not, perhaps she could bargain with the mercenary in him.

Her heart pounding, she held still as Mad Machen crossed the distance between them. His dark face lowered, stopping with his lips a breath from hers. He murmured, “Here in front of my men, or in my cabin. That is your choice.”

“Your cabin.” Frustration shook through her whisper. “And damn you to a kraken’s belly.”

His brows rose, and a surprised laugh broke from him before his mouth suddenly covered hers, his callused palm cupping her jaw. Not a hard kiss, and not tender—it was a statement, she realized, for the men watching them. A claim, pure and simple.

A claim that went on until Ivy had to employ all of her willpower to refrain from biting him.

He finally lifted his head, and turned to the boy. “Duckie, escort Ivy Blacksmith to my cabin. See that she wants for nothing.”

“Yes, sir.” The boy gathered her satchel from the captain, and looked expectantly to Ivy.

Plastering on a smile, she pulled at her trouser legs and curtsied to Mad Machen. His laugh followed her to the stairs—and Ivy decided she could make a statement, too. A brass finial shaped like an egg decorated the end of the banister. Ivy closed her gray hand around it. Metal shrieked as she crushed the finial between her fingers.

His laughter stopped.

She released the mangled brass, and called over her shoulder, “I await your mighty prick, sir!”

Eben couldn’t stop grinning. Judging by the way his crew kept their heads down and their hands busy, most assumed a storm was brewing, but Barker read his grin for what it was.

“Not so afraid now, is she?”

No, she wasn’t. And not ready to trust him, but Eben knew it’d take time to show her that she could. The reputation he’d built couldn’t be brushed away with a word—and he couldn’t risk that it was brushed away from anyone’s eyes but Ivy’s. Yasmeen had been right about that.

But at least her fear had receded. He couldn’t have borne it if she’d kept trembling at his approach or trying to run. The rest would come.

He eyed the stairs. Perhaps he could start—

“Meg!”

The shout came down from the crow’s nest, where Teppers pointed out to starboard. Two hundred yards distant, a razor-edged dorsal fin sliced through the water, tall enough that if Vesuvius sailed next to it, the fin’s point would reach halfway to the ship’s upper decks.

“A big one,” Barker said.

A damn big one. And with luck, it wouldn’t come to investigate Vesuvius. Even under full sail, a megalodon was impossible to outrun. Altered and bred by the Horde until they were aggressive and territorial, a full-grown megalodon could leave a ship rudderless or damage the hull, even on a vessel as solid as Eben’s—and the shark’s armored plating made it damn hard to kill. The best course was just avoiding them, and if that failed, throw out bait—and then watch Vesuvius’s tail, because once megalodons caught a scent, they were hard to shake.

Out over the water, the dorsal fin turned toward them, then slid beneath the surface.

“Hard to port.” Eben braced his feet and settled in. “Ready the chum.”

It was going to be a long afternoon.

With a row of square windows that welcomed the pale, slanting sunlight, the captain’s cabin was more spacious than Ivy anticipated. Though four cannons strapped to rolling platforms were lashed together at the center of the floor, enough room was left over for a dining table that could seat six, a teak desk piled high with maps and ledgers, two leather armchairs beneath the windows, a weapons cabinet, and a wardrobe. Chests with upholstered lids served as footrests or additional seats. A narrow door by the windows opened to a lavatory. Partitioning off one side of the room was a heavy green curtain—behind which, a blushing Duckie told her, was the captain’s berth. As soon as he left, Ivy pushed the curtain aside, revealing a squat bureau topped by a ewer, a washbowl, and a mirror. A thick mattress lay on a waist-high wooden platform.

Blimey. The bed was tiny. Long enough to accommodate the captain’s height, but almost as narrow as her bed in Fool’s Cove. Certainly not wide enough for two people to lie side by side, especially if one had shoulders as broad as Mad Machen’s. Even hanging off the edge would be impossible; a wooden rail guarded the side to keep the pitching boat from flinging the sleeper to the floor.

What in the blue blazes did he expect to do—lie on top of her all night?

Her stomach rolled. Perhaps that was exactly what he expected to do.

So she would reason with him when he returned. She wouldn’t antagonize him, but lay out a rational alternative. With a blanket on the floor, she could sleep in the small space between the end of the bed and the chest of drawers. She wouldn’t mind; she’d spent nights in worse places.

Ivy waited. When Duckie returned, she asked him for an extra blanket and made her spot on the floor. Eventually the sun dropped to the horizon, painting the cabin in orange light and purple shadows. Duckie brought her dinner on heavy plates: a thick fish stew swimming with carrots, leeks, and potatoes and sopped up with crusty rolls; melon slices bursting with juice; and a lemon tart made with French sugar. He didn’t set a place for Mad Machen, who was “leading Meg on a grand chase.” As she wasn’t thrown about the room by a shark ramming the ship, or trying to cut her way out of its belly, the captain must have been doing a fine job of it.

When Mad Machen finally came, she was sitting in a chair by the windows, watching the stars appear against the coal black heavens—a view she never tired of, and that she’d never seen over London’s hazy skies. The moon, sometimes, as a dull red glow through the smoke. Never the stars.

The captain’s gaze found her in the darkened room. She couldn’t see his expression, only the gleam of his eyes. After a long moment, he strode to the berth and slid aside the curtain. Her makeshift pallet made him pause.

Ivy filled the silence. “If I sleep on the—”

“No.” He swept the blanket up and called for Duckie. Wearing only a nightshirt, the cabin boy came through the door an instant later. Mad Machen tossed the blanket to him. “If the nights are too cold, she can have it back.”

“Yes, sir.” Duckie left the cabin as quickly as he’d come.

With the flick of a spark lighter, Mad Machen lit the gas lamp on the bureau. In the dim glow, he looked toward Ivy. “You won’t be cold.”

Clamping her lips tight, Ivy faced the windows again. Rational, she reminded herself. He made it difficult.

And he’d stolen her view. Now that the lamp lit the cabin, his reflection appeared in the glass, instead. He stood at the bureau with his back to the windows, filling the washbowl with water. She glanced away when he removed his jacket, but looked again when she heard his shirt come off.

She’d spent years training at the Blacksmith’s smithy, learning to build machines that ranged from tiny clockworks to enormous steam-powered locomotives. But before the Blacksmith had let her touch a single prosthetic, she’d had to study anatomy. For two years, she’d watched people wearing tight clothes and loose, observed the nude models brought in by the Blacksmith—and during quiet sessions at night, opening the drowned corpses brought in by the body collectors along the Thames—until she understood how every muscle, tendon, and joint within a human body affected balance and movement.

With sharply delineated muscle that moved smoothly beneath his tanned skin, Mad Machen had a form well worth studying.

Stripped down to his breeches, he washed his face, then wetted a cloth and wiped down the back of his neck, his chest, his underarms. He glanced around once, as if checking to see that she still faced the window. After a brief hesitation, he moved to a bootjack. Bracing his foot, he pulled off his left boot—but when his right came off, she turned in the armchair for a better look, frowning.

His breeches extended to midcalf, so she couldn’t see his knee, but the mechanical leg looked to be a standard skeletal prosthetic, made of nickel-plated steel with basic movement at the joints . . . and a badly configured ankle.

“You have a load-bearing pneumatic where your Achilles tube should be.” She stood and crossed the room. Crouching next to him, she fingered the wide cylinder above his heel. “Look at this. Shoddy work—”

She paused suddenly, looked up; he was staring down at her, his expression unreadable. “It’s not by your ship’s blacksmith, is it?”

“No.”

His gruff response released the tension that had sprung through her. In London, there could be no excuse for work like this, but on a ship, there could be any number of reasons—a lack of equipment being the most likely. She didn’t want to endanger a blacksmith’s position over circumstances he couldn’t avoid.

“Alright. Look here. Your Achilles tube is for balance and stability—it doesn’t handle much weight, but prevents your foot apparatus from flopping around like a fish. But this . . .” She tapped her finger against the cylinder, shaking her head. “It’s harder to compress, which limits the range of motion. You probably don’t take note of it except for on an incline or stairs, or when you want to walk quickly—but then it’s stiff. Yes?”

“Yes.”

His voice had deepened, but Ivy didn’t glance up to gauge his expression. She lifted the leg of his breeches and examined the knee. Rudimentary, but fine. Her fingers itched to build a more advanced joint, but fixing what he had would have to serve.

“If you show me to your smithy, I’ll adjust the cylinder’s valve so that it compresses under minimal weight. It won’t be perfect, but you’ll have a smoother stride until the pneumatic can be replaced.”

“Not tonight.”

Ivy closed her eyes as his answer sank through her. Pushing to her feet, she walked back to the window.

He might have sighed, but she wasn’t certain. The creaking of the ship and the clank of his foot as he moved toward her covered the sound. He stopped by the table and glanced down at her plates. She’d eaten from all of them but one.

His brows lifted. “You don’t like lemon tarts?”

She didn’t know; she hadn’t tried one. “Duckie said the sugar came from the Antilles.”

Two hundred years before, the Horde had used cheap imported sugars and teas to infect almost everyone in Britain with their nanoagents. Ivy didn’t know anyone raised under Horde rule who sweetened their food with anything but honey.

Sitting back against the table, he paused with his hand over the tart. “May I?”

“Yes,” she said, grateful that unlike some descendents of the merchants and aristocrats who’d fled when the Horde had advanced across Europe—and who still considered themselves Englishmen, though they’d never stepped foot on British soil until after the Iron Duke blew up the Horde’s tower—Mad Machen didn’t try to convince her that she had nothing to fear from sugar imported from the New World.

Of course she didn’t; she was already infected. She didn’t reject sugar out of paranoia, but pride. Apparently, he understood that.

He ate quietly. She watched his reflection and hope began to rise in her chest. The downward cast of his shoulders told her that fatigue sat heavily on him. If exhausted, surely he wouldn’t want to force her into his bed.

That hope died when her gaze slid down to his loins. She couldn’t mistake the bulge that had formed behind the flap of his breeches. Though tired, he was obviously imagining what came next.

He finished the tart and straightened. “It grows late, Ivy. Let’s go to bed.”

Her teeth clenched. If he tried to force her, she would kill him. And if Ivy killed him, she wouldn’t make it off this ship. Desperate, she cast around her mind for something—anything—that might appeal to him. She only had one thing. Unfortunately, she had very little of it.

She stood, digging into the pouch tied at the waist of her trousers and withdrawing a thin denier. She held the money out to him.

He frowned at the coin. “What is this for?”

“I’ll sleep in your bed tonight. This is to sleep unmolested.”

His gaze flew to her face. His dark brows drew together, and shadows moved over his expression. Ivy’s hand didn’t shake; the rest of her did.

After an endless moment, his fingers closed over hers. He took the coin. “Get into the bed.”

She went quickly, before he could change his mind. Her knees sank into the thick mattress and she stretched out on her side, her back hard against the cold bulkhead. His uneven tread carried him to the bureau, where he snuffed the lamp, and she followed the sound of his steps to the bed. He rolled in beside her, a solid block of heat that almost flattened her against the side of the ship. His hands found her waist.

Ivy tried to shrink back and couldn’t. “You agreed you wouldn’t—”

“Crush you? Hold still.” His rough voice brooked no argument. He hauled her against him, her head cradled by his shoulder, her leg over his thighs. “And relax.”

Her laugh burst out, tinged with hysteria. He truly must be insane.

But as the minutes passed, the tension did ease from her body. Despite everything, she was comfortable—and warm. So warm.

Not that she wanted to become accustomed to this. “How long will we be sailing?”

He didn’t answer for a long moment, and by the heaviness in his reply, she realized he’d almost been asleep. “Fifteen days.”

She stared into the dark. Fifteen. And she had only eight coins.

Seven now.

Mad Machen stirred again. “And twenty days more for the return journey. We’ll be sailing against the wind.”

Five weeks altogether—and only coins enough for one.

Smoking hell.

FOUR

As always, Eben woke to the first of eight bells signaling the end of the middle watch. Four o’clock. On the deck above, the crew changed shifts, and the muffled thud of their footsteps told him the transition was smooth, with only one hand running late to his post. He listened to Vesuvius, to her familiar creaks and groans. The wind had picked up during the night, deepening each roll of the sea.

When the next bell rang in half an hour, Duckie would bring his coffee and breakfast, expecting to find Eben up and dressed. In two bells, Barker and Simms, the navigator, would meet with him to plot their course. Meg had pushed them far enough northwest that rounding the top of the British isle and sailing down the west coast might take them to Wales faster than turning back and sailing for the channel.

But Eben wasn’t in a hurry.

Ivy had softened against him in sleep, her head pillowed on his chest and her fingers loosely curled beneath her chin. Her leg crossed over his groin. He hoped to God she didn’t wake up. Holding her so close hardened his morning erection into an aching, solid length. If Ivy felt his arousal, Eben had no doubt she’d scramble away, certain he was bent on raping her.

The night before, he’d seen her terror as she’d offered the coin. It’d been all he could do not to haul her against him and prove that he wouldn’t take her by force.

But this route was better. When she’d approached him with the denier, Eben had been planning to coax a kiss from her—and two years ago, a single touch of her lips had almost stolen his control. If he’d lost his head again, she wouldn’t be sleeping soundly now, but lying tense and quivering beside him.

He’d already waited two years. So he could wait for a kiss—and hope that she soon exhausted her supply of coins.

Ivy had a vague memory of stirring awake in the dark, Mad Machen a shadow looming over the bed, softly telling her to sleep longer. She must have. When she fully opened her eyes, the sun was streaming into the cabin from the east.

Hot water filled the ewer on the bureau. She washed and quickly changed her clothes behind the closed curtain. A bell rang somewhere above, seven times. Men were up and about; she could hear footsteps and voices through the decks, a good-natured shout and a burst of male laughter.

She’d seen a number of the crew yesterday. They looked like a rough lot, and a few had a smell strong enough that dipping them in the ocean could have killed any megalodon in a thirty mile radius, but none had appeared starved or abused. They certainly hadn’t looked like the four men whose prosthetics she’d rebuilt in Fool’s Cove.

Perhaps she hadn’t seen all of his men, though—or Mad Machen treated the captives he forced into labor differently than his regular crew.

A soft tap at the door was followed by Duckie’s voice. She called him in, and marveled when she saw the meal he carried: black coffee, a bowl of porridge, honey and cream, round soda biscuits, and a thick slice of ham crowded a large tray. Though Mad Machen had been to sea these many years, he apparently still ate as if he lived in Manhattan City. No one in England made breakfasts such as this. The only item that Ivy consumed regularly was the coffee, made cheap and plentiful by the Liberé farmers in the southern American continent.

Perhaps everyone in the New World ate like this—and so would she, quite happily. But despite the growling of her stomach, she tried not to appear too eager. She’d had ham before. Twice.

