Riveted (31 page)

“What is that?” She could have answered her own question: a poor excuse to sit close.

He didn’t look up. “My journal was in the lifeboat. So I’m using Goltzius’s specimen book instead.”

Curious, she glanced at the page. He’d already filled it—and he wrote incredibly fast. “What language is that?”

“French.”

“No, it’s not.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It’s shorthand.”

“Do you write this a lot?”

“Every day.” He paused at the end of a page, finally looked up. “On an expedition, keeping a journal is more important than all else—we learn that from the very first.”

“In scientist school?”

“That’s different—that’s the university. But everyone who applies for expedition funds is required to take courses teaching them to survive. That is where they stress the journal. Partially, because we
don’t have to rely on memory when we record our data, but it also leaves a record of the steps we’ve taken. Everything we learn about exploring, about surviving—one of the most critical is making certain the journal survives, even if we don’t.”

“It’s more important than a life?”

“No. I left mine behind, after all.” His gaze fell to the page again. The ink had almost dried. “Death isn’t uncommon among naturalists. There’s tremendous value in knowing where they went…where they might have stepped wrongly.”

“So someone else doesn’t do the same thing?”

“Or so that someone can try it again, but in a different way.” His thumb brushed over the page. “Perhaps my work is all I’ll leave behind. Perhaps I’ll never be able to report what I’ve found here or what I might discover in the future. Perhaps I’ll never come to any grand conclusions or make any great discoveries. But if it adds to something, if someone else can use my work to reach another goal, to make another discovery, my journey won’t be in vain.”

Her heart caught. Once, when wondering why he chased volcanoes, she’d hoped that he wasn’t like Sigurd the Deceiver, but what he spoke of resembled those old stories very much—not in an old way, but a new one.

“So these journals are like epics of scientific study.”

He grinned with her, but nodded. “I have my heroes.”

“You make me want to be a naturalist.”

“The pay isn’t as much as a stoker’s.”

Gold was fine, undoubtedly. “But it must be quite something to matter. To be a part of something bigger, despite the risk. I think you all must be very brave.”

“Or lucky.” A flush rose on his neck. “You matter, Annika.”

“Oh, certainly. Nobody else can shovel coal.”

“Anyone can chase volcanoes, too. I don’t know anyone else who can drive a troll.”

“We were both lucky tonight, then.” She smiled at him, then
looked down at his notes. She wished he had his journal—she’d have learned shorthand just to read about what he’d done and where he’d been. “Do you write everything?”

“Almost.”

And if they found his journal, the men at the camp could read it now. Sudden alarm made her glance up. “Did you write about Hannasvik?”

His gaze locked with hers. “No.”

“Why leave it out? It wasn’t your secret.”

“But it’s personal—not for the world.”

“Will you write of di Fiore?”

“I already have.”

“And the troll?”

“I only said that it was a machine we used to escape.”

“And the watchman?”

“Yes.”

His expression didn’t change, but she remembered how he’d gathered his breath before, the hardness of his jaw afterward.

“Have you ever killed anyone before?” she wondered.

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

She should have been bolder, offered to do it. Maybe with the troll.

No. If they’d been in the troll, they wouldn’t have had to kill anyone. They would already have been safe.

“I’m sorry, too.” He opened his steel fingers, looked at them. “I never think of it as a weapon. I know others do when they see me. They think about how easily I could snap a neck—how easily I could snap
their
necks. They’re right. I wish it had been more difficult,” he said softly. “More like what it felt.”

Her throat ached. “If it had been, he could have raised an alarm. We’d be dead.”

“I know. I don’t regret it. I’d do it again.” He closed his fist. “I’m just sorry that I had to.”

She nodded, glanced down at the page. “Is that what you wrote?”

“Not the part about how people see me.”

All of them idiots. “It’s too personal?”

“Yes. And I wrote that I’m not the same man. I recognized the threat, I knew what had to be done…yet I hoped to think of any other way to get us both across that clearing without raising any alarm. Knowing that I couldn’t find another way takes something from me. Almost everything I’ve read or heard said that I’m supposed to feel powerful now: I killed a man. I defeated him, I was stronger.” He shook his head. “But it felt the opposite. I think the power must be in the choice, because when I realized I had none, I felt completely powerless—and if I ever have a choice, if our lives aren’t at risk, I won’t do it again. I can’t imagine what must be in men who kill when there is no threat.”

