Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles (28 page)
Read Skies of Steel: The Ether Chronicles Online
Authors: Zoë Archer
They’d be flying on to Siam soon. Plenty of opportunities for profit in Siam.
Levkov stepped into the armory. “Herrera’s dropped them off, her and her parents.” No need to explain who
her
was. “The Carlisles wanted some more time with their daughter before they headed back to England. In about a week, some of Khalida’s warriors are going to escort the Carlisles to Alexandria, and they’ll take a seafaring ship home to Britain.”
Mikhail didn’t answer, only continued to disassemble and clean gun after gun. They made orderly rows on the table in front of him, their parts laid out, ready to be put back together again. It was easy with guns. Break them apart. Give them a cleaning. Reassemble them. Good as new. Reliable.
“She’ll be staying with Khalida for a while,” Levkov continued. “They’ll be working with al-Rahim’s people to get the tribes to cooperate with each other together.”
Already, Daphne was committing herself to her new role. She never did anything by inches. All or nothing with his
professorsha.
But she wasn’t his
professorsha
anymore. He’d half a mind to send her a telegraph from Bangkok, just to see if she’d keep true to her word and answer. But he wouldn’t. No use trying to survive on a diet of crumbs when he’d be satisfied only with the feast. All it would do was remind him of what he couldn’t have, what he’d lost.
“How soon can we leave?” Mikhail asked, rubbing oil into the bolt of a rifle.
A brief silence from Levkov. Then, “Now, if you want it. The ship’s good for a few hundred miles before we’ll need to make bigger repairs.”
“No sense lingering. Tell the helm and crew to make ready for departure.” He checked the rifle. It was ready once again for use. He looked up when Levkov didn’t move. “That was an order, Piotr Romanovich.”
His old friend gave his customary scowl. “You didn’t ask her to stay.”
Mikhail barked out a humorless laugh. “A scholar on a mercenary’s ship. Perfect combination.”
“Won’t know until you try.”
With fast, sharp movements, Mikhail took apart another rifle. “She wouldn’t be happy here. Got her grand ambitions for doing good.”
A stab of envy cut through him, that she’d found a cause she believed in, and wanted to make the world a better place. As he’d once wanted.
“That’s it, then?” asked Levkov.
“That’s it.”
The first mate opened his mouth as if to say something more, then snapped it shut.
Thank God
. Mikhail had no desire to continue to dwell on all the reasons why he and Daphne had nothing holding them together. Nothing but desire, and affection, and respect. But it wouldn’t be enough, just as she’d said.
Without another word, Levkov left the armory. A few moments later, the ship hummed as its turbines spun to life. The airship came about, heading toward its newest destination, and Mikhail continued to take apart guns, pretending he cared that one rifle stock would need some extra polishing to buff out a gouge along the wood. A little extra work, and it would be as good as new. And only he’d know the damage it had taken.
D
APHNE COULDN’T BEAR
the sorrowful looks her parents kept directing at her. Painful enough to feel her own misery at Mikhail’s departure, but the way her mother kept saying, “Darling, we’ve all undergone trials. If you ever want to talk …”
Daphne didn’t want to talk. She wanted solitude. So as the sun dipped lower to the horizon, she climbed one of the remaining towers in al-Rahim’s compound. It offered an uninterrupted view of the desert, and the hills turning to ash with the approach of dusk. The enemy rogue airship had drifted away. Either someone in its crew would fly it as far as it could go without its power source, or it already rested on the desert floor, abandoned. If that were the case, doubtlessly scavengers would be along to pick it clean.
There was no sign of the
Bielyi Voron
. It had flown on half an hour ago.
Her chest ached, thinking of how she and Mikhail had said goodbye. Or rather, how they hadn’t said goodbye. He’d paced from his quarters and vanished, making no appearance as Daphne, her parents, and their assistants had all boarded the jolly boat. Herrera had waited for nearly fifteen minutes, glancing toward the companionway that led to the cargo bay. At last, she’d had to say, “We ought to get going.” So they did, and she wondered now if the hurt would ever lessen, if she might one day wake up and find herself, at last, numb. She couldn’t hope for happiness.
