She stared at him, aghast and also more than a little intrigued. Bennett hadn’t missed the way she had watched him while he undressed. The clear desire and admiration in her gaze made him tight as a bow, ready to be loosed. A man could grow needful of such a gaze, knowing he had the power to entice this woman. Yet she enticed him, too, more than he could comprehend. Last night proved that. She’d freed her passion and he the lucky bastard she had picked to share it with.
At this moment, she hesitated.
“Come into my arms,” he sang. Then, when she still wavered, he said, “We’re supposed to swim in the stream. That’s what the song means.”
She looked relieved and a bit disappointed. God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone for several hours or maybe days. The things he wanted to do to her, with her.
“Will we find something about the Source that way?”
“Seems likely.”
With a nod, she began to unfasten the gown, then hesitated. She turned a delicious pink. “Please…turn around.”
“Still shy? After last night?”
“That was in the dark.” She flushed deeper.
“Surely you’ve been naked in the daylight before.”
“Yes, but alone. Or with a maid, helping me dress.”
“Just a maid?”
“No man has ever seen me undressed in the day.”
“Not even your husband?”
“Especially not him.” She glanced away. “Soon after we were married, I thought I’d surprise him one afternoon. He’d been out, and I waited for him in his bedroom. Naked.”
Bennett stifled a groan. He could just imagine what a delicious picture she made, pink and nude in the afternoon light, standing on a Persian rug, or, even better, sprawled across a bed, her hair loose about her shoulders, the ends curling around her breasts. His already tight body grew even more taut.
“Then he came in, talking about some dinner we were supposed to go to that night. And saw me. He was horrified. Covered his eyes and threw me a robe. Lawrence said it wasn’t proper for us to see each other like that.”
Bennett scowled. “He was a fool.” And worse, to keep a luscious creature like London in darkness. Bennett wasn’t one to enjoy killing. Even though it was sometimes necessary, he hated to do it. Still, at that moment, he was glad not only that was Harcourt dead, but also that Bennett had been the one to send him on to Hades.
Bennett would do everything in his power to rid London of the shame and trepidation that had cloaked her for years. He wanted to see what sort of phoenix she would become. Burn me up. Now, however, wasn’t the time. There was still the tiny matter of the Heirs that surely were in pursuit.
“I’ll undress,” London said, “but I can’t let you watch me.”
“Yet,” he added.
She made an impatient gesture demanding he turn around.
Obliging, he did so. He continued to unbutton his trousers. His fingers stumbled when he heard the soft whisper of fabric being pulled down from London’s body, the gown as she shucked it. Then the rustle of petticoats. As he stepped out of his trousers, he was confronted with the spectacle of his cock, hard and demanding. Naked woman nearby. Want.
Bennett wondered if the sight of him, huge and stiff, might disturb her. God knows he was a little disturbed—he was so hard, it bordered on penance. But she may as well look. She had to know how she affected him. The sooner she saw the strength of his desire, the sooner they could revel in it.
“You can turn around now.” Her voice was husky, breathless.
He did so. And thought he very well might go up in flames. “Oh, Christ,” he murmured.
She wasn’t naked, but nearly, clad only in a sheer, sleeveless chemise that brushed the tops of her knees. Her drawers and corset lay with the rest of her clothing and boots. Slim ivory arms, long legs equally slender. Through the gauzy fabric, her breasts were high, rosy-tipped, perfect handfuls. The curves of her waist and hips tantalized, barely hidden by the chemise. The triangle of gold between her legs could only just be seen through the cotton—she was fair all over.
Red burned in her cheeks, but she did not try to hide herself from his perusal. And when she caught sight of his eager cock, her eyes widened, but he almost groaned when she unconsciously licked her lips.
“No drawers?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Damned things are too restricting. That water better be bloody cold,” he growled.
She made a choked laugh. “For both of our sakes.” She waved toward the stream. “Let’s swim.”
Bennett went first, wading into the stream. The water shivered and bit with tiny, icy teeth. Its chill raced up his legs, but only slightly tempered the heat of his arousal. He moved deeper into the stream so that it reached his hips, then turned to help London.
“Careful,” he warned, taking her hand. “The shelf of the bank is steep.”
