Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03]

by Skies of Gold

  “Good,” she said, turning around to her workbench. “Because I want to stay, too.”

  He pictured what it could be like, with her on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat by the fire, arms around each other. Thank God she had her back to him, since he was certain his gaze was full of naked yearning.

  CHAPTER NINE

  * * *

  The ferryman Campbell arrived on the appointed day. He seemed shocked that she was still alive, and more surprised that she was sane. But she’d carried on a perfectly banal conversation with him as he’d unloaded her supplies, asking after the health of his wife and children and the quality of his journey from South Uist. She didn’t inquire about the state of the world beyond the Outer Hebrides—whether there’d been any significant progress in the Mechanical War, or if he knew anything about the status of Liverpool.

  Life was orderly. It was contained. She’d achieved a kind of comfort and surety she’d never known. Hard to think that a Man O’ War needed any further strengthening, but he smiled more now, and that gruff wall he’d put up between himself and the world seemed to be slowly eroding.

  As Campbell carried her supplies up the slope to her cottage, she considered increasing her order for next time. There were sheets of metal, spools of wiring, fresh paper for drawing up diagrams. All sufficient to keep working. Yet she’d only planned on feeding herself. And though Fletcher tried to rein in his appetite, she knew he was hungry. It was hard to tell because of his thick beard, but his cheeks seemed more hollow. More eggs, butter, and meat could help put food in his flattening belly. Not that she’d looked at his stomach, hidden as it was behind a waistcoat he’d begun to wear. But she had noticed it seemed flatter than before.

  Yet if she asked Campbell to bring her more supplies, he’d grow suspicious and wonder why one woman could need so much food. She had to make a choice. Give Fletcher more to eat, or protect his privacy.

  So when Campbell asked, “Is there anything else you’ll be wanting for the next time?” she answered, “Just a few pounds more of beef. I’m trying to tame some of the owls here and they want an incentive.” Thirty pounds of beef would’ve been a better request, but she doubted an island-full of owls could finish that off before it spoiled—unlike Fletcher, who’d eat the whole of it in three days. And she had no plans on taming him.

  The ferryman only shrugged at this request. He tramped back along the beach, where his boat bobbed at anchor. “And you’re sure you’re well, Miss MacNeil?”

  “Very well, indeed.” This wasn’t a prevarication. She meant it. Her dreams troubled her less and less, her leg felt stronger, and she was getting exceptional amounts of work done.

  There was Fletcher, too. Who’d come to her cottage again yesterday when the rains hadn’t stopped. She didn’t think she’d like sharing the small space with anyone, but it felt natural, comfortable, to have him there, despite his size. He’d even brought a book to occupy himself—a treatise on the potential of civilian aerial travel—and they’d spent the afternoon in companionable quiet.

  It had been so companionable, in fact, that her heart had sunk when he’d left just before supper, insisting that she didn’t have to feed him twice.

  And there’d been a moment—a breathless, moment—when they’d stood at the front door, face-to-face, after he pulled on his coat to head out. His gaze had slid down to her mouth, and she’d stared at his, and time and space dissolved. She’d known only the heat radiating from his body—he gave off a pleasant smell of warm metal—and the ache within her own, wanting, needing to touch him.

  She’d thought for certain he’d kiss her. Or, if he didn’t, then she’d kiss him. But he didn’t move, and before she could rise up on her toes and link her fingers behind his neck, he’d nodded and wordlessly hurried off into the rain.

  She’d wanted to kick something. Preferably him.

  Now she just waved Campbell off as he hoisted anchor and chugged away from the island.

  Almost as soon as she returned to her cottage to put away her supplies, there was a boom of thunder and the rains started again. Kali’s heart sank. She and Fletcher had agreed that he’d stay away from her side of the island today, since they’d no idea when Campbell would arrive. They’d decided that if there was enough of the day left afterward, she’d go to the Persephone. Now that was impossible. True, she’d gained strength and confidence with her walks and hikes, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of trekking over the island in the rain.

