Burning Up (42 page)

His skin paled beneath his tan. Jaw clenched, he turned away from her.

“It
is
true,” she whispered. She hadn’t been completely certain before—not when the story came from Lady Corsair. But Eben’s reaction said that it was. “Why would you take that risk?”

“Ivy . . .” He shook his head, and the sound that came from him seemed like a laugh, but pain or fear was sculpted into his posture, his expression. But when he faced her, there was only need and hope. “Because you’re worth more to me than anything else in this world. Because I want you to make
Vesuvius
your home. And because. . . I love you, Ivy.”

Her heart filled, followed by a stabbing pain. His love, her love—it changed nothing. Lady Corsair was still right, and more people than Eben would be hurt. So would his crew . . . and the slaves that Mad Machen could potentially save.

Eben’s eyes closed. His voice was bleak. “You don’t have to say it, Ivy. I can see your answer in your face. Where will you go?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll buy equipment for a blacksmith’s shop, in another city. Maybe in the New World. With this much money, I can go anywhere, do anything.” Except what she most wanted. Her vision blurred as she glanced down at the coins. “Fool’s Cove, first. I promised Netta I’d come back.”

“And I promised to take you there.
God.
” He fisted his hands in his hair, staring at her in utter torment. Then he lost all expression, and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to leave. His voice was flat as he said, “We’ll sail in the morning.”

He closed the door quietly. Ivy wished he’d slammed it.
She
wanted to slam it. She remained on the bed instead, rocking back and forth, refusing to cry—and refusing to give in to impulse and throw the money as hard as she could across the room.

Love, money. None of it changed the problem of reputation. Mad Machen saved people for coin, not because he cared. He chased a woman because she’d cheated him—not because he loved her. And the woman who stayed would have to be . . . would have to be . . .

She’d have to be
mad
.

Ivy’s lips parted. Her heart pounding, she rose from the bed, and collected the money—then she crossed the room and collected the gun. She counted the number of bullets and removed three.

She’d reached the door before realizing that only stockings encased her feet. Spotting her worn black boots, she pulled them on.

They’d work well enough. Money could buy her slippers. Only crazy would get her a man.

M
en and women packed the tavern. From somewhere in the back, automaton musicians badly in need of repairs to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through the crowd, and she supposed it said much about the patrons here that not one glanced a second time at the revolver she carried in her right hand, though a few did stare at her guild tattoo. Rising up on her toes, she tried to scan the tables and the bar, but there were too many people, most of them taller. She debated for an instant whether to circle the room, looking for Eben—but now that she’d resolved to do this, she decided to go full bore.

Hiking up her skirts, she clambered atop the nearest table and stood. A single fierce look silenced the protesting men whose drinks sloshed wildly in her wake—though she noted they were amused rather than afraid.

That would do, too.

She spotted Eben at the bar, and her heart clenched. He sat alone with his shoulders slumped, his expression desolate. He held a small glass loosely in his hand. When he lifted it toward his lips, Ivy raised her gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

The glass exploded. The deafening crack of the revolver faded to silence. Even the song died, which hadn’t been played by broken automatons, Ivy realized—just very bad musicians. She found herself facing a roomful of pistols, but she only had eyes for the one in Eben’s hand. It pointed straight back at her.

His face whitened. A glass shard had cut his lip; blood spilled over his jaw. She saw his mouth form her name, and she shouted over him.

“Mad Machen!” She aimed for his heart even as he lowered his gun—as did everyone around them. No longer concerned for their lives, they cleared a path between Ivy and Eben, and settled in to watch. “You heartless brigand! You’ve tracked me to the ends of the earth to have your revenge, and you’ve used me in your bed. You’ve forced me to work in
Vesuvius
’s smithy. No more. I demand that you set a course for my home, Captain. And you will do it now, or I will put a bullet through your mad brainpan.”

Eben’s expression darkened. Slowly, he rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. His voice was low and dangerous. “So you think you’ll take command of my ship, do you?”

