Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03] (19 page)

None of it made sense, until she saw the dozen small ether tanks also mounted around the barrel. Each the size of a man’s arm and encased in brass, they looked like they’d been taken from the ether cannons.

She looked at him. He appeared to be trying very hard not to smile.

“When did you do all this?” she demanded.

“We’re not constantly in each other’s pockets,” he answered. He gazed at the eastern horizon. “And we’re losing time. Get in.”

She eyed the barrel. “Into
that
? It looks as safe as a raft made from biscuits.”

The humor vanished from his eyes. “Ask yourself this: would I ever tell you to get into something dangerous?”

“I’ll need a little help climbing in,” she answered after a moment.

Suddenly, his hands clasped her waist, and she briefly flew as he lifted her and set her gently into the barrel. He climbed in after her. The barrel didn’t boast a particularly large circumference. She and Fletcher pressed very close, his heat chasing away the cold.

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask what the hell is going on,” she said, slightly out of breath from his nearness.

“You engineers are all about predicting outcomes,” he said with fond exasperation. He edged around the barrel, bending over the rim to adjust a small dial on the ether tanks, activating the gas stored in them. “A little surprise every now and then should be welcome.”

As he activated the tanks, the barrel slowly rose. She gripped the rim with enough force to make her knuckles ache.

“Have you ever flown before?” he asked casually, continuing to trigger the ether tanks.

Tightly, she answered, “Civilians aren’t allowed on airships.”

“Not government airships, no, but there are Sky Trains in America, and rogue Man O’ Wars who’ll take passengers.” The barrel continued to rise: a few feet, then five, then ten. The lantern on the deck of the ship grew smaller and smaller.

“I’ve never been to America, and as for booking passage with a rogue Man O’ War, I don’t want to wake up in my bunk with a slit throat.” She shook her head slightly, her whole body tight as an overwound clock. “Just the usual earth and water-bound transport for me, thank you.”

Finally, he activated the last ether tank, and the barrel lifted higher and higher. Thank God it was so dark, so she couldn’t get a true sense of how high they were.

“Afraid of heights?”

She managed a snort. “I’ve climbed the tower at Toxeth Cathedral.”

“Yet you’re stiff as a beardless midshipman at his first brothel.”

His candor robbed her of words. But she recovered enough to say, “It’s only . . . there’s nothing around me. No tower. Just . . . open air.”

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer, her back to his front. “Not true,” he murmured. “You’ve got me.”

And, saints and devas help her, she
did
feel safer with his arms encircling her, the broad and solid muscle of his chest and body behind her. She felt engulfed in the scent of warm metal. He’d never let her fall. Suddenly, the ascent wasn’t terrifying but . . . exciting.

It was still too dark to see much, but she could sense the growing expanse between herself and the ground. A wide openness, an absolute freedom—both terrifying and exhilarating. The ground formed a darker shape beneath them, wide and undulating, with the sky the color of spilled ink, dotted with charcoal-hued clouds. The lantern on the
Persephone
’s deck became as small as a star.

“First time I ever flew,” he said, his breath warm against her neck, “I couldn’t decide if I was going to piss myself or never stop laughing.”

She’d never heard him laugh, truly laugh, and suddenly craved the sound. “I can’t imagine you being scared of anything.”

“Well, I was, that first flight.” Then he added, in a voice so low she barely heard him, “Scared the hell out of me when your roof fell down.”

This impossibly strong man, this
Man O’ War
, had feared for her, cared for her. And now he was taking her up into the sky. He might’ve been a good ship’s captain, and at one time, he’d turned chairs, but it’d had been a considerable effort for him to put this strange flying contraption together.

They continued to rise higher and higher, and she finally saw the sea, black and glittering. Then the barrel jolted, stopping its ascent. It swayed gently in the draughts of air.

“Now we wait,” Fletcher said.

She would’ve been content to simply stay up here in the darkness, his arms encircling her. But then—

“There,” he whispered, pointing toward the eastern horizon.