  It wasn’t a gentle drizzle, either. Like a released magic curse, the rain quickly turned into a storm. Her cottage nearly shuddered from its force. Wind rattled the windows. It sounded as though a whole unit of soldiers in heavy boots was stomping on her roof. Thunder shook her right down to her bones, and lightning bathed the inside of her cottage with shocks of light. The temperature plummeted, and she threw more peat into the fire.

  At least Campbell would’ve have reached home by now. He was safe.

  But it looked like it was going to be a long, lonely, and storm-wracked day. She settled in to work. But her concentration kept shattering with each clap of thunder. The bombs had sounded much the same, deafening with each impact, the earth itself unstable.

  It’s only a storm. No Hapsburg or Russian airships. Just masses of warm, damp air moving upward and cooling and condensing. Clouds form and rain falls. Lightning’s just an electrostatic discharge. Thunder is merely air’s expansion from the lightning that makes a shock wave. All perfectly explainable. Nothing dangerous.

  If lightning were going to strike anything on the island, it wouldn’t be her cottage. What about the metal tanks on the Persephone? She had to hope that Fletcher would be all right. There wasn’t much she could do to help him.

  But the cottage still shuddered with each clap of thunder, and the wind tore at the roof. It felt as if the ghosts of her past were attacking her haven.

  Dusk crept in, though she could barely tell in the darkness, and the storm worsened. As she sat down to a supper she didn’t want, she thought, Storms rage, but they pass. A day or two more.

  Hadn’t she endured monsoon season in Nagpur? The Nag would overflow, though they lived far enough away from the river to avoid the worst of the flooding. But her worst enemy during June and September had been boredom. This shouldn’t be any different.

  Except she’d survived a bombing, and the sky wasn’t nearly as benign as it had been before. And monsoons didn’t shake the house like a horde of demons.

  She now heard the unmistakable sound of shingles torn from the roof. Then a dreadful creaking sound. She looked up just in time to see the ceiling collapse.

  How long she lay beneath the fallen roof, she couldn’t tell. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. But then everything around her shook, and she feared that what was left of the house would break apart and bury her even more.

  Suddenly, the roof pinning her disappeared. It flew away, tossed aside by a wild-eyed Fletcher. He loomed over her, rain splashing against his wide shoulders. Shoulders that seemed to shield her from the worst of the storm. More water beaded in his wild hair and thick beard.

  “Fletcher?” She knew he was strong, but she’d no idea that he could take a slate-shingled roof and fling it like a book.

  His shoulders eased slightly, though he didn’t lose his ferocious expression. “Wiggle your fingers and toes for me.”

  Though they were numb from cold, she did move her fingers and toes. “They’re fine.”

  “And your arms? Legs?” There was that commanding tone again as he glowered down at her.

  She tested them. “Also fine. Help me up.”

  His arm curved around her shoulders and gently raised her to sitting. The storm continued to pour around them, but through the cascades of rain, she saw her cottage. What remained of her cottage. Only three walls still stood, and the roof was halfway across the field.

  Dear God—the power he had. “What are you doing here?”

  He glared up as an
other bolt of lightning shot across the sky. She couldn’t stop her flinch. “Got worried when the storm started. This place is as safe as a house of paper. I headed over here to check that you were all right.”

  “But if the ferryman was still here—”

  “Didn’t give a damn.”

  “But—”

  “No more questions. Not until we’ve got you out of the rain. Now put your arms around my neck.”

  As she did, his own arms came up to cradle her against his chest. They were both soaked through, but he still radiated heat, and she pressed close against the broad expanse of his chest to gather that warmth. He stood, then ran, still holding her close.

  Perhaps under different circumstances she might be more scientifically curious about the speed of a running Man O’ War. But not now. All she felt was his strength, his swiftness. The world turned into a blur of darkness and rain. She could barely make out shapes of trees or familiar landmarks. It was only Fletcher, holding her, racing against the storm as he held her as gently as one might hold a clockwork butterfly.

