Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [69]
A thin aviator on Archimedes’ right cleared his throat. “I was sorry to hear about Lady Corsair, Captain. A fine ship, she was. It was always a pleasure to see her fly.”
“She’s not a captain.” This came from the other end of the table. “She has no ship, no crew, no commission. She’s not a captain.”
“She’s my captain,” Archimedes said.
Yasmeen smiled and waited for it.
“Mon capitaine?” The first mate’s brother lifted his head. “On this ship, there’s ‘my arse’ and ‘my God,’ but no ‘my captain.’ ”
Cheers sounded up and down the table, the men laughing. Archimedes’ brows rose. She shook her head. It wasn’t mocking, and their reactions told her what she’d hoped to discover: A good portion of these men had once been sailors, but they weren’t tied to the navy with bonds so tight that good-natured humor couldn’t slip in between.
“You’re still mine,” Archimedes said, holding her gaze.
Yasmeen’s lips parted. How did he do that? It was a personal, possessive claim, stated in front of a crew, but it was clearly supportive rather than undermining her.
Flustered, she looked to the thin aviator beside him, the one who’d complimented her lady. “Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
A blush darkened his cheeks. “Leroy, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mr. Leroy. It was a pleasure to fly her.”
The first mate leaned forward, stuck his hand over the table. “Vashon, here. Peter. That’s Paul.”
“Vashon,” Archimedes repeated. “Of the Flying Vashons?”
Yasmeen’s brows rose. The Vashons were a famous French aviator family whose generations of military honors and aerostat inventions had built them into a legend.
“Cousins, but they don’t claim us,” Peter said. “We ran into a bit of trouble when we were younger, flying off in airships that didn’t belong to us.”
“Vashon airships,” Paul added.
“We’d probably still be welcomed in the fold if they’d been anyone else’s. And if we hadn’t tried to race to the Arctic Circle, deflated the balloons in an ice storm, and ended up making a boat of the ships. Have you ever seen a great white bear? Me, either. One day, though.” He shook his head and continued the introductions, gesturing toward the quiet man on Yasmeen’s left. “The shy one there is Cassel. He talked to a woman once—then his mother put her tit back into his mouth to shut him up. The raggedy one next to him is Simon. That bitter one next to him is Mr. Engels, our navigator’s mate.” He indicated the man who’d said she wasn’t a captain. “He never left the war.”
“There are a lot of men that haven’t got out.” Engels didn’t glance at her. “My brother Vincent, who was killed by a firebomb in Bonaire after she scouted out his garrison for the Liberé. You’re licking the ass of that woman, Vashon. Even the captain thought it was an insult to eat with her.”
“Yet the captain thought it appropriate for me to eat with you,” Yasmeen said. “Either I’m an insult he’s passed on to his crew instead of bearing the burden of my presence himself, or he decided that my company is tolerable, after all. Which do you think it is, Mr. Engels?”
Engels’s mouth shut. He gave a sharp nod and looked down at his plate.
He’d hate her still. That was just fine. She’d made her point. If he continued tearing her down, he’d be calling out his own captain with every word.
“I think the captain wanted to give us something more pleasant to look at than our first mate’s ugly face,” Paul said, and grinned when chuckles started around the table.
“That’s very kind, Mr. Vashon.” Yasmeen met Archimedes’ eyes across the table. “I’m pleased that you find my husband as handsome as I do.”
The first mate laughed outright before he settled back, gave her a thoughtful look. “Your crew had women.”
“About half of them were.”
“Don’t you worry about fornication?”
He said the word as if he’d suffered through a few too many sermons.
“No,” Yasmeen said. “They’re welcome to do whatever they like, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their duties or disrupt my crew’s ability to work.”
“But aren’t women always falling pregnant? Aren’t you always losing