by Zoë Archer
“And the fact that our intended abductee is, by your own admission, an exceptionally beautiful young woman has no influence on your decision,” Athena noted dryly.
Bennett flashed her a grin. “I’m hurt and offended you doubt the purity of my motives.”
“Where Bennett Day is concerned, there are no such things as pure motives. But Harcourt’s widow will learn, at some point, who you truly are.”
“I know,” he said flatly. If he had his way, he’d postpone that unpleasantness for as long as possible.
She drew an unsteady breath. “I am going to see if there is a spell for seasickness. I brought several books along for reference.”
What would Athena be without her books? “That’s what made your baggage so deuced heavy. Here I was thinking you’d been kind enough to pack a millstone. Should we need to grind wheat.”
Athena made a face at him, which wasn’t difficult, considering her infirm state, before picking her way back down below the deck. Kallas had ceded the helm to one of his men as he adjusted a sail. She forced herself to walk steadily past him, as genteel as if promenading the elegant Plateia Kolonaki square rather than the tilting deck of a humble cargo caique. Kallas pretended not to notice her, but Bennett saw with a smile the way the captain gnawed on the stem of his pipe once she had passed. Even on the supposed freedom of the sea, one couldn’t escape the eternal dance between men and women.
Kallas was a born mariner, that Bennett understood. The captain had kept pace with the Heirs’ sleek steamship, staying just out of sight so that none but the most eagle-eyed lookout might detect even a trace of the caique. Athena’s spell would—should—take care of the rest.
Bennett turned his face into the wind, watching as the cloak of dusk descended upon the sky and water. Soon, the stars would emerge. He hoped it wasn’t a bright night. They would need the shelter of darkness for the plan to run smoothly.
Maybe Athena was right. Bennett would probably be much less likely to abduct the Heirs’ linguistic expert if the linguist was a man, particularly a fat man. Hefting such bulk could prove difficult, and on cold nights, Bennett’s knees sometimes troubled him. But his interest in London Harcourt troubled him more. He wanted to believe that only her lovely face and slim body drew his attention. She was a woman exceedingly pleasant to look upon. Touching her, learning the secrets of her body with his own—those would be pleasures he greatly anticipated, as he might with any enticing female.
Yet there was something more to her, the fire of intelligence, the gleam of yearning for independence, that drew him in, even in the few minutes they had spent in each other’s company. She wasn’t a sheltered virgin seeking to lose her innocence. She wasn’t a bored, house-bound wife searching for shallow thrills. London Harcourt burned with desire for the world, for visceral experience. As he did. But he had the good fortune to be born male, and so the world opened to him like a feast, while London Harcourt could only look on and starve. What a pleasure it would be to feed her.
If she ever discovered his identity, he would be doing nothing with her.
He shook his head, made himself chuckle as if what he felt were merely pangs of unsatisfied lust. It had been a long, long time since he mooned over a woman. Those he wanted, he got. He could only give his lovers provisional affection, which they accepted, and so he moved on to the next. There was always a next.
Now here was a woman he couldn’t, shouldn’t have. No wonder he thought himself intrigued. There were more pressing concerns. Foremost was how to sneak aboard the Heirs’ ship, past armed guards, the father, and the deuced Fraser, and then steal a whole woman from under their noses.
Thinking of this, Bennett hummed an old sea shanty.
“Considering the certain hell we’re going to catch tonight,” one of the sailors muttered at him, “you’re a calm and cheerful son of a bitch.”
Bennett grinned. “I do so enjoy life’s little challenges.”
“Is there anything else you’ll be wanting, madam?” asked Sally.
London looked at her maid’s reflection in the mirror propped against a tin cup, a brush midway to her unbound hair. Sally had conquered her seasickness long enough to help London out of her gown before bed, but it seemed, alas, a losing battle for the poor maid.
“I’m all right for the rest of the night, Sally,” London answered. “But is there anything I can get you? I’ve heard plain water biscuits can help. Perhaps the ship’s cook has some.”
