Chapter Fifteen
Mina wasn’t killed, if only by virtue of there being too much work for both captains to waste time with her. She stood out of the way as zombies were thrown overboard, followed by Hunt’s belongings—and the captain’s bed. Heat bloomed through her cheeks as the mattress from the stateroom and her valise came into view on the cargo platform. And because she’d rather tell Andrew that she’d be sharing the Iron Duke’s bed than have him learn from a sailor, she limped across the quarterdeck to ask Rhys for her brother’s help unpacking her things and tidying up the captain’s cabin.
Without glancing away from the men climbing the rigging, he said, “If your brother helps, you’ll stir up trouble between him and the cabin boy.”
Oh. Yes, she supposed the men would be territorial in their duties. “Will you ask him to help me down the ladder, then—and perhaps write a letter to my mother, so that my family knows I’m shagging the captain?”
His gaze flew to her face, brows raised. Understanding and amusement flickered across his expression. “I see. Take him down, then, and tell him.”
“Thank you.”
He looked her over. “Do you need one of Yasmeen’s cabin girls?”
“Yes.” Her clothes were soaked through, and without help, she wasn’t certain whether yanking off her remaining boot would be possible. “This one time. I ought to be all right on my own once I’m dry. Do I have your permission to look through Haynes’s logs? Perhaps I’ll find information regarding his journey and when the Terror was taken.”
He nodded. “And that is what your brother will help you do—sort through the logs and find the relevant cylinders. Until your knee heals, you only sit.”
Which suited Mina perfectly well. After Yasmeen’s girl was done with her, she’d have happily curled up on the bed and slept the afternoon away, but she sat at the captain’s desk instead. A large phonograph had been fastened to the mahogany surface, its tulip-shaped mouthpiece bent to accommodate the height of the captain who should have been sitting in Mina’s chair. Andrew joined her, carrying a collection of wax cylinders that the cabin boy had found scattered about the decks. He dragged up a chair from the table, his thin face solemn and worried.
Bending his head close to hers, he spoke quietly. “Is this what you had to pay to come for me?”
“No.” Mina saw that he wasn’t convinced. “Coming for you gave me this opportunity. I couldn’t have had it anywhere else—and it won’t continue after I return to London,” she added, to be certain that he didn’t form any expectations about his sister and the Iron Duke.
His pale concern gave way to pink cheeks. “Do you expect me to bend prude?”
“No. I wanted to prepare you. The talk amongst the crew might be difficult to hear. Your sister is the captain’s jade wh—”
“Don’t.” He sat back. “You saved us, Mina. The crew is ready to kiss your feet if you let them.” His grin pushed little apples into his thin cheeks. “In truth, they might confront the captain for not continuing with you after London, because they wouldn’t understand why.”
But Andrew did. And it was a stab through her heart that at only fourteen, he understood why she couldn’t be with the duke, knew the cost of her blood. He’d paid it in small ways before. He’d have been paying it now if she hadn’t slain the kraken. Perhaps only sly digs at first, but continuing and growing bolder with each day, and whether he fought them or ignored them, there would have been no winning.
He was watching her face. “Do you wish you could?”
“Don’t ask me.” Her throat suddenly tight, she shook her head. “That was never a part of it.”
“So you’ll be giving it up.” With a sigh, he looked out the cabin’s windows, to the blue sea and sky beyond. “I think I know.”
Perhaps he did. At fourteen, she hadn’t felt deeply. But without the Horde’s control, Andrew would. The sea might very well seem to encompass all of his heart.
She pushed away her troubles and focused on him. His flat midshipman’s hat and blue uniform coat fit him well, but still managed to look oversized on his gangly frame. He’d tanned in the past few months, and freckles had popped out across the bridge of his nose. She would tease him about them later.
Retrieving one of the wax cylinders, she glanced at the end for the date. Too early. “Do you like it, then?”
“Yes. Though it’s difficult proving that I’m not aboard just because I’m the son of an earl.”
“You are aboard because you’re the son of an earl.”
He took offense. His brows rose and temper flushed his skin. But being Andrew, it quickly dissolved into acknowledgement and humor. “That’s how I secured the position. But I have to work twice as hard for the men to think me worthy of it.”
“And by the time you become a lieutenant or captain, they’ll think twice as much of you. They’ll know you aren’t here because of your father, but that you’ve earned it. And they’ll trust you.” She cast him a wry look. “Of course, you’ll have to earn it again with every new ship and crew.”
