Chapter Twelve
Long past dawn, Mina woke to a stifling cabin with her nightshirt twisted around her waist, blinking away a dream of Trahaearn shagging her on the pillows in the captain’s cabin while Scarsdale and Lady Corsair watched and laughed. Disturbed, wet from sweat and arousal, she stumbled to the vanity and splashed water on her face.
She dressed to the endless huffing and puffing and rattling of the engines, making certain that the buckles of her armor and her short jacket were perfectly aligned. The damp hair at her nape refused to lie smoothly, until she used double her usual amount of pins and made a coil tight enough to pull at her temples. Above decks was just as hot, but at least the dry air moved past her face. She sat in the bow for most of the day, watching the landscape pass below her. The desert was not just sand, as she’d always imagined. There were flat rocks and cliffs and long stretches of bare, burned earth. All was yellow and brown, except for the patches and rivers of green where water pooled or flowed. She finally stopped sweating about the time that the desert gave way to grasslands that seemed to blur into one infinite field. She didn’t see any zombies or people, and the few trees that stood upright against the sun looked so very desolate and alone.
And despite the name it had earned in the New World and England, she could not imagine that anyone who’d actually visited Africa would call it the Dark Continent. As the day wore on, everything seemed to grow brighter and brighter, until even the blue skies hurt her to look at them.
It hurt to look everywhere. Trahaearn passed the day standing at the quarterdeck in his shirtsleeves, cigarillo always in hand and his expression more detached each time she turned around. And so she stopped turning around.
She was tired of the endless huffing engine. Home seemed very far away, and Andrew even farther. She missed them all so very much, and only her will kept her from weeping into her hands. Finally sunset neared, and she had reason to return to her room.
Splashing water against her face again, she found her skin was tender, as if burned. Not something to worry about—the bugs would take care of it. But they could not make her any less tired, or help her find an appetite when a cabin girl appeared at her door carrying a tray of melon and cheeses and a carafe of iced lemon water.
“Captain Corsair says that you’ll probably find her cabin too hot. She thought you’d be more comfortable here.”
Mina thanked the girl, and told her to thank the captain. Slowly, she changed into her nightshirt, opened the portholes, and climbed into her bed. The engines huffed and puffed. She stared at the orange sky, hot and tired, unable to sleep.
When all outside turned to night, she finally closed her eyes.
The silence woke her. Mina sat up, listening. The airship wasn’t moving. She reached for the lamp.
“No lights.” Trahaearn’s voice came softly out of the darkness. A shadow beside her bed, he touched her mouth. “No talking. Only whisper.”
When she nodded, he moved back. She climbed from the bed, her heart thumping wildly. “What’s happening?”
His hand found hers. He gave her a moment to pull on a wrap, then led her through the unlit passageway, up to the main deck, where the smooth wood was warm beneath her bare feet. The night lanterns had been extinguished. The sails were furled. Yasmeen waited on the quarterdeck in an untucked shirt and her hair loose, a kerchief covering the tips of her ears. Moonlight revealed only darkness below, darker than the grasslands would have been.
“Is it another airship?” she whispered when they reached the quarterdeck. “Pirates?”
“Worse.” He gave to her a spyglass, and pointed to the east, where the moon shone full. “Believers.”
She couldn’t make sense of the shape silhouetted in the dark sky. It looked like a cluster of grapes sitting upon a plate.
“William Bushke calls it New Eden—a city made of airships tied together. If he sees Lady Corsair, he’ll bring her in. Us, too. And there’s no ransom from New Eden.”
With narrowed eyes, Yasmeen was studying the distant floating city. “What’s Bushke doing so far west?”
“I can’t imagine.”
Mina lowered the spyglass. “Where is he usually?”
“He claims all of the Indian Ocean as his territory,” Trahaearn said. “He circles from Australia around north to Horde territory, and sometimes as far west as Madagascar. And he’ll take any airship he encounters.”
“Why?”
“He adds it to his city. They use the upper decks for gardens, the lower decks to live. He promises a paradise, and all that everyone does is attend the church services, work the soil, and live in peace . . . and Bushke doesn’t let them go.”
Almost like the Horde. “How can he capture an airship peacefully?”
“That’s the exception to his ‘peace.’ There are those he’s forced aboard, but he also has his devoted followers. And he has steam-powered flyers and firepower to back them up. They fly out, circle an airship like wolves, and keep it in place until the city arrives. The only choice is to abandon the ship or be taken.”
If given that same choice, Mina would abandon ship, no question. “If no one escapes, how do you know what the city is like?”
He smiled a little. “Because he promised me a fortune to smuggle relics out of Italy. Scarsdale and I used an autogyro to deliver them. And Bushke didn’t let us go.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “You’re here now.”
“Well, there is one way off—to jump. Between the worshipping and weeding, we made a glider out of the junk we found in the city.”
Yasmeen slipped a cigarillo out of her case, then scrunched her eyebrows together in annoyance, as if realizing she didn’t dare light it. “And that was the last time Scarsdale could climb any higher than he can jump without sucking on a bottle first.”
