Free Brass and Bone by Cynthia Gael Page A

d’Estes, her grey eyes like storm clouds. “Monsieur, we are going on a very long journey together. I consider you and Mademoiselle des Jardin my passengers. Allow me to inform you now that you are both subject to my orders, and we shall all behave as civilized beings throughout. If you do not do so, then let me point you to the British Navy’s Article four-oh-seven, which pertains to the duties, responsibilities and power of a captain when at sea or in the air. You will find I should be quite within my rights to have you put in irons if I feel you are a danger to my ship, my crew or my passengers.”
    “Or removed from the ship, I believe, if I recall the article in question correctly,” I could not help but interject. Personally, I would prefer to remove him at an altitude of somewhere around a thousand feet.
    “Quite right, Simon.” Abigail nodded. “Now, monsieur. Are we clear on this matter?”
    Henri d’Estes rose. I suspect he wanted to tower over Abigail in an attempt to intimidate her. I could have told him that would be far more difficult than, let us say intimidating the Nile into changing direction or the hurricane into ceasing to blow.
    In other words, quite impossible.
    But the Frenchie surprised me. The bounder saw intimidation would never work and changed his tactics at once. He fell to his knees before Abigail, seized her hand and kissed it humbly. “My deepest apologies, Captain Moran. In the words of your estimable queen, ‘I will be good.’”
    I, for one, did not believe him.
    And I suspected by the look on the mademoiselle’s face she did not either.
    ***
    The old Invincible had never looked better, even in the ungodly hour of half-past dawn, as she tugged gently at her moorings down on the beach.
    I’d had the pleasure of escorting Mademoiselle des Jardin onboard, and she insisted again I call her Cynara. What could I do, after all, but ask her to call me Simon?
    “Careful, Simon,” Abigail said when I’d taken Cynara to her doghouse of a cabin. “I believe the lady has a tendresse for you.”
    I fear I blushed. I certainly changed the subject.
    Herr Tesla himself was there to cast off our lines, and the ragged old airship, Abigail’s pride and joy, rose majestically into the blue of morning, setting her course for Paris.
    We were on the bridge, surrounded by a gleaming mass of utterly indecipherable—at least, to me —gauges and displays and knobs and wheels and such, plus a narrow bunk and a wicker chair which had seen better days, and those in the last century. I’d sought Abigail out for a quiet word. Actually, I’d been trying to corner her for a talk ever since we’d left Sir Eli’s manor, but she’d been surrounded and madly busy. Now we were underway, the others settling into their cabins, Rupert brewing tea over a spirit lamp in the minute galley in the stern, and I at last had the opportunity for a quiet tête-à-tête.
    “Abigail,” I began, “I know how much this old ship means to you. But are you quite sure we’re doing the right thing? I mean, after all, a jaunt halfway around the world to deliver a metal box that locks with blood? Have you ever heard anything so penny-dreadful in all your days? This Sir Eli…I could not help but notice he was somewhat the worse for drink, and I suspect more than a little mad. Perhaps we should simply release the lady and gentleman in their native country and sail or cruise away, or whatever the correct term is, and make our fortunes somewhere else. What do you say?” I was warming to my own idea now. “Imagine it.” I waved out the front glass to the billowing waves below. “Sailing across the world, visiting spots of interest, dropping down for a bit of skullduggery now and again just to keep our hands in things—”
    “—And always on the run from the minions of WFG, hunted for our lives, danger at every turn,” Abigail finished. She turned away from whatever she was doing and took my hand. “As exciting and