Neither could Annika. “That sounds personal, too. Not scientific.”

His brows drew together. “But it is, in its way. A man is dead. I’ve written the effect it had on me. Perhaps that will matter one day, too.”

“So these journals are not just tales of scientific heroics. They are also the study of men.” She would love to know the conclusion. “What will happen to your expedition now?”

“We’ll suspend the survey.” He tipped his head back against the steel hull, stared up at the ceiling. “We lost all of our supplies. So we’ll have to wait until we’ve reported what happened, return to New Leiden, and procure new equipment—
if
the Society decides to pay for it again. Depending on what happens here, they might not send another expedition to Iceland for a while.”

So he’d leave. A steady burn of pain started in her chest. And she could never ask him to stay, because that work was too important.
He fought to change the world for the better, to make it safer, to do good. He mattered.

She glanced down, picked at a stray thread on the hem of her trouser. “What will happen to di Fiore?”

“I don’t know. Because Goltzius was onboard, the Dutch will probably send men to retaliate, then keep a physical presence in Iceland to reestablish their claim on the island.” He sighed, lowered his head to meet her gaze again. “
Phatéon
is gone. What will you do?”

Try not to be miserable. Try to focus on the excitement of the new, instead of feeling alone again. “The Vashons will send for us. Then I’ll find work aboard another airship and continue looking for Källa.”

“And after you find her, you’ll return home.”

“Yes.” To Iceland, at least. Valdís might have been right; she might not be able to return home. And she didn’t want to live anywhere that David couldn’t go.

He nodded, as if he hadn’t expected anything else. “Will you still write to me?”

“Yes.” And hopefully meet with him. “I’d like to visit, too—whenever your expeditions allow it.”

“Whenever you want.” His dark gaze held hers. “I also wrote that I kissed Annika Fridasdottor. I wanted the world to know. I would shout it now, but there is only you to hear it.”

She smiled, her heart tripping over the ache. “Would you like to do it again?”

“I wouldn’t like anything more.”

“Well,
I
would like to do more than kissing.”

“God, yes. I would, too.”

He hurriedly put the journal aside, capped the ink. Remembering the delicious sensation of straddling him, Annika slid over his muscled thighs, her face even with his. With a soft groan, he reached for the lamp.

“Leave it on,” she said, and pressed her mouth to his jaw.

He pulled away—not far, tilting his head back against the hull. His voice was rough. “You don’t want to see me while we do this.”

She frowned. Perhaps he had reason to assume that was true, some experience that told him it was, but it wasn’t. “You’re wrong. I do.”

He was a man of science. She’d figure out a way to prove it, if she had to.

His chest rose on a shuddering breath. “I don’t want you to remember me like this.”

Well, then. There was nothing to prove. She capped the flame.

So dark. She wanted to see his expression when she kissed her way across the width of his mouth, but Annika didn’t need it to tell her what he felt. The stillness of his chest said the same breathless anticipation held him in its grip. By the tightening of his hand on her hip, she knew he kept the same desire barely reined in. She coaxed open his lips for a long, slow taste.

Oh, this need. It twisted in her gut, painful, wonderful. Hungry. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer. Wanting him all.

With a soft growl, he pushed her over, laying her back on the blankets. Still kissing her, his hands braced beside her—his hips between her legs. Oh,
yes
. Her hands fell away from his shoulders to the pallet. She arched up beneath him, moaning into his mouth at the sudden, delicious pressure against her heated flesh. His erection rose behind the confines of his trousers, thick and hard.

All for her.

“Annika.” He groaned her name. “May I touch you?”

She would die if he didn’t. “Hurry.”

His head lifted as his hand slid up her side beneath her hem. He didn’t hurry. He was watching, she realized. Watching as her tunic rode up over his wrist, as he bared her to his gaze. His fingertips lightly stroked her waist, her ribs. She didn’t need to see his
expression now, either. He touched her with reverence, as if she were the most incredible thing he’d ever beheld.