“Oh.” So that was it. Mina bit her lip in sympathy. “Was he hurt?”
“No. The glider began tearing apart halfway down, but we made it to shore,” Trahaearn told her. “Watching pieces of the wings come off as we flew in was enough to do it to him. Me, I was just glad we made it in to land. I sink like a stone.”
So would Mina, but only because she couldn’t swim. She didn’t have iron for bones. “And yet you’re a pirate captain?”
“As long as the Terror floats, I don’t need to.”
His grin flipped her stomach about, drew out her own smile. Where had his detachment gone? It wasn’t here now—and Mina no longer felt tired and sick and alone. Perhaps one had nothing to do with the other. She didn’t know. But she didn’t want to return to the stateroom yet.
Yasmeen looked through the spyglass again before lowering it. “He’s heading east now, but we’ll wait until dawn before we fire up the engines again. Our exhaust trail is too easy to spot in the moonlight.”
Mina glanced up at the white envelope. “And the balloon isn’t?”
“If we were south of him, or between him and the moon, we’d be easier to see. But there’s a few clouds, so we ought to be all right.” Despite that assurance, Yasmeen apparently wouldn’t leave it to chance. To Trahaearn, she said, “I’m ragged for sleep. You’ll watch her?”
He nodded. “I’ll take care of her.”
“I’ve put three of the crew on watch, two in New Eden’s direction.” She waved toward the aviators standing at the side rail. “They’ll give a shout. But if they close their eyes to do anything but blink, throw them over. I’ve got crew bedded down by the engines. If Bushke changes heading, yell down the pipes to them before you wake me. Then try to outrun the flyers.”
“Aye, captain,” he said.
Her laugh turned into a yawn. “I’m off, then.”
And Trahaearn was, too, making a round of the deck and speaking with the aviators on watch—and checking the weapons stations, she noted. Mina took her seat at the bow, curling her toes against the deck. For the first time, she didn’t need her goggles. The night was warm, and only a faint breeze stirred the air as the airship hovered over the dark below.
She listened to the murmur of the aviators, Trahaearn’s low voice. Heavy steps marked his approach. Mina wasn’t used to hearing anything on this ship but the engines and the wind. Now, she only heard those footsteps and the pounding of her heart.
He stopped beside Mina’s wooden chest, his dark eyes shadowed. “At dinner, Yasmeen’s girl said you were sunsick.”
Sunsick. She’d never heard of such a thing, but she must have been. “I’m fine now.”
“Yes. But I watched you all damn day. I should have—”
“I’m well.” Strange, that she had to reassure him. But here she was.
Nodding, he sat beside her. She followed his gaze to the airship city. Without a spyglass, it only appeared like a speck of darkness beneath the moon.
“What happens if they come? Do we use the emergency gliders?” She’d seen them all over the airship, folded and tacked against the bulkheads.
“Yasmeen wouldn’t leave her,” he said. “She’d blow it all to hell first. And we’re over the Niger River marshes. If we took the gliders, we might live two minutes after landing.”
A chill ran through her. “Zombies?”
“Not as bad as the Congo, but still thick as fleas. Farther west and south—at least some of the people made it aboard the rescue ships to South America. Not here.” He fell silent for a moment. Then, “If Bushke comes, I’ll protect you. And I’ll make a better glider for our escape.”
“I’ll stay close to you, then.” She tilted her head back, looked up at the balloon. “If they come, why not just fire on their balloons with the rail cannon?”
“Three thousand people live in New Eden. Children, women.”
“Oh.” And all of them killed if it came crashing down. “Yes. Better to make a glider.”
“Yes.” Beside her, Trahaearn’s weight shifted as he withdrew a small folded paper from his watch pocket. He pressed it into her hand. “I want you to have this.”
Even before she unfolded the note, Mina knew what it was. Her neat writing stared up at her.
I accept.—W.W.
She swallowed past the unbearable ache in her throat. “You lied about receiving it.”
“You lied about sending it.”
“And now? I haven’t . . . performed as you liked, so you will bring this back between us to find my brother? What should I do first, Your Grace? Should I be on my knees?”
He captured her face between callused palms, made her look at him. Dark emotion burned in his eyes. “No. I showed this to you so that you’d know I didn’t want that. I could have had it. I could have let the acceptance in this note stand. But I don’t want you to come to me like that. Not forced. I didn’t mean to force you two nights ago. I won’t now.”
Her heart thudded, pounding against her ears. “I know you won’t.”
“Two nights ago, you wanted me.” His hands tightened. “Have I destroyed that?”
No. She closed her eyes, but he must have read her face. Relief seemed to pour through him. His voice softened.
“Was it so much like the Frenzy?”
“Yes,” she said, but thought: He’d wanted her. She thought that she didn’t want to return to her room alone. That she didn’t want to return to London without knowing, without trying to change the damage the Horde had done with their tower. And that she didn’t want to be afraid. So she admitted, “But not all of it. Just at the end.”