His tortured groan made her laugh. Picking up another cylinder, she nodded to the phonograph barrel drum and mouthpiece. “This is set up to record. We will need it to play the acoustics on these cylinders, instead.”
Andrew bent over the machine to make the adjustments. “Did you work twice as hard for Hale?”
“Twice as hard? I’m a woman and Horde-blooded, to boot. So double that again.” And she ought to be working a little more now. “What happened when the Dame took the Terror?”
He told her, giving her almost the same story that the boys held for ransom had, except most of the Terror’s crew had been put in the hold during the demonstration. She looked up from the cylinders when he described the crew who’d remained above contracting bug fever—and all of them dying from it—while the others only suffered minor symptoms. Nor had they felt a thump through their chests, but something that Andrew described as a pressure in his ears, quickly gone.
Protected, Mina thought. Whether because they’d been beneath the waterline or surrounded by steel in the hold, she didn’t know—but the weapon hadn’t hit them as hard.
He hesitated before adding, “They had people watching from Bontemps. We saw them before we were taken down into the hold.”
The potential buyers watching the demonstration. Mina nodded. “Yes.”
“I knew one of them—Hale’s airship man, the one who builds the big dreadnoughts for the navy. Sheffield.”
Sheffield? No. Mina’s heart stuttered. She was convinced that the industrialist loved Superintendent Hale. Surely he wouldn’t betray her. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t want to believe it. Her first instinct was to name it impossible—she’d seen him the night Haynes had been dropped onto Rhys’s steps, and he’d just returned by airship from Manhattan City. But that might have been a lie; he could have just come from the demonstration on the Gold Coast. And although his presence in London meant that Sheffield couldn’t have attended the auction, a member of the Black Guard could have acted as his proxy in the Ivory Market.
And he hadn’t known that it was Haynes’s murder she’d been investigating that night—but had he been with Hale when she’d received Mina’s wiregram updates, identifying the captain? Had he been the one to contact the assassin in Chatham, and to tell Dorchester that Haynes’s bugs had been destroyed? Through his dreadnought contracts with the Royal Navy, the man had connections with the Admiralty, and if he was Black Guard, reason to hide news of the auction until it was too late for everyone in England.
Sickness roiled in her gut. It wasn’t too late to catch Endeavour and stop the weapon, but they were still four weeks out from England. Four weeks until she could warn Hale. Four weeks for Sheffield to escape back to Manhattan City.
Lady Corsair, however, would collect Fox from Venice and return to Chatham in a little more than a fortnight. Mina could leave for England with the aviators . . . though that would cut her time with Rhys short. Would a message to Hale suffice?
Mina knew it wouldn’t. Sickness became a deep ache.
Pumping his foot against the treadle, Andrew began winding the phonograph’s clockwork drive. “It should be—” The grating of gears cut him off. Brows drawn, he peered into the base of the phonograph. “Ah, blast. The turnstile mechanism has been bumped out of alignment.”
Probably while Hunt had been throwing off his clothes and knocking things about the cabin. “Can you fix it?”
Like their mother, Andrew was mechanically inclined. Mina would just make the problem worse. He hesitated before nodding slowly. “I’ll need access to the machine room.”
Oh. “I’ll ask the captain to tell you to fix it.”
“Yes.”
And too many special projects and assignments might be interpreted as the captain’s favoritism. For any other boy, that might have been something to embrace. Not for an earl’s son who was trying to fit in with the other midshipmen. “I don’t suppose we’ll be able to meet like this often.”
“No. If I was already a lieutenant . . .” With a shrug, he sighed. “I’m not.”
“It’s all right.” She understood.
Perhaps too well.
In ten days, the Dame and Hunt had made Rhys’s return to the Terror’s decks as difficult as possible without actually destroying the crew or the ship. The navy’s food stores had been sold in the Ivory Market and replaced with rat-infested shit. Though Rhys had almost a full complement of seamen and warrant officers, the master and two of his senior mates had died of bug fever. With no lieutenants, that left no one who could be put in command of the ship during the night watches.
He left the wardroom and started for his cabin, wishing he could kill Hunt all over again. The food, he could replace quickly enough. All but one days’ worth of Yasmeen’s stores would be brought down to the Terror, and he’d send her north to the Ivory Market to replenish Lady Corsair’s hold and bring back enough for the Terror’s return to England.
