Burning Up

some way to have him. She just had to figure it out.
     
    I vy was sitting on the bed, staring at the pile of gold coins on the bedspread when she heard Eben’s key in the lock. He halted halfway through the door, his gaze drinking her in.
    “Look at you, Ivy.”
    Even with her heart aching, he could make her smile. She smoothed her hand over the blue satin skirt. “Netta is a wonderful seamstress.”
    “Perhaps,” he said, closing the door. “But Netta isn’t wearing it. And soon you won’t be, ei—” His step faltered when he saw the pile on the bed. “What is that?”
    She heard the rough note in his voice, the worry. She didn’t know what would soothe it, so she told him the truth. “Fifty livre. Lady Corsair paid me for my work. Overpaid me, actually.”
    He barked out a hoarse laugh at her understatement. “Why?”
    She’d spent the past thirty minutes trying to understand it. “I think . . . so that I wouldn’t ruin you. So that I could go anywhere I wanted to—as long as it was away from you. She said you meant to court me, that you’d be torn apart for being soft, and that it would also destroy your crew. Is that true?”
    His skin paled beneath his tan. Jaw clenched, he turned away from her.
    “It is true,” she whispered. She hadn’t been completely certain before—not when the story came from Lady Corsair. But Eben’s reaction said that it was. “Why would you take that risk?”
    “Ivy . . .” He shook his head, and the sound that came from him seemed like a laugh, but pain or fear was sculpted into his posture, his expression. But when he faced her, there was only need and hope. “Because you’re worth more to me than anything else in this world. Because I want you to make Vesuvius your home. And because. . . I love you, Ivy.”
    Her heart filled, followed by a stabbing pain. His love, her love—it changed nothing. Lady Corsair was still right, and more people than Eben would be hurt. So would his crew . . . and the slaves that Mad Machen could potentially save.
    Eben’s eyes closed. His voice was bleak. “You don’t have to say it, Ivy. I can see your answer in your face. Where will you go?”
    “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ll buy equipment for a blacksmith’s shop, in another city. Maybe in the New World. With this much money, I can go anywhere, do anything.” Except what she most wanted. Her vision blurred as she glanced down at the coins. “Fool’s Cove, first. I promised Netta I’d come back.”
    “And I promised to take you there. God. ” He fisted his hands in his hair, staring at her in utter torment. Then he lost all expression, and his hands fell to his sides as he turned to leave. His voice was flat as he said, “We’ll sail in the morning.”
    He closed the door quietly. Ivy wished he’d slammed it. She wanted to slam it. She remained on the bed instead, rocking back and forth, refusing to cry—and refusing to give in to impulse and throw the money as hard as she could across the room.
    Love, money. None of it changed the problem of reputation. Mad Machen saved people for coin, not because he cared. He chased a woman because she’d cheated him—not because he loved her. And the woman who stayed would have to be . . . would have to be . . .
    She’d have to be mad .
    Ivy’s lips parted. Her heart pounding, she rose from the bed, and collected the money—then she crossed the room and collected the gun. She counted the number of bullets and removed three.
    She’d reached the door before realizing that only stockings encased her feet. Spotting her worn black boots, she pulled them on.
    They’d work well enough. Money could buy her slippers. Only crazy would get her a man.
     
    M en and women packed the tavern. From somewhere in the back, automaton musicians badly in need of repairs to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through to their instruments played a jaunty song. Ivy pushed through the crowd, and she supposed it said much about the patrons here that not one glanced a second time at the revolver she carried in her right hand, though a few did stare at her guild tattoo. Rising up on her toes, she tried to scan the tables and the bar, but there were too many people, most of them taller. She debated for an instant whether to circle the room, looking for Eben—but now that she’d resolved to do this, she decided to go full bore.
    Hiking up her skirts, she clambered atop the nearest table and stood. A single fierce look silenced