“Mina . . .” His gaze searched her face. “Tell me straight out.”
So he wouldn’t make an assumption. She took a deep breath. “You said that we could be together on the airship and the Terror. I want that. To try, at least.”
“Try me.” His thumb stroked down her cheek. “And I’ll stop when you’re frightened.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He dropped a kiss to her mouth, hard and brief. Before Mina could react, he lifted and settled her over his lap, his shoulders braced against the rail. “You control it.”
Here? Now? “But—”
“I told the aviators not to look this way or I’d burn their eyes out. Kiss me, Mina. Hold me down, make me pay for forcing you. We’ll start this off equal.”
She had to laugh. “That’s hardly punishment.”
The darkness that flickered across his expression stopped her laughter. “If I’m restrained, you’ll have your payment.”
Mina didn’t know if she wanted that. But she wanted him.
Rising and lifting her hem, she turned to straddle him, her knees on the wooden chest and his hard thighs between hers. His hands found her hips and he tilted his head back against the gunwale, offering his mouth to her . . . or his throat. Mina bent her head. His lips softened under hers, and she parted them with a thrust of her tongue.
He moaned with her, his fingers tightening, and she deepened the kiss. Only two days had passed, yet how she’d missed this. The hot stroke of his tongue. The taste of him. His stubble-roughened jaw abraded her chin and her lips as she trailed kisses from the corner of his mouth to his ear. She pushed her fingers through his hair, exposing those tiny rings.
He shuddered when she flicked them with her tongue, and he laughed softly, as if surprised by his reaction.
She drew back. “Why these rings?”
He hesitated before he said, “I didn’t like where they were. So I put them where I wanted them.”
Her gaze narrowed on the faint scars in his lobes. Faint . . . and ragged.
“Did you rip them out? Or did someone else?”
“I did.”
Six of them. “Where else?”
Eyes never leaving her face, he brought her hands to his chest. His nipples, she realized, and instinctively cringed. “You ripped them out here?”
“Yes.”
And two more. “Where else?”
His fingers curled into her palms as he drew her hands between them. Then lower, until she cupped his hard length through his breeches, and he ran her thumb over the wide tip of his erection. She stared at him in horror. The corner of his mouth ticked up.
“Or I lied so that I’d have your hands on my cock.”
She barely stopped the loud laugh that rose up through her. Catching herself, she whispered, “But truly?”
He nodded, drawing her hands up to his shoulders and smoothing his palms down her sides to her hips. “I paid for these rings. But I didn’t like where they’d put them.”
So matter-of-fact. Her heart seemed to slow, but every beat struck harder and harder inside her ribs. He’d said there was always a use for a boy of fourteen at the Ivory Market—and she’d seen too many broken children in London not to guess that there’d been a use for a boy of eight, too. But only eight years later, he’d been sold to the Americas, bound for a coal mine. Her fingers traced his face. Despite being so handsome.
“You must have been uncontrollable for them to have sold you again. Were you of iron, even then? And as strong?”
Whatever sort of nanoagents he had, they’d done more than help graft metal prosthetics to flesh, as they did to most buggers. She couldn’t even lift him. Yet they’d made him strong enough to move, run, jump—despite the heavy weight of his bones.
“I’ve always had the iron. The strength grew with it.”
But not quickly enough, she thought. No need to break a boy’s bones when he had flesh. With enough pain or threat, they could still have controlled him. And he wouldn’t have reached his full strength until he’d been full grown. Still, whatever he’d possessed at sixteen must have been enough that he hadn’t been worth the risk of keeping.
When she said so, he nodded. “They decided I was too dangerous to use anymore. But I was worth more sold than dead.”
Too dangerous to use. “You killed them. Some of those who used you.”
“Sometimes while they were using me.” His lips twisted. “And afterward, that meant I fetched a higher price.”
Because the danger meant excitement. The thrill of restraining something so strong, and then to take him. Yes. She could see why it would fetch a high price. And she saw more.
“And so now, you don’t force women.” Something was growing in her chest, light and airy, leaving her almost giddy. “And if Hunt had sold Andrew, you wouldn’t have left him to that. You’d have found him even if he wasn’t on the Terror.”
“Along with any other boy sold off my ship.” His fingers tightened on her hips. “But don’t be mistaken, Mina. I don’t crusade on principles. I just protect what’s mine. They were on the Terror, so they’re mine. And when I found Andrew, I wanted your gratitude.”
“I will be grateful. But I’m not doing this for that. This is for me.”
His eyes challenged her. “You aren’t doing much of it.”
Smiling, she kissed him again. The warm breeze slipped around them, tangling her hair, catching the collar of his shirt, and cooled the perspiration on her face, her neck. Tugging at his shirt, she smoothed her hands beneath. His abdomen contracted beneath her fingers, and she slipped up over hardened muscle and crisp hair. He stiffened when her fingers brushed the small hardened nubs on his chest.