  The Persephone finally loomed into view. A few lights glowed in the portholes. The sight nearly brought tears to her eyes. Shelter. At last.

  Fletcher hurried around to the back of the ship, to his quarters and the bank of windows that lined them. He held her with one arm, and she felt the power gathering in him before he leapt up, catching hold of an open window’s sill. He hauled them both up and over, until they were in his cabin. He slammed the window shut, the rain continuing to hammer against the glass. His boots pounded against the floor as he strode to a chair. Carefully, he set her down in it. He stalked to his bed. The frame groaned and twisted slightly as he pulled it up from where it had been bolted to the floor. He dragged the whole piece of furniture over to the stove, then gathered her up again. Gently, he set her down on the bed.

  “Take off your clothes.” He knelt in front of the stove and stoked its flames higher.

  Her fingers shook too much from the cold to undo the buttons lining the front of her dress. “C-can’t.”

  He tried his hand at the task, but either the cold or something else made him clumsy, and he couldn’t slip the buttons through their holes. Cursing, he pulled something from his boot. Light gleamed on a knife’s blade.

  “Hold still.” There was a damp ripping sound, and suddenly the front of her dress gaped open. Beneath, her wet chemise was as transparent as glass.

  She was undecided between modestly pulling her dress closed, and getting the damned sodden thing off her. Concern for health won out. She pulled off her wet and ruined gown, shimmying out of it and her sopping petticoat.

  He grabbed the mass of it from her and threw it into a corner. The only light in his quarters came from the stove, and with his back to it, he formed a massive, dark shape of unforgiving, hard angles and thick muscles.

  “Everything,” he said.

  “I’m . . . n-not getting naked—”

  “All of it,” he commanded. “If you get lung fever and die because you’re shy, I’ll strangle you.”

  “Excellent . . . b-bedside manner.” But she continued to shake with cold, so after making him turn around, she did as he ordered, peeling off her chemise, drawers and stockings. Covering herself with the blanket draped across his bed, she threw her remaining wet clothing into the corner, though her aim wasn’t as good nor her arm as strong, and her underwear wound up lying in the middle of his quarters.

  Now she was naked, save for a blanket, sitting on Fletcher’s bed.

  “Your clothes all off?” he asked without turning around.

  “Yes—don’t turn around, yet.” She had to get her prosthetic leg off. He might have seen part of it before, but he’d never seen the straps fastening it to her thigh—or her stump. Quickly, she undid the buckles. She shoved the artificial limb beneath the bed, then threw the blanket back over her legs.

  “You’re c-clear,” she said.

  He turned around. She followed his gaze as it caught on a sliver of her exposed shoulder, and heard him suck in his breath. Sudden heat pulsed through her, chasing away the cold.

  “Now you,” she said.

  “Man O’ Wars don’t feel the cold the same way. We don’t get sick as easy.”

  “But you’re not immortal.” When he hesitated, she pressed, “The nearest doctor is miles away, and I don’t have any way to fetch her. So disrobe. That’s an order.”

  “We’re not in the navy.” But she continued to glare at him until, swearing under his breath, he began to pull his clothing off. Coat first. He wore no waistcoat, and his white shirt had turned as transparent as her chemise, clinging to his skin. She watched avidly as he pulled down his braces then stripped away the fabric and let it fall to the ground.

  She gasped. It was impossible to keep silent. She’d seen shirtless men before, but never a Man O’ War, and never Fletcher—whose body she’d tried to imagine many, many times. But imagination hardly did justice to fact.

  She knew, for example, that he’d have exceptional musculature. Yet that was nothing compared to seeing those muscles with her own eyes. He’d said he’d lost weight over the course of his time on the island, but he was a hewn wonder, sleek and strapping. Every muscle was sharply defined. She could hardly imagine what he’d look like when at his peak. But this . . .this was astonishing.

  Steam literally rose from his body.