And Scarsdale would have to take up a few of the watches. He’d trod the quarterdeck often enough to have a feel for it, and he’d know whether they strayed off course. Although the bounder was a damn fine navigator, however, Rhys wouldn’t be able to leave her in Scarsdale’s hands for long. The Terror needed more than someone pointing her in the right direction, but someone who knew the individual sails and lines, who understood the roles played by every member of her crew, who anticipated her response to every wave and breeze. To catch Endeavour, to carry them home, she had to be steady and strong . . . and Rhys couldn’t give her any less than he asked, though it would mean devoting less time to Mina than he wanted to.
And he hadn’t given the Terror as much as Mina almost had.
Christ. Even a zombie biting into his arm hadn’t matched the horror of watching her slide down that rope, harpoon in hand. And even that had been dwarfed by the sick terror of watching her drop into the water. He’d have traded every man and the ship for her life. He’d have traded his own. But he’d been helpless to make that offer—helpless to do anything but watch her fall.
Decades had passed since he’d felt anything close to helplessness. He didn’t like it any more now than he had then.
Before he reached his cabin, the boy—Andrew—came through the door into the passageway, eyes widening when he saw Rhys. Quickly, he lifted his hat in salute. “Sir.”
“Mr. Wentworth.”
His acknowledgement brought Andrew to a halt, waiting for an order. Rhys looked the boy over—the boy that Mina had risked everything to save. What hold did he have on her? Not just blood. Scarsdale hated his family. Yet something about this boy made her love him enough to jump from an airship. Rhys wanted that from her.
But he also wanted to strangle her for jumping, no matter that she’d saved them all. He would strangle her if she ever risked her life for him.
Blast it all. She’d made him helpless, irrational—and jealous of a boy.
A boy who was growing red and uncomfortable under his stare. Hell, no wonder. The uniforms might be all right farther north and south, but in the tropics they were ridiculous, hot, and constricting.
“This isn’t a navy ship, Mr. Wentworth. No need to salute or wear that uniform.”
“Yes, sir. I understand that we’re a pirate ship, now.”
His earnestness almost startled Rhys into laughter. What tales did these boys pass around? The reality of a pirate ship should have inspired dread, not excitement.
“No. She’s in my fleet, which makes her a merchant ship.”
The boy’s disappointment showed in the same twist of his mouth that Mina made. “Of course, sir.”
Rhys moved on down the passageway. “Don’t stomp on your hat too quickly, Mr. Wentworth. We’ll be back to England in four weeks. If your work and your lessons aren’t up to snuff, I’ll boot you off, and you’ll be looking for another ship in Chatham.”
“Yes, sir!” Andrew called after him. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Go on, then.”
Inside, Mina sat at his desk, arranging wax cylinders. Her hair was loose and dry. Still dripping, her wet coat and trousers had been hung over the front of the wardrobe. She’d changed into a blue frock, her ankles peeking out from beneath the skirt hem, her bare feet tucked neatly beneath the chair.
The image of her falling into the water flared behind his eyes again, her shock and fear as the boot gave way. He wanted to pick her up, hold her close. Afraid of crushing her, he walked to the windows and held on to rigid control, instead.
Outside, the sea was calm. The Terror would soon be cutting smoothly through those waters. “We’re about to weigh anchor. Do you want to come above decks to see her underway?”
“Yes. Thank you.” A reply as serene as the sea.
He watched a wavelet break at the crest, boiling over with white. “And you’ll never do anything like that fool stunt again.”
“Shooting a kraken in the eye? No, I can’t imagine that I’ll have reason to.”
He swung round. “No. Don’t risk your life again.”
She met his gaze squarely. “You must imagine that I’m someone else. I couldn’t stand by and do nothing while every man on this ship died.”
His jaw tightened. How could he tell her what not to be? She wasn’t part of his crew, to be ordered around. And he hadn’t been there to stop her, to protect her. Short of chaining her down, he had to accept this.
How could he accept it? When she risked her life, she stole his.
“And despite the zombies, you risked coming down to the ship.”
Rhys frowned. “That’s not the same.”
“How?”
“My ship. My responsibility.”
She couldn’t seem to dispute that. But she wasn’t done. “You sink, yet you dove over to catch me.”
“I had a rope.” Though he’d have gone over without one, if necessary.
“So did I, to begin,” she said, and her brows arched up while her mouth curved into a smile, and he was lost. Arguing with her became impossible.
“I lied on the airship,” he told her instead. “It won’t be enough, only having you until we return to England. I won’t tire of shagging you.”
His statement left her frozen, except that her smile fell and her eyes closed and she shook her head. He’d never seen any woman seem so still while offering a denial that moved every visible part of her.
