Fletcher stared at her now, a bright fire in his aquamarine eyes. She hadn’t meant her words to sound provocative—or maybe she had. She’d lost the blueprint to herself three months ago, and this island—and the man she shared it with—left her without a pattern or plan.
But there was one thing she knew she wanted.
She held the gun out to him. “In my hands, this is still little better than an ordinary rifle. But if wielded by a Man O’ War . . .”
“So, it’s a scientific experiment.” The fire in his gaze banked. He took the weapon from her, handling it with the ease of a trained warrior. “See what both machines are capable of: the ether rifle and me.”
“I never said you were a machine. But you and the weapon are each extraordinary. You can’t blame an engineer for her curiosity.” She laid her hand upon his forearm. “If it makes you too uncomfortable . . .”
To her surprise, he offered her one of his rare smiles. “Pass up an opportunity to swagger and show off in front of a pretty lady? Not bloody likely.”
Her pulse fluttered at the compliment. Maybe he was lonely. After three months without seeing another human, let alone a woman, a toothless, pockmarked crone might look pretty to him. Still, he’d been nothing but respectful of her person since they’d met. He couldn’t be that desperate.
Perhaps he really does think you’re pretty. Ever consider that, Miss Clever Knickers?
“Impress me,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d wager you could hit that pile of rocks on the first try.”
He snorted. “You trying to be insulting? No, I’ll need a better target than that.” He scanned the landscape, his eyes sharp. Most of the terrain around them was the moor, offering few worthwhile targets. He turned toward the southwest where the ridge of rocky peaks began. At the summit of the nearest peak stood a coppice of alders.
“The tree closest to us,” he said, lifting the rifle to take aim. “I’ll shoot the top leaf off.”
She gaped at him. “That’s nearly a mile away. I thought you said the ether rifles were only accurate to a thousand yards.”
“In the right hands, they can shoot up to twenty-five hundred yards. The accuracy might not be perfect, but hell”—he grinned—“I’m up for the challenge.”
From her satchel, she took a brass spyglass and pulled it open. When one of his brows rose, she explained, “Not everyone’s got a Man O’ War’s eyesight. You could shoot and miss by a mile, but I’d never know. This is simple empirical method.”
“You can take the woman out of the laboratory . . .” he murmured.
She shrugged, but it wasn’t an apology. “Let’s begin.” She aimed her spyglass at the copse of trees. Even though her glass was highly advanced, manufactured in Scotland by the best opticians in the world, the spyglass could only do so much, and she couldn’t make out each individual leaf. Still, it was better than trying to see with her naked eyes.
“Ready?” he asked.
“At your discretion, Captain—I mean, Fletcher.” Difficult to call him by his Christian name when he could sound so very authoritative.
“I’ll count off so you know when to look. Three, two, one—” then he fired.
For a moment, nothing happened. The trees didn’t move. No branches shook or leaves flew into the air. Disappointment weighted in her stomach. She’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that he’d be something grander than life. A myth come true. But she already knew that, despite the telumium implants, he was truly just a man, with any man’s limitations—
A leaf at the very top of the nearest tree flew into the air.
Slowly, she lowered her spyglass. She’d forgotten to take into account how long it might take a bullet to travel that distance. But it had. And hit its target.
Turning, she found Fletcher watching her. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked wary.
“That was . . .” She searched but couldn’t find any words to match what she’d just witnessed.
He turned away, his expression weary. “Serves me right for showing off. People say they want to see what a Man O’ War can do. Then they learn. We’re not normal.”
“Of course you aren’t,” she said.
He threw her a glance, both accusatory and accepting, as if such comments were familiar, but unwelcome.
“You’re extraordinary,” she added. “There’s nothing to be ashamed in that.”
“I’m not ashamed,” he said flatly. “I knew what becoming a Man O’ War would mean. Everyone else had trouble with it. Even you. Looking at me like I’m a monstrosity.”
She stepped closer to him. “Am I shocked that you could make that shot? Bloody hell, I am. You’ve got an amazing ability. And I won’t pretend that the implants don’t make you different from everyone else. But look at me. Look me right in the eye and tell me what you see.” She put her face close to his—as close as she could, given the height difference. “Do you see disgust? Fear?”
His gaze searched hers for a long moment, the air between them hot and electric.
“No,” he finally said.
“It’s wonder and admiration,” she said hotly. She snapped the spyglass shut and stowed it away. “Both for the technological achievement, and for who you are as a person. As a man. And you’d better damn well not forget that.”
“I won’t,” he said softly.
“Good.” She wondered—when he looked at her, what did he see? The color of her skin? A damaged woman? Or was she, as he’d said earlier, only herself? Kali. She wanted that—to be seen not as crippled or a cultural anomaly but as a person.
Even more shocking: she wanted to be seen. All she’d wanted before was to hide herself away, turn invisible from the world. But not with him.
“Who was she?”
Her question seemed to catch him off guard. His head snapped back as if dodging a punch. “Who?”
“The woman who said you were a monstrosity.” It was a guess, born from pure speculation, and she half expected him to sneer at her theory.