She froze. “It still hurts?”
“No.”
Good. The memory of his head at her breast made her ache. She’d lick him, too. “The same as mine?”
“I like it. But they’re not the same.”
Oh. “I loved your mouth on mine.”
Stark hunger scraped across his features. “Then let me taste you again.”
Suddenly trembling, she lifted to his mouth and pulled down her neckline, baring one breast. Slowly, softly, he circled the hardened peak with his tongue before drawing her into his mouth. Her fingers dug into his hair. With a groan, he shifted his body down, and instead of straddling his thighs, her legs were spread over his hips. He pressed her down until his erection formed a thick pressure against her burning core.
She rocked against him and had to bite her lip, stifling the need to whimper, to cry out. Aching, needing him inside her, she kissed him deep—and then lifted herself again, up and down, rubbing that hard ridge against her sex. His face darkened, cheekbones flushed. His ragged breaths urged her on, his hands on her hips helping her move.
And it was too much for her. Too much. Need that had been building slowly began a rapid, uncontrollable rise. Gasping, Mina scooted back down his thighs and cut off his groan of denial with a kiss. Her lips explored his mouth, his jaw. Her hands traveled down the muscled planes of his chest to his stomach, until she found the edge of his breeches. Her cheeks heated. The material stretched over his cock was soaked with her need.
So wet. And he’d barely touched her, yet she wanted and ached. She’d been afraid that as soon as he touched her, she’d lose control. But she’d lose control without it.
She wondered if he would, too. Her fingers moved to the front placket of his breeches.
He caught her hands at the first button. “Mina. This is for you.”
“It was too much. So just . . . let me.” She stilled. “Unless you don’t like it?”
With a short laugh, he pushed his erection against her hand.
“Then let me.”
He released her, fisting his hands beside her knees, his gaze fixed on the shadows between them as her fingers unfastened his breeches and loosened the tie of his drawers. Though barely able to see, Mina could feel. Hot, hard—and so thick that her fingertips didn’t meet when she closed her hand around him.
At her touch, his breath hissed through his teeth. At her first stroke, he jerked upward, thrusting through her grip. Marveling at his reaction, she fisted him in both hands and pumped his length again.
“Mina. God!”
His head fell back against the rail, the tendons in his neck straining. Impulsively, she leaned forward and put her mouth to his throat, sucking and licking. He jerked again, and her palm slipped over the wet tip of him, a slick drop that eased her way back down. A harsh sound came from his chest. He bucked, and she realized the moisture had done it, made the sensation that much better. There wasn’t enough.
“Help me.” She panted against his neck. “Help me make you wet.”
His chest heaving, he brought her hands to his mouth and licked a wet stripe up the center of each palm, through the sensitive crease between her middle fingers. She shivered.
“I was wrong, Mina.” His gaze burned into hers as he lowered her hands to his cock again. “You couldn’t punish me with restraints. Only if you stop.”
He’d already paid when she’d shot him. He’d paid with his horror when he’d realized what he’d done, with his regret and apology. He didn’t need to pay more now.
She closed her fingers around him—and the moisture was soon gone. He reached for her hands again, but her body was wet. So wet. Shifting forward, she rocked her sex against him.
He choked back a guttural moan. Heart racing, Mina grabbed onto the gunwale and held on as she rode over his thick length, each long stroke tying the knot burning at the apex of her sex tighter and tighter, every thrust through her slick folds digging a deeper ache within her. Need and panic began screaming together, but she wanted to see him to the end, wanted to see him when he came apart. Wanted to see what it was to come without fear.
His hands suddenly grasped her hips, forcing her to stop. His muscles turned to steel and he shook beneath her, and she felt the pulsing of his heavy flesh, the spurt against her belly. Gasping, she remained still, watching as the orgasm contorted his features, looking so much like pain but it was ecstasy, pleasure—and her own so strong that she poised at the precipice, where a tiny movement would tip over into terror, and she’d shatter.
Then his was done, his body unlocking, his muscles no longer so rigid. A tremor ripped through her when he sank back against the side of the ship. He opened his eyes—and froze, staring up into her face. “Mina?”
She had to answer. She whispered, “That’s all I can do.”
“Mina, God.” The tightening of his hands on her hips made her whimper. He stilled again. “You’re so close. Do it yourself. Your fingers, like my tongue.”
Trembling, she shook her head.
He held her, not moving, waiting until her need eased and he could bring her in to lie against his chest. Then longer, until she yawned against his neck.
“To bed, Mina,” he said softly.
“And you?”
“I have to stay until dawn. Let me come to you then. To lay with you.”
“To take advantage of me when I wake up?”
“No.” She felt his smile against her hair. “I’ll begin when you’re asleep.”
Rhys hesitated at the side of her bed. Mina lay in the center of the white sheets, the thin nightshirt twisted around her legs, a sheen of perspiration on her skin. He’d disturb her when he lay down—heavy as he was, a sagging mattress was a given, but he’d broken more than one bed. And if he woke her, anxiety might keep her from sleeping again. Even though she’d agreed to share his bed until they returned to London, this was still new.