She stepped in, then yelped. “So cold!”
“Cold enough?”
She pressed her lips together in a playful pout. “Not quite. For you, either, I see.” She glanced down at him, at his erection bobbing in the water, and raised a brow.
“Come on, Naiad,” he rumbled, drawing her forward. “Swim.”
With a show of obedience, she walked forward, deeper into the stream. Her mouth flattened into a hard line as the frigid water rose up to her calves, her knees, and then higher, but she made not another word of complaint. Her chemise billowed up in the current, drifting like a lily. As the fabric swirled, he glimpsed the dark honey of curling hair between her legs. The goddamned cold water wasn’t helping at all.
They both moved farther into the water, him leading, guiding her. The water rose to his chest. Suddenly, she gasped and slipped on the slick pebbles lining the stream bed. She plunged forward. He dove to catch her. Then they were pressed together, her arms wrapped around his neck, his clasping her waist. He felt every silky inch of her. His cock surged against her soft, curved stomach. There wasn’t enough cold water in all the world’s oceans to bring down his fever.
She looked up at him through her lashes.
“You did that on purpose,” he said.
“If I did, then I’m just tormenting the both of us.”
“No pain. Pleasure’s much better.” There’s a mission, in case you’ve forgotten, randy idiot. He made sure she had stable footing before reluctantly disentangling, holding only her hand. “Ready?”
At her nod, they both took deep breaths, then sank underneath the water. The stream ran gently, so it wasn’t difficult to swim against its current, though navigating around the large rocks in the middle proved a small challenge. He took his time, keeping his eyes open so he could scan the stream bed for something, anything that might be a clue. Pebbles and rocks of every hue lined the bed of the stream, and grasses rippled in the current. Distraction also came in the form of London swimming, as lovely as a river spirit, her hair darker in the water in a rippling banner, chemise clinging to her lithe body. Undulating, she smiled at him.
Something in the center of his chest constricted, sharp. He wouldn’t look away, reveled in it.
After a few minutes, they both rose up to the surface for more air.
“What are we looking for?” she asked.
“Hell if I know. Keep going.”
Back down again. Several times they did this. The initial burst of warmth he got from swimming leeched away in the frigid water. London, too, grew awkward in her movements.
“Wait for me on the bank,” he said when they surfaced. “Your lips are blue.”
“I’m f-fine.”
“London,” he warned.
“I’m done with having a m-man tell me what to d-do.”
He could carry her out, force her to wait, but she was determined to test herself, see what she was capable of, and he had to give her that room. The problem with London was that she wasn’t just beautiful and clever. She kept impressing him with her courage. At this rate, he’d be entirely infatuated by sundown. And in a week…well, he wouldn’t dwell on the future. The Heirs were out there.
Without another word, he dipped back under the water. If she followed him, it would be her choice. When she truly endangered herself, though, he would make a unilateral decision to get her out of the water.
They each skimmed over the bottom of the stream, looking for anything, growing more desperate. This whole exercise could prove futile, a ruse to throw any who sought the Source off the path. It had happened before. He’d spent one extremely bitter winter in Lapland chasing the Heirs who, it eventually turned out, had been sent on a wild goose chase by a set of runes. All either of them received for their troubles were frozen beards and near cases of frostbite.
Bennett hated to think that London endangered herself for some will-o’-the-wisp.
There. A flash and gleam, small and brief, just at the edge of one of the largest rocks. He almost missed it. But he swam back, dove lower, and shoved away handfuls of pebbles. A burst of tadpoles wriggled away, disturbed from their hiding. Yes. The glint of metal, the edge of something, but what, he couldn’t tell. Most of it was buried underneath the rock.
London appeared next to him. He pointed at the metal. They shared an excited smile, cold water forgotten. The thrill of discovery never went away, no matter how long he’d been with the Blades.
One final surfacing for air, and down to the stream floor. Bennett pushed at the rock, but it didn’t move. He swam around to the other side and set his shoulder to the rock, pushing it downstream. It jostled slightly, yet not enough. He shoved again, and again, digging his heels into the rocks and pebbles on the floor. A few cut his feet. He waved off her concern when threads of red stained the water. Silt clouded up. His lungs burned, but he didn’t want to stop. Not when it felt so close. One more push…
The rock heaved forward, uncovering more of the metal. London darted forward and grabbed it, just before the rock rolled back into its original place.