  Her gaze moved to the telumium implanted into his left shoulder. It curved along the shape of his body, like Roman armor, yet it flexed and moved as smoothly as flesh. A scientific and engineering marvel. But not nearly as fascinating as the man standing before her.

  He caught her staring at him. His expression turned guarded, though he continued to face her. As if he expected revulsion. Had Emily seen him this way and been repulsed? For many reasons, Kali hated that woman.

  “Those are quite intriguing,” she said, pointing to his right arm and his right pectoral.

  He glanced down at the tattoos—a tangle of thorn-covered roses and serpents interwoven amongst the vines. There was an Eye of Horus, too, and a bladed weapon of some kind. Some were more faded than others, but they all highlighted his striking physique. He said nothing.

  “They must have a special meaning,” she prompted.

  “Only that I was young when I enlisted.”

  “They’re beautiful,” she murmured. Holding his gaze, she added, “All of it’s beautiful.”

  Tension eased from him. Yet not from her. Here he was, half-dressed, with those exquisite lines of muscle running along his hips and vanishing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Here she was, naked but for a blanket. She wanted so badly to walk to him, press herself against him.

  She couldn’t. She had to stay exactly where she was, trapped by her injury.

  “I think everything needs to come off.” Not even a tiny quiver in her voice—very good, she thought. “You can’t be too careful with your health.”

  “Look somewhere else, damn it,” he growled after a moment.

  She placed her hands over her eyes. “Here they’ll stay until you tell me otherwise.”

  He muttered something, but judging by the sounds, he was pulling off his boots. And then his trousers and drawers.

  Kali did what any sane and sensible woman would do in her place. She peeked.

  It took every bit of will she possessed not to gasp again. The muscles of his thighs and calves were thick. He had long feet. And his cock . . .

  It stood at half mast, and even in its semi-hard state, she could barely believe its length and girth. Either he’d always been a big man, or the telumium implants had made him so. It didn’t much matter how he’d gotten that way. This was who he was now. A confusing mixture of apprehension and desire filled her. A woman would have to be capacious indeed—or very aroused—to accommodate him. Capacious she wasn’t, but she could be aroused. Quite aroused.

  The view of his buttocks as he turned to fetch a pair of dry trousers made her salivate.
Every flex and contraction of muscle showed, and he was nicely curved, unlike some of the men she’d known, with their flat behinds. She watched his glorious muscles work as he tugged on trousers—but no drawers—then quickly covered her eyes again when he faced her.

  “I’m decent enough,” he rumbled.

  She took her hands away from her face. I’m not going to tell him that I can plainly see the shape of his cock through his pants. I won’t say a bloody thing.

  “Warm now?” he asked.

  “Getting there.”

  He stood with his hands on his hips, as if deliberating. Finally, he crossed the cabin and sat beside her on the bed.

  “Not trying to be forward,” he muttered. “I give off a lot of heat.”

  “I know,” she said.

  They sat close but did not touch. Her whole body felt tight and sensitive, aware of everything, almost painfully so. She shuddered.

  He looked concerned. “Still cold?”

  “No. But . . . when the ceiling collapsed . . . I thought . . .” She shivered again. “I thought if I did survive, I’d be missing another leg.”

  He cursed, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She wanted so badly to lean into him, to surrender her fear, to let herself, for a moment, be vulnerable. But she wouldn’t allow it. She sat straight. The heat of his body wove into hers—the only concession she’d allow.

  “You’re safe now,” he murmured.

  “There’s no such thing as safety. Just avoiding catastrophe.”

  He moved so that he looked directly into her eyes. “Listen to me, damn it. I’ll keep you safe. I promise you.”

  She smiled sadly. “Nobody can make that promise. Not even a Man O’ War.”

  “I accept your challenge.”

  “It’s not a challenge, Fletcher. It’s the truth. I’m nobody’s responsibility. Despite this”—she gazed down at the abbreviated shape her missing leg made beneath the blanket—“I won’t be cosseted like a newly-hatched egg.”