London squeezed herself into one of the two small cabins below deck. She had the unenviable task of trying to undress and dress herself in a space no bigger than a closet. She kept banging her elbows into the bulkheads. The cabin held a berth wide enough for a single man, a tiny table, and no mirror. Clearly, pride in appearance wasn’t high on a seaman’s list of priorities.
“And how does it fit?” Athena’s voice said outside the door.
“Depends,” London said, emerging into the narrow passageway, “on whether I want to look like I am shrinking. If that is my goal, then I would say we succeeded admirably.”
Athena covered her mouth, but her laugh escaped anyway. “It is a trifle…loose.”
“Loose!” London plucked at the sagging bodice of the gown borrowed from Athena. “I’ve room enough to smuggle puppies.”
“A whole litter,” Athena agreed. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It is not your fault that my bosom is deficient.”
Athena scoffed. “Not deficient! You are slim, like a beautiful river reed. While I,” she continued, glancing down at herself, “am built like one of those Cretan snake goddesses, all breasts and hips. So vulgar.”
“Womanly, not vulgar,” London disputed. She added, with a sly, female smile, “And it seems that our captain approves.”
“Bah!” Athena threw up her hands in dismissal. “Of course he likes the large breasts—he is a coarse boor who would rut like an animal if given the chance.” The witch’s gaze suddenly went far off, considering this very prospect. Her dusky cheeks flushed before she shook her head as if to clear it of a particularly robust image.
London smothered a smile and busied herself with adjusting the bodice of the gown. It was a simple but exquisitely made day gown of blue and white striped cotton with a charming bow at the waist. On Athena it would be lovely, but London was several inches shorter than the witch, and considerably less curvaceous.
“If you’ve a needle and thread, I might be able to make a few temporary adjustments,” London offered.
“No need for such tedious work,” Athena said with a dismissive wave. “Let me see.” She peered closer at the sleeves. “Too long here.” Her fingers brushed over the cuff.
London started when the cuff shrank back to the perfect length. “Good God! Is that magic?”
The witch laughed. “Arachne’s Art, something the Galanos women have practiced for generations. Excuse me, I am not trying to get fresh.” Her hands lightly trailed over London’s bosom, and the bodice shifted until it fit London’s more modest figure.
“Seems quite convenient.”
“It is. It allows us a considerable amount more freedom than other women.” She knelt and took the hem of the dress between her fingers. “We are not tied to our needlework. Or any man.”
“How wonderful that must be,” London said earnestly.
Athena glanced up, her eyes grave. “Galanos women value our independence. We make our own paths in this world. If there is something we want, we take it, and do not apologize. Especially not to a man.”
London said, rueful, “Most women aren’t lucky enough to be born into the Galanos family.”
“That is true. The majority are yoked from birth. However,” Athena added, giving the hem a tug, “you are now free to choose your path and do as you like. You have the gift of ultimate freedom.”
London watched the hem of the dress raise until it was the exact height she needed. If the seamstresses of Paris ever found out about Arachne’s Art, anarchy would follow. The fashion houses of France would fall just as the Bastille did.
“I am not certain it’s a gift,” she admitted.
Athena rose to face London. “It is,” she said fiercely. “You are finally the only person in control of your life. That does not mean it will be easy, but whatever mistakes you make, the injuries you suffer, and your victories are yours to own.”
The witch’s vehemence surprised London. It had seemed that little could disturb her calm. But London’s doubt had. “Including the affairs of my heart?”
“Especially those.” More placid, Athena brushed the hair back from London’s forehead, much as an older sister might. “Bennett can be reckless and infuriating,” she said quietly. “But his heart is good.”
London’s own heart contracted just to hear his name spoken. “You know him well.”
“Over ten years have we been friends. And not once have I ever seen him behave the way he does around you. It is more than desire.”
“What else can it be, if not just desire?” London asked.
Athena shook her head. “You will have to discover that on your own.”
London understood. “And what about you? Even an independent woman has her needs.”
Athena’s smile was just a little melancholy, almost wistful. “I do. But it is almost impossible for me to find a man who can abide by my terms. I require absolute freedom. I leave before he makes demands, before the heat of our animal desires cools into mere toleration. So I go, and he goes, and everyone is satisfied.”