A golden filament appeared where the sky met the sea. Roses bloomed in the air around that line of gold, and within moments, the indigo sky transformed to amber. The clouds were purple watercolor streaks reflected back in the gilded sea. The stars faded as the sky lightened. And the island itself brightened with morning. It was much like the view from the top of the hills, and, indeed, she saw them off to her right, with the emerging sunlight painting their rocky surfaces. The sky turned to gold, and the gray island became a place of life, of color. She watched it all, consuming it as one might watch a dream unfold.

Yet she wasn’t asleep. She was too aware of the chill on her cheeks, the salty, vegetal scent of the air, the heat of Fletcher. And her heart, beating with a wild, aching joy.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “This is . . .” Her voice trailed off, words too cold and small and petty to describe her feelings.

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “It is.”

She shielded her eyes as the sun climbed. “We could’ve had the same view from the hilltops.”

“Not the same. We’d still have the earth beneath our feet, and nothing’s like the sunrise from the middle of the sky.”

Even with her greater strength and agility, a climb up the hills in the darkness would’ve been a challenge for her. He knew that. But he’d found a way to give her the rising sun.

She turned in the circle of his arms to face him. In the first rays of dawn, his eyes were bright as aquamarines, the angles of his face unforgiving and beautiful in their harshness. She grasped his biceps, which flexed beneath her touch, as stone might flex. Had she not known him as well as she did, she might’ve mistaken his expression for disinterest. But he’d worn the same mask before. When desire had burned between them in his quarters. And she’d felt his reticence, his uncertainty.

But now he didn’t move away. He was immobile as a myth when she stretched up on her toes and put her lips on his.

Not immobile. His mouth was supple and demanding against hers. Kissing her ravenously. She had her own hungers, needs, and swept her tongue into the hot slickness of his mouth. He groaned deeply, his tongue stroking hers. One of his hands remained at her waist. The other slid down to cup her behind, and he made another animal sound of pleasure. She panted into him. There were too many layers of clothing between them, but she could feel his hips press tight to hers, and she arched against him, craving more.

It was and it wasn’t a surprise, this pleasure and desire they called forth so quickly. Weeks had passed since that kiss in his quarters, the night he’d pulled her from the cottage’s rubble and brought her to his home, the grounded airship. And in those intervening weeks, they’d grown more certain. Of each other. And themselves.

He moved from her mouth, trailing his lips along her jaw, down her throat. His beard rasped deliciously against her skin, and she moaned. Oh, God, what would that beard feel like on her stomach? On the inside of her thighs?

But then the sensation stopped, and she blinked to hazy awareness. He’d pulled back, his chest rising and falling, his pupils wide and jaw tight.

“Can’t make love to you—”

She gasped, “If this is more nonsense about sex complicating things—”

“I can’t make love to you
up here
,” he growled.

He pulled her hands off his arms and made her grip the edge of the barrel. He moved around their small vessel, adjusting the activators on the ether tanks. Gradually, they sank lower and lower, and the earth and the
Persephone
grew closer.

“But when we get on the ground . . .” she supplied.

He was everything wild, held back by the tiniest link of silver in the chain of his self-control. “When we’re on the ground,” he rumbled, “I have plans for you. Plans I’ve thought about for a long time. But I prefer action to planning.”

T
he moment they returned to the ship she found herself swept up into his arms. He strode down the passageway toward her quarters. She didn’t bother complaining that she could easily walk the distance herself. All she wanted was to get to the cabin quickly. As he walked, she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, nuzzling against the column of his throat, breathing him in deeply. His steps faltered. He muttered a curse. But kept walking.

“We could use any cabin in the ship,” she noted. “Nobody’s going to complain.”

“The captain’s quarters has the biggest bed.”

She liked the sound of that.

They reached the cabin and he gently set her down beside the bed. At once, they were in each other’s arms, mouths searching, tasting. Uncertainty burned away. She tangled her fingers into his thick hair, tugging his head down so she could kiss him more deeply. He stroked a hand down her back, and his other hand wasted no time in cradling her breast. Her breath caught at the feel of him, a glorious heat that soaked into her clothes, her flesh. And when he circled his fingers around her tightening nipple, she moaned.