London and Bennett shot up to the surface, gulping in air, then raced for the bank. Bennett reached the shore first, and pulled London out. He nearly fell over backward, thunderstruck, to see her.
Women in all states of undress were not uncommon to him. He ventured to guess that he’d seen more nude women than most men had seen clothed. He loved all the shapes women took—slim, lush, spare, abundant. In dishabille or fully bare. They all held their charms. And now, London. The wet chemise clung to her, entirely transparent, and he saw everything. Breasts, belly, thighs. The perfect oval of her navel. Her woman’s mound.
None of those other women ever stopped his heart as did London Edgeworth in her sopping chemise.
“Please don’t look at me that way,” she gulped. “Or I’ll forget why we are here in the first place.”
“Good,” he growled. But he knew she was right.
Several small, brown birds scattered from the branches of nearby laurel trees, reminding him of his duty.
Together, they knelt in the grass, the warm sun drying their skin, as they examined their find.
A bronze mirror, round, with no handle. Instead, a hole at the top indicated where it would hang on a wall. A pattern of rays, like those from the sun, encircled the reflective surface. Bennett felt the faint hum of power he’d come to recognize when handling magical objects, through his fingertips and to the very ends of his hair.
“There’s writing here,” London said, peering closely. “In the same Samalian-Thracian dialect as the song. Which would date this as being at least two thousand years old. But,” she added, wonder tingeing her voice, “there is not a bit of corrosion anywhere. Even if it had been at the bottom of the stream for a few years, it would be tarnished.”
Bennett and London’s faces stared back at them from the perfectly reflective surface of the mirror.
“Sources and some magical objects are like that.” He studied the mirror. “Time and the elements don’t affect them. Can you translate it?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll take it to the boat, and you’ll translate it there.”
She glanced at the water with concern. “Is it all right to remove it from the stream?”
“If we leave the mirror, the Heirs will find it. And I’d rather have it in our hands than theirs.”
Seeing the lesser of the two evils, London acquiesced.
He rose to his feet, and almost sank back down as London’s eyes moved over his body. Her damp chemise still clung to her. “We need to get back,” he said, more for himself than for her. She nodded, but with reluctance. Damn and hell. The passion in her was going to kill him, and he’d die happy.
They made their way back to their clothes and dressed quickly, but not before he had to endure the torment turning away so she could remove her chemise to wring it out, then put it back on again. Bennett did not don his jacket, instead swaddled the mirror in it. Before they left the stream, Bennett filled the pottery jugs with water. “This’ll still serve us well,” he said. The water, cold as it was, had been delicious, just as the villager promised.
London carried the wrapped mirror back up the valley, with Bennett toting the water. She fared better on the return journey, tripping less and maintaining her footing. As they passed through the olive grove, Bennett indicated the tree that held the disgruntled owl. The bird was still there, eyeing them sulkily. “Hold the mirror up to the bird. Don’t bother to unwrap it.”
Frowning in puzzlement, London did so. The owl began to hoot loudly, dancing from side to side until it finally took flight, shrieking. London ducked out of its way, but was careful to protect the mirror.
“Birds are sensitive to magic,” Bennett explained. “A good test when looking for Sources. That’s why the birds scattered from the trees when we got out of the stream.”
“I wondered why my father always kept a parrot,” London murmured, “even though it was a horrible, mean-tempered beast. Pulled my hair and tried to peck out my eyes every time I walked past him. Wellington.” She shuddered at the memory.
“You’ll roast him and serve him with chestnut dressing.” He drew her forward.
She made a face. “Welly would be too tough to eat. Maybe just shot and stuffed for my mantel.”
“I’ll bring the brandy. A nice fireside rendezvous at home.”
The idea pleased her, until, “I don’t have a home anymore.” Her gaze went far off, searching for purchase amidst instability.
It struck him anew, how much she’d given up and lost in the span of only a few days. Even he didn’t know what would become of her, after the mission had been achieved. If it was achieved. If they survived.