For a moment, he was silent. Affirming her belief that she’d been foolish in her deduction.
Then, “A shopkeeper’s daughter in Portsmouth.” He didn’t look at Kali as he spoke. “Met her when I was still a lieutenant on a seafaring ship. We’d walk out together whenever I was in port.”
“Oh,” was all Kali could say. It was one thing to speculate on the existence of a woman in his life. Another thing entirely to have proof.
“I became a captain,” he went on. “We talked of the future. Then I was presented with the chance to become a Man O’ War. There wasn’t a greater honor to be had in the navy. So I took the offer.”
“Against her wishes.”
“Emily didn’t know. I wanted to surprise her. It was such a privilege, having that opportunity. I thought she’d be happy for me. For us.”
The naked pain in his voice and the stiff set of his shoulders made it clear that this Emily was anything but happy about Fletcher’s transformation. “I don’t have a particularly high opinion of this woman,” Kali said tightly.
“She fell in love with a man.” He stared down at his clenched fists. “But got a monster instead. That’s what she said.”
“I maintain that Emily’s an idiot.” She moved to stand in front of him. “You did change. Dramatically. But the core of who you are, that didn’t alter.”
He scowled. “You don’t know that.”
“I know that you’ve got honor and courage.” Perhaps more than she’d ever known in any man. “That doesn’t suddenly start or stop. It’s something here.” She placed her hand on her heart. “And no amount of telumium alters it. If Emily couldn’t see that, if she made you feel like an abomination . . . My father showed me how to inflict very painful injuries with nothing more than my elbow. I’d be happy to test them out on that foolish woman.”
Fletcher’s gaze burned into hers. “You’d snap her in two. Emily’s fragile.”
“That’ll make my job easier.”
&n
bsp; He gave a soft, sharp exhalation and planted his hands on his hips. The raw pain in his eyes had retreated. It wasn’t gone entirely, but it had faded. “You’re the damnedest woman.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
They stared at each other for a long while, and she felt it—another shift between them. He’d bared himself to her. An act of trust. And she was willing to take the burden of his past, rather than run from it, and what it implied about their connection.
“Hungry?” she asked.
His brow furrowed at the abrupt change of topic. “Always.”
“The implants,” she surmised. “They make you require more fuel than an ordinary man.”
He slung the ether rifle across his back. “Doing my best not to decimate the animal population on the island. I’ve had to cut back my rations. Been dropping weight.”
Good God. How much bigger had he been when he first crashed on the island?
“I can’t promise you a feast.” She rummaged through her satchel and produced two cloth-wrapped packets, then handed him one. “Fish pies,” she explained as he uncovered his bundle. “Cookery isn’t my area of expertise, but I’m fairly certain that’s edible.”
“You brought a picnic,” he murmured. The normal-sized pastry looked like a petit four in his hand.
“I imagined that shooting ether rifles would be hunger-inducing work. I brought this, too.” She held up a canteen. “It’s only water, but I purified it. And there’s an apple tree not too far from the cottage, so there are apples in here, also.”
She started to lower herself to the ground, though her artificial leg made the process a little awkward. Still, she waved off his outstretched hand, offering help. Finally, she situated herself on the grass, her legs stretched out in front of her in a way that would make an etiquette columnist faint. But etiquette columnists seldom covered the topic of women with prostheses attempting to eat luncheon on deserted islands, and Kali never gave a cobra’s spit what those fussy writers thought, anyway.
Fletcher remained standing, looking at the pie as if he’d never seen such a marvel.
“Didn’t you say you were hungry?” she asked. “Sit your arse down and eat.”
He did sit, and with far more grace than she’d shown, crossing his long legs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a picnic. And even then, I didn’t have much experience with them.”
“That’s a shame.”
“In the chair factory in Wycombe, we had half days on Sundays. A little church. Time for a quick game of football on the tiny green in the square, then back to work. And before I met Emily . . . seamen on leave aren’t interested in picnics.”
She didn’t want to think of that incredibly stupid woman. But Kali couldn’t stop her face from warming when she thought of young Fletcher, fresh off a ship and eager for pleasure. “Too busy visiting museums.”
More than just her face heated when he chuckled, a low, raspy sound that stroked along her arms and down the center of her chest. “I’ve always had a love of culture.”
She grew up in a city filled with soldiers. The sight of groups of them ambling toward Nagpur’s pleasure quarters wasn’t unfamiliar. Still, it was different to talk about it with Fletcher. To imagine him in a courtesan’s arms. Imagine what it would be like were she to trade places with that courtesan . . .
“But I still don’t know much of picnics,” he added. “Emily wasn’t keen on them. And they weren’t part of my childhood, short as it was.”
For some reason, that saddened her a little. Perhaps she’d been spoiled with the gift of attentive parents, and the luxury of not having to work through her childhood and adolescence. Nagpur had its share of young workers, selling marigold garlands, serving as chai-wallas with steam-spewing carts, and children who crouched by the side of the road, begging.