To him, too. But he was already certain the airship and the Terror wouldn’t be enough. Why had she trusted him when he’d said they would be? She knew he was a pirate, and a liar—but perhaps she truly believed that he’d be done with her before they reached London. Perhaps it was what she wanted.
He’d wait until he’d had her. Then she’d learn differently.
The engines started, shattering the silence that had lasted through the night. Mina stirred. Her eyes opened and widened at his appearance. He searched her face for fear when she realized that he only wore his drawers. He didn’t see any.
All right. The bed creaked as he got in. She rolled toward him with a startled laugh, coming to a rest against his side. He lifted her over him, tucking his arm around her waist. Christ, she was a small thing. Her shoulders were barely the width of half of his chest. He could feel her toes at his shins, and the top of her head tucked beneath his chin.
The fingers of her right hand skimmed over his pectoral, as if hesitant to touch him, testing his reaction. He lay still, and finally her hand rested against him.
Sleepily, she said, “I hate that blasted engine.”
Rhys did, too. He preferred the quiet of the Terror—though he didn’t know if she’d find it quiet. There was always creaking, the cawing of the seabirds, the roar of the waves, the voices and footsteps of the crew.
“London is loud,” he said.
“But with different noises. Not just one. I thought one would be easier to ignore, but it just becomes louder and louder. It becomes everything.”
It struck him that he’d thought that his first time on an airship, too—that the engine would drive him mad. Then a few days later, he didn’t notice it anymore. “It’ll be better soon. The heat, too.”
He felt her nod. Then she said, “It will soon be too hot to sleep like this.”
“Do you care?” He didn’t.
She seemed to think it over. “No.”
Good. He closed his eyes.
When Rhys woke up, she was sitting cross-legged at the head of the bed, watching him. The cotton nightshirt stretched over her knees, blocking his view between her legs. So he’d have to get under there. But first, he wanted to look some more.
Her black hair fell smoothly from the part at the center of her head, framing her round face. A damned pretty face, he realized with some surprise. Driven by his need to possess her, he hadn’t thought much about how her features came together—he’d already liked all of them. But now, with his need still urgent but soothed by the promise of soon having her, he could truly see her. And she wasn’t just pretty. Her face contained everything. Her features could be soft and hard, cool and hot. They gave him her laughter and anger, insight and confusion.
Now, she was studying him with her keen inspector’s gaze, patient and razor-sharp, as if she was preparing to peel him apart.
All right. But only if he could peel away something from her in trade.
Rhys turned onto his side. “Take off your nightgown,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“Because you have small tits and big nipples.” Both the perfect size for his mouth. “I want them now.”
She still hadn’t recovered from her confusion and surprise. She glanced at the sun streaming through the portholes. “Now? But—”
In a quick movement, he rolled over onto his stomach, his elbows alongside her knees, his palms cupping her hips. All he had to do was shove her nightshirt up and lower his head, and he could bury his face in the crevice of her thighs. Her fragrance penetrated the cotton, warm and earthy, the musk of sweat and woman. His cock ached. To take the edge off, he rocked his hips into the mattress.
“You’re about to interrogate me. I’ll answer. But I intend to suck on your nipples while I do.” His gaze dropped. “And when you’re done, I’ll spread your legs and fuck you with my tongue.”
“Oh, blue.” On a gasp, she twisted away. He caught her knee with his right hand and ran his left up the inside of her thigh. She quivered and looked back over her shoulder.
His fingers found moisture, heat. She wasn’t wet. Not yet. He slipped through her folds and circled her clit.
Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Her head bowed. “Stop that.”
He didn’t. The little bud was swelling beneath his fingertips, stiff and slick. “Because there’s daylight outside? Because it’s difficult to interrogate me like this? Or because you’re afraid?”
He’d stop for the last. Only for the last.
“Because I can’t think.”
Good. He dragged her beneath him and onto her back. Her nightgown rode up on her waist. She was naked beneath. He came down between her parted thighs, his weight on his elbows, pinning her hips with his. Letting her feel him through his drawers. She was hot now—and so wet, soaking the linen through to his cock.
“Ask what you want to know,” he said, lifting his hand to his mouth. Her lips parted in shock as he licked her flavor from his fingers.
“I—he—Scarsdale.” She closed her eyes. Her throat worked, and she continued with slow deliberation, “Scarsdale said that Hunt threw a zombie off an airship onto the Terror and it bit you.”
“It did.” He angled his forearm until she could see the scar. “A big chunk.”
And the feel of her beneath him was doing a lot to keep that memory at bay. But not for her. Horror had filled her eyes, as if she was imagining it. And still not understanding.
“But how—?”
“Am I still alive?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Her brow furrowed when she frowned up at him. Rhys kissed the frown away, but had to admit he wouldn’t last long like this. And she seemed determined.
