Burning Up

gentle swell rocked the ship. Swaying, Ivy stared at Barker. “The Blacksmith?” So focused on the threat of Mad Machen, she’d completely forgotten what Lady Corsair had told her: they wanted Ivy to build something. “Why did he name me?”
    Mad Machen glanced at Barker. The quartermaster’s expression closed up and he nodded, as if that silent look had conveyed a message Ivy couldn’t read.
    The captain turned to Ivy. “He said you are best suited for the work.”
    “What work?” Of all her talents, her strongest was creating artificial limbs. Nothing like the Blacksmith’s mechanical flesh, but far more precise and integrated than a typical prosthetic . . . Oh. Her gaze dropped. “Your leg?”
    “No.”
    Mad Machen’s abrupt answer told her not to pursue it. Why? She’d have to know eventually—and the sooner she began, the sooner she could return to Fool’s Cove. “Then why am I here?”
    His mouth tightened. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of speaking, but looked away from her, instead. He turned to Barker.
    “Send for Duckie. He’ll ready my cabin for Ivy’s stay.”
    His cabin. Without a flicker of his eyelids, the quartermaster followed the order. Anger grated in Ivy’s chest like a twisted gear.
    The Blacksmith wouldn’t have given her name if he’d known she’d be required to work in Mad Machen’s bed, too. Ivy was certain of it.
    “I don’t owe you that service, Captain Machen. Tell your man to put me in another room.”
    “You’re taking passage on my ship—”
    “Not by my choice.”
    “—and you will sleep in my bed.”
    By the bleeding stars, she would not be forced. “You’ll have to chain me down first, Mad Machen.”
    His smile was sudden and terrifying, a sharp flash of white against his tan. Ivy stepped back, abruptly aware that the only sound on the ship came from the gulls and the creaking hull. The crew had fallen silent. Barker’s eyes had closed, as if he were praying. A blond, gangly boy with a red mark across his forehead rushed up the stairs onto the quarterdeck and stopped, looking uneasily between her and the captain.
    Ivy swallowed. Alright. She shouldn’t challenge Mad Machen here. When they had privacy, perhaps she could appeal to his rational side . . . if he had one. And if not, perhaps she could bargain with the mercenary in him.
    Her heart pounding, she held still as Mad Machen crossed the distance between them. His dark face lowered, stopping with his lips a breath from hers. He murmured, “Here in front of my men, or in my cabin. That is your choice.”
    “Your cabin.” Frustration shook through her whisper. “And damn you to a kraken’s belly.”
    His brows rose, and a surprised laugh broke from him before his mouth suddenly covered hers, his callused palm cupping her jaw. Not a hard kiss, and not tender—it was a statement, she realized, for the men watching them. A claim, pure and simple.
    A claim that went on until Ivy had to employ all of her willpower to refrain from biting him.
    He finally lifted his head, and turned to the boy. “Duckie, escort Ivy Blacksmith to my cabin. See that she wants for nothing.”
    “Yes, sir.” The boy gathered her satchel from the captain, and looked expectantly to Ivy.
    Plastering on a smile, she pulled at her trouser legs and curtsied to Mad Machen. His laugh followed her to the stairs—and Ivy decided she could make a statement, too. A brass finial shaped like an egg decorated the end of the banister. Ivy closed her gray hand around it. Metal shrieked as she crushed the finial between her fingers.
    His laughter stopped.
    She released the mangled brass, and called over her shoulder, “I await your mighty prick, sir!”
     
    E ben couldn’t stop grinning. Judging by the way his crew kept their heads down and their hands busy, most assumed a storm was brewing, but Barker read his grin for what it was.
    “Not so afraid now, is she?”
    No, she wasn’t. And not ready to trust him, but Eben knew it’d take time to show her that she could. The reputation he’d built couldn’t be brushed away with a word—and he couldn’t risk that it was brushed away from anyone’s eyes but Ivy’s. Yasmeen had been right about that.
    But at least her fear had receded. He couldn’t have borne it if she’d kept trembling at his approach or trying to run. The rest would come.
    He eyed the stairs. Perhaps he could start—
    “Meg!”
    The shout came down from the crow’s nest, where Teppers pointed out