Two things Bennett vowed to himself, watching her as she strode with straight shoulders through the silver-green shade of the olive grove: He would succeed in this mission for the Blades. And he would protect London Harcourt. At the cost of his own life, if necessary. She was brave and intelligent, but a mission for the Blades always held danger, the kind of danger she had no experience facing. He, on the other hand, was a seasoned soldier on the frontlines of the battle for the world’s magic. And he’d use his knowledge to keep her safe.
They passed through the tiny village, but the man who had directed them was nowhere to be seen. The orange cat now lay on its other side, the only evidence that the feline had moved at all. When a goat trotted close to London, she glared at it until it backed down with a bleat.
“What a fierce creature you’ve become,” he said.
“The daring foe of parrots and goats everywhere.”
“And island thugs.” He nodded toward the shadow of one house. The five youths who had attacked them in the olive grove skulked there, watching Bennett and London with sullen, bruised faces. They scattered like sheep, bleating, when Bennett smiled at them.
“You’ve attracted your share of admirers, too,” London remarked. She looked pointedly at the window of another house, where three girls, freshly arrived in early womanhood, stared and giggled. It was safe to assume they weren’t interested in London.
He glanced at London and saw pinched disapproval in her expression, which made him absurdly pleased. He couldn’t understand why. Usually, he avoided jealousy, both in himself and his women. He demanded and gave complete freedom. Yet seeing London’s possessiveness, he exulted.
“To those girls, anyone who isn’t a goat seems like a fairy tale prince,” he said.
“Between those oafs from the olive grove, the goats, and you,” she said dryly, “the choice seems obvious.” But she didn’t say which she would pick.
He laughed, then the laugh died in his throat. “Bloody hell,” he swore.
London followed his gaze. Her “Good Lord!” was slightly more decorous than his curse.
Approaching the island, less than half a mile away, chugged the Heirs’ steamship, its smoke a black smear against the azure sky. At that rate, the ship would reach the island within minutes.
Bennett dropped the water jugs, and they shattered on the rocky ground. “Can you run?”
“I believe so.”
“Then we run.”
“Thank the Chaste Warrior,” Athena called when she saw London and Bennett speeding down the hill to the beach. “We did not know where you were.”
London’s heart slammed in her chest, knowing that her father and the Heirs approached.
At the water’s edge, Bennett stopped and held out his arms to carry London to the caique, but she brushed the offer aside.
“As my lady wishes,” he said in response.
Then he was speeding through the shallow water to where the boat was anchored. London followed, finding the task of slogging quickly through water to be a bit more difficult than she had imagined. Her skirt dragged, heavy, through the surf. Still, she reached the boat soon enough, and Bennett lifted her while Kallas pulled, until she found herself back on the caique’s deck, clutching the bundled mirror. Bennett swung himself over the railing.
“How fast can we get out of here?” he asked Kallas.
“Not soon enough,” came the grim answer. “We need a distraction.”
“I can provide one,” Athena said, stepping forward. She cast a quick glance at the sodden, dirty hem of London’s borrowed gown, but did not seem to mind the poor garment’s defacement. Thank goodness for that. London had no way to repay her for its loss.
“What will you do?” asked London.
“A spell,” answered the witch. “Rather big, but I think I can do it.”
Bennett, already assisting Kallas with the mainsail, asked, “Have you tried the spell before?”
Athena shook her head, but appeared calm. “Not yet, but I have read about it. Do not be concerned.”
As Bennett pondered this, London marveled again at Athena’s presence and confidence. The witch spoke with utter conviction, not only that she could accomplish the spell, but that her word had weight and significance. Athena had no doubt that Bennett would listen to her and give her opinion the same consideration as a man’s opinion. Because he was Bennett, who listened, and she was Athena, who had faith in herself. London wanted that for her own self. Confidence could be hers, now. She had only to command it.
“Do it,” Bennett said after a brief pause.
“I need some nails,” Athena said to Kallas.
“Please, don’t hurt my father.” London placed a hand on Athena’s sleeve. “I know he’s done terrible things, but I can’t let you hurt him.”
“Do not worry,” Athena assured her. “He will not be harmed.” She turned back to Kallas. “The nails.”
