Chapter Eight

 

 

 

IAN TOSSED HIS greatcoat across a passenger seat and settled into the pilot’s chair. He flipped a series of switches and turned a row of knobs. Behind him, the escape dirigible’s engine roared to life.

A fancy vessel, this. Fully automated, it needed no one to crank the engine and no one to shovel coal, time being a critical element when using an escape dirigible for its intended purpose.

His chair swiveled as he turned to his left, pushing a button to release additional hydrogen into the balloon’s air cells. This would allow the dirigible to rise swiftly past the observation decks and out of sight above the great airship’s own balloon. There would only be a thirty second window in which he risked discovery.

Once he cleared the Oglethorpe airliner, he needed to avoid detection for at least nine hours. By that point in time, he would be beyond the reach of any official French interference.

Ian hadn’t planned on leaving the Oglethorpe for another six hours, preferring to minimize his time in the escape dirigible, but there’d been an odd light in the duchess’ eyes. One that set his nerves on edge. Something was afoot.

Dread fell into his stomach, then surged upward to choke him. Had the duchess lured him from his rooms?

With haste, he’d returned to his suite and found…‌ nothing. Nothing but an odd scent that hung in the air, one he couldn’t quite place. Nothing but a bone-deep knowledge that someone had been in his room, knowledge that threw a wrench in his carefully arranged strategy. Simple surveillance was one thing, but to actively invade his space? That spoke of intent to thwart his plans.

He’d hastened to the escape dirigible, relieved to find his travel cases where he’d placed them, their contents undisturbed.

Black might unofficially endorse his efforts to track down Warrick, but that didn’t mean the great duke himself was in agreement. The Duke of Avesbury might wish to see Ian stopped, and he had no intention of being forcibly returned to Britain and labeled a traitor. Not that the duchess was capable of stopping him, but on the chance there was another agent aboard planning to do just that, he’d decided to depart immediately.

His jaw clenched. He could not risk Elizabeth’s health, her life. She was not safe in the hands of those hypertrophically-muscled, metalloid-reinforced German soldiers. All it took was a trip, a minor fall, and his sister would be bedridden for months. Active abuse at the hands of her captors would cause her permanent disability.

Ian reached forward and pulled the release cord. Above him, gears began to grind. Pulleys and cables and bearings moved. A torsion spring unwound, hoisting upward the large iron door built into the Oglethorpe’s hull.

The vast night sky stretched before him. Buckling his seat’s restraining bands, he made a final systems check. Normally, autopilot would be engaged, but his requirements of this flight were anything but standard procedure.

With a twist of a knob, he increased the torque of the engine and released the braking mechanism.

The dirigible shot forth from its launching tracks, slamming him backward into his seat. The moment the vessel was clear of the airship’s hull, the additional hydrogen did exactly as planned, quickly lifting him above the Oglethorpe’s strolling decks. In seconds, he cleared the airship’s enormous balloon and nothing but dark sky and winking stars lay above him.

Free.

Upward momentum slowed and the dirigible began to make swift progress forward. He checked and readjusted navigation settings, then settled back in his chair and took a deep breath. For now, there was nothing to do but stare out the forward window and wait.

Waiting. Not something he did well.

