Tethered

by Meljean Brook

  An ewer sat on the dressing table. She dipped her fingers inside. The water was cold. Freezing would have been better, but this would do.

  At the sound of footsteps, she looked over her shoulder. Wearing a nightgown and a long floppy cap, Scarsdale’s valet was attempting to creep up behind her, a chamber pot raised high.

  He froze with his arms straight over his head. His nightgown had lifted with the movement, exposing knobby knees. “Captain! It is so very good to see you.”

  Better than bashing her skull in, at least. “What time did he fall asleep?”

  “I’m not certain. He sent me to bed an hour after midnight.” The valet tsked, setting down the pot and stepping forward, his gaze fixed on Scarsdale’s boots. “The poor dear.”

  Yasmeen dumped the ewer over the poor dear’s head.

  Sputtering, Scarsdale reared up, batting wildly at his hair, pushing the sodden brown strands away from his eyes. Bloodshot, they focused on her. “Blast you!”

  “Darling,” she purred, and tossed him a towel. “You look horrible.”

  “I look fantastic.” He scrubbed at his face, then stopped to weave as if the vigorous moment had unbalanced him. Still, he managed to add, “As always.”

  “I wake up next to ‘fantastic’ every day. You’re not even within leagues of him right now.”

  “You’ve only yourself to blame. You bring me to Medway, Yasmeen? Good God. What is here but sailors and an oddities fair? This atmosphere sucks the life from a man, drains him dry, and the only thing to do is drink. You ought to have had the sense of meeting with me in Brighton.”

  “Where supplies cost twice as much?”

  He laughed suddenly. “Ah, well. That explains the price of my upcoming nuptials. I ought to have insisted on them taking place in Medway instead of Brighton. We could drink together, you and I.”

  His marriage. Goddammit. So he was going through with it.

  Maybe. “If you drink enough, it’ll be much easier to abduct you.”

  “Is that your plan—to spirit me away aboard your lady?” He pressed his hand to his stomach, as if queasy. He probably was, and not just because of the drink. Heights terrified him. Even now, the shades over the windows were drawn—not to keep out the light, but so that he wouldn’t see the view from the second floor. “I’d rather be married.”

  No, he wouldn’t. “Break it off. The people on your father’s estates don’t need you. They managed well enough alone for two hundred years.”

  “They were under the boot of the Horde for two hundred years,” he said dryly.

  “And the aristocracy is different?”

  “It’s not tyranny.”

  Yasmeen thought that everything but willing service was tyranny of some sort. “So you will swoop in and take back what they have earned, and the people on your lands have no choice in the matter.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Fair enough—and there was little more to be said. He would no more abandon the responsibilities of his station than she would her crew. But if this marriage would be hell, she would never abandon him to it. “Do you like her, at least?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “I like her very well. I will be content, Yasmeen.”

  That couldn’t be enough—but that wasn’t her decision to make. “No kidnapping, then? Perhaps it’s for the best, since Zenobia Fox has just been abducted and taken to New Eden.”

  Scarsdale froze. “What do you say? I thought you were after somebody’s brother.”

  “We were at her home only yesterday. She’d been taken by Berge on The Kite as an added incentive to the brother’s rescue.” At the sideboard, Yasmeen poured him another drink. Zenobia and Scarsdale had become good friends the previous winter, inseparable in each other’s company. If Zenobia was not secretly as romantic-minded as her brother, it might have been a practical match. “We’re off to New Eden as soon as the supplies are aboard my lady. Did you speak with the Blacksmith?”

  Slowly coming out of his shock, he took the brandy. “Yes. I saw the autogyros loaded into the locomotive car. So you truly are attempting this madness?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Despite his terror, he offered. A finer friend was difficult to find. “I need you here. Archimedes and I think her kidnap is nothing but a bluff to ensure Bilson’s return.”

