And he couldn’t touch Tatsukawa. If he did, Ariq might as well be declaring war on Nippon.
So Ariq had to appeal to her empress, instead. That wasn’t the sort of battle he was accustomed to fighting. He could be diplomatic. But he had little proof. It was his word against the admiral’s—and that was only if his word even reached the empress or one of her ministers; he couldn’t simply stride into the palace and request an audience. And if they knew that Ariq had infiltrated one of their prisons and killed fourteen guards while freeing an accused traitor, he might never get the opportunity to speak at all. The attempt might be for nothing, but he had little other choice.
He had hope, though. Ironically, Tatsukawa had given it to him. The admiral had been disappointed that this empress hadn’t continued the war with the Golden Empire as her mother had wished. It was possible that she would want to avoid starting a war with Ariq, too. He’d lose . . . but he wouldn’t lose easily. The cost might be higher than she wanted to pay.
And he hoped, because he didn’t want to lose anything.
Starting with the woman in his arms. He looked down. Her dark eyelashes fanned shadows over her cheekbones. Still sleeping, but he would have to risk moving her. The sun was brighter now. The clouds had begun to dissipate around them. He needed to see where they were.
Gently, he laid her on the blanket that had been folded beneath him. She stirred before turning on her side, her cheek pillowed on her hand and her lips softly parted. He tucked her blanket back around her shoulder and stood. His stiff joints protested, a reminder of the jump from Tatsukawa’s airship. Every time he rested, his body tightened up again. But it would pass, just as the soreness from Zenobia’s bludgeon would.
The mist around them had paled and thinned. Blue water sparkled below. No sign of a ship; no noise from any engines. But he couldn’t be certain it was safe until he dropped out of their cloud cover and scanned the horizon.
Basic need called first, though.
A drowsy whisper sounded from behind him. “Is the ironship still down there?”
Ariq glanced over his shoulder. Zenobia had rolled to her right side and propped herself up on her elbow. She watched him from beneath lids still heavy with sleep.
With his back to her, he looked at the stream of piss arching from the side of the balloon.
“I wish it was,” he said.
Silence. Then she sucked in air, coughed, and a moment later the muffled sound of her laugh rolled through him. He glanced back. She’d buried her face in her blanket. Her shoulders shook.
Grinning, he finished up. The wash water was cold but better than nothing. Before she used it, he’d warm the water over the gas burner. Belonging to a naturalist who spent hours at a time in the basket observing the ocean, the balloon had some small comforts.
Zenobia suddenly sucked in air again, but the sound was more of a strangled gasp than choking on a laugh. Alarmed, Ariq looked away from the burner. She lay on her back, staring upward, her green eyes wide.
Delight danced through her voice. “It’s a jellyfish.”
He glanced up. It wasn’t really a jellyfish any more than a kraken was a squid. But it still resembled one. A translucent body formed a billowing dome. The digestive stalk hung from the center of the bell and terminated in the feeder apparatus. The feeder formed the upper portion of the basket’s support frame, with access to the electrostatic wheel and navigation controls through a panel overhead.
“It’s a lantern fish,” he said.
“Does it glow? I’ve heard that some glow.”
“Not this one.” A glowing balloon would have exposed their position. “Some say that they’re called lanterns because they reminded Munduhai Khatun of the floating lanterns released in the southern provinces during their festivals. Others say that the scientists who created them during her rule were inspired by the sky lanterns, and that is how they received their name.”
“How does it work? Does it— Blast it all. Do you have a knife? Didn’t you give one to me last night?” Sitting up, she searched along her sash before pulling her notebook from her tunic, followed by a pencil. She showed him the dulled point. “I need to sharpen it.”
“I took the dagger back. I didn’t want you to roll onto the blade.”
But he didn’t immediately reach for it. He crouched beside her. Without anything to write with, had she been forced to scratch more notes under her sleeves? Ariq wouldn’t let himself look. That would only spark his anger, and he didn’t want that now.
She stilled, looking up at him. Her gaze slipped to his mouth.
Ariq wanted that, too. But this, first.
“Your letters?” he asked softly. “Your story?”
The dimming of her eyes tightened a band of pain around his chest. Her voice was hollow. “Gone.”
That was all she’d said before—and that Ghazan Bator had burned them. His gaze dropped. A reddened patch marked the back of her hand. That might have been an abrasion from the bludgeon, the material scraping her skin. It might have been a burn. Perhaps from reaching into flames.
“You saw it happen?”
Swallowing hard, she nodded, then looked down at her hand, too. Her fingertips traced over the red mark, as if she was remembering when she’d gotten it.
His blood began to thrum. He wouldn’t let the anger through. Ghazan Bator wasn’t here. Only his wife, and she was hurting. Ariq knew little about those letters—just that they’d been written by her brother on his travels—but she’d guarded them more closely than she had her gold. There was no question how much she’d valued them.
And her work, too. He’d seen the stack of pages she’d written.
“The general said that he couldn’t be certain whether my story would expose him and his plans.” She raised her gaze to Ariq’s. The dark pain had vanished; determination hardened them to jade again. “So that’s all right. I’ll just write another. And this time, he’ll be absolutely certain I did.”
