Scoundrel

by Zoë Archer

  “Very good, London,” Fraser said. “Your father should be here in a moment. We’ll hold this bastard until he gets here.”

  Yet when Fraser pushed away from Day, London kept the revolver trained on Fraser.

  A minute easing of Day’s expression, but something black and horrible twisted Fraser’s face as realization dawned.

  “You little bitch,” he spat.

  Day’s fist into Fraser’s face stopped the words and sent Fraser sprawling back into the dust. Fraser flopped back, motionless, while blood from his mouth spattered onto his grimy shirtfront.

  London lowered the revolver, shaking. Day found his gun and holstered it. He kicked dirt onto the torch, extinguishing it, then appeared at her side. It took him a moment to pry her fingers loose from the handle of the weapon. He tucked it into the other side of his belt. Before she could breathe, he pressed a hard, fast kiss to her mouth.

  “Brave Amazon,” he murmured.

  Sounds of more footsteps and voices shouting sliced the air. Men from the ship. Her father.

  “Come on,” Day said. He sprang up the side of the pit and quickly pulled her up after him. As soon as her feet touched the ground, he took her hand, and they ran.

  “London!” her father roared behind them.

  She did not stop. That volume of her life was over, the covers closed and the book burnt. An unknown fate yawned before her in the darkness. With Bennett Day at her side, she kept running into the blank, unwritten future.

  Chapter 6

  At Sea

  Bennett ran through the small waves that lapped the rocky beach, London Harcourt in his arms. She had her own arms loosely, impersonally around his neck, and kept her gaze fixed firmly ahead. The caique bobbed at anchor. Bennett could not actually see the boat, thanks to Athena, but he knew where it was supposed to be. Shouts and the sounds of pursuit neared.

  The water splashed around his boots, then up to his thighs, and the back of London’s skirt grew soaked despite his efforts to keep her dry.

  “You can’t carry me and swim,” London said with a surprisingly level voice. “But I don’t think I can get very far on my own.”

  “Not swimming,” he said.

  “Then where the hell are you going? There’s nothing out there but water.”

  He smiled grimly to himself at her coarse language. It didn’t take much to strip away the ladylike polish to find the wicked woman beneath. But what such a woman might be capable of, he didn’t know. He expected at any moment that she would turn on him like a cornered cat, raking him with her claws.

  “Don’t trust appearances,” he advised. He ran a little farther into the water, then, with a small oof, they knocked into the hull of the caique, or where Bennett assumed the caique was supposed to be. It certainly felt like it.

  “Brought some friends, I see,” Athena’s voice said from somewhere above them. “Always so popular. Come, I will help.”

  London started when Athena’s hand appeared from the air. Her surprise did not last long, and she took the offered assistance to clamber over the rail of the cloaked boat. Bennett watched her disappear into the shielding magic, her trim ankles vanishing last into the middle of the air. He did so love his work.

  The calloused hand of Nikos Kallas emerged to help pull Bennett aboard. Bennett grasped the captain’s hand, using it for leverage as he climbed on board, and he felt a buzzing in his head and bones as he crossed the border of Athena’s magic. Once on the boat, the caique became visible to him, with London, Athena, and Kallas standing on deck. Athena looked pale from holding the spell for so long.

  “You know how to sail?” demanded Kallas.

  “Only a bit,” answered Bennett. He glanced around. “We lost our crew?”

  Athena said, “They fled to the Frenchmen on the island while you were gone.”

  Kallas spit over the rail of the boat. “Cowards. Couldn’t handle a few crumbs of cannon fire. When I see them again, I’ll flay them, use their hides for sails. Now, you and the women must serve as crew.” He turned to Athena with a scowl. “Or are your noble hands too soft to tighten a line?”

  Loftily, Athena said, “I am not afraid of hard work.”

  “Good—then make ready to come about,” ordered Kallas. “Day, hoist the mainsail. Sheet it flat. Then I’ll raise the foresail.”

  “Tell me how to help,” London said, stepping forward.