Where would he go next? The whole world was his. She might picture him anywhere—flying above jagged Chinese limestone mountains, or above the smokestack-crowned cities of the United States. She’d hold that tightly, like a sharp-edged gem that cut her even as she clutched it close. And she hoped that, when she did next go to Medinat al-Kadib, a telegram would be waiting for her.
Though she stood atop a tower, she could still hear the hum of human conversation below as the wounded received medical attention, tents were pitched, and evening meals were made ready. Despite the fierce battle that had been fought hours before, life resumed its normal rhythms. She would have to go down there … eventually.
But as she looked out at the western horizon, watching the descent of the sun and hearing the drone of mundane life, another sound caught her attention. A kind of whooshing sound. Very much like … an airship’s turbines.
Suddenly, directly above her, was the
Bielyi Voron.
She started, and a great cry arose from the people around the compound. It seemed to appear out of nowhere. She actually rubbed at her eyes, trying to dispel what had to be an illusion. But no, the ship still hovered fifty feet above her.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the cargo doors opened, and a thirty-foot rope tumbled down. And then there was Mikhail, sliding down the rope, his long coat flying around him, looking like a bird of prey swooping from the sky. The rope didn’t extend far enough, but he didn’t slow or stop, merely let go, and jumped the rest of the way.
He landed in a crouch right in front of her, shaking the tower. Then he straightened to his full height.
He was terrifying. And thrilling. And wonderful.
And she couldn’t move a muscle. Not toward him, not away. Only stood and stared, as though caught in the throes of a dream.
“The night sky missing the North Star,” he said without preface. “No guidance, no direction. That’s what it’s like, in here.” He slapped his hand in the center of his chest. “You never would’ve found me crying into my atlas, though. I didn’t much care. Those old dreams—making a difference, protecting my country—all long dead. War and my own greed killed ’em. Turned me rogue. It made me drift like flotsam from one job to the next. Steered by the lure of profit. I thought it was all I needed.” He shook his head. “I was wrong. So damned wrong.”
He stepped closer to her, and her pulse beat so hard she felt as though the earth itself shook.
“It’s all changed,” he continued, his gaze holding hers. “Because of you. You’ve given me back my North Star.” He reached down between them and took her hands between his own, engulfing her with his size and heat. Yet she felt his tremors.
“I want …” His voice roughened, and he had to start again. “I want to join your fight. Protecting those caught in the middle of the war.”
“The fight brought you back,” she said quietly.
“Not
the
fight,” he answered hotly. “
Your
fight. I want it to be mine, too.”
“There’s much to be done. Not just here, but all over the world. Lives torn apart by the war.”
“Then we fix them,” he said with complete confidence that the two of them could do just that.
She felt compelled to say, “Not an easy prospect.” Because she wanted no more illusions or deception between them, and what lay ahead would be a continual challenge.
“Nothing worth doing, or having, is simple.” His grin made everything inside her heat and soften. “A
professorsha
taught me that. Besides,” he added, “if there’s any two people who can take on impossible tasks, it’s you and me. An unbeatable armada of two.”
She liked the sound of that.
“And will your crew be satisfied with this arrangement?”
“To hell with them if they aren’t. There are plenty of nefarious ways an airship crewman can make a living.” He raised a brow. “Trying to talk me out of this?”
“God, no,” she answered at once, appalled by the very notion.
His expression grew tight, focused. “Whatever you need of me, I’ll give it to you. My ship, my strength.” He swallowed hard. “My heart. They’re all yours. For as long as you want them.” The trepidation in his eyes nearly undid her. This nearly indestructible man feared what she might say.
She struggled to catch her breath. “And if I want them forever?”