She’d been lucky. Her father had actually fallen in love with and married her mother. Only a handful of other British soldiers did the same. Had it not been for her father’s romantic heart, Kali could have been one of those bastard children of mixed blood, their mothers cast out by their families. And so Kali got to have a family, attend school. Even go on picnics.
“Well,” she said, “the ground can be damp, and insects can pester you, or you drop your food and it gets covered with dirt. Picnics are more trouble than they’re worth, honestly.”
“The ground isn’t bothering me,” he answered. “The bugs are staying away, and there’s no way in hell I’m dropping this pie. So I might like this picnic business after all. But, ah, what do we do now?”
“The standard procedure is eating, remarking on the scenery, speculating about the weather. Children generally like to throw bread crumbs to birds.”
Though the owls stayed away, resting up for their nocturnal hunt, a trio of little brown birds did appear nearby. They hopped on stick legs and, peeping, turned bright bead eyes to the humans.
She snickered. “There must be some kind of bird telegraph so that even wild creatures like these know that humans sitting on the ground means they’ll get something to eat.” She broke an edge off of her pie and tossed bits of pastry at the birds. They quickly pecked them up, then looked to Fletcher for more.
“Sod off,” he rumbled. “This is mine.” The birds obeyed his command and fluttered away.
He took a big bite of his pie. His eyes closed as he chewed, and he sighed.
Like a nervous newlywed, she studied his expression. “It’s terrible.”
“It’s the most delicious thing I’ve eaten in months.”
“That’s not much of a compliment,” she said, “since you’ve been probably subsisting on plain rabbit, fish and roots.”
“It’s good, damn it. And don’t angle for compliments. You’re better than that.”
She never wanted to be the kind of person who begged for approval. But she hated to think that his first bite of food not cooked by his own hands would be barely palatable. Up until today, she hadn’t tried making pies—only the stews and curries her mother had taught her. But a curry didn’t travel well over the moors.
She bit into her own pie. And was pleasantly surprised to find it rather tasty, if a little over-salted.
“See?” he asked, watching her face. “No need for false modesty.” Three more bites, and he finished his pie.
It was impossible that he could be sated. But before she could break the remainder of her pastry in half, his hands closed into fists.
“I’ll ruddy leave if you try to give me that,” he growled.
“You can’t have had enough—”
“The day I take food away from a woman is the day I throw myself into a vat of molten steel.”
She glanced around. “I don’t see any vats of molten steel nearby, so you can’t refuse.”
“I can and I do. Don’t press me, Kali,” he rumbled when she started to object.
“Bloody obstinate man.” But seeing that he wouldn’t be moved, she finished the rest of her pie.
He reared back when she stretched a hand toward his face. Like a wolf unused to touch.
“You’ve got crumbs in your beard.” Slowly, she reached for him again.
He looked at her hand, then at her. And held himself still.
She brushed the crumbs away. Her movements were halfway between caution—afraid he might snarl or bolt at her touch—and pleasure. As she tidied his beard, her fingers grazed his lips. They were soft and firm, and his breath was warm against her skin.
The urge to trace his lips with her fingertips surged through her. She wanted to glide her finger into his mouth, then put that same finger into her own mouth so she might taste him.
Instead, she snatched her hand away. Curled it up and pressed it tight to her thigh. Why hadn’t she just told him about the crumbs and let him take care of them, instead of acting like a woman eager for an excuse to touch him?
Because that’s exactly what you are.
At least he lo
oked as befuddled as she felt.
“I think we’re supposed to talk about the scenery, now,” she said.
He blinked. “Not much to say about moors,” he finally said. “Empty stretches of land. A few bits of scrub. That’s it.”
Her school years had been spent studying the mechanical world, not the natural one, so she had no interesting facts about moorlands. “It’s pretty, don’t you think?”
“Pretty? Hadn’t thought about it.”
Something about the way he spoke, a slight edge in his tone, told another story. “No denials. I can hear it in your voice.”
He frowned. “Man O’ Wars and sea captains don’t think about whether a place is pretty or not.”
“But you have.”
He swore, then exhaled. “Fine. Yes. I think it’s pretty.”
“Why?”
Another florid curse from him, then, “Hell, woman. You’re trying to spin my head like a globe.”
She didn’t understand the reason she needed to know why he thought the moors were pretty. Only that she did. That she wanted inside his mind, his thoughts. That itself shook her. She’d tried to fashion a haven for herself, a place where she could exist in cold nothingness, like an automaton. Yet the more time she spent with Fletcher, the more she became aware of things like movement and thought and the feel of brisk island air against her face. Things an automaton would never want or know.
He raked his hands through his hair, and it stood up in tufts that ought to be ridiculous, but instead made him appear piratical. Wild.
“Because,” he finally said through clenched teeth, “it looks like the sea. Like someone had turned the sea into land. The hills are the waves and the gorse is the foam on the waves.” He glared at her. “That damn well better satisfy you, because I won’t say another bloody word.”
Appreciation for natural beauty didn’t seem to be cultivated in the navy. Neither were poetic notions. But his spare, resentfully-given thoughts still touched her. Buried beneath layers of gruffness and strength, he did have a bit of a poet in him. And that pleased her.
Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03] Page 9