“The first time we met, Ivy gave me a pump she’d made, powered by three small automatons. I just had to wind them up, and they’d crank for two hours.”
Her frown darkened. “With no backup?”
“No.”
“Thom.”
Sweet blue, there was nothing like an admonishment from Georgie. He loved it every time, the way she only had to say his name and her voice would be full of shock or outrage or exasperation or anger, but also told him so much more: that she liked his teasing. That he made her laugh. That she cared enough to yell at him.
But he didn’t want to worry her. “I’m not alone now, Georgie.”
Not alone at all. And he couldn’t change anything of the past, but that was something different from before—neither one of them was alone now. When they returned home, maybe she’d still want to separate. But for now, they were in this together.
“You’re absolutely not alone,” she said, then reached up and pulled his mouth to hers.
And even if there’d been no threat, no gold, nothing else between them, this would have been reason enough to return, simply to feel her lips pressing sweetly against his again—to feel Georgiana kissing him as if she believed he was the man he’d wanted to be.
The platform jolted to a halt, stopping two feet above the rolling water. Reluctantly, Thom lifted his head.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “And please come back to me.”
“I will.”
He lifted the dome over his head, muffling the squawks of the seagulls. Each of his breaths was loud in his ears and fogged his view of Georgie’s face. Then she disappeared, and he felt her fingers at his back, tightening the thumbnuts that fastened the helmet to the suit. She went over each one twice, then moved around front again, her expression focused as she concentrated on each bolt. Finally, she seemed satisfied and looked up at him through the fogged glass plate, her eyes glistening.
With a gloved hand, Thom cupped her face. His thumb swept across her cheek.
No tears.
Setting her jaw, Georgiana nodded. She moved to the pump and knelt beside it. A few seconds later, cool air flowed into the helmet, filling his ears with a loud, persistent hiss. The glass began to clear. Turning in the stiff suit, he found the short rope ladder dangling off the edge of the platform and into the water.
And with a few steps, lowered himself into the cold, swirling dark.
* * *
Georgiana barely breathed as water closed over the top of the brass dome. Beneath the surface, Thom stopped, hanging on to the bottom rung of the rope ladder. Bubbles from the exhaust valve trickled up through the rolling water. After a full minute, he lifted his hand, letting her know that he was getting enough air.
With her free hand, she gestured for him to go. The longer Thom was down, the more dangerous the dive would be. He released the ladder.
A few seconds later he was gone, with only bubbles to mark where he’d been. Beside her, the air hose slowly uncoiled, slipping easily over the edge. The tether cable angled down from overhead, and she measured Thom’s descent with the flags as they went under the surface. Twenty feet. Forty. Sixty. Eighty.
Only a little farther—though if Thom had to walk any distance along the bottom, he would need more line.
Another flag. Then another and another. All of them were going under at the same rate as the ones before. That couldn’t be right. Unless Thom was sprinting along the bottom somehow, he wouldn’t be moving so quickly. The terrifying thought that he’d been snagged by a shark that was speeding away like a fish caught on a line sent her blood draining from her head and spots swimming in front of her eyes, until she forced herself to breathe deep and think sensibly. The tether wasn’t being dragged in one direction or another. Judging by the angle of the cable, it still looked as if he were going straight down.
She glanced back at Mr. Blade, and found the mercenary standing closer to her than she’d realized. He must have come nearer to the edge to watch the descent—or to make certain that she didn’t pull any sort of trick.
Though Georgiana didn’t even want to look at him, let alone speak with him, she had to know. “How deep is he going, Mr. Blade?”
“I don’t know, missus. How deep do you let him get?”
Disbelief dropped her mouth open. Had he meant . . . ? But he did. Because he was leering again. Of course he was. Her husband was gone. The coward could feel brave now.
Disgusting man. Coldly, she said, “Did you measure the distance to the seafloor, sir?”
Her anger seemed to please him. A smile slid across his mouth like oil. “We did. It’s sixty-five fathoms.”
Almost four hundred feet. Overwhelmed by sudden panic, Georgiana turned away to stare into the water, cranking the pump. But there was nothing to do. Hauling Thom back up on the tether might kill him—if Blade or Southampton didn’t do it first. No doubt they’d kill her. Georgiana’s reluctance and fear would be an obstacle to eliminate.