Burning Up (37 page)

She scooted closer, until her knees hit the rail. His broad chest rose and fell as quickly as hers, each breath shallow and ragged—then stopping altogether as she pressed her mouth to his.

Oh.
Warm and firm, his lips fit perfectly against hers. She waited, remembering how he’d shoved his tongue into her mouth two years ago, how her neck had hurt when he’d forced her head back, but he didn’t move. The only sound between them was the creaking of the bed rail as his hands tightened on the wood.

And
her
hands . . . He’d given her permission to touch him, the chest and arms that were an anatomist’s dream. Every night as he’d undressed, she’d admired him from across the cabin. Her eyes feasting, her hands empty. No longer.

Spreading her fingers, she slid their tips up the back of his hands, from knuckles to wrist. He breathed in sharply against her lips. The muscles in his forearms strained. Beneath his warm skin, nanoagents raced through his veins so quickly—as if his heart pounded. Hers did, too. His biceps bunched beneath her palms, and shook with effort, as if he carried a great weight rather than holding himself still. She parted her lips, and he froze, rigid as metal. But not beneath his skin. His blood raged like fire, nerves snapping with sensation, nanoagents enhancing it all and pulsing their messages to her fingers.

She tasted him—and suddenly she couldn’t concentrate on her hands, only the heat of his mouth. Hunger wound inside her, tight as a spring. Again, she licked between his lips, searching. She couldn’t define his flavor, not something she’d had before but just was
him
, slick and hot, and she wanted more.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, Ivy pulled herself higher, closer. Her nipples felt like small, tight rivets, and rubbing their tips against his hard chest started a throbbing ache between her legs.

Then Mad Machen kissed her back, his tongue sliding against hers, and the need burst through her. Her hands buried in his hair, nails digging into his scalp, the electrical storm of his mind like an ecstatic vibration against her fingers. She moaned low in her throat. His arms came around her waist, hauling her closer against him. Ivy kissed him deeper, loving the feel of him, the ache, the taste. All of it. This was worth more than a denier. She couldn’t imagine any amount of coin that could match this.

He abruptly stilled. Chest heaving, he pulled away and looked down at his hands, his expression dark.

He’d forgotten, she realized. He’d forgotten that he’d promised not to let go of the rail.

So had she.

“You’ll remember tomorrow,” she said, her breath coming in pants.

His gaze lifted to hers. His slow grin made her want to leap over the rail into his arms again. She held steady.

“Tomorrow,” he echoed.

“Yes.” She moved back to make room for him. “The same trade.”

And maybe tomorrow she’d get farther than his biceps.

“The same trade.” This time, his echo sounded strangled. He stared at her for a long minute. “God help me.”

Ivy took that as a “yes.”

SIX

S
ix days later, Ivy lay panting in Mad Machen’s narrow bed, hoping that he would pray for her, too. In all her life, the only name she’d invoked for help was the legendary Leonardo da Vinci’s, whose war machines had halted the Horde’s progression out of Asia and into Europe for almost fifty years. But da Vinci couldn’t help her. He’d been dead for centuries. Mad Machen . . . very definitely . . . was not.

And he was as hideously clever.

She turned her head, confirming the pale sunlight streaming in through the gallery windows. Only half an hour ago, she’d been in the crow’s nest, looking through the biperspic lenses toward Britain’s western shores, pointing out other sails on the horizon. They didn’t have to search for Meg here—fed by a warm Atlantic current, these waters weren’t cold enough for the giant sharks or the kraken. She’d been thinking of that when she’d skylarked down to the quarterdeck, but Mad Machen hadn’t met her with his usual grin. He’d picked her up and swung her facedown over his shoulder, and Ivy had only just recovered from her shock when she’d realized that he was taking her to his cabin. And for a short time, she’d been tempted to risk everything.

She hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only been a few steps from the bed when he’d asked, “Won’t you pay me to stop?”

Which meant that she’d have to earn her coin back with a kiss.

And so she’d ended up on her back in the bed anyway, fully clothed, Mad Machen’s mouth fastened to hers and his hands fisted beside her shoulders. With her legs around his hips and his heavy weight cradled between her thighs, he’d rocked until the needy ache had broken inside her, until she’d cried out as it shattered her hunger and rattled Ivy to the core. Then his mouth had become slow and languid on hers, as if he’d taken the wet heat from between her legs and alchemized her arousal into a kiss.