Ariq didn’t doubt it. “And you’ll include lantern fish and boilerworms?”
“Yes,” she said, and her smile was everything. “As soon as you sharpen my pencil.”
“That has to wait. Something more important comes first.”
“Such as?”
Despite her question, she knew. She looked to his mouth again. Ariq tilted her chin up and held her gaze as he leaned in.
“I didn’t greet you properly last night.”
She laughed, a breathless sound against his lips. “You said ‘good evening.’”
It had been. The best evening, because she’d stood before him, fierce and fighting.
He cupped his palms under her jaw, his thumbs in the hollows beneath her ears. Her eyelashes fluttered closed, and he savored the sigh that escaped her.
“Good morning, Zenobia,” he said softly, before capturing her lips.
Her notebook flapped to the basket floor. Her arms wreathed his neck. She kissed in the same way she wielded a bludgeon—with haphazard aim, and as if she put everything she had behind it. Need pounded through him, aching and hot. Her fingers wound tightly in his hair and dragged him forward, and Ariq went, the heavens help him, he went, catching her as she tipped backward onto her blanket.
A groan ripped from his chest as he settled into the cradle of her thighs. Weight braced awkwardly on his forearms, feet wedged against the side of the basket, this was no way to make love to his wife for the first time. But her body arched tautly beneath his, as if trying to press closer, and his arousal had never been so sharp.
His cock rigid, he rocked between her legs and she cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders. His hunger surged. Urgently, he took her mouth again, and she responded to the slick thrust of his tongue with a low, ragged moan.
Her heated taste flooded his senses. Zenobia. Her name drummed in his ears like the beat of his heart. Every thrust of his hips tightened her legs around him. What lay between them? His trousers, her trousers. They both had to go, then he’d be
deep inside her. So deep.
His fingers fumbled with the buckle of her tunic. Knotted blue silk lay beneath. The tunic that he’d ripped, the night in her bedchamber, head dizzy from the gas and his control gone—and the rebels waiting just outside the balcony doors.
Dregs and hell. He couldn’t lose control again. Not here. He hadn’t even descended from the clouds to determine whether their position was safe.
Slowing the desperate need took all the strength he had. His cock was a solid aching stone. When he stopped rocking against her, the roll of her hips as she urged him on again was torture.
The passion in her kiss became frustration. Her fingers twisted in his hair.
“I know,” he said roughly against her lips, then gentled and deepened his kiss.
It wasn’t just desire between them. Not just lust. Did she know he would have done anything to find her? That he would never let her go?
Ariq told her now with this kiss. When he lifted his head, her breath shuddered and her jade eyes were bright with unshed tears. Her hand cupped his jaw.
Her voice was thick. “Good morning.”
He grinned and kissed her again. But the need was still too sharp, the arousal too hot. It slammed through him and he felt her instant response in the clenching of her thighs around his waist, in her soft pleading moan.
Tearing his mouth from hers, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder. “When we’re back to the Red City, I’m going to slide into you as deep as I can, then have you so hard and so long that we’ll need three days in bed just to recover.”
She gave a breathless laugh that suddenly quieted. He lifted his head. Her lower lip was pinched between her teeth, her expression uncertain.
About returning to the Red City? Or spending the time in his bed? “What worries you?”
The uncertainty cleared and she shook her head. But it must have been something. Probably the return. Not the time in his bed. She’d been married—
No, she hadn’t.
His thoughts ground to a halt. He hadn’t given much thought to her confession, but now he remembered: She’d only pretended to be a widow to stop Helene from asking why she was still unmarried.
But that didn’t mean Ariq was her first. Her age wasn’t much younger than his. “Have you bedded other men?”
She scowled at him. “That’s hardly an appropriate question.”
Usually he’d agree. But he didn’t want to hurt her. Every touch tested his control. By the time they reached the Red City, he’d be a rutting beast.
As he watched her, pink flooded her skin. Perhaps that was answer enough.
“I’ll be gentle,” he told her.
She balled her fist and thumped his shoulder. “Blast you.”
He laughed. Despite her words and that soft punch, she didn’t seem angry. Just irritated. And she was still beneath him, her thighs still cradling his hips, and didn’t seem in a rush to push him off.
“Why?” It wasn’t Ariq’s place to ask that either, but if Zenobia didn’t want to tell him, she wouldn’t. “If everyone thought you were a widow, why didn’t you?”
“With whom?” Her scowl deepened. “How could I know he wouldn’t be an assassin waiting for my brother to visit? Or that he wasn’t after me for the same reasons the pirates are, and just preferred seduction to abduction? After everyone learned of my brother’s fortune, and that his sister was writing the adventures, do you know how many men I’ve received letters from? How many showed up at my doorstep? Who could I trust enough to take to my bed?”
Ariq couldn’t stop his grin. She was trusting him enough to.
Her cheeks scarlet, she thumped his shoulder again. “This is different.”
“How?”
“I want you,” she said baldly. “And I would have even without trust. I intended to visit your bed in Krakentown.”
Before she’d heard his brother’s damnable insult. “Why then?”
