Heart of Iron

She felt his gaze long before she saw him.



A tingle on her skin.



The faint, earthy anticipation of her body recognizing danger—even as it thrilled at it.



Will.



Breath catching, her fingers tightening on the fan, she looked down. Blind spots danced in her vision but she hunted for him. The crowd didn’t matter. Nor the approaching ships. Not even Colchester.



She’d been in a state of agitation all day, unable to settle. Unable to do more than toy with her food or read a paragraph of the Times. His words kept playing through her mind. Then we’ll see if your words are worth anythin’.



Lena shivered. She could feel him watching her.



Murmurs started behind her. The crowd shifting. A prickle at the back of her neck. As she turned, fanning at herself in agitation, the crowd parted, skirts swishing out of the way like the Red Sea. For a moment she couldn’t see him. Only a man dressed in crisp black, who stepped into the wake of the crowd with arrogant disdain, striding as if he belonged there.



She glanced past the elegant cut of his coat, buttoned strictly up the left side of his breast. And then her gaze shot back to him, her eyes widening.



Oh, my God…



Lena actually stopped breathing.



She’d never seen him in anything other than a loose shirt and coat. The sight of him dressed for the evening was utterly devastating. The stark black of his coat drew attention to the dusky gold of his skin, and his hair—the beautiful amber locks that her fingers always itched to touch—was gone.



The fan stopped moving, the ghostly tips of its feathers dancing over her breasts. Will stepped out of the shadows, gaslight highlighting the stark bones of his cheeks and brow, the burnished bronze of his eyes locked on her with an intensity no bystander could mistake for anything other than interest. Pure, predatory interest.



He had to stop looking at her like that.



Lena turned away with a jerk, frantically sucking in a breath. If they saw the intensity of his gaze, her reputation would be ruined.



Which was exactly how he predicted she’d react.



Her shoulders slumped. He’d practically dared her to deny her association with him. And though mockery had laced his tone, there’d been a hint of hurt in his eyes.



As if he knew he’d never be good enough.



Head bowed, she turned toward him, aware of the malicious eyes watching them. If only he wasn’t standing there silently, waiting for her to make the decision either to cut him or to forever forsake any chance of joining this glittering world.



But how could the Echelon ever accept him if she didn’t?



Will offered her his arm, as smoothly as if they’d practiced it a thousand times and not mere dozens. There was a devilish gleam in his eyes. A dare. “Shall we?”



Despite her gloves, she could feel the unnatural heat of his body through his sleeve as she accepted. Murmurs started as they strolled toward the platform and the smile on Lena’s lips died.



“I’m not supposed to be up there,” she whispered. Above her, fireworks blazed to life, the shrill scream of the rockets stealing her words.



Will leaned closer. Now that he was in profile, she could see that his hair had been gathered back into a tight queue, the velvet strands of the ribbon brushing against his nape.



“I thought you cut your hair,” she blurted.



“You sound relieved. Thought me hair were unfashionable.”



Not even a hint that he was as stricken as she. Lena ground her teeth together. “It is.”



“Then I’ll cut it.”



At her shocked look, a smile curled at his lips. Her gaze locked onto it. Dangerous. The little tick of her heartbeat fluttered in warning.



“All of it.” He smoothed a hand over his scalp. “Annoys me anyway.”



“Do what you want,” she lied, “I don’t care.”



The smile he gave her was answer enough.



“Here we go,” he said, staring up at the platform. There was no sign of the prince consort or the queen, but all seven of the Council waited.



Will took a deep breath and for the first time, Lena realized he was nervous. She squeezed his arm. “Have you never met others of your kind before?”



“Never.” His gaze swept over the river, lingering on the naval officers that lined the deck of the dragon-ship. “Spent most of me life in that cage, then trapped in Whitechapel by the price on me head.”



Something tightened in her chest. Lena slid her hand into his, hiding it against her skirts. All eyes were on the river. She squeezed his fingers and he looked down, considering it for a moment before he squeezed back.



“Truce,” she whispered. “Just for tonight?”



“Truce,” he agreed.



A breeze stirred her hair as they climbed the stairs, bringing with it the rich, cinnamon scent of Lady Aramina’s perfume. Lena stepped into place beside the duchess and tugged her hand from Will’s.



Beneath the noise of the fireworks and the murmur of the crowd grew a strange, throbbing hum. A froth of water churned a hundred yards behind the last dragon-ship, and the sleek dark head of something surfaced.



“What is that?” she asked.



“A kraken submergible,” the duchess replied, her brandy-colored eyes intently watching the wave. “The stealthy killer of the Scandinavian naval forces. It’s the only thing that’s ever brought down one of our Dreadnoughts.”



Surprised that the woman had answered, Lena dared ask more, “I thought the Dreadnoughts were invincible?”



“You cannot fight what you cannot see,” the duchess replied. “And it’s only in the last minute that you can feel the throb of their propellers coming. Caught alone, even a Dreadnought can be sunk by their steel tentacles.”



The throb echoed through the air, almost humming against Lena’s skin. She could only imagine the force needed to create such a disturbance.



“They don’t usually venture so far from their waters, however,” Aramina mused. “They must be trying to impress us.”



“They’ve succeeded,” Lena replied, looking at the awed faces in the crowd as the domed metal and glass head of the submergible surged through the water to present itself.



The first dragon-ship docked. Two of the ship’s crews wore the blue regimentals of the Swedish military, with gold tasseled epaulets. Every one of them was as tall as Will. They moved with a militant efficiency and stood sharply to attention as a trio of officers appeared on the foredeck.



The final ship trailed with disdainful ease into the docks, edging just a little away from the Swedish vessels. Scarred and grizzled sailors manned the rails, glaring at the crowd. Thick wolf pelts trailed over their shoulders and most of them were heavily bearded.



