The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 6

  “I do.” Maggard straightened his shoulders. She had the feeling he wasn't looking at her, but right over her head. “I'm your father and I say this trip is too dangerous. I've let you get away with far too much. No more. You're going to marry Samuel Woefield and you're going to move to New York with him.”

  Her heart forgot to beat and her lungs forgot to draw in air.

  “You can't mean to do this,” she whispered, jerking her arm away from his hand.

  Sadness broke through his stern mask. “I love you, Romy. More than you will ever know. Do this for me. It's the last thing I'll ask of you.”

  “Ask all you like. Threaten me, tie me up and I'll still get away! I don't know why you're acting like this. You're not my father! He's been replaced by some money-hungry, society-loving buffoon!”

  She knew she'd hurt him with her words. It was all over his face, but she was glad. Her heart shattered into sharp little pieces. She turned and slammed the door in his face. He’d be sorry for trying to force her into an unwanted marriage. When she reached Uktena's lair and the Diamond first, Papa would forget the nonsense about marrying her off. He'd proudly accept her for who she was and not for last name she bore.

  Chapter Six

  The morning sun burned on the horizon as two grimy deck hands loaded the last crate aboard the dirigible Ursula Ann and raised the gangplank. Taking a pull off his mug of stale coffee, Abel pushed his hat up and rubbed his aching temple. A vision of Romy, gun in hand and glint in her eyes, lingered in his mind.

  He felt insecure without the fang. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to hunt Romy down and get it back. Not that he wouldn't have enjoyed taking it back from her. Little minx had a spanking coming if he ever caught up with her again.

  He could do well enough without it. Unless an angry mythical beast had anything to say about it. His hand circled the bare spot where the fang had hung for so long. He couldn't shake the feeling that the fang had given him clues he'd never have learned on his own. Pulling him in the direction of the Serpent's lair. The weight hadn’t offered any comfort, but he'd grown accustomed to its presence.

  "Ready, Abel?"

  Alwin van Buren, the Dutch airship captain and owner of the craft, stood at the helm, preparing for ascension. He towered above Abel a good five inches. Broad shoulders bore testament to the years he’d spent wrestling an airship wheel.

  Abel nodded and slouched against the rail. Airship wasn’t his favorite mode of transportation, though it was the quickest. Steam trains didn’t come close to the wilds he'd have to cross to find the Serpent's lair. Even if they had, nothing moved along with the speed and grace of an airship. The one under Van Buren’s command was no exception.

  The wood and metal ship was a hundred feet long and half that in width. Two massive propellers and a rudder helped her navigate the skies. He guessed the craft to weigh somewhere around fifteen or twenty tons. There was nothing beautiful about the patched canvas balloon, the scarred wood or the fading gold letters on her side. She was serviceable. That was the most compliment he could give her.

  The ship drifted away from the dock with a series of groans. After a few moments the propellers started up, rumbling like thunder. No one waved as they left, because unlike her larger sisters, the Ursula Ann didn’t take many passengers. The captain hired out to small merchants and men like Abel, who needed to get somewhere fast. As far as Abel knew, only one other passenger had paid for the service of flying to Dakota, a thin, gawky city-type with shifty eyes.

  A stiff wind kicked up, swinging the ship to the starboard side. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup. A few of the lighter crates shifted several inches. Abel grasped the deck rail with white knuckles. His stomach lurched as he stumbled to the helm.

  "Captain?"

  Van Buren grinned, but both hands stayed firm against the wheel. "She’s under control."

  "Keep her that way." He was surprised by the weakness in his own voice. Romy might have hit him harder than he’d first thought.

  Or Uktena knows you're coming.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. With the wind, he shouldn’t have been sweating. It was a damn poor time to be coming down sick.

  "I’m going below. Make sure she stays in the sky. At least until we’re over Bismarck."

  Van Buren’s response was a loud grunt and a slight nod.

  The small cabin he’d taken aboard the Ursula Ann was a few scant inches taller than his six feet and he’d have pitied a man with much more width on him. The wooden bed wasn’t wide enough to be comfortable for anyone but a child. And he doubted any child would want to sleep on the splintery surface.