“You have forced me to this point, Mad Machen. Do you think that I will stay in your smithy forever? No longer will I watch as you make a fortune with my windups, forcing me to slave away on your ship and selling them at every port.”

“You’ll do whatever I say, Ivy Blacksmith. You’re mine, as is every coin you earn.”

She adjusted her aim when he stalked toward her. “Stay there, or I will shoot your leg from under you!”

She planned to make him a better one, anyway.

He didn’t stop. Ivy fired. The bullet slammed into solid steel just below his right knee. He stumbled forward to keep his balance. A murmur ran through the crowd.

Jaw hardening, Eben straightened. The look he gave Ivy sent the men around her table scrambling for distance. He approached, and when he was within a few feet, Ivy pointed the revolver at his groin.

“Next will be your prick, sir. And you know that my hands are too steady to miss.”

His grin was a mad thing, filled with blood and wild laughter. “Then I will force you to graft on a new one. Perhaps something smaller, that you can take more easily.”

He continued forward. Ivy pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click. She only had time to shriek before he swept her feet from the tabletop. Tossing her facedown over his shoulder, he strode for the door. She pounded her fists against his back, screaming for help.

Thank the blessed stars, not a single patron came to her aid. And she was gratified to hear, just before Eben pushed through the exit,

“She’s as bleeding mad as he is!”

I
vy found herself in the nearest alley, up against the nearest wall, with Eben kissing her as if he’d never stop. She didn’t want him to. Threading her fingers into his hair, she tasted his sweat and his blood—but the tears were hers.

“I love you,” she said against his mouth the moment he gave her a chance to breathe. “I love you. Did you know?”

His eyes closed and he shook his head. “Not until I saw you on that table. You
are
mad. And, my God, I love you for it.”

Laughing, she kissed him again. After a moment, she said, “You have to punish me for challenging your command.”

“By forcing you to set up a shop aboard
Vesuvius
?”

“By keeping me with you forever.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And I will have clean air, a view, work for my mind and my hands—and you. Everything I want. So take me home, Captain.”

“That’s an order I’ll follow.” Lifting her up, Eben cradled her against his chest and turned for the docks.

Ivy smiled and lay her head on his shoulder. “Would you have let me return to Fool’s Cove?”

“No. When courting fails, the next step is abduction.”

She laughed into the night—until she caught a glimpse of his face. His expression was serious. Her mouth fell open. “Weren’t you joking?”

His sudden grin didn’t make her any more or less certain. Alright. She’d let him have that one.

“Do you know,” she told him, gently touching the almost-healed cut on his lip, “that I’ve never once held a gun before today?”

His grin remained only until he glanced at her features. He came to a stop. “Now
you’re
not serious. That glass you shot was an inch from my head.”

“But it’s true.” She wiggled her fingers, silvery in the moonlight. “I knew my aim would be perfect. And it was, don’t you agree?”

He studied her face a moment longer, before starting toward
Vesuvius
again, a smile deepening the corners of his mouth. “God help me,” he said.

Once again, she took that as a “yes.”

KEEP READING FOR A PREVIEW OF
VIRGINIA KANTRA’S NEXT
CHILDREN OF THE SEA NOVEL

IMMORTAL SEA

COMING SEPTEMBER 2010FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

M
organ looked down, arrested, at the woman clinging to his arm. Was she aware what she invited? His kind did not touch. Only to fight or to mate.

His blood rushed like water under ice. Perhaps tonight he would do both.

He had not come ashore to rut. He was not as abstemious as his prince, Conn, but he had standards. Unlike his sister Morwenna and others among the mer, he did not often waste his seed on humankind.

The woman’s throat moved as she swallowed. “Sorry,” she said, and dropped his arm.

She was very young, he observed. Attractive, with healthy skin and glossy brown hair. Her face was a strong oval, her jaw slightly squared, her unfettered breasts high and pleasing. There was even a gleam that might be intelligence in those brown eyes.

