The next several days settled into a comfortable routine. Isla found her time compartmentalized into simple categories: mealtime, library or lounge time with Quince, Bonadea, Lewis, occasionally the silent Mr. Crowe, and sometimes Pickett, and wheelhouse time chatting with Samson and the captain. The more she learned about her fellow passengers, the more she admired them, enjoyed their company. Nigel Crowe had reined in the bulk of his insults, and she even found herself tolerating his presence.
And whenever Daniel Pickett entered a room, the harder her heart thumped.
Since the evening nearly a week before when her concerned new friends had insisted on knowing the exact nature of her troubles, they had each come to her with suggestions or possible scenarios that could lead to a cure. Anecdotes aplenty circulated: “My grandfather once cured a bout of insomnia with some ground albermile and charred frog leg. Perhaps a concoction with opposite components might slow the progression . . .” And as much as her nerves were still strung taut, the pressure she’d carried for so many months began to ease. It was as though the elephant on her chest was suddenly lighter.
Pickett continued to open the door connecting their cabins each night just before midnight. Even if he was in the wheelhouse until after midnight, she knew he still opened the door when he finally retired because the next morning when she tried the handle, the connecting door was always unlocked.
She’d not looked at her reflection directly after awakening for some time. Seeing her skin blue was disturbing, unsettling. She imagined it must have been horrifying for Pickett to see her that way—Melody had been nearly insensate with fear—so if it brought him comfort to know the door was open, the last thing she would do was forbid it. She didn’t lie to herself and try to suggest it wasn’t also a comfort for her.
Late one afternoon, two days away from Full Moon Phase, as the airship neared a tiny island chain not far from Port Lucy, Isla looked in the wheelhouse for Pickett. She’d not broached the topic with the entire group—they never knew when Crowe was lurking—but she desperately wanted details about the tentative plans. Although she would be useless during the late-night hours when the three men would shift, she still wanted to know where they would be, what Pickett intended, and exactly how he planned to handle Crowe.
She spied Samson in the wheelhouse and stuck her head inside the door. “Do you know where I might find the captain?”
The ’ton nodded. “He is in the engine room, reviewing programming codes.”
“Very good.” Pickett had obsessively checked and rechecked every possible programming and hardware element of the ship’s functions daily since the malfunction. “Thank you.” She smiled at Samson and descended the stairs to the bottom deck.
The hallway was dimly lit and reminded her of her encounter with Nigel Crowe. He always seemed so cold, yet stress rolled off him in waves.
She looked inside the engine room but didn’t see the captain. She made her way to the cargo door and noted it was open. She pushed it with two fingers and saw Pickett hefting a barrel of oil fuel onto his shoulder, and when he spied her in the doorway, he tensed and then relaxed.
He grinned at her, and she caught her breath. His demeanor around her was easier by tenfold than when they’d first met. Perhaps it was because of her empathic nature connecting with his distant shifter lineage, although that was unlikely, or perhaps it was the ease of familiarity that came from enforced confinement with few people for days on end. Either way, she found herself drawn to Captain Pickett more with each passing day.
When he wasn’t in the lounge with her and the others, she wondered what he was doing. When he was pensive, she wondered what was on his mind, whether he was worried about something she might be able to solve. She was curious about his travels, his family, his tenure in India. She was concerned that somewhere in the quiet places of her mind that she pretended didn’t exist, she’d fashioned him into a hero because he’d taken on the unofficial role of “protector” while she slept.
She was grateful, surely that was the extent of it.
“Coming down to practice knife throwing?” He winked as he passed her, the barrel resting easily against his shoulder and arm. He motioned with his hand, and she moved aside as he locked the door.
“Wait here,” he said and carried the barrel into the engine room.
She was so much more aware of him, more attuned to his presence, than she’d ever been to a man. She was close to her childhood friend, Will, but that was different. Will was more of a brother, a best friend. She’d never had the urge to watch him walk away when he left a room or wanted to seek him out just to speak with him about anything at all, even inconsequential matters.
She heard the murmur of Pickett’s voice in the engine room as he spoke with the ’tons, and he returned shortly, pulling the door closed. “So, if you’re not here to practice martial arts, what is it that has you looking so serious?”
She blinked, trying for a light expression. “Nothing pressing, just wondered if you can share any details about your plans for our unexpected detour.”
He nodded and moved into the narrow corridor. She caught a brief scent of his shaving lotion—subtle, not cloying, more like soap than cologne. It suited him. He tilted his head slightly, and she hoped he couldn’t suddenly read thoughts. “Are you concerned about it?”
“Concerned?”
“The full moon. Our unscheduled stop.”
“Not so much, but I would like to know what to expect. Forewarned is forearmed and all that.” Why was she suddenly so unsettled?
He studied her face. “You’re nervous.”
“Why would you think so?”
“You’re tapping your fingers together.”
Isla looked down at her hands. Curses! She knew people, knew body language, knew emotions and how the tiniest details in a person’s demeanor spoke to their inner dialogue. That she didn’t see it in herself was galling. She puffed out a breath and rolled her eyes. She deliberately clasped her hands together and looked back up at him. “There is much on my mind, I suppose.”
He rested his shoulder against the wall close to her. “Understandable.”
There was a glint in his eye she didn’t particularly care for. “You don’t believe me.”
“I believe you have much on your mind, without question.”
“However?”
His lips twitched. “I wonder if you have more on your mind than you realize. Or care to acknowledge.”
“I am fairly certain I know my own brain, Pickett.”
“Daniel.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“We’ve become better friends, wouldn’t you say? That warrants a different level of familiarity.”