  She didn’t have to say more. Even drunk, Scarsdale was always shrewd. He nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Lure the mercenaries out. Use the newssheets to advertise our offer. And we’ll need to know as quickly as possible if that offer is accepted.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Then their lives are forfeit. Archimedes and I will hunt them down—and you can add that to the advertisement, as well. Use our names, so that the word spreads. A full-page advert ought to do it.”

  “If it doesn’t, they’re complete fools.”

  “Yes. I also need you to arrange the hire of a fleet to search for them, and give a reward to anyone who locates The Kite and relays our offer to Berge.” If the advertisement didn’t bring them in, the promise of a fortune would. “Fifty livre for finding him and delivering the message, and fifty more if Berge takes the one hundred we’re offering to him in the newssheets.”

  “One hundred? You won’t need to hire the fleet. Berge will bring himself in for that.”

  “He’d cut off his own cock for that. The fleet and the reward are to ensure that he learns about the offer as quickly as possible.” Yasmeen poured her own drink. “And you have to promise to come for us if we don’t return within six months.”

  Scarsdale burst into laughter and lifted his glass in a toast. “And so here is the real reason you contacted me. You want me to send in a rescue if it all goes to hell.”

  Only part of the reason. “Yes.”

  “Ah, well. I’m glad it’s you that’s going, then. It means a rescue won’t be necessary. Bring that portfolio in the trunk, would you, Hopkins?” He rose from the bed as the valet disappeared into the adjoining room and returned with a leather-bound sketchbook. “On that table, that’s fine. I’ve drawn the layout of the city for you, as requested. But remember, Yasmeen, this was more than a decade ago. He’s added more ships since then.”

  She joined him at the table. “That’s all right. The arrangement is probably the same in essentials.”

  “Probably. Have you seen the city?”

  “Only from a distance.” It had only been a spot against the horizon, and that had been close enough.

  “It’s larger than you will expect. Frankly, I was astonished by its breadth, and it can only be bigger now.” He opened to the first sketch, a roughly circular overhead view of the city. His forefinger traced a large ring in the center. “These are the primary gardens. At the aft edge—”

  “Aft?” The city was round. “Where’s the bow?”

  He pointed to the farthest edge of the city, where he’d written “Bushke” in neat letters. “The city can fly in any direction—but typically, it flies with his quarters at its head.”

  “All right.” It made sense. Using his quarters as a reference would be the simplest way to navigate around the city. “At the aft edge of the garden is…?”

  “Where new arrivals are taken until they’re indoctrinated. Then they’re married off and receive their own living section in one of the outlying ships.”

  So if Bilson wasn’t bluffing, that’s where Zenobia would be. “Under guard?”

  “Two citizen volunteers, very lightly armed.”

  “Then who has the heavy arms?”

  “Bushke’s guard. Thirty to thirty-five men, and they’re fanatically loyal—they have to be. They’re the pilots on the flyers.”

  And if they weren’t loyal, they’d simply use the flyers to escape. “And their watch?”

  “Is around the clock.”

  “The best way in?”

  “From underneath.” He showed her another page, more roughly sketched
and labeled with “hanger shed,” “engines,” “boiler,” and “stoker quarters.” Twenty flower-like symbols denoted the propellers. “This is the second level of the city, constructed on the framework that stabilizes the airships. There’s the surface and the gardens on the upper decks, the living quarters within the airship cabins and holds—and then this, below the ships. We didn’t see much of it from below, so the placement is an estimate, at best.”

  They’d adjust as needed. “Why is this best?”

  “It’s all open, for the most part. They’ve enclosed the quarters, the engines, and the hangar. The rest is just a framework of metal struts with access to the propeller shafts—and access to the surface levels.”

  Her gaze sharpened on the sketch. He hadn’t marked any notable access points. “Where?”

  “Everywhere. When they tether the ships together, their bowed sides don’t align perfectly. And there’s a cushion of space between the hulls to prevent them from smashing into each other during a storm. Most of those gaps are covered over, but there are many left open and used to dispose rubbish or to lower the fishing nets. Some lead down to the lower levels, too, and they have guards. But you won’t find a guard on a rubbish hole.”