Impatiently, she tugged at his clothing. Layer by layer, they fell away—his coat, his shirt—until his torso was bare. Bright morning light gleamed on his telumium implants, across the hard contours of his chest, scars made from blade and bullet, the intricate designs of ink illuminating his skin as if he were a prayer book. She’d gladly sing from this hymnal.

She looked up to see him watching her carefully. As if in suspense, guarded.

Understanding came. She’d seen him bare-chested before, but not in the bright daylight, his every difference from a normal man emphasized in unforgiving sunshine. He feared her reaction. He’d been hurt by someone so badly before. And that fractured her heart, that of all the dangers he’d ever faced, her response to him made him afraid, even if only a bit. She realized she had the power to hurt him—a power she’d never use, but it stunned and humbled her.

In answer, she stroked her hands up his chest. He sucked in his breath at her touch. She stepped closer to him, pressing herself against the solidity of his torso, her palms flat against his pectorals. One was hot metal, the other, hot flesh. Beneath her hand, beneath the telumium, his heart beat wild like a cornered tiger.

She pressed her lips to him, first upon his skin, then upon the metal implants.

“Can you feel that?” she whispered.

Jaw tight, he answered, “Only a little.”

“Then I’ll just have to touch you where I know you can feel it.”

He rasped a curse. “You’re not the only one with that privilege.” Within moments, he had helped her out of her dress, until she stood only in her chemise and petticoat. Then they touched each other everywhere, their hands as greedy to explore. She learned all the hard and lean surfaces of his body, the dusting of hair along his forearms, and the intriguing line of more hair leading from his navel down the flat of his stomach. Veteran he might be, but at her every caress and stroke, he shuddered and muttered invocations.

His hands weren’t idle, either. He slid the pins from her hair, so it fell about her shoulders, and he stroked it, making her purr. He traced callused fingertips down her throat, across her collarbones, along her arms. Through her chemise, he stroked her breasts—her dark nipples plainly visible through the sheer cotton—his touch both reverential and confident. He had an instinct for what she liked, what she needed, reading her like a celestial chart. When she moaned and leaned into him, he knew what she wanted, and pinched her nipples lightly, making her cry out in pleasure.

She felt the strength in him, a man more powerful than she could ever truly fathom, and his gentleness, too. But he growled when she stroked down the front of his trousers, finding the thickness of his straining cock. She was never raised with any particular religion, but she prayed to the goddess Rati that she’d be able to take him inside of her. Then again, she was so wet, she’d need no divine intervention.

Fumbling with the buttons of his trousers, she finally got them open enough to reach inside and take him in her hand. Kali smiled to herself. It was true, that sailors had the foulest language imaginable, because Fletcher swore ornately as she stroked him, words that even she—a soldier’s daughter—had never heard before.

Then his hand pressed against hers, stopping her. “Can’t take more of that,” he panted. “Or the trip will be over before we’ve even left the harbor.”

“We can take as many trips as we like.”

“But we only have one first time together.” He tugged off his boots and peeled away his trousers, until he stood before her completely naked. This time, there was no hesitation or concern in his gaze. He trusted her in his moment of exposure, and it was a sweet suffering to be given that trust, when they were both so damaged.

“Your turn,” he murmured, stepping close.

But she clasped his wrists when they went to untie her petticoat. Once that layer was gone, she’d be in nothing but her chemise and drawers. Her prosthetic leg would be plainly visible.

“I want to see you,” he whispered.

She pressed her lips tightly together. He’d seen her artificial limb before, but the circumstances had been different. Not a precursor to making love.

“Fletcher—”

“You are so beautiful, Kali. So damned beautiful. Every part of you.”

She seemed incapable of breath when she finally nodded, and he undid the ribbons of her petticoat. It slid to the floor. He knelt down and helped her step out of it, her hands on his shoulders for balance. And there she stood, one whole leg of flesh, one leg made of brass and wood.

“These, too.” He looked up at her, his fingers hovering over the drawstring of her drawers.