Half an hour later, with her belly pleasantly full and the coffee mug warming her hands, she left the cabin. A short, low-ceilinged passageway led her from beneath the quarterdeck. Blinking, she emerged into the sun. Faint spray misted her face, and each breath drew in cold, clean air.

“And there she is.” Barker’s voice came from above her. Ivy glanced up, saw him leaning forward with his elbows against the balustrade, smiling down at her. “Had a bit of a lie-in, Miss Blacksmith?”

Her cheeks heated. She could imagine why Barker thought she’d sleep late. “No. I built an autogyro from the clock and the cannons in the captain’s room, which I plan to fly off the ship tonight,” she told the quartermaster. “What have you accomplished today, sir?”

Barker’s smile vanished. He glanced quickly at Mad Machen, who stood beside him with feet braced and his arms folded over his wide chest, looking as if he owned everything he observed—including Ivy.

The captain’s dark eyes met hers, and she read his amusement. “She would need more than a clock, Barker—and she’s too clever to risk flying an autogyro anywhere a breeze might turn her over.”

It was true. She’d have better luck trying to swim. But she was pleased Barker thought she might have built one and tried to escape.

Sipping her coffee, she turned and let her gaze skim the front of the ship. Though not as chaotic as when they’d weighed anchor the previous day, she counted over thirty men on the decks and up in the rigging, all busy. Beyond them, the sun gleamed over the sea’s undulating surface. Ivy had to turn away. Though she’d adjusted to the rocking of the ship beneath her feet, watching the dip and rise of the bow against the horizon tossed her stomach about.

She looked up, unsurprised to find Mad Machen’s gaze on her. “Where are we sailing to, Captain?” She supposed a fifteen-day journey from Norway might take them to . . . Oh, blue heavens. Dread speared like icicles through her chest. “London?”

“No. The Welsh coast.”

Oh. Breathing became easier.

His voice low and rough, he said, “But if it was London, you’d have nothing to fear. Not with me.”

Ivy stared at him. How did she respond to that? She didn’t even know how to classify her response to his declaration. Her cheeks had heated again, and her belly tightened and seemed to pitch with the ship. But she wasn’t queasy. Just . . . something else.

And of course she knew that the Horde hadn’t returned to Britain in the past two years. She still didn’t want to return, ever. London held nothing for her but suffocating memories she’d rather let go.

Mad Machen moved to the stairs, held out his hand. “Come up here.”

Ivy searched for a reason to refuse, but aside from her reluctance to be so near to him, she couldn’t find one. But she did not take his hand. She climbed the stairs and pushed her empty mug into his outstretched palm. Though uncertain of his reaction, the small defiance felt good.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said.

The corners of his mouth deepened. Without a word, he turned and handed the cup off to a chuckling Barker.

Ivy bit her lip to repress her own smile, looking away from him. Though the quarterdeck was all but empty of crew, a hive of activity centered on the high poop deck at the stern of the ship. As she watched, two men cast a wide net over the side. Other men stood around barrels, holding machetes and shovels. The scent of fish was strong.

“They’re replenishing the chum,” Mad Machen said. “Distracting Meg yesterday cleaned out our supply.”

Barrels of it, apparently. “And if she hadn’t given up? Do you use your meat stores?”

“No. The crew draws straws, and we toss the loser over the side.”

She glanced sharply around and saw his grin. She fought not to laugh, and nodded toward Vesuvius’s bow. “Why not use the rail cannon? Is the steam engine too unstable?”

If so, perhaps she could fix it. But Mad Machen was shaking his head.

“I haven’t had one blow up yet. It’s the vibrations. As soon as the engine starts up, Meg will ram us trying to get to it, and the engine noise would draw in others. So the cannon might kill her, but we’d be sitting in the center of a feeding frenzy around a bleeding shark.” He gestured to the poop deck, at the white-haired man overseeing the fishing crew. “My engine master, Mr. Leveque.”

“I see,” Ivy said, and she did. The engine master’s duty was making certain the engine would fire if the captain needed it . . . and to make certain he never needed to fire it.

And she saw that the responsibility for both ultimately lay on Mad Machen’s shoulders.

The breeze picked up, cold and brisk. Pulling the edges of her coat together, she moved to the side of the ship to look over at the nets. She heard Mad Machen follow, and the snap of metal as he unbuckled his coat.

Heavy wool swept around her shoulders. Ivy stiffened before letting herself sink into the warmth of his big coat. Spite wouldn’t keep her from shivering, and if Mad Machen’s gesture meant he’d feel the bite of the morning air, all the better.

But he didn’t look cold. The sun warmed his face, narrowing his eyes against the glare. The wind created by the ship’s speed caught his collar, billowing through his shirt, and he stood solid as if the icy breath didn’t touch him.

Her gaze fell to his throat, and the rough scar exposed by the wind. She’d heard several different stories about how he’d gotten it—and the “mad” in front of his name—but they varied wildly. Only one element remained the same: while serving as ship’s surgeon, he’d crossed Rhys Trahaearn.

“Did the Iron Duke truly hang you aboard the Terror?”

He grinned. “So that’s what you’ve heard?”

“Yes.”

But she had her doubts—not that Trahaearn had been ruthless enough to hang him, but that he’d let Mad Machen live afterward.

“You’ve heard the wrong story, then. He didn’t hang me on the ship. He hung me over the side, low enough that my feet dragged through the water.”

Ivy gaped. She’d have thought he was joking, just as he had about the crew drawing straws, but the evidence circled his neck.

“Like bait?” When he nodded, she gasped, “Why?”

His grin faded, and he studied her face. Moving closer, he turned with his back to the sea and his elbows on the rail, watching the men. His voice lowered. “This doesn’t go further than you and me. Alright?”

Her eyes widened. He’d done something so terrible? “Yes.”

“Twelve years ago, we were on a run from Australia to the Ivory Market when we hit rough weather. What should have been a six-week trip had already stretched into three months, and we’d only just rounded the Cape of Good Hope and begun sailing up the west coast of Africa.”

All Horde territory. And just as they had in Europe, the Horde had polluted the unoccupied territories with diseased nanoagents that took over the victim’s will without use of a controlling tower. Mindless, the diseased humans only hungered and hunted.

“The crew had been living on reduced rations of salt pork and hard tack for almost two months,” Mad Machen continued. “Those with bugs were getting along. The rest of us weren’t.”

“You weren’t infected then?” The nanoagents couldn’t prevent scurvy, but they’d delay the symptoms much longer.

He shook his head. “We had two weeks of sailing before we reached the Market. I informed the captain that we had to replenish our stores or a portion of the crew wasn’t going to make it. And as the health of the crew was my priority, I’d studied the maps. I’d found a river delta a day’s journey north. The river forked around an island—and the zombies don’t usually cross water. So I asked him to drop anchor long enough to forage.”

“He didn’t agree?”

“It meant veering toward the shore. The waters along that shelf are kraken territory.”

Ivy’s heart thumped. The handlers at the crèche had used tales of the giant cephalopods to keep them in line as children. She’d been scared of kraken long before she learned they deserved the terror their name evoked, their long tentacles pulling apart ships or picking men from the decks and dragging them under.

“So he decided between losing a few men or losing them all,” she realized.

“And furious that the island meant he had to make the choice. Not that Trahaearn gave any indication of it. I didn’t realize then how ruddy pissed off I’d made him by pointing out that option—not until I had my own ship.” Mad Machen paused, a frown creasing his brow. He met her eyes again. “Resigning yourself to losing men is easier than making the decisions that will kill them.”

Uncomfortable, Ivy looked out to sea. She didn’t want to think those decisions were difficult for Mad Machen. It didn’t fit with the image she felt strangely desperate to hold on to.

“So he hanged you?”

“Not for that.” A wry smile touched his lips. “The next morning, when he gave the helmsman the bearing that would take us to the Ivory Market, I told the crew to belay that order.”

Ivy covered her mouth, staring at him. “You are mad.”

His deep laugh creased his lean cheeks and wrinkled the corners of his eyes. He shook his head. “ ‘Mad’ was accepting the bargain he laid out for me: he’d hang me over the side, and sail toward the island as long as I was alive. Otherwise, he’d shoot me where I stood.”

“Why is that crazy? You were dead either way.”

“Quick would have been easier.” His gaze fell to her hands. “I think you know.”

Yes. Even knowing what good would come of it, there had been times during her surgery she’d wished for death just to end the pain. He’d seen that with Barker.

And Ivy hadn’t had a Mad Machen to carry her home afterward.

He turned toward the sea again, so close that only an inch separated their arms, braced on the rail. When the ship rolled, her hip bumped lightly against his thigh.

Ivy couldn’t catch her breath.

“So that’s the story,” he said. “Trahaearn avoided the kraken and sailed us to the island, the men foraged for fresh food, and I woke up a week after they hauled me back onboard, miraculously still in one piece.”

Lucky to wake up at all. “And lesson learned: don’t question the captain.”

He shook his head. “My men question me often enough, but not in front of the crew. That, I won’t allow. Tolerating one man who undermines my authority puts the entire ship at risk.”

Her fingers tightened on the wooden gunwale. Perhaps she shouldn’t have pushed that coffee mug into his hand.

Mad Machen must have read the sudden worry on her face. “You’re not part of my crew, Ivy. When you challenge me, they understand you’re challenging the man, not the captain—and that you aren’t trying to take my command.”

Relief eased through her. “I don’t want your command.”

“Or the man?” Stark emotion lined his face for an instant, stealing her automatic response. He didn’t give her time to recover. “What do you want, Ivy?”

Clean air. A view of the stars. Work for her mind and her hands. “To build what I’ve come to build, and to return home.”

He looked out to the sea. After a second, he nodded. “Then let’s get you started.”

She followed Mad Machen down a ladder into the dimly lit lower deck. He walked with his shoulders bent, ducking beneath low beams with an ease that spoke of long familiarity. He led her forward through cabins lined with cannons, past sailors who snapped to attention, around stanchions, past the galley were a tall, rawboned woman argued with slick-haired man over a bushel of potatoes, both of them gesturing wildly, paring knives in hand.

A narrow passageway terminated at a locked door. Producing the key from the pocket of the coat she still wore, Mad Machen opened it and showed her into a triangular cabin at the very front of the ship. Well-lit and stocked with tools, Ivy immediately saw that it served as a smithy. She started forward, but paused when she caught sight of the glass tank along the bulkhead near the door. Waist-high, reinforced at the edges with iron, the aquarium was filled with water, a few silver fish . . . and a small squid. It darted around the tank, eight arms forming a cone, tentacles trailing.

She turned to him, brows raised. “Supper?”

“No. The Blacksmith said you’d need it.” He glanced around the room, frowning. “If I’d known it was you, I’d have put it in my cabin.”

Because his was more comfortable or to keep her near his bed? Ivy didn’t ask. “This suits me,” she said, and it did. “What do I have to do?”

“Repair a submersible.”

She laughed, looking around the cabin. Though not as cramped as some of the men’s quarters, she certainly couldn’t fit a submersible here—let alone fit it through the door. “In here?”

He smiled faintly. “No. It’s in Wales, already constructed—and as-is, it’s a complete loss. I need you to discover where my blacksmiths went wrong.”

He strode past her to a chest constructed of steel. Ivy recognized that design—it was the Blacksmith’s. Like her bank in Fool’s Cove, it expanded and reconfigured when given the right combination. This one unfolded into a solid worktable. Long rolls of paper that had been hidden inside now lay on the surface.

Curious, Ivy smoothed out the paper, and stared at the first sketch. Not just a submersible—it was shaped like a kraken, with mechanical arms and maneuverable tentacles. This had to be a joke. “Someone built this?”

“Yes.”

She tilted her head, struggling with her disbelief. It could be done, she supposed. A small, one-man craft that—

Her gaze skimmed over the dimensions. She choked. “This is longer than your ship!”

“Only the tentacles.”

With a body as big as his cabin. “It can’t be done. This is of metal, not . . . not”—she wiggled her fingers at the squid—“what they have. The weight of the tentacles alone would destabilize the entire structure. There’s no counterweight.”

“And you know that just from looking at the plans. My people had to build it first.” Mad Machen studied her face, his gaze dark and unwavering. “Fix it, Ivy. You’ll have mechanical flesh to work with. Yasmeen is traveling to London now to collect it from the Blacksmith.”

She frowned at the plans, then at the aquarium. Using mechanical flesh could offset some of the weight, but the locomotion couldn’t function like a squid’s. The material simply wasn’t that fluid. “It can’t be done.”

“It has to be.”

“Why?” She couldn’t imagine any use a kraken might have. “What do you plan to do? Frighten sailors? Tear apart ships?”

“Yes.”

His implacable expression and the conviction in his voice stopped her. That was what he planned to do. Her chest tight, she looked down at the plans. “I won’t build a monster for you.”

His face darkened. He moved in suddenly, solid behind her, pushing her hips against the table. Her fingers clenched, crumpling paper. Trembling with shock and anger, she waited, but he only stood behind her, chest heaving. She felt his ragged breath against her ear, then her neck. Her stomach tightened as calloused fingers slid her hair aside. Warm lips caressed her nape. Oh, blue. A shudder wracked her bones, and she didn’t know if it was anger or fear . . . or something else.

Tension hardened the body pressing into hers, and he pulled away. Wary, she turned to look at him.

His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched, his scars starkly white against his skin. Then he was striding for the door, pausing at the threshold. “Fix it and I’ll take you back to Fool’s Cove. If you refuse, you’ll never leave this ship.”

He issued the rough threat without looking back. A moment later, he was gone.

Ivy stared at the empty doorway. He was absolutely and utterly mad. Her heart pounding, she looked to the tank, then at the plans. She picked up a pencil.

To return home, she needed to begin thinking like a madman.

FIVE

The ship’s bell woke her. Silently, Ivy opened her eyes to the dark. Mad Machen’s heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, his arm a solid brace of heat between her back and cheek, his arm a solid brace of heat between her back and the cold bulkhead, his hand lightly resting at her waist. She’d curled into him during the night until she almost lay completely on top of him, all but straddling his left thigh.

She didn’t move. The hard length against her hip told her that even if he hadn’t roused yet, his body had. She closed her eyes again, pretending to sleep.

The previous day, she’d taken her meals in the smithy and worked until he’d come for her. Without a word, he’d taken her hand and led her to his cabin. She’d watched the stars while he washed and undressed, and he’d accepted her coin without comment. Their silence had been a swelling pressure that had grown as he followed her into the bed, but one she’d been unwilling to break, for reasons she couldn’t define.

Ivy didn’t want to break it now, either, but this time she could identify the reason: her body wanted his.

She’d felt this before—the hollow ache between her legs, the tightening of her nipples, the urge to crawl on top of another human and feed the hunger. It wasn’t a memory she liked to revisit. Only a few months before the end of the Horde occupation, she’d been cleaning a factory’s chimney when a rare Frenzy had struck. The two members of her sweeper team who were supposed to haul her out of the chimney had fallen on each other. For hours, she’d listened to their grunts and moans, compelled to join them—but trapped within the narrow pipe.

