Free Under Her Brass Corset by Brenda Williamson Page A

her to steeper steps that formed almost a ladder up to the quarterdeck.
    “I don’t know anything about sailing. How can I possibly help?” Surprised by how easily he made her discard her anger and feelings of betrayal, she climbed the ladder, accepting that she was interested.
    “First I’ll need to calculate the speed of the air current with that of the water.” His arm went around her back and his hand rested on her hip as he guided her to the ship’s wheel.
    She stood positioned in front of the monstrous thing, and being helpful, grabbed hold.
    “Not yet,” he told her.
    She pulled her hands back, feeling slightly stupid for trying to guess what he’d want her to do. His attention, however, seemed aimed at what needed done.
    Abigail watched him flip open a lid on a box fastened to the helm. Lined with worn red velvet, the casket housed an intricate cogwheel-designed mechanism made of chrome and brass.
    “What’s that?” She touched it when he lifted it out.
    “It’s a mechanical counter.” He sat the device into a frame with a pulley. “Old-fashioned, but accurate. It will help me calculate our speed more efficiently so we can have the best possible velocity for flight.”
    “H-huh?” she stammered.
    “This machine will tap the paddles and total the distance of the length of rope I release.” He drew his watch fob from his pocket. “I’ll observe the time at the start and stop of the calculations. Now, if you’ll toss that piece of wood overboard, we’ll take a reading.”
    Abigail picked up the ordinary-looking stake and flung it out to the water. As she watched the captain reel in the line, she felt the woozy side effects of the alcohol. The rippling swells undulated around the ship, raising and lowering the vessel. Her gut seemed to move with the motion. It wasn’t a good feeling.
    “I think we have enough wind,” the captain announced, dragging the rope and chunk of wood back on deck.
    Worried she’d heave the remnants of the captain’s cat treats out in front of him, she stayed at the railing.
    “Miss Thatch? Are you all right?” He put an arm around her shoulders. Even though it exceeded all protocols of polite society, the gesture had the endearing quality of the closeness she kept experiencing with him for some reason.
    “Yes. Yes, of course. I’m just not used to the constant movement.” She tightened her grip on the rail and closed her eyes, hoping not to experience the worst kind of embarrassment by heaving out the contents of her guts.
    “I’ll be right back.” When he let go, it made everything worse.
    The ship’s constant rocking agitated her stomach. Willing away the seasickness didn’t work, so she was glad when he hurried from the quarterdeck to the main deck. She watched as he grabbed a long wooden handle and cranked a large-toothed gear. Suddenly the billowing canvas snapped over sideways.
    “The sails are falling down!” she cried in fear, and then put a hand over her mouth to squelch her loud belch.
    “No, it’s working perfectly,” he yelled on his way back to rejoining her.
    When the ship rose off the surface of the water and made her sway, she staggered into him.
    “What’s going on?” She half turned, gripping his shirt to steady herself. “I’m seeing things that aren’t possible.”
    “We’re flying.” He answered as if it were a natural occurrence with any sea vessel.
    The hum and rattle and hiss of the sail’s steam engine accompanied the popping canvas sails bowing into a new position. Folded out like huge kites, the big wings swept them magically off the water and into the air.
    “Oh my,” she gasped, looking over her shoulder at how far they rose above the ocean. “Dirigibles float like big balloons, but your ship actually sails on the wind.”
    “It does help to have the augmentation of steam to push us up and propel us forward fast enough to glide on the air currents in the same fashion as birds do.”
    Abigail glanced below at the