“Typical,” snorted a man’s voice.
Athena and London watched Nikos Kallas descend the companion ladder leading from the quarterdeck house to below decks. He stalked up to Athena and glowered at her, filling the narrow space of the passageway with his presence.
“How like a high-born woman.” He scoffed. “Cold, like the northern seas.”
“I am not cold,” Athena challenged, drawing herself up. “I am sensible.”
“Sex isn’t sensible. It isn’t a polite business arrangement. For you, sex is shaking hands and agreeing on the price of fish.” Mocking, he stuck out his hand as if offering it to seal a bargain.
London looked on, fascinated, as Greek man and woman stood toe-to-toe, glaring at each other. They seemed to have forgotten that London was even there, observing everything.
“Would you prefer if I shrieked and pulled at my hair when it is time to part?” Athena shot back. “Demanded vows of love when there are none to give? I would rather keep my pride.”
Kallas pointed at her with the stem of his pipe. “This isn’t about pride. It’s about the beast of desire. I tell you this, Lady Witch, once I get a woman in my bunk, she won’t want to leave.”
With that parting salvo, the captain stormed past Athena, down the passageway to the cargo hold. London watched him go, then she turned back to Athena. The witch stared at the spot where Kallas had stood, her lips pressed tightly together, breath coming fast. She was furious.
Or fiercely attracted. London was beginning to realize that it was almost impossible, sometimes, to tell the difference.
With London and Bennett Day, however, things were much more complicated than navigating the twin poles of anger and desire. It was up to London to find her way.
Four men hunched over a map in the steamer ship’s wheelhouse. Overhead, a lantern swayed with the rocking of the ship, casting its sulfurous light in arcs, back and forth. Shadows swung like weighted pendulums, almost as dark as the night outside. The men did not speak, but watched the map, one on each side of the table on which it spread.
Across the surface of the printed sea, moving east by northeast, rolled a single drop of blood. A dark garnet, moving not with the roll of the ship, but under its own power, deliberate and steady. The blood sought something, some place.
“Where are they headed?” Edgeworth demanded of the steamer’s captain. “They’re moving away from the Cyclades.”
The Greek captain shrugged. “There are many islands in the Aegean. Thousands. Some never make it on to a map.”
“Lost, do you think?” asked Fraser.
Edgeworth gnawed on the end of his cigar. “No, they are too direct. They know where they’re going. I just wish we did, too.”
“Rest easy.” Chernock smiled down at the map. “The Bloodseeker Spell will lead us to your daughter. And if she knows where to find Greek Fire, then we shall know, too.”
“My ship is faster than any caique,” the captain said. “We lost some time at the beginning, but I assure you, we’ll overtake them. Tomorrow morning, no later.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Edgeworth snapped. He stalked from the wheelhouse, with Fraser close at his heels. Both men stood on deck, staring out at the darkness. The glowing end of Edgeworth’s cigar made red, angry trails as it journeyed to and from his mouth. Fraser clasped his hands behind his back and pretended to study the stars, while his mind chugged along like the steamship.
Fraser considered himself a brave man. He’d faced storms, riots, murderous natives, disease. God knew how many damned Blades he’d had to tangle with over the years, with the scars to prove it. He prided himself on never backing down from a mission, stepping over or on anyone who got in his way. He feared almost nothing. Except Joseph Edgeworth.
The Edgeworths stood as the backbone of the Heirs of Albion. Some ungodly number of generations ago, an Edgeworth forefather helped establish the group’s headquarters in central London. And ever since then, an Edgeworth sat in the inner circle, wielding influence and power the likes of which a monarch could only dream about. Joseph Edgeworth could make an Heir’s life hell, if that Heir fell out of favor. Either death, or the wish for death. There was no part of the world free from Edgeworth’s influence. Should he take a disliking to someone, they’d find themselves with a bullet in the eye or a knife in the belly. Not by Edgeworth’s hand, of course, but his intent would be there, just the same.
Yet, if a man wanted to make a name for himself in the Heirs, he could do no better than ingratiating himself with the Edgeworth family. Wealth. Influence. Respect. Bestowed and granted in abundance.