Sally gulped and gave her head a feeble shake, which made her moan. “I couldn’t possibly…eat anything, madam. Just a little lie down, I think, and I’ll be…fresh as Easter morning.” That seemed doubtful, considering the waxen, greenish cast to Sally’s face.
“Please,” London implored, “get to bed. I can put my clothes away.”
“Thank…thank you, madam.” Then Sally dashed from London’s cabin to her own across the passageway, slamming her door behind her, but leaving the door to London’s cabin hanging open. London rose from the small desk she used as a vanity and gently closed the door, but not before hearing the miserable sounds of Sally surrendering her dinner to a chamber pot. London winced in sympathy, grateful that, landlubber that she was, she somehow escaped the blight of seasickness. Well, it should not last too long for poor Sally. They would reach Delos by late tomorrow morning.
Remembering her father’s warnings, London locked the cabin door. She needed to be vigilant. Though it seemed unlikely that anyone could get aboard the steamship. Aside from the cannons that could blast away at any ship foolish enough to get within firing range, armed men patrolled the top deck. London had seen the rifles slung across the men’s backs, but the firearms weren’t nearly as intimidating as the hard faces and large bodies of the men themselves. They seemed more like hired mercenaries than sailors.
If her father thought them necessary, she could only imagine what kind of threat loomed. Though he often treated her like some fragile hothouse orchid, London knew that in everything else Joseph Edgeworth was exacting and precise, not the kind of man given to wild and fanciful elaboration.
Soon, they would reach Delos, where London’s work would begin. Despite the shadowy threat that loomed somewhere out in the world, her excitement could not be tamped down. The mythical birthplace of Apollo and Artemis. And all those writings upon the ruins for her to decipher. How marvelous it was to be.
She turned her attention to the gown laid across her narrow berth and readied it to be put away. London fussed with the hooks, knowing that Sally liked to keep her gowns tidy. It seemed rather unnecessary to maintain fashion out here. This was not a holiday jaunt, and this ship most definitely was not intended for anything but the most rudimentary services besides transportation and, dear Lord, warfare. Though the steamship had cabins for passengers, they were all small and plain. Perhaps the captain’s quarters held a little more luxury.
London carefully packed her gown into her trunk, wedged into a corner of the cabin, before returning to her nighttime toilette. She drew her wrapper close over her nightgown and sat back down at the desk. Her dark flaxen hair required thorough brushing, or else it ran the risk of looking like the inside of a mattress. And, as much as she did not want to draw attention to herself as one of two women aboard the ship, she didn’t want to resemble bedding.
She drew the boar bristles through her hair, idly watching her reflection in the mirror. Thomas Fraser had been exceptionally attentive tonight at dinner, asking her again and again if she found the food all right, or if it was too simple for her ladylike tastes. Such fawning felt out of character for him, particularly considering the way in which he barked orders at the stewards serving them, as if they were not human beings with thoughts and feelings. London knew it wasn’t polite to be overly solicitous to servants, yet it bothered her to treat them shabbily.
A thought had her brush still in mid-stroke. Good God, she hoped Fraser didn’t expect to court her. She knew with absolute certainty that he would never approve of her l
inguistic studies—no doubt he preferred to use books as heavy objects for clubbing people—and she would not marry another man who shared her father’s profession. If she married again. There had been little in her own marriage to recommend the state. She still nursed her ideas of love, crafted over years of reading about it, and she did get quite lonely. It could not be denied, as well—she craved a man’s touch. Her own had lost its excitement long ago.
Ben Drayton’s bedroom laugh tumbled through her mind. Surely that scoundrel understood how to touch a woman, and touch her well. Her eyes drifted shut, imagining such an encounter. Just to think of those clever hands on the curve of her shoulders, the soft flesh of her breasts, sent a thick wave of sensation cascading through her, warming the place between her thighs. She trailed her free hand along her collarbone, back and forth, letting her traitorous mind and body pretend that it was Drayton who caressed her. That he would push down her wrapper, peel away her nightgown and lay her upon the berth before settling his own weight over her, positioning himself between her legs. London’s nipples tightened beneath the soft lawn. Her hand began to trail lower to her breasts.
