Someone began to climb the stairs—a heavy, uneven tread.
Ivy hurried to her wardrobe. She had a real satchel this time, made by Netta from mismatched pieces of fabric. Ivy filled it with her few changes of clothing, then looked around. Two tattered books lay on the nightstand—children’s primers that Netta had taught Ivy to read. Taking those was like admitting she wasn’t coming back. She left them where they were.
“Bring that with you.”
Mad Machen’s gruff voice came from behind her. Slowly, Ivy turned, her gaze sweeping up from the floor—stopping at his legs. From just above the right knee on down, he no longer filled out his trouser leg and boot. A prosthetic. One he’d had long enough that he didn’t need a stabilizing cane, but he wouldn’t be running after her soon, if ever.
She met his eyes. Dark and somber, they watched her face. His hair was longer, shaggier, and lightened by the summer sun. His cheeks were leaner, browner, and a new white scar cut cleanly through his flesh from his temple to his jaw.
Sometime in the past two years, he’d been through hell. And because she couldn’t take pleasure in it, she turned away so that she wouldn’t feel compassion.
By some miracle, her voice was steady. “Bring what with me?”
“The dress.”
It hung on the wardrobe door. Of pale blue satin, designed to gather beneath her breasts and cascade to the floor, the gown was a New Year’s gift from Netta. A month ago, Ivy had attended one of the widow Aughton’s socials wearing it with borrowed slippers, gloves over her gray arms, and ribbons in her hair. Only a few men had been brave enough to dance with her. They’d heard the stories about Mad Machen, too.
Her hands shook as she lifted the dress from the hook. That terrified her. The one thing she’d always been able to depend on was the steadiness of her hands.
When she turned, he was beside her bed, bending to slide his fingers over the rough woolen blanket. Anger suddenly rose up, stripping the thread of her fear.
The gown crumpled in her fists. “Why not here?”
His gaze flew to hers.
“Use me on the bed,” she told him. “Take what you feel you’re owed. Then leave me here, and let me continue as I was.”
His brows lowered, and he slowly straightened. After an endless second in which he seemed to be holding on to his control, he said, “Our agreement was that you’d be in my bed.”
“For passage. I didn’t board your ship. I owe you nothing.”
“But to pay your debt to Yasmeen, you have to board Vesuvius .” He took a step toward her. “Bring the dress, Ivy.”
She’d have ripped it. But Netta had spent hours sewing in secret . . . and Ivy loved the blasted thing. She shoved the gown into her satchel and turned for the stairs. She marched down and threw her arms around a weeping Netta.
“I left money. It’s not much.”
“I’ll get by.” Netta’s strong arms squeezed her tight. “Take care, Ivy. And come back. Please.”
Nodding, Ivy drew away. She heard Mad Machen on the stairs—slow, careful. With her chin high, Ivy swept past Lady Corsair, through the door, and to the rope ladder.
And because it was the last time she could put distance between her and Mad Machen, Ivy climbed to her fate as fast as she could.
Lady Corsair’s sails unfurled before Eben was halfway up the ladder. Within a minute, he was clinging to the swaying ropes, staring down into the shallow cove where small megalodons swam between jagged rocks, their dorsal fins cutting the surface. Yasmeen was furious with him, obviously.
His fury was directed right back. God damn her for keeping Ivy’s location from him. For not telling him who the Blacksmith had sent them to find until after they’d stepped into that tavern.
And with every awkward step up the ladder, he thanked God that Ivy hadn’t been on Vesuvius when she’d sailed from London two years ago—but he didn’t need the sharks circling below as a reminder.
A gust buffeted him against the wooden hull. The impact rattled his teeth and vibrated painfully through his steel leg, into his thigh bone. Jaw clenched, he pulled himself up another rung and swung over the gunwale onto the deck. Most of the crew was at the halyards, hauling at the lines that drew the sails out along the horizontal spars, bringing the triangular canvas forward to catch more air. Yasmeen watched them from the quarterdeck.
He couldn’t see Ivy anywhere.
A familiar tightness gripped his chest. Was she hiding from him? Christ, no wonder. He couldn’t keep a rational head when he saw her, touched her. She twisted him up. Not a damn thing he said came out as it should. He’d wait before seeking her out, regain his wits—so that when she looked at him like a monster, he didn’t heed his instinct and prove her right. That instinct had saved him more times than he could count, but if he wanted Ivy in his life, he couldn’t give into it with her.
And he needed answers from Yasmeen first. Eben hadn’t expected that Ivy would be glad to see him. He hadn’t expected her to flee in terror, either.
By the time he reached the quarterdeck, the airship had gained altitude, skimming below the clouds and bearing toward Vesuvius, anchored just beyond the mouth of the cove.
“Where is she?”
“I locked her in the officer’s mess.” Yasmeen didn’t take her eyes off the men working the decks. “She looked ready to take a dive over the side.”
“What the hell have you told her?”
“Only what you should have—” Her gaze narrowed when an aviator stepped into a coil of rope. Her voice rose, hard and sharp. “Mind that line, Ms. Pegg, or we’ll be feeding your leg to the bleeding gulls! . . . again,” she finished quietly, before glancing at Eben. “All of the men who came to me from your ship that were in need of a blacksmith, I sent to her with a story. I embellished.”
Embellished. Enough that Ivy had thought he’d rape her. She likely imagined that once they reached Vesuvius she’d be whipped, abused, starved. Why not? Half the people who came off Eben’s ship were.
“At every port, I heard that you were asking about her. And I heard the talk that had begun: men claiming that you’d weakened for a woman—and if you are weak in one area, you can be weakened in others. So I spread a different story.” Yasmeen spared him another glance. “Both your ship and this blacksmith are better protected when everyone thinks that you only seek her because she cheated you. You’ve made destroying the Black Guard your crusade, but your first duty is to your men—and there are too many lives at stake for Mad Machen to become Softhearted Eben.”
“I know,” he said grimly. Christ, how he knew. The lives of his crew and the freedom of every person rounded up and chained into the belly of the Black Guard’s slaver ships depended on the reputation he’d earned over the years. Fear was a more powerful weapon than the biggest rail cannon—and every terrified mercenary who’d rather give up his cargo than face Mad Machen saved more lives than a Softhearted Eben ever could.
“Then choose who you will be. You can’t be both.”
He pictured Ivy’s face—a sight that had helped him fight through hell. And he felt the strange, cold presence below his knee, a constant reminder that there were others who hadn’t been strong or lucky enough to break free.
Maybe he couldn’t be both. But he could damn well try.