Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [22]
As it was, she’d hung on to consciousness longer than he’d expected. Infected with nanoagents, she should have dropped when the opium dart hit her, but she’d managed to reach for her guns. Another second or two, and she could have shot him. Death had galloped close. His heart still pounded from how near it had come.
All in all, a good start.
With a grin, he looked to Sven, whose wary gaze had locked on the captain’s face as if he expected her to wake at any moment. “You’d be wise to return to Fladstrand tonight.”
The young aviator nodded. “Any message for your sister?”
“Confirm that I received her express. I’ll reply to her letter within a few days.”
“I’ll tell her.” He pulled on the woolen cap that would keep his ears from freezing in the open seat of his skipper balloon. “I don’t envy you when she wakes up.”
Archimedes doubted that. Any boy who built his own flyer and regularly raced it around the North Sea had a taste for danger. Even if that taste wasn’t as well-developed as Archimedes’, any man who held this woman should be envied, no matter what she did upon waking.
Which might be sooner than he’d anticipated. The long muscles of her back flexed against his forearm as she stirred, turning her cheek away from his shoulder. A line formed between her dark brows. Even unconscious, she was aware that something was wrong. Perhaps dreaming of gutting him—except she’d probably be smiling, if that was the case.
He’d have liked to see her delectable lips curve when she opened her eyes, but he’d work for her smiles later. For now, he needed the sketch, and he’d risk her anger to recover it.
He wouldn’t risk her reputation. A few of the drunks stumbling along the walk or rutting between the crates might have heard her name called or seen her fall into his arms, but they probably hadn’t glimpsed the dart—and most of them probably wouldn’t remember tomorrow, anyway. Those that did would assume she’d taken a man for a night’s sport. When he carried her to the room he’d rented, however, Archimedes had to be more careful. There’d be others about in the boardinghouse, and not all of them would be sloshing stupid with rum. Captain Corsair might forgive him for the opium dart, but wouldn’t forgive a rumor that she’d been taken to his bed, unconscious and completely at his mercy.
Her long coat concealed her distinctive tall boots and black breeches, but the blue kerchief might as well have been a signal flag. He tugged at the silk tails tangled in her braids until the kerchief slipped from her head, then lifted her higher against his chest. Her face tipped back toward his shoulder, obscuring her angular features. The dark and a quick step should prevent anyone from realizing exactly who he held.
A damn quick step. He started into it as she stirred again—his heart still pounding, but feather-light against his ribs.
He’d known that she’d be in his arms one day. And he wasn’t the least bit surprised that he hadn’t gone about it in the usual way.
In the garret that served as his room, Archimedes changed out of the drunkard’s rags and turned to find Captain Corsair awake and regarding him with narrowed eyes. His fingers stilled on the buckles of his emerald waistcoat.
She hadn’t stirred again on the way to his room, hadn’t made a single noise after he’d laid her on the narrow bed. Now she stared at him, her gaze a whetted blade. No confusion or uncertainty clouded her eyes. Only the thin ring of green around her dilated pupils told him that she was still blissed on opium.
“Captain,” he greeted her. Unwilling to take his attention from her again, he left his boots lying on the floor and finished buckling his waistcoat. The emerald silk matched his eyes, and he was certain she’d notice. By the time he’d taken the two short steps to the side of the bed, he was certain she’d noticed everything