He barked out a hoarse laugh at her understatement. “Why?”
She’d spent the past thirty minutes trying to understand it. “I think . . . so that I wouldn’t ruin you. So that I could go anywhere I wanted to—as long as it was away from you. She said you meant to court me, that you’d be torn apart for being soft, and that it would also destroy your crew. Is that true?”
His skin paled beneath his tan. Jaw clenched, he turned away from her.
“It is true,” she whispered. She hadn’t been completely certain before—not when the story came from Lady Corsair. But Eben’s reaction said that it was. “Why would you take that risk?”
“Ivy . . .” He shook his head, and the sound that came from him seemed like a laugh, but pain or fear was sculpted into his posture, his expression. But when he faced her, there was only need and hope. “Because you’re worth more to me than anything else in this world. Because I want you to make Vesuvius your home. And because. . . I love you, Ivy.”
Her heart filled, followed by a stabbing pain. His love, her love—it changed nothing. Lady Corsair was still right, and more people than Eben would be hurt. So would his crew . . . and the slaves that Mad Machen could potentially save.
Eben’s eyes closed. His voice was bleak. “You don’t have to say it, Ivy. I can see your answer in your face. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll buy equipment for a blacksmith’s shop, in another city. Maybe in the New World. With this much money, I can go anywhere, do anything.” Except what she most wanted. Her vision blurred as she glanced down at the coins. “Fool’s Cove, first. I promised Netta I’d come back.”
“And I promised to take you there. God.” He fisted his hands in his hair, staring at her in utter torment. Then he lost all expression, and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to leave. His voice was flat as he said, “We’ll sail in the morning.”
He closed the door quietly. Ivy wished he’d slammed it. She wanted to slam it. She remained on the bed instead, rocking back and forth, refusing to cry—and refusing to give in to impulse and throw the money as hard as she could across the room.
Love, money. None of it changed the problem of reputation. Mad Machen saved people for coin, not because he cared. He chased a woman because she’d cheated him—not because he loved her. And the woman who stayed would have to be . . . would have to be . . .
She’d have to be mad.
Ivy’s lips parted. Her heart pounding, she rose from the bed, and collected the money—then she crossed the room and collected the gun. She counted the number of bullets and removed three.
She’d reached the door before realizing that only stockings encased her feet. Spotting her worn black boots, she pulled them on.
They’d work well enough. Money could buy her slippers. Only crazy would get her a man.
Men and women packed the tavern. From somewhere in the back, automaton musicians badly in need of repairs to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through the crowd, and she supposed it said much about the patrons here that not one glanced a second time at the revolver she carried in her right hand, though a few did stare at her guild tattoo. Rising up on her toes, she tried to scan the tables and the bar, but there were too many people, most of them taller. She debated for an instant whether to circle the room, looking for Eben—but now that she’d resolved to do this, she decided to go full bore.
Hiking up her skirts, she clambered atop the nearest table and stood. A single fierce look silenced the protesting men whose drinks sloshed wildly in her wake—though she noted they were amused rather than afraid.
That would do, too.
She spotted Eben at the bar, and her heart clenched. He sat alone with his shoulders slumped, his expression desolate. He held a small glass loosely in his hand. When he lifted it toward his lips, Ivy raised her gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger.
The glass exploded. The deafening crack of the revolver faded to silence. Even the song died, which hadn’t been played by broken automatons, Ivy realized—just very bad musicians. She found herself facing a roomful of pistols, but she only had eyes for the one in Eben’s hand. It pointed straight back at her.
His face whitened. A glass shard had cut his lip; blood spilled over his jaw. She saw his mouth form her name, and she shouted over him.
“Mad Machen!” She aimed for his heart even as he lowered his gun—as did everyone around them. No longer concerned for their lives, they cleared a path between Ivy and Eben, and settled in to watch. “You heartless brigand! You’ve tracked me to the ends of the earth to have your revenge, and you’ve used me in your bed. You’ve forced me to work in Vesuvius’s smithy. No more. I demand that you set a course for my home, Captain. And you will do it now, or I will put a bullet through your mad brainpan.”
Eben’s expression darkened. Slowly, he rose to his feet and wiped the blood from his mouth. His voice was low and dangerous. “So you think you’ll take command of my ship, do you?”
“You have forced me to this point, Mad Machen. Do you think that I will stay in your smithy forever? No longer will I watch as you make a fortune with my windups, forcing me to slave away on your ship and selling them at every port.”
“You’ll do whatever I say, Ivy Blacksmith. You’re mine, as is every coin you earn.”
She adjusted her aim when he stalked toward her. “Stay there, or I will shoot your leg from under you!”
She planned to make him a better one, anyway.
He didn’t stop. Ivy fired. The bullet slammed into solid steel just below his right knee. He stumbled forward to keep his balance. A murmur ran through the crowd.
Jaw hardening, Eben straightened. The look he gave Ivy sent the men around her table scrambling for distance. He approached, and when he was within a few feet, Ivy pointed the revolver at his groin.
“Next will be your prick, sir. And you know that my hands are too steady to miss.”
His grin was a mad thing, filled with blood and wild laughter. “Then I will force you to graft on a new one. Perhaps something smaller, that you can take more easily.”
He continued forward. Ivy pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a loud click. She only had time to shriek before he swept her feet from the tabletop. Tossing her facedown over his shoulder, he strode for the door. She pounded her fists against his back, screaming for help.
Thank the blessed stars, not a single patron came to her aid. And she was gratified to hear, just before Eben pushed through the exit,
“She’s as bleeding mad as he is!”
Ivy found herself in the nearest alley, up against the nearest wall, with Eben kissing her as if he’d never stop. She didn’t want him to. Threading her fingers into his hair, she tasted his sweat and his blood—but the tears were hers.
“I love you,” she said against his mouth the moment he gave her a chance to breathe. “I love you. Did you know?”
His eyes closed and he shook his head. “Not until I saw you on that table. You are mad. And, my God, I love you for it.”
Laughing, she kissed him again. After a moment, she said, “You have to punish me for challenging your command.”
“By forcing you to set up a shop aboard Vesuvius?”
“By keeping me with you forever.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “And I will have clean air, a view, work for my mind and my hands—and you. Everything I want. So take me home, Captain.”
“That’s an order I’ll follow.” Lifting her up, Eben cradled her against his chest and turned for the docks.
Ivy smiled and lay her head on his shoulder. “Would you have let me return to Fool’s Cove?”