Steamed (10 page)

“Better?” Jack stopped in front of me and pirouetted, his arms held out at his sides.

“Quite suitable,” I said, my fingers tightening around the pen. That’s what I said—what I thought was entirely different.

He wore the standard Aerocorps uniform jacket, but there was nothing standard about the way it fit his body. He was handsome in his black undershirt, but in the knee-length scarlet jacket, he was downright devastating. The snowy white wing tips of his shirt sat over the silk cross tie, below which an embroidered double-breasted gold waistcoat hugged his torso. The fact that Mr. Piper had given Jack the waistcoat of an officer was neither here nor there—it suited him very well, the twin rows of black enameled buttons with the gold leaf Aerocorps logo glinting in the light streaming in through the viewing-platform window. Black trousers and boots completed the outfit, and left me, I was distressed to note, with an overwhelming urge to run my hands over his body.

With an effort, I pulled my mind back from unwelcome desires and gestured toward the teapot. “Would you take tea?”

“Sure.”

“Cream or lemon?” I asked, pouring him a cup as he took the seat opposite me.

He glanced around the mess, empty except for Dooley. “Lemon is fine. So, where do I pick up my goggles?”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked, adding a bit of sugar to his tea before handing it to him.

“Goggles, you know?” He made circles with his fingers and held them to his eyes. “Every good steamer has goggles. Don’t you?”

“Certainly not,” I said, wondering if I would ever really understand him. “I have safety spectacles for when I examine the boilers, naturally, but goggles? No.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed for a moment, then took a sip of his tea. “So, we’re here to get down to brass tacks, right?”

I set down the pen and put the cap on the bottle of ink, lest it spill on my logbook. “Dooley, if you have finished with the boots, you may take your tea with Mr. Francisco in the galley.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” he said, reluctantly gathering up the boots and shuffling out of the far door, his gaze never leaving that of Jack. “Mayhap Mr. Llama will be there, and he can tell me how to kill a man with tweezers.”

“Bloodthirsty little devil,” Jack said, watching him leave. “Cabin boy? Wait—did he say Mr.
Llama
?”

“Dooley is the bosun’s mate. He is young, but enthusiastic, and yes, one of my crew is named Mr. Llama. He is the second engineer, and is rather . . . well . . . different.”

“With that name, I don’t doubt it.”

“Mr. Fletcher, I take it from the somewhat confusing discussion that you had with your sister both in and outside of my cabin that you and she were involved in some sort of an industrial accident. Is it your supposition that you were both knocked unconscious and placed on board my ship without being aware of that fact?”

“Not quite,” he said, touching the side of his head briefly. “It took Hallie to prod the memory forward, but after your Mr. Ho brought Hal around, she reminded me that we’d been in my lab when the accident occurred. That’s the only possible thing I can think of that would have made this happen.”

“I see. I will tell you now that I am not scientifically trained, and thus am not prepared to say whether or not what you say is possible, but I will warn you that I do have a friend who is an amateur inventor, and he will offer me such advice as I find necessary.”

“Do you always talk like that?” he asked.

“Talk how?” I asked warily.

“So formal, like you’re straight from the pages of a Victorian novel.”

I looked at him for a moment, not sure how to take such a comment. “I’m sorry if my method of speech distresses you, but I’m afraid it is something I would be unable to change without great difficulty.”

“It doesn’t distress me,” he said with an engaging smile.

I refused to give in to the smile.

“I like it, as a matter of fact,” he continued. “It’s kind of charming. You don’t talk like any of the women I know.”

“And have you known many women?” The words were out of my mouth before I could consider the wisdom of speaking them. Blushing with embarrassment, I clapped a hand over my mouth for a few seconds before saying, “My apologies, Mr. Fletcher.”

“Jack.”

“That was rude of me. You will not, of course, answer such an impertinent question.”

