Riveted (11 page)

“What other sort is there?”

“Clockwork. They’re in the cargo hold now.”

Incredible.
“Will you show me?”

“I will.” His quick smile said that he was as pleased by her request as she was by his reply. “Now?”

Regretfully, she shook her head. “I’m on watch soon.”

“Tomorrow, then.” He leaned back and looked to the game table, his gaze thoughtful on Dooley. “He has a slow temper, but it’s something to see when it fires.”

“Has it fired at you?”

“A few times. Not often.”

“What sparks it?”

“Stupidity. He doesn’t mind the company of fools, except when they put others in danger. An abusive word against a fellow countryman will also do it, though if he’s of the same opinion of that person, it takes a miracle for him to admit that person was Irish. He’ll suggest misbreeding or claim it’s the fault of the Brits—those from Manhattan City, not England.”

Some old hatred lingered there, begun when the English tried to flee the Horde centuries ago. Annika didn’t know the story of it, but Mary Chandler often blamed the Irish in the same way. “Does he really believe it?”

“No. He just hates to be disappointed by the people he wants to like.”

“Who doesn’t hate that?”

“A cynic. They’d enjoy being right.” He met her eyes again, matched her smile. “Dooley isn’t a cynic by any stretch. And he’s honest, but not to a fault. If the truth hurts someone, he won’t say it unless necessary. I don’t know if he’d save himself with a lie—but I think he would save someone else with one.”

“You haven’t had reason to find out?”

“Luckily, no.”

“Would you lie?” Annika would in a heartbeat. She didn’t enjoy lying, but she did it all the time. Lives depended on it.

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “I’d rather be ashamed of a lie than ashamed for not helping someone. So would he. He can’t stomach it when the strong take advantage of the weak. I think it’s why he prefers expeditions to life in a city.”

So that he wasn’t surrounded by people taking advantage of each other? “Animals do the same,” Annika pointed out. “Dogs, especially. They single out the weak prey and tear it apart.”

“But he doesn’t expect animals to feel compassion, so he’s not disappointed by them.”

Ah. That made more sense. And Kentewess had been quick to defend him. Since Dooley seemed like a good sort of man, that spoke well of Kentewess, too.

“You like him very much, don’t you?”

“I do.” He glanced toward the game table again and tilted his head as if trying to catch a bit of their conversation. Annika ignored the others in favor of watching Kentewess’s changing expression—fondness, at first, then a flash of humor, as if he heard something that amused him. He looked to her again. “Ah, yes. And there are the stories—Dooley loves any fable or tale, the sort passed down through generations, and to pick out any variations. That’s partially the reason we chose Iceland for our next expedition: His mother used to collect and record the whalers’ tales about the trolls and witches, especially those that flourished after the fissure eruptions. Since her death, he’s made it a hobby to trace their origin. I’m sure he’ll speak to some of the old fishermen in Höfn and Smoke Cove.”

Dooley wouldn’t find the origin of the stories there. Though some of the fishermen might claim to have lain with a witch or two, it would have only been in their imagination. Most of the women from Hannasvik went a bit farther for their seed.

She couldn’t resist asking, “You don’t believe in witches and trolls, Mr. Kentewess?”

“No. Do you?”

“Yes. But we aren’t talking about me.”

“I’d like to make you talk, Annika Fridasdottor.”

Oh.
That softly spoken statement and his steady gaze seemed to flip her stomach over, a thrilling little jolt of desire that ebbed into a warm flush beneath her skin. His response called for a smart reply, but she couldn’t think of anything except that she’d been wrong, so wrong. She’d thought his interest wasn’t in bedding her. She’d thought he’d wanted something else from her.

Now Annika thought the bed was exactly where his interests lay. That he felt the same attraction she did.

How would he make her talk? A kiss? Something more? Oh, she wanted that. She wanted to know what it was to need someone so desperately that she would promise anything for another kiss, another touch.

But she couldn’t. And she couldn’t let this attraction go any further than flirtation. Pursuing this wouldn’t be fair, not when she couldn’t let anything come of it.

With regret, she looked away from him.
No more of this.
They would have a fun conversation and nothing more.

What had they been talking about?