That’s exactly what Fraser had intended when he planned on courting London Harcourt. There’d be no sweeter role for an Heir to play than Edgeworth’s son-in-law. Lawrence Harcourt’s death was a blessing for Fraser and any other able-bodied young Heir. It didn’t hurt that London Harcourt was damned pretty, but Fraser would’ve fucked a sow if it meant gaining Edgeworth’s approbation.
Damned bitch, Fraser fumed. He could have been in the catbird seat, if not for her whorish ways. Best to take a philosophical approach, though. He wouldn’t have wanted a cuckolding trollop for a wife.
Still, he could ally himself with Edgeworth now, slut daughter or no.
“What will you do, sir, when we catch up with them?” Fraser asked.
Edgeworth took a long draw off his cigar and exhaled the smoke. “Kill Day,” he said simply. “And that other Blade, the Galanos bitch. Chernock recognized her on Delos. He might like to toy with her for a bit, though, before we kill her. She’s a born witch, and bound to know some new magic.”
Fraser took a breath, and risked, “And…and London?”
The older man answered at once, “Once she sees how she’d been beguiled by that seducer,” Edgeworth said, “she’ll come back to me like a good girl. She’s my daughter, after all. A female can easily be controlled by any man, but her father will always hold sway.”
“Of course,” Fraser said quickly.
“Then she will lead us to the Source, and gladly. That’s what we’re here for.” Each puff on his cigar made the ash glow, a small inferno. “When the Heirs can claim the secret of Greek Fire, we’ll finally have the necessary tools to crush the Blades once and for all. The Primal Source will ensure that.”
“Exactly,” Fraser seconded. He couldn’t wait for such a moment. What he wouldn’t give to see Bennett Day and Catullus Graves and the rest of them lying at his feet, dead as winter. Or, it might be even more pleasant to hear them beg and snivel, then send them to hell.
“Don’t worry, Fraser,” Edgeworth said, indulgent. “Once we rescue London and take the Source, I’ll see you properly rewarded. How does an upper-level position within the Heirs sound to you?”
“Capital, sir,” Fraser said, his chest constricting with excitement at the prospect.
“And perhaps I may give you London, too,” Edgeworth added. “As your bride. That is, if you do your duty.”
And take Bennett Day’s leavings? Fraser felt sick at the thought. Even though Edgeworth refused to believe it, his daughter was a calculating whore who knew exactly what she was doing. But Fraser couldn’t refuse Edgeworth’s offer. He’d marry the slut, if it helped his cause. Then he could enjoy her a little while meting out her punishment for her treachery. Fraser preferred to take his women hard, especially if they were delicately made. There was something quite wonderful about bruising soft, tender skin.
“Rely on me, sir,” Fraser said eagerly. “I won’t fail you.”
Edgeworth scowled then. “Yes—my own daughter’s will wasn’t strong enough, and I’ll not tolerate anyone else’s failure. Now I’m going to bed. No one’s to wake me unless the Blades have been spotted.”
“I’ll pass the word on, sir.”
Edgeworth stared at his cigar with disgust, then threw it overboard. Without another word, he stalked from the deck, leaving Fraser alone with his plans for the future. A future with Britain as leader of a global empire, the Heirs heaped with honors and riches in gratitude, especially him. And every last member of the Blades of the Rose nothing but rotting meat.
Cheered with these thoughts, Fraser went back into the wheelhouse, where Chernock kept watch over the blood-dotted map. Not even the dolorous sorcerer’s glowering could dampen Fraser’s mood. Tomorrow they would catch up with London Harcourt and the Blades. And, oh, the things Fraser planned on doing to Bennett Day. That bitch London would have to watch while Fraser carved up her lover. Yes, tomorrow was going to be a wonderful day.
Bennett dozed lightly in the cabin. He and Kallas were taking turns at the wheel, spelling each other in three-hour increments. They hadn’t the time to find a beach, drop anchor, and sleep through the night. The Heirs would follow, that much was certain, so it was a matter of staying ahead of them as much as possible. One day, there would come a reckoning, but Bennett would rather it to be some time in the future, preferably with London safely out of the way.
Across the passageway, she and Athena shared a bunk. Both women had protested when Kallas and Bennett agreed to split the time at the helm, leaving them out. Yes, there were women Blades, capable women, but the idea of leaving London and Athena alone on deck in the middle of the night was untenable. So, grumbling and complaining, the women went below to a cabin to pass the night rebuilding their strength. All the spellcasting had taken a toll on Athena, and London had been through hell over the last few days.