It took him a moment to fully understand her answer. His eyes narrowed. “Honestly?”
“When it comes to you and me,” she said, her throat aching, “I’ll always be honest. And I honestly want and need you, Mikhail. For now. For always.”
A grin spread across his face. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. “Then I accept your terms,
professorsha
.”
They kissed, sealing their vow, and the sky darkened with evening, and the world seemed to open with infinite possibility and limitless direction.
If you loved SKIES OF STEEL, don’t miss the rest of Zoë Archer and Nico Rosso’s smart, sexy Ether Chronicles collaboration
Coming in November 2012
NIGHTS OF STEEL
by Nico Rosso
Bounty hunter Anna Blue always finds her fugitive. But her latest mission is filled with mystery—a high price for an eccentric inventor. A twisted trail. And a man tracking her every step. Her biggest competitor in the Western territories, Jack Hawkins, is also hunting the bounty. Two of the best at what they do, neither is willing to back off.
When a rogue Man O’ War flies his airship out of the coastal fog, guns blazing, Anna and Jack are forced to team up, or die. But it isn’t the danger that has them ready to flare like gunpowder. For years they’d circled around each other, but never said a word, thinking their interest was just rivalry. Deeper, though, a hot passion draws them together. Fighters and outsiders, they never thought they’d find a kindred soul. Can they survive this mission long enough to track the most elusive fugitive—their hearts?
Available Now
NIGHT OF FIRE
by Nico Rosso
Night of fire, night of passion
US Army Upland Ranger Tom Knox always knew going home wouldn’t be easy. Three years ago, he skipped town leaving behind the one woman who ever mattered; now that he’s seen the front lines of war, he’s ready to do what he must to win her back.
Rosa Campos is long past wasting tears on Tom Knox, and now that she’s sheriff of Thornville she has more than enough to do. Especially when a three-story rock-eating mining machine barrels toward the town she’s sworn to protect.
Tom’s the last person Rosa expects to see riding to her aid on his ether-borne mechanical horse. She may not be ready to forgive, but Rosa can’t deny that having him at her side brings back blissful memories … even as it reignites a flame more dangerous than the enemy threatening to destroy them both.
SKIES OF FIRE
by Zoë Archer
Man made of metal and flesh
Captain Christopher Redmond has just one weakness: the alluring spy who loved and left him years before … when he was still just a man. Now superhuman, a Man O’ War, made as part of the British Navy’s weapons program, his responsibility is to protect the skies of Europe. If only he could forget Louisa Shaw.
A most inconvenient desire
Louisa, a British Naval Intelligence Agent, has never left a job undone. But when her assignment is compromised, the one man who can help her complete her mission is also the only man ever to tempt her body and heart. As burning skies loom and passion ignites, Louisa and Christopher must slip behind enemy lines if they are to deliver a devastating strike against their foe … and still get out alive.
Z
OË
A
RCHER IS
a RITA® Award–nominated author who writes romance novels chock-full of adventure, sexy men, and women who make no apologies for kicking ass. Her books include The Hellraisers paranormal historical series and the acclaimed Blades of the Rose paranormal historical adventure series. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Zoë and her husband, fellow romance author Nico Rosso, live in Los Angeles.
Visit
www.AuthorTracker.com
for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
by Zoë Archer
Skies of Steel
Skies of Fire
Nights of Steel
Night of Fire
Give in to your impulses . . .
Read on for a sneak peek at two brand-new
e-book original tales of romance from Avon Books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
By Kerrelyn Sparks
By Jaime Rush
An Excerpt from
by Kerrelyn Sparks
(Originally published under the title
For Love or Country
)
Before
New York Times
bestselling author Kerrelyn Sparks created a world of vampires, there was another world of spies and romance . . .
Keep reading for a look at her very first novel.
Tuesday, August 29, 1769
“I
say, dear gel, how much do
you
cost?”