Dooley, she remembered. But it was her turn now. Only one man at the game table was left to discuss.

“The tall, thin man is Mr. James, the first mate. He’s very good at his job.” She paused, searching for something else to say. What did she know of him? “He has a wife and two children, I believe.”

Kentewess didn’t speak for a moment. Then, with a slight frown, “That’s all?”

“He enjoys playing patolli—and winning.”

His gaze narrowed. “You don’t like him.”

“No, it’s not that.” She didn’t know him well enough to dislike him. “I avoid him when I can.”

“Why? What has he done?”

“Nothing. He’s not rude or unpleasant, but I never know how to respond to him, and that frustrates me.” Until later, sometimes, and thinking of a reply when it was too late frustrated her even more.

“What does he say?”

“When we pass each other in a companionway, he will make a comment like, ‘So you are here again?’ in a friendly way. But his question always makes me feel as if I shouldn’t be there. And when I answer honestly—‘I’m returning to my cabin’—I feel like I should have been cleverer. Then I resent him for it. I hate feeling stupid, but I always do when he speaks to me. So I avoid him.”

He nodded, his gaze on the first mate. “I understand that.”

“You’ve felt stupid?”

“No.” He grinned when she wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ve avoided people who made me uncomfortable, even if they were always polite.”

She hoped never to give him reason to avoid her. “So, that is everyone. Shall we talk about you now?”

“No. You’ve yet to tell me about my aunt.”

“You know her.”

“I know what she tells me in her letters.”

Annika wouldn’t have thought that a man who hadn’t visited his aunt in ten years cared very much, but Kentewess obviously did. A quiet plea lay in his words, to tell him anything that she hadn’t told him herself. Did he hope to ease his aunt’s sadness? Perhaps he could. Judging by Lucia’s smiles, he already had.

“She’s often melancholy. I think she must have loved your uncle deeply.”

“She did. It was returned.” His gaze was troubled as he looked across the room. “Does she get along well alone?”

“Yes. She has friends here.” His aunt was sad but not broken. Annika never worried that she’d fling herself over the side of the ship. “She’s very proud of you. I wasn’t aboard more than a week when she showed me a photograph.”

“She says she doesn’t leave
Phatéon
.”

“It’s true. If she needs anything, though, she doesn’t hesitate to ask for it. Elena—the second mate—and I often bring back items for her in the port cities.” Annika pursed her lips. “Except she doesn’t let me pick out her ready-made dresses. She relies on Elena for that.”

His gaze returned to Annika’s. “What would you pick for her?”

“A gown of deepest green. She once told me that she enjoys flying over the forests better than the water—she likes looking out
over the trees. A damask, I think. It would be heavy and warm, which is always welcome on the deck of an airship, and the fabric has such a lovely texture when you run your hands over it. I think such a gown would make her happy just to wear it. She wouldn’t need the bows or the lace—but of course, that is what she fears I’d bring her.”

“Do they make you happy?”

“Oh, yes. They’re so pretty, aren’t they? If possible, I would wear nothing but a bow every day—especially if it was silk. Nothing compares to silk.” She’d never felt anything like it before coming to the New World…but they weren’t talking about her. She looked to Lucia again. “A year ago,
Phatéon
carried a passenger who fancied her—another physician, he was. She took him to her bed, but though he proposed a marriage, she wouldn’t leave with him. She was even more melancholy for a while after that. I’m not sure if she regretted her refusal, or if she was sorry that he hadn’t been your uncle.”

Perhaps it had been a combination. For as long as Annika had been alive, her mother, Frida, had suffered from similar regret and grief—even though her lover still lived, and only a stone’s throw from their home. That they’d shared a fierce love had never been in doubt, but Hildegard had also wished for a child of her blood. She’d claimed that lying with a man would mean nothing; even the goddess Freya had taken many lovers without regret, and Hildegard’s heart would remain with Frida.

But it had mattered—at least to Annika’s mother. A terrible row had parted them, and even after Hildegard had returned a year later with the infant Källa, Frida hadn’t forgiven her. She’d refused to take Hildegard back into their home. After asking one of the other women to bring her a daughter from the New World, she’d poured all of her love into Annika instead.