He’d slept little these past few days. He needed rest, and past missions had taught him to grab precious sleep whenever he could. Ian unbuckled his restraints, swiveled in his chair to prop his feet upon the adjacent chair, and fell instantly asleep.

~~~

A loud bang woke him.

Ian sat up straight, dropping boots to the floor to stare at the engine room door.

Bang.

He turned to study the instrument panel. All dials and pressure gauges indicated the dirigible was operating within normal limits. A glance at his pocket watch informed him that several hours of the journey had passed. He looked up and out into a driving snowstorm. Perhaps flying debris had struck the dirigible?

Bang.

Soon, he would reach the German border. Of all times for something to go amiss…‌

Bang.

He swore. What was wrong? A bearing about to seize? A rod about to break? A piston requiring more lubrication? Or a backfiring spark plug? Ian shook his head. What good would it do him to diagnose the engine when there was no hope that he could repair it mid-flight? There were no tools on board. He’d checked.

More bangs sounded from the engine room, this time in rapid succession and without any kind of perceivable rhythm. And—‌he angled his head—‌an intermittent high pitched whine accompanied the noise. A decidedly unmechanical sound, the tone and tenor of which exactly matched that of a hysterical female.

There was only one female with whom he’d recently tangled. Lady Olivia.

Cursing, he went to investigate.

Ian pulled open the door and glared at the engine, rather hoping he was wrong. But pistons churned, the drive wheel turned, and the axel to the propeller spun. The engine ran like…‌ well, a well-oiled machine.

Another bang sounded beside him. “Help! Please help!” a voice cried from the storage compartment.

Bouillabaisse. A hint of vanilla and cinnamon. Ian swore again. That was the odd scent he’d detected in his bedchamber. All this time he’d been concerned about the mother, when he should have worried about the daughter.

Bang, bang. “Let me out!”

Unthinkable to leave the duke’s daughter locked inside a storage compartment. What the hell was she doing in there? His hand hovered over the handle. Was it possible she worked for her father? Could she be an agent?

His mind rebelled at the thought. Surely the duke would never allow it. Nevertheless, he would tread carefully. For many reasons.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Grumbling a few more choice curses under his breath, Ian yanked open the storage hatch door. A tangled mass of torn, damp silk and warm, soft woman tumbled out. He caught Lady Olivia—‌mostly—‌as she collapsed bonelessly to the ground. Lowering her the rest of the way, he crouched beside her.

She wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her face to his chest, weeping. He patted her back. Then stopped. For the love of steam, who consoled a stowaway? He twisted his lips. Someone who stole dirigibles and flew them across enemy lines, apparently.

“Thank goodness you found me. I’ve been locked in there for hours,” she sobbed into his neck, hauling in great gulps of air.

And whose fault is that? With great care, Ian grasped her shoulders and pushed her away. No more coddling the woman who was now his Great Huge Enormous Problem.

Lady Olivia wore the same low-cut gown he remembered from the banquet. Stained, tattered and torn, only a rag picker would find value in its remains. Her hair was now best described as a tangled rat’s nest. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose was swollen and her full lips quivered.

An excellent actress. Any other man would have fallen for it, and even knowing her presence was no accident, he still felt an impulse to still that trembling with the press of his own lips. Did that make him a fool?

“Explain,” he ordered, hardening his voice. Their eyes met and a faint blush rose to her cheekbones. Embarrassment? Or did she too fight a flare of attraction? He had to set aside this raw need that twisted inside of him. Logic needed to prevail.

She lifted a shaking hand to the side of her head. “When the dirigible launched, my head…‌ it knocked against the wall, and everything,” her breath shuddered, “everything went black. When I woke up…‌” She flinched. “There’s no handle inside that compartment. I couldn’t get out.”

Ian tugged her hand away, gently pushed aside a few golden tangles and found a trace of blood from a small cut and a rather significant lump. Was it possible she told the truth? Did it matter? Truth or lie, her presence compromised his mission. “There’s a medical kit in the front.” He stood, dragging her to her feet and waving her through the engine room door into the cabin. He couldn’t wait to hear her story. Truth or fiction, it would be telling.

On stockinged feet and wobbly legs, Lady Olivia stumbled forward. Her bodice gaped. Her stained and wrinkled skirts dragged at an odd angle, and her hair tumbled, one knotted curl at a time, over a very attractive bare neck.