  “When I say, you’ll hoist the jib, but keep them slack,” Kallas answered, pointing to the foremost triangular sail. She immediately went to stand ready. Bennett, hoisting the sail, shook his head slightly in amazement. Here she was, on a boat with the man who’d killed her husband, fleeing her family and the only life she had ever known. All done for a good cause. She was poised to work, watching Kallas for his signal.

  She did turn when her father’s voice boomed from the beach. “What the bloody blazes happened to them?” he bellowed to the men with him. “They were just here! Day took my damned daughter, you sods! I want her back!”

  A film of pain glazed her eyes as she stared at him. Bennett started to go to her, but stopped when she steeled herself and turned back to her task. Edgeworth didn’t know of his daughter’s willing defection, but he’d learn of it soon enough, as soon as Fraser came to. Edgeworth and his minions couldn’t see the caique just fifty feet in front of them. Or, at least, they couldn’t as long as Athena’s magic held.

  Chernock stood beside Edgeworth, panting with exertion. The sorcerer peered into the darkness, then smiled coldly. He picked up a rock, muttered something over it, then threw it hard toward the boat. The rock hit the caique’s hull with a thud. Athena cried out as if she’d been punched, and Kallas leapt to her side, supporting her as she sank down to the deck. The air hummed, and the caique shimmered.

  “There,” Chernock crowed. “Simple schoolgirl magic.”

  He’d broken Athena’s spell, and now they were visible. Gunfire split the air, and chips of wood flew from the masts and rail. Bennett dove from his position to grab London, shielding her from the flying bullets.

  “Just get us out of here,” Athena gasped to Kallas beside her.

  He tore himself away to hoist the anchor. As soon as it was raised, he ran to the wheel. “Man the jib!” he shouted to Bennett.

  Bennett unfolded himself from around London to grab the sail’s line, and she quickly rolled away from him as if to escape his touch. The wind caught in the unfurled sails, pushing the caique out to sea. A bullet tore through the foresail as they came about.

  “Careful, you swine!” Edgeworth shouted. “My daughter is somewhere on that boat.”

  The gunfire slowed, then stopped. Bennett, pulling hard to secure the sails, could only watch as London stood and revealed herself to her father. She solemnly gazed at him from her position at the rail, her hands gripping the wood.

  “London!” Edgeworth strode into the surf, but he’d never catch them. They were already making for open water. “Jump, London!”

  She stared at Edgeworth, as if memorizing him. She raised a hand. “Good-bye, Father.”

  Silence. Edgeworth gaped. Confusion creased his face before anguish took its place. Bennett actually pitied the man. Betrayed by his child. The moment stretched out, tight and piercing, as father and daughter held each other’s gaze over the surf. Bennett wondered if London might actually jump from the boat and go back to her father, back to the familiar and safe.

  London turned away from her father. Tears glistened on her cheeks, yet she did not falter as she helped Bennett with the sails. In the shimmer of night, hair wild, face sparkling with tears, she looked like a heartbroken angel, and Bennett’s heart broke with hers. She slipped away from his comforting hand on hers.

  Kallas guided the caique deftly through the shoals and rocks surrounding Delos. Despite the darkness, the captain knew these waters, and soon the deep navy velvet of the sky met the inky black sea uninterrupted, the only sounds from the snap of the sails and the waves slapping against the bow.
A strong, fresh breeze gusted, taking them away.

  Dawn over the Aegean. It began pearl gray, then the sun broke the eastern horizon, gilding the sky and sea into a white-gold luster. Wisps of coral clouds surfed the bowl of heaven before the air shifted blue and clear. Far-off crests of islands broke the mirrored water like tawny dolphins surfacing, playful and serious. All around was the scent of brine and wind.

  And coffee. As Bennett manned the wheel, Kallas brewed strong, bitter coffee over a bronze brazier, using a long-handled briki pot to boil the water. He stirred in spoon fuls of ground coffee with the austere ceremony of a high priest. Athena, sitting nearby, couldn’t quite hide her approval of his methods or the dark, rich foam that formed in the pot as the coffee brewed. As soon as the foam rose to the top of the briki, Kallas divided it into four waiting cups, then poured the coffee itself. He disappeared into the quarterdeck house, then emerged with a painted tin, which he opened and handed around.

