Chapter 6

6 HOT PURSUIT—THE BUTLER WOULDN’T DO IT—AN UNWELCOME SIGHT—CHARLOTTE IS NOT A SPIDER—HOT CIRCLING—THE WEAPONIZING OF TEA—CHARLOTTE MAKES A MESS—WHEN ONE DOOR CLOSES—ALEX SURRENDERS The society of pirates entertained itself now and then with sending a few dozen women to air in houses fit to be employed in battle. Townhouses, mansions, a small castle or two—they made a brave sight when gathered (which is to say, a person had to be brave to stand still and behold them rather than run away screaming). Alex O’Riley’s house, however, was generally agreed to be an eyesore. Never mind that it was also the fastest in the skies; a true pirate had consideration for appearances. He ought at least to whitewash the walls, fix the chimney, and submit to the superior opinion of the Wisteria Society on all matters since they really only had his best interests at heart. But English people had been saying such things to the Irish for centuries, so Alex felt comfortable ignoring them. He liked his house. He liked its ruggedness and the way it always smelled of Donegal rain. He certainly liked how he could bash it into Mrs. Rotunder’s house as they rose together off Great Russell Street and still its magic didn’t falter—whereas Mrs. Rotunder’s genteel townhouse tipped sharply to starboard and was rescued from complete collapse only by a telegram company office being in the way. (It has to be said: she was saved by the bell.) Alex harbored no guilt about this. Not only did it mean one less rival in the air, but on his own starboard side Bloodhound Bess was trying to do the same to him. Everyone had rushed to their houses after seeing Lady Armitage abscond with both the amulet and a pirate lad—and not just because Tom’s fiancée, Constantinopla, was screaming in the most aggravating way. An object of such power as Beryl’s amulet having fallen into the clutches of Lady Armitage must be considered nothing less than a disaster. The woman had murdered several husbands and now therefore had nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world—or ruin it, if she could. The Wisteria Society ladies did not generally agree on much, but they were unified in a belief that Armitage should not be allowed to get the upper hand, or else she’d be intolerable at parties. Besides, pirates were constitutionally incapable of letting something go. Two elderly ladies had shoved past Alex, almost knocking him from his feet, as they raced toward their battlehouses. But as he got his house aloft, muttering the incantation’s stanza for speed and turning the great oak steering wheel with an easy one-handed mastery, Alex knew he’d soon be ahead of the others. A pirate’s house was their visible psyche, so the saying went. Alex liked his well enough, but in the end it was merely a way to get in the air. He’d push it as hard as he could—and if bits did happen to fall off, well, there was plenty of stone around to patch it. Much the same as with his actual psyche. Besides, he was determined to win that amulet, and not just because the look on Charlotte Pettifer’s face when he got it would be priceless. The witch had only herself to blame. Smashing pumpkins and throwing muses was all very entertaining, but of no real benefit when things took off, literally. Now, if she had been a pirate, she would have pulled the pins from her hair (he paused a moment to imagine it) and held one to his throat while demanding the key to his house. She wouldn’t stand like the witches were doing on the museum forecourt, shaking their fists and parasols as pirates raised houses around them and sped away. Alex didn’t usually feel so competitive. Other than a friendship with Ned Lightbourne, his main involvement with the pirate community thus far had been in avoiding the pirate community. And only once before had he allowed a witch any space in his brain. But now, as he flew his battlehouse over the British Museum and toward Lady Armitage’s rapidly dwindling house, he could not help but laugh, thinking about the Wicken League left hopelessly behind. “Is something amusing, sir?” Alex spun about, sword unsheathed and rising in a swift, automatic movement even before he completed the turn. His butler paused in the cockpit doorway, waiting dispassionately for Alex’s memory to pull itself together again. Dressed in a flawless black suit, his brown hair impeccable, he had a tray set upon one hand and a professionally unfocused look behind his spectacles. This was a man who would not recognize amusement even if it knocked on the door and demanded he say Who’s there? before smacking him on the nose with a rubber chicken. He was a year younger than Alex but seemed ineffably older. The tray held an onyx-handled pistol. “I don’t need a gun,” Alex said. With a small apologetic shrug, he sheathed the sword and returned his attention to the view out the window. Cecilia and Ned’s battlelibrary flew alongside. Alex eyed it thoughtfully. He probably obviously could not sideswipe his friends’ premises, but he did mutter the phrase for speed once again, and the cottage