As terrifying as that had been, the alternative could have been worse. A good number of the women she’d known had gotten with child during the Frenzy. And although her hunger for Mad Machen originated from within her instead of from a radio signal, succumbing to it carried the same risk. She barely scraped by in Fool’s Cove. How would she support a child? Netta would undoubtedly help, just as Ivy would her if their situations were reversed . . . but if Ivy had any choice in the matter, she wouldn’t put that burden on her friend. Two years ago, when she’d offered Mad Machen her virginity, her desperation had outweighed any other fear. She couldn’t take a similar risk now simply because her body wanted.

And she couldn’t let Mad Machen take her simply because he wanted, too.

His chest rose and fell on a great sigh. So he was awake. Perhaps staring up into the dark, thinking whatever mad thoughts occupied his brain.

Or thinking of her. Ivy remained limp as he lifted his hand from her waist. His fingers stroked softly through her hair, and a light touch against her crown might have been a kiss. Turning onto his side, he began to ease away from her, his thigh moving deeper between hers as he rolled her gently onto her back. His erection brushed her hip and he froze, his breath hissing between his teeth.

Unable to continue pretending, she lifted her head from the pillow. A short groan escaped him, and she stilled when his big hand cupped her cheek.

“Ivy.” Her name sounded low and rough.

What could she say? Ivy wet her lips. “Captain Machen.”

“Eben.”

Her stomach turned over, a frightening little flip. “I prefer ‘Mad.’ ”

Judging by his voice, she thought he might have grinned. “Go back to sleep. There’s nothing to do on a ship when it’s dark.” He paused, and amended, “That’s not true. There is something, but you paid me not to do it.”

Mad Machen must have felt her smile against his hand. He answered with a deep laugh.

After a moment, he said, “Before you head into the smithy, come topside. Your arms are strong enough to keep you safe climbing into the rigging. You’ll enjoy the view from the crow’s nest.”

This, after threatening that she’d never leave his ship? She couldn’t make sense of him—but she didn’t want to pass up his offer.

When she nodded, his hand dropped from her cheek and he swung over the bed rail. His right foot clanked heavily against the deck. She still needed to adjust his pneumatic valve . . . but perhaps she’d wait until she had no more money to bargain with.

Only six coins left.

She rolled onto his part of the mattress, into the warmth left by his body. The memory of his hard thigh between hers wouldn’t let her be. Clutching the blanket to her sensitive breasts, she squeezed her legs together until she shook.

Ivy didn’t just enjoy the crow’s nest—she loved it. She remained on the small platform for as long as she could stomach the swaying, using Teppers’s biperspic lenses that brought the horizon to within an arm’s length. She watched pods of whales, searched for icebergs and Megs. She held the lenses for so long that her sunburn formed white goggles around her eyes, and only left after she extracted a promise from Teppers that he’d show her how to skylark.

Her bugs had just healed the burn when she returned the next morning—and Teppers fulfilled his promise. She slid down the backstays from the top of the main mast to the poop deck, laughing wildly as she skimmed above Mad Machen’s head. His grin when he met her at the quarterdeck flipped her stomach over.

He showed her every part of the ship, and gave her leave to explore on her own. She met the Lusitanian cooks, a husband and wife team whose passionate screams in Portuguese during their fights and lovemaking were legendary among the sailors. She learned that Duckie’s name was Tom Cooper, and he’d gotten the nickname after shooting up six inches in as many months, and that the recurring red mark across his forehead came from his habit of running full tilt through the low-beamed decks. She discovered the ship’s blacksmith had remained in Wales when the bosun approached her for help fixing a broken pulley in the rigging. She spent half of an afternoon with Leveque, the engine master, and though she couldn’t understand a word of his French his love for the machine made perfect sense.

She didn’t know the languages half the crew spoke. French and Portuguese were the trade languages, and she understood a few words, but the men from the New World also spoke Dutch, Spanish, Arabic, and the Liberé that gave Barker his musical accent. On a ship only a hundred and fifty feet long, she saw more of the world than she’d known before—and realized how much she hadn’t yet seen.

And she’d never laughed so often. Had never felt as free. Yet she had to keep reminding herself that freedom was an illusion.

Every day, she came closer to building a monster. She dunked her arm into the tank and watched the squid attack her metal skin, imagining a mast or a person. The claws at the end of his tentacles couldn’t bite into her arm. Wood and flesh wouldn’t be so resilient. Yet Ivy used what she learned to improve the plans.

She wanted to believe that, despite what Mad Machen had said, the machine wouldn’t be used to terrorize and destroy ships. She wanted to believe that the Blacksmith’s involvement meant his intentions were good. But as brilliant as her mentor was, and despite the debt she’d always owe him for taking her into his guild, she knew the Blacksmith could be ruthless when someone crossed him—and there was much about him she didn’t know. If the price was right, he might have agreed to help.

And every night, she slept next to Mad Machen, her body aching . . . and one denier poorer.

Eben braced himself before entering the smithy. The past few days, she’d left this small cabin sporting a surly temper. He thought that meant she’d been making progress on the kraken. If her ideas failed, surely Ivy would be pleased.

Still, she wouldn’t be pleased to see him.

The previous night, when he’d come into his cabin, she’d been sitting at the window. She hadn’t been looking at the stars, but the two coins glinting in her palm. She’d quickly put one away, and given him the other—not quite hiding her fear.

After tonight, she’d have no more coins left, but he wasn’t certain if she was afraid that he’d force her . . . or because she wanted him. A few times, he’d caught her looking at him with heat in her eyes, and he didn’t think it was anger. When her nipples pebbled under her thin shirt, he didn’t always think it was the cold. He thought she might ache as much as he did—but he didn’t know.

Not knowing was tearing him apart.

He stepped inside. Though a gas lamp burned brightly on the worktable, she wasn’t sitting in front of it. Her expression clouded, she crouched in front of the squid tank, her hands braced against the glass and fingers drumming. Her silvery nails pinged with each beat.

Without glancing at him, she snapped, “Say what you’ve come to say. Then leave me be.”

Anger fired through his veins. In front of his crew or not, no one dismissed him on his ship. Closing the door, he stepped toward her—and forced himself to stop. She still hadn’t looked at him. Temper darkened her sharp features, her soft lips in a thin line, her green eyes stormy as she focused on something within the tank.

He glanced inside. The squid and several silvery fish darted about the water. At the bottom, a foot-long metal replica of a kraken lay on its side, its eight segmented arms waving about and tentacles limp, looking as pathetic as a beetle turned upside down.

Eben bit back his laugh, studying her face again. So that was it. She’d been angry at him often enough, but this time it had naught to do with him. He might as well not have even been here for all of the attention she turned his way. And given her dislike for the project, he’d have expected her to crow over her failure, but she was right pissed off that her prototype hadn’t worked.

His practical, careful Ivy apparently had an artist’s temperament.

“I had a friend at university who looked much the same when he couldn’t find a rhyme for his poetry.”

“Like a dying privy louse?”

Eben barked out a laugh. “I was speaking of your expression, not your kraken.”

She snarled. He’d never wanted to kiss her so badly. Deliberately, he added fuel to her fire.

“It couldn’t swim?”

“You’ve got eyes, don’t you? Do you see it swimming about?” Disgusted, she pushed to her feet and dunked her arm into the tank.

His amusement fled. His heart jumped into his throat. Grabbing her waist, he hauled her back.

“Damn it, woman, that squid will . . .” He trailed off, staring at her gray hand dripping water.

The squid would do absolutely nothing to her.

She whipped around and stared at him as if he were a lunatic. Her brows drew together. She opened her mouth, then shook her head, pushing past him. “I can’t reach the bleeding thing unless I stick my head in, anyway.”

Eben turned to watch her. Muttering, she rummaged through shelves, pushing around Kleistian jars, tossing aside small gears and cylinders, and emerging with a coil of copper wire and an influence machine, its glass disks sealed inside a vacuum bell. Setting the machine next to the tank, she pushed up her wet sleeve and began wrapping the wire around her forearm. When she glanced at him, he saw curiosity had replaced her temper.

“You attended a university?”

“Yes.”

A wistful expression softened her features. Oh, hell. Something in his chest tightened. He wanted to tell her that he’d hated every moment of society’s rigid confinement and the blasted rules, but compared to the Horde, Manhattan City had been a bastion of freedom. So he only told her, “My parents disapproved of my choice of profession—both surgery and the navy. The only tolerable ship was a passenger ship, and it was best if you owned it.”

“And now you are neither surgeon nor aboard a naval ship. Do they approve of you now?”

“They disowned me.” And he still wasn’t certain whether it had been because he’d remained on Trahaearn’s ship, or because he’d voluntarily infected his body with nanoagents. Belief that the bugs would spread from person to person and eventually change them all into zombies still held strong through much of the New World; his family had been no exception.

“Disowned?” Ivy’s brow had creased.

“They no longer claim me as their son.”

“Oh.” With pursed lips, she looked down at her arm, wrapped from her elbow to her wrist in copper wire. “I suppose I should not like it if my child became a pirate, either.”

He grinned. Their child wouldn’t be. “I consider myself a merchant.”

“Do you attack other ships and steal their cargo?”

Unfortunately often. “Yes.”

“Do you kill people?”

Also too often. “Yes.”

“Then you’re a Captain Cutthroat,” she said, turning to crouch beside the influence machine. “Come and spin this.”

His instincts bristled at the command. He squashed his first response before it left his mouth. His ankle was too stiff to crouch easily, but he sank slowly to his heels while Ivy attached two clamps to the long trailing wires coming off her arm. She fixed the connecting clamps to the nodes of the influence machine, then pointed to the handle that spun the disks, generating the static charge.

“Spin it fast.”

Somewhat bemused, he began. The wheel clicked, the metal plates attached to the glass disks rotating past the discharge brushes and collection combs. Ivy tapped the fingers of her left and right hands together, as if testing.

“Faster,” she said.

The clicking became a whir. After a moment, her fingertips seemed to stick before she pulled them apart. She flattened the hand of her copper-encircled arm against the front of the tank. The metal kraken inside suddenly tilted and skidded across the bottom. It smacked into the thick glass opposite her palm.

“By da Vinci’s blessed pen!” Eben couldn’t contain his astonishment. His hand faltered on the handle.

“Don’t stop spinning.” Slowly, she began to slide her hand up the side of the tank. The kraken followed, as if glued to her palm. “If the current fails, she’ll drop straight to the bottom again.”

And she’d just made her arm into the most powerful magnet he’d ever seen, Eben realized. When the kraken was almost to the top, she reached over the glass with her opposite hand and plucked the machine out of the water. Eben stopped spinning and reached for the clamps.

She pulled away. “Mind the wire—it’s blazing hot. Take this instead.”

The wriggling kraken landed in his palm. He looked for the stop mechanism and didn’t see one.

“How is this powered?”

Ivy began unwrapping the copper wire. “Electrostatic machines. When I have the mechanical flesh, it needs electrical input—but for now they’re to power the propulsion pumps.” When he looked at her blankly, she said, “The squid moves by squirting out water.”

“Like puncturing an airship’s balloon pushes it the opposite direction?”

“Much like.” Her lips twisted. “It won’t work when the squid is metal. It’s too heavy.”

“Kraken are armored.”

“They have an armored shell. They aren’t metal all the way through.”

“Find a way to make it work, Ivy.”

Temper reddened her cheeks, but if she snapped at him, Eben didn’t hear a word she said. He’d found the hatch that opened the kraken’s body, and was staring inside at three tiny automatons, each nothing more than a couple of gears and metal pegs made to resemble legs. They pedaled influence machines, the whir audible.

Jesus Christ. Everyone who came out of the Blacksmith’s guild was skilled, but the short time she’d worked on this suggested a talent beyond anything he’d seen. Each arm and tentacle meticulously crafted, she’d created a near perfect, watertight submersible. Even something nonfunctional like this would fetch a hefty price in London or the New World, where automatons and clockworks were all the rage. Within a month or two, she could have been living like a queen anywhere she chose to go—yet she’d been creating egg-crackers and singing birds for a town that couldn’t afford them.

The night she’d fled London, Eben had visited the Blacksmith, who’d said she’d already paid for her arms. Knowing how much Barker still owed for his leg, Eben hadn’t understood how it was possible; looking at the automatons now, he suddenly did. The work she’d done for the Blacksmith must have brought him a fortune.

Yet she only had one damn coin. “What the hell were you doing in Fool’s Cove?”

“Hiding from you.”

His gaze snapped up, but she’d turned toward her worktable. His heart beat sickeningly for a few long seconds.

“And Netta’s husband was killed when a steamcoach boiler exploded in Port Fallow. Netta and I pooled our resources, and we made it as far as Fool’s Cove.” She tossed the coil of wire onto a hook. “What did you come here for, Captain Machen. A progress report?”

For you. Like a lovesick fool. And now he found the flimsiest excuse to stay a little longer.

“No,” he said gruffly. “My Achilles tube.”

She hesitated for an instant, and he realized she hadn’t forgotten, as he’d assumed. She’d delayed it, hoping to use it later—perhaps after her coins were gone.

Then he’d be damned if he left without her repairing it. She had one denier left. Tonight would be the last she kept him from touching her.

After a long second, she nodded and took the kraken from him, gesturing to his foot. “Remove your boot, then.”

He did, without glancing down at the prosthetic. Though steel, the skeletal leg appeared thin and weak. He hated looking at it.

Ivy crouched behind him. “Brace your weight on your left leg. You’ll lose your balance when I take this out,” she said, and he heard her fingers loosening a bolt. “How did this happen?”

“Shark.”

She gave a snort of disbelief. “What did you do—go swimming with one?”

“Yes.”

She yanked out the pneumatic, wrenching his leg backward. Struggling to keep upright, he braced his hand on the worktable.

Cheeks flushed, she stood in front of him, the cylinder pointed at his face. “You’re not that foolish. And I hope you don’t think I’m foolish enough to believe that.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t think that. But it’s the truth.”

She stared at him, as if waiting for him to explain, and finally turned away. He watched her rigid shoulders as she worked over the cylinder. A moment later, she was crouching next to him again, screwing the pneumatic back into place. Eben retrieved his boot, hauled it on. When he turned back to her, she was standing with her jaw set and her hand out.

“I’m not a member of your crew, Captain. And every man from this ship who has come to me for repairs has walked away without paying. No more.”

The men Yasmeen had sent to Fool’s Cove with their damned embellished stories. “Ivy, if I’d have known where you were, I’d have come to you myself.”

Her lashes flickered, but other than that, she didn’t move. Just held out her hand, waiting.