Virginia’s mouth dropped open. “I—I beg your pardon?”
The bewigged, bejeweled, and bedeviling man who faced her spoke again. “You’re a fetching sight and quite sweet-smelling for a wench who has traveled for weeks, imprisoned on this godforsaken ship. I say, what
is
your price?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The rolling motion of the ship caught her off guard, and she stumbled, widening her stance to keep her balance. This man thought she was for sale? Even though they were on board
The North
Star
, a brigantine newly arrived in Boston Harbor with a fresh supply of indentured servants, could he actually mistake her for one of the poor wretched criminals huddled near the front of the ship?
Her first reaction of shock was quickly replaced with anger. It swelled in her chest, heated to a quick boil, and soared past her ruffled neckline to her face, scorching her cheeks ’til she fully expected steam, instead of words, to escape her mouth.
“How . . . how
dare
you!” With gloved hands, she twisted the silken cords of her drawstring purse. “Pray, be gone with you, sir.”
“Ah, a saucy one.” The gentleman plucked a silver snuffbox from his lavender silk coat. He kept his tall frame erect to avoid flipping his wig, which was powdered with a lavender tint to match his coat. “Tsk, tsk, dear gel, such impertinence is sure to lower your price.”
Her mouth fell open again.
Seizing the opportunity, he raised his quizzing glass and examined the conveniently opened orifice. “Hmm, but you do have excellent teeth.”
She huffed. “And a sharp tongue to match.”
“Mon Dieu
, a very saucy mouth, indeed.” He smiled, displaying straight, white teeth.
A perfectly bright smile, Virginia thought. What a pity his mental faculties were so dim in comparison. But she refrained from responding with an insulting remark. No good could come from stooping to his level of ill manners. She stepped back, intending to leave, but hesitated when he spoke again.
“I do so like your nose. Very becoming and—” He opened his silver box, removed a pinch of snuff with his gloved fingers and sniffed.
She waited for him to finish the sentence. He was a buffoon, to be sure, but she couldn’t help but wonder—did he actually like her nose? Over the years, she had endured a great deal of teasing because of the way it turned up on the end.
He snapped his snuffbox shut with a click. “Ah, yes, where was I, becoming and . . . disdainfully haughty. Yes, that’s it.”
Heat pulsed to her face once more. “I daresay it is not surprising for
you
to admire something
disdainfully haughty
, but regardless of your opinion, it is improper for you to address me so rudely. For that matter, it is highly improper for you to speak to me at all, for need I remind you, sir, we have not been introduced.”
He dropped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Definitely disdainful. And haughty.” His mouth curled up, revealing two dimples beneath the rouge on his cheeks.
She glared at the offensive fop. Somehow, she would give him the cut he deserved.
A short man in a brown buckram coat and breeches scurried toward them. “Mr. Stanton! The criminals for sale are over there, sir, near the forecastle. You see the ones in chains?”
Raising his quizzing glass, the lavender dandy pivoted on his high heels and perused the line of shackled prisoners. He shrugged his silk-clad shoulders and glanced back at Virginia with a look of feigned horror. “Oh, dear, what a delightful little
faux pas
. I suppose you’re not for sale after all?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do beg your pardon.” He flipped a lacy, monogrammed handkerchief out of his chest pocket and made a poor attempt to conceal the wide grin on his face.
A heavy, flowery scent emanated from his handkerchief, nearly bowling her over. He was probably one of those people who never bathed, just poured on more perfume. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand and gently coughed.
“Well, no harm done.” He waved his handkerchief in the air. “
C’est la vie
and all that. Would you care for some snuff? ’Tis my own special blend from London, don’t you know. We call it
Grey Mouton
.”
“Gray sheep?”
“Why, yes. Sink me! You
parlez français
? How utterly charming for one of your class.”
Narrowing her eyes, she considered strangling him with the drawstrings of her purse.