So he’d let the lady have her way.
He rolled over and off the bed, glad he’d visited the privy before he’d fallen asleep and had no need for it now. His erection was so hard, he’d either break his cock bending it the right direction or piss in his own face.
The cabin girls had already been in. Coffee, grapes, and melon waited on the small table, along with bowls of the yogurt and honey that Yasmeen favored. Aviators were lucky bastards. Traveling short routes and stopping often enough, they could load up on fresh food and supplies as needed. Never down to hardtack and picking worms out of it.
Coffee in hand, Rhys glanced around at Mina. Her gaze wasn’t on his face, but fixed somewhere on his chest and stomach, and hungry—as if she wanted to take a bite of him, too. He resisted the urge to find a breeches and shirt. If she liked it, he’d let her look.
Though he sure as hell couldn’t understand it, any more than he understood Scarsdale, or what any woman saw in a man when he was all but naked. In the Market, they’d tried to keep him shaved and oiled up after he reached puberty. Probably for good reason. Twenty years later, he was nothing but hair. Hairy chest. Hairy legs. A jaw that was rough five hours after he scraped a razor over it. But even with all the hair gone, there were just harsh angles and rough muscle. Hands coarse and callused. The jut of his cock against his drawers was ridiculous, and uncovered, was nothing but a blunt ugly tool. But Mina . . . God, look at her. Even on the thin side, she was soft and curvy, with every part of her made to fit his hands, his mouth.
But still thin. Frowning, he glanced down at the plate. There was enough here for two, but he knew himself well enough that he could polish this off without a second thought. And so would she. At dinner, she ate with concentration, and though she never asked for seconds, she never left a crumb, either.
He did that, too. He had too many memories of plates that weren’t full to waste what was put in front of him. He pulled out a chair. “Get over here and eat this with me.”
She did. Unable to turn down a meal, even when he ordered her around like a sailor. Christ, that twisted at him. She pulled her blue wrap on over the nightshirt and sat. Taking her coffee, she said, “You must have some idea why you survived.”
“My bugs are different.”
He said it without thinking, and immediately wished he hadn’t. He might run her off before they reached the Ivory Market tonight. Of course, as quick as her mind was, she might have already figured it out. He didn’t see any surprise on her face. Instead, she popped a grape into her mouth and arched her brows, waiting for him to continue.
“But I don’t know if that’s why. Might have been that I shoved my arm in a boiling pot right after. Maybe that killed the diseased ones.” And had hurt enough, had felt like it’d almost killed him. “I might just be that lucky. Whatever the reason, I’m not looking to get bit again.”
“Animals don’t become zombies.”
His lips quirked. “I’m not an animal.”
Though some would say he wasn’t entirely human, either—even less human than other buggers. Hell, if they knew it, some buggers would think so, too.
“I didn’t mean—Just that ratcatchers . . .” She flushed a little and pressed her lips together. “The Horde tried to control them with the tower, too. To lock them down, to freeze their bugs. They couldn’t. The first ones, the ones they made, yes. But not the second generation.”
So she had figured it out. “They must have used the wrong frequencies,” he said.
She stared at him. Maybe searching out the differences. Carefully, she said, “Were your parents born with their nanoagents, too?”
“I don’t know. I doubt it. There was a Frenzy nine months before I was taken to the crèche.”
“So they must have been affected by the towers,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“And if you have children?”
“I wouldn’t know. And I don’t know if I ever will.” That depended on whether she’d want to have children off a man who’d been born with iron bones and bugs that hadn’t replicated, but had become something new. And he wouldn’t ask her now. He’d wait until they returned to London—but since he’d be sharing Mina’s bed before that, he realized he ought to tell her, “I’ll use a sheath when I’m inside you.”
He watched her reaction, but he didn’t see the relief he expected. He saw understanding, instead.
With a sad little twist of her lips, she looked down at her plate. “I don’t know if I will, either,” she said quietly. “I’d like to. But my children would be . . . It would be difficult for them. And I don’t know if I could watch it happen.”
He frowned at the top of her head. The reasons for her uncertainty weren’t anything like his. And by God—she must be thinking of children that came from another man. No child of theirs would be left unprotected, any more than he’d allow her to be hurt. But reassuring her meant asking her now to bear his children.
After her confession, however, he had no doubt that they’d raise children, even if they weren’t from his seed. Blood didn’t matter to him. What Rhys called his was his, and Mina wanted to be a mother—so he’d make certain she was, in one way or another.
“There are always children in the crèches.”
Her head jerked up. She stared at him, her face slowly brightening. A smile broke from her, then a wondering half laugh. “Yes. I don’t know why I didn’t—Yes. That would be the perfect solution.”
Good. He didn’t know a thing about families, but he’d damn well get theirs right.
Her gaze unfocused, and she continued eating with a soft expression on her face. Perhaps thinking of future children. But it wasn’t long before her attention returned to him, and that keen look entered her eyes.