Bennett shifted on the narrow bunk, trying to sleep. He punched the wafer that passed for a pillow, but it didn’t help. He grumbled in frustration. He’d need his wits about him tomorrow and the days that followed. Falling asleep was never a problem. He could catch a handful of sleep on a bed of broken glass, and find himself refreshed.
Of course, he’d never had London Harcourt asleep across the passageway before. He’d already seen her asleep, and just picturing her soft and warm and lithe made him hard. Even the rocking of the bloody boat called to mind the rhythm of two bodies moving together. A damned good thing that Athena shared her cabin, playing Argus.
In times like this, he’d normally take matters into his own hand. But this was Kallas’s cabin, and Bennett would be damned if he had a wank in some man’s bed. A gentleman had his honor. Other measures were needed. He tried to lull himself into sleep by reciting Latin names for plants. Somewhere around campanula persicifolia, a slight noise at the cabin door sprung him into alertness. Kallas knew enough to announce himself.
“Don’t skewer me!” squeaked a female voice.
He lowered the throwing knife. “Hell, London,” he muttered, stuffing the knife back under his pillow. “A little warning, if you please.” He propped himself up on his elbows to look at her.
“I didn’t expect knives.” She shut the cabin door behind her and leaned against it. The single porthole let in only more night, so the cabin was a small, black velvet-lined box. He smelled her, her warm female scent, close about him. His head spun. “Next time,” she said, “I’ll come in banging the kettle.”
He rubbed at his face. “You should be asleep. Just a moment. I’ll light the lantern.”
“No, don’t,” she said. “What I have to say…I need the darkness.”
He tensed. This could be when she told him to stay the hell away from her, that she loathed the sight of him, she despised his touch. A swift, sharp pain lanced through him. He didn’t think he could stand it, if she hated him.
At last, her voice came from the darkness. “When they told me Lawrence was dead,” she began, “it was awful.”
God, how could he lie here and listen to this? It was like having his heart slowly torn out of his body.
“London—”
“Let me finish.” She ran her hands down her skirt, smoothing the fabric, but it was a gesture of momentary deferment. She drew air into her lungs. “It was awful because I had to hide from them how I truly felt. I had to pretend. For two years I had to mourn Lawrence, keep myself shut away, and playact that I was a grieving widow.” She was silent for a moment. “I didn’t want him dead, but…I was…glad.” She sucked in a breath at her own admission, but seemed to gain strength from it. “Glad I was free of him. He hated it whenever I asserted myself. I had to keep my study of languages a secret from him, because he would have burned all my books if he had known.” Her voice turned corrosive. “He wanted only a pretty ornament for his home, and I could never be that.”
Emotion clogged her throat, and she paused to collect herself. He wanted to go to her, hold her, but kept himself on the bed, knowing it was too soon. There was more.
She continued, “I wasn’t supposed to be relieved that he’d died, yet I couldn’t help myself, and then I would just feel even worse. That makes me a terrible person.”
It took some time for what she said to penetrate Bennett’s brain. He wasn’t a religious man, but any part of him that held an iota of spiritual feeling sent thankful benisons to the gods. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t miss her rotten bastard of a husband. He wanted to climb the mainsail and shout his relief.
“I think,” she continued, “that when I was so angry with you earlier, it was because I was angry with myself for how I felt. And I turned it on to you. It was easier. Not right, but easier.”
“London,” he said, and his voice in the dark of the cabin was a beast pulling at its chains, “when I found out who you were, it scared the bloody life out of me. Especially after I kissed you. Because I wanted you so goddamned much, and I thought you’d hate me.”
“I don’t hate you—”
“Now you let me finish.”
She fell silent.
“Then I came to know you, who you were—not Edgeworth’s daughter or Harcourt’s widow, but you, London. And what you just said…for the first time, I’m glad I’d killed someone. I’m sodding happy that Harcourt’s dead, and that I’m the one who’d ended his miserable life. Because of what he’d done to you. Because you’re free now.” He felt his heart slamming in his chest, the caged animal trying to free itself.
