carry out that dwarf’s revenge upon his dragon brother. Perhaps he’d been led to believe glory could be found in such pursuits.
She didn’t like to think that her rescuer could be so easily manipulated, however. She didn’t like to think of him resembling Sigurd the Deceiver at all. She preferred her heroes to resemble Brunhild, who took her bloody revenge upon the Deceiver after he’d misled and taken advantage of her.
Annika should have been as bold as Brunhild, too.
With a sigh, she turned over and stared up at the bottom of the shadowed bunk overhead. Now she doubly regretted refusing his invitation to supper. She’d never know why he ran after volcanoes. She’d never know whether her instincts had been correct and if he
had
wanted something from her other than company. Maybe he’d only wanted to know more about her, as he’d said—or had wanted to share her bed. That would have been easy enough to refuse.
Unless she hadn’t refused.
That was difficult to imagine, too, though she tried. She hadthe memory of kisses to draw from, a caress of her breasts. Her own explorations had taught her the brief ecstasy of release. But to lie with someone, to fully give herself over to that person…she would need to feel more than those things. She would need to know the rending need and longing that her mother had told her came hand in hand with passionate love, as if her guts had been riveted together and the only way to ease the pain was being with that person. Annika had no memory of such emotions to rely upon as she dreamed.
The rest was just physical pleasure, and she could do that for herself.
Not here, though. Few places on an airship offered enough privacy to attempt it, so it did her no good to imagine bedding the stranger. She’d only end up frustrated.
With effort, she pushed those thoughts away. Daydreaming did her no good, either. It never had. In Hannasvik, she’d never been responsible for tending the sheep, but she’d still earned the name Annika the Shepherdess—because she was always gathering wool.
Sleep would have served her better, but there was no hope for it now. The cabin door squeaked open, followed by the tread of boots across the boards and the scratch of a spark lighter at the washstand. The brass lamp’s flickering flame danced across the second mate’s fair cheeks and glinted gold in her chestnut hair. Elena wound the oil pump and the wavering glow from the burner softened, steadied.
Elena’s index finger marked her spot between the pages of a closed book—apparently she’d abandoned the wardroom to enjoy a few more minutes of reading here before her watch began. Across the narrow aisle, the other two bunks were empty. No surprise that Marguerite was gone; the steward’s assistant reported to the kitchen before breakfast and would be running ragged through supper, but was the only one of the four women who ever got a full night’s sleep. Mary Chandler ought to have been in the upper bunk, catching restwhile the first engineer was on watch. No doubt Annika would hear an earful from her later, going on and on about how tired she was.
Glad that it was Elena who’d come in, Annika rolled up on her side and propped her chin on her fist. She liked Marguerite well enough, but her conversations with the older woman never seemed to range beyond food and the weather. Mary preferred to gossip, which was fascinating when Annika knew the person under discussion and unbearable when she didn’t. Since Mary had recently received letters from her family in Manhattan City, Annika knew from experience that it would run to unbearable over the next few days.
She never tired of Elena’s company, however—and a good thing, too, given that they’d shared a cabin for almost four years. Annika had joined
Phatéon
’s crew as the third engineer shortly after Elena had become the third mate. Their friendship had become fixed in the first months, with Elena spending every free moment teaching
She didn’t like to think that her rescuer could be so easily manipulated, however. She didn’t like to think of him resembling Sigurd the Deceiver at all. She preferred her heroes to resemble Brunhild, who took her bloody revenge upon the Deceiver after he’d misled and taken advantage of her.
Annika should have been as bold as Brunhild, too.
With a sigh, she turned over and stared up at the bottom of the shadowed bunk overhead. Now she doubly regretted refusing his invitation to supper. She’d never know why he ran after volcanoes. She’d never know whether her instincts had been correct and if he
had
wanted something from her other than company. Maybe he’d only wanted to know more about her, as he’d said—or had wanted to share her bed. That would have been easy enough to refuse.
Unless she hadn’t refused.
That was difficult to imagine, too, though she tried. She hadthe memory of kisses to draw from, a caress of her breasts. Her own explorations had taught her the brief ecstasy of release. But to lie with someone, to fully give herself over to that person…she would need to feel more than those things. She would need to know the rending need and longing that her mother had told her came hand in hand with passionate love, as if her guts had been riveted together and the only way to ease the pain was being with that person. Annika had no memory of such emotions to rely upon as she dreamed.
The rest was just physical pleasure, and she could do that for herself.
Not here, though. Few places on an airship offered enough privacy to attempt it, so it did her no good to imagine bedding the stranger. She’d only end up frustrated.
With effort, she pushed those thoughts away. Daydreaming did her no good, either. It never had. In Hannasvik, she’d never been responsible for tending the sheep, but she’d still earned the name Annika the Shepherdess—because she was always gathering wool.
Sleep would have served her better, but there was no hope for it now. The cabin door squeaked open, followed by the tread of boots across the boards and the scratch of a spark lighter at the washstand. The brass lamp’s flickering flame danced across the second mate’s fair cheeks and glinted gold in her chestnut hair. Elena wound the oil pump and the wavering glow from the burner softened, steadied.
Elena’s index finger marked her spot between the pages of a closed book—apparently she’d abandoned the wardroom to enjoy a few more minutes of reading here before her watch began. Across the narrow aisle, the other two bunks were empty. No surprise that Marguerite was gone; the steward’s assistant reported to the kitchen before breakfast and would be running ragged through supper, but was the only one of the four women who ever got a full night’s sleep. Mary Chandler ought to have been in the upper bunk, catching restwhile the first engineer was on watch. No doubt Annika would hear an earful from her later, going on and on about how tired she was.
Glad that it was Elena who’d come in, Annika rolled up on her side and propped her chin on her fist. She liked Marguerite well enough, but her conversations with the older woman never seemed to range beyond food and the weather. Mary preferred to gossip, which was fascinating when Annika knew the person under discussion and unbearable when she didn’t. Since Mary had recently received letters from her family in Manhattan City, Annika knew from experience that it would run to unbearable over the next few days.
She never tired of Elena’s company, however—and a good thing, too, given that they’d shared a cabin for almost four years. Annika had joined
Phatéon
’s crew as the third engineer shortly after Elena had become the third mate. Their friendship had become fixed in the first months, with Elena spending every free moment teaching
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