Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03] (16 page)

“Your clothes all off?” he asked without turning around.

“Yes—don’t turn around, yet.” She had to get her prosthetic leg off. He might have seen part of it before, but he’d never seen the straps fastening it to her thigh—or her stump. Quickly, she undid the buckles. She shoved the artificial limb beneath the bed, then threw the blanket back over her legs.

“You’re c-clear,” she said.

He turned around. She followed his gaze as it caught on a sliver of her exposed shoulder, and heard him suck in his breath. Sudden heat pulsed through her, chasing away the cold.

“Now you,” she said.

“Man O’ Wars don’t feel the cold the same way. We don’t get sick as easy.”

“But you’re not immortal.” When he hesitated, she pressed, “The nearest doctor is miles away, and I don’t have any way to fetch her. So disrobe. That’s an order.”

“We’re not in the navy.” But she continued to glare at him until, swearing under his breath, he began to pull his clothing off. Coat first. He wore no waistcoat, and his white shirt had turned as transparent as her chemise, clinging to his skin. She watched avidly as he pulled down his braces then stripped away the fabric and let it fall to the ground.

She gasped. It was impossible to keep silent. She’d seen shirtless men before, but never a Man O’ War, and never Fletcher—whose body she’d tried to imagine many, many times. But imagination hardly did justice to fact.

She knew, for example, that he’d have exceptional musculature. Yet that was nothing compared to seeing those muscles with her own eyes. He’d said he’d lost weight over the course of his time on the island, but he was a hewn wonder, sleek and strapping. Every muscle was sharply defined. She could hardly imagine what he’d look like when at his peak. But this . . .this was astonishing.

Steam literally rose from his body.

Her gaze moved to the telumium implanted into his left shoulder. It curved along the shape of his body, like Roman armor, yet it flexed and moved as smoothly as flesh. A scientific and engineering marvel. But not nearly as fascinating as the man standing before her.

He caught her staring at him. His expression turned guarded, though he continued to face her. As if he expected revulsion. Had Emily seen him this way and been repulsed? For many reasons, Kali hated that woman.

“Those are quite intriguing,” she said, pointing to his right arm and his right pectoral.

He glanced down at the tattoos—a tangle of thorn-covered roses and serpents interwoven amongst the vines. There was an Eye of Horus, too, and a bladed weapon of some kind. Some were more faded than others, but they all highlighted his striking physique. He said nothing.

“They must have a special meaning,” she prompted.

“Only that I was young when I enlisted.”

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured. Holding his gaze, she added, “
All
of it’s beautiful.”

Tension eased from him. Yet not from her. Here he was, half-dressed, with those exquisite lines of muscle running along his hips and vanishing beneath the waistband of his trousers. Here she was, naked but for a blanket. She wanted so badly to walk to him, press herself against him.

She couldn’t. She had to stay exactly where she was, trapped by her injury.

“I think everything needs to come off.” Not even a tiny quiver in her voice—very good, she thought. “You can’t be too careful with your health.”

“Look somewhere else, damn it,” he growled after a moment.

She placed her hands over her eyes. “Here they’ll stay until you tell me otherwise.”

He muttered something, but judging by the sounds, he was pulling off his boots. And then his trousers and drawers.

Kali did what any sane and sensible woman would do in her place. She peeked.

It took every bit of will she possessed not to gasp again. The muscles of his thighs and calves were thick. He had long feet. And his cock . . .

It stood at half mast, and even in its semi-hard state, she could barely believe its length and girth. Either he’d always been a big man, or the telumium implants had made him so. It didn’t much matter how he’d gotten that way. This was who he was now. A confusing mixture of apprehension and desire filled her. A woman would have to be capacious indeed—or very aroused—to accommodate him. Capacious she wasn’t, but she could be aroused. Quite aroused.

The view of his buttocks as he turned to fetch a pair of dry trousers made her salivate. Every flex and contraction of muscle showed, and he was nicely curved, unlike some of the men she’d known, with their flat behinds. She watched his glorious muscles work as he tugged on trousers—but no drawers—then quickly covered her eyes again when he faced her.