  “My mother’s koulourakia,” Kallas said as Bennett helped himself to a few buttery pastries. “Good with coffee.”

  After yielding the helm to Kallas, Bennett moved to take a cup of coffee to London, but Athena intercepted him. She plucked the cup from his hand and gave it to London, casting him a warning look. The witch cautioned him with her eyes. Stay back.

  An animal is never so dangerous than when wounded.

  With a small nod, Bennett paced away, taking his own cup of coffee. He leaned his back against the rail while munching on the pastry and sipping the wonderfully punitive coffee. The morning came to life all around him. A breakfast at sea. Life was full of many small pleasures.

  But it was a hard pleasure, darker and more bitter than the coffee. He glanced over at London, seated on the deck with her back against the railing. She stared down at the cup in her hands, swirling the coffee, before taking a sip. She choked, coughed.

  “You like it?” Kallas asked.

  “It’s very…assertive,” she gasped.

  Athena’s soft laugh joined Kallas’s chuckle before they realized they were laughing together. Each busied themselves with the suddenly complex task of drinking coffee.

  Bennett watched London as she nursed her coffee. He wished he hadn’t kissed her. He knew now what he was missing, and, having tasted her once, burned to do it again. He had a sudden wish to go back to that moment, when she didn’t know who he was and all that had been between them was desire. Now, her anger and uncertainty were palpable things that crouched on the deck, snarling and snapping at any who dared approach.

  Yet he couldn’t stop himself. He crossed the deck to stand near her. In the dawn light, her hair became caramel and her skin pink-hued ivory. When she turned her eyes up to him, he saw that they were not merely dark brown, but a shifting mosaic of hues, chocolate and amber and even flecks of gold and green.

  “Come to pay your respects to the bereaved?” she asked.

  He resisted the urge to strike back with his own cutting words, but it was hard. He was used to defending himself against assaults—the physical kind, anyway.

  “I will tell your fortune in the coffee grounds,” Athena said quickly. She walked over to them and held out her hand. “Finish your cup.”

  London shut Bennett from her sight as she downed her coffee in one swallow. She shuddered, then gave the cup to Athena. The witch went into the quarterdeck house, then reemerged with a saucer. Athena placed the saucer over the cup and handed them both back to London.

  “Move them both counterclockwise,” the witch advised. “Close your eyes and concentrate. Open your mind.”

  London shut her eyes and followed Athena’s guidance. Bennett stared at London, wondering where her mind was taking her, wishing he could be there, in her thoughts.

  “Now, flip the cup and saucer over,” Athena instructed. “Wait a few moments, but keep your mind focused. Shut out everything around you.”

  Ideas and feelings flickered across London’s face, and, even silent, she radiated a complexity Bennett might never decode. He glanced up to find Athena watching him with something very like pity, making him scowl.

  “Open your eyes and turn the cup over again,” said Athena. “Remove the saucer.”

  London did so. Both she and Bennett gazed down into her cup, where thick coffee grounds formed swirls and patterns along the white ceramic. Athena took the cup back from London and stared intently at the inside of the cup. The witch started in surprise.

  “What does it say?” London asked.

  Even Kallas at the wheel leaned closer to hear Athena’s divination.

  “Many knots, like the branches of a tree,” Athena murmured. “You are deeply enmeshed in a tangled problem. The branches form a bridge, saying that you must make a difficult decision. And I see a man. He beckons to you, he will give you something, something important, but his hands are empty.”

  “So he has nothing to offer,” said London.

  Athena shook her head, then gazed directly at Bennett, staking him with a look. “He has more than he realizes.”

  “Is this a prophecy?” asked Bennett.

  “It is what may be.”

  “And what of certainty?” London asked.

  “Nothing is ever certain.”

  London tipped her head back so she could watch the sky. The sorrowful loveliness of her face hurt Bennett in the center of his chest. “I’m learning that,” she said softly.

  He ached to touch her, even for a moment. He began to reach for her.