He removed the silver engraved box from his pocket and flicked it open. “A pinch, in the interest of peace?” His mouth twitched with amusement.
“No, thank you.”
He lifted a pinch to his nose and sniffed. “What did I tell you, Johnson?” he asked the short man in brown buckram at his side. “These Colonials are a stubborn lot, far too eager to take offense”—he sneezed delicately into his lacy handkerchief—“and far too unappreciative of the efforts the mother country makes on their behalf.” He slid his closed snuffbox back into his pocket.
Virginia planted her hands on her hips. “You speak, perhaps, of Britain’s kindness in providing us with a steady stream of slaves?”
“Slaves?”
She gestured toward the raised platform of the forecastle, where Britain’s latest human offering stood in front, chained at the ankles and waiting to be sold.
“Oh.” He waved his scented handkerchief in dismissal. “You mean the indentured servants. They’re not slaves, my dear, only criminals paying their dues to society. ’Tis the mother country’s fervent hope they will be reformed by their experience in America.”
“I see. Perhaps we should send the mother country a boatload of American wolves to see if they can be reformed by their experience in Britain?”
His chuckle was surprisingly deep. “
Touché.
”
The deep timbre of his voice reverberated through her skin, striking a chord that hummed from her chest down to her belly. She caught her breath and looked at him more closely. When his eyes met hers, his smile faded away. Time seemed to hold still for a moment as he held her gaze, quietly studying her.
The man in brown cleared his throat.
Virginia blinked and looked away. She breathed deeply to calm her racing heart. Once more, she became aware of the murmur of voices and the screech of sea gulls overhead. What had happened? It must have been the thrill of putting the man in his place that had affected her. Strange, though, that he had happily acknowledged her small victory.
Mr. Stanton gave the man in brown a mildly irritated look, then smiled at her once more. “American wolves, you say? Really, my dear, these people’s crimes are too petty to compare them to murderous beasts. Why, Johnson, here, was an indentured servant before becoming my secretary. Were you not, Johnson?”
“Aye, Mr. Stanton,” the older man answered. “But I came voluntarily. Not all these people are prisoners. The group to the right doesn’t wear chains. They’re selling themselves out of desperation.”
“There, you see.” The dandy spread his gloved hands, palms up, in a gesture of conciliation. “No hard feelings. In fact, I quite trust Johnson here with all my affairs in spite of his criminal background. You know the Colonials are quite wrong in thinking we British are a cold, callous lot.”
Virginia gave Mr. Johnson a small, sympathetic smile, letting him know she understood his indenture had not been due to a criminal past. Her own father, faced with starvation and British cruelty, had left his beloved Scottish Highlands as an indentured servant. Her sympathy seemed unnecessary, however, for Mr. Johnson appeared unperturbed by his employer’s rudeness. No doubt the poor man had grown accustomed to it.
She gave Mr. Stanton her stoniest of looks. “Thank you for enlightening me.”
“My pleasure, dear gel. Now I must take my leave.” Without further ado, he ambled toward the group of gaunt, shackled humans, his high-heeled shoes clunking on the ship’s wooden deck and his short secretary tagging along behind.
Virginia scowled at his back. The British needed to go home, and the sooner, the better.
“I say, old man.” She heard his voice filter back as he addressed his servant. “I do wish the pretty wench were for sale. A bit too saucy, perhaps, but I do so like a challenge.
Quel dommage
, a real pity, don’t you know.”
A vision of herself tackling the dandy and stuffing his lavender-tinted wig down his throat brought a smile to her lips. She could do it. Sometimes she pinned down her brother when he tormented her. Of course, such behavior might be frowned upon in Boston. This was not the hilly region of North Carolina that the Munro family called home.
And the dandy might prove difficult to knock down. Watching him from the back, she realized how large he was. She grimaced at the lavender bows on his high-heeled pumps. Why would a man that tall need to wear heels? Another pair of lavender bows served as garters, tied over the tabs of his silk knee breeches. His silken hose were too sheer to hide padding, so those calves were truly that muscular.
