Nathan stared at his notes without seeing them. Thin pages of diagrams lay crisply in his hands, the vibration of Goliath’s massive engines causing the papers to tremble against his fingers, blurring straight lines and scribbled thoughts. For a moment, he didn’t recognize any of it, as if someone had simply placed a loose collection of obscure markings in his lap and walked away. But the notes were all his, just written in a clear and undistracted moment, the kind he’d not had since Gilda had appeared from the storm.
He released a frustrated breath through his teeth, glancing toward the window, now desperate for distraction. He should never have opened the door. He knew better. There was no way to talk to her, no way to reason, no way to remain fair, or decent, or honorable, when she decided to draw her tender weapons and show no mercy.
Is that what you’d like? Another man’s hands on me tonight, drawing my skirt up and pushing his way in, just the way you want to?
He still couldn’t believe she’d said it, along with all the other cuts intended to draw blood, even as she rubbed herself against him, teasing and caressing him until he could do nothing but shake with need. In his darkest moments, he imagined losing all control, holding her down and taking her in ways that none of her other lovers had even dreamed of. Let her taunt, let her tease, he could be just as ruthless, every bit as brutal and imaginative.
In the hours after he’d thrown her out, his fantasies had refused to abate, offering nothing but ripe images of her naked stomach, the lush curve of her hip, the plump rise of her buttocks and the tight slit running between them. He was mad with it, unable to sleep, barely able to breathe. When the insanity finally passed, it surrendered no relief, leaving him cold, empty and unrecognizable, even to himself.
He swore under his breath, putting his notes aside. Why, Gilda? Why taunt me to the very brink of sanity, turn us both into the basest of animals? What purpose can it possibly serve? Just let me go. I can’t stay. I can’t stand the man I have become, the man you see when you look at me. A reflection of a mistress you hate, a father you despise, a thing once used and discarded but still owned. A helpless witness. A jealous fool. Just let me go, for the love of God. Let me go…
The hard clang of a bell rang through the compartment, signaling that landing procedures had begun. There was an audible crackling and folding of papers, passengers shuffling back to their seats, conversations cut short with apologies and brisk laughter.
Nathan straightened his notes and slid them back into his case, leaning against the backrest to catch first sight of the island through the windows. He was lucky enough to be seated portside as the propellers swiveled, forcing the big airship to descend and bring Kiris into direct view below.
The island’s rocky cliffs appeared first, steep and marred with pale runoffs, crested with dark green shrubs and twisting trees, and surrounded by glittering turquoise shallows. A solitary road cut a diagonal line from the far shore to the highest peak, leading to the air tower perched at the summit, its long cylinder rise painted red and white, its crown of glass glinting with hard sunlight. He focused on the gray hangar beside it, wondering if he’d miss the endless nights he’d spent there, working even as the first blush of sunrise appeared over the ocean. It had been his private world for so many years, his sanctuary from both the past and the present.
The airship drifted lower, the salted breeze off the waves flowing through the windows, the ocean turning a brilliant shade of green underneath them. A rocky break slid into view, frothing with the weight of crashing waves. Waterside hangars sprouted up behind an immense stretch of dry beach, long plank roads and steel rails crossing the sand, sturdy docks and air masts sectioning the water. Horse cart teams pulled small tanks and equipment crews to and fro, clopping to meet arrivals, or waiting along the docks, cast in shadow by hovering airships.
He counted five of Goliath’s class, their giant rudders draped with lines, thick metal cables securing their monstrous silver bodies to air masts and scaffolding. Pale gas hoses snaked along the dock edges, running in parallel with cargo compartments rolling along rails, small winches and cranes securing all things in their places.
Glimpses of the Sinclair mansion could be seen between the airships, its eclectic gables, turrets and cupolas glowing buttery yellow in the sun, its elaborate decks, with their ivory spindle work and fanciful detail overlooking well-tended gardens and trickling fountains. It was a fairytale structure of twenty-three rooms, three ballrooms and a crystal atrium, a product of Gilda’s imagination and the expensive expertise of an architect from the capital city, both more interested in creating something of rare interest than of practical value.