“Free,” she repeated. “That is what Athena said. That I’m free to do what I like, to please only myself.”
“That’s right. Only you.”
He could almost hear her thinking, the complex machine of her mind turning and processing. It was difficult to remember, sometimes, that women were held to different standards than men, that they were almost never in control of their own lives. Yet, here was London, liberated at last. What would she do, now that she had freed herself?
“If that is true,” she began, “then what would please me is…you.”
Exaltation and desire roared through him. Only ruthless control kept him from leaping toward her. He edged closer to the bulkhead, making room for her. “Come here.” He held out his hand.
She took a step, putting her hand into his, then froze. Her uncertainty vibrated in the tiny room. “I don’t…this is very new,” she said.
“I’m an excellent guide. London.” Just saying her name sent hot need shooting through him. He sat up and put his hands on her elbows, drawing her nearer. Her breath hitched. So did his. “I want you so much.” It frightened him a little. He couldn’t remember needing a woman as he needed her.
He slid his hands up her arms, feeling her shiver at his touch, then over her shoulders, until he cupped her head. His heart threatened to beat right out of his chest, her hair rough silk, the creamy skin of her jaw. He drowned in a thousand details—the rustle of her dress, its fabric brushing against his legs, the slight shift of her weight from foot to foot in time with the boat’s motion.
Their last kiss was rushed, a bare glimpse of what could be. He would take his time. But he couldn’t seem to make himself take a leisurely pace.
Only the slightest urging, and her mouth met his in a kiss. Such a mouth she had, sweet and soft and meant for languid, thorough kisses. Slow, slow, he ordered himself. He needed that, for both of them. Yet the first soft brushes of their lips together burned away the control he desperately sought. He pulled her closer so she stood between his legs as he sat. He kissed her deeply, and her shyness melted across his tongue, turned to something altogether bold. She threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him as tightly as he held her.
He tore his mouth away long enough to breathe, “Your hands.”
“Athena,” she panted. “Made a poultice. Things from the galley.”
“Thought I smelled honey.” But it was she who carried the fragrance of woman and sea air and desire, so he consumed her, devoured her with his demanding mouth. Perhaps she had been uncertain moments earlier, but there was nothing uncertain in her now as she sighed and made soft noises of pleasure, pressing herself against him. He felt her loosening, freeing herself from the cage of society and decorum. She was so damned responsive it nearly made him burst into flames.
Bennett ran his hands down her, learning her. He traced the lines of her collarbone through the fabric of her dress, then went lower, stroking her breasts. Small and full, they just fit his hands, the tips hardening as he brushed his thumbs over them. She moaned, or maybe he did, or both of them. It didn’t matter because he was touching her, kissing her and that’s all he knew or cared to know.
One of his hands moved down to the curve of her waist—she still wore her corset, so some veneer of society clung to her, he’d have to do something about that—then circled to cup her bottom. Sweet, she was sweet all over, everywhere meant for his touch, and she knew this, too, the way she met him at every caress.
His jacket and waistcoat were gone, somewhere, and her hands left his hair to smooth their way along his shoulders. She shoved at his braces. He shrugged them down, reluctant to break contact with her for a moment; then she felt him everywhere with the small masterpieces of her hands. She discovered him, mapped him, the width of his shoulders, the tight muscles of his arms, the planes of his chest that heaved like the deck of a storm-tossed ship under her touch.
When her hand slid lower to caress him through his trousers, an animal growl clawed from his throat. She pulled away a little, suddenly unsure, but he pressed her back with his own hand. Together, they stroked him. His hips rose from where he sat on the bed as she explored. His cock pounded, ached, under her exquisite torture.
“Stop, stop,” he groaned, stilling her hand.
“Does it hurt?”
“No—too good. I’ll spend in my trousers like a boy.”
A warm puff of air tickled his face as she laughed. “Ah, too bad.”
“You like torturing me.” He brought their mouths together.
“Yes, but no,” she said between open, greedy kisses. “Do I torture you?”
“Painfully.”
“Good.” He felt her smile against his mouth. “You’re mine to torment.”
“I am.”
“Mm, what a wonderful feeling. So powerful.” A shy but proud admission.