  The uneasy feeling in his stomach didn't let up, nor the roar between his ears. He was better off asleep than worrying about whether the airship might fall out of the sky. It took several minutes of fidgeting before he found a comfortable spot on the narrow slats. Oh, to have all this over and be back in Texas.

  Sleep was slow in coming. His mind was crammed full of ancient myths and the image of Romy pointing a gun at him. He should have hated her for that, but damned if the way she held her ground didn't make him want her that much more.

  ****

  Romy shifted in her hiding spot, wiggling her foot as pins and needles assailed it. The long, coffin-like crate she'd chosen as a hideaway didn't afford much in the way of comfort. Her back ached and the sun seemed to be glaring hard on the lid. The interior was miserably hot.

  All morning the ship had pitched back and forth. Somewhere after noon, the captain had straightened the ship out, though the crate had slid several feet from its original position and the lid was loose. She feared it might tumble off if they hit another rough patch. Nagging thirst burned her throat and hunger gnawed at her stomach. Nightfall couldn't come soon enough. Surely then it would be safe for her to come out, even if the reprieve lasted just a few minutes. Boarding an airship might seem rash to some, but sometimes the rash decisions worked out. Abel had purchased passage aboard the Ursula Ann, clearly meaning to do some quick traveling.

  Sneaking onto the ship had been the easiest part of her plan. She'd asked which dirigibles were leaving for Bismarck, the city on the banks of the Missouri River according to the maps she'd purloined. Abel was smart; he'd want to get there the fastest way possible. When she'd discovered the Dutch captain's ship was the only one headed that way before next week, she'd gone straight up to one of the deck hands and asked if the oh-so-handsome-and-famous Abel Courte was sailing on it.

  A pretty smile and a coin had gotten her the answer she wanted. Men were too easy when a little cleavage was showing. Early in the morning she'd changed into her breeches, braided her hair, tucked it beneath her worn hat and emptied one of the crates near the ship. She'd climbed inside and waited for the hands to load her up. Simple as a girl could want.

  But how to stop Abel? In order to foul up his plans, she needed to be close to him. Beat him to the prize, as it were.

  To do that, she'd have to think faster than him. Get beyond his crafty side, his greed, those intoxicating eyes and quick wit. Far beyond the kiss that made her hotter than the inside of her makeshift cabin. Her breath quickened as she remembered the hard muscles of his shoulders, the cedar and leather scent of his hair.

  She had to overcome her body's reaction to the man. He was the worst kind of person, short of a murderer. For all she knew, he'd be willing to remove anyone who stood between him and the treasure. Yes, she had to toughen herself against his handsome physique.

  A shaft of light slithered through a crack in the lid. The barest hint of the dirty underside of the balloon was visible. In hindsight, a shipping crate was a less than desirable mode of travel.

  Boredom settled over Romy. She tried recounting her many adventures with Papa. Her first, at ten years old, a short trip to Africa where angry tribal leaders forced them out of the village within a day for disturbing their ancestral spirits. The second, a longer trip to Norway where they investigated claims of treasure left behind by No
rse gods; all false, but interesting research nevertheless. There was something special about sharing those uncertain first few years after her mother's death with her father. He'd never let her believe she wasn't loved. Not until after the Amazon incident.

  Romy broke out in a sweat. She reclined on her pack, stuffed full of camping gear. There wasn't enough room to raise her head from the lumpy pack, so she rummaged blindly for a bladder of water. It sloshed merrily, taunting her.

  “Oh, bother,” she hissed, attempting to roll on her side. Her boots hit the wall of the crate with a solid thump. She froze, afraid one of the crew might have heard. Slow seconds passed by and her fear ebbed away with each one. She thrust her hand into the pack and drew out the bladder.

  The cork stuck.

  “Very amusing. Come out,” she whispered, prying at the stopper. It slipped a fraction. She increased pressure on the short nub of cork, twisting it as she tugged. She underestimated her strength and the cork popped free. Her hand flew up at the lid of the crate. It jumped with a clatter. Startled by the noise, she squeezed the bladder, which overflowed. Water soaked her clothes; half-annoyed and half-surprised, she let out a shriek.