“I’m decent enough,” he rumbled.

She took her hands away from her face.
I’m not going to tell him that I can plainly see the shape of his cock through his pants. I won’t say a bloody thing.

“Warm now?” he asked.

“Getting there.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, as if deliberating. Finally, he crossed the cabin and sat beside her on the bed.

“Not trying to be forward,” he muttered. “I give off a lot of heat.”

“I know,” she said.

They sat close but did not touch. Her whole body felt tight and sensitive, aware of everything, almost painfully so. She shuddered.

He looked concerned. “Still cold?”

“No. But . . . when the ceiling collapsed . . . I thought . . .” She shivered again. “I thought if I did survive, I’d be missing another leg.”

He cursed, then wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She wanted so badly to lean into him, to surrender her fear, to let herself, for a moment, be vulnerable. But she wouldn’t allow it. She sat straight. The heat of his body wove into hers—the only concession she’d allow.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured.

“There’s no such thing as safety. Just avoiding catastrophe.”

He moved so that he looked directly into her eyes. “Listen to me, damn it. I’ll keep you safe. I promise you.”

She smiled sadly. “Nobody can make that promise. Not even a Man O’ War.”

“I accept your challenge.”

“It’s not a challenge, Fletcher. It’s the truth. I’m nobody’s responsibility. Despite this”—she gazed down at the abbreviated shape her missing leg made beneath the blanket—“I won’t be cosseted like a newly-hatched egg.”

His expression darkened. “Who the hell said anything about cosseting?”

“It’s—”

“A ship can’t run on its own,” he said, his voice rough. “Not even the biggest ironclad or most heavily armed airship. Without a crew, it just drifts. Maybe . . .” He seemed to struggle to find the words. “Maybe people are the same way. Maybe they need each other to keep from foundering. And maybe . . . maybe there’s no shame in that. In . . . needing.”

She opened her mouth to speak. But no words came. Because he kissed her.

The first touch of his lips to hers verged on tentative. But the kiss turned fevered, hungry, in an instant. He brought up his hands and cradled her head, his mouth against hers, both demanding and giving. He tasted of rainwater and burning need. She answered his need with her own, a floodgate of desire opening.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders. Beneath her palms, his skin was hot, so hot—tight and satiny where he was flesh, sleek and burnished where he was metal. He resonated with energy barely restrained. She’d seen the feats of strength and speed he was capable of, but nothing truly revealed his power until now. Her belly clutched in excitement, and her pulse roared in her ears louder than the storm outside.

She dug her nails into his flesh. He growled in approval, deepening the kiss. One of his hands wrapped around her waist. He pulled her hard against him, her breasts pressed to his unyielding chest. Sensation shot through her, the tight tips of her nipples sensitive, radiating pleasure from the rub of the blanket’s coarse fabric and the feel of him, solid, male.

God, it had been so long since she felt anything like this. Even before the attack at Liverpool, she’d not had this kind of want. No one she needed this badly, or who wanted her with the same demand.

She jolted as his hand dipped beneath the blanket and cupped her breast, then moaned as he stroked her. His large palm easily held the fullness of her breast, caressing her, teasing her. His teeth scraped along her neck, then he kissed her throat as if to soothe the blaze he’d roused in her—she wasn’t soothed. Only inflamed.

He bent his head, and when his tongue found her nipple, circling it, she gasped. The brush of his beard, the feel of his lips and tongue—it was too much, and hardly enough.

Her hands went exploring. Feeling the solidity and contours of his torso, and lower, along the ridges of his abdomen.

Before her hand could travel lower, something skittered across her whole leg.

Hazed with pleasure, she glanced down. And yelped.

A rat perched on her leg. Sitting back on his hindquarters, its little pink hands held in front of its gray body, black eyes staring up at her inquisitively.

She wasn’t afraid of rodents, exactly. But she hadn’t anticipated hungrily kissing Fletcher and then finding a rat on her leg.

Fletcher pulled back. He sighed as he looked at the rodent. But instead of flinging the rat across the room, he scooped it up in his hand and held it up to eye level.

“Bloody bad timing, old man,” he growled.