trembled as it streaked through the light, outpacing the other cottage. At this rate, he would soon catch Armitage. “Prepare the grappling hook, Bixby,” he ordered his butler. “I am not sure a grappling hook would be appropriate in this situation, sir. It might damage the furniture.” Alex frowned, trying to work this out and failing. “What are you talking about?” “I refer to the uninvited guest in your sitting room.” Alex turned, one hand still on the wheel, the other on his hip, to frown at the man. “Bixby, did you kidnap another Protestant so you could debate transubstantiation with them while I was out?” “Not today, sir. And may I be so bold as to mention that you are about to collide with a manor?” Alex spun back to the window and, with a rush of words and an urgent tug of a lever attached to the side of the wheel, banked the house over and away from Mrs. Dole’s residence. The only furniture in the cockpit, a shabby armchair with several knives and brass knuckles cluttering its seat, shuddered across the floor. Alex frowned, for the stabilizing magic should prevent such things. Had he been so busy gloating about the witches that he’d recited the stanza incorrectly? Annoyed with himself, he muttered the stanza again to be sure, then waved a hand to dismiss Bixby. “I don’t have time for this. Lock him in the attic and I’ll deal with him later.” “I already suggested that course of action to the lady, and she regretfully declined. She sat down on the sofa, and each time I approached to relocate her, she rose up again—several feet into the air, if you please—taking the sofa with her.” This news was narrated with the maximum disapproval possible in the minimum amount of tone. Alex closed his eyes wearily. “Let me guess. Hair the color of wild honey, lovely eyes, holds herself as if she’s a rifle aimed at its target and about to fire?” “It is not in the compass of my employment to comment on the quality of ladies’ eyes,” Bixby replied. “But she does indeed have red-blonde hair.” Alex sighed. “Take the helm, Bixby. I’ll deal with our stowaway.” “Are you not engaged in hot pursuit, sir?” “Yes, in more direction than one, it seems.” “I beg your pardon, sir?” “Never mind. Just follow that house at top speed.” “Top speed.” The butler made it sound as if Alex had asked him to handwash his grandmother’s undergarments. “If you catch that house, there’s a new duster in it for you.” “Hurrah,” Bixby proclaimed dryly. Alex snatched the gun and holstered it in his waistband, then tipped his head toward the steering wheel. Bixby did not sigh, but his entire posture, and the manner in which he tucked the tray beneath his arm, elocuted long-suffering disapprobation. He marched over to the wheel, sonorously intoning the pilot phrase as he went, and for one moment the cottage seemed to come to attention like a footman who knows who’s really boss in a household. Alex left him to it. Heading down the hallway, past crates of sugar waiting to be smuggled into Ireland, he tried to calm the tumult of thoughts suddenly overwhelming his mind. How had Charlotte Pettifer got into the house? And how could he get her out again, considering they were in hot pursuit, hundreds of feet off the ground? He could throw her out the door, but no doubt she’d just fly back up on that little metallic broom of hers and pester him by rapping at the windows. With luck, she’d fainted at the mess in his sitting room. Then again, the way his own luck was going, she’d probably give him one long, slow-blinking look with her smoky green eyes and he’d be the one fainting instead. Ha, he didn’t mean that seriously, of course. He wasn’t scared of some witch woman who barely came up to his chin. Even if she was standing in the middle of the sitting room with a pistol in one delicate gloved hand pointed directly at him. No, not scared, Alex thought as he looked at her. Nor in any way stirred. Her hat was missing and her hair had escaped its bindings. It poured over her shoulders and down her back in an abundance of fine, soft waves that looked like they were getting their first experience of freedom in years and were making the most of it. Alex wrestled with a sudden strange compulsion to gather that hair in his hands and— “Stop right there, if you please,” she said archly, making his thoughts crash against each other: gun, hair, such an elegant neck, yes but gun, neck again, do you think she’d shoot you if you tried to lick . . . “I said stop,” she reiterated, holding the pistol a little higher, and Alex realized he’d continued walking toward her. He stopped, but his smile kept on going, budging up against her comfort zone. She took a step back. “I have a gun,” she said unnecessarily. “And you’re not afraid to use it?” he guessed. “No, I am afraid to use it. But that won’t prevent me, should you come any closer.” “I believe you.” He held up both hands to show he was no threat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” “You know perfectly well. I intend to retrieve my stolen amulet.” He raised an eyebrow. “Your amulet? I’ve heard of reincarnation, but