“A witch.” He chuckled. “But a woman, all the same.” To prove his point, he gathered up her skirts until his hands met the satiny flesh of her legs. He nearly exploded. She wasn’t wearing stockings. He traveled up farther, past her knees, the fabric of her skirt falling around his arms. His fingertips brushed the delicate hem of her drawers, the cotton so light as to be almost nonexistent. Her legs trembled under his touch as he went yet higher, finding the delicious crease between her buttocks and thighs. He found the opening of her drawers. He let his fingers lightly brush her there, felt her radiating heat. His fingers slipped inside the opening of the fabric to touch her, her outer folds. She trembled. Then, only then, he let himself dip into her. Ah, God. She was slick and eager. She whimpered into his mouth.
“So beautiful,” he growled. He pressed in closer, tracing her inner lips. His fingers dripped. “Here.”
She dropped her head to his shoulder, then he grinned with feral satisfaction when he felt a hard pinch just behind his clavicle. She’d bitten him.
He wanted to plunge into her, his fingers, his cock, his entire being, but he was ruthless with himself, holding so fast to his control that he shook. Instead, he stroked her, touched her, softly at first, but then she began to move, rocking into him, meeting his hand with growing desperation, and he let slip his control by a fraction. His fingers claimed her, touching deeper, delving inside where she was molten and tight. The heel of his hand rubbed at her clit, and it seemed she would climb onto him, wrap her legs around him so he might take everything.
“Bennett,” she gasped. “I’m—” Then her teeth clamped down on his shoulder as she stiffened and cried out, sending a glistening, golden thread of pain through him, straight to his cock. He’d never come without being touched, but he was so close, his breath burned in his throat and chest and his body was tight everywhere.
Barely had her tremors begun to subside before she was tugging at his shirt, fumbling with the fastenings of his trousers. He was all too happy to assist. If he wasn’t inside of her, now, he’d burn the boat down around them.
The cabin door opened.
“Your shift, Day,” said Kallas, then, “Hell!” The captain quickly shut the door. From outside, Kallas said, “I need you on deck.”
“Now?” Bennett would kill him.
“Now. The wind’s shifted. I need you to run the rigging.” Then his footsteps, retreating.
The cabin filled with the sound of Bennett and London panting, each of them motionless. Jesus, he hadn’t even heard Kallas approaching, and his hearing was excellent. He’d been lost, lost in her, lost in his own desire that still clung to him like a fiery web.
Bennett gently moved London away from him. Even in the darkness, he saw the glaze of passion in her eyes, in the fullness of her mouth. They stared at each other for some time.
As much as he hated to, Bennett stood and began to adjust her skirts before righting his own clothing. He seldom had a valet and knew how to dress himself, but suddenly all clothes were alien and he couldn’t remember how to button his shirt. “I have to go.” He didn’t recognize his voice. He sounded like a bear about to slip his tether and maul his trainer.
Having conquered the mystery of his shirt, Bennett pulled up his braces, then began to hunt for his boots.
“But you didn’t—”
“I’ll live,” he growled, though he doubted at that moment if he would. Could a man die from sexual frustration? Very likely. All blood gone from one head and into the other. He found his boots, pulled them on, then shrugged into his jacket. It felt abominably tight, a vise.
Dressed, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her savagely. She clung to him, her mouth hungry and bold, and he knew that if he didn’t leave the cabin in the next minute, he would throw her onto the bunk, toss up her skirts, and plow into her with all the finesse of a sailor on leave. But Kallas was waiting and the boat needed tending.
“Get some sleep.” He opened the door. “Tomorrow is going to be very…full.”
Then he left her, and he’d never felt a pain like it in his life. Not just in his cock, which begged for release, but everywhere. His hands shook as he climbed the stairs to the top deck. The faint fragrance of her lingered on his fingertips. He licked them clean.
“Give a man some warning.” Kallas laughed as Bennett joined him at the wheel. “Go sweat up the halyard.”
Bennett considered ripping Kallas apart and feeding him to the gulls. The ship needed its captain, though.
“Next time,” he said darkly, before heading off to perform his task, “I’ll hang an anchor from the doorknob.” There would be a next time. If he could trade having a single, entire night with London Harcourt in his bed for a lifetime of celibacy, he’d choose her, and never regret his choice.