“Because you didn’t know who I was. So you couldn’t have wanted me for money.” She turned her face to the side, as if suddenly embarrassed. As if suddenly uncertain again. “So you would have been . . . an adventure.”
Then she would have been gone—leaving his town for the Red City.
Except maybe her plans would have changed. Ariq had intended to court her before the marauders’ threat forced him to leave his town, too. Perhaps if he’d been able to, she might have stayed.
And yet here she was, his wife anyway.
He brushed his thumb across her trembling lips. “This hasn’t been the adventure you expected.”
“No.” When she met his gaze, her emerald eyes had filled again. Her voice was strained. “A part of me just wants to go home.”
She would leave him?
Denial sliced open his chest. Ariq held it in, but his throat felt raw as he asked, “And the other part?”
“Desperately wants to know why I would need three days to recover.”
Relief and surprise shot through him. He dropped his face to her neck again, muffling his laughter. Hers joined in, and she shook beneath him.
He kissed her again before giving her the dagger she’d asked for and forcing himself to his feet. Ariq felt her curious gaze as he began to crank the electrostatic charger. When fully wound, he could set the rotation rate. The more quickly that electric pulses were sent up the wires to the dome overhead, the more frequent the contractions through the translucent bell, and the faster the speed of their flight.
But she didn’t ask about the lantern fish. “How did you know where to find us?”
Because Ariq had fought under Ghazan Bator for most of his life. “I knew the general wouldn’t stay where he was.”
“How did you know where he went, though? Did you persuade the admiral to tell you where the ironship was headed?”
Did she imagine Ariq torturing the older man? He might have, if it would have achieved anything. Or one of the guards. But those aviators had their own code of honor, and every man aboard that airship would have died rather than reveal anything to him.
“I knew that after they realized I was no longer on the airship, they would send a messenger to tell Ghazan Bator. So when they sent a flyer to the ironship, I followed him.”
Confusion furrowed her brow. “But no messenger arrived with a . . . Oh.”
“Yes,” Ariq said grimly. As soon as he’d been certain of the flyer’s heading, he’d shot the man down. If the message had arrived, Ghazan Bator would have known Ariq was coming, and would have been better prepared for him.
She sat up, pencil and knife in hand, and began to sharpen the tip. “How did you escape the airship? Did they put in to port and let you out of the vault? Seems rather reckless of them.”
“It was.” Letting him out of the vault had been, anyway. He didn’t need to tell her the rest.
“Then you stole a jellyfish?”
“I borrowed it.”
She arched her brow, as if asking whether there was a difference.
Amused, he said again, “Borrowed. It belongs to a naturalist. I told him my wife had been abducted and I needed a swift balloon that could be easily concealed. So I asked him for the use of his, and promised to return it and pay him.”
“And he simply agreed.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him?”
“No. But he knew of me.”
“Ah. You scared him.”
A little. Ariq had that effect. Yet that wasn’t why the naturalist had agreed. And with anyone else, Ariq could have just said that the man had been a resident of these islands while the Nipponese and the Golden Empire had waged their war, and that would be explanation enough.
It would mean little to Zenobia, though. She and Ariq were from different sides of the world. She wouldn’t know why the naturalist had been glad of the opportunity to thwart a Nipponese admiral any more than Ariq would know anything about the town where she’d been born. He didn’t even know the name of the province she’d lived i
n, or who ruled over them, or which language gave her French that guttural bite.
But he knew Zenobia—and that she would rather understand the full history than be given an incomplete explanation.
He eyed her pencil. “Do you intend to take notes? I’ll tell you why he let me borrow it, but there’s much to write.”
“That’s fine.” Pursing her soft lips, she blew a shaving from the lead tip. “I like stories about escapes. Though it seems easier to steal a balloon than borrow one.”
“It would be. And more noticeable. If I’d stolen a balloon, someone would mention the theft when Tatsukawa came to the island to search for me. I didn’t want him to know where to look next.”
He’d learned that while fighting with the rebellion. It was always better to ask, and to let people help. They were far more likely to keep their silence afterward.
Especially since Tatsukawa hadn’t borrowed the flyer his messenger had used. The admiral hadn’t had one on his airship, so his aviators had commandeered one at the port. The people on the island would always remember that.
“I’ve never considered borrowing. I always make my heroes steal.” Dismay chased over her expression, followed by wry amusement. “But they’re never caught, because they’re very clever.”
“Or your villains are fools.”
She responded to his teasing with a narrowed glare. With a disdainful sniff, she put her pencil to the paper. “Then enlighten me, O Mighty Rebel.”
Ariq grinned. One day, he would make her call him that in bed. But for now, both her bludgeon and her pencil were too close to her hands—and although her villains might be fools, Ariq was not. So he kept that thought to himself and enlightened her, instead.
XX
Zenobia liked stories about escapes. She didn’t like plot holes, and the description of Ariq’s escape contained one the size of a kraken. Why had Admiral Tatsukawa needed to arrive at an island before searching for him? The only explanation was that Ariq had escaped from the airship when it was somewhere else—namely, still over the ocean. She doubted that a boat had anchored beneath the airship and Tatsukawa’s men simply failed to notice Ariq climbing down a ladder.
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