The hangars were far more interesting to the military commanders who visited the air station, and far more useful for the men and women who maintained it. Yet Gilda could never be expected to stay in a hangar or a bunkhouse, so there was a mansion.
Goliath skated to port, the rudder creaking through the airframe as the big ship tilted, banking wide to head into her slip nose first. The sound of the propellers dropped to a low hum, the engines swiveling forward to slow the dirigible to a floating stop. Cables dropped from the nose and aft reels, hissing as they wound down to waiting ground crews.
Nathan released a tense breath through his teeth, gathering himself for the task ahead. A few minutes alone with her, just a few…to say the things that needed to be said, perhaps even an apology for the previous night, though he’d meant every word. It should be civil between them now, regardless. No more games. No more torments, not in the last hours. It could all be put behind them, for old Sinclair’s sake.
One by one, the propellers fell silent, spinning in whispers long after they had been shut down.
He waited until the other passengers had left, pretending to collect his things, glancing every few seconds at the thinning line by the doorway.
Laughter erupted from the control deck, followed by the sweep of a skirt brushing along the steps. Gilda appeared in the corridor, led by the Duke of Sutton in a ridiculous purple suit, his thin, pale hand clasping hers, as if leading her to dance.
She laughed again, high color in her cheeks, her blue eyes sparkling.
Nathan felt his teeth grind.
Perhaps the Duke is not yet retired.
She’d said it even as she rubbed against him, even as she sighed and teased him, encouraged him to take her right there against the wall.
He cursed under his breath, furious that he’d been so patently idiotic, as naïve as ever when it came to her games. Poor Nate. I suppose you thought that night would lead to a beautiful spring wedding…
“Damn you,” he said softly, slipping just out of sight as the Duke led her through the exit hatch. For both our sakes, just let me go…
3 Hours Prior to the Attack
Gilda winced, holding her breath as several maids tightened the laces of her corset, the fine boning creaking in protest, her breasts crushed together under the stiff fabric. The job was neatly done, and neatly hid under a red satin bodice with off-the-shoulder bows for sleeves, the luster of garnets sewn into the low neckline. She stood awkwardly in the heavy skirt, its draping crimson sashes iridescent in the glow of crystal lamps.
Moving to the oval mirror, she frowned. Ball gowns were as truly monstrous as battleships, and both were instruments of war, things one kept in close inventory but hoped never to use in anger.
The maids continued layering her delicate armor, fitting a draping diamond collar around her neck, and drop earrings that flashed hot white sparks in the looking glass. They braided her hair and pinned it with rosebuds, slipping long satin gloves up her arms and clasping pearl bracelets at her wrists.
When complete, the vision in the mirror was surreal, a woman unrecognizable, shimmering and bright against the shadows of teak walls and oriental carpets. An illusion, surely.
One of the maids placed a fan in her hand, arranging her fingers on it, as if she had suddenly lost the sense to hold it on her own.
“Yes, thank you,” she said faintly.
“Mr. Lanchard will be greeting his guests in the study, your ladyship. Dinner will be served in the Green Room,” the maid replied, careful to keep her eyes on the fan. “There is no place set for you, as you were scheduled to be piloting this evening.”
Piloting. Yes, Nathan had been quite clever in making his arrangements. She was indeed scheduled to be making a delivery of medical supplies to the Intrepid, three hundred nautical miles to the south. It was not a mission he expected her to cancel under any circumstances—and she had not. Substitute pilots were in short supply on the island, but they could be found, and bribed, with reasonable efficiency.
The Intrepid would receive her supplies on time, and Nathan would receive his just desserts at roughly the same hour.
“Add an extra place setting,” she told the maid. “Directly opposite Mr. Lanchard, if you please.”