He wouldn’t pay her in coin. Not when she’d use it to keep him away. But he only had one other thing that she’d want. Reluctantly, he dipped his fingers into his watch pocket and withdrew the bent iron disk he’d carried with him for two years. He placed it in her palm.

Her lips parted as she stared down at the ruined flange that had once been her elbow. A bullet had smashed into the center, filling in the hole and protruding like a mushroom cap through the other side.

“I was wearing it on a cord around my neck. The bullet still knocked me overboard.” He tapped his hand against the side of his leg. “That’s when the shark took it.”

Her fingers closed over the iron piece. Her shining gaze lifted to his. “Thank you.”

For the explanation or for returning the flange, he wasn’t sure. He only knew that if he stayed any longer, nothing would stop him from kissing her. He left—and was amidships before he realized his right foot was moving as smoothly as his left, and he hadn’t thought to thank her in return.

Ivy didn’t know how long she sat holding the flange, staring at the plans on her worktable. Her mind was filled with stories: of a ruthless pirate who attacked passenger ships and made slaves of the crew . . . of a ship’s surgeon hung over the side of a boat.

He’d asked her not to speak of that, and she’d assumed he wanted to hide the madness of defying his captain—perhaps to keep his crew from doing the same. But how could that be? Everyone knew that part. Now she wondered if he didn’t want them to know he’d done it trying to save members of the crew, because that would make him seem soft.

Or perhaps he didn’t want her to speak of it, because she might learn that he’d lied.

Of only one thing, she was certain: Lady Corsair had known she was in Fool’s Cove, but Mad Machen hadn’t. Ivy absolutely believed that he’d have come after her, just as he’d threatened in London.

Every other story, however . . . she simply didn’t know what to believe.

With a sigh, she rubbed her forehead, trying to push away the ache. She turned her head to study the squid’s tank. Its movements were a thing of beauty, but no matter how hard Mad Machen wished it, she couldn’t simply do the same with metal. If she had something to counter the weight, perhaps, and give it buoyancy—and the buoyancy would have to vary, depending upon the depth needed. She’d never seen such a device, but it would be necessary for the right effect. It couldn’t just be something that floated. A kraken always forced to float on its side wouldn’t be terrifying; it would simply look dead.

Of course, that begged the question: how many sailors had actually seen a kraken, and knew whether it looked right or not? Surely the nightmare of one was worse than the reality.

Shaking her head, she glanced at the other fish in the tank. The small herring seemed to have no trouble remaining at one depth while still. A few weren’t moving, yet they didn’t sink or float to the surface. How?

And if she discovered how, could she replicate it?

Her heart gave a wild thump. She returned to the worktable . . . and gave the plans a quarter turn. Oh, blue. This could work.

No. This would work.

It was well after dark when Ivy finally made her way topside, but when she came up the ladder to the upper deck, she saw that Mad Machen hadn’t retired to his cabin yet, either. He stood on the quarterdeck, his feet braced, his hands clasped behind his back. She climbed the stairs and joined him at the balustrade.

Standing close to him, she asked quietly, “Does it need to look like the real thing?”

The deck lamps cast feeble light across his expression, but she couldn’t mistake his smile. “Give it giant eyes and tentacles, Ivy, and the rest won’t matter.”

Good. Hugging herself against the cold, she looked out over the water. The moon was full, throwing silver across the waves. She imagined a tentacle rising up from the surface, the suckers glistening like wet mouths, and gave herself a good scare. Shivering, she glanced back at Mad Machen. He’d been watching her.

“My leg hasn’t given me any trouble,” he said. “Climbing ladders and stairs is almost as easy as it was before. Thank you.”

She nodded, then gasped when he pulled her in against his side, his arm circling her waist. His heat surrounded her. She let herself melt into it, but had to warn him, “I smell like fish.”

He laughed quietly against her hair. “Cookie told me that you’d come and cut out fifteen fish bladders—and he asked that you be given galley duty. He said you handled a knife better than a Castilian assassin.”

“Thanks to the bugs in the mechanical flesh.” She lifted her right hand. Moonlight reflected in her fingernails. “They’re so precise, I could engrave my name on a grain of sand . . . if my heart didn’t beat, and I didn’t breathe. Even I’m not as steady as they are.”

“Nothing on a ship is that steady.”

Mad Machen was. When he stood like this, big and solid beside her, Ivy felt as if she could lean against him forever and he’d never falter.

“Why are you out here so late?” The last time was when the megalodon had chased them north. Her gaze skimmed the water again. “Was there trouble?”

“No. I was waiting for you.”

And her last coin. Ivy’s throat tightened, and her heart drummed hard against her ribs. Not since her first day in Port Fallow had she been without any money at all. She’d barely been an hour off the airship when Netta’s husband had spotted Ivy’s guild tattoo and hired her to repair his cart’s steam engine. She’d never had a lot of money, but she’d always had some. She’d always had a tiny bit of security.

Now she’d have none. And what would it gain her? A single day.

Mad Machen withdrew his arm from around her waist, gave her a little push toward the stairs. “Go and ready yourself for bed. I’ll wait here until you’ve finished.”

A single day, plus the time it took to prepare for bed. Ivy nodded and headed down. As always, Duckie had hot water ready—perhaps he’d been listening for her to come up from the smithy. The captain’s soft soap erased the clinging scent of fish. She brushed her hair until it crackled with enough static to deliver a wiregram, and for the first time, she dressed in a nightgown instead of the trousers she’d been sleeping in. Clutching her last denier, Ivy climbed into bed and waited.

When he came in, she rose up on her knees and held out the coin before she could change her mind.

He smiled faintly, but it faded as he approached. His face darkened. “Your hand is shaking.”

“Take it. Please.”

“Goddammit, Ivy. I’m not—”

“Please.”

His fingers folded over hers. With another curse, he took the coin and turned away.

Ivy sank down, hugging her knees to her chest. She closed her eyes and listened to him undress, to the splash of water and the scrape of a razor. She heard him return to the bed, but as the seconds passed and he didn’t lie down beside her, she opened her eyes.

He stared down at her, his chest bare and his face a stark mask. “Earn it back.”

Her heart thumping, she sat up. “How?”

The wary note in her voice spread shadows over his expression. He seemed to struggle, his lips paling as they thinned. Ivy fought not to shrink back, sensing that her fear would only make his reaction worse.

After an endless moment, he said gruffly, “You’ll kiss me.”

Oh. That wasn’t so bad, was it? She frowned.

Mad Machen’s brows drew together. “What?”

She rose up on her knees again and moved toward the rail. Anticipation fluttered in her stomach. She covered it with a light response. “I’m trying to decide what kissing a man in exchange for money makes me.”

“I’m only a denier away from forcing myself on a woman. What does that make me?”

“Cheap,” she said, and the warm flush building inside her heightened as he laughed.

His laughter stopped abruptly when she pursed her lips and raised her face to his. He drew back.

“Not a peck. A real kiss, so that you’ll have a good taste of me.”

Everything inside her tightened. A good taste. She knew what he meant. Not just touching lips, but a lick inside his mouth—and he’d taste hers.

Nervously, she wet her lips. Her gaze fell, and a deep hollow ache suddenly opened inside her. His thick erection jutted against his breeches. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted him. But she didn’t dare risk a child, not when the only money she had was being earned with a kiss. Biting her lip, she averted her eyes. No need to look down. His mouth was temptation enough.

“I want inside you, Ivy. I can’t deny that. But you don’t have to worry that I’ll take it beyond a kiss.” Mad Machen came forward again, gripping the bed rail. “I’ll keep my hands right here. You can touch me wherever you like, but I won’t let go of this. Alright?”

“Alright,” she whispered.

She scooted closer, until her knees hit the rail. His broad chest rose and fell as quickly as hers, each breath shallow and ragged—then stopping altogether as she pressed her mouth to his.

Oh. Warm and firm, his lips fit perfectly against hers. She waited, remembering how he’d shoved his tongue into her mouth two years ago, how her neck had hurt when he’d forced her head back, but he didn’t move. The only sound between them was the creaking of the bed rail as his hands tightened on the wood.

And her hands . . . He’d given her permission to touch him, the chest and arms that were an anatomist’s dream. Every night as he’d undressed, she’d admired him from across the cabin. Her eyes feasting, her hands empty. No longer.

Spreading her fingers, she slid their tips up the back of his hands, from knuckles to wrist. He breathed in sharply against her lips. The muscles in his forearms strained. Beneath his warm skin, nanoagents raced through his veins so quickly—as if his heart pounded. Hers did, too. His biceps bunched beneath her palms, and shook with effort, as if he carried a great weight rather than holding himself still. She parted her lips, and he froze, rigid as metal. But not beneath his skin. His blood raged like fire, nerves snapping with sensation, nanoagents enhancing it all and pulsing their messages to her fingers.

She tasted him—and suddenly she couldn’t concentrate on her hands, only the heat of his mouth. Hunger wound inside her, tight as a spring. Again, she licked between his lips, searching. She couldn’t define his flavor, not something she’d had before but just was him, slick and hot, and she wanted more.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Ivy pulled herself higher, closer. Her nipples felt like small, tight rivets, and rubbing their tips against his hard chest started a throbbing ache between her legs.

Then Mad Machen kissed her back, his tongue sliding against hers, and the need burst through her. Her hands buried in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, the electrical storm of his mind like an ecstatic vibration against her fingers. She moaned low in her throat. His arms came around her waist, hauling her closer against him. Ivy kissed him deeper, loving the feel of him, the ache, the taste. All of it. This was worth more than a denier. She couldn’t imagine any amount of coin that could match this.

He abruptly stilled. Chest heaving, he pulled away and looked down at his hands, his expression dark.

He’d forgotten, she realized. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to let go of the rail.

So had she.

“You’ll remember tomorrow,” she said, her breath coming in pants.

His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed.

“Yes.” She moved back to make room for him. “The same trade.”

And maybe tomorrow she’d get farther than his biceps.

“The same trade.” This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. “God help me.”

Ivy took that as a “yes.”

SIX

Six days later, Ivy lay panting in Mad Machen’s narrow bed, hoping that he would pray for her, too. In all her life, the only name she’d invoked for help was the legendary Leonardo da Vinci’s, whose war machines had halted the Horde’s progression out of Asia and into Europe for almost fifty years. But da Vinci couldn’t help her. He’d been dead for centuries. Mad Machen . . . very definitely . . . was not.

And he was as hideously clever.

She turned her head, confirming the pale sunlight streaming in through the gallery windows. Only half an hour ago, she’d been in the crow’s nest, looking through the biperspic lenses toward Britain’s western shores, pointing out other sails on the horizon. They didn’t have to search for Meg here—fed by a warm Atlantic current, these waters weren’t cold enough for the giant sharks or the kraken. She’d been thinking of that when she’d skylarked down to the quarterdeck, but Mad Machen hadn’t met her with his usual grin. He’d picked her up and swung her facedown over his shoulder, and Ivy had only just recovered from her shock when she’d realized that he was taking her to his cabin. And for a short time, she’d been tempted to risk everything.

She hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only been a few steps from the bed when he’d asked, “Won’t you pay me to stop?”

Which meant that she’d have to earn her coin back with a kiss.

And so she’d ended up on her back in the bed anyway, fully clothed, Mad Machen’s mouth fastened to hers and his hands fisted beside her shoulders. With her legs around his hips and his heavy weight cradled between her thighs, he’d rocked until the needy ache had broken inside her, until she’d cried out as it shattered her hunger and rattled Ivy to the core. Then his mouth had become slow and languid on hers, as if he’d taken the wet heat from between her legs and alchemized her arousal into a kiss.

Once again, she’d been tempted to risk everything—and once again, she hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only just lifted his head when Duckie had knocked at the door, calling through that Barker needed him topside.

And so now she lay alone, wishing for someone to whom she could pray. Only two days remained of their journey—and twenty days to return. She could not hold out. With every hour, her hunger for him became its own desperation, and she would not take a risk simply because she wanted . . . but this desire had become something more like need, instead.

Turning away from the windows, she buried her face in her hands. She knew the danger of this, could remember so clearly Netta’s grief and devastation when she’d lost her man. If Ivy carried on in this manner, she’d be returning to Fool’s Cove the same way. She needed to find some defense, because her fear of Mad Machen had not proven to be enough of one. Two weeks on his ship, and she’d seen little to justify his reputation. He could be hard and gruff and uncompromising, but not once had she witnessed any cruelty.

Now she risked more than a child. And she didn’t even need to take him inside her body to risk her heart.

With a sigh, she sat up—and was almost thrown out of the bed as Vesuvius canted steeply to port. Ivy grabbed the rail, suddenly realizing that the shouts and running footsteps on the deck above weren’t from the usual shift change. They came more often, were more urgent, and Mad Machen’s voice rose above the rest. Oh, blue.

She leapt to the deck just as someone knocked at the door. Duckie waited outside the cabin, his face flushed and eyes wide. Beyond him, men hurried about, climbing rigging and hauling line.

“Miss Blacksmith, the captain requests that you follow me to the engine room. Mr. Leveque needs your assistance.”

No, Leveque didn’t. The engine room was simply the most secure location on the ship. She nodded. “Lead the way, Mr. Cooper.”

She walked beside him down the passageway leading from beneath the quarterdeck. As soon as she emerged, Ivy glanced up. Standing at the balustrade, a grim-faced Mad Machen met her eyes before tipping his head toward the ladder that would take her below. She didn’t argue, but paused for an instant at the ladder’s head, looking forward.

They were sailing toward a sinking ship. Almost as large as Vesuvius, her masts tilted drunkenly forward, the bowsprit almost parallel with the waterline.

Ivy’s heart lurched. Were they going to help it—or attack it?

Duckie called up from the lower deck. “Miss Blacksmith!”

She hurried down into pandemonium. The gun captains shouted orders, directing teams of men who shoved cannons toward open gunports. Boys raced about, placing buckets of water near the guns, spreading sand on the deck. Men began tying their neck scarves around their ears, and instinctively, Ivy covered hers.

She followed Duckie down another ladder, and the next deck was marginally quieter. Ivy shouted, “Why the cannons? That ship is foundered!”

Duckie shook his head. “It’s a slavers’ trick!” he shouted. “They took the captain in once—they won’t get him again. Quickly, Miss Blacksmith!”

He raced along the passageway to the engine room, and Ivy hurried after him, her mind spinning. She’d heard something like this before. Aboard the airship that had taken her to Fool’s Cove, the crew had been abuzz with reports of ships that used inflatables to lift their stern. When another ship answered their signals for help, the crew was ambushed and boarded, passengers taken as slaves. But like the tales of clockwork armies in Europe and tribes of warrior women in South America, like the stories about giant worms on the Russian steppes, or humans that the Horde had bred to animals—no one had actually seen it for themselves or known someone who had, and so Ivy had dismissed it.

She wouldn’t have believed Mad Machen if he’d told her, either.