And it rattled him, threatened to tear him loose from his moorings. He wanted to take her, to pin her down. To demand that she stay. But he steadied himself. She was in his cabin. She didn’t have to be. They’d found her brother, and now there was nothing Rhys possessed that might hold sway over her. She could have remained aboard Lady Corsair. No one would have forced her onto one ship or the other.
But she’d come here, though every man on his ship—six times Yasmeen’s crew—would know that he’d have her in his bed. And four weeks remained for him to convince her to stay there.
So he had time yet. The knowledge gave him some ease. And now his only need was to take away the tension that his declaration had left in her, the fear that had tightened her lips and stiffened her shoulders.
“All right,” he said with the calm that came with lies. “Then I’ll shag you often enough that it won’t be necessary. Shall we go up, then?”
Nodding, Mina stood. Her lips parted. Apparently realizing that nothing lay between the deck and her bare feet, she looked at the toes peeking out from beneath her hem as if she’d never seen them before.
“It won’t matter,” he told her. “Most of the crew goes barefoot. It gives better grip on the decks and the ropes.”
“Oh. Will that be necessary for me?”
Probably not. “I’ve asked Yasmeen to fetch you new boots from the Ivory Market,” he said.
She replied with a thank-you as she stepped forward, exposing all of her foot but the heel—but he could picture it clearly, tucked beneath the chair, the tough little mound that curved into a delicate arch. He could picture her heels digging into his back, into his ass.
In two long strides, he swept her up. She didn’t seem surprised, perhaps thinking that he was carrying her because of her bare feet or her injured knee, but when he steered toward the bed, she began laughing against his neck.
“Aren’t we weighing anchor?”
“We’ve still a few minutes.” A man starving, he rucked her skirts up to her waist. “Enough time for this.”
Four weeks never would be.
After the first day and night on the Terror, Mina didn’t wonder that he’d thought a month wouldn’t be enough. On the airship, they’d been able to spend a full day in bed. Here, stealing more than a few minutes during the day was all but impossible. Though the crew changed shifts several times, Rhys stood over them from before dawn until well after midnight. He broke to eat dinner with Mina and Scarsdale, but even then he worked, describing the upcoming stretches of water to the navigator, relaying what the crew needed to accomplish during their shifts, and poring over maps and ledgers.
His dedication was beyond admirable. And perhaps she shouldn’t have judged him so harshly for comparing the management of a dukedom to captaining a ship—one he considered a very big ship. If Rhys put even half the effort into his holdings and his shipping interests, he still worked harder, and his decisions affected more lives than any other peer she knew. Taking his seat in the White Chamber would add another heavy burden.
He’d had to know that. Yet he’d agree to take his seat in order to possess her. And now that he’d had her, he claimed that he’d be done with her in weeks.
Parliament seemed a lot to pay for so little—and if she’d learned one thing about the Iron Duke, it was that he always demanded equal return. So he’d probably lied about letting her go after they reached London.
Mina didn’t even let herself dream of staying with him. Whatever he intended, she only had the Terror.
So she spent almost all of her time above decks, standing in the salty spray and the heat, just to be with him. Each night she fell asleep before he came into the cabin, but eagerly turned to him when he arrived, clung to him. And each night he took her, every kiss heated and hungry, each caress seeming to draw out forever, as if he refused to let the day exact its toll before he’d had her. And Mina found herself needing every moment, painfully aware that four weeks simply weren’t enough.
And soon, she only had three.
Though the day was warm, a downpour forced Mina below decks. Oppressive gray clouds and the rain battering the boards over her head made the cabin seem smaller, isolated from the sounds of the ship. With some reluctance, she sat at the neglected phonograph. They’d been underway for a few days before Andrew had found the time to fix the recorder, and Mina had spent every spare minute with Rhys.
Both he and Scarsdale had known of Sheffield and his dreadnoughts better than they’d known the man, and so they’d had little to offer but impressions—and with Endeavour in front of them and Sheffield still weeks away, they’d spent little time discussing him.
Mina had tried to push thoughts of Sheffield away, but had still mentally composed her report to Hale hundreds of times, rephrasing and rewording in hopes of softening the blow of his betrayal.
If she’d listened to Haynes’s cylinders earlier, she wouldn’t have needed to expend all of that effort. In concise reports, the captain detailed his last days aboard the Terror.
And then, in a much longer recitation, his last morning.
