Chapter 11 Boiling
BOILING
Summer swept through Sybil’s body, a scalding wave that sizzled in the sun. The ignition point—Apollo’s lips slanted against her own.
A shock. She couldn’t breathe. Had forgotten how. But he was coaxing air into her and out of her, his kiss a life-giving force of firm lips and warm breath. When he exhaled, she inhaled, her lungs expanding with champagne bubbles that traveled south to her belly.
He dragged his lips across her cheek to whisper against her ear as he tightened his hold on her neck. “Turn off your brain, Sybil.”
“It’s like a… a mechanism,” she breathed.
“Your brain?”
“The kiss.” She placed her empty hand against his chest, right over his heart, each of her breaths a panting struggle. “It clicked right into place. But for what function? What purpose?”
“Pure pleasure. Stop thinking.” He crashed his mouth against hers. Another kiss. Harder, demanding. He parted her lips, slipped a seeking tongue inside.
Kisses were wild things, then, uncivilized and dangerous.
His was.
He speared his fingers into the hair at her nape, and he pulled her through the mud until she was tight against his body, her breasts pressing against his chest. He smoothed a hand down her spine, possibly burning through rubber and linen to the skin beneath.
It settled at the small of her back right above the outward curve of her backside, and there it remained, his thumb doing slow, wicked sweeps up and down as his lips and tongue did slow, wicked sweeps across her mouth.
A kiss.
A consuming.
A conflagration.
Heat was rising in her body, starting from her very core, spiraling up and out. It traveled along her veins and pooled especially scalding where they touched. It was in her, the heat, and of her, and it wanted out, wanted to be used. It would burn her up if she didn’t give it purpose and direction.
She gripped the back of his neck beneath the collar of his coat. Oh, skin there, so hot, so soft. She used it to press even closer to him, to try out wild kissing for herself.
His chuckle was dark, his hand becoming a claw at her lower back, digging through coat and gown and shift, trying, it seemed to rip away anything between them.
The heat demanded it.
And since they needed the heat, they must comply. Oh, Hestia, what a pleasure to comply.
He groaned, and the sound turned into something almost like a whimper as he pulled away. Not far. Just to where the tips of their noses touched. His eyes—all blue astonishment, the flecks of gold around the edges glowing.
“Do you feel it?” He breathed the words, his gaze flicking to her lips.
She nodded and melted against him for another kiss, this one a grasping, clutching, frantic thing.
She needed so much so desperately. Closer bodies. More skin. Less clothes.
Rain barely touched them before sizzling into nothing. The heat that had begun at their lips and pooled low in her belly, between her legs, roared throughout her now, carried by her galloping pulse to feet and hands.
And hands.
She ripped away from the kiss. The gate! Her hand was still placed at the top of the bar, his hand at the bottom. Their hands glowed with yellow-white heat. The bar glowed, too. The rain swallowed her wild laughter.
Apollo’s grin seemed a thing that could not be contained, and he dragged her into him for another kiss. Hot and long, and it tasted of rain and sun.
Click.
The squeal of rusty hinges.
The tug of the gate.
They released it, clung to each other, as the gate swung open. They laughed, foreheads pressed together, both arms tangled up in each other now.
“We did it, Sybil.”
“We did!”
“You did it!”
“I did.” Oh, her heart knew no boundaries. It would break her chest open.
“I knew you could.” He kissed her. “I knew you could. God, you’re amazing.”
“You helped.” She grasped the collar of his coat, pulling him closer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
He swallowed her celebration with another kiss.
And then a wet, wooly head butted the side of Sybil’s face.
She swatted it away, kept kissing.
But the foul-smelling battering ram would not give up until it had butted them apart. They sank to their heels, bodies cooling as the sheep trudged through the gate and between them.
“That was…” Sybil had no words for it. “That…”
“Worked quite well.” He stood abruptly, attempting to brush the mud from his knees and giving up when it just spread to his palms. “Damn.”
Worked quite well. Yes. She’d been having a revelation, and he’d been… not having one.
She stood, not even bothering to try cleaning her skirts. Ruined. And the heat was seeping away now. Despite the warm summer air, she shivered.
Apollo cleared his throat. “You should return to the inn.”
And before she could answer, a very loud cough thundered through the air. Not Apollo. Not Sybil.
Mrs. Paisley.
“Bloody hell,” Apollo hissed, gaze flying ten or so yards off to where the blacksmith stood, her back turned to them.
“We forgot.” Sybil brushed past the sheep, rushing toward Mrs. Paisley. “I’ll take care of her then meet you back at the hotel.”
