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Chapter Eight
July 15, 1819
I’m going to die.
Benedict nearly bit his tongue in two to prevent saying those words aloud. Above him, the rose-and-ivory striped balloon soared through the dawn-streaked sky while the gondola basket beneath his feet swayed in the faint, ambient breeze. Fluffy white clouds scudded by, mere wisps in the air, as they flew. She’d taken him up in her damned balloon and this time, there was no tether, no guarantee they wouldn’t, in fact, die.
Sweat plastered his thin lawn shirt to his back. It trickled at his temples and dampened his forehead. Fear twisted and knotted through his nerves, made a wreck of his stomach. Though he trusted in Anne’s ability to pilot her balloon with authority, the risk to this flight was enormous.
With every foot they climbed in altitude, the chances of survival if they were to hurtle toward the ground diminished.
There was every possibility the hydrogen that filled the silk envelope could ignite if it heated too much. Would that fire kill them or would the tumble back to Earth?
Though a slim chance, it was there nonetheless, that if they did fall to the ground, that sudden halt of momentum wouldn’t kill them, but perhaps the resulting injuries would.
And if that tragic result didn’t happen, the ability to heal fully and correctly from said injuries was high. What sort of a life would that be?
Or, worse yet, what if Anne died but he survived? The guilt would crush him if the fear didn’t do the job before then.
The slight touch of her hand on his yanked him from his tortured thoughts. “Open your eyes, Benedict.” Amusement filled her voice. “You’re missing everything. The sunrise is gorgeous today.”
He hadn’t been aware he’d closed them, but when he cracked those eyes open, his stomach dropped. “Dear God.” They were higher than they’d been while tethered the other day, perhaps twenty, thirty feet or so. Dizziness assailed him and made his head spin for one moment. Nausea took hold the next. Fear punched through all of them.
Yes, I’m going to die.
But then he glanced at his companion and his heart skipped a beat. Anne was the most terrifyingly attractive thing he’d ever seen. In her unorthodox leather garb and with her goggles covering her eyes, she was every bit the pilot he’d come to know. “You’re right. The view is quite spectacular,” he said in a soft voice.
She playfully smacked his shoulder. “You’re not even looking at the sunrise.”
“I find my view stunning.” He clutched at the side of the basket and tried not to look down too often. But because she asked, he peered at the sunrise.
It was brilliant this morning and had streaked the horizon with vivid reds, pinks, yellows, and purples. Despite the early hours, summer heat infused the air, further adding to his discomfort.
“You can’t help but admire God’s handiwork,” Anne murmured as she too took in the scenery. “It’s one of my favorite times of the day, especially if I’m in the balloon.”
“Flying suits you.” As he spoke, she monitored a few dials and gauges strapped to the iron frame above her head. With one glance at them, she vented hydrogen as needed in order to make certain the balloon maintained a level altitude. Knowing he was literally in her more than capable hands had awareness rippling over his skin and acute need hardening his shaft.
What the hell is wrong with you, Worthington?
“I think so too.” She again peered at her dials. “I’m so… free while up here. As if I can finally know what a bird feels like as it soars through the air.” A tiny laugh escaped her. “Now I know why they sing with such brilliance. Why wouldn’t they when this is their life?”
Benedict relaxed by increments. He loosened his death-grip on the edge of the basket. “Fly as much as you’d like, Anne. You deserve to sing.” When she trained her gaze on the sunrise, he continued to watch her, and his thoughts wandered.
Yesterday, because of Lord Randolph’s whirlwind visit, they were all caught up in a startling wager where Anne’s future hung in the balance. Not only had she accepted the challenge with alacrity, but she’d also tailored the wager so she’d have the proper motivation to succeed. His respect for her had soared, and when she’d nearly been overcome by emotion merely from his support, he would have done anything within his power to make her happy again. But when she’d kissed him with a banked reserve he doubted she let anyone see, things had grown rapidly out of hand.
Perhaps I’m the biggest nodcock in England.
How was such a connection and attraction possible? They’d known each other for less than a week, so did that mean his mother might have been correct when she prattled on about soul mates? Slowly, he pushed his spectacles back into place on the bridge of his nose. Was that what he and Anne were to each other?
She’ll make jest of me for certain if I mention that.
A laugh from her pulled him back into the present. Apparently, a goose flew by and honked at her as it passed. Benedict smiled. When she caught his eye through the goggles that hid the radiance of her eyes and grinned, he was lost. In her, in the moment, in the feeling of flying and falling together.
The idea of a soul mate suddenly held merit as odd as it would sound to speak it aloud. How else could he account for the strong and intense magnetism between them?
For the time being, he refused to entertain such thoughts. “Have your parents gone up with you in a balloon?”
“No. They refuse to encourage my insanity, have stopped just shy of branding me a murderer.” Her expression slipped for an instant, and shadows eclipsed her joy. “I suppose that is their right.”