“You look even more charming when you blush,” he said, grinning. “I don’t mind telling you. I’ve had four official girlfriends, the last one about two years ago. If you’re asking how many women I’ve
known
—” The emphasis he put on the word was unmistakable. My cheeks grew even hotter. “That would be seven. I wasn’t much for girls until I got to college. Then I had a few wild years before settling down to study.”

“I see.” I busied myself with pouring a dollop more tea.

“How about you?” he asked over the rim of his cup.

I looked up, startled at the insinuation.

“How many men have you known?”

That question was almost as impertinent as what I thought he had been suggesting. “That, sir, is none of your business.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “I told you how many women I’ve been with. Fair play would demand you do the same.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to retort that I hadn’t wanted to know, but honesty wouldn’t allow me to lie to save my self-pride. “Three,” I said finally, after a brief inner struggle. I watched him closely to see if he would display any signs of repugnance at the number, not that I cared one way or another. I was a captain, I told myself. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t lose any respect for me in order to avoid undermining my authority. “Not that it’s any of your business whatsoever, I have had three lovers.”

I lifted my chin, throwing out that last word as almost a challenge.

“Ah. You’re not hooked up with someone right now, are you?” he said without blinking so much as one eyelash.

“No,” I said, startled enough to answer without thinking. I set down my teacup and gave him a firm look. “Mr. Fletcher, we have strayed from the purpose of this conversation. What I wish to know is—”

“Oh, dear God,” I moaned softly.

The door leading to the small galley was flung open, the figure of a man silhouetted in the doorway. He stalked toward us slowly, his head tipped forward as he pinned me back with what I was coming to think of as the Francisco Smolder. “
El capitán
,
mi capitán
, Dooley, he says that you are here alone with a man. I will tear his heart out and cook it with his kidneys if he has laid so much as a finger on you, my sweet, delicious
capitán
.”

Francisco García Ramón de Cardona, better known to the crew as Mr. Francisco, rushed forward and flung himself onto his knees at my feet, grasping my hand and pressing wet kisses onto it.

“Mr. Francisco, I have asked you not to do that,” I said sternly, trying to pull my hand back.

His grip tightened as he made cow eyes at me.
“Mi capitán,”
he said, his voice simmering with sensuality and sexual promise. “My luscious, delectable
capitán
.”

Jack snorted, turning his laughter into an awkward cough.

I ground my teeth and, with an effort, jerked my hand from that of the steward. “And I’ve asked you not to address me with such familiarity.”

“You do not love your Francisco anymore?” he asked, adopting a suddenly coy look as he batted his eyelashes at me. “My heart, he is yours, all yours. And the rest of me, as well,” he added, standing up.

I averted my gaze from his bulging pelvis, which unfortunately was right at eye level. “In addition, I believe I have addressed you on the subject of those wholly inappropriate breeches that you insist on wearing rather than the standard Aerocorps trousers.”

He waggled his hips at me. “You do not like my breeches, oh, glorious one of the flaming sunset hair?”

Jack made another bark of choked laughter that I did my best to ignore as I gave the steward a very stern look, indeed. “Given that your breeches leave little, if anything, to the imagination, I am quite confident that everyone in the crew would be happier if you were to don the regulation trousers.”

Francisco pursed his lips in what I’m sure he thought was a seductive pout. “It is impossible that you could resist my breeches. You are having your time of the monthlies, no? That is why you do not crave poor Francisco’s body, which is so hot and hard for you.”

“Really, Mr. Francisco—,” I started to say when Jack interrupted.

“It doesn’t seem to me that the lady is overly interested in what you’re offering,” he said, his smile fading.

“Maybe you should just do as she asks and put on a pair of pants that don’t let everyone see the outline of every vein and ridge.”

Francisco drew himself up to his full height, which was no more than mine. He was small but sturdily built, and, like many Spaniards, held his pride dearly. He puffed out his chest as his eyes narrowed into obsidian slits focused on Jack. “You dare speak to me, you son of a she-dog?”

“Yeah, I do,” Jack answered, getting to his feet. “It’s clear that Octavia isn’t interested in you, so why don’t you just take yourself off and leave us in peace.”

