His glance flicked to her, as though to assure himself of her whereabouts, as he explained the last of the instructions for the remainder of the luggage. She made her way closer to him, figuring if she stayed by his side, his attention wouldn’t be fractured as though looking after an errant child. She was struck by the utter insanity of the moment; a month before, she would have laid down on a train track before lifting so much as a finger to make Oliver Reed’s life easier.
She stood next to him as he tested the locks on the trunks before allowing the ’tons to take them away. The other pile of luggage was gathered into a wagon to take to their airship, which was a hive of activity with airfield workers loading trunks and cases into the cargo hold. One of the boxes slipped and nearly fell from the wagon, and Oliver barked a sharp command at the attendant as he grasped Emme’s elbow and ushered her toward the passenger stairs.
His eyes swept the area as he absently took the hat Emme handed him. The airship loomed large above them, the Pickett logo prominent, and Oliver looked up at the enormous balloon.
Emme watched him for a moment before asking, “Have you not flown much?”
He frowned. “I fly frequently.” His free hand gripped the rail as they began climbing the stairs.
“You do not seem comfortable with it,” she observed, wondering if she would upset his masculine sensibilities by pointing it out.
“I said I fly frequently. I do not claim to enjoy it.”
“Excellent,” she said brightly. They drew near the hull but were forced to wait as the line slowed. “Finally, circumstances in which I have the upper hand.”
He shook his head as he positioned her ahead of him and reached his arms around her to grip the handrails on either side. She realized that rather than doing so out of fear, he had caged himself around her like a shield. She gripped her portmanteau with both hands, struck by the solemnity of the moment, by the lengths to which he was willing to go to protect her life. Much to her surprise, it worried her. The thought of him injured or worse while keeping her safe caused a lump to form in her throat, and she swallowed past it.
“You finally have the upper hand?” he murmured close to her ear because she stood one step above him. “What you don’t seem to realize, Miss O’Shea, is that you always do.”
His nearness provided a combination of comfort and disquiet. “Given that you’re a military man, discomfort with heights must have been a nuisance. Did your training involve air-jumping?”
He nodded, a telltale tightening of his jaw betraying his thoughts on the matter. “We trained in both traditional parachute and Jump Wings.”
Her brow lifted in surprise. “My goodness, the thought of leaping from anything using Jump Wings frightens even me.” Jump Wings were mechanical contraptions that strapped onto the arms and around the torso and, when unfurled, allowed the wearer to float to the ground. They were notoriously heavy, however, and difficult to maneuver without a fair amount of strength.
He nodded and glanced at her askance. His lips twitched, just short of a smile. “Even you,” he echoed. “I suppose I should be grateful. If I never use Jump Wings again, it would be too soon.”
Standing on the airship steps, his arms enclosing her in a safe cocoon, she felt content. She looked at him, noting the smoothly shaved skin along his jaw and the contrast between his skin and the crisp white collar of his shirt. He was a distressed damsel’s dream come true, and if she were the distressed sort, her heart might flutter at the close proximity. She noted the subtle smell of his shaving soap, the warmth of his body as it protected her from a light breeze, the arms that were nearly closed around her in an embrace.
Fortunate she was that her feelings for the man were professional. The fact that she was so aware of him spoke volumes about her biological state of affairs. Perhaps when the Summit was finished, she would consider suitors. Clearly, it was time.
Oliver settled next to Emme in the upper passenger section of the comfortable, classically appointed Pickett airship leaving for Edinburgh. The cabin was sparsely occupied, the bulk of the passengers seated one deck below in equally well-appointed, if not slightly smaller seating. A mild weather disturbance was predicted, but as Emme had planned from the beginning to arrive at the Summit’s festivities early, a small delay was not an issue for concern.
He sat in the aisle seat, she in the middle, and the seat next to the windows held her portmanteau containing all of her papers and the two old Blackwell diaries that discussed the “family condition.” His smaller travel case sat beside hers, looking inconsequential.
Her knee bounced restlessly, occasionally bumping against his, and he finally clamped his hand down on her leg, which was encased in formfitting breeches. He’d acted instinctively, casually, to calm her or at least keep her from jostling his leg, but as his fingers closed around her knee, he felt an unexpected, dangerous urge to leave his hand there. If he shifted closer to her, she could nestle beneath his arm, perhaps even rest against his shoulder.
He deliberately moved his hand. No sense in complicating their current situation even further by completely destroying all professional decorum and risking her wrath. Their time spent together the last few days—time spent companionably and without hostility—had led them both to unsteady ground where, against all earthly odds, they’d begun to find each other attractive. She was single-minded, however, and determined to execute her planned course. An attraction to him might be diverting for her, but he knew better than anyone that if something stood in her way, she’d crush it.
Therefore, no knee-holding, no comfortable snuggling while en route to her destiny,