I always thought if Black Beryl came back to life it would be as a tarantula, not a London girl who doesn’t even know how to release the safety on a gun before pointing it at someone.” She stared coldly at his smile, but her face was beginning to heat. Alex could not decide if that was due to anger or embarrassment, and he suddenly worried—for he might be a rogue, and making her walk the plank was still an option, but he never wanted to actually hurt her. His mother would have raised him better than that, had she lived beyond his first five years. Instinctively he took half a step forward, an apology forming in his mouth. Miss Pettifer released the safety and shook back her hair, and he felt himself begin to heat too. Their eyes met. Ah, said his brain, erasing the apology. So it was that kind of heat. The air seemed to sizzle. Alex could not stand still, but did not want to risk rushing her. He made a careful sidestep. She did the same in the opposite direction. “I am the true spiritual heir of Beryl Black, prophesized by generations of witches,” she said. “Therefore, the amulet is rightfully mine.” “Generations, hey?” Her jaw twitched. “Well, two generations. But the principle remains.” “Fair enough. But I’m afraid you won’t find any amulet in this house, darling.” He stepped; she stepped—circling each other. “I doubt I could find an elephant in this house,” she retorted, “considering the mess.” Alex smiled. The room was cluttered with boxes, treasures, piles of tarpaulin, all the usual detritus of a busy pirate. As he took another step he had to kick aside an old holster; as she did, she veered around a crate of gold cups. Only a sofa and low wooden table offered the suggestion of this being a home, although both struggled to serve their purpose, being as they were covered in books, dishes, laundry. And only the painted marble statue of the Virgin Mary, stranded with his mother’s rosary and bolted to a little shelf halfway up one wall, was clean and polished. “Why do you even have a butler if you don’t let him tidy your house?” Charlotte asked, wrinkling her nose as she stepped on a dirty plate. “And scrub it . . . disinfect it . . . just burn it to the ground.” Irritation flared in his heart, but he replied with perfect nonchalance. “I see you’ve been talking with Bixby. He is my butler because he has a black belt in karate, can kill a man seven ways using a bowler hat, and makes the best lamb stew this side of the Irish Sea. If he wants to waste his energy with cleaning, he has to keep it to his own rooms. This is a working battlehouse, not a Mayfair mansion. We had goats in here last week, and a government minister as a hostage the week before that, if you want to know how really mucky it can get.” “I shall be sure to decontaminate myself later. But for now I require you to take me in pursuit of Lady Armitage, so that I may recover my amulet from her.” “It’s true I just so happen to be going in that direction. Unfortunately, however, witches are not welcome in my house.” At those words, a spike of old, poisonous hatred fired his instincts, and only by curling his fingers into a fist could he prevent himself from touching the scars left by a certain witch who’d got into his house, his family’s heart, some twenty years ago. “But don’t worry,” he said, shoving the memory away with practiced brutality. “I have just the place for you to wait until we land and I can evict you. Nice and tidy, although lacking a view, I’m afraid.” “You speak of a closet,” she said with remarkable perspicacity. “I speak of a closet,” he confirmed. Their eyes, still focused on each other, blazed. If the air between them became much hotter, Alex feared his house—or at least his something—would go up in flames. “Captain O’Riley, you seem to be under the impression you have authority in this situation,” the witch said. “My gun, however, trumps your opinion.” “But you will only have your gun for the next few seconds,” he told her calmly. “I’ll shoot if you come near me.” “Will you?” He didn’t give her time to lie. “I’m not moving. Smithson will be taking it off you.” “Smithson?” “Behind you.” Her eyes narrowed, and he could easily guess what she was thinking. Almost certainly no one stood behind her, and turning to look would leave her vulnerable to him. But “almost certainly” left room for doubt, and doubt was a dangerous thing when dealing with pirates. Alex shrugged one shoulder carelessly, smirking at something, or someone, just over her shoulder. She turned. She pointed her gun at nothing. He had it out of her hand, and her hand twisted up behind her back, before she could even register that she’d made the wrong choice. Pulling her against his body, he wrapped one leg around hers so she could not deploy those interesting shoes as weapons. But as her warmth sank into him, the fresh clean smell of her hair softening his mental awareness, the press of her bustle hardening his physical awareness, Alex forgot the most dangerous part of her. He barely heard the whispering before a crate of tea slammed into him.