Nathan glanced over the table. From what he remembered of table dressings, it all seemed vaguely in order, its flowers and silver trays of sugared fruit glistening, small cakes and breads surrounded by jewel colored jams and pale globes of chilled butter. Candlelight played in the crystal facets of wine goblets and water glasses, catching fire in the bright gold detail on porcelain and gleaming across rows of silverware set with the precision of surgical instruments. The mantel glowed with crackling logs. The emerald wall hangings were suitably…green.
What else could possibly be expected?
His guests seemed satisfied enough, bits of their conversation preceding them as they shuffled into the room, the smell of cigar smoke wafting from their sleeves. The second Earl of Tewklesbury confused his place almost immediately and laughed, side-stepping around the rich shipping magnate Jean Letoures to reach his proper seat, both bowing their stout frames, chuckling under bristling mustaches, their suits impeccably starched and tailored.
Nathan frowned and took his seat, distracted by the glow of sunset behind the room’s spindle work balcony. The sky was now a rosy hue, the approaching airships drifting like fabric whales in a burning sea, their skin blushed to pink, windows and gondolas glinting with crimson light. He wondered briefly if Gilda was colored in the same rich shade, her fingers steadying the rudder of a giant airship he’d built, her eyes set on the fiery horizon as she prepared to rendezvous with the Intrepid.
He dropped his gaze, confused by the notion that he wanted her to see the new air machine when it was tested in the morning. He wanted her reaction. Perhaps just to be cruel, to gloat and watch her accept that he had already sold it, and himself, to the Royal Navy…to force her to accept that not everything in this world belonged to her.
He enjoyed the thought of that.
But then, other imaginings fit themselves in without permission, her expression the moment she understood the freedom his new machine would offer, her cool fingers on the wooden wheel, her breathless admiration after the first flight. The Navy could train a thousand test pilots, and not one of them would fly it with the skill and abandon she would. Not one of them would understand what he had intended. She was reckless and infantile, but she was the best pilot he’d ever seen, and when she was in the clouds, she was something else entirely.
He glared at the crystal goblet set above his plate, its facets turning the candlelight into sparkling color, its beauty created by angles and flaws.
“To our host,” one of the investors was on his feet, raising his goblet.
Nathan blinked, focusing on the slender figure of Lord Wycott, his gesture grandiose in the small dining room. “Very well done, sir. We have enjoyed the trip to this rare island and are all most excited by the prospect of this investment venture. Sinclair has the most solid of reputations, in an era that has seen far too many flashes in the pan.”
Nathan forced a polite acknowledgment, raising his glass in return. “Good of you to say, sir. I am gratified that you have found our operations here satisfactory. I look forward to briefing you all, in detail, after dinner.”
“Oh yes,” a feminine voice rose from doorway. “I anticipate that most eagerly, I must admit.”
Gilda.
Heads turned. Men rose from their seats in awkward surprise, the astonishment in the room palpable. And understandable.
She stood before them in a dress of the deepest scarlet, its satin shimmering in the candlelight, her naked shoulders pale against crimson bows and the dark glitter of beads. She stared at him, the devil in red, her expression glowing with triumph, her blonde hair spilling over jeweled pins.
“Your Ladyship,” one of the investors said brightly. “How delightful.”
Most of the other guests looked less certain. Sharing a business with the Mad Lady Sinclair, even while holding the majority of overall shares, was not a prospect they particularly enjoyed thinking about. It was a small and unpalatable detail in the large profit scheme that was Sinclair Airship, a detail much easier to ignore when she wasn’t standing in the room, dressed in flaming red satin.
Nathan felt the sweat break under his collar. There was no choice but to play the ruse and hope for some measure of cooperation in return. He rose to his feet. “Good of you, to join us, Lady Sinclair. I’m happy to report that our new investors have great plans to expand the company and increase your profits.”