The downpour had ended by the time Mina made her way back to the quarterdeck. The sky had already cleared to a deep blue, and the clouds formed a faint smudge to the east. The sun gleamed off the wet deck. She looked up at Rhys’s profile rather than squint against the glare.
“The Dame locked Haynes in his cabin before he was taken out in the boat for the demonstration,” she said. “He spent most of it at the phonographic recorder. Sheffield isn’t Black Guard. He’s the man who met Baxter in Port Fallow and told him about the auction.”
Rhys frowned and looked over the bow, his gaze unfocused as if he was reordering his thoughts. “Why in Port Fallow? That’s not Sheffield’s type of port.”
“I suspect that’s why they chose to meet there. Sheffield had Colbert’s invitation but didn’t plan to use it—until he was approached by the Black Guard, who hadn’t received one.”
“They probably heard about the weapon through their Horde resistance contacts,” he said softly. “So they blackmailed Sheffield? How?”
“Haynes didn’t say. What I know of Sheffield, however, I suspect they either threatened Hale or his purse.”
“His purse—His dreadnought contracts with the navy?”
“Yes.”
His gaze sharpened. “Anyone could threaten Hale. But for him to take the other seriously, it would have to be someone that actually could threaten those contracts.”
“And if it was someone with power in the Royal Navy, that would give him and Baxter reason to meet in secret.”
“Yes.” He studied her face. “You have more to tell me.”
“Sheffield came to the demonstration.” And although he might not have known that Haynes would die, he’d watched it happen—and hadn’t said a word of it after returning to London. So the Black Guard still had a hold over him. “But he wasn’t alone. Haynes recognized the man with him: Admiral Burnett, of the Gold Coast fleet.”
The edges of Rhys’s mouth whitened—with shock, dismay, or anger, she wasn’t certain. But she’d felt all of them when Haynes had first named the admiral.
“We’re chasing that fleet. Yasmeen’s scouting ahead to contact them now. He’s in command?”
“Yes.” With a deep breath, she said, “The fleet left the Ivory Market almost at the same time as Endeavour.”
“And a Black Guard admiral is protecting the weapon during the journey back to England. Christ.” His face was bleak, his laugh short and bitter. “While the weapon turns up in the hands of one of Dorchester’s admirals. Instead of firebombing us at the Dame’s fort, he should have been protecting England from his own men.”
“Not all of them,” Mina said. “It can’t be all of them.”
“No. Most will fire a cannon when an admiral tells them to, though. And I could take two ships, Mina. Maybe three. But a fleet will outgun me thirty cannons to one.”
But they still had to try. She gripped his sleeve. “It doesn’t have to be another suicide run.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, but the grim set of his mouth betrayed his doubt.
Lady Corsair didn’t slow as she approached the Terror later that afternoon. As the airship passed directly overhead, Yasmeen leapt into the rigging and slid down the ropes. To her back she’d strapped a leather tube containing rolled maps and diagrams. With Mina, Rhys, and Scarsdale gathered round, she spread them out on the captain’s table.
She bent over the first map, depicting Morocco’s coast. “Endeavour isn’t behind the fleet. She’s—”
“With the fleet,” Rhys said. “We know.”
Yasmeen’s brows arched at his interruption, and she stepped back. “Ah, well. Since you don’t need me, I’ll just—”
Scarsdale grinned and pulled her up to the table again. “Show us.”
Mina looked with amazement at the amount of information Lady Corsair had gathered. Not only maps, but the names of each ship and number of guns they carried, their heading and speed, the formation of the squadrons.
“The fleet contains twelve ships aside from Endeavour,” she said. “Plus two dreadnoughts, and a skyrunner. Six are ships of the line, with two fifth-rates. The rest are gun brigs and cutters. The firebomb squadron is at the center.”
Rhys nodded. “Where’s the admiral’s ship?”
“His flag is flying on a first-rate in the center squadron—one hundred and twenty eight guns on three decks. Endeavour is nearest him. And they’re slow enough, you can catch up to them in a week.”
“But when we do . . .” Scarsdale shook his head. “Christ.”
His jaw tight, Rhys stared hard at the formations, as if willing them to change on the paper.
Mina frowned at them. “Are you planning to attack the fleet? Why? You’re on an English ship—”
“No.”
She should have anticipated that response from the Iron Duke. A response that completely missed the point. “They consider it an English ship. Famously so. And you’re under order of King Edward’s regency council to investigate the matter of this weapon.”
Mina watched in amazement as all three blinked and looked at each other.
Blue heavens. “You’d forgotten?”
