Skies of Fire: The Ether Chronicles

by Archer, Zoe

  When he turned away as he paced, she indulged herself and took a good look at his arse. Snug wool trousers cupped what had to be the most delectably firm backside she’d ever seen.

  Good God, she was no better than a stevedore leering at the girls selling oysters.

  But, oh, she’d liked digging her nails into his arse when he was inside her, urging him on, feeling his thrusts. Would it be different now, with the transformation he’d undergone? More aggressive? Rougher?

  She bit her lip. That sounded heavenly.

  Unaware of her thoughts, he continued, “The crew has access to ether rifles and pistols, as well.”

  “What about . . .” She cleared her throat, her voice having gone raspy. “What about aerial bombardment of a target on land? Is the Demeter equipped to drop bombs?”

  “We’re capable of loading and unloading cargo, but that’s it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “D’you mean to say that there are other navies that actually use such heinous practices?”

  She shrugged. “This is war. Technology evolves faster than morals.”

  “Let’s hope Britain doesn’t descend to that kind of barbarism. I didn’t join the Navy to play Lord Destructor on high, leveling troops or, God, killing civilians from some comfortable, removed distance.” He made a noise of disgust.

  “Whether you or I agree with the ethos doesn’t matter. That kind of warfare is almost here. In fact”—she tipped forward, bringing the front two legs of her chair back down onto the floor with a bang—“I’d be willing to wager a whole quarter’s pay that they’re making that kind of aerial bombs at the munitions plant. Makes sense. They’re going to great lengths to keep its location secret. Why construct an armaments factory so far away from military installations unless the armaments themselves are highly dangerous—and classified?”

  Christopher’s mouth flattened into a line. “Then we find that factory and wipe it from the earth.”

  “But it’s the how of it I’m trying to determine.” She pushed to her feet. Looking at the plans, she noted what must be ground gun installations. “If we positioned the Demeter right beside the munitions plant and simply unloaded all our guns into them, without a doubt their ground defense would shoot us down before we could do enough real damage.”

  “Our heavy guns are all ether powered.”

  “Still won’t be enough. This,” she said, pointing to the schematic, “is solid stone, doubtless several yards thick. We’ve already talked about it. They’d make it impervious to an airship’s attack. The only way to take it down is from the inside. This is a state-of-the-art facility. Sabotage would be out of the question, so I know I’d have to bring my own explosives in.”

  He raised a brow. “Planting bombs was your strategy all along, before the Demeter came along.”

  “It was, but I’d hoped to take advantage of her strength to help me in my mission.”

  “Our mission,” he said. “And with what were you intending to construct these bombs, had our paths not fortuitously crossed?”

  She grinned. “I earned very high marks in my explosive-device training back at Greenwich. With a few key elements, most of which I can scrounge or concoct, I can build a bomb that would turn the Black Forest into the Black Matchsticks.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Only you would boast about your bomb-making skills.”

  “Remember that time I tried to cook? Tournedos Mirabeau. Nearly burned your lodgings down.”

  “And yourself. Your skirts caught on fire.”

  “Which you tore off and threw out the window. Scared the bobby outside half to death.”

  It was not her most dignified moment, in a life frequently characterized by a shortage of dignity. “I may not be able to cook a meal,” she continued, “but I can cook explosive devices.”

  He looked thoughtful, then strode to the door and opened it. “Follow me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re in espionage, so I suppose it can’t be helped that you aren’t very trusting. In this instance, though, you’re going to have to be.”

  Back through the ship’s passages they went. She mentally reviewed the schematics of the Demeter, trying to ascertain their destination. Admittedly, when she’d looked at the plans, she’d been concerning herself more with all the places on the ship Christopher would visit frequently. But she didn’t recognize the passageway down which he now led her.

  He stopped before a door, then nodded toward it. “Go on. Open it.”

  “There isn’t a famished tiger behind this door, is there?”

  “His roaring at night is so tedious. Now, open it.”

  She did so. And clapped her hands together like a girl stepping into a toyshop.

  It was a long chamber, almost the length of the ship, and lined with racks. Within the racks were cannon shells.

  Christopher grinned. “Welcome to your kitchen.”

  Chapter Six

  DANGER LAY AS close as the nearby mountains, looming and gray. Christopher couldn’t be at rest, not so long as his ship and crew were imperiled. Louisa was on his ship, too. It was his responsibility to keep her protected. Even had they been far from any ship, so long as she was near, he had to ensure her safety.

  His duties kept him occupied all day. The repairing of an airship wasn’t an easy matter, and though his crew and the master carpenter had been well-trained, he found himself called upon continually to make decisions and direct operations. He remained on his feet throughout the day and even took his midday meal standing up.

  Despite the fullness of his hours, he continually found himself walking down the passageway that led to the magazine.

  He stepped inside and watched Louisa as she worked.

  “Is the soup ready yet?”