It would be no great privation to indulge her and himself.

“Do not apologize.” Grasping her hand, he replaced it on his sleeve. Her nails were clean and unpolished, her fingers tapered.

He imagined those short nails pressing into his flesh, and the rush in his blood became a roar.
No privation at all.

He glanced around the narrow buildings fronting the street. He would not take her here, in this filthy human warren. But there were other places less noxious, and nearby. Adjusting his stride to hers, he led her away, seeking green ways and open water.

The lights and noise of the city at night eddied and ebbed around them, the amber pool of a streetlight, the green glow of a bar sign, a lamp in a second-floor window.

At the next intersection, she hesitated, her gaze darting down the street toward a café where trees strung with tiny lights canopied a cluster of empty tables. “Don’t we want to go that way?”

She did possess intelligence, then. Or at least a sense of direction.

“If you like.” Morgan shrugged. “It is quieter toward the harbor.”

Her brow pleated. Her eyes were big and dark. He watched the silent battle between feminine caution and female desire, felt the moment of acquiescence when her hand relaxed on his forearm. He fought to keep his flare of triumph from his face.

“Quieter,” she repeated.

“More . . . scenic,” he said, searching for a word that might appeal to her.

“Oh.” Her tongue touched her lower lip in doubt or invitation. “I haven’t seen the harbor yet. This is my first visit to Copenhagen.”

“Indeed.” Warmth radiated from her hand up his arm. Anticipation flowed thick and urgent through his veins. She was not part of his purpose here. But she was a respite, a recompense of a sort, for long years of trial and frustration.

Her bare shoulders gleamed in the moonlight, sweetly curved as the curl of a shell. The night swirled around them like seaweed caught in the tide, the smell of beer and piss and car exhaust, a waft from a flower box, a breeze from the sea.

“I almost didn’t come,” she continued, as if he had expressed an interest. “Not part of The Plan, you know?”

He did not know and cared even less. But her voice was low pitched and pleasant. To hear it again, he asked, “There is a plan?”

She nodded, touching the ends of her hair where it brushed her smooth shoulders. He observed the small, betraying gesture with satisfaction. Consciously or not, she was signaling her awareness of him as a male.

“I start med school in the fall,” she said. “My dad wanted me to stay home and do a post-bacc program, get a leg up on the competition. And my mother wanted one more summer of tennis and Junior League before I slip from her grasp forever.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “And what do you want?”

Her eyes crinkled. “A break,” she said with such rueful honesty that he almost smiled back. “Everything always revolves around school. Like I don’t live my own life, I just prepare for it. I wanted . . . something different. An adventure, I guess.”

He could give her something different, he thought. He would even make sure she enjoyed it.

The barred storefronts ceded ground to cobblestone streets and narrow houses with cramped garden plots. The scent of standing water and of lilies carried on the breeze.
Not much farther now
, he thought.

“What about you?” she asked with friendly interest.

He glanced down in surprise.

“What brings you here?”

His purpose was bitter as brine in his mouth, deep and cold as the sea.

For Morgan was warden of the northern deeps, charged by a lost king to fight a losing battle.

For a thousand years he had served the sea king’s son, battling demons in the deep, defending his desmesne from the sly encroachments of the
sidhe
. But his powers had proved useless against the depredations of humankind. For more than a century, the overflow from this city’s streets and canals had polluted the sound and the sea, turning the port into a shit house. Only now, when the humans had finally learned to curb their waste, could Morgan begin the slow process of repair. Recovery of the seabed would take centuries.

He did not blame this girl—much—for what her kind had done. She was here and female and willing. Under the circumstances, he was prepared to overlook a great deal.

“Business,” he said.

Her deep brown eyes assessed him. “You don’t dress like a businessman.”

He wore the black and silver of the finfolk, subtly altered so he could pass for a man of this place and time. “No?”

“No.”

He did not respond. The sky was thick with moisture, glowing with the lights of the city and the promise of dawn. The moon wore golden vapor like a veil.