I sighed, drooping for a moment at the explosion that I knew, even after only a short acquaintance with Francisco, would be forthcoming. “Sometimes men are so pigheaded,” I said to the teapot.

“You address the flaming
capitán
by her so-precious name?” Francisco snarled, storming around the table to where Jack stood. His hands danced wildly in the air as he spoke. “She is not to you belonging that you can speak so! The
capitán
, she is mine! I claimed her the moment I saw her shining, glorious hair of the hottest flames!”

“That’s for her to say, not you,” Jack said, his hands fisting as Francisco snarled a word that I suspected was not suitable for polite company. “Look, I have a rule about not fighting people, but if you continue to bother the captain, I will rethink it.”

“You do not frighten me, you pirate of the most scabulous ancestors!” Francisco yelled.

“Scabulous?” Jack asked.

“I think he means scurrilous,” I suggested.

“
Sí
, scurrilous. You are scurrilous of the most great level!” Francisco said, still waving his hands around. “I will enjoy cutting out your liver and frying it with tomatoes and capers and
un poco
basil!”

“I think that’s about enough.” I gave in and stood up, as well, giving my errant steward a look that by rights should have had him cowering. “You will cease threatening Mr. Fletcher. You will also cease making absurd statements regarding me. I am not yours. I will never be yours, as I told you the very first night when you burst into my cabin and threw your naked person upon my hair. I am not interested in you in
any
capacity but that of a steward. Now, please, stop making these embarrassing scenes and return to your duties.”

“Now!” I said, pointing to the door to the galley.

Francisco looked like he wanted to spit on Jack, but thought better of insulting the larger man, contenting himself with a stream of Spanish that left a profane tint to the air as he stomped dramatically back into the galley.

“You really do have some characters on this ship, don’t you?” Jack asked as I slumped down into my chair.

I was unable to deny that. “They are good people nonetheless. And I would have been able to control Mr. Francisco if you hadn’t enraged him.”

“You didn’t look like you appreciated him hitting on you.”

“I would never tolerate any man striking me, let alone a crew member,” I said primly.

“That’s not what . . . never mind. It’s not important. What were we talking about before the Spanish drama queen entered?”

“I don’t quite remember.” I rubbed my forehead. “Oh, yes, the situation with you, and—”

“—how we got on board an airship in what is evidently a steampunk world, that’s right. I’d like a definitive answer to that, too, but I think the best we’re going to get at this point is conjecture.”

“What is this steampunk you keep mentioning?” I asked, distracted by the word.

An indescribable look came over his face as he retook his seat. “It’s . . . well, it’s all this,” he said, waving his hands. “At least I think it is. Let me ask you—what is the source of power of this airship?”

“The boilers,” I answered promptly. “They turn the propellers, and heat the air that fills the envelopes.”

“Steam engines, in other words,” he said, nodding. “I noticed that there are gas jets on the wall. Is there any sort of electricity on board?”

“Of course not. Electricity is highly dangerous. I wouldn’t have it in my home, let alone on an airship.”

“Right,” he said, as if he expected that answer. “And if I said ‘nuclear power’ to you . . . ?”

“I would suggest you define that term.”

“Got it. So in other words, it’s present-day, at least so far as the year is. You’re dressed in a late Victorian outfit, steam engines run your airship, and you have a gun that shoots heated aether, which is an archaic term that has no real meaning.”

“I assure you that should you be struck by it, you would change your point of view,” I said with complaisance.

“Ah, but that’s because in your world it has a definition that doesn’t apply to the real world.”

“The world is only as real as you make it.”

“True, true, but in this case, it’s hard to define just what real is. My real is different from your real.”

“Is that so?” I said politely.

“Yes. Somehow, Hal and I were popped from our real world, into yours. I’m not going to speculate how that could happen, except to say that when you deal with things on a quantum level, as I was with my research project, things aren’t necessarily what you expect them to be.”