  Heavy footsteps outside the crate made her clutch the nearly empty bladder tighter. The lid was ripped from the crate and a giant stared down at her, a frightful frown on his bearded face.

  ****

  From the sound of it, something more than Abel's head was taking a pounding. The steady, frantic beat vibrated the thin walls of his cabin. He rolled to the edge of the bed, settled his feet on the floor and stumbled to the door. Staring at it blankly for a moment, he realized whoever was making the noise was on the other side.

  Cautious, he opened the door a crack and came eye level with a pin on Van Buren’s lapel. A golden phoenix with copper wings raised in flight and trailing a tail streaked with copper and silver, engraved with the words Fly High, Live Free. The pin glowed in the fading sunlight that colored the hallway. He’d slept all day. Shocked, he almost shut the door in the captain’s face.

  "Abel, open up."

  The captain sounded unhappy. Abel opened the door wider. He was greeted by the sight of Van Buren and a miserable-looking boy in tight, wet, tan britches.

  "We aren’t falling, are we?" The idea of being splattered on the earth below didn’t sit well with him.

  Van Buren’s face was ruddy. "This lad claims you know him. Claims I have no right to shove him off the deck of my airship. What say you?"

  His Dutch accent was pronounced more than usual, a sure sign of his agitation.

  Without sparing much of a glance at the boy, Abel shrugged. It made no never mind to him what Van Buren did to stowaways. "Never saw him in my life, Captain. God’s truth."

  Van Buren swore, gripped the boy’s coat tighter and started to march him away.

  "Wait a minute! Now just wait. There’s no call to be hasty. Abel didn’t get a good look. It’s me, Romy!"

  She fought against the captain’s grip, struggling to hang on to the door frame.

  "For the love of—” He stared at her ashen, dirt-smudged face. How the hell had she found him?

  Van Buren swore again. "You know this kid or not? I’m fixing to dump her over the side and forget about it. I have more important matters to tend to than stowaways."

  He dragged his hand over his face. "I know her. I can’t say I know what she’s doing here, though."

  Van Buren shook her a little. She glared up at him. When she turned her eyes back to Abel, it was with a pleading look.

  "Don’t let him toss me overboard. I can pay for my fare."

  Van Buren growled. "I have no more cabins. And no patience for stowaways."

  It would serve her right, but Abel knew the captain wouldn't do it. Not to a woman anyway. And since she had a tie to him, Van Buren would let it slide. This time. Yet he saw no reason to let her get away with thinking all was well.

  Romy tried to straighten. "Yes, you’ve made that quite clear. Unhand me, sir."

  "I’d tell you to toss her, Captain,” Abel drawled. She gasped, eyes going round at his words. “But I have a fondness for her I can’t explain." He glared at her. "Especially after she whacked me on the noggin last night. If she can pay, I see no reason not to let her. It’d be a mess, trying to explain the loss to her father."

  Van Buren cocked an eyebrow. "Aye, and who’s that?"

  "Dr. Maggard Farrington."

  The captain's hand slackened. Romy staggered. He stared at her. "The Dr. Farrington?"

  She started to speak, but Abel cut her off. “The one and only,” he confirmed.

  "I’ll leave you to her, then." The captain stopped short and winked. "Don’t be rocking the ship, eh, Abel?"

  Romy rolled her eyes. "Ha, ha. Aren’t you clever? Brute."

  The captain bounded up the narrow stairs, laughing to himself. Romy rubbed the toe of her boot along a deep scratch on the plank floor, as though someone had bidden her to determine how it had come to be there.

  For the life of him, Abel couldn’t figure why she’d boarded the Ursula Ann. Unless she planned to kill him this time. The silence stretched out and it became clear she wasn’t going to volunteer the information. "What are you doing here?"

  She raised her chin. “Stopping you from getting your dirty hands on the treasure.”

  That again. “You couldn't do that from your daddy's camp?”