Duckie pounded on the engine room door, yelling a stream of French. She heard locks opening from the other side, then Leveque poked his balding head out. He smiled at Ivy and gestured her in.

Quietly, he sat at a small desk and picked up a pipe, puffing out rings of blue smoke. The expensive scent of tobacco filled the room. The engine lay silent. Around them, the hull creaked. Fewer boots trampled the deck above, as if all the men were in position and waiting.

Her heart leapt as a cannon fired, a single shot followed by a muffled cheer. Leveque spoke, and though she didn’t understand anything he said, she gathered by his tone that he was telling her everything would be alright.

She’d have to take his word for it.

Only twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.

He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.

On the main gun deck, the men hadn’t stood down from their positions, though they’d obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen’s men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.

Mad Machen stood at the rail, holding a man by his neck over the side. His face purpled, the man struggled for air, clutching at Mad Machen’s wrist. His ship floated fifteen feet from Vesuvius’s side, grapplings and gangways stretching across the distance. That single cannon shot must have destroyed the inflatable, sending the stern crashing back to the surface. Both the mizzenmast and main had broken, the heavy timbers fallen aft, sails and lines trailing in the water behind the ship. At least a hundred men had been gathered on the decks—the ship’s crew, Ivy realized.

Mad Machen’s deep voice was loud enough to carry to the other ship, and full of deadly threat. “I ask you a final time, Captain. Which of these men is your employer?”

When the captain waved his hand, Mad Machen brought him in. Falling to his knees on the deck, the mercenary gasped for air and wheezed, “The . . . hold. With . . . the cargo.”

Mad Machen’s face darkened, and for an instant, Ivy thought he would kill the man. But he turned away from him, calling out, “Mr. Areyto, lead your men across and secure the hold. All men with bugs remain on Vesuvius until she’s clear.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Eyes wide, Ivy watched the master-at-arms step onto the gangway while half of his men lined the rail with weapons aimed toward the other deck. Why only those who weren’t infected? They weren’t as strong, wouldn’t heal as quickly.

A sudden murmur ran through the men surrounding her. Mad Machen shouted, “Hold! Return, Mr. Areyto.”

Ivy strained to see what had caught their attention. But there were only the men standing on the other deck, unmoving . . . some of them unnaturally rigid. The ship lifted on a swell. Several men toppled over, as if they were stiff boards caught in a wind.

As if their bugs had been frozen.

Horror crawled up from her belly. Ivy stifled her whimper, trying to push away the memory of lying in her bed, of hands prodding at her body.

On the other ship, a man slowly climbed up onto the deck. Blond and handsome, his skin as tanned as Mad Machen’s, he held a bloody knife in his right hand and a gleaming metal box topped by a spike in his left.

No—not a spike, Ivy realized. A miniature tower. Her gaze flew back to his face, to his pale hair. But this man wasn’t one of the Horde.

He began walking toward the rail, smiling. “Perhaps you will kill me, Captain Machen, but the Black Guard will endure. We will never be defeat—”

A loud crack rent the air. In a burst of red, the man’s forehead exploded. Ivy jolted back into one of the crew, her hands flying up to cover her shriek. The men steadied her.

Mad Machen lowered his pistol and looked aft. “Retrieve the device and shut it down, Mr. Areyto. Mr. Barker, call for the surgeon—” He broke off as his gaze met Ivy’s. She stared at him, hands clasped over her mouth. With a rough note in his voice, he continued, “And ask him to meet me in the hold.”

A chorus of Aye, Captain sounded. Ivy stumbled back to the port rail, and was sick over the side.

When the last person had been unchained and led—or carried—out of the hold, Eben returned topside. He glanced across the water at Vesuvius’s decks. He wasn’t surprised to see that some of the men and women the Black Guard had meant to sell as slaves had remained above decks, lifting their faces to the sun. He wasn’t surprised that Ivy had gone.

It didn’t matter. He could still see her. Her white face and the horror in her eyes were etched in his memory—as was her rush to vomit over the side.

Why the bloody hell did she have to come above decks then?

He found the ship’s captain on the quarterdeck. The man took one look at Eben’s expression and paled.

Eben felt no pity for him. “Order your men to lower the launches. You have ten minutes to abandon ship. Make certain that you, Captain, are the last one into the boats, or my master-at-arms will shoot you off the ladder.”

The captain’s face flushed. Forgetting his fear, he sputtered with indignation. Eben cut him off.

“Ten minutes.” He turned toward the rail. His crew had already hauled all but one gangway back to Vesuvius. “I suggest you pull hard for shore. Word is, a kraken hunts these waters.”

He crossed over to Vesuvius. Barker met him at the rail. Quietly, the quartermaster said, “The bastard gutted more than a few. The bugs are slowing the bleeding, but Jannsen says he needs more hands or he’ll lose half of them.”

The surgeon had too much experience with the Black Guard’s last-minute vengeance to be mistaken. Eben nodded and started toward the ladder.

Barker called after him, “And the ship, sir?”

“Ten minutes.” Eben began rolling up his sleeves. “Then blow her out of the water.”

SEVEN

Mad Machen’s crew had done this before. Those who weren’t still manning the starboard cannons rushed about the lower deck, clearing space for more than fifty newcomers. Pallets went down for those too weak or with too many prosthetics for a hammock. Boys distributed clear broth, holding the cup for those who needed it. Ivy commandeered linens and hot water, and started in cleaning wounds and repairing damaged prosthetics—broken so that they couldn’t use the tools to escape the chains—and listening to their stories.

Most had come from London slums: areas of Southwark, usually, but Ivy wasn’t surprised to hear a few name Limehouse, which included the Blacksmith’s territory. From London, they’d been smuggled west and held until the ship had come, then loaded aboard at night.

But they hadn’t all been taken from London. And although the others spoke in accents too heavy for Ivy to decipher, their pulverizing hammers, drills, and shovels told her just as well—they were all coal miners, likely taken from the colliers in Wales. The Horde had gone, but the men still needed to work, and they’d kept the equipment grafted to their bodies. That same equipment made them more valuable to the New World slavers.

But not all of them would have been laborers; some had been headed for the skin-trade. And looking at the emaciated women and boys, Ivy understood that she hadn’t been too skinny for them to take, as she’d always thought: her guild tattoo had kept her safe. Even the Black Guard, whoever they were, knew better than to cross the Blacksmith.

But the Black Guard must have angered him . . . because the Blacksmith was helping Eben build a monster designed to frighten and destroy them.

And bless the bright stars—so was Ivy.

Midnight had long passed before Eben finally left sick bay. For the first time, he hoped that Ivy had already fallen asleep. Everything inside him was scraped raw. He couldn’t bear it if she looked at him in fear and horror again.

The sliver of yellow light beneath his cabin door dashed his hope. He girded his heart before entering.

He expected to find her by the gallery windows, but she sat in her nightgown at the dining table, frowning down at the pieces of the Black Guard’s freezing device. She’d wound her hair around her head like a crown, each braid a coppery red in the soft glow of the lamp. Shadows formed half circles below her eyes.

She glanced up at him, her solemn gaze lingering on the blood staining his shirt. Stiffly, he turned toward the bureau to change and wash. He heard her sigh.

“This device isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen,” she said. “The power source—it’s a battery, but I’d need a thousand Kleistian jars to equal a few seconds of activation. And the circuitry, and these . . . these . . . I don’t know what they are. It’s like looking at a nanoagent. Somehow, commands are being processed, and I don’t know how.”

The last word came out muffled. Eben turned, saw that she’d put her hands over her face. She drew deep, steadying breaths. “The Blacksmith might know,” she added quietly.

“We’ll send it to him.”

Opening her hands, she looked at him through the brackets of her palms. “It’s Horde technology. But that man wasn’t Horde.”

“No,” Eben said. “None of the Black Guard have been.”

Ivy studied him for an endless moment. Then she nodded and stood, gathering the pieces into a small bin. “You were in the surgery a long time.”

“We lost two,” he said gruffly.

“I heard. I’m sorry.” Her searching gaze swept over him again. “Did you eat?”

“Yes.”

With her nightgown skimming the floor, she walked to the bed and lay down. When she awoke tomorrow, Vesuvius would be anchored near Trahaearn’s estate, and she’d be heading ashore to build the kraken. And although Eben had intended to stay with her, now he’d be sailing into the port at Holyhead, returning those who the slavers had abducted from Wales, and then on to London. He’d be away from her for almost a month.

Christ. For two weeks, he’d done everything possible to show Ivy he wasn’t a monster. One day had ruined all of that—and as soon as she left his ship, he’d have no way to prevent her from running.

Again.

His heart heavy, he finished cleaning off the sweat and blood. He looked toward the bed, then snuffed the lamp so that if she turned away from him, at least he wouldn’t see it.

But as soon as his head hit the pillow, she curled against his side and laid her cheek over his heart. His throat tightened. Eben stared up into the dark, trying to remember any moment in his life when a single action had affected him more. He couldn’t.

By God, he loved her.

And he’d kiss her now, if she would just give him the denier that they’d passed back and forth the past week. He waited, wondering if she held it in her hand—but he could feel her left palm flat against his arm, her fingers gently stroking his biceps, and her right was tucked loosely beneath her chin.

“You forgot the coin.”

“No.” Her warm breath whispered over his chest. “I know you’d never force me.”

He couldn’t respond for almost a full minute. Then he said, “I wish you’d figured that out after you’d earned your denier back.” Her laugh left him as full and light as an airship. “Tell me, Ivy: do I have to pay for a kiss?”

“I should charge you five hundred gold sous. I’m furious with you.”

She had an odd way of showing it. “I know what shooting that bastard looked like. But—”

“Not him. Good riddance to him, the murdering bumchute.” She lifted her head. His eyes had adjusted to the reflected moonlight coming in through the windows; there was no mistaking her fierce expression as she looked down at him. “I’m speaking of how you let me think you were stealing cargo and killing men. You didn’t mention that the cargo you stole was people, and the men were slave handlers.”

And that painted a fine picture of him. But as much as he’d have liked to leave her with that impression, he couldn’t. “I’ve still killed plenty of men, Ivy. The seas aren’t kind to anyone, and the jobs I take on for Trahaearn are usually the ones nobody else wants, because it puts a target on my ship. There’s been many a time that I’ve had to shoot first—and I can’t regret any of them. It just happens that in the past two years, I’ve been shooting at the Black Guard.”

She was silent, taking that in. Finally she asked, “What do they want?”

“I don’t know. They’ve always got a man on the ships they hire, but every time I’ve run into one, I’ve either had to kill him, or he kills himself after reciting the same speech that slave handler started up today. But I can tell you how they’re financed.”

Ivy beat him to it. “Selling slaves.”

“Yes. To the Ivory Market, or the Lusitanian mines in Appalachia.”

“Blue.” Her forehead dropped to his chest. “That night in London, they came into my room. I thought they were the Horde.”

Good Christ. And Eben wouldn’t have known that she was gone. The thought of it opened a hollow pit in his chest.

“Duckie said they tricked you,” she added.

Damn that boy. “He shouldn’t have. It doesn’t do me any good for people to know that I was taken in.”

She lifted her head. Humor lightened her expression. “It damages your reputation?”

“Yes.” Eben didn’t mind Ivy knowing the truth. He trusted her. But it still put a dent in his pride. “That reputation keeps my ship safe—but Duckie probably thought you already knew.”

“How would I?”

“Because it happened when I was looking for you.” When she frowned, he said, “I returned to the Star Rose that morning, and I assumed you ran to another ship. Searching from port to port would have been impossible. But Trahaearn owns those docks, and keeps a record of every ship docking and leaving—and a destination for most. I got that list, and tracked them all down.”

Her mouth had fallen open.

“So when I came up on that foundered ship . . . hell, I’d planned to board her anyway. Except it wasn’t you in the hold, and I stayed down there for a good bit of time with the others they’d taken from London. Duckie was one of them. Chained up right next to me.”

“Truly?” At his nod, she asked, “How did you get out?”

“They’d told Barker not to follow or they’d kill me—but if I don’t pay Barker, then he can’t pay the Blacksmith. He took the risk of following.”

“What’d they do?”

“Try to kill me. When Barker sailed in close, they counted on him slowing down to collect my body. So they took me topside, shot me in the chest, and I went over. I was just at Vesuvius’s hull when the shark took my leg.”

Her hand flattened over his heart. “My elbow really did save you.”

In more ways than one. He’d held on to her small flange in that stinking hold, his only thought of escaping and continuing to search for her. But he hadn’t. He’d gone after the slavers instead.

“I caught up with them—and that’s when I first heard of the Black Guard. The slave handler on that ship had been one, too.”

“Before you killed him?”

“Yes. And stranded most of the crew.”

Her gaze was troubled—but not by the fate of the slavers’ crew. “Have there been so many taken?”

“Probably more. I only found them because I went looking. Most of them don’t come through London—Trahaearn watches his docks too closely, and most of the mercenaries the Black Guard hires are too afraid of him to risk it. So the majority of the people taken have been smuggled out of Wales and Cornwall.”

“But Trahaearn’s the Duke of Anglesey. He has holdings in Wales. They aren’t scared of him there?”

“It’s easier to smuggle along the coast than the Thames.” But he agreed, “It damages his name that they’re doing it under his nose—even if he’s in London.”

Realization slowly spread across her features. “I see.”

He smiled a little. “Do you?”

“Yes. Scaring sailors and tearing ships apart—but above all, keeping the mercenaries too afraid to approach the coast. Whose idea was the kraken?”

“It was mine.” He didn’t mention that he’d been drunk at the time. Trahaearn had liked the idea well enough.

“And who is paying for it?”

His grin broadened. “The Iron Duke.”

“So this is all about you and the Iron Duke destroying the Black Guard?”

“Just taking one source of their money. They’ll no doubt find another.”

“And then?”

He pictured the people in the hold of that first ship—and all of them that had come after. “Then I’ll find them again.”

“But with the Horde gone, Britain has a navy again. Why can’t they—”

“Because after two hundred years, the navy is nothing but muscle for the Manhattan City merchants.” Pirates in fancy uniforms. “And the people being taken are too poor to matter to them—and they’ve no interest in patrolling this coast.”

“So you’re going to do their job with a monster.”

“Yes.” But he needed to tell her, “The crew doesn’t know about the kraken, Ivy. Barker does—but the others, they assume we’re being paid by Trahaearn to recover his people, and I’m in it for the money. And I can’t afford them or anyone else thinking I’ve gone soft.”

“And so that’s the reason behind the stories.” She studied his face. “Have you gone soft?”

“The crews of the Black Guard’s mercenary ships wouldn’t think so.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” she said quietly, and he knew she was thinking of the slave handler he’d shot, of the barrage of cannon fire that had destroyed the ship. Looking into his eyes, she lifted her hand to his jaw. His heart sledgehammered against his ribs.