The rat’s whiskers twitched, and it crept forward and nuzzled Fletcher’s nose.

“That’s your
pet
?” Kali pulled the blanket close around her.

“Saved him from an owl. Then made the mistake of feeding him. Now he won’t leave.” He glanced at Kali. “I suppose he’s curious about visitors.”

“I . . .” She didn’t know what to say. Her body still hummed from his kiss, his touch, and now they were talking about his pet rat. The story would’ve charmed her, if she hadn’t been so muzzy-headed with thwarted desire.

“Shove off, Four.” He set the rat onto the floor, and it scurried away, but not before casting another inquisitive glance at her.

“Four?”

“Short for four-pound shot. The smallest cannon shot.”

“Of course.” She took several deep breaths, steadying herself. “But I’m not finished with you. Not at all.” But when she reached for him again, he captured her hands with one of his.

“Kali, listen—”

She tugged her hands away and crossed her arms over her chest. “No good conversations ever begin with
Listen
.” If only she could get up and storm off.

“Too bad,” he countered. His face looked carved of granite. “You’ll hear what I have to say.”

She didn’t know if she wanted to, but she couldn’t very well get up and leave.

“You have a man?” he demanded. “Some lover or sweetheart you left behind in Liverpool?

“No,” she said quietly.

He looked stricken. “Hell—he wasn’t killed, was he?”

“I didn’t have anyone when the battle happened. A lover, a few months before, but he wasn’t . . . we couldn’t make it work. And he survived the attack. Moved back to his hometown of Barnsley and married his childhood sweetheart.” She couldn’t blame Wallace for hurrying into the shelter of normal life, but she did wonder if he’d found the safety he had sought.

But none of that mattered now. Not after that kiss with Fletcher.

“I want you, Kali. So damn much.” Hot as a furnace, his gaze raked her. She could see in his eyes what he wanted to do to her. To do
with
her.

Every part of her body seemed to burst into flame. She could picture all the things he wanted, picture them as vividly as images projected from a cinemagraph.

“I want you, too,” she rasped. “But I sense a reason we’re not going to have each other.”

There was a long, agonizing pause. Then, “I
care
about you, Kali.” His voice was rough, as though he had to pull the words from deep within himself and present them to her, bloody and beating.

He stood from the bed and strode to the windows. His trousers hung low on his hips, and the fabric barely hid the shape of his cock beneath. Pure sexual frustration threatened to strangle her.

His back to her, he braced his hands on the windowsill. Firelight carved his back into an intricate topography of dark and gold, including the scars from his lashing.

“Damn it,” he growled without looking at her, “I want to take you to bed, so damned much. But I won’t lose this . . . this friendship we have.”

“We won’t—”

But he didn’t, or wouldn’t, hear her. “Becoming a captain lost me friends. I couldn’t have them. I was in command. Can’t command men to fight and possibly go to their deaths if you’re also their friend.”

She’d never thought of it in those terms. The island itself was remote, but he’d been isolated before, even surrounded by a hundred crewmen.

“And with . . . Emily . . .” He seemed to not want to speak her name. “We liked each other. Maybe loved each other.”

Gods and goddesses, Kali did
not
want to hear this.

“But I don’t think she ever really knew me,” he continued. “Not the way you do. Don’t take that from me,” he said, low and rough. He spun to face her. “Don’t take this”—he gestured to the space between them—“away from me.”

“I . . . won’t.” This had to be the oddest conversation she’d ever had, with a man begging her not to have sex with him. Odd, and wonderful. She desired him, so much that she ached with it—but a person to care about and who cared for her, who respected her and she respected in kind . . . that was far more rare than desire. It had taken careful, slow navigation to get them where they were now. And she wouldn’t throw any of that away.

“Look,” she added. She stuck her hands under her thighs, pinning them to the mattress. “I can’t even pinch your bottom.”

He laughed, a rueful sound. But grateful, too. Finally, he said, “I’d say I’m sorry about your cottage, but it makes me happy to have you here.”

“I’m glad to be here,” she said, and meant it. But she’d never sleep easy aboard the
Persephone
. Not with him so close, and so impossible.