  He stepped into the chamber and surveyed her workspace. Someone had procured her a table, now covered with a waxed canvas cloth, and here she sat. A series of mirrors and prisms had been set up to bring the sunlight into the magazine, illuminating innumerable parts spread out upon the table. Wires, disassembled shells, and clockwork gears formed a chaotic mass that he couldn’t decipher. It had to make sense to Louisa, for she bent over this jumble with a frown of concentration.

  “You’d better take tea,” she muttered without looking up. “It’s going to be a while.”

  Reflected light flared over the lenses of her spectacles as she tightened the nut around a bolt joining two pieces of metal. More tools were arrayed beside her, including what looked like a watchmaker’s screwdriver and pliers, a soldering iron, and a ebony-handled straight razor.

  He picked up the razor and examined the handle. To CR, Stay sharp, Love, LS.

  “This is mine.” He kept it and the rest of his toiletries in a locked cabinet.

  She did glance up then, briefly. “I thought it would be impolite if I asked one of the crew for their razors.”

  “But theft from me isn’t impolite.”

  “Requisitioning, not stealing.” Showing no remorse, she returned to her work, her hands busy with minute pins and screws. She’d taken the mass of her hair and fastened it up to keep it out of the way, but her efforts had been hasty, and several loose tendrils curled around her face and down the smooth line of her neck.

  The urge to run the tips of his fingers along that silken curve made him knot his hands into fists.

  “Tell me how I can help,” he said. “More shells. Other materials from the ship.”

  “A cup of tea would set my heart aflutter.”

  He scowled. “Perhaps you didn’t see the bars on my sleeve.” He held them up. “Three of them.”

  “You asked.”

  “I’ll send a boy down to wait on you.” Annoyed at how quickly he rose to the bait, he headed toward the door.

  “Don’t need waiting on,” she called after him. “Just a cup of tea. Extra sweet.”

  He was already out in the passageway, so she couldn’t hear his muttered, “I remember.” He used to tease her that she wo
uldn’t have a single nub of a tooth left, the way she drank her sugary tea.

  Allow me this much, she’d retort. It’s my one vice.

  Your most innocuous vice, he would answer.

  I’ll show you vice. And then she’d done just that.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But it was no good. No matter where he was on the ship, no matter how entrenched in his duties, her presence haunted him. All he had to do was walk fifty yards, and he could see her again.

  His anger at her past desertion kept slipping from his grasp, and their recent conversations only proved that he still loved talking with her, the dance and play of their words. Enjoying her company felt like self-betrayal, leading himself through a treacherous, stormy sky.

  Returning topside, he continued to supervise the repairs, answering a hundred questions an hour. The smell of wood and metal hung over the ship, familiar. He drew it deep into his lungs. And yet he caught the faint scent of jasmine—her favorite fragrance. He dismissed the idea. There were several decks that lay between them, and even with his heightened senses, it would be ridiculous to think he could catch her scent all the way up there. Besides, she’d been on a covert mission. Unlikely that she’d periodically doused herself with toilet water.

  Still, she formed a bright phantom at the back of his mind, impossible to ignore.

  When afternoon light stretched shadows across the deck, he ventured back below. Back to the magazine, and her.

  He found her standing with her back to the door, hands on her hips. She faced the table. On it sat an assembled mass of wires, tubes, brass, and wood. The object nearly covered the entire table. The bomb.

  “That’s not the posture of a woman reveling in her success.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at his approach, then back at her handiwork. “I haven’t armed it yet, but don’t break out the celebratory rum anytime soon.”

  “It’s finished, isn’t it? Your work is complete. Though it’ll be damned tough to sneak something that big into the munitions plant.”

  “I can’t make it any smaller. Not if I want it to have enough force to damage the internal structures of the factory.”

  He edged her aside and picked up the bomb easily. “I can carry it.”

  She stared at him for a moment, and he remembered that she hadn’t truly seen a demonstration of his Man O’ War strength. Lightly, he set the explosive device back down onto the table.

  “The ship will need her captain during the operation. You’ll be wanted up here, not on the ground.”

  “Mr. Pullman is prepared to captain the ship if I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “And you’re willing to play stevedore?”

  “Whatever the operation necessitates.” He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to scuttle the mission?”

  “We may have to.” She shook her head. “Bad news, Captain.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We need three of these bombs to destroy the munitions plant.”

  He cursed. “Even my strongest crewmen couldn’t lift those things. Certainly not far enough.”

  Swearing, she kicked the leg of the table. “I went over my calculations four times. Everything in this bomb is exactly as it’s supposed to be. There’s no room for adjustment.” She swore again, elaborately, and he recalled that she’d spent years around sailors, with the language to prove it.

  “Can’t be done.” Pulling off her spectacles, she tossed them angrily beside her tools. “We’re up to our arses in Hapsburgs and have a real chance to strike a blow against them, but it doesn’t bloody matter because the sodding bombs are too sodding big.”

  “Hold.” He faced her, cupping her elbows with his palms.

  Hectic pink stained her cheeks, and her jaw clenched tight. Her hazel eyes glinted with anger—at herself. She’d always been toughest on herself, allowing others far more latitude and giving herself none.

  “We know the answer’s here somewhere,” he continued. “It’s just a matter of reasoning it out.”