Ian closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. What the hell was he going to do with her? “Sit,” he commanded, injecting a bit of ire into his voice. “Why are you on my dirigible?”

She sat. “I’m so sorry,” she sniffled. “So very sorry. It was wrong of me to enter your rooms. I just…‌” Tears ran down her cheeks once more.

He ignored them, turning to yank the medical kit from the wall. He poured a good amount of isopropyl alcohol onto a gauze pad, pressed it against her head, and took a certain amount of satisfaction at the hiss of her indrawn breath as he wiped away a crust of dried blood.

She tipped her face upward to meet his gaze with wide and innocent blue eyes beneath damp lashes, but something about the set of her jaw—‌or was it the angle of her chin—‌gave her away.

It was clear that Lady Olivia expected him to play the gentleman, to excuse her bad behavior without comment, without reprimand. No doubt she counted upon it. Disappointment would be hers.

“I’ve no time for games, Lady Olivia.” He scowled at her, narrowing his eyes. “No interest in crocodile tears and protestations. You have clearly targeted me.” He watched closely as he posed his question. “Did the duke send you?”

“What?” She drew back, pressing a hand to her chest, blinking a touch too quickly. “No. He…‌ My father—‌and mother—‌wish me to marry an Italian baron. Who is three times my age.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t. I simply can’t force myself to comply.”

Ian crossed his arms and waited as she wiped away a few lingering tears.

“It was wrong of me. I apologize.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath and looked away. “I simply hoped to escape. I thought—‌I hoped—‌you might take me with you. You are looking for a wife?”

A parson’s mousetrap? So it seemed. Undesirable in the eyes of London society, she was being hauled away to marry in foreign lands. He bit back the harsh words he’d been about to utter. It was entirely possible she told the truth.

In which case Lady Olivia had made a drastic mistake and chosen the most unsuitable man possible to target.

He frowned as he took a long and hard look. She was not at her best, that was true. But she was beautiful. Blonde curls and blue eyes. A pert nose and pink cheeks. And his mind kept circling back to those tantalizing lips. Did they taste as sweet as they looked?

Though when standing she barely reached his chin, her curves were generous. The corset she wore struggled mightily to contain her breasts. His hands itched to curve beneath them and relieve the corset of its duty. His gaze moved lower. Or grip those wide hips and pull her tight against him.

Before the physical evidence of his interest became painfully clear, Ian turned away. How long had it been since he’d had a woman? Months? Too long, if he was considering such possibilities. “I am not in the position to offer for your hand, nor will I be forced to the altar,” he said.

“But, everyone will know…‌”

She trailed off as he moved to stand before the console and waved a hand toward the forward window. The first pink glimmers of dawn illuminated the deep, dark forest that stretched out below them. To his relief, he saw no evidence of patrols.

“We’re about to cross the German border,” he said.

“What!” She wobbled to her feet and moved to stand beside him. “Germany! Why?” Her shock sounded genuine.

“Were you hoping for some quaint French village on the Côte d’Azur with a willing and ready priest?”

Her lips pressed together.

He stabbed his fingers into his hair. Time ran short. “No more games, Lady Olivia.”

“Yes. The French have far better fashion sense.”

His answering laugh was tinged with the absurd. Stuck in the German countryside with the daughter of the Duke of Avesbury. Either she had the worst instincts imaginable when choosing potential husbands, or she’d been sent to watch him. He was, as yet, unable to determine which. Unknown dangers lay ahead or he might have looked forward to teasing forth the truth.

Either way, he couldn’t let her go. Without proper papers, she would not be able to legally return across the border. Invoking her father’s name would do more harm than good; a particularly astute and enterprising border guard with political interests might recognize the duke’s name. Lady Olivia Ravensdale would make a valuable prisoner.

And, of course, she knew where Ian was. Something as innocent as a telegram would reveal his whereabouts to her father, and the Queen would be informed. Nefarious activities would be presumed, cutting off all hope that he could quietly return home. He rubbed the back of his stiff neck. With two women now to protect instead of merely one, this voyage had grown infinitely more complex. Misgivings slithered down his spine.

“We haven’t crossed the border yet,” she said. “Take me back to the Oglethorpe.” Her hands slid along the silk of her skirts, as if she might erase the many wrinkles. “I’ll slip back into my room. We’ll never speak of this again.”

“I’m afraid we’ve traveled too far,” he answered. Bad choices came with unpleasant consequences. Hers could well be deadly. “There’s not enough fuel.” Or time. “You’ll have to come with me.”