His brows lowered, and the small movement seemed to darken every feature. “To where?”
“Anywhere.” She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Just away. “The first city you put in to port.”
He didn’t immediately answer, and she became aware of Barker, no longer smiling. A grim expression had settled on his open face. In the opposite seat, the woman stared at Mad Machen, the gold hoops in her ears swinging with the tiny shake of her head.
Mad Machen either didn’t notice them or disregarded them. He strode across the room, stopping only an arm’s length away. Ivy had to lift her chin to meet his eyes.
“Vesuvius has no comfortable quarters. She isn’t a passenger ship.”
“I know. But I can’t afford passage on a—” She broke off when his face darkened further. Hurriedly, she assured him, “I’ll work. I can repair engines, prosthetics . . . or windups, if you have any automata. I can build anything you need.”
“I already have a blacksmith onboard.”
Panic began to take hold. She looked past Mad Machen to the woman, then Barker. “Do you know of any ship that needs one? A ship that departs soon? I won’t ask for a wage—only for board. Please.”
Closing his eyes, Barker shook his head. The woman didn’t respond, only stared back at Ivy, her gaze cold and assessing.
In the quiet, Ivy’s heart thundered in her ears. Smithing was her only trade. She owned nothing of value but her skill.
Nothing but her body.
Sickness roiled in her stomach, tasted sour on her tongue. She’d avoided this route for so long, but perhaps it always came to this. Feeling dull and worn, she lifted her gaze to Mad Machen’s.
“I’m a virgin,” she said.
His broad chest rose on a sharp breath. A flush swept under his skin, his jaw tightening. Though his companions had been quiet, now they were still and silent—as if waiting.
His response was a low growl. “Vesuvius isn’t a slaver ship, either.”
“I don’t want to be sold. I want to be free when I get off your ship.” She tried to gather dignity and courage. “I’m offering it as payment. Some men prize it.”
His face continued to darken as she spoke, until the only lightness lay in the whites of his eyes, the tight line around his mouth, the rough scar at his throat. He looked . . . utterly mad.
By the starry sky—she’d made a horrible mistake.
Suddenly terrified, Ivy backed up a step, before whipping around and reaching for the door. “I’ll find another—”
His hand slammed against the door, holding it closed. “You won’t find another. You’ll sleep in my bed. Not just once. For as long as you’re on the ship.”
Barker’s bottle clattered to the floor, as if he’d lurched to his feet and it had dropped from his lap. “Eben, you can’t—”
“Don’t.”
Barker fell silent.
Trembling, Ivy stared at Mad Machen’s fingers, braced against the polished wood. More scars whitened his knuckles. How many people had he hit to accumulate those? Had any of them been women? Clenching her teeth against the scream working up into her throat, she swallowed it down. She strove for an even tone, but it emerged as a hoarse whisper.
“Will you promise not to hurt me?”
She felt him stiffen behind her, and the draw of a ragged breath. His right arm came over her shoulder, his palm flattening against the door, trapping her between. She squeezed the shirt and its few contents closer to her small breasts.
“We’ll sail in the morning.” His voice was low and rough against her ear. His hand dropped to the door handle. “Come with me.”
Tension pulled her muscles tight when his left hand curved around the side of her waist. Stiffly, she stepped back, then hastily forward again when she bumped against his hard body. He guided her out of the parlor, and the only sounds in the cool hallway were their footsteps, her unsteady breath.
He caught her hand when she turned for the staircase. With a lift of his shadowed chin, he indicated down the length of the hall. “My bedchamber is this way.”
Already? They weren’t yet on the ship. She looked blindly down the narrow hallway.
Mad Machen watched her. “Did you intend to return home first?”
“No.” Not there. Not ever again.
“We leave for Vesuvius early. You’ll sleep in my bed.”
The lump in her throat choked her. Tucking her chin down, she followed him to the last room on the right. Using a key, he unlocked the door and moved to the bureau against the far wall, where he sparked a small gas lamp. Ivy took in the wardrobe, its doors open and innards bare. The bed dominated the center of the floor, the mattress larger than her room at the boardinghouse. A blue counterpane covered the whitest linens she’d ever seen.
“Put your things in the wardrobe.”
She wanted to hold on to them. But she wanted passage out of London more. Obediently, she untied the shirt, hung it on the hook. She stiffened as he drew near, frowning down at the items still in her hands.
“This is all you have?”
A pair of silk stockings, given as a gift from an aristocrat’s mistress whose feet Ivy had rebuilt after her Horde prosthetics malfunctioned—and a small flange, dark with age, scarred and worn.
He picked up the iron disk, touched his thumb to the hole in the center. “Not a coin.”
She almost laughed. No, she’d used her only penny to pay the steamcoach driver who’d brought her from Limehouse to the docks. English money wasn’t worth anything in the rest of the world, anyway, whereas French currency—the trade currency—held its value in every port.
“It was my elbow,” she said. “When I was a chimney sweep.”
His gaze fell to her hands. “Why keep it?”
So that she’d never forget what it was to wriggle through hot, narrow shafts, when one slip could mean her death. So that she’d never take what she had now for granted.
She took the flange from him and brought it to her lips. “Because now I’m the only person in the world who can kiss my elbow.”
Mad Machen didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist and drew her hand to his face, until she cupped his rough jaw.
“Can you feel this?”
She could feel the heat he emitted and each short whisker that formed the scratchy stubble against her palm. And, almost imperceptibly, the electric charge of the mechanical nanoagents in his skin, beneath his skin—like tiny bugs working together to strengthen, to heal, to enhance.
“Yes.” It was a whisper.
The skin beneath her hand warmed. “Good. You’ll soon feel me everywhere.”
Instinctively, she yanked her arm back—then froze, wondering if she’d just made another mistake. He stepped closer, and she fought not to flinch as his hands came up.
Catching her face between his big palms, he gazed down into her eyes. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
Too frightened to do anything else, she nodded. With a low groan, his eyes closed and he lowered his head. Ivy waited, shaking.
His lips brushed hers once, twice. She relaxed, for the barest moment—then his mouth was devouring, the strength of his kiss forcing her head back, hurting her neck. His hands gripped her bottom and hauled her up, and she felt him through her coat and nightgown, thick and enormous against her stomach. Terror began to rise, the reality of what he would do, what she’d agreed to do, and then she was on her feet again.
Mad Machen spun away from her, his chest heaving. He strode to the door and flung it open, pausing only long enough to say, “If you run away now, I’ll come after you.”
The door slammed. In shock, Ivy stared after him, holding her fingers to her lips. Already, she could feel her bugs working to heal the bruised tissues. Sweet blue heaven.
She’d traded one monster for another.
Eben headed straight for the bottle. Swiping the brandy out of Barker’s hand, he tilted it back and drank, hoping to dull the need. And if the need wouldn’t subside, drink until he passed out.