Once again, she’d been tempted to risk everything—and once again, she hadn’t had to. Mad Machen had only just lifted his head when Duckie had knocked at the door, calling through that Barker needed him topside.

And so now she lay alone, wishing for someone to whom she could pray. Only two days remained of their journey—and twenty days to return. She could not hold out. With every hour, her hunger for him became its own desperation, and she would not take a risk simply because she
wanted
. . . but this desire had become something more like
need
, instead.

Turning away from the windows, she buried her face in her hands. She knew the danger of this, could remember so clearly Netta’s grief and devastation when she’d lost her man. If Ivy carried on in this manner, she’d be returning to Fool’s Cove the same way. She needed to find some defense, because her fear of Mad Machen had not proven to be enough of one. Two weeks on his ship, and she’d seen little to justify his reputation. He could be hard and gruff and uncompromising, but not once had she witnessed any cruelty.

Now she risked more than a child. And she didn’t even need to take him inside her body to risk her heart.

With a sigh, she sat up—and was almost thrown out of the bed as
Vesuvius
canted steeply to port. Ivy grabbed the rail, suddenly realizing that the shouts and running footsteps on the deck above weren’t from the usual shift change. They came more often, were more urgent, and Mad Machen’s voice rose above the rest.
Oh, blue.

She leapt to the deck just as someone knocked at the door. Duckie waited outside the cabin, his face flushed and eyes wide. Beyond him, men hurried about, climbing rigging and hauling line.

“Miss Blacksmith, the captain requests that you follow me to the engine room. Mr. Leveque needs your assistance.”

No, Leveque didn’t. The engine room was simply the most secure location on the ship. She nodded. “Lead the way, Mr. Cooper.”

She walked beside him down the passageway leading from beneath the quarterdeck. As soon as she emerged, Ivy glanced up. Standing at the balustrade, a grim-faced Mad Machen met her eyes before tipping his head toward the ladder that would take her below. She didn’t argue, but paused for an instant at the ladder’s head, looking forward.

They were sailing toward a sinking ship. Almost as large as
Vesuvius
, her masts tilted drunkenly forward, the bowsprit almost parallel with the waterline.

Ivy’s heart lurched. Were they going to help it—or attack it?

Duckie called up from the lower deck. “Miss Blacksmith!”

She hurried down into pandemonium. The gun captains shouted orders, directing teams of men who shoved cannons toward open gunports. Boys raced about, placing buckets of water near the guns, spreading sand on the deck. Men began tying their neck scarves around their ears, and instinctively, Ivy covered hers.

She followed Duckie down another ladder, and the next deck was marginally quieter. Ivy shouted, “Why the cannons? That ship is foundered!”

Duckie shook his head. “It’s a slavers’ trick!” he shouted. “They took the captain in once—they won’t get him again. Quickly, Miss Blacksmith!”

He raced along the passageway to the engine room, and Ivy hurried after him, her mind spinning. She’d heard something like this before. Aboard the airship that had taken her to Fool’s Cove, the crew had been abuzz with reports of ships that used inflatables to lift their stern. When another ship answered their signals for help, the crew was ambushed and boarded, passengers taken as slaves. But like the tales of clockwork armies in Europe and tribes of warrior women in South America, like the stories about giant worms on the Russian steppes, or humans that the Horde had bred to animals—no one had actually seen it for themselves or known someone who had, and so Ivy had dismissed it.

She wouldn’t have believed Mad Machen if he’d told her, either.

Duckie pounded on the engine room door, yelling a stream of French. She heard locks opening from the other side, then Leveque poked his balding head out. He smiled at Ivy and gestured her in.

Quietly, he sat at a small desk and picked up a pipe, puffing out rings of blue smoke. The expensive scent of tobacco filled the room. The engine lay silent. Around them, the hull creaked. Fewer boots trampled the deck above, as if all the men were in position and waiting.

Her heart leapt as a cannon fired, a single shot followed by a muffled cheer. Leveque spoke, and though she didn’t understand anything he said, she gathered by his tone that he was telling her everything would be alright.