“One denier,” she said. “And I’ll kiss you.”

Anticipation became tearing pain—and anger. He still had to pay?

By God, he wouldn’t. He’d take the kiss and every god-damn thing he wanted from her, and she’d beg for more.

He let himself imagine it, only for a second. Then the red haze cleared from his vision and he saw her pale face, her rounded eyes. Fear? Christ, no. But he didn’t know what his expression had shown her—and he didn’t know what she thought when she looked at him. He only knew he had to put some distance between them.

“Eben,” she said.

He tried to shrug her off as he sat up, but she clung to him, her strong fingers clamped over his shoulders. “Move away, Ivy.”

“Eben.”

His name. For the first time, his name. He stopped, met her searching gaze.

“I don’t mean to—” She cut herself off, and started again. “I need a limit. Something tangible. Something that prevents us from taking this beyond a kiss . . . or very far beyond it.”

He struggled to take in her meaning. “You want to set terms—and back them up with the denier?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if we make an agreement, you’ll honor it. And I can’t afford . . . I can’t risk more.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and a wistful note softened her voice. “No matter how tempted I am.”

Risk? What did she risk by—

Oh, hell. Eben closed his eyes. God, what a fool he was. Under Horde rule, only one result came from a coupling between a man and a woman, and most didn’t remain together afterward. Then the child would be taken and raised in a crèche.

But Ivy would have kept her child. And when she’d come to Vesuvius, she’d only had eight deniers . . . all of which he’d taken.

Quietly, he told her, “I wouldn’t risk it either, Ivy. A ship is no place to raise a child, and I’m not a man who’d be content visiting the family I’ve made four or five times a year. When I return to land permanently, maybe then. Not while I’m out to sea.”

“Oh.” Confusion furrowed her brow. “You never meant to shag me?”

Eben had to laugh. Of course he had. Even now, hearing that word from her lips left him as hard as a cannon.

“I mean to, Ivy. Every night, and twice in the day. And each time, using a lambskin sheath that will catch my seed.”

Disbelief widened her eyes. “You have such a thing?”

“Yes.”

When she gave a delighted laugh, he determined to buy a crate more the next time Vesuvius put into port.

“And it does not fail?”

He almost lied. Then he admitted, “Yes. But only rarely, Ivy. Very rarely.”

Her face fell. She looked away from him, biting her bottom lip.

Her disappointment was simultaneously the most heartening and the most torturous response he’d ever witnessed. She wanted him—but she wouldn’t risk having him.

Unless Eben convinced her it wasn’t a risk at all.

Yasmeen had warned him that Ivy wouldn’t know what courting was, and he hadn’t forgotten that—but he hadn’t truly understood it, either. He’d hoped that she would accept him as a partner. But it would probably never occur to her to imagine him—or anyone—in that position, even if she began to care for him.

He touched her chin, made her meet his eyes. “If it failed, I wouldn’t leave you alone, Ivy. I’d come with you to shore. I’d see that you and the baby had everything you needed. And I’d stay with you, always.”

Surprise, hope, and doubt warred across her features. “Eben, I think . . .” She trailed off, staring at him, as if searching for an answer within. Whatever she found drooped her shoulders and softened her mouth into a sad curve. “I just don’t know.”

Though he recognized that her response indicated uncertainty rather than rejection, he had to fight the hollow ache in his chest. Determination soon filled it. She’d already come to believe he was man enough not to force her; she would come to believe he was man enough to care for her, too. Until then, he could pleasure them both without risking a child.

“Let me up, Ivy.”

She let him go—reluctantly, he was gratified to see. After lighting the gas lamp, Eben retrieved a heavy gold coin.

Her eyes widened when he placed the coin in her palm. “A sous?”

“I’ll only kiss you,” he promised, then guided her hand to the juncture of her thighs. With his fingers over hers, he tucked their hands between her legs. He watched her lips part, heard her soft gasp. “But only if I kiss you here.”

EIGHT

Oh, blue heavens. As Ivy stared up at him, the pressure of his palm increased until her hand firmly cupped her most sensitive flesh. Wetness seeped through the thin cotton of her nightgown onto her fingers.

Need roughened Eben’s voice. “This can be my mouth, Ivy.”

And she wanted that kiss beyond measure. Heat unfurled through her belly. She dropped the sous to the mattress, reaching for him. He caught her wrist and tugged her toward the side of the bed.

“Come to the window.”

Her choppy breaths, the clank of his foot, and the creak of the ship were the only sounds in the cabin as he led her to the leather armchair. So many times, he’d come in to find her watching the stars. Had he imagined doing this?

At his urging, she sat, perching at the edge of the seat. Eben loomed over her, his back to the window. The glow from the lamp cast soft gold over the right side of his face, leaving the other half shadowed. Just to look at him was a pleasure—but her hands would have known him, even in the dark. They’d memorized his lean features, the breadth of his shoulders, every line and hollow of his chest and stomach, packed with muscle.

His gaze burned with intensity. “Lean back, Ivy.”

Slowly, she sank deeper into the chair. Her hands slid along the tops of her thighs, a whisper of metal over cotton. When her shoulders rested against the leather back, Eben knelt before her. His fingers caught the hem of her nightgown and began to draw it up to her knees. Ivy shivered.

“Cold?”

A breathless laugh escaped her. Hardly. She was burning up from the inside. Cheeks flushed, she felt faint perspiration across her brow, but it didn’t soothe the heat building beneath her skin.

She caught the hint of his smile before he bent his head. Her toes curled against the deck. She trembled again when his lips brushed her right knee.

“I need to spread you open for my mouth. But I won’t force you.”

Oh. Beneath her hands, her thighs were clenched together, as if she was uncertain. She wasn’t—and Ivy wanted to be bold. She wanted Eben to know she didn’t fear him. Gathering her courage, she let her legs fall apart and opened for him until her knees hooked over the arms of the chair. She hiked her nightgown hem to her waist.

Eben froze, his dark stare fixed on her exposed flesh. Her name came out strangled. “Ivy.”

Her courage almost failed. “This isn’t what you meant?”

“It is. More than I . . . God. You’re already wet for me.” He suddenly palmed the underside of her thighs as if to hold her open to his hungry gaze. His thumbs stroked the sensitive tendons of her inner thighs. “Do you know what I plan to do now, Ivy?”

He would put his mouth on her. She couldn’t imagine any further, but the very thought set her body quivering in anticipation. Her fingers bunched in her nightgown.

“You’ll kiss me.”

“Yes.” His right fingers smoothed into the crease of her thigh and followed it up to her hip. Gasping, Ivy rocked toward him. His hand flattened over her lower belly, holding her in place as his thumb slid through red curls. Gently, he began to circle the slick bud at the apex of her sex. “I’ll kiss these pretty pink lips, Ivy. And I’ll spread them with my tongue and lick inside you, tasting you all over.”

Ivy couldn’t form a coherent reply. Only panting breaths as his thumb stroked harder, the tip wet now, slippery over her flesh. The maddening circles were both bliss and torment, wringing a moan from deep in her throat.

“Then I’ll suck on your clit until you come for me.” His voice roughened in response to another tortured moan. “But I’ll tell you what I won’t do—look at me, Ivy.”

Her fingers clenching on the arms of the chair, her thighs trembling, she lifted her gaze. Need had hardened his face, his eyelids heavy as he watched her. His left hand rose, tugging down the neckline of her gown, baring her right breast and tightly budded nipple. Yearning for his touch, she arched into his palm.

He drew his hand away, pinning her right knee against the chair arm. “I won’t suckle your sweet tits.” His thumb circled faster. “I won’t lick every inch of your skin. I won’t push your thighs together and guide my cock through your wet slit, pumping my shaft across your clit, making you scream for me to come inside you. I won’t fuck you with my fingers and my tongue until you’re riding my hand and my mouth. And you won’t be touching me, either.”

“Eben, please.” She didn’t know what she wanted. Only that she wanted all of that, and that the tension winding tighter and tighter inside her needed to break. Helplessly, she rolled her hips against his hand. “Please. Please.”

“Not until you return to Vesuvius.”

His words barely penetrated the fever clouding her mind. Until she returned . . . ?

The shadows on his face deepened. “I won’t be with you as you begin building the kraken, Ivy. So I want you to wait for me. Just three weeks. Then I’ll join you at Trahaearn’s estate—and I’ll give you everything you want while you finish your work there, and again on your way back home.”

Back home. And before that, almost a month without him. A sharp pain speared through her chest, stealing her breath.

When she didn’t reply, his expression darkened. “You’ll wait for me.” Not a request now, but a harsh command. His thumb stroked harder. Long fingers pushed between her slick folds to press against her opening. Ivy turned her face into her shoulder, gasping. “You’ll wait.”

“Damn you, Mad Machen. Yes!” she burst out. “Now kiss me like you promis—”

He swooped down. Ivy’s demand melted into a moan as his hot mouth covered her, tongue sliding over swollen flesh. She cried out, her back arching, her shoulders jammed against the seat back.

“You taste . . . so good.” His voice was a growl between licks that ravaged her senses. His fingers tightened on her thighs. “Won’t . . . let you go.”

Ivy didn’t want him to. She reached for him, burying her fingers in his thick hair. His stiffened tongue delved through her folds. His big hands wedged beneath her bottom, lifting her for a deeper kiss.

Blue, blue, blue. Almost sobbing with pleasure, Ivy heard his answering groan. Her hips swiveled of their own accord, and his mouth moved with her, lapping at her clitoris before suckling the tender bud between his lips. His tongue flicked as he drew on her, and Ivy’s muscles suddenly locked as she strained toward that shattering precipice. Eben didn’t stop, each lick painful now, too much, too intense. Then he suckled again and she broke, crying out as she bucked against his mouth.

His tongue softened. He gently licked her as she came down, then pressed a kiss to her quivering belly. He lifted his head and his gaze ran over her, from her flushed sex to her perspiring face.

“My God, Ivy. You’re beautiful.”

Did he truly think so? He looked at her as if he did—he was the only person who’d ever looked at her like that. She blinked away the stinging in her eyes. “You’re suffering from a loss of blood to your brain, Eben.”

“So I am.” He laughed and dropped another kiss to the inside of her knee. Lifting her still-shaking legs from the arms of the chair, he helped Ivy to her feet. She swayed against him, her belly bumping into his engorged shaft. Eben groaned, closing his eyes. “I’m a fool for saying that you can’t touch me until I return. Will you ease me then?”

She wanted to now. “Yes.”

“Sweet Ivy.” His big hands cupped her jaw, thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. “I also said I’d only kiss you one time in return for the sous. But if I break my promise and kiss your lips before we sleep, will you forgive me?”

“I won’t forgive you if you don’t kiss me.”

Eben grinned as he lowered his head, and she was breathless by the time he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed.

When the eighth bell of first watch rang, Ivy opened her eyes. Eben lay quiet beside her, his erection against her hip. Before he could speak, she covered his mouth with a kiss—then took him in hand and stroked until he came, awakening all of Vesuvius by shouting her name.

NINE

Autumn had already come to Anglesey; yellow and orange warmed the low, rolling hills in the distance. Eben had thought that the sight of the island’s shores would lessen the frustration and dread that had built with every passing day, but when Anglesey appeared on the northern horizon, he was struck by the devastating certainty that Ivy had already gone.

Between weather and repairs that had forced him into dry dock, he’d been delayed too damn long.

Ivy might have worked on the kraken for three weeks, as she’d promised. But he’d forced that promise from her, just as he’d forced her to fix the machine—and why would she have remained in Anglesey for God knew how many months to repair a monster?

She didn’t have reason to stay. Although she’d wanted him, she doubted he could take care of her. The damned irony was that by giving her a sous—hoping to show her that he could provide for a family, that he would be generous—he’d offered her an escape route. That much money could take her halfway around the world.

So he’d just have to find her again.

Dread hardening into determination, Eben handed the telescope over to Barker and braced his hands on the quarterdeck’s balustrade.

“Captain!”

The shout came from the crow’s nest, where Teppers pointed over the port bow. Eben narrowed his eyes against the sun. The water’s calm surface had been disturbed by a small eruption, as if a pocket of air had broken underneath. A few moments later, there was another, almost one hundred yards closer to Vesuvius.

He glanced at Barker, holding the telescope to his eye. “Anything?”

Barker shook his head.

Another shout came from the bosun’s mate, at the starboard rail amidships. “Captain!”

Eben had only a second to glimpse the enormous dark form just below the surface, a rounded body plated with interlocking iron segments. Another pocket erupted fifty feet from Vesuvius’s side, disturbing the water—when it faded to a ripple the creature beneath had gone.

Barker looked to him with wide eyes. “Would Ivy have had time enough to rebuild it?”

“No.” And thank God, because otherwise she might have been in the sea with the real thing. “Hold steady on course. Ready the axes.”

And pray that they could sail on past it. If the tentacles got hold of them, their only option was to chop away until the kraken let go.

A film of sweat popped out on the quartermaster’s brow. Barker nodded and shouted to the crew, “Man the axe stations, and look sharp! Keep your eyes out—”

Terrified shouts sounded from the poop deck. Eben pivoted to look aft. His blood froze.

Dark and glistening, as thick as his waist at the tip, the tentacle rose over the quarterdeck. Plate-sized suckers covered the pale gray underside, the pink flesh seeming to open and close like hungry mouths as the kraken sought prey . . . and it came straight for Eben.

He reached for his weapon—too late. Heavy muscle wrapped his upper body in an unbreakable coil, pinning his arms to his sides. Jesus Christ. The oily stink filled his desperate breaths as the tentacle lifted him off his feet. He felt the suckers pulling at his legs, his back. Barker shouted and came at the thick arm with an axe. The blade skidded off the oily skin in a shower of sparks.

Mechanical flesh.

Barker’s mouth dropped open. Eben met his gaze for a second, and saw his astonishment reflected in the other man’s eyes. Ivy had done it.

But what the hell was she doing now?

Eben didn’t have time to ask. The tentacle carried him over the side of the ship. He pulled in a final breath before it dragged him beneath the freezing water. The shouts and screams from Vesuvius vanished into a swirling, watery quiet. Overhead, Vesuvius’s keel formed a long, dark shadow. He looked down into a nightmare.

Ivy’s giant machine churned the water below, its enormous staring eyes lit like a furnace. Steam boiled from the tips of the eight arms spread like rays beneath an enormous rounded body, as if the hell inside couldn’t be contained. Wrapped in the tentacle, he dove past the plated body, between two arms, toward the underside of the submersible—where a kraken’s beak would be. A rounded hatch opened instead, revealing a gaslit chamber. The tentacle shoved him toward it, until his head broke the surface and he hauled in a deep, ragged breath. The tentacle loosened.

