Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03] (15 page)

Only once did he glance at her bed, close enough to where he sat that he could stretch out one leg and brush against the blanket spread across it. He didn’t consider himself an imaginative man—he had a skill for planning battles and thinking well under pressure—but when it came to flights of fancy, he wasn’t particularly adept. Yet he could easily imagine her laying there at night. The shape of her body beneath the blanket. He decided she left her hair unbound at night, and that it spread fragrantly across her pillow. And maybe, just maybe, she thought of him.

God, she didn’t—she didn’t
touch
herself, did she? As he had been lately when he lay in bed and thought about her.

The idea—her touching herself as she pictured him—had him iron hard in an instant. His hands seemed to swell, and the knot of wires became impossible to untangle. With a muttered curse, he pushed it away.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. Which didn’t help the situation with his aching erection. He edged closer to the table so she couldn’t see his groin.

“Are you giving up?” she teased.

“Just need a break,” he growled.

“Ah, where’s that fighting spirit I’ve come to rely on?”

Blood returned marginally to his brain. “You rely on me?”

“No!” she said at once, blushing. “Perhaps a little. I’d, ah, rather not have to hunt if I don’t have to.”

He smiled to himself as she busied herself with a pair of pliers. Good to know that they were both fumbling their way through this indefinable thing between them. He took another sip of tea, and an idea suddenly struck him.

“When’s the ferryman scheduled to make his next delivery?”

She half turned in her seat. “I’d almost forgotten. Two days, I think.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’ve been here nearly a month.”

He wanted to ask her if it had been a good month, or if she regretted coming to the island. Instead, he said, “Don’t tell him about me.”

She frowned. “Why would I?”

“Say nothing. If he knows I’m here—”

“He’ll telegraph the navy, and they’ll come for you.”

“You know I don’t want to leave.” He wouldn’t rejoin the fight to become another instrument of death. But slowly, over the month, he’d begun to see this island less as a self-imposed exile and more of a private refuge for himself and Kali. Even if they never became lovers, he could happily stay in this place for the rest of his days.

“Good,” she said, turning around to her workbench. “Because I want to stay, too.”

He pictured what it could be like, with her on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder as they sat by the fire, arms around each other. Thank God she had her back to him, since he was certain his gaze was full of naked yearning.

T
he ferryman Campbell arrived on the appointed day. He seemed shocked that she was still alive, and more surprised that she was sane. But she’d carried on a perfectly banal conversation with him as he’d unloaded her supplies, asking after the health of his wife and children and the quality of his journey from South Uist. She didn’t inquire about the state of the world beyond the Outer Hebrides—whether there’d been any significant progress in the Mechanical War, or if he knew anything about the status of Liverpool.

Life was orderly. It was contained. She’d achieved a kind of comfort and surety she’d never known. Hard to think that a Man O’ War needed any further strengthening, but he smiled more now, and that gruff wall he’d put up between himself and the world seemed to be slowly eroding.

As Campbell carried her supplies up the slope to her cottage, she considered increasing her order for next time. There were sheets of metal, spools of wiring, fresh paper for drawing up diagrams. All sufficient to keep working. Yet she’d only planned on feeding herself. And though Fletcher tried to rein in his appetite, she knew he was hungry. It was hard to tell because of his thick beard, but his cheeks seemed more hollow. More eggs, butter, and meat could help put food in his flattening belly. Not that she’d looked at his stomach, hidden as it was behind a waistcoat he’d begun to wear. But she had noticed it seemed flatter than before.

Yet if she asked Campbell to bring her more supplies, he’d grow suspicious and wonder why one woman could need so much food. She had to make a choice. Give Fletcher more to eat, or protect his privacy.

So when Campbell asked, “Is there anything else you’ll be wanting for the next time?” she answered, “Just a few pounds more of beef. I’m trying to tame some of the owls here and they want an incentive.” Thirty pounds of beef would’ve been a better request, but she doubted an island-full of owls could finish that off before it spoiled—unlike Fletcher, who’d eat the whole of it in three days. And she had no plans on taming him.