Her brain was fuzzy. She admitted to herself that in recent days she’d become rather distracted when he was in the room. If only she didn’t have so many pieces of chaos vying for her attention then she might be able to sort out her own thoughts. The curse, three passengers ready to shift, an elusive dark witch, a nasty government agent, delay after delay . . . It was little wonder she couldn’t discern between up and down.
She leaned her back against the wall with a quiet sigh and rubbed her temples. “Some days I think I’d like to cut off my own head.”
He smiled. “You would be infinitely less lovely without a head.”
She tipped her head back. “But infinitely less stressed.”
He laughed, and she relaxed by degrees. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth, and she turned her head toward him. He was so close, so very there. Her life had been full of challenges, and she’d never abdicated her responsibility for them. But just once, how wonderful would it be to burrow close to someone, allow him to hold her and all the complicated pieces of her life. Support while she carried the load was a luxury she’d never had.
She swayed toward him without meaning to.
His smile faded, and his gaze sharpened. His intake of breath brought him closer to her, and she suddenly felt very warm.
“It is comfortable, now, isn’t it,” he murmured. “And yet not at all relaxing.”
She nodded.
“Are you working your empath magic? Weaving a spell?” He brought his hand to her face, tracing her cheek with his thumb.
“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered.
“I don’t believe you.”
She closed her eyes at the feather-light sensation of his fingertip.
“Who waits at home for you? This ‘Will’ you’ve mentioned?”
She opened her eyes and bravely met his even as her mind told her to protect herself and run. “Nobody waits for me, Pickett.”
“Daniel.” He traced her ear with his finger, barely touching her skin. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I haven’t the time. Daniel.”
He smiled. “A pity, Dr. Cooper.”
“Isla.” She fought the instinct to curl into his hand like a cat.
“How many Seasons ago did you come out?” He continued his slow exploration of her skin, drawing his knuckles along her jawline.
She sighed. “Too many to count.”
His eyes held hers. A smile flirted at the corner of his mouth. “Something tells me your focus was elsewhere. I cannot see you pining away, Season after Season, next to the refreshment table and a stern-faced chaperone.”
She laughed softly. “You’re very astute.” She felt shy, which was an emotion Isla Cooper had never experienced. She was—what was the phrase? Punching above her weight. At an utter loss. At sea. Which was literally true, she supposed, and her wry smile remained despite the blush she felt spreading across her face. As much as she’d come to dislike the dark, she found she didn’t mind the dim light of the corridor.
His hand lightly slipped around her neck to cup the back of it, his thumb working in small circles behind her ear. A sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned fractionally closer. His magic was much more potent than anything she possessed.
She lifted her fingers and traced his jacket lapels as he slowly moved into her space, pulling her close with a hand on her hip, the other still massaging the tension from her neck. She drowned in subtle sensations as he wound his arm around her waist. He blew softly at a curl of her hair, a stubborn one that never remained in place, and she felt his lips moving on her temple, whispering something she couldn’t discern.
Her hands tightened on his lapels, and she pulled herself closer, tipping her head upward as his lips trailed from her temple to her cheek.
One of the engine room doors swung open with a bang, and footsteps sounded in the hall. Isla sprung back, stunned and convinced a bucket of ice water would have been no more effective at snapping her to attention.
“ . . . retrieve it from the cargo hold . . .” one of the ’tons said back into the engine room and then moved toward them.
Isla scratched her ear and looked away, grateful to have been caught by an automaton and not one of the other passengers. Her breathing was rapid, as was Daniel’s, she noted. He rubbed the back of his neck and caught her eye with a self-deprecating half-grin.
The ’ton moved around them wordlessly and unlocked the cargo hold door, disappearing inside. The door remained open, and Daniel held his hand out and motioned to her. He cupped her elbow and walked with her to the stairs, where he followed her without comment to the upper decks.
What did one say in such circumstances? For the first time in a lifetime spent soothing others with her voice, her cadence, her vocabulary, she was at a complete loss. She wished Melody had given her a tip or two from her vast flirtation repertoire. Before long, she found herself in front of her cabin, awkwardly facing Daniel and tapping her fingertips against her leg.
“Cooper—Isla, I . . .” He met her eyes, again rubbing the back of his neck and searching for the right words. He drew his brows in apparent confusion and shook his head. “I’m sorry?”
“You are?” she managed. She didn’t want him to be sorry.
“I . . . no. Not especially.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and then ran a hand through his hair, the other shoved into his pocket as though forcing himself to keep it there. “You . . . I . . .” He finally settled his full gaze on her face. “I am not sorry. And for that, I apologize.”
She bit her lip, focusing on breathing in and then breathing out.
His brow wrinkled. “Are you well, then?”
She nodded. “Yes. Yes, quite.” She forced levity into her tone. “I . . . um, have some correspondence I need to attend to,” she said, motioning toward the cabin with her thumb.
“Yes, of course. I’m relatively certain Samson needs me in the wheelhouse.” He inched back toward the stairs. “I shall see you later, for supper. But do tell Robert to bring tea to you before then. You can reach him by telescribe, of course.”
“Of course.”
He paused, one hand on the railing, one booted foot on the stair. He studied her until she felt herself blush, and his lips turned up again in that smile. Her breath caught in her throat, and she fumbled for the door handle, forgetting the door was still locked. She bumped her shoulder into it and closed her eyes, mortified. She was a doctor. She had more years of education and experience than most people she knew. She had taken down murderous, predatory wolves twice her size. She had a dagger sheathed on her thigh and throwing stars hidden in her corset. And she now blushed as though she was twelve years old and meeting a boy behind the woodshed.
She dug into her pocket for the key and looked over at Daniel, who remained poised on the steps, watching her. His smile suddenly looked suspiciously smug. Satisfied. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he chuckled, climbing up the steps and out of sight.