The Norwegian clans.



Behind her the sound of metal boots rang on the cobbles. A carriage wheeled into the square, gleaming with mother-of-pearl inlay, coming to a halt directly before the platform. The Imperial metaljackets created a path, ceremonial rifles slung over their armor-plated shoulders.



The prince consort leaped out in all his elegant glory and the crowd cheered.



Lena didn’t know where to look. The world was a conflagration of color as the fireworks went mad. The prince consort opened the carriage door and handed the petite human queen out onto the quay. Behind them the Scandinavians were lining up, an enormous man in a scarlet coat leading them. He stood inches above Will even, and the chiseled contours of his cheeks were softened only by a full mouth.



Will flinched beside her at each explosion above, his nostrils flaring. Of course. This was all so new to him.



She tugged at his sleeve. “I assume that man is the leader of the Swedish delegation. Count Stefan Hallestrøm of Skåld. They call him the War Hammer. Even the Norwegian clans step lightly around him and they’re not afraid of anything.”



Lazy amber eyes considered her. He was relaxing, which was precisely what she’d intended.



“The Norwegians are…tricky,” she replied. “Officially, the Storting was disbanded and they bend knee to the Swedish Court now. In the capital, most have adapted to the new ways; however, in the old country they’re rather more traditional.” She eyed the band of Norwegians scowling on the docks. “The man in front is Magnus Ragnarsson, the Fenrir of the Raven Clan. He might wear an eye patch and be older than you and me combined, but he’s considered crafty and his men are murderously loyal. To his right is his son, Eric.” Her eyes widened slightly. She’d heard reports he was handsome, but as the blond warrior smiled, half the ladies in attendance stopped breathing. Fans fluttered like an entire swarm of butterflies. “Don’t be fooled by his charm. You don’t rise through clan ranks without killing someone along the way. The higher they stand, the more blood they’ve shed. And he’s slated to take over his father’s role one day.”



Silence greeted this statement. She looked up and found Will watching her through dangerously narrowed eyes. “What?”



“I don’t think I need be concerned ’bout his charm.”



Heat rose through her throat and cheeks. She fanned herself rapidly. “I don’t know what you mean.”



“You sighed.”



“I did not.”



“It seems you have a dangerous weakness for verwulfen men.”



“I assure you I do not.” Still, she couldn’t stop her curious gaze from sliding back to the golden figure on the docks, with his silver-leaf chain mail and the heavy ax at his belt. She’d once accused Will of being a barbarian, but here was one in the flesh.



A Norse god at the least.



A fanfare sounded and the ranks of Norwegians parted to allow someone through. The verwulfen had won the battle; everyone was craning their necks to see who deserved such a fanfare.



A young woman stepped through the clans.



“Oh,” Lena murmured.



A hush fell over the crowd. It was well-deserved. Not only was the woman tall and shapely, with a well-formed bosom, but she had the kind of face that could stun a ballroom to silence. A cascade of loose blond waves fell to her waist and a gold circlet sat upon her brow. She wore nothing more than a simple white dress, with a rakish wolf skin thrown over one shoulder, yet she had no need of more. Gold and gems would only have gone unnoticed in the wake of her pillowy lips and glorious bone structure.



“Jaysus.” Will arched a brow.



A hot little spark burned inside her gut. Lena stepped on his foot and put all her miniscule weight into it. “Shut your mouth before you choke on something,” she snapped. “She’s not that pretty.”



Aware that he was still watching her, she looked around. The heat of his gaze lingered on her skin and she found herself fanning rather more rapidly.



“You’re jealous? I thought this were only a game?”



The fan slowed. She looked up into the burning intensity of his gaze. The words were lightly said, but the look on his face was anything but. “I’m not. Look at her all you want. I don’t care. But my intention is to make you appear somewhat more than a gaping rookery-bred bumpkin, is it not? You want to impress them?”



Whilst she wanted to alienate them.



Her grip on the fan tightened as the bite of guilt filled her. “Don’t stare at me,” she whispered.



“You’re still the most beautiful woman I ever clapped eyes on.”



A pitter-patter in her chest. “You shouldn’t say such things.”



He shrugged. As if it meant nothing to him.



Whilst it meant the world to her.



A thousand meaningless compliments had tumbled from blue blood lips over her time at court. Words meant to charm and seduce. But Will never said anything he didn’t mean. Something in her chest warmed.



Then she deflated. If he knew she intended to destroy the treaty, he’d be furious. There would be no more smiles her way, no more compliments. Will would hate her. Lena’s fingers curled around the fan, a rash of heat springing into her eyes. She looked away swiftly, swallowing hard. He could never know. Winning the Scandinavian’s support was not as important as Charlie’s life.



“You know a great deal about ’em,” Will said, as the prince consort stepped forward and nodded at the Swedish ambassador. The formal words of greeting were exchanged, along with rather a lot of edged smiles and shaken hands.



The ambassador bowed before the queen, the curve of his back deeper than what he’d offered the prince consort. He had to know who truly ruled Britain; this was an insult, one of the first of many, no doubt.



Perhaps her task would not be so difficult after all?



“I was curious.” And she’d needed to know who her targets would be. Again an uneasy churn of guilt turned her stomach.



“This Magnus,” he murmured. “He’s in charge of the Norwegians?”



She wouldn’t deny him the information she’d spent hours gossiping to achieve. “There are only five remaining clans left in Norway. Magnus rules one, but for this delegation he speaks with their voices. The true source of power in Norway is Valdemar Einarsson, the jarl of all the clans.” Another stolen glance at the young woman bowing to the queen. “She must be his daughter, the Lady Astrid.”