  “I’m not fond of being patronized,” she ground out.

  “When in the whole of the time that we’ve known each other have I fed you palliative words? Don’t insult me like that.”

  She muttered an apology.

  “I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “You earned top marks in constructing explosive devices, fine, but you did so in controlled conditions. Now’s the time to show us all what you’re made of. In that devious brain of yours lies the answer to this conundrum. It’s there. Stop gnashing your teeth and pulling your hair, and find it.”

  At first, it appeared as though she’d turn some of her vitriol on him, but then she drew in a ragged breath, visibly fighting for calm.

  “All right,” she said. “All right.” She glanced up. “No wonder you’re so adept at leading your crew. Look how well you managed me.”

  They both realized at the same time that he still held her. He dropped his hands. Too late. Her warmth and feel had already imprinted upon his palms.

  “The first thing I’ll need . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “. . . is whiskey.” Her eyes twinkled.

  “And not for the bomb.”

  “For the bomb-maker.” God, her smile could lay him out on the floor, bleeding and happy.

  Deciding it would be more expeditious to simply fetch the whiskey himself rather than pulling one of the crew off of their duties, he gave her a mock salute and quickly left the magazine. Moments later, he returned with a bottle taken from his private reserve.

  “A thousand blessings upon you.” She uncorked the bottle and put it to her lips. Tilting her head back, she took a healthy swallow. “You can join me if you like.”

  “Very generous of you, considering it’s my whiskey.” But he took the bottle from her and drank. The burn pleasantly scalded its way down his throat.

  For several minutes, they leaned against the table, passing the bottle back and forth. Surprising how companionable the quiet was between them, how easily they shared, like old friends.

  The realization struck him. They had been more than lovers; they’d been friends. Beyond the time they spent in bed, he liked her, liked spending time with her. And when she’d walked out on him, she’d torn a hole in his life, her absence all the harder to bear because of that lost friendship.

  He shook his head, then took another drink. Life could be a regular son of a bitch.

  “Ah!” She slapped her palm against the table and shoved away it. “The explosive!” Facing him, she continued. “The bomb’s size comes from the amount of explosive required. If I can find a way to concentrate it, make it more potent, I can drastically reduce the size of the device.”

  “Making it easier to transport and sneak into the munitions plant.”

  “Precisely.” Excitement brightened her eyes and flushed her cheeks, and she looked so damned beautiful it was a sweet pain.

  He set the bottle down and stood. “Chemistry’s not my strength. Give me something that sails or flies, and I’m a wealth of information, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about concentrating an explosive.”

  “Lucky, then, that I happen to be very good at it.” She paced around the magazine, tapping her chin with her finger, deep in thought. “What’s on this ship that can be used to supercharge an explosive? What can I combine with trinitrotoluene to make it more than double its power?”

  In this, he was at a loss. He knew the best places at which to aim a cannon to create maximum damage. He could read the color and texture of the sky like a scholar pouring over tomes. He could tell from just a glance which of his crew would prove to be the strongest and most reliable. But the arcane world of chemistry left him directionless.

  Ironic, given that his whole existence had been changed by scientific advancement. But you didn’t wonder what made your heart beat. It simply did.

  All he could do was watch Louisa as she paced and ruminated and muttered to herself. To watch the complex machinations of her
mind, the play of thought across her face—it was unexpectedly fascinating. And arousing.

  Suddenly, she stopped in her pacing. Her eyes went wide as she looked him. “Telumium.”

  “What of it?”

  “I read some intercepted communications between Swedish scientists. They were discussing a new use for telumium. When combined with an explosive, such as trinitrotoluene—”

  “TNT.”

  She nodded. “When combined with TNT in different proportions, the telumium infused the explosive with tremendous power. They’ve been experimenting with it to use in mining, but it might also work with a bomb. I can conduct some experiments of my own. What I need,” she said with a concerned press of her mouth, “is a source of telumium.”

  “The Demeter happens to have a telumium source.” He glanced at his left shoulder, then at her. “Me.”

  LOUISA STARED AT Christopher. “Are you sure? The gathering panels mounted in the ship’s bulkheads also contain telumium.”

  “They’re alloys. What’s been grafted to my skin is the pure form of the metal. It’s what you’ll need for your experiments.” Confidence deepened his already sonorous voice.

  He was right. The Swedish scientists alluded to using unadulterated telumium, and if she added in unknown elements, the results would be either ineffective or possibly disastrous. Before she could even open her mouth to agree, however, he’d already taken off his coat and was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.

  She couldn’t take her gaze from the sight of his long, broad-tipped fingers slipping the buttons through their holes. “Ah, um, very good.” She cleared her suddenly dry throat. “You’ll need to, ah, expose the implants so I can take a sample.”

  His only response was a slight tilt in the corner of his mouth. Shrugging out of his waistcoat, his shirt clung adoringly to his shoulders and arms, the material fine enough to hint at the skin beneath. He unknotted then whipped off his neck cloth. It dropped to the growing pile of clothing on the floor. He tugged his shirttails out of his breeches and worked at the buttons, starting at the top.