Burning Up

her soon, if ever.
    She met his eyes. Dark and somber, they watched her face. His hair was longer, shaggier, and lightened by the summer sun. His cheeks were leaner, browner, and a new white scar cut cleanly through his flesh from his temple to his jaw.
    Sometime in the past two years, he’d been through hell. And because she couldn’t take pleasure in it, she turned away so that she wouldn’t feel compassion.
    By some miracle, her voice was steady. “Bring what with me?”
    “The dress.”
    It hung on the wardrobe door. Of pale blue satin, designed to gather beneath her breasts and cascade to the floor, the gown was a New Year’s gift from Netta. A month ago, Ivy had attended one of the widow Aughton’s socials wearing it with borrowed slippers, gloves over her gray arms, and ribbons in her hair. Only a few men had been brave enough to dance with her. They’d heard the stories about Mad Machen, too.
    Her hands shook as she lifted the dress from the hook. That terrified her. The one thing she’d always been able to depend on was the steadiness of her hands.
    When she turned, he was beside her bed, bending to slide his fingers over the rough woolen blanket. Anger suddenly rose up, stripping the thread of her fear.
    The gown crumpled in her fists. “Why not here?”
    His gaze flew to hers.
    “Use me on the bed,” she told him. “Take what you feel you’re owed. Then leave me here, and let me continue as I was.”
    His brows lowered, and he slowly straightened. After an endless second in which he seemed to be holding on to his control, he said, “Our agreement was that you’d be in my bed.”
    “For passage. I didn’t board your ship. I owe you nothing.”
    “But to pay your debt to Yasmeen, you have to board Vesuvius .” He took a step toward her. “Bring the dress, Ivy.”
    She’d have ripped it. But Netta had spent hours sewing in secret . . . and Ivy loved the blasted thing. She shoved the gown into her satchel and turned for the stairs. She marched down and threw her arms around a weeping Netta.
    “I left money. It’s not much.”
    “I’ll get by.” Netta’s strong arms squeezed her tight. “Take care, Ivy. And come back. Please.”
    Nodding, Ivy drew away. She heard Mad Machen on the stairs—slow, careful. With her chin high, Ivy swept past Lady Corsair, through the door, and to the rope ladder.
    And because it was the last time she could put distance between her and Mad Machen, Ivy climbed to her fate as fast as she could.
     
    L ady Corsair ’s sails unfurled before Eben was halfway up the ladder. Within a minute, he was clinging to the swaying ropes, staring down into the shallow cove where small megalodons swam between jagged rocks, their dorsal fins cutting the surface. Yasmeen was furious with him, obviously.
    His fury was directed right back. God damn her for keeping Ivy’s location from him. For not telling him who the Blacksmith had sent them to find until after they’d stepped into that tavern.
    And with every awkward step up the ladder, he thanked God that Ivy hadn’t been on Vesuvius when she’d sailed from London two years ago—but he didn’t need the sharks circling below as a reminder.
    A gust buffeted him against the wooden hull. The impact rattled his teeth and vibrated painfully through his steel leg, into his thigh bone. Jaw clenched, he pulled himself up another rung and swung over the gunwale onto the deck. Most of the crew was at the halyards, hauling at the lines that drew the sails out along the horizontal spars, bringing the triangular canvas forward to catch more air. Yasmeen watched them from the quarterdeck.
    He couldn’t see Ivy anywhere.
    A familiar tightness gripped his chest. Was she hiding from him? Christ, no wonder. He couldn’t keep a rational head when he saw her, touched her. She twisted him up. Not a damn thing he said came out as it should. He’d wait before seeking her out, regain his wits—so that when she looked at him like a monster, he didn’t heed his instinct and prove her right. That instinct had saved him more times than he could count, but if he wanted Ivy in his life, he couldn’t give into it with her.
    And he needed answers from Yasmeen first. Eben hadn’t expected that Ivy would be glad to see him. He hadn’t expected her to flee in terror, either.
    By the time he reached the quarterdeck, the airship had gained altitude, skimming below the clouds and bearing toward Vesuvius , anchored just beyond the mouth of the