“So you didn’t know that the zombie’s bite wouldn’t kill you.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“And thought you were dead. So you loaded up the Terror with explosives and made a run for the tower.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
That was a big question for such a little word. But boiled down, the answer was simple enough. “Dying pissed me off. Worse, that I’d come back a zombie.”
“So you struck at the Horde for making them?”
He nodded. “I couldn’t get to Hunt. So I got to the tower. And they had so few guards, the Horde might as well have invited me in.”
“Because the radio signal wouldn’t let the rest of us come near it.” She was staring at him, her brows slightly pinched together. Still not satisfied with his answer, he realized, even before she said, “And that’s it? It wasn’t because you wanted to destroy every government, every institution?—And why did you want that?”
For the same reason. “Because I was pissed off.”
She looked baffled. “At what?”
“At how fucking useless they all were.” He frowned back at her. “Why weren’t you pissed off?”
She blinked. Her shock melted into wry humor. “The Horde wouldn’t let us become that angry.”
That was true enough. But that wasn’t what he meant. “No. I’m talking about afterward. I strolled into that tower with a few members of my crew who weren’t infected with bugs, and brought the damn thing down. And for two hundred years, Manhattan City was full of men without a nanoagent between them. The navy was, too. They ought to have been saving you. All bloody fucking cowards.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Anger, yes. But resignation, too. “One: They thought we weren’t worth saving. Two: Bugs and the Horde terrify them. Three: They thought they couldn’t defeat the Horde. Did you know you’d be able to stroll in? When you served on Baxter’s ship, did you tell him he ought to sail up the Thames so that you could walk in? Did you know one tower would affect so much?”
He clenched his jaw, but had to admit, “No.”
“Was Baxter a coward? Was he useless?”
His inspector was ruthless. Evenly, he said, “Not a coward. But useless? Yes. Before that tower came down, yes. All of them were. The Khan, who can’t stop his dargas from earning extra money on the side by selling eight-year-old boys to the skin trade. The Lusitanian parliament that forbids buggers from crossing their borders, but won’t stop the mines from bringing in slave ships full of men with pulverizing hammers and drills grafted to their bodies. I could spend an hour naming them. From the moment I was chained on a ship heading to the Ivory Market, I began making lists of every government and institution that was useless or run by hypocrites, and by the time I killed Adams and took the Terror, the whole fucking world was going to pay.”
She regarded him quietly. He tried to read her expression, but she’d retreated into that penetrating, inscrutable look. Christ. He didn’t know what she thought of that. He couldn’t change his past, wouldn’t be ashamed of it, didn’t need to defend it. And he couldn’t regret anything he’d done. But her opinion mattered.
After a long moment, she only observed, “You were angry.”
“Ah, well.” He shrugged. “I was young. And then I grew out of it.”
“The revolution?”
“Yes. I’ve seen worse in my time. But I hadn’t been the one to do it. And I’d never been so careless that I destroyed more than I intended.”
“We aren’t sorry.”
“I know.” He smiled slightly. “But all of the English are mad.”
Her eyes lit with laughter. “That, from a Welshman?”
“Born in Caerwys doesn’t make me Welsh.”
His inspector appeared ready to argue before she shook her head. “What does it make you?”
“What would you say?”
Her lips pursed. “You sound like a sailor: French, Lusitanian, and a dockworker all combined. And a bit of a bounder in there, too.”
Someone who didn’t quite belong anywhere, except for a ship. He nodded. “That’s about right.”
“Even with the title? That ties you to both England and Wales.”
“Yes. But that’s something else.”
“Paying for the revolution?”
So she remembered their conversation up on deck two nights before, even though she’d been three sheets to the wind. “Yes,” he said. “And I’ve Baxter to thank for it.”
“Not the king or his council?”
She didn’t let up. Holding back his laugh, Rhys finished his coffee. He usually didn’t like interrupting eating with talking, but he was enjoying the hell out of breakfast with the inspector. Her every response fascinated him, the challenge of trying to predict her next question and the direction her thoughts would take. He could easily imagine beginning every day like this—and ending them the same way, too. Maybe even reading newssheets, just to hear her reaction to every report.
But she was waiting to hear his answer. “The title meant nothing to me, except that it represented something that I’d hated for almost twenty years. And I’d have left—until Baxter told me what it meant. I had people and holdings to take care of, and they were mine now.”
“And you protect what’s yours,” she murmured. “But how is that paying?”
“That’s not paying anything. That’s what I do. But a duke?” He shook his head. “Baxter said it was what I deserved, though. For my arrogance, for my recklessness, for my selfish anarchism.”
“His words?”
Rhys had to laugh. “His words, yes. But he wasn’t wrong. So I agreed to pay, to take on a duke’s responsibilities, and to build what I could.”
“And?”
“And it’s not any different than captaining a ship.”
