“No, that was another sort of explosion.” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve spent time in England.”
“In England? Well—Yes?” Confusion tripped her up. What an odd response. She
had
spent a little time in that country when
Phatéon
’s route took her there. But why would such a statement follow hers…
Oh.
Fierce heat bloomed in her cheeks. Prosthetics and mechanical apparatuses were so common in England as to be unremarkable. But in the New World, such topics were handled with delicacy, if not outright avoided. Her insensitive comment must have distressed him, though he hid it well. Perhaps that was an indication of his fine manners; he didn’t point out her lack of them, though he had every reason to.
She had long come to terms with her failings, but Annika hated knowing that she might have hurt someone with them. “I am so
sorry. How horrid of me to make light of injuries that must have been painful.”
He shrugged. “And long ago.”
Was he dismissing the topic or her apology? He didn’t seem distressed, but rather uninterested in discussing himself—and examining her features as if interested in
her
. Well, if he wanted to know what sort of woman she was, he was soon to learn that she had difficulty letting anything go without proper resolution.
“Whenever it happened, I am sorry for my words now,” she said. “I’m often told that I don’t possess any proper sensibilities, but that doesn’t excuse—”
“Who tells you this?”
“Everyone,” she said ruefully, and the stranger laughed before subjecting her to a considering look.
“If you wish to make amends,” he said, “eat supper with me now.”
That was
not
an offer she expected to come from someone with manners. Not offended, but incredibly surprised, she shook her head. “Pardon? I believe I misheard.”
“Share a meal with me at the inn,” he said unmistakably, before softening his expression with a smile. “I wouldn’t take advantage of a woman’s obligation to me, but I have no choice. If you leave this evening, I’ll have no other opportunity to enjoy your company, and I want to know you better.”
The intensity of his gaze deepened as he spoke, as if the entirety of his being had focused on gaining her consent. Annika stared up at him, uncertain how to respond. She’d have liked to spend more time with him, too. She wanted to know why he chased volcanoes, and what had possessed him to come to her aid—and there was nothing that forbade her from sharing a meal with someone. But her instincts were ringing, and she couldn’t ignore the alarm they raised. She had been propositioned before. She’d been flirted with before. This was…different. Though she couldn’t have articulated
why she felt the need to be wary, Annika was certain that this man wanted something from her—but not company, not courting, not even to share a bed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling very stiff. “The captain has asked that we all return to the airship early, so that we’re aboard before the storm hits.”
He nodded, but she saw the clench of his jaw, the frustration that suddenly shadowed his expression. Annika continued her brisk pace. The stranger remained at her side, but as they crossed from the cobblestones onto the wooden docks, the rumble of lorry engines and the shouts of the stevedores made further conversation impossible. Annika walked in silence, her thoughts in tumult. Perhaps she’d been mistaken? Perhaps she was only wary because his offer had been so unexpected. Perhaps she’d just insulted him again.
If so, nothing could be done now. With relief, she reached
Phatéon
’s mooring station. The cargo lift had been raised against the side of the airship, but the ladder hung down to the docking boards.
Annika stopped and folded her umbrella before turning to the stranger, who had tilted his head back to look up at the airship. She had to tilt her head back to look at
him
. Oh, he was quite tall—and so close. Rarely did Annika feel small, but standing next to him, she did. “Thank you again.”
His gaze lowered. Though his smile had not returned, she thought he seemed pleased. Satisfied, perhaps. “You travel aboard
Phatéon
? I’ve heard that she’s a fine ship.”
“Yes.” She caught the rope ladder, steadied it. “Very fine.”
He nodded. “I will leave you, then. I wish you a safe journey, miss.”
“I wish the same for you.”
Politely, he touched his hat—and stood, waiting…for her to climb safely aboard, she realized, and felt silly of a sudden. All this way, he had only been helpful. It had been kind of him to stay with
her until he’d made certain that she’d arrived at her destination unharmed. It had been kind of him to offer a meal.
