Burning Up

years. So he could wait for a kiss—and hope that she soon exhausted her supply of coins.
     
    I vy had a vague memory of stirring awake in the dark, Mad Machen a shadow looming over the bed, softly telling her to sleep longer. She must have. When she fully opened her eyes, the sun was streaming into the cabin from the east.
    Hot water filled the ewer on the bureau. She washed and quickly changed her clothes behind the closed curtain. A bell rang somewhere above, seven times. Men were up and about; she could hear footsteps and voices through the decks, a good-natured shout and a burst of male laughter.
    She’d seen a number of the crew yesterday. They looked like a rough lot, and a few had a smell strong enough that dipping them in the ocean could have killed any megalodon in a thirty mile radius, but none had appeared starved or abused. They certainly hadn’t looked like the four men whose prosthetics she’d rebuilt in Fool’s Cove.
    Perhaps she hadn’t seen all of his men, though—or Mad Machen treated the captives he forced into labor differently than his regular crew.
    A soft tap at the door was followed by Duckie’s voice. She called him in, and marveled when she saw the meal he carried: black coffee, a bowl of porridge, honey and cream, round soda biscuits, and a thick slice of ham crowded a large tray. Though Mad Machen had been to sea these many years, he apparently still ate as if he lived in Manhattan City. No one in England made breakfasts such as this. The only item that Ivy consumed regularly was the coffee, made cheap and plentiful by the Liberé farmers in the southern American continent.
    Perhaps everyone in the New World ate like this—and so would she, quite happily. But despite the growling of her stomach, she tried not to appear too eager. She’d had ham before. Twice.
    Half an hour later, with her belly pleasantly full and the coffee mug warming her hands, she left the cabin. A short, low-ceilinged passageway led her from beneath the quarterdeck. Blinking, she emerged into the sun. Faint spray misted her face, and each breath drew in cold, clean air.
    “And there she is.” Barker’s voice came from above her. Ivy glanced up, saw him leaning forward with his elbows against the balustrade, smiling down at her. “Had a bit of a lie-in, Miss Blacksmith?”
    Her cheeks heated. She could imagine why Barker thought she’d sleep late. “No. I built an autogyro from the clock and the cannons in the captain’s room, which I plan to fly off the ship tonight,” she told the quartermaster. “What have you accomplished today, sir?”
    Barker’s smile vanished. He glanced quickly at Mad Machen, who stood beside him with feet braced and his arms folded over his wide chest, looking as if he owned everything he observed—including Ivy.
    The captain’s dark eyes met hers, and she read his amusement. “She would need more than a clock, Barker—and she’s too clever to risk flying an autogyro anywhere a breeze might turn her over.”
    It was true. She’d have better luck trying to swim. But she was pleased Barker thought she might have built one and tried to escape.
    Sipping her coffee, she turned and let her gaze skim the front of the ship. Though not as chaotic as when they’d weighed anchor the previous day, she counted over thirty men on the decks and up in the rigging, all busy. Beyond them, the sun gleamed over the sea’s undulating surface. Ivy had to turn away. Though she’d adjusted to the rocking of the ship beneath her feet, watching the dip and rise of the bow against the horizon tossed her stomach about.
    She looked up, unsurprised to find Mad Machen’s gaze on her. “Where are we sailing to, Captain?” She supposed a fifteen-day journey from Norway might take them to . . . Oh, blue heavens. Dread speared like icicles through her chest. “London?”
    “No. The Welsh coast.”
    Oh. Breathing became easier.
    His voice low and rough, he said, “But if it was London, you’d have nothing to fear. Not with me.”
    Ivy stared at him. How did she respond to that? She didn’t even know how to classify her response to his declaration. Her cheeks had heated again, and her belly tightened and seemed to pitch with the ship. But she wasn’t queasy. Just . . . something else.
    And of course she knew that the Horde hadn’t returned to Britain in the past two years. She still didn’t want to return, ever. London held nothing for her but suffocating memories she’d rather let