She narrowed her eyes and slowly repeated, “ ‘Not any different than captaining a ship?’ ”
“Yes. Instead of a crew I have staff, tenants, my docks, shipping fleets . . .” Too much to name now, especially when he could feel her temper rising. Hoping to push it higher, to see if she’d reveal what had sparked it, he summed up with, “Basically, a much bigger ship. And I take care of it.”
“A big ship.” Sitting back, she stared at him in disbelief. “And your duty is only to the people on that ship?”
He frowned. Her tone suggested he’d shirked his responsibilities, hadn’t taken on enough. “It’s a good number of people.”
“But your duty isn’t just to your people.”
“Who, then?”
“All of us. Oh, I know—” She waved carelessly in the air, as if brushing away an imagined response. “You don’t care. You haven’t cared for anyone but those you call yours from the day of the tower. Fine, then. You don’t do it for that reason. You do it because if you take care of everyone, that will keep your people happy and safe. You think a title and a seat in Parliament is just duty for my father? Everything he does, every letter he writes, is so that we’ll be safe and happy. Because that can only happen when the people around us are taken care of, too—whether they are his tenants or his staff or not.”
He’d never thought her an idealist. And she far overestimated the scope of his power. “No matter what I do, life can never be perfect for everyone.”
“No. But it can be better.” She sat back. “There’s a rope factory in Leeds where the owners decided to cut wages. They said the buggers put in less effort, because they’re stronger than men who aren’t infected—and because the Horde installed more efficient machines than in New World roperies. And the buggers were barely getting by before, but they can’t find a position anywhere else, so they’ve no choice but to stay, working twice as long for half the money. What do you think of that?”
He thought the ropery owner was full of shit. And she might have been pleased to know that it sparked anger in his chest. But he wanted to push hers and see where she took it. “It sounds like the buggers should hang the fucking owner.”
Her eyes flashed. “And then see all of them killed? Other factory owners—bounders and buggers—are making the same wage cuts, citing the same reasons. It’s disgusting. And I’ll tell you why you should care. Those goods you’re shipping in? The buggers can’t buy them. You make less money. And the people on your lands? The buggers can’t buy anything they produce. And yet your ships are paying the same amount for rope that costs half the price to make, with all of the profit going into the pockets of some bastard who won’t pay his people. And the buggers are tired, and hungry, and they’ll make mistakes while they’re producing your rope, and you’ll lose a sail, or a ship, and a significant amount of money when your cargo sinks. And before long, all of England falls again because a factory owner wouldn’t pay his workers what they deserve.”
Rhys stared at her. She was brilliant. Magnificent. But he wasn’t yet certain what she was getting at. “What are you asking me to do?”
“That’s your duty! To take care of the people. To take care of all of us. You’ve got a voice big enough for the White Chamber. Yet you sit in your house counting your money and your fleets and your tenants.”
So that was it. Parliament. “I hire people to count the money for me,” he said. “And I’ll be in the White Chamber come the session following the election.”
She blinked. “What?”
With a grin, he lifted her out of her chair, carrying her against his chest. “That was my agreement with the Lord Regents. To bring you with me without force, without affecting your career, and without ruining you, I agreed that I’d take my seat.”
Her lips parted. He wasn’t sure what shocked her more: his agreement, or why. He laid her on the bed.
As the mattress sagged under his weight, she narrowed her eyes at him. “You aren’t Free Party, are you?”
“No. I lean toward Lug. Now take off your nightgown. I plan to finish my meal.”
Though her cheeks flushed and her breath shuddered, she bit her lip, as if uncertain.
“I won’t shag you. Not today. I didn’t bring a sheath in with me, and I’m not leaving this cabin until we reach the Ivory Market tonight.” He pushed her hair back over her shoulder, and leaned in to press his lips there. “But I’ll try to make you come, Mina. I’ll stop when there’s too much fear—but then I’ll try again. And I’ll keep trying until you can need without thinking of the Frenzy. Even if it takes all day. Even if it takes several weeks. Because I don’t want you afraid when I’m finally inside you.”
“I don’t want to be afraid.” She hesitated. “Did it take you a long time . . . after the Ivory Market?”
“No. Because I didn’t want anyone. I didn’t even try. I pushed everything I had into the Terror.” His mouth stilled on her throat. With a wry grin, he lifted his head and looked down at her. “Perhaps that means it did take me a long time.”
She smiled faintly. “And since the Terror?”
Since the Terror? There’d been plenty of opportunities, but few he wanted to take. He hadn’t had many women—and he still hadn’t liked being touched. Every time, it hadn’t been about wanting them, but proving that the Ivory Market hadn’t broken him. When he’d simply wanted physical release, his imagination and his hand provided both.
But then came Mina, and the flare of lust that had burned through him when he’d taken her glove. He rarely felt anything like that . . . and never like the need that drove him now. Even his imaginings were better with Mina featured in them.
“I put everything I had into being a duke,” he finally told her. “Sitting in my manor house counting money takes a lot of effort.”
Her laugh was soft and easy, without a hint of fear. Good.
Because from this point, Rhys was putting everything he had into her.