Kneeling by the rim in a white shirt and trousers, Ivy laughed and dragged him from the icy water into a steam bath. Eben lay on the metal floor, coughing and sputtering, staring up at her. Red hair was plastered to her head with sweat, her face flushed. She was utterly beautiful.

“Can you breathe?” she asked.

Chest heaving, he nodded. He wasn’t sure about talking yet, but—

Ivy bent over, gripping his wet hair to hold him still, and ravished his mouth with a kiss. When she let go, he couldn’t speak, breathe—or think. He’d never been so astonished in his life.

She grinned down at him. “Do you think the machine is frightening enough?”

He barked out a laugh, which sent him into another fit of coughing. Patting his back, Ivy looked around.

“Circle beneath Vesuvius,” she said, and climbed to her feet.

Still catching his breath, Eben rose, shoulders bent to avoid the low ceiling. Three men—one his former blacksmith, Lambert—and two women manned the submersible from seats surrounded by forests of levers, and every surface on the bulkheads and ceiling was packed with valves and controls. A low hiss and the clacking of the four pedaling automatons sounded strangely hollow, as did his voice.

“The heat in here—is it from a steam engine?”

He couldn’t hear one, but it might have been shut down. He hoped to God she never fired one, not while in the water.

Ivy shook her head. “Just a boiler and valves to circulate steam around the gas bladders in the arms—and to keep us from freezing.”

Eben struggled for some response. What she’d put together here . . . he’d told her to do it, but he hadn’t known if anyone could. And it was beyond words.

Ivy continued, “It needs a crew of five. Your blacksmith and Trahaearn’s steward helped me choose. They can all keep a secret, and know the area well enough to leave the local fishermen and traders alone. And they are each loyal to you or the Iron Duke.” She glanced toward a short, blond man looking through a periscope. “I’ve trained John Davies to take my place.”

Eben recognized him. Eight months ago, Davies had been chained in the hold of a slave ship, his arm drill smashed beyond repair.

Davies pushed the periscope up into the ceiling, and turned with his hand extended. “Good to see you again, Captain.”

Automatically, Eben shook his hand—then looked down in surprise. It was a prosthetic shaped exactly like a hand, but it wasn’t mechanical flesh. Instead, it had been created of interlocking machines, each operating individually to resemble lifelike movement. He could feel the difference in pressure and strength in each of the man’s fingers, just as he would if the hand were flesh. If not for the hardness of the metal, Eben wouldn’t have known he was gripping a prosthetic. He’d never seen anything like it before.

Davies grinned and lifted his chin toward one of the women. “My lady, Mary, and I have an ongoing debate. Between this and the kraken, I say this hand is the more amazing. She doesn’t agree. And Ivy won’t give her opinion, citing bias as the maker.”

Eben felt as if he’d been dunked underwater again. He looked to Ivy, who was standing beside one of the crew, checking a valve. “You did this?”

“It was a trade. He needed an arm more than he needed a hook, and I needed his two-seater balloon to get around the island.” She glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. Her green eyes were bright with amusement. “You were gone more than three weeks. I had to do something.”

And she’d done something . . . incredible. He glanced down at the prosthetic, then around the chamber. Hell. Beyond incredible. Though the primary structure of the kraken had remained mostly the same, the modifications she’d made had turned it into this. Functioning. Frightening.

Yet she’d been hiding from him in Fool’s Cove. He didn’t think she would have, now. Her face shone with animation and joy—but also confidence. She’d always been secure in her work. But he thought that she, too, recognized just how amazing her talent was.

How amazing she was.

She moved to the hatch in the center of the floor. “Mary, will you bring in the tentacle?”

Eben joined her, looking down into the circle of water. “So I’m to go back?”

“Now you can add surviving a kraken’s belly to your reputation.” She smiled up at him. “As soon as we’ve docked, I’ll ask Mary to fly me out to Vesuvius.”

Thank God. The six-week knot of frustration and dread that had built up in him suddenly unwound. He nodded and stepped to the edge of the hatch. Ivy’s voice was the last thing he heard before the waters closed over his head.

“I’ll see you soon, Captain.”

She’d missed him.

Since Mary had flown her out to Vesuvius in the two-seater balloon, Ivy hadn’t left Eben’s side. For weeks, she’d feared something terrible had happened, and had forced herself to keep busy rather than dwell on the worst.

She’d loved showing him what she’d done. She remained with him throughout the day, telling him everything she’d seen on Anglesey, all of the ideas she had for new automatons and machines. He spoke as little as usual, but she could tell that he’d enjoyed being with her.

And she could tell that something was wrong. That there was something new about him—a certain distance, as if he were looking at her through biperspic lenses and seeing her in a new way. It made her nervous, and so she only talked more and more.

By the end of the day, anxiety had taken up residence in her stomach, made worse when he left her alone to wash and prepare for sleep. Now she waited in the bed, her heart pounding, and every passing second felt like another week of not knowing where he was.

She came up on her knees when he returned to the cabin. He smiled when he saw her, but his expression darkened when his gaze fell to her hand, fingers loosely curled to conceal the small package in her palm.

“No.” He strode toward the bed, pulling off his jacket and tossing it to the floor. “No more money between us, Ivy. You have my word that I won’t take you too far—and you’ll trust me on that alone.”

“It’s not—”

His mouth cut off the rest. Oh, blue—she’d missed this, too. Lifting to him, she wrapped her arms around his neck, opening her lips to his kiss and moaning at the first, heady taste. Relief and hunger roughened Eben’s answering groan. He dragged her nightgown up her legs and filled his hands with her bare backside, kneading in time to the thrust of his tongue.

Ivy’s head swam. One kiss chased away every thought, and it wasn’t until she buried her fingers in his hair and felt the crinkle of parchment against her palm that she recalled what she’d tried to tell him.

With effort, she tore her mouth away. She held him in place with her hands in his hair, preventing him from lowering his head to hers again. Chest heaving, she tried to catch her breath.

“It’s not a coin,” she managed between pants. She brought her right hand down, opening her fingers. “I looked through your drawers until I found one. I’m sorry I didn’t ask, but I wanted to surprise you.”

She’d managed that, at least. He stared down at the square oiled-parchment envelope, the red wax seal broken when she’d glanced inside to confirm the contents. The sheath had been shockingly thin, but pliable, and prepared with clear oil infused with a light fragrance that had reminded her of freshly cut oak.

Eben’s burning gaze rose to search her face. “You’re certain?”

Her heart pounding, Ivy nodded. And though she was certain, she still had to fight to keep her voice steady. “I built a kraken, Eben. Surely I can support a child, no matter where I go when I leave Vesuvius. So this is a risk I’m willing to take.”

His face seemed to pale. “Where do you intend to go?”

“Since our agreement was that you’d take me home after I fixed the kraken, I’ll return to Fool’s Cove, first.” And she’d promised Netta that she’d come back. Perhaps her friend would like to leave that small town with her. “After that, I don’t know.”

She didn’t want to think beyond that time. Weeks ago, Eben had told her the return voyage would take twenty days. Those days were all she could focus on now. She’d missed him so much, even knowing he would come back. She couldn’t imagine how deep the ache would be when she couldn’t look forward to his return.

Eben’s throat worked as if he had to force himself to swallow. His gaze fell to the sheath again, and a bleak expression moved across his face. Ivy only had a moment to wonder about it before determination firmed his mouth. “Alright, then. Hold on, Ivy.”

He gripped the bed rail and hauled back. Ivy grasped his shoulders for support as the mattress suddenly jolted forward several feet. She heard the clacking of gears from inside the platform beneath the bed, and when she glanced back, saw a second mattress rising into the space he’d made.

No, not a second mattress—it was the other half of the bed. Her mouth dropped open.

She whipped around to face him. “All this time?”

“Yes.” He yanked off his left boot, tossed it to the floor. He hesitated after he pulled off the right, and glanced up at her. “Do you want me to keep my leg covered?”

Oh, heavens. Wordlessly, Ivy held up her metal hands. A smile softened the corners of his mouth. He pressed a kiss to her fingers before cupping her nape and coming in for a long taste of her lips. A moan worked up through her throat, and her need built with each hot stroke of his tongue. Tugging his shirt from his breeches, she rediscovered muscles too long unexplored by her hands.

Her nails scraped over his chest. Eben broke their kiss, his lips tracing a path over her jaw. Heat seared her nerves as he nipped the tender skin above her guild tattoo, soothed it with a lick. She cried out in surprise as he dipped his head to her breast and suckled strongly through the thin nightgown. Her hands shook; her head fell back. The world seemed to spin about, her body the center. Then his right hand skimmed up her inner thigh, and the center shifted and contracted to the rough glide of his skin, the bold caress through her slick folds, the press of his fingers against her entrance. Her nails dug into his shoulders.

He lifted his head and his dark gaze locked on hers. “You’ll take me, Ivy. First like this. And when you’re ready, you’ll take all of me.”

“Yes.” Anticipation shivered across her skin. “I’m ready now.”

“Are you?”

His gaze didn’t leave her face as his fingers curled into her. Delicate flesh yielded to his penetration, sending ripples of pleasure beneath her skin. Ivy gasped, her hips rocking forward, her eyes glazing. Oh, blue heavens. This was . . . so good.

And not enough. “More.”

Eben groaned her name, burying his face in her neck. His fingers stroked deep and slow. “This first time won’t go easy. I want you to come like this, so you’ll enjoy at least part of it.”

She’d love all of it, even if it hurt. But this didn’t. Ecstasy was quickly unwinding through her, twisting and loosening with each pump of his hand. She barely felt the slide of cotton down her arms. Then he licked her nipple and all that she could feel was his tongue and his strong fingers, pushing her higher. With a gruff sound of pleasure, he sucked the taut peak into his mouth, his thumb caressed the swollen bud of her sex and she was there, shaking and clenching—and ready for more.

Her hands dove to the front of his breeches. A strangled noise came from his throat, something like Wait, but her nimble fingers had already unfastened the buttons and found him, thick and hot in her palms.

“Ivy—”

He broke off as her fingers slid over the wide tip, spreading the drop of his seed. Her gaze lifted to his. “Come into the bed now. Come into me.”

His throat worked. “Yes.”

At his rough reply, she scooted back, pushing the nightgown past her hips and kicking it away. Eben shoved his breeches down and looked up at her. His gaze stilled on her legs, jumped to her breasts, and fell to the curls between her thighs before rising to her face.

“You take my breath, Ivy.”

And he would make her cry if he didn’t stop that. Reaching forward, she drew him to her—skin to skin, for the first time. He lay at her side, his mouth finding hers, his hands stroking her back toward the edge. She trembled with need as he unwrapped the sheath, smoothing it over his heavy shaft. Finally, he settled between her spread thighs, elbows braced beside her shoulders, and looked down at her.

Sweat sheened his skin, dark gold by the light of the gas lamp. He brushed a stray hair back from her forehead. “Tell me if it becomes too painful. I swear to God, I’ll stop.”

She could feel him, the blunt tip wedged between her slick folds. Anticipation was driving her insane. “I ache now.”

His mouth lowered to hers. “Then take me.”

The muscles in his back flexed beneath her hands. Pressure built at her entrance, followed by tearing pain. By the starry sky—it did hurt. Biting back a scream, she turned her head, squeezing her eyelids shut. Eben gently kissed her cheeks and her lips; his cock split her in half below. He murmured her name, sipping away the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. And still he drove deeper, until she felt as if a heated piston had been grafted inside her.

He finally stopped, his hips pinning hers and her thighs open wide, the weight of his upper body supported on his forearms. “Ivy?”

She couldn’t look at him. Only moments before, she’d begged for this. Now she just wanted him to get on with it and then get off her.

“Have you finished?”

“No.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “We’ll wait a few minutes while your bugs heal you up around me. You won’t have to go through that again.”

“Good.” The burning pain had faded. Now she was just full. She couldn’t decide if it was uncomfortable or not—but she definitely didn’t like this.

She could see that Eben liked it, though. His breathing was quick and shallow, the muscles in his chest and arms straining with the effort of keeping still. Beneath her hands, his nanoagents raced like fire, sparking across his nerves. His heart pounded. Experimentally, she lifted her hips.

Though she only managed to nudge him, his reaction was everything she could have hoped. He sucked in a sharp breath, his spine bowing as he jerked upward. His hands fisted beside her head. As if gratified by his response, her inner muscles clung to him when he began to withdraw.

“No, Ivy. Wait until—”

Her fingers digging into his firm ass, she hauled him back. The impact rocked Ivy to her toes, little ripples that seemed to reverberate in the slick channel hugging his length. Eben shouted in surprise and pleasure, his head falling forward, teeth clenching. A deep groan tore from him.

“I can’t, love . . . I can’t—Ah, God. I’m sorry. I have to—” Muscle bunched beneath her palms. He rose above her, bracing his left hand beside her shoulder and sliding his right hand between them, the tip of his middle finger brushing her clitoris. “I’ll try . . . to go slow.”

He pulled back. Ivy stiffened, preparing herself—and wishing he’d go fast. If he finished quickly, then she could . . . she could . . . Oh, blue heavens. He pushed into her, and though his thick length stuffed her too full, the stretch wasn’t painful, and the movement of his finger flicked little sparks into her belly, a fire building higher and higher.

She still didn’t know if she liked it. But she wanted more. Her palms smoothed up over his back. She hooked her leg over his hip, and cried out when he suddenly thrust deep.

Eben froze. “Did I hurt you? God, Ivy. I didn’t expect you to wrap your leg—”

“No.” Her back arched. She couldn’t stop moving, writhing against him. “More. More.”

Tension shook through his big body, sweat gathering on his skin and glistening in the lamplight. His gaze fixed on her face, he worked leisurely into her again. And again. She bit her lips to stop herself from crying out, but her moans were almost as loud. At the end of each long stroke, she stiffened and trembled until his fingers on her clit pushed her into motion again, and she twisted her hips, trying to take more. He slowly slid in to the hilt, and she was as desperate as before. Helplessly, she spread her legs wide.

“Eben, I need . . .” She didn’t know. Her chest heaved with her labored breaths. “Please.”

With a tortured groan, he paused with his cock lodged inside her and closed his eyes, as if gathering strength. He withdrew his hand from between them and slid it beneath her hip, tilting her pelvis up.

In a low voice, he said, “Tell me if it’s too much.”

He slammed forward. Ivy gasped, tried to catch her breath, but he was already there again, deep and hard. Her hands spasmed. Afraid of hurting him, she grabbed the sheets and twisted, crying out as he pounded into her.

“This?” Letting go of her hip, he buried his fingers in her hair, as if to anchor her for each heavy stroke. “Is this what you need?”