It hadn’t been enough. For two decades, Annika bore witness
to her mother’s silent longing, her pain—and the two women had remained apart.

She and Källa had grown up as sisters, regardless. Everyone in Hannasvik knew that their mothers belonged together, and that they were both too stubborn and prideful to do anything about it. Heartache ruled them instead.

So it was for Lucia, but stubbornness couldn’t be blamed. Her love was dead. And even if she tried to find another, love didn’t always come.

Silence was Kentewess’s only reply. When she glanced at him, a flush had darkened his face. He seemed at a loss for words.

Well, his aunt had not likely written that in her letters, had she?

“Will you reprimand me for my impropriety?”

“No.” Embarrassment receding, he shook his head. “I wasn’t prepared to think of her in that manner.”

He preferred a warning? Very well, she would give him one. “Then prepare yourself for this: If you hope to take me to your bed, please understand that I cannot. It may be easy for others to take a lover, but it isn’t easy for me. I understand that I might enjoy it. But I would rather not take the chance of regretting it afterward. I’m not very adventurous.”

He stared at her, his face unreadable. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. “You are bold in other ways.”

“Not in that way.” Even though she couldn’t stop imagining what bedding him would feel like. She was quite, quite certain that she
would
enjoy it. But that wasn’t enough. “I’d be sorry that you aren’t someone that I love.”

“Is there someone?” It seemed dragged from him.

“No. But there might be, one day.” She met his gaze squarely. “Is that what you want from me? Is that why you’re spending time with me now?”

He looked at her for a long time, his jaw clenched. A struggle
briefly moved across his expression. When he spoke, resignation filled his reply. “No,” he said quietly. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“But you want something else?”

“Yes.”

Heavy disappointment weighed in her stomach. She shouldn’t feel it. His lack of interest was better for them both, because until she loved, Annika wouldn’t bed him. Until she found Källa, she couldn’t commit herself to anyone.

Still, she’d liked thinking that he’d fancied her, too.

“What
do
you want, then? Why did you rescue me?”

He didn’t immediately answer. His mouth hardened, and he looked toward the game table. Frustration tightened his expression. He glanced back at her and seemed to wait.

Annika frowned, then realized that he wasn’t delaying. He was waiting for her to respond to someone else. She heard her name from across the room. The first mate had mentioned her—and now everyone at the table was looking their way.

“Go on, ask her,” Mr. James said. “She’s seen them herself. Haven’t you, Fridasdottor?”

Irritated by the interruption, Annika shook her head. “I wasn’t listening, I’m sorry. What have I seen?”

“The trolls on the island.” The first mate gestured to Dooley, whose keen eyes had fixed on her. “This one here is asking about any stories we’ve heard. I told him that you haven’t just heard of them, you saw one—or so you’ve said.”

So she had. Aware that Kentewess’s focus had sharpened on her profile, she nodded. “Yes. I did.”

Dooley twisted round in his chair to face her. “I’ve never heard an observation from someone firsthand—only from fishermen who were relating a story they’d heard from someone else.”

“What have they said?”

“Legend is that the fissure eruption broke open a passage to the
Underworld. That all of those creatures you hear of in northern widows’ tales came through: the trolls and dwarves, the invisibles, the hidden folk, the witch women with hollow bodies and fox tails who seduced sailors and stole infants.”

Some of that was true. No community could survive without children—and a community of women had to steal them, or find seed.

“The only things that came out of those eruptions were ash and volcanic gases,” Kentewess said. “Whatever the basis of the stories, they originated elsewhere.”

Yes—from women like Annika. Everyone who left Hannasvik did their part to spread the tales, in the hopes that superstition would keep others away. They
had
kept people away for a century…but never before had they been told to someone who would travel around Iceland, searching for scientific truth.

Dooley wouldn’t be able to discern that truth now. There was no reason not to tell him. But Annika wasn’t certain the stories served their purpose anymore, anyway. In just the few years since she’d left Hannasvik, more people had begun to settle in Smoke Cove.
Phatéon
carried more men to the island now. Kentewess’s expedition would undoubtedly lead the three scientists near her village…and if the Dutch eventually returned, more communities would sprout.