She stilled, sensing another presence in the cabin. London’s eyes opened, and she met the hot blue gaze of Ben Drayton in the mirror.
London jumped up from the chair and whirled to face him. The brush dropped from her hand to clatter on the floor. Drayton leaned against the cabin door, arms crossed over his broad chest. He seemed quite at ease, except for the fiery hunger in his eyes and noticeable arousal tenting his breeches.
“Don’t stop,” he rumbled.
Her heart slammed into her ribs as heat suffused her face. “How…how did you get in here?” she gasped. “I didn’t hear the door. And…it was locked.”
“A sorry day when a simple lock keeps me from a lady’s bedchamber.” He pushed away from the door and took a step toward her, a small smile tugging at a corner of his mouth.
London backed up until she pressed against the cool iron of the hull.
He came nearer. The cabin felt much, much smaller with him in it. He was quite male and quite close. “I haven’t much time.”
She dare not ask, but couldn’t help herself. “Time for what?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, God,” she gulped, her eyes flicking automatically toward the bed.
He laughed quietly. “Not that. Taking my time makes it so much better for everyone, and right now I’m on a tight schedule.”
“Well, that is a relief,” she said tartly, then shut her mouth, shocked by her own brazenness. There was a strange man in her cabin, and she was talking back! What she really should be doing is—
“Don’t be tiresome and scream,” he said.
That was exactly what London intended to do. She took a deep gulp of air.
He moved like a striking snake, a blur of motion she barely saw. He turned her around and wrapped her in the steel of his arms, one hand covering her mouth. A spike of terror clawed its way up her throat. She tried to scream. His clamped hand stifled the sound. She struggled against him, but he was solid with muscle, immovable. London thrashed about, yet all she managed to do was exhaust herself.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured in her ear. “We don’t hurt people.”
We? Who was we? She wasn’t soothed at all. She didn’t care what Drayton said, she had to get free, had to fight him. Her muscles screamed with effort as she struggled. She couldn’t even put her feet down or gain enough space to open her mouth and bite him.
Drayton glanced over at the small brass clock on the desk. “Look at the time. Blast. We’ve got to go.” He didn’t sound winded or troubled at all, more like he was mildly concerned about missing a train, whilst London panted for breath.
He loosened his hand from her mouth. Thank God! London gulped in enough air to scream. Before she could, he slipped his cravat from his neck and gagged her with it. She tasted the musk of his skin in the silk. Not that long ago, she would have gladly learned what Drayton’s skin tasted like. Now it only reinforced the fact that he completely overpowered her.
He pulled off the belt from London’s robe and deftly wrapped it around her pinned wrists before knotting it. She tugged at the belt. It wouldn’t give. She was bound, and helpless.
Anger was better than the fear that threatened to swallow her.
“Next time,” he grinned as she glared up at him, “I’ll let you tie me up.”
Fortunately, she was gagged, otherwise her mother never would have forgiven her for the curses that she tried to spew at him. And then she was easily swung up and slung over his shoulder like a sack of feathers.
“You need to eat more,” he said.
She didn’t hear him open the cabin door, but suddenly they were slipping noiselessly into the passageway. He shut the door and fiddled with it for a moment, and she understood he was locking it. If he got her off the ship with no one noticing, they would probably assume she was safe in her cabin. London’s absence would only be known in the morning, when Sally tried to come in. Panic fueled her into another struggle. If she could just stay in her cabin, surely everything would be fine. But that feeble hope died as Drayton eased down the passageway.
She prayed they would meet her father, the captain, a sailor, anyone, but fortune didn’t favor her that night. Once, an armed sailor neared, en route to his duties, but Drayton held back to the shadow of a bulkhead. London tried to shout, despite the gag. Maybe even a small noise could alert the sailor.
“Quiet,” Drayton said lowly in her ear. “A peep out of you, and that trigger-eager bloke will fill both of us with bullets. Don’t take that chance.”