The ferryman only shrugged at this request. He tramped back along the beach, where his boat bobbed at anchor. “And you’re sure you’re well, Miss MacNeil?”

“Very well, indeed.” This wasn’t a prevarication. She meant it. Her dreams troubled her less and less, her leg felt stronger, and she was getting exceptional amounts of work done.

There was Fletcher, too. Who’d come to her cottage again yesterday when the rains hadn’t stopped. She didn’t think she’d like sharing the small space with anyone, but it felt natural, comfortable, to have him there, despite his size. He’d even brought a book to occupy himself—a treatise on the potential of civilian aerial travel—and they’d spent the afternoon in companionable quiet.

It had been so companionable, in fact, that her heart had sunk when he’d left just before supper, insisting that she didn’t have to feed him twice.

And there’d been a moment—a breathless, moment—when they’d stood at the front door, face-to-face, after he pulled on his coat to head out. His gaze had slid down to her mouth, and she’d stared at his, and time and space dissolved. She’d known only the heat radiating from his body—he gave off a pleasant smell of warm metal—and the ache within her own, wanting,
needing
to touch him.

She’d thought for certain he’d kiss her. Or, if he didn’t, then she’d kiss him. But he didn’t move, and before she could rise up on her toes and link her fingers behind his neck, he’d nodded and wordlessly hurried off into the rain.

She’d wanted to kick something. Preferably him.

Now she just waved Campbell off as he hoisted anchor and chugged away from the island.

Almost as soon as she returned to her cottage to put away her supplies, there was a boom of thunder and the rains started again. Kali’s heart sank. She and Fletcher had agreed that he’d stay away from her side of the island today, since they’d no idea when Campbell would arrive. They’d decided that if there was enough of the day left afterward, she’d go to the
Persephone
. Now that was impossible. True, she’d gained strength and confidence with her walks and hikes, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the idea of trekking over the island in the rain.

It wasn’t a gentle drizzle, either. Like a released magic curse, the rain quickly turned into a storm. Her cottage nearly shuddered from its force. Wind rattled the windows. It sounded as though a whole unit of soldiers in heavy boots was stomping on her roof. Thunder shook her right down to her bones, and lightning bathed the inside of her cottage with shocks of light. The temperature plummeted, and she threw more peat into the fire.

At least Campbell would’ve have reached home by now. He was safe.

But it looked like it was going to be a long, lonely, and storm-wracked day. She settled in to work. But her concentration kept shattering with each clap of thunder. The bombs had sounded much the same, deafening with each impact, the earth itself unstable.

It’s only a storm. No Hapsburg or Russian airships. Just masses of warm, damp air moving upward and cooling and condensing. Clouds form and rain falls. Lightning’s just an electrostatic discharge. Thunder is merely air’s expansion from the lightning that makes a shock wave. All perfectly explainable. Nothing dangerous.

If lightning were going to strike anything on the island, it wouldn’t be her cottage. What about the metal tanks on the
Persephone
? She had to hope that Fletcher would be all right. There wasn’t much she could do to help him.

But the cottage still shuddered with each clap of thunder, and the wind tore at the roof. It felt as if the ghosts of her past were attacking her haven.

Dusk crept in, though she could barely tell in the darkness, and the storm worsened. As she sat down to a supper she didn’t want, she thought,
Storms rage, but they pass. A day or two more.

Hadn’t she endured monsoon season in Nagpur? The Nag would overflow, though they lived far enough away from the river to avoid the worst of the flooding. But her worst enemy during June and September had been boredom. This shouldn’t be any different.

Except she’d survived a bombing, and the sky wasn’t nearly as benign as it had been before. And monsoons didn’t shake the house like a horde of demons.

She now heard the unmistakable sound of shingles torn from the roof. Then a dreadful creaking sound. She looked up just in time to see the ceiling collapse.

H
ow long she lay beneath the fallen roof, she couldn’t tell. Maybe hours. Maybe minutes. But then everything around her shook, and she feared that what was left of the house would break apart and bury her even more.