Still, Annika sensed his gaze on her as she climbed the ladder—and could not shake the feeling that the stranger hadn’t gotten what he wanted, and that he wasn’t done with her. That she would see him again, that he would be waiting for her in Bergen…or somewhere else.
But perhaps that was only her imagination.
For twenty years, David Kentewess had searched for his
mother’s people. He’d finally found one of them.
The small woman ascending
Phatéon
’s ladder didn’t physically resemble his willowy mother in any way, but her unusual, burred accent had been the closest he’d come to hearing Inga Helgasdottor’s voice since she’d lain beneath a burning pile of rubble and whispered a final, agonized plea.
David would be damned before he failed her. But for years, he’d despaired of being able to keep his promise.
Until he’d heard this woman’s desperate words—first in French, then English, then Norse.
Norse,
for Christ’s sake. Who spoke that anymore? Only scholars—and few of them at that.
Certainly no one in Bergen. David had been to that Norwegian port several times, and he’d never heard anyone with an accent like hers. Perhaps the language was still spoken in some remote village—but not in any of the villages he’d visited. He’d almost given up hope of ever knowing his mother’s origins.
Perhaps this woman didn’t hold the answer. Perhaps he imagined
the similarities to his mother’s voice. Perhaps he was mistaken.
David didn’t think so. And—
Hell.
He’d forgotten to ask her name.
With a sudden grin, he watched her climb. The shock of hearing her peculiar accent near the gates had stolen his brains. Before he realized that they would be traveling on the same airship, he’d been so determined to keep her in his sight that he hadn’t even thought to ask that simple question. He’d find out soon, though—and everything else he wanted to know.
What incredible luck. If he’d left the inn a few minutes later, or if she’d been on any other vessel but
Phatéon
…
But she wasn’t on another ship—and instead of a bird shitting in his eye at the port gates, an answer to an old prayer had landed in his lap in the form of a vibrant woman. Such
mad
luck. Wild elation lifted through him, rising with every step he watched her take, but he quelled the shout of laughter swelling within his chest. Perhaps she wouldn’t hear his laugh over the noise of the docks, but he wouldn’t give her reason to look down and see him cackling like a drunken rotbrain.
His grin would likely scare her, anyway.
That thought erased his smile. He’d have to be careful about how he approached her. She hadn’t seemed disturbed by his mechanical hand or mangled face, but he hadn’t given her the opportunity to take a close look yet. While walking with her, he’d deliberately positioned himself so that only his unscarred profile was on display.
When was the last time he’d made such an effort to present his good side to a woman? Hell, when was the last time he’d thought about
having
a good side? Too long. He’d have to be certain not to forget, and try not to scare her away…again.
Though she’d been polite about it, he had no doubt that she’d run from him. Only crew members climbed the rope ladders; passengers
waited for the cargo platform, particularly if they wore skirts. And she
must
be a passenger—no aviator dressed in silk from head to toe.
So he’d unsettled her…but not because of his scars or his nanoagent infection. She hadn’t fled until he began asking questions. Why?
He’d soon figure it out.
She’d almost reached
Phatéon
’s deck. From his angle on the ground, her voluminous skirts swallowed her figure, aside from a flash of yellow now and again when the crimson material parted to show the trouser legs beneath. Odd, wasn’t that? David had been too focused on her lively features and her voice to take note of her dress, but now it was all he could see. He recalled the purple scarf warming her neck and covering her corkscrew hair, the number of ribbons adorning her sleeves and hem. He’d passed frippery shops with fewer bows displayed in the windows than the woman had worn, and though he knew nothing of women’s fashions, he couldn’t remember seeing such a combination of colors and shapes at any of the numerous ports he’d visited in the past ten years. A glance along the docks and a scan of the other ladies’ dresses confirmed it: Her clothing was odd.
Good.
Odd
fit the sort of woman he was looking for.