Was he right? London was afraid to find out.
The sailor continued on his way.
Drayton climbed the steep iron stairs that led to the top deck. A peculiar, sweet fog embraced the steamship, rendering everything dreamlike and murky. Sailors patrolled, yet none saw her and Drayton as he slid to the railing. No one was coming to her aid. Drayton was going to abduct her. Off the ship, she would have no chance. No! She fought anew, twisting her body this way and that.
Yet she couldn’t break Drayton’s hold. With one arm clamped firmly around her waist, he grasped a rope tied to a small, thick hook hitched onto the railing, and eased them both onto the other side of the rail. Then he rappelled silently down the side of the ship into the darkness. London could not believe he possessed the strength to hold her and his own weight with one hand, expecting at any moment that they would both go plummeting into the sea. But hold them, he did, all the way down the rope to a tiny canoe-like boat, anchored to the other end of the rope.
She felt herself lowered to the floor of the boat, and watched as Drayton unhitched the hook with a nimble flick of his wrist. He caught the hook as it sailed down.
“A little gift from our friend Catullus Graves,” he whispered at her with a wink.
London had no idea who Catullus Graves was, and didn’t much care as the boat, free from its tie to the steamship, glided back and away. London raised her head enough to see the ship steam on into the night, leaving her behind.
Father! her mind screamed.
“Now,” Drayton said softly, “it shouldn’t be long now before—ah! Here we are.”
Appearing from the darkness like a ghost ship was a caique, wreathed in the same sweet fog that had enveloped the steamer. A few dim lanterns hung from the mainsail boom, allowing London to see the hazy shapes of people moving around on deck. She’d been taken. She was alone. Alone with a boat full of strangers. London began to shake. She flinched when Drayton put a large, warm hand on her ankle.
“Don’t be frightened,” he said with surprising kindness and sincerity. “We truly won’t harm you.”
London tried to turn away, blinking back tears. She wished she’d never met Ben Drayton. She wished she hadn’t seen those blasted writings on her father’s desk. She wished she was back in her own home, safely ensconced in her library, reading old tomes
in front of the fire and merely dreaming of faraway places.
They were idle wishes. The caique drew up next to the canoe, and London squeezed her eyes shut.
“You certainly know how to treat a lady,” a woman’s accented voice said dryly. “The poor thing is terrified.”
“I know, Athena,” Drayton said, impatient. “Give me a hand, Kallas,” he added in Greek.
London felt herself picked up and passed from one set of hands to another before being set on her feet. Opening her eyes, London found she was on the deck of the caique. Two Greek sailors stared at her before slinking away, bearing the little canoe. There was another sailor, not particularly tall, but built like a bull, looking at her with an unreadable expression as he worked a pipe stem back and forth in his teeth. A woman, dark and regal, came forward, dressed more appropriately for an afternoon salon than a nighttime kidnapping in the middle of the Aegean Sea. London shied away when the woman reached for her.
“Come now, I only mean to untie you,” the woman said gently in English. “But, mind, if I do, do not try and jump over the side. Your father’s ship is long gone, and we are far from the shore. You could not swim the distance. Yes?”
Seeing that the woman was right, London nodded. Quickly, the binding at her wrists was loosened until London was able to pull her hands free. She snatched the gag from her mouth, then coughed to clear her dry throat.
Finally, she rasped, “Who are you people? What do you want with me?”
“Everything will be revealed, in time,” Drayton said, coming forward. He held up his hands, placating, as London edged back. “All we want is to have a conversation with you.”
“A conversation,” London repeated in disbelief. She was certain that at any moment she would be assaulted or murdered.
“A conversation,” echoed Drayton evenly. “Merely that, and nothing else.”
London’s fear shifted, reshaping itself. Hot, unchecked anger poured through her. She’d never felt anything like it before, but it filled her with a newfound power. When the woman and Drayton took a few steps toward her, London grabbed a nearby bottle from a crate and brandished it like a club. Miraculously, both Drayton and the woman stopped their advance.