He frowned, but did not, for once, question her. “Down below, in the cargo hold.”
Without another word, Athena hurried below.
“London, we’ll need you to help getting us out of here.”
“Of course.” London set down the mirror inside the quarterdeck house, then hurried to her position by the foresail, ready to spring into action.
The caique became a frenzied hive of activity, directed by its captain, as London, Bennett, and Kallas made sail. Both Bennett and London remembered much of what Kallas had told them the other day, so the process went much faster, each of them raising their sails at the proper moment, keeping enough slack in the sails to keep them luffing in the wind. The boom swung to the breeze, giving Kallas a better feel for the wind. With main and foresails hoisted, London raised the jib while Bennett brought up the anchor. The boat began to drift backward, Kallas at the helm, shouting commands to Bennett and London. She kept casting nervous glances out to sea, where the Heirs’ ship plowed steadily toward them. The small, dark shapes of men began to form on the steamer’s deck. One of them was her father. She didn’t know which, but he was there.
In the middle of this organized chaos, Athena came back on deck with a small crate, then removed its lid to reveal neat stacks of nails. She stood with her eyes closed, chanting softly but steadily, holding the crate. London kept to her post, trimming the foresail when Kallas directed, but she watched Athena, wondering what kind of magic the witch conjured.
There came a metallic clicking. The nails rose up from the crate. They hovered around Athena in a cloud. London almost lost her hold on the jibsheet. Each instance of magic astonished her. Perhaps it would always be that way, as though continually finding a hidden door in the same ordinary room and opening it into another world.
Athena continued to chant. Then, moving like a swarm of bees, the nails darted off, narrowly missing Bennett, Kallas, and the sails. London watched as the nails shot across the water, toward the Heirs’ ship.
“Now what?” London asked Bennett.
He trimmed the mainsail as Kallas steered them out of the bay and into open water. “We keep running like hell and hope her distraction works.”
London fervently prayed that it did. She would have to face her father eventually, but she hoped it would not be today.
“Christ, can’t this ship go any faster?”
The steamship captain, already sweating behind the wheel, could only shrug at Joseph Edgeworth. “My men are stoking the fires as quick as they can,” he said.
“We’ll lose them!”
“But they’re under sail, and we have steam.”
Still, Edgeworth wasn’t satisfied. He slammed out of the wheelhouse to stand at the rail. They were so damned close! A brass spyglass showed the tiny form of London moving about the deck of the caique. Edgeworth nearly dropped the spyglass in shock to see her actually helping to hoist the sails. No genteel lady ever performed such manual labor—he’d made sure London knew that. It had to be a measure of how beguiled she was by Bennett Day that not only was she helping the Blades to escape, but she was doing physical work. Unless she was wearing gloves, her hands had to be mangled pieces of flesh.
He had to get her away from Day. The longer she spent with him, the more tainted she became. As her father, he’d set her back on the right path.
Edgeworth let out a breath of relief and lowered the spyglass as the steamship closed the distance. It wouldn’t be long now.
Fraser stomped up beside him, just as eager to catch the Blades. “What the hell is that noise?”
“The engines,” Edgeworth snapped.
“Steam engines don’t buzz,” Fraser shot back, then, remembering to whom he spoke, added deferentially, “sir.”
The crewmen on deck began shouting and pointing in the direction of the caique. At first, Edgeworth thought they indicated the boat, but then a strange dark haze caught his eye. He raised the spyglass again. It was headed straight for them.
“Hell,” he spat. He shouted over his shoulder, “Chernock!” When the sorcerer came out on deck, Edgeworth said, also pointing at the thick, moving haze, “What the devil is that?”
“Whatever it is,” Fraser gulped, “here it comes!”
The men all fell to the deck as a cloud of sharp, pointed objects darted overhead. They flew around the deck with a harsh whir. Crewmen threw themselves to the ground, shielding themselves from the objects. They moved too quickly for anyone to see what, exactly, they were, but those too slow to protect themselves wound up with angry, bleeding scrapes across their faces and hands.