When his family had lived in the mountain-builders’ city at the confluence of the Inoka and the Great Muddy rivers, both the white settlers and his father’s people had said Inga Helgasdottor was odd, too—not because she’d worn silk and ribbons, but because she’d possessed an unusual manner and lacked any proper sensibilities. His mother had laughed loudly, and at strange moments. She’d made shocking observations, suggested things no polite woman would have. She’d swaggered, even when David’s aunt had coaxed her out of homespun trousers and into a skirt. And whenever someone had asked where she’d come from, his mother only replied with a smile.
As a boy, David had never asked. She’d been with him, she’d been fierce in her love, and that was all that had mattered. Only later had he discovered that his father had asked often—terrified that she’d leave and he wouldn’t know where to find her.
But his father had lost Inga Helgasdottor anyway. They both had.
Now David had found a woman who didn’t swagger, who didn’t appear as strong or as wild, but who seemed similar in essentials, as full of life—and he wouldn’t lose this one.
Despite that certainty, sudden fear squeezed his lungs when she reached
Phatéon
’s deck and disappeared over the side.
She was gone.
David forced himself not to chase after her. His mechanical legs had been designed to provide stability over rough terrain, but balancing his feet on drooping rope rungs was another matter. Climbing the ladder would be a precarious and awkward pursuit—and unless she could fly, there was nowhere else for her to go until
Phatéon
docked in Iceland, anyway. Better to wait for the cargo lift.
It wouldn’t be a long wait. A steamcoach rumbled up to the mooring station. Seated beside the driver, Dooley scowled down at David in a way that said he wasn’t truly upset. When Patrick Dooley was angry, his pale face became as hard and as red as a brazier.
With the grating squeal of rusted brakes, the vehicle stopped. Dooley hopped to the ground, a little less spry than when David had met him eight years ago, just before their first expedition. Since then, most of the digger’s abundant brown hair had migrated from the top of his head to his jaw, with gray threading through it. A heavy mink hat protected his now bald pate, and the furred bulk offered the impression of a disproportionately large head sitting atop Dooley’s wiry body.
His scowl deepened with every step he took toward David. “You’ve made a liar out of me, Kentewess!”
Not likely. David had never met any man as proud of his own honesty as Dooley was—or who so often hid his amusement with
a frown. His friend often attempted to appear hard and cynical, yet rarely succeeded.
No surprise, then, that David liked him so well. “Did I?”
“You did.” The digger glanced back at the coach, where Regnier Goltzius gave directions to the stevedores who would unload their equipment. “I just wagged on to the Dutchman that you were incapable of speaking to a female for more than three minutes.”
Unlikely to speak to a woman, yes. But
unable
to? “I’m capable.”
“Not that I’ve ever seen.” The scowl cracked for a moment, revealing the amusement beneath. “You’re incapable—or too terrified. The answer is yours to pick.”
Christ.
How would he get out of this one? Dooley always turned every opinion based on observation into fact, and only hard evidence could counter it. Problem was, David couldn’t easily recall
any
conversation of late that had lasted more than a few minutes, unless it was with a member of a recent expedition or a colleague.
Ah.
There was his answer. “Inoue Nanami.”
“The madwoman who floated a jellyfish balloon over Krakatoa?” Dooley swept his hat off and knocked it against his leg, shaking free a shower of raindrops. More drizzled onto his head. “You listened as she gave a lecture to the Society. That’s no conversation.”
“I spoke with her.”
“You tossed questions at her when she’d finished—and every one of them was relayed through her translator. As I see it, you were only speaking to
him
.”
Damn it. With a laugh, David shook his head. “But now you’ve seen me with this woman for twice that length of time. So did I prove you wrong or make a liar out of you?”
No reason to let Dooley know that although he’d walked with the woman for more than three minutes, the noise of the docks had prevented them from speaking for a good portion of it. Their conversation
had been long enough to make David certain that she had answers, and brief enough to make him frustrated that he couldn’t solicit them from her.
Dooley took the less offensive choice. “I’ll admit I’ve been proved wrong.”
“Good man,” David said. “When I’ve reached your great age, I hope I’ll admit defeat as gracefully as you do.”
The older man snorted. “If you’ve brains enough to survive as long.”