  Brilliant. The autogyros were quiet; they could fly up beneath New Eden in the dark, and be inside a few minutes later. She was almost sorry that Bilson was likely bluffing, and that she wouldn’t be infiltrating the city this way. After she told Archimedes about it, she thought he’d have loved a shot at it, too.

  “Thank you, James.”

  “It’s nothing.” Scarsdale closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead. “Truly, nothing. It’s easy to get into the city—getting away from it is another matter. Do you have a plan for that?”

  “No good one yet, but we probably won’t build a glider.”

  His smile was pained. “As long as you don’t let Trahaearn build it, you’ll likely do better than we did.”

  He’d survived, so he hadn’t done too badly—but it had been exactly the wrong time for Scarsdale to survive. A few years earlier, his lover had been killed by hunters who’d deemed them less than men. Scarsdale had sought his own death after that, aligning himself with Trahaearn, a pirate who seemed bound to die in fiery blaze.

  But when they’d been taken aboard New Eden and the glider they’d used to escape had fallen apart while they’d still been in the air, Scarsdale hadn’t been as ready for death as he’d thought. He’d been terrified of heights since fleeing New Eden. Though still one of the bravest men she knew, he couldn’t even climb aboard her airship without being blissed on opium or unconscious with drink.

  She’d always been afraid that love would bring her to her knees, destroy everything she’d earned. She’d never wanted it. But she had love now, and she still stood. Stronger, perhaps, than she’d ever stood before.

  But losing that love…Hell, it had brought a man as strong as Scarsdale to his knees. She wouldn’t do any better if she lost Archimedes.

  She barely did any better simply thinking of losing him.

  Belatedly, she realized that silence had fallen between them, with Scarsdale’s perceptive gaze monitoring her every expression. When she met his eyes, his smile mocked her. “You don’t ask about Bushke?”

  “I was waiting for you to tell me.”

  “He’s a kindly looking man with an iron fist.”

  “Literally?”

  “No. But it’s easy to believe that he’s weak, that he’ll have mercy.”

  “Like General Truss.” During the Liberé war, even Yasmeen had been uneasy when she’d accepted a job from him. “Or Saint Marie from Archimedes Fox and the Pearls of Penitence.”

  “Yes.”

  A benevolent tyrant, then—one who never gave his people any choices at all. “Why didn’t you or Trahaearn kill him?”

  “We meant to. After the glider was ready, we’d formed a plan to enter his quarters from the lower level—one of those access points is connected to the hangar and comes up right beside his ship…probably so that he can escape if New Eden is ever attacked. We were in position, we’d gotten past his guard on that entry, but Bushke was called away from his quarters. We had the glider with us; if we’d waited, if anyone had seen us, we’d have missed our opportunity to go.”

  And killing Bushke hadn’t been a priority. She nodded and glanced down at the sketches. “May I take these?”

  “You haven’t memorized them?” Laughing at her, he shook his head. “I’ve seen you plan dozens of missions. You’ve never been this distracted.”

  Her smile was slight. It was true. Worry gnawed at her, as it never had before. She thought of Archimedes constantly.

  “Is it Fox?” He watched her face, and within a moment, astonishment registered on his. “Unbelievable. I thought you were fond of him, at most.”

  “At most, that’s what I should have been. So I declared anything more to be impossible…and it seemed that in the next moment, I was full in. He sneaked up on me.”

  “He seems that sort.” Scarsdale’s grin betrayed his genuine delight. “And now that your belly is exposed, whatever will you do?”

  Ah, Scarsdale. He always got right to the heart of it. “I don’t worry about my belly anymore. I worry about him. I didn’t know that would happen.”

  “I’d have told you, but you wouldn’t have believed me.”

  “Probably not,” she admitted. Even when she’d first fallen in love with Archimedes, she’d thought she knew what it meant: that she’d have a friend, lover, someone she’d protect and who’d protect her in return. She’d never guessed how necessary he’d become to everything. “It’s completely different from what I thought it might be.”