“The Golden Wasps?” Edgeworth yelled to Chernock. The tiny, deadly assassins had been used with great success by Heirs in the past. Except for that time in Southampton, when Gabriel Huntley miraculously survived an encounter with the Wasps. But he was the rare—and troublesome—exception.
“Not nearly as elegant,” the sorcerer answered. “A crude enchantment.”
“Crude or not,” Fraser shouted, “it’s heading below decks!”
“Well, stop it, whatever it is!” Edgeworth said to Chernock.
The sorcerer rose up in a crouch and lifted his hands to begin a spell. But it was already too late. Men’s screams and shouts rose up from below, and within a moment, sooty-faced crewmen came running up on deck in a panic. Red burns dotted their skin.
“The boiler,” one yelled. “These…flying things…shot right into the boiler and tore it apart! Damned thing almost exploded!”
The paddle wheels began to slow, then they stopped entirely. An awful silence fell over the ship.
Edgeworth hauled to his feet. “Raise the bloody sails,” he snarled at the captain.
The captain gave the order, but it wouldn’t matter. By the time the sails were hoisted and the ship fully under the power of the wind, the caique would be long gone. Edgeworth could only stand at the railing and watch, fuming and helpless, as his daughter disappeared over the horizon.
Through his spyglass, Bennett saw the steamship lumber to a dead stop. He grinned.
“Hell of a job, Athena,” he said. “What did you do?”
No answer.
“Bennett!” London cried.
He turned around and saw London on the ground, cradling a pale and motionless Athena. Immediately, he was on his knees beside them, snatching up Athena’s limp hand. The witch breathed, but shallowly. Kallas, stuck at the wheel, looked on with a concerned scowl.
“Perhaps Chernock has cursed her,” Bennett said.
London frowned in confusion. “Chernock? That awful crow?”
“He’s a sorcerer,” said Bennett. “Uses dark magic for the Heirs.”
London paled briefly in horrified surprise. “I didn’t know.” She stroked Athena’s brow, smoothing back the strands of dark hair that clung to her damp forehead.
The witch did not stir.
“There’s brandy in the quarterdeck house,” Kallas said.
Bennett fetched the drink, then put it to Athena’s lips. He carefully dribbled in a few drops of the brandy, but they slid from her mouth.
“What’s wrong with her?” London asked. “Dark magic?”
“Don’t know,” Bennett said, grim. “I don’t think she’s ever cast such a directed spell before.”
London rocked Athena gently, as if she were a baby that needed soothing. “It must have taken something out of her.”
“It took a hell of a lot out of the Heirs,” Bennett said. “Whatever she did, it stopped them.”
“Get to the sails, Day,” Kallas growled. He began to turn the wheel, redirecting the boat.
Getting immediately to his feet, Bennett trimmed the mainsail. “Where are you taking us?”
Stone-faced, the captain revealed nothing of himself, only that he gnawed on the stem of his pipe as if he would snap it in half. “Kallas men always have friends somewhere on the sea. We go to them.”
Once their course was secure, Bennett carried Athena below decks, with London close on his heels. He lay the witch down upon her bunk, and pain shot through him when she did not move even an eyelash.
London bent over Athena and stroked her dark hair, her own brow creased with worry.
“Blades know we risk our lives every day for our cause,” Bennett said, his voice a low rumble, “but that doesn’t make it easier when a comrade falls.”
“We have to make her well again.” London turned imploring eyes to him, as if he held the witch’s fate in his hands.
“We will,” Bennett said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “I’ve known Athena many years. She’s not just as brilliant as her namesake goddess. She’s a fierce fighter, too.”
Looking back at the terribly still form of the witch, London’s eyes shimmered. “I would give her all of my strength, if I could.”
Impulsively, Bennett took hold of London’s hand and pressed a kiss to it. “You’ve the strength of armies. If Athena taps even a fraction of that, she’ll be annoying our captain in no time.”
London’s chuckle was brief and watery, but her eyes were warm as she regarded him. “You overestimate me.”
“You underestimate yourself.”
Silent and waxen, the witch lay on the bunk. Jesus, how could Bennett tell her mother if something happened to Athena? The love of one Galanos woman for another was stronger than their legendary pride.
“For Athena’s sake,” London said, “let us hope your faith is well placed.”