Too overwhelmed to speak, Ivy nodded. Then his mouth covered hers, hungry, searching. Her legs wrapping him tight, she found his rhythm and met each powerful lunge. Her breasts swayed with the force of his thrusts, their stiffened tips brushing his chest in a maddening tease. Need spiraled, like a screw turning tighter and tighter with every desperate plunge. Her limbs suddenly locked, her body straining and rigid. His kiss deepened. His mouth caught her cries as she shuddered around him, her inner muscles clenching on his shaft. Then he was pumping into her again, hard and fast, gripping her backside to hold her still. He was finally letting go, Ivy realized, and she moved with him, urged him on until he shoved deep, shaking as he pulsed inside her, groaning against her lips. She clung to him, panting, sweating.

And decided that she’d liked it, after all.

Unable to sleep, Eben rose long before the end of first watch. He dressed in his breeches and shirt, and crossed the cabin as quietly as his leg would allow. After pouring brandy, he sat at the window and looked out into the dark sky.

He tried not to think of Ivy. He tried not to think about twenty days from now, when she would leave his ship. He tried not to think about how proving that he was a man of his word meant keeping his word . . . and that meant he had to take her home as he’d promised. He tried not to think about the risk she’d taken by accepting him into her body—not because she believed he’d care for her, but because she would be fine without him.

In the few minutes that he managed not to think of those things, he drank his brandy, and tried to think of what might persuade Ivy to call Vesuvius her home.

But there were places Eben didn’t dare let his mind wander, where lurking terrors might rise up and swallow him whole. And so he didn’t let himself think about how Ivy deserved so much more than his ship—and how loving her meant that he might have to let her go.

TEN

Ivy had never taken a bath with a revolver at an arm’s length away before.

Though if she were to pick at nits, she hadn’t taken that many baths before—at least, not fully submerged as she was now. A cloth and a bowl of water had always sufficed. But this was better.

With a blissful sigh, she leaned back in the steaming tub, trying to block out the noises from the tavern downstairs. Eben had assured her this Port Fallow inn had the best rooms and food, despite the rough and tumble patrons. Considering that Ivy had never stayed at an inn before, she’d had to take his word for it—and she’d have been happy sleeping in a shanty near the city wall, as long as Eben shared the dirt floor with her.

She glanced at the gun again, then at the door, solidly locked. Eben hadn’t said whether he’d worried more about the patrons or the odd chance that a zombie might make it over the wall and across Amsterdam’s old canals, but he’d been adamant about keeping the weapon with her at all times. Knowing this city, she had to agree. Though she’d only been here a few weeks before she and Netta had flown north to Fool’s Cove, she’d heard about more murders and theft than over the course of a year in London.

And within six days, she’d be in Fool’s Cove again.

A familiar ache settled in her heart—and though she sat in the bath until the water cooled, the pain still hadn’t faded. Every day, it remained for a longer time. She feared that by the time she reached home, the ache would have taken up permanent residence in her chest.

With a sigh, she left the bath. The blue dress that Netta had made for her hung in the wardrobe. Ivy didn’t know what Eben had planned for the evening, but he’d requested that she wear it. She slipped it over her head, and though it fastened in the back, a design that usually required assistance from a maid—or a friend—Ivy had no trouble bending her arms around and maneuvering the tiny hooks. She looked inside the small bag that Eben had given her before he’d left the room. . . .and had to sit on the bed when her knees went weak.

Her heart pounding, she withdrew a pair of silk stockings. Her silk stockings, the pair she’d left behind at a London inn, two years before. He’d kept them all this time?

And her elbow, too—but she understood that better. The flange had saved his life. Why keep these?

She fingered the satin ribbons, and hope filled her chest. He’d kept her stockings aboard Vesuvius for two years. Perhaps . . . perhaps he’d want her to stay, too.

But what would she do? Ivy didn’t want to be part of his crew. And though she’d gladly cover the blacksmith’s duties, she knew the work would occupy her only for a few hours a week—at the most—and provide no challenge at all. Within three months, she could outfit every crew member who needed one with a new and better prosthetic . . . but what then?

The room’s door clicked shut. Eben. Facing the wardrobe, Ivy composed herself. She would ask him if she could stay, but . . .

A shiver ran over her skin as realization set in: she hadn’t heard the door unlock and open—and she didn’t hear his distinctive tread.

Oh, blue. The revolver lay on a chair across the room. Ivy carefully kept her gaze from touching the weapon as she turned, hoping that the intruder wouldn’t look that way, too. Her heart racing, she glanced toward the door.

Lady Corsair stood with her back against the wall, frowning as she took in the blue gown. Her green eyes met Ivy’s. “Barker was right,” she said. “Mad Machen plans to openly court you.”

Ivy’s mouth dropped open. That was what this evening was about? Eben didn’t need to do that.

“You didn’t know.” The other woman’s lips pursed. “It must be a last resort. All else has failed, so he tries the old-fashioned method. And the softhearted fool will ruin himself and destroy his crew in the process. Goddammit, Eben.”

Though Ivy bristled at the insult tossed at him, she couldn’t mistake the emotion behind Lady Corsair’s speech. The woman cared.

So did Ivy. “What would ruin him?”

“You would, Ivy Blacksmith.” A hard smile curved Lady Corsair’s lips. “On the sea, you can never show your belly or your throat, because someone will rip them out. And you are the soft spot that Mad Machen is about to show the world.”

“I see,” Ivy whispered. And she did. Too well.

Lady Corsair studied her face before swearing again. She turned for the door.

“Captain Corsair,” Ivy said, and waited until the woman glanced at her. “You sent four men from your airship to my shop in Fool’s Cove, and failed to pay for my work. I expect to be paid now.”

Black eyebrows arched in disbelief. She laughed. “You’re a cheeky one, blacksmith. But you’re not funny.”

She opened the door. Ivy said, “If you don’t pay me, I’ll head down to the tavern, and spin a story about how you generously offered to pay for your aviators’ prosthetics, and were so pleased with my work that you gave me double. But if you pay me now, I’ll only say that you fooled me, and that I haven’t been able to coax a single denier from your purse.”

Green eyes narrowing, Lady Corsair snapped the door closed and stalked across the room, fingering the handle of the knife sheathed at her thigh. Ivy’s heart careened against her chest with the woman’s every step, but she held her ground, lifting her chin to meet the woman’s gaze.

“I know it’d be easier to kill me,” Ivy said. “Except that Eben’s your soft spot, isn’t he?”

Lady Corsair’s sudden grin should have terrified her—but Ivy knew she was right. She held out her hand.

“Pay me.”

The woman’s grin became something more like a smile. She reached beneath her belt, withdrew a small leather purse, and dropped it into Ivy’s palm.

“It’s all I have with me,” she said. “But it should be enough.”

Ivy couldn’t respond. Her nanoagents had automatically measured the weight in her hand, and she knew exactly how much Lady Corsair had given.

The woman’s sharp smile widened. While Ivy stood dumb-struck, Lady Corsair cupped her hand between Ivy’s legs.

“Funny. I thought for certain the Blacksmith must have added a pair of balls.” She backed toward the door, saluting Ivy as she went. “You’ll do well to keep using those, blacksmith.”

Perhaps Lady Corsair got by using her balls. Ivy preferred her brains.

Her fingers closed over the purse. How strange, to have enough money to buy anything she wanted—and to realize what she wanted most, no amount of money could buy. Mad Machen’s reputation could only be built through stories, though action . . . and it took years.

But there must be some way to have him. She just had to figure it out.

Ivy was sitting on the bed, staring at the pile of gold coins on the bedspread when she heard Eben’s key in the lock. He halted halfway through the door, his gaze drinking her in.

“Look at you, Ivy.”

Even with her heart aching, he could make her smile. She smoothed her hand over the blue satin skirt. “Netta is a wonderful seamstress.”

“Perhaps,” he said, closing the door. “But Netta isn’t wearing it. And soon you won’t be, ei—” His step faltered when he saw the pile on the bed. “What is that?”

She heard the rough note in his voice, the worry. She didn’t know what would soothe it, so she told him the truth. “Fifty livre. Lady Corsair paid me for my work. Overpaid me, actually.”

He barked out a hoarse laugh at her understatement. “Why?”

She’d spent the past thirty minutes trying to understand it. “I think . . . so that I wouldn’t ruin you. So that I could go anywhere I wanted to—as long as it was away from you. She said you meant to court me, that you’d be torn apart for being soft, and that it would also destroy your crew. Is that true?”

His skin paled beneath his tan. Jaw clenched, he turned away from her.

“It is true,” she whispered. She hadn’t been completely certain before—not when the story came from Lady Corsair. But Eben’s reaction said that it was. “Why would you take that risk?”

“Ivy . . .” He shook his head, and the sound that came from him seemed like a laugh, but pain or fear was sculpted into his posture, his expression. But when he faced her, there was only need and hope. “Because you’re worth more to me than anything else in this world. Because I want you to make Vesuvius your home. And because. . . I love you, Ivy.”

Her heart filled, followed by a stabbing pain. His love, her love—it changed nothing. Lady Corsair was still right, and more people than Eben would be hurt. So would his crew . . . and the slaves that Mad Machen could potentially save.

Eben’s eyes closed. His voice was bleak. “You don’t have to say it, Ivy. I can see your answer in your face. Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll buy equipment for a blacksmith’s shop, in another city. Maybe in the New World. With this much money, I can go anywhere, do anything.” Except what she most wanted. Her vision blurred as she glanced down at the coins. “Fool’s Cove, first. I promised Netta I’d come back.”

“And I promised to take you there. God.” He fisted his hands in his hair, staring at her in utter torment. Then he lost all expression, and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to leave. His voice was flat as he said, “We’ll sail in the morning.”

He closed the door quietly. Ivy wished he’d slammed it. She wanted to slam it. She remained on the bed instead, rocking back and forth, refusing to cry—and refusing to give in to impulse and throw the money as hard as she could across the room.

Love, money. None of it changed the problem of reputation. Mad Machen saved people for coin, not because he cared. He chased a woman because she’d cheated him—not because he loved her. And the woman who stayed would have to be . . . would have to be . . .

She’d have to be mad.

Ivy’s lips parted. Her heart pounding, she rose from the bed, and collected the money—then she crossed the room and collected the gun. She counted the number of bullets and removed three.

She’d reached the door before realizing that only stockings encased her feet. Spotting her worn black boots, she pulled them on.

They’d work well enough. Money could buy her slippers. Only crazy would get her a man.

Men and women packed the tavern. From somewhere in the back, automaton musicians badly in need of repairs to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through the crowd, and she supposed it said much about the patrons here that not one glanced a second time at the revolver she carried in her right hand, though a few did stare at her guild tattoo. Rising up on her toes, she tried to scan the tables and the bar, but there were too many people, most of them taller. She debated for an instant whether to circle the room, looking for Eben—but now that she’d resolved to do this, she decided to go full bore.

Hiking up her skirts, she clambered atop the nearest table and stood. A single fierce look silenced the protesting men whose drinks sloshed wildly in her wake—though she noted they were amused rather than afraid.

That would do, too.

She spotted Eben at the bar, and her heart clenched. He sat alone with his shoulders slumped, his expression desolate. He held a small glass loosely in his hand. When he lifted it toward his lips, Ivy raised her gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The glass exploded. The deafening crack of the revolver faded to silence. Even the song died, which hadn’t been played by broken automatons, Ivy realized—just very bad musicians. She found herself facing a roomful of pistols, but she only had eyes for the one in Eben’s hand. It pointed straight back at her.

His face whitened. A glass shard had cut his lip; blood spilled over his jaw. She saw his mouth form her name, and she shouted over him.

“Mad Machen!” She aimed for his heart even as he lowered his gun—as did everyone around them. No longer concerned for their lives, they cleared a path between Ivy and Eben, and settled in to watch. “You heartless brigand! You’ve tracked me to the ends of the earth to have your revenge, and you’ve used me in your bed. You’ve forced me to work in Vesuvius’s smithy. No more. I demand that you set a course for my home, Captain. And you will do it now, or I will put a bullet through your mad brainpan.”

Eben’s expression darkened. Slowly, he rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. His voice was low and dangerous. “So you think you’ll take command of my ship, do you?”

“You have forced me to this point, Mad Machen. Do you think that I will stay in your smithy forever? No longer will I watch as you make a fortune with my windups, forcing me to slave away on your ship and selling them at every port.”

“You’ll do whatever I say, Ivy Blacksmith. You’re mine, as is every coin you earn.”

She adjusted her aim when he stalked toward her. “Stay there, or I will shoot your leg from under you!”

She planned to make him a better one, anyway.

He didn’t stop. Ivy fired. The bullet slammed into solid steel just below his right knee. He stumbled forward to keep his balance. A murmur ran through the crowd.

Jaw hardening, Eben straightened. The look he gave Ivy sent the men around her table scrambling for distance. He approached, and when he was within a few feet, Ivy pointed the revolver at his groin.

“Next will be your prick, sir. And you know that my hands are too steady to miss.”

His grin was a mad thing, filled with blood and wild laughter. “Then I will force you to graft on a new one. Perhaps something smaller, that you can take more easily.”

He continued forward. Ivy pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click. She only had time to shriek before he swept her feet from the tabletop. Tossing her facedown over his shoulder, he strode for the door. She pounded her fists against his back, screaming for help.

Thank the blessed stars, not a single patron came to her aid. And she was gratified to hear, just before Eben pushed through the exit,

“She’s as bleeding mad as he is!”

Ivy found herself in the nearest alley, up against the nearest wall, with Eben kissing her as if he’d never stop. She didn’t want him to. Threading her fingers into his hair, she tasted his sweat and his blood—but the tears were hers.

“I love you,” she said against his mouth the moment he gave her a chance to breathe. “I love you. Did you know?”

His eyes closed and he shook his head. “Not until I saw you on that table. You are mad. And, my God, I love you for it.”

Laughing, she kissed him again. After a moment, she said, “You have to punish me for challenging your command.”

“By forcing you to set up a shop aboard Vesuvius?”

“By keeping me with you forever.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And I will have clean air, a view, work for my mind and my hands—and you. Everything I want. So take me home, Captain.”

“That’s an order I’ll follow.” Lifting her up, Eben cradled her against his chest and turned for the docks.

Ivy smiled and lay her head on his shoulder. “Would you have let me return to Fool’s Cove?”

“No. When courting fails, the next step is abduction.”

She laughed into the night—until she caught a glimpse of his face. His expression was serious. Her mouth fell open. “Weren’t you joking?”

His sudden grin didn’t make her any more or less certain. Alright. She’d let him have that one.

“Do you know,” she told him, gently touching the almost-healed cut on his lip, “that I’ve never once held a gun before today?”

His grin remained only until he glanced at her features. He came to a stop. “Now you’re not serious. That glass you shot was an inch from my head.”

“But it’s true.” She wiggled her fingers, silvery in the moonlight. “I knew my aim would be perfect. And it was, don’t you agree?”

He studied her face a moment longer, before starting toward Vesuvius again, a smile deepening the corners of his mouth. “God help me,” he said.

Once again, she took that as a “yes.”