Rhys didn’t answer—or couldn’t. His hands braced on the table, he stood with his shoulders shaking and mouth compressed into a tight line.
Scarsdale began to laugh. “I believe the captain would say that it wasn’t forgotten, but that it never figured. He was never acting under the Crown’s power—only his own. That investigation bit with the council was just to allow you to come with us.”
“Well, then.” Flushing deep, Mina said, “Run up your flags . . . or whatever it is that sailors do.”
Regaining control, Rhys straightened and studied the fleet’s formations again. “Burnett might suspect that he’s caught when he sees the Terror. If he follows the Black Guard’s pattern, he’ll kill as many of us as possible before committing suicide. And this time, he has a first-rate ship as his weapon . . . and a fleet behind him.”
“It’s bad sport for a ship of the line to fire on a frigate like the Terror,” Scarsdale said. “He won’t do it; he’ll lose too much face.”
Yasmeen gave him a doubtful look. “And you’re certain he’ll care about that?”
“If it looks like he’s moving in to attack, we’ll strike colors and run up the white flag.” Rhys tapped his forefinger against the diagram. “But hopefully we’ll avoid him by signaling to this rear squadron first. Which is the commanding ship?”
Yasmeen pointed. “A second-rate, Bellerophon, was flying a rear admiral’s flag.”
“All right. Gather the crew. See if any of them have served under Burnett or in Bellerophon. I want to know what sort of ships they run.”
And if all went well, the admiral wouldn’t overreact when he saw them. But there was one other ship that needed to be accounted for. The Black Guard committed suicide rather than allowing themselves to be caught. No doubt they’d take as many others as possible along with them.
“What if Endeavour sees us coming, and fires up before we contact the fleet?” Mina asked.
“Then we fire on her, and take our chances against the fleet’s guns.” Rhys met her eyes. “That weapon can kill every nanoagent within two hundred miles. If it detonates, we’re all dead anyway.”
Never would Rhys have imagined that he’d soon resent his ship. But as another week passed and the Terror’s demands prevented him from lying with Mina every night, his frustration mounted. She remained at his side throughout the day, but her nearness only increased his need. Finally he ordered Scarsdale to begin taking his meals with the warrant officers and sat with her alone, waiting until she’d eaten her meal before tossing her onto the bed and finishing his own. Afterward, she joined him again at the beginning of first watch, standing with him on the quarterdeck in her coat and trousers, the lanterns casting a soft glow over her features.
They would meet with the fleet tomorrow. A thousand times, Rhys considered whether to order her aboard Yasmeen’s ship, but if they fell under attack, Lady Corsair wouldn’t be any safer than the Terror. And he wanted Mina where she’d been the past two weeks—by his side. For almost a decade, he’d commanded this ship alone. Now he could hardly imagine standing on this deck without her.
He’d put half again the number of crew on each watch, and they were still hurrying about, readying the ship, checking every weapon. She observed them quietly.
“It’s more work than I ever imagined.” She glanced at him. “And you’re tired.”
To his bones. But there was work, and it had to be done. “Does that matter?”
“I suppose not.” With a sigh that he’d begun to recognize was her signal that she’d soon be heading to bed, she said, “Tonight, when you come to the cabin . . . just sleep.”
“I can’t. I have to shag you,” he said baldly.
Even by gaslight, he could detect the pink in her cheeks, and her sudden resolve. “Then I’ll take you. You rest.”
And long after midnight, she did, pushing him onto his back and climbing over him—but there was no rest. With her lips, she explored, and wrecked him with the heat of her mouth and the stroke of her tongue. She kissed him into desperate need, until they were both rigid and panting. And when her fingers smoothed the sheath over his cock, when her thighs parted over him, when she took him deep into her wet passage, the tightness and the friction held him in a mad grip. Insensate with pleasure, but not resting, no—she moved upon him, and he met her with heavy upward thrusts, seeking oblivion within her hot depths. But there was only exquisite awareness, of her every sigh and gasp as she rode him. Of the warmth and softness of her hands and mouth. Of Mina taking him all, kissing, biting, and losing control as he finally came deep inside her. Stiffening, she breathed his name on a shudder, then again on a hoarse cry.
Rhys. He was to no one else. Only her. Whereas she was Mina to many, and inspector to more.
But no matter what name she went by, she was his. With her cheek pillowed on his chest, Rhys held her. He said into the dark, “Another fortnight won’t be enough.”
Aside from a hitch in her breath, only silence answered him. And after a long moment, the shake of her head.
“It has to be.”