How odd.
He didn’t mince his steps like one would expect from a fopdoodle, but covered the deck with long, powerful strides, the walk of a man confident in his strength and masculinity.
She found herself examining every inch of him, calculating the amount of hard muscle hidden beneath the silken exterior. What color was his hair under that hideous tinted wig? Probably black, like his eyebrows. His eyes had gleamed like polished pewter, pale against his tanned face.
Her breath caught in her throat. A tanned face? A fop would not spend the necessary hours toiling in the sun that resulted in a bronzed complexion.
This Mr. Stanton was a puzzle.
She shook her head, determined to forget the perplexing man. Yet, if he dressed more like the men back home—tight buckskin breeches, boots, no wig, no lace . . .
The sun bore down with increasing heat, and she pulled her hand-painted fan from her purse and flicked it open. She breathed deeply as she fanned herself. Her face tingled with a mist of salty air and the lingering scent of Mr. Stanton’s handkerchief.
She watched with growing suspicion as the man in question postured in front of the women prisoners with his quizzing glass, assessing them with a practiced eye. Oh, dear, what were the horrible man’s intentions? She slipped her fan back into her purse and hastened to her father’s side.
Jamie Munro was speaking quietly to a fettered youth who appeared a good five years younger than her one and twenty years. “All I ask, young man, is honesty and a good day’s work. In exchange, ye’ll have food, clean clothes, and a clean pallet.”
The spindly boy’s eyes lit up, and he licked his dry, chapped lips. “Food?”
Virginia’s father nodded. “Aye. Mind you, ye willna be working for me, lad, but for my widowed sister, here, in Boston. Do ye have any experience as a servant?”
The boy lowered his head and shook it. He shuffled his feet, the scrape of his chains on the deck grating at Virginia’s heart.
“Papa,” she whispered.
Jamie held up a hand. “Doona fash yerself, lass. I’ll be taking the boy.”
As the boy looked up, his wide grin cracked the dried dirt on his cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”
Jamie winced. “Mr. Munro, it is. We’ll have none of that lordy talk aboot here. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand, which the boy timidly accepted. “What is yer name, lad?”
“George Peeper, sir.”
“Father.” Virginia tugged at the sleeve of his blue serge coat. “Can we afford any more?”
Jamie Munro’s eyes widened and he blinked at his daughter. “More? Just an hour ago, ye upbraided me aboot the evils of purchasing people, and now ye want more? ’Tis no’ like buying ribbons for yer bonny red hair.”
“I know, but this is important.” She leaned toward him. “Do you see the tall man in lavender silk?”
Jamie’s nose wrinkled. “Aye. Who could miss him?”
“Well, he wanted to purchase me—”
“
What?
”
She pressed the palms of her hands against her father’s broad chest as he moved to confront the dandy. “ ’Twas a misunderstanding. Please.”
His blue eyes glittering with anger, Jamie clenched his fists. “Let me punch him for you, lass.”
“No, listen to me. I fear he means to buy one of those ladies for . . . immoral purposes.”
Jamie frowned at her. “And what would ye be knowing of a man’s immoral purposes?”
“Father, I grew up on a farm. I can make certain deductions, and I know from the way he looked at me, the man is not looking for someone to scrub his pots.”
“What can I do aboot it?”
“If he decides he wants one, you could outbid him.”
“He would just buy another, Ginny. I canna be buying the whole ship. I can scarcely afford this one here.”
She bit her lip, considering. “You could buy one more if Aunt Mary pays for George. She can afford it much more than we.”
“Nay.” Jamie shook his head. “I willna have my sister paying. This is the least I can do to help Mary before we leave. Besides, I seriously doubt I could outbid the dandy even once. Look at the rich way he’s dressed, though I havena stet clue why a man would spend good coin to look like that.”
