Of Silk and Steam
Page 9

The pilot was still gaping at him. “Here, sir, you can’t be up here.”
Leo held up his billfold. It was dripping, along with the rest of him, but the notes within it would dry. He tossed it toward the fellow. “I’m commandeering this vessel. You have two choices. One, I can knock you unconscious and attempt to steer this bloody thing myself, or two, you can take whatever is in that billfold, steer me to my destination, and then return with the airship in one piece to collect Matheson.”
“His lordship will have my head,” the man replied, hands cupped around the wallet.
“Tell him you saved the vessel from certain destruction,” Leo replied, peering through the window. Mina had managed to find herself a man’s jacket to cover herself—the first pilot’s, by the look of it.
Seconds ticked by. “Aye, sir.” The man’s shocked expression cleared. “Where would you like to go, sir?”
“What’s your name?”
“Whitcomb. Bennett Whitcomb.”
“I just need help with one other thing before we get under way.”
“Sir?”
He pointed through the glass-plated windows. “That comely lass there is with me.”
* * *
“You found a pilot,” Mina said flatly, accepting a flute of champagne as Barrons knelt on the edge of the plumply cushioned daybed, the bottle fizzing in his fingers.
“You sound disappointed.”
“A little.” She ran her fingers along the timber paneling of the daybed at the front of the ship. “It was my only opportunity to fly such a thing.”
“Change of plans,” he replied, stretching out alongside her as the engines kicked into gear and the propellers on either side of the gondola began to spin faster. A heady rumbling sound vibrated the deck beneath them as all of the boilers lit up. “I’ll personally pay for Galloway to provide you with lessons.”
“Admit it,” she replied, sipping her champagne and shivering. “You didn’t like the idea of your fate being in my hands.”
“I don’t like the idea of my fate residing in anyone’s hands.” The airship quivered and then gave a faint surging push as it lifted into the air. His gaze returned to hers, the faintest of smiles touching those hard lips. “Least of all yours. You were threatening me with all manner of dire retributions, were you not?”
“Please don’t think me so limited as to consider dropping you off an airship revenge enough.”
A fluid shrug, all sleek muscle and lazy acquiescence now that they were under way. As if he barely felt the cold that was beginning to almost burn beneath her skin. Shouts began to circle up from beneath them. “Here’s to retribution.” He tapped his glass against hers with a clink, his dark eyes catching glimmer-shine off the gaslights along the rail. “Even if it is merciless.”
“You doubt me?”
“Never. I was there when you dueled with your cousin Peter. I know you can be merciless when you need to be.”
Cold air streamed over the deck. She couldn’t quite reply, the words taking her by surprise. So many years ago now, and yet the memory still lashed her like the cut of a whip, brutal and searing.
Not merciless, a part of her whispered. Not with Peter. That had been nothing more than a young girl’s survival instinct. Desperation. Him or her.
His death was still on her hands, though.
Barrons drained his glass, eyes narrowing as he watched her over the edge of it. Then he reached out and dragged one of the heavy blankets over her.
“I don’t know where this has been,” she replied through her suddenly dry throat, but she tucked the blanket about her shoulders, trying to create something of a windbreak.
“We could share,” Barrons suggested.
What? Her head jerked up. Devil take it! She was so cold that her wits were slowing. And something about the night had softened her focus, made her forget that this man was the enemy. Perhaps the truce. Or perhaps…almost a kind of…camaraderie between them tonight. “I’d rather freeze.”
A fingertip traced patterns on the blanket, over her hip. “Something I said?” he murmured, gauging her expression with those dangerous eyes, as if he were searching for answers when she didn’t even know what the questions were.
“We’ve escaped,” she replied. “The terms of our truce are finished.”
“Not quite.” He poured himself more bloodied champagne and sipped at it, resting back on the mound of cushions like some indolent pasha. “The debt has not yet been paid.”
Mina sat up, dragging the coat and blanket tightly around herself. “You demand payment tonight?”
“I do.”
Of course he did. London glided by, the enormous brick walls that surrounded the heart of the city—and the Echelon’s territory—passing directly below them. Lights stretched out for miles, twinkling in the darkness of night. Beautiful.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Some place safe. Some place nobody knows about.”
“And then?”
“Then?” He arched a brow, lying on his side and resting his head on his open palm. “Then we finish this.”
Three
“This is a bedroom,” Mina said, her teeth chattering.
“Mine, to be precise,” Barrons replied, ushering her through the door and then flicking on the gaslights.
“I thought you lived at Waverly Place.”
“Officially.” He gave nothing away as he crossed toward a decanter and poured blud-wein into a pair of glasses. “Unofficially, I sometimes need a place to stay that nobody knows about.”
A small house outside the city walls? Unusual. None of her sources on him had ever turned up anything like this. Why would he need a private sanctuary? That indicated involvement in some mischief. Mina closed the door behind her and tugged the pilot’s coat tighter around her in a vain attempt to warm herself.
The bedroom was smaller than expected, with an enormous four-poster bed taking up most of the space and a cold fireplace in the corner. Curiosity bit her, and she found her gaze dwelling on the ormolu clock on the mantel and the heavy damask drapes. She trailed her fingertips over the smooth velvet pane on the bed. Wonder what that would feel like against my skin. She jerked her hand away.
Barrons offered her one of the glasses, his fingers brushing against hers. He frowned, then turned her hand palm up. “You’re freezing.”