Suddenly, the roof pinning her disappeared. It flew away, tossed aside by a wild-eyed Fletcher. He loomed over her, rain splashing against his wide shoulders. Shoulders that seemed to shield her from the worst of the storm. More water beaded in his wild hair and thick beard.

“Fletcher?” She knew he was strong, but she’d no idea that he could take a slate-shingled roof and fling it like a book.

His shoulders eased slightly, though he didn’t lose his ferocious expression. “Wiggle your fingers and toes for me.”

Though they were numb from cold, she did move her fingers and toes. “They’re fine.”

“And your arms? Legs?” There was that commanding tone again as he glowered down at her.

She tested them. “Also fine. Help me up.”

His arm curved around her shoulders and gently raised her to sitting. The storm continued to pour around them, but through the cascades of rain, she saw her cottage. What remained of her cottage. Only three walls still stood, and the roof was halfway across the field.

Dear God—the power he had. “What are you doing here?”

He glared up as another bolt of lightning shot across the sky. She couldn’t stop her flinch. “Got worried when the storm started. This place is as safe as a house of paper. I headed over here to check that you were all right.”

“But if the ferryman was still here—”

“Didn’t give a damn.”

“But—”

“No more questions. Not until we’ve got you out of the rain. Now put your arms around my neck.”

As she did, his own arms came up to cradle her against his chest. They were both soaked through, but he still radiated heat, and she pressed close against the broad expanse of his chest to gather that warmth. He stood, then ran, still holding her close.

Perhaps under different circumstances she might be more scientifically curious about the speed of a running Man O’ War. But not now. All she felt was his strength, his swiftness. The world turned into a blur of darkness and rain. She could barely make out shapes of trees or familiar landmarks. It was only Fletcher, holding her, racing against the storm as he held her as gently as one might hold a clockwork butterfly.

The
Persephone
finally loomed into view. A few lights glowed in the portholes. The sight nearly brought tears to her eyes. Shelter. At last.

Fletcher hurried around to the back of the ship, to his quarters and the bank of windows that lined them. He held her with one arm, and she felt the power gathering in him before he leapt up, catching hold of an open window’s sill. He hauled them both up and over, until they were in his cabin. He slammed the window shut, the rain continuing to hammer against the glass. His boots pounded against the floor as he strode to a chair. Carefully, he set her down in it. He stalked to his bed. The frame groaned and twisted slightly as he pulled it up from where it had been bolted to the floor. He dragged the whole piece of furniture over to the stove, then gathered her up again. Gently, he set her down on the bed.

“Take off your clothes.” He knelt in front of the stove and stoked its flames higher.

Her fingers shook too much from the cold to undo the buttons lining the front of her dress. “C-can’t.”

He tried his hand at the task, but either the cold or something else made him clumsy, and he couldn’t slip the buttons through their holes. Cursing, he pulled something from his boot. Light gleamed on a knife’s blade.

“Hold still.” There was a damp ripping sound, and suddenly the front of her dress gaped open. Beneath, her wet chemise was as transparent as glass.

She was undecided between modestly pulling her dress closed, and getting the damned sodden thing off her. Concern for health won out. She pulled off her wet and ruined gown, shimmying out of it and her sopping petticoat.

He grabbed the mass of it from her and threw it into a corner. The only light in his quarters came from the stove, and with his back to it, he formed a massive, dark shape of unforgiving, hard angles and thick muscles.

“Everything,” he said.

“I’m . . . n-not getting
naked
—”

“All of it,” he commanded. “If you get lung fever and die because you’re
shy
, I’ll strangle you.”

“Excellent . . . b-bedside manner.” But she continued to shake with cold, so after making him turn around, she did as he ordered, peeling off her chemise, drawers and stockings. Covering herself with the blanket draped across his bed, she threw her remaining wet clothing into the corner, though her aim wasn’t as good nor her arm as strong, and her underwear wound up lying in the middle of his quarters.

Now she was naked, save for a blanket, sitting on Fletcher’s bed.