And despite his wish, she would
always
remember him this way.

“My God, Annika. You’re so beautiful.” He sounded almost drunk, as if each inch of skin he’d revealed had been a sip of wine. “Touching you is the sweetest pleasure I’ve ever known.”

Oh, how she wanted to please him. “Then touch me everywhere.”

He pulled the tunic over her head in a whisper of cotton. A shiver raced over her skin when his warm palm cupped her breast. Her nipples tightened, aching for his caress. A riot of desire tore through her. She wanted to slow down and she wanted to rush. Her fingers twisted in the blankets; her breath came in pants.

His callused thumb swept over the sensitive peak. An exquisite jolt of pleasure stiffened her body, and slowly released her on a moan.

His mouth found hers again, hovered over her lips. “All right?”

Perfect. Her hands slid back up over his shoulders. The heavy weight between her legs kindled a deep, ravenous fire that burned through her veins.

“Yes. But I want more.”

He gave a strangled laugh. “I can’t stand much more. I’ll be all over you.”

That confession excited her more than any touch.
All over her.
She wanted that so much. On a surge of need, she drew him down. “Then we’ll go until we can’t stand it anymore.”

His lips opened over hers, hotter, harder. Annika met him with a thrust of her tongue that seemed to roll through him, a wave that ended with a rock of his hips into hers. His fingers plucked at her nipple, making her gasp, then his mouth was suddenly there instead, scorching, sucking. Mindless with the pleasure of it, Annika cried out. Her legs wrapped around his lean waist, her back bowing. Her hands grasped for his, to hold on, to entwine herself around him in every possible way.

He stilled, shuddered. His cheek turned against her breast, his voice hoarse. “Not there. I can’t bear it.”

Steel, she realized. Her fingers had intertwined with his steel ones, and he didn’t like his prosthetics touched or encumbered. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

She felt his nod, and the ragged breath against the moist tip of her breast. His tongue flicked over her nipple, a teasing taste.

“Tell me what pleases you most, Annika.”

This. Everything. Oh, she didn’t know. She couldn’t guess if everything she wanted to do would please her…but she always enjoyed one thing.

“I make myself spend with my hand. I’d like yours there, instead.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t respond.

Annika bit her lip. “Too bold?”

“No.” A rough denial, followed by a hesitation. “I…Here?”

His hips rolled. Her inner muscles clenched in response, a tight, insistent ache. Annika closed her eyes in the dark, her lips parting.

“Yes,” she breathed.

The heavy weight between her thighs lifted. His palm smoothed down her belly, fingers splayed. “Beneath your trousers?”

“Yes.” But she stilled when a tremor shook his hand. Was he uncertain? “Don’t you pleasure yourself?”

“Yes,” he said ruefully, and she could easily imagine his grin. “But never with a woman. I’ve never done any of this.”

But…? “There were two.”

“It didn’t work out well. I want this to.” His mouth found hers, lingered until her breathing quickened again. His hand slid lower. “Tell me what to do.”

“You just have to rub.” And not very much. Just thinking of his touch was already bringing her toward the edge.

Her fingers clenched on his shoulders as he backed away, lifting himself over her. He tugged the ties at her waist, unbuckled the side. His harsh breaths filled the air.

“Off or on?”

He wouldn’t need them off; she never did. But she didn’t just want the touch of his hand. She loved the way he looked at her. “Do you want to see me?”

“God, yes.”

“Off.”

She helped him, lifting her hips and shoving them over her thighs, then lay back. Silence. Sudden trepidation tightened her skin. How
did
she look to him? He’d liked her up top, but now she felt awkward and exposed, with her legs parted and knees bent—nothing at all like the poised and elegant women in New World fashion plates and advertisements. Should she twist onto her side, look over her shoulder?

Unable to bear the quiet, she whispered, “Should I put them back on?”

“No,” he said, and that single hoarse word erased her fear. His mouth eased over her lips, parted them with a penetrating sweep of his tongue. His fingers trailed up the inside of her thigh. Anticipation trembled through her. He paused, as if waiting for a protest.