The Treasure Hunter's Lady (12 page)

“Wait in the cabin.” He jerked his thumb at the interior. “And don't tinker with the captain's locks. The last man he caught trying to steal things was never heard from again. My guess is he took a real short walk off the deck.”

“They're my things,” she protested. “I have every right to them.”

Laughter itched to come out of his throat. “You never know what kind of help you'll turn up if you try the easy way first.”

She muttered something under her breath and he caught ‘had my gun’. He burst out laughing.

“Temper, temper, darlin’. I wonder what your daddy would say.”

She glared at him and slammed the cabin door in his face.

Abel returned with the key and got her rucksack out of the cargo hold, slinging the pack over his shoulder. He opened the door and peered into the room. He froze when he spotted Romy. Her mouth formed a little ‘O’ of surprise.

Every curve showed through her chemise, thrown into sharp relief by his lamp. Her legs were bare from mid-thigh to the bunched green stockings around her ankles. His mouth went dry as he stared and willed himself not to think about the rest of her. The revealing material didn’t leave much to the imagination. Hell, anyone would think he hadn’t had a woman in . . . well, it was months now. Trouble was, no matter how he denied it he didn’t want just any woman. He wanted Romy.

“You could have knocked,” she mumbled, holding her shirt in front of her. Bright spots colored her cheeks.

Every ounce of his might went into looking away from her. “I never thought you'd be half-naked.” Abel cleared his throat and dropped the pack. “I'll get the water.”

“Wait.” She bent and lifted a strap on her pack, dragging it farther into the room. “Did you find your map in my belongings?” There wasn't a trace of accusation in her question, only mild curiosity.

“I didn't look.”

Romy gestured at the half-drawn map on the fold-out shelf. “Is that why you're drawing this one?”

“Mostly trying to combine a few maps into one.” He nodded at her bag. “I'm acting on faith that you aren't packing a spare weapon.” It damn sure wasn’t hidden in her cleavage. He’d never get the picture of that out of his mind. The soft round swells would tease his memory for the rest of his life.

A slight smile curved her mouth up. “There's a small tool kit I could get creative with if it came to that.” She tapped his crude map. “You've done a remarkable job with this illustration.”

“Maybe I should've taken up cartography instead of treasure hunting.” Irritation replaced his lust. He felt old and weary at the idea of trying to explