She glanced back at him, baffled. “Ireland?”
“It was the wreck of the Resolution.” That was met with a blank expression. “It was the ship that the Irishmen fired on when the Horde first invaded.”
Her eyes slowly rounded in realization. She knew the story, then. Thom hadn’t until Archimedes Fox had told him. It was apparently common knowledge among the descendants of the Englishmen who’d fled Britain for the Americas—and a sore point between everyone living in Ireland and Manhattan City. But not in England. Those who’d lived under the Horde hadn’t known anything of the incident. And truth was, Thom didn’t care enough to hold a grudge now. He could see both the horror of what had been done, and he could see the sense of it, too.
Two hundred years ago, a good number of Englishmen had been infected by the Horde’s sugar and tea. And when the radio signal had begun broadcasting, a good number of people suddenly had their emotions dampened. They’d become pliable, obedient.
A good number of people, but not all of them. Those who could had tried to flee, but there’d been no airships then. The only escape lay across the water—and Ireland was the nearest destination that wasn’t teeming with zombies.
The people on the first ships to Dublin had been allowed to disembark. But those ships had been full of panic and rumors of infection, and the city had recently lost a large number of its population to a plague, so the Irish had set up a blockade at the mouth of the bay and began ordering new arrivals to turn away. The English refused, and soon the sea had been teeming with boats waiting for entry, some of the passengers taking the risk of rowing to shore or attempting to sail farther along the coast—until the Lord Mayor of Dublin had ordered cannons to fire on the largest ship, Resolution, as a warning of what would happen to them all if they didn’t leave.
The drastic action had the desired effect, but that hadn’t been the only ship sunk. Several dozen that left Dublin had also been lost in the North Sea and while trying to cross the Atlantic.
“Fox told me that, aside from the fishing boats, most of those who’d managed to escape England only did because they could afford to go—and that all of the valuables they took with them had likely sunk, too.”
“The Irish always denied it ever happened,” Georgiana said.
“But people saw it, talked about it, wrote letters about it. Some painted the scene later. Fox had studied the letters and pictures, and told me where to find it.”
“And you did.” Her admiring look sent heat rushing under his skin. “Were only the coins left?”
“I don’t know.” Thom hadn’t stayed down long enough to look for anything else. “As soon as I saw the chest, I knew it would be enough. There were five thousand coins in it.”
Georgiana’s mouth opened. No sound came out. She plopped back into her chair, looking astounded.
Thom imagined he’d looked the same when he’d first come across the chest. “Fox had given me the name of a salvage dealer in Brighton. So I took one of the coins in. He called it a Carolus Broad—one of the last English coins minted before the invasion. He said he’d had a collector eager to know if any came in. He gave me that collector’s offer, but also told me that the offer was lower than the value of the gold itself, and that, considering where I’d found them, I could take in more at auction or ask for a higher price. I wanted to bring the coins to you first, anyway, so I told the dealer to make his inquiry and send word to me in Skagen.”
“So you were coming home with a chest of gold,” she said softly.
“Enough to buy mechanical flesh if these arms wouldn’t do.”
Her chest hitched. “Oh, Thom. They would have.”
But he’d been too late, either way. He’d had these arms when she’d agreed to separate. “At least it was something worth bringing home. Something I could have given you when I left.”
“The gold?”
He nodded. “That’s a husband’s duty: earning enough to support his family.”
“‘And a man doesn’t deserve to come home unless he’s done it.’ Yes, so I’ve heard my father say.” She rose to her feet and paced a few steps, rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers—a gesture Thom had seen many others make when they were frustrated or tired, though he’d never formed the habit himself. Skeletal iron fingers didn’t smooth away tension well.
She faced him again, eyes narrowed. “Was this salvage dealer the only man who knew you’d found the coins?—but you met him before. So the dealer is not the same man as on this airship.”
“The collector he contacted knew, too.”
“You increased the price. Maybe it was more than the collector could pay—or he realized that hiring a band of mercenaries would cost far less.”
That would fit. “So he came to take it rather than make another offer.”
Georgiana nodded, blew out a sharp breath. He could imagine what she was thinking—the man had tried to kill him rather than make another offer, too. This task he wanted Thom to do probably wouldn’t end any differently.
Her eyes met his for a long minute before she stepped closer to his chair. Her hand lifted to his face. Just a gentle touch, her fingertips sliding over his bearded jaw, but need slapped him hard, turning his body into one thick ache. Hanging at his sides, his hands clenched to fists. He wouldn’t grab her, haul her onto his lap. He wouldn’t take her sweet mouth with his.
But smoking hells, he wanted to. And Georgiana had to see it. Her gaze was arrested on his face, her lips parting. Her fingers had stilled on his jaw, then her focus dropped and he felt the light brush of her thumb against the corner of his mouth.
“Georgie,” he said roughly.
Her eyes closed. With a sigh, she turned her face away, her gaze sliding around the stateroom. “We need to search this cabin,” she said. “Maybe we’ll find something to aid in our escape.”