She’d have to take his word for it.

O
nly twenty minutes passed before Leveque stood and moved to the door. She looked at him wonderingly, and when he pulled a white kerchief from his pocket and waved it, she understood: the other ship had surrendered.

He unlocked the door and, with a bow, gestured her through ahead of him.

On the main gun deck, the men hadn’t stood down from their positions, though they’d obviously relaxed. Several wiped the sweat from their faces and necks with their scarves. Others laughed and talked quietly. Ivy climbed the ladder to the upper deck, emerging amidst a cluster of Mad Machen’s men armed with pistols and swords. Their eyes were trained starboard, and Ivy followed the path of their gaze. Her stomach lurched.

Mad Machen stood at the rail, holding a man by his neck over the side. His face purpled, the man struggled for air, clutching at Mad Machen’s wrist. His ship floated fifteen feet from
Vesuvius
’s side, grapplings and gangways stretching across the distance. That single cannon shot must have destroyed the inflatable, sending the stern crashing back to the surface. Both the mizzenmast and main had broken, the heavy timbers fallen aft, sails and lines trailing in the water behind the ship. At least a hundred men had been gathered on the decks—the ship’s crew, Ivy realized.

Mad Machen’s deep voice was loud enough to carry to the other ship, and full of deadly threat. “I ask you a final time, Captain. Which of these men is your employer?”

When the captain waved his hand, Mad Machen brought him in. Falling to his knees on the deck, the mercenary gasped for air and wheezed, “The . . . hold. With . . . the cargo.”

Mad Machen’s face darkened, and for an instant, Ivy thought he would kill the man. But he turned away from him, calling out, “Mr. Areyto, lead your men across and secure the hold. All men with bugs remain on
Vesuvius
until she’s clear.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Eyes wide, Ivy watched the master-at-arms step onto the gangway while half of his men lined the rail with weapons aimed toward the other deck. Why only those who weren’t infected? They weren’t as strong, wouldn’t heal as quickly.

A sudden murmur ran through the men surrounding her. Mad Machen shouted, “Hold! Return, Mr. Areyto.”

Ivy strained to see what had caught their attention. But there were only the men standing on the other deck, unmoving . . . some of them unnaturally rigid. The ship lifted on a swell. Several men toppled over, as if they were stiff boards caught in a wind.

As if their bugs had been frozen.

Horror crawled up from her belly. Ivy stifled her whimper, trying to push away the memory of lying in her bed, of hands prodding at her body.

On the other ship, a man slowly climbed up onto the deck. Blond and handsome, his skin as tanned as Mad Machen’s, he held a bloody knife in his right hand and a gleaming metal box topped by a spike in his left.

No—not a spike, Ivy realized.
A miniature tower.
Her gaze flew back to his face, to his pale hair. But this man wasn’t one of the Horde.

He began walking toward the rail, smiling. “Perhaps you will kill me, Captain Machen, but the Black Guard will endure. We will never be defeat—”

A loud crack rent the air. In a burst of red, the man’s forehead exploded. Ivy jolted back into one of the crew, her hands flying up to cover her shriek. The men steadied her.

Mad Machen lowered his pistol and looked aft. “Retrieve the device and shut it down, Mr. Areyto. Mr. Barker, call for the surgeon—” He broke off as his gaze met Ivy’s. She stared at him, hands clasped over her mouth. With a rough note in his voice, he continued, “And ask him to meet me in the hold.”

A chorus of
Aye, Captain
sounded. Ivy stumbled back to the port rail, and was sick over the side.

W
hen the last person had been unchained and led—or carried—out of the hold, Eben returned topside. He glanced across the water at
Vesuvius
’s decks. He wasn’t surprised to see that some of the men and women the Black Guard had meant to sell as slaves had remained above decks, lifting their faces to the sun. He wasn’t surprised that Ivy had gone.

It didn’t matter. He could still see her. Her white face and the horror in her eyes were etched in his memory—as was her rush to vomit over the side.

Why the bloody hell did she have to come above decks
then
?

He found the ship’s captain on the quarterdeck. The man took one look at Eben’s expression and paled.