  She straightened, drawing about her the mantle of propriety, and he dropped his hand. Then she looked down and saw saltwater whitely drying on her navy skirt. “One thing is certain, my clothes are a disaster. Yet I haven’t anything else to wear.” Clothing, it seemed, was easier to contemplate than figuring out how to untie the knots tangling her life.

  “You are welcome to whatever I have,” Athena said.

  London gave her a nod of thanks. “That’s kind of you. But there’s no way for me to pay for anything. I do not have any money.” Realization dawned, and it pained Bennett to watch it in her face, the accompanying bleakness that hollowed her out like a glacier’s path. “I have…nothing.”

  He tried to bring her back from that abyss. “The Blades take care of their own. We provide whatever’s needed. Even clothing.”

  Her eyes flew to his, and instead of despair, they were filled with a sudden anger. “Including widows’ weeds?”

  He felt the stab of her words, as much, if not more, than the curved Moroccan knife her husband had tried to gut him with. That wound had faded into a pale line across his right side. Sometimes he forgot about it altogether. He knew just then that London’s wounds would last much longer.

  “She knows,” said Athena.

  “She knows,” London snapped. “Apparently, she is the last to know about her husband’s murder. And who committed it.” She glared at Bennett, but he refused to back down.

  “Me,” he said.

  “It was not murder,” Athena said gently. “It was not deliberately or maliciously done.”

  London’s hurt gaze turned to Athena. “So, you were there, too?”

  “No, but I know Bennett and I know our cause. We are soldiers, not murderers. One kills in the heat of battle. The other coldly destroys life.”

  “Have you killed?” London asked Athena.

  The witch shook her head. “Thank the Fierce Maiden I have not had to, not yet. But I know it is not lightly done by the Blades. It is not lightly done by Bennett.”

  London looked away. The ghost of Lawrence Harcourt lingered, hovering over the deck. After a moment, she said in a low voice, “The Heirs will be coming for us, won’t they? Fraser. Chernock. My…father.”

  Bennett was glad that, at the least, Harcourt’s death could be momentarily overshadowed by more immediate threats. “We’ll stay ahead of them,” he vowed. “Kallas’s boat is a fleet little thing.”

  “Only Hermes flies faster,” Kallas said with a raffish grin from behind the wheel
.

  “Even so, they will come,” said London.

  Bennett knew she spoke the truth, but he wasn’t deterred. Being a Blade meant living cheek by jowl with the enemy. He was used to it. “Which means we’ll find the Source first.”

  “You’re so cocksure,” she said.

  “Always.” That wasn’t entirely true—not where she was concerned. With most women, he knew exactly what he wanted from them and usually got precisely that, no more, no less. He might desire their bodies, their company. Sometimes he played the seducer to gain information for the Blades. And when his desire had been met, he could continue on his way and think of each woman as a fond, often salacious, memory. They would take other men into their beds after he had gone, sometimes their husbands, sometimes new lovers. None of which troubled him.

  London Harcourt proved to be much more complicated than this. He’d killed her husband. She wasn’t a Blade. She wasn’t an object of simple lust. She turned him into a walking nerve, aware of her every movement, every emotion. He wanted her, his enemy’s widow.

  He needed to focus, had to be sharp. He could exert discipline over himself. Hadn’t he nearly been starved out when holed up in an abandoned nunnery in Sicily, protecting a Source from the Heirs and their mercenaries? By the time he, Catullus Graves, and Michael Bramfield had killed or chased off the attackers, Bennett had lost almost a stone and was half-dead from thirst. Surely he could handle the torment of having London Harcourt nearby, close but unreachable. But he felt like Tantalus. The kiss he and London had shared had been revelatory, and he wanted more. Wanted and couldn’t have, not again. For a handful of moments, she’d been his, and now she was lost.

  “We don’t even know what we are looking for,” she pointed out.

  “What did the ruins on Delos tell you?” Athena asked.

  London recited what she had translated from the columns: “Upon the island in the form of a dolphin, find there the stream that sings. Its voice will guide you farther to the terrible waterborne gift of the golden god.”