  “He told me I couldn't go with him.”

  Her voice was wounded. He figured she'd never been told she couldn't go on an expedition. For once, Maggard was showing some sense. Romy didn't have any business roaming a land where Indians and soldiers were always at war and deadly mystical serpents were rumored to reign.

  “So you stowed away.” Abel rubbed his sore temple. “I don't know why I didn't let him toss you.”

  She smiled, but it was weak. “Because you like me in spite of the fact that I have to stop you.”

  “You aren't going to stop me. I don't have a choice in this matter.”

  She frowned, obviously confused by his words. “That's what Papa said. Why do you have to do it? Who's making you?”

  Farrington hadn't confided in her. No real surprise there. “Never mind. Do you still have the things you stole from me?”

  Color stained her cheeks. “Maybe.”

  Leaning against the door jamb, he studied her in the tight pants. She was slender and leggy, but a narrow waist blossomed into curvy hips, giving her away as a woman. He didn't believe for a second that Van Buren thought she was a boy. Only a fool would fail to notice her figure.

  “You may as well come in. No sense standing out there where anyone could hear our business.” He turned sideways in the narrow doorway.

  “Thank you.”

  She attempted to squeeze by him, her body pressed against his. He heard her soft gasp, felt the pause as she lingered against him, soft and female. For a second, he considered kissing her, but this wasn't the same woman he'd danced with last night. She'd changed the moment she found out what he was after. And that made her dangerous. Still, he couldn't deny that he liked the adventurous side of her. With a small grunt, she forced her way past him.

  He hid his smile behind his hand by pretending to scratch his cheek. “I suppose I owe you some gratitude for not shooting me.”

  “I did you a favor by sparing your life,” she agreed, looking around the tiny cabin. Disgust was evident on her face.

  “No wonder you haven't found a husband, darlin'. Attitude like that.”

  She went from embarrassed to flat-out angry in the space of two heartbeats. Abel couldn’t hold his smirk back any longer. He could hardly wait to hear her retort.

  She drew herself up, looking proud and important, or at least trying to. “I'll have you know as of last night, I'm engaged to be married.”

  He scratched at his ear. “Sorry, I thought you said you're engaged.”

  “I did. To Mr. Christensen's nephew and heir.” Her mouth was set in a straight line,
her eyes flat and hard like broken shards of china. Pretty white hands rested against her hips as she faced him.

  “Ain't that something?” He almost choked on the words. Somehow he couldn't picture Romy married to anyone related to Christensen. She'd die of boredom, she'd said as much to him. For all the praise his uncle gave Maggard, the announcement surprised him. “I guess your old daddy must be proud of you.”

  Her eyes dropped.

  “So you're not real pleased with the prospect? I reckon you threw a pretty big fit when he told you not to come on his little adventure.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “You're so arrogant, you think you know everything. I wish I'd never met you. I hope you never find that stupid jewel and Uktena eats you.”

  “I hope Christensen knows what he signed his nephew up for.” Abel stepped backward until he was out in the hallway. He slammed the door behind him and withdrew the key from his pocket.

  Romy didn't come after him. Opening the door once more, he stuck his head back inside the cabin.

  “By the way, darlin', until you apologize for knocking me senseless and insulting my honor, you can stay right here.”

  He shut the door, locked it and replaced the key. Romy hit the door hard—he hoped with her hands instead of her thick head—and started cursing at him.

  “Let me out this instant, Abel. You aren't funny. If you let me out right now I won't shoot you later!”

  She carried on for a good fifteen minutes. Whistling tunelessly, Abel headed for the deck. It was well past his dinnertime.

  Chapter Seven

  “I deserve it. He has every right to lock me up until we reach Bismarck. I did threaten to shoot him. I put that bruise on the side of his head. And took his maps and fang. But I asked nicely first. I used my manners. Wouldn't Papa be proud?”

  Romy paced the floor to offset the panic of being locked in the Spartan cabin. The room was scarcely bigger than the crate she’d occupied previously. The absence of a window didn't go unnoticed either.