“That is welcome news,” she replied, allowing herself to be seated at the opposite end of the table, settling like a restless cat in her voluminous skirts. “This year has been so dreadful, after all.”
“Dreadful?” Lord Wycott looked dismayed.
“Not a dime of profit, but what can you do? Flying elephants is an expensive business.” Gilda turned her attention to the wine goblet, lifting it from above her plate.
“These gentlemen have already reviewed our books,” Nathan said tightly. “Our profits are well recorded.”
“Oh yes, those books. Do forgive me.”
There was a moment of terrible silence. Gilda sipped from her goblet.
“What do you mean ‘those books’?” the Earl asked.
Gilda blinked. “Oh, please do forgive me. It’s not that the actual figures are so miserable. They were vastly improved from the previous year, after all. Nor are the official books inaccurate. It’s really nothing more than a slight and cosmetically pleasing rearrangement of the decimal places.”
“Gentlemen,” Nathan interrupted.
“Are you saying that there are two sets of books?” another investor asked quickly, a note of panic entering the room.
“Please,” Nathan said, his tone far sharper than he intended, stilling the men at the table. “If you will excuse us for a few brief moments, Lady Sinclair and I have a few matters to discuss.”
This, in itself, was a severe breach of etiquette, yet Nathan saw nothing but relief in the faces seated around the table. The Earl led the way, clearing his throat and rising from his seat. “I much prefer a cigar before the afternoon meal, creates the exact condition needed for proper digestion.”
There were vague murmurs of agreement, deferential nods and polite excuses from the table. The servers stepped in quickly to assist the group, now led by the Earl as they filed through the doorway.
One of Gilda’s maids closed the polished doors behind them, locking a cold silence in the room.
Nathan glared at her, feeling his patience thin to nothing. “Congratulations. It took months to arrange this meeting, as well as countless hours of preparation, and you have likely ruined it all in the span of a few moments.”
“You brought this on yourself,” she announced.
“I did what?”
“You cannot leave, not like this. Your work for us is unfinished, your commitments abandoned. I will not accept it.”
“You will not accept it,” he repeated, dark visions burning from the depths of his anger. He rose from the table. “But what if I don’t belong to you? What if I can’t be controlled anymore, your ladyship? Would you still want me then? Shall we find out?”
Gilda stared at hi
m, stunned. He was more than furious, positively enraged, his green eyes flashing, his teeth clenched. There was something different in the way he looked at her, something no longer quite so…Nathan. She pushed up from her seat as he approached, stumbling on the hem of her dress in an effort to reach the doors. He intercepted her in three strides, his hands capturing her wrists, his large shoulders pushing between her and the brass knobs.
“What’s this?” he hissed. “You’ve provoked me to the very edge of sanity and now you expect to escape as I careen over it?”
“Don’t speak to me of provocation,” she shot back. “You act as if you’ve had everything stolen from you, everything that you thought you had a right to. Tell me, Mr. Lanchard, how does it feel?”
His eyes narrowed. “I am not your father. And I am not my mother. You can curse me until the very hour of your death and it will gain you nothing. Can’t you see what you’ve done? This selfish need for revenge, always revenge…you’ve dragged us both into darkness, made a ridiculous play of your own life. For what? For what, Gilda?”
“You blame me for your unhappiness.”
“Who else?”
“Who else, indeed. At least I have lived my life to my own satisfaction, as my own person. If you are not my father, who are you? You accepted everything he gave you, tried to please him at every turn. When did you ever care what damage that would bring? To me? To my mother?”
“Neither of you could legally control the company.”
“So you stepped right in, didn’t you? And you took everything, not just control of the company, but wealth and a sprawling estate.”
“You are still very rich, with an estate of your own. In my time here, I have made you richer. I did what he wanted me to do. I took what he wanted me to have.”
“Including me.”
His grip on her wrists tightened, his teeth clenched. “That was different. You offered yourself, you made me think—”
The Aviator Page 4