Charlotte jolted as the crate hit the pirate’s shoulder. He staggered, grunting with pain. Immediately she yanked herself away, but he caught her again. “Don’t bother. There’s nowhere to—” “Aereo rapido!” Maps flew up like wild geese, harsh and excited, to slap his face. He released her in order to bat them away, and Charlotte ran toward the hall that led to the wheelroom. If she got in there and barricaded the door, she could use her feminine wiles (i.e., witchcraft, weaponized shoes, multifaceted besom) on the butler to secure his help. Suddenly her plan, and her body, lurched to a stop. Alex had snatched the bow of her ridiculous dress and, as Charlotte cursed Cecilia Bassingthwaite and her bad fashion example, he tugged her back against him. “How dare—” she began, but his hand clamped over her mouth. Charlotte was gobsmacked (literally) by the man’s rudeness. This all could have been resolved in a civil manner if he’d just offered her a cup of tea and a comfortable seat while she hijacked his house. That he hadn’t only proved what a scoundrel he was, and she would be sure to chasten him via lecturing or a moralistic burglarizing when she got the chance. For now, however, she had no idea what to do. His grip was so strong, she could not even struggle; her heels clattered against the dusty wooden floor as he began dragging her backward across the room. Never before in her life had she done more than shake a gentleman’s hand. To have his arms around her, his palm pressed against her lips, was—was— Unacceptable! Atrocious! Rousing! No, wait, revolting! Jane Austen’s heroines, begged for assistance, offered bewildered silence. Unless he tried to propose marriage, they were at a loss as to how she might defeat him. “Sorry about this,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t call me heartless, though. After I’ve retrieved the amulet I might let you look at it before I drop you back home.” “Mphm!” (For the record, she was calling him something a great deal worse than heartless.) “Fear not, I’ll set the house down before I drop you from it.” She tried to bite his hand. “Probably,” he amended. She tasted sweat and her own bitter, unspoken magic. She cursed the gentleness of feminine literature that had left her so unequally educated in violence . . . And then Amy March rose unexpectedly from the dregs of her imagination, manuscript in one hand and sharp smile on her face.

Alex cursed as the woman went suddenly limp in his arms. Had he hurt her? He’d not intended to, only wanted to ensure she was restrained from tearing his house apart with that damned witchy voice of hers. “Miss Pettifer?” he inquired. She did not reply—of course, he’d covered her mouth. Perhaps she’d fainted because of that. Her eyes were closed, her fine-boned face pallid, and if he was not holding her she’d tumble to the ground. Worried, he hoisted her, intending to lift her into his arms and carry her to the sofa. But as his grip loosened she suddenly pulled free. He scowled. “You—” Whether this was to be a statement of relief or a curse must remain unestablished, for he got nothing further said before she raised her skirt, swiveled, and delivered a brisk, angled kick to his leg. In that moment, Alex discovered she was wearing knee-high boots, and that those boots were studded. He would have been seriously thrilled had he not been staggering in pain. She should have run then. But she overthought it, and snatched up a broken crossbow from the jumbled stack against the wall, preparing to smack him with it. Alex lurched forward, grabbing her hand and squeezing until she dropped the crossbow. It landed on one of her feet, causing a small explosion of sparks. “Ow!” she cried, more in fury than pain. But Alex was merciless. As she tilted off-balance, he pulled her against him and hauled her up, over his shoulder. “Put me down!” she demanded, kicking helplessly inside the layers of her skirts as he carried her across the room. “Put me down at once, or I will—” He put her down. But his arm was still around her, holding her body close, so close, so soft and luscious, like a dream. No, he told himself—a bloody nightmare. She scowled up at him through a tumble of hair, sparks of witchfire in her eyes. Alex grinned. “I’m afraid our guest room is a little small,” he said, and reached out to open the closet door.