  Completely different from what Archimedes had thought, too. He’d planned to love her, but only until she inevitably broke his heart. They’d stumbled into forever, instead.

  “Love, the great disrupter,” Scarsdale declared. “It ruins all of our grand schemes, destroys our reputations.”

  So it had. She supposed that meant it was time to make a new reputation. But as for schemes…love hadn’t ruined hers.

  Bilson’s scheme was another matter.

  As soon as the newssheets printed that advertisement, Archimedes’ play was going to rip that damn game apart.

  * * *

  Archimedes had never paired his crimson waistcoat with his scarlet breeches before, but he had to admit the effect was oddly dashing. He didn’t own a red jacket—an oversight that he’d have to correct upon his next visit to the tailor’s—but the sun came out midmorning and shirtsleeves became a viable option. He was waiting on deck in all his monochromatic glory when Yasmeen returned. She burst into laughter upon seeing him, and drew the red-handled daggers from her boots.

  “I concede defeat,” she said.

  “No.” Not defeated. “Never that.”

  “All right.” She slipped the left dagger back into its sheath. “You have one. I’ll keep the other. Between us, we’ll have a matching set.”

  A perfect match. He accepted the blade, still warm from her thigh—and not half as warm as the emotion that moved through him when she smiled.

  She looked round the decks, at the crew engaged in their work. “So how goes the sky, Mr. Fox?”

  “Well.” He walked with her toward the companionway. “We ought to be finished loading by midafternoon. We’re only waiting on the second delivery of coal. And how goes your fashionable earl?”

  “He sketched New Eden’s layout, and gave us a way in—if we need it. The advertisement will be at the printer’s tomorrow, and he’ll also be directing a fleet of airships to search for The Kite around the North Sea, which is Berge’s usual territory. He’ll find her.”

  No doubt. But the hint of trouble in her eyes told him there was more. “And how is he?”

  “Not well. But he hasn’t been for years.” She stopped at the head of the ladder, reached up to cup his jaw in her palm. Her gaze captured his, saw through him. “It’s…difficult, lo
ving someone, and fearing you’ll lose them. I say I don’t like my belly exposed. You say you don’t want me with you when you rescue Zenobia. We don’t want someone to be hurt, so we try to protect them, and hurt them while we do it. It’s irrational.”

  Irrational, yes. He smiled against her hand. “That’s why I’m so good at loving you.”

  She laughed. “Probably.”

  “I want you with me, Yasmeen.”

  “And I’m not sorry my belly is exposed. Perhaps I’m more vulnerable, but it doesn’t make me weak. The opposite is true.” She lowered her hand, gripped his, and held him tight. “I lost my crew, my ship. I know what it is to lose and how much it hurts, and I’ll do anything to keep it from happening again. And so being vulnerable now means that I’m far, far more dangerous than I ever was before.”

  “My God, that’s so arousing.” Her grin all but finished him off. “You’re a cruel woman, to tell me this while in full view of the crew.”

  With a wicked tilt of her brows, she stepped closer. “You’ve been fondling your dagger since I came aboard.”

  “Only because it was still warm from your sheath, Mrs. Fox.”

  Her laughter faded; intense heat replaced the humor in her gaze. She inhaled deeply—drawing in his scent, he knew. All a tease, a delicious and exquisitely frustrating one that aroused her, too. Need quickened her breath, made him ache.

  “Tonight,” he promised softly. “I’ll sheathe myself so deep. I’ll make you scream.”

  “By the lady, you’d better,” she breathed, then closed her eyes. “Tonight.”

  He had to force himself to step away, or tonight would begin within minutes at the head of the companionway. Her skin was flushed when she looked at him again, but she was every inch the captain.

  “Has Bilson awoken?”

  Archimedes nodded. “An hour ago. Still groggy, but mostly healed. He knows he’s infected with my strain of nanoagents.”