He didn’t respond, and she didn’t look back, and the rain began to fall harder, merciless and sharp.
She’d never felt so cold, and her teeth were chattering by the time she reached the blacksmith. “It’s safe to turn around now.”
“You sure?” The woman yelled a little to be heard over the rain.
“Absolutely.” Sybil managed a smile as the Mrs. Paisley turned around. “My apologies for that… rather too… intimate performance.”
Mrs. Paisley’s face was redder than a holly berry. “No, erm, it’s, ah… well, you’re rather a close family, aren’t you?”
“No! Oh God. We’re not family at all. It’s a long story. Can we go somewhere dry?”
“Yes!” Mrs. Paisley made for the road.
“What about the sheep?”
“Now they’re not trapped, they’ll go home.”
Sybil hesitated before following her back to town. She couldn’t find Apollo. He’d disappeared into the sheets of rain slicing down from the heavens. Her stomach was a vine-tangle of knots. Forget Apollo. Forget the kiss. She had more interesting things to do.
Interview a woman blacksmith.
She led Sybil to a forge in town with a covered doorway.
They took off their mackintoshes and hung them on hooks outside, then Mrs. Paisley—wearing trousers and a rather pretty deep-blue shirt with flowers embroidered down the sleeves—led her into the forge’s close warmth.
She patted her hair, which was braided and twisted into a crown around her head.
Sybil ran her hands up and down her arms as Mrs. Paisley used a bellows to fan the flames of the fire. The tools of her trade decorated the walls, and a large anvil sat squat and heavy next to the fire.
“Tea?” Mrs. Paisley asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Within minutes, they were sipping from steaming cups with a delicate flower pattern.
“These are pretty,” Sybil said.
“My mother’s. She had a full set once upon a time. But there’s only three cups left. S’why I brought them here. So, erm… you and your brother—”
“Not my brother.” Sybil groaned. “Not related a bit, well except by marriage. His cousin to my brother. We’re traveling together and hoped to avoid a scandal. Please… if you do not mind… could you keep that little truth to yourself?”
“I don’t see why I’d need to say anything to anyone.” For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the fire. “Why not travel as husband and wife if… the two of you are… well, you know. You could travel as husband and wife.”
Sybil pressed the backs of her hands to her burning cheeks. “We are not lovers. That kiss… that was the first…” She rolled her lips between her teeth and pressed her eyes closed. Her eyes burned hot too. She swallowed. “It was unexpected. An experimental alchemical strategy.”
“It appeared… passionate.”
“Well”—Sybil gave a forced laugh—“we are passionate about alchemy.” She cleared her throat. “How did you become a blacksmith? It’s usually a man’s job.”
Mrs. Paisley sucked air through her teeth.
“Mostly. My husband was the smith before me, and his father before him. Until about ten years ago. He’s a tailor now.
Always loved sewing and colors and patterns and what not.
I always felt called to the fire. I met him because I was always hanging about the forge, watching his father.
I was never an official apprentice, but I learned what I need to know without a title.
I’m not fancy enough with the iron to be an alchemist, but I do my job well. ”
Sybil wandered the edges of the shop, pausing to appreciate the severe edge of a new sword or the perfect curve of a horseshoe. “You do at that. Are there others like you? Who practice alchemy? Women, I mean.”
“Mm. A few, yes. Cooks who can get water boiling quicker than you can blink. My sister’s a lady’s maid, and she can mend a broken bit of jewelry with the heat from her bare hands.”
“She can call up her own heat?”
“That she can. I’m right proud of her.”
“Marvelous.”
“It’s no more than you can do, miss.”
“I’m just learning.” But my… what she’d learned today. She’d wanted to know if there were others like her—women who wanted to learn and create, to bend metal to their wills. And she’d found them. “In London, Manchester too, women don’t do alchemy of any sort. That I’m aware of.”
“Seems a waste. Can’t imagine a husband or brother would want to fix a bangle for you.”
Sybil laughed. “No. My brother—my real brother—hates making jewelry.”
Mrs. Paisley leaned a hip against her anvil, and Sybil could just see the tips of a smile behind her teacup. “Johnny and I were never happier once I decided to pick up the hammer and him the needle. And you must be happy, too, with your fella. He doesn’t seem to mind your alchemical tendencies.”
“Not at all.” And Sybil smiled too.
A cessation of sound on the roof pulled their attention toward the windows.
“Rain’s stopped,” Mrs. Paisley said. “Finally.”
“I should return to the inn.” Sybil held out a hand. “I cannot tell you how delightful it was to meet you.”