Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [25]
“Then I’ll buy you a drink when I see you there,” he promised before warning her, “I’ll begin courting you then, too.”
Her laugh was soft and low. With a movement that seemed to exist between a lazy stretch and an acrobatic flip, she swung her legs off the mattress and rose from the bed. Ah, God. Had she any idea how watching her affected him? Graceful, lithe, strong—and deadly. Her every step seemed to contain a threat. Unhurried, she crossed the small room toward the bureau topped with pistols and knives, and despite the bracelet she wore, every moment he expected to feel her foot smashing in his skull, her fingers crushing his throat.
She only retrieved a silver case from the pile of weapons and slipped a cigarillo between her lips. He reached for the spark lighter before she did, and the captain had no objection when he came close enough to hold the flame to the cigarillo’s tip. She regarded him over his clasped hands. When the tip glowed orange, he stepped back and lit his own.
The captain looked pointedly at his cigarillo. “You court your sister’s wrath. You’re a brave man.”
Not that brave. “I don’t smoke them near her. Only with you.”
“Why is that?”
“They’re expensive, and although a bulging purse in my pants might appeal to you, it also attracts the wrong sort of attention.”
“So they boast that you’re wealthy?” Her eyes were bright with amusement or opium. Perhaps both. “But not rich enough, if you need the sketch so badly.”
“True,” he said. “But that will change after I sell it.”
If he had any money left over after he settled his debt, that was. He felt her assessing stare as he sank into the chair and began pulling on his boots.
Her expression thoughtful, she tapped ash into her palm. “If you sell it quickly at auction in the Ivory Market, you won’t receive as much from the sale as you could from a private collector. You probably won’t even receive as much as the sketch is worth—and my twenty-five percent won’t amount to as much as it could be.”
“It won’t, but I don’t have the luxury of time.”
“I propose a deal, then. I’ll hold on to the sketch—or we can ask a third party whom we both trust to keep it for us.”
Who did a woman like Yasmeen trust? “Is there such a person?”
“The Iron Duke.”
Archimedes laughed. Almost ten years ago, when the Iron Duke had only been known as the pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn and Archimedes had still been smuggling weapons as Wolfram Gunther-Baptiste, he’d provided Trahaearn with enough explosives to destroy the Horde’s controlling tower in London. After Archimedes delivered the bombs to Marco’s Terror, however, Trahaearn hadn’t trusted him enough to sail with them—and into the ocean he’d gone.
“He threw me over the side of his ship, too.”
“Yet you aren’t destined to court him?”
He flattened his hand over his heart, fluttered his lashes. “Alas, the sight of his face does not make me catch my breath.”
“And Scarsdale?”
“Your lover?” Or friend. During the journey to Venice they’d all shared dinner in her cabin, and Archimedes hadn’t been able to determine exactly what the relationship between the mercenary captain and the Earl of Scarsdale was. But whatever the nature of it, Scarsdale posed no threat. The man was terrified of heights, and Captain Corsair would never abandon her airship.
“Yes.” She turned to the bureau and began sheathing knives, tucking away pistols. “You get along well with him.”
“But do I trust him to hold the sketch? He might use it to tempt you into running away with him and making you his countess.”
She snorted, a half-laugh that emerged on a puff of smoke.
That response was good enough for Archimedes. “But suppose I did trust them. What would you propose?”
“Take the cash I have aboard my lady. If that isn’t enough, I’ll withdraw the money I keep in trust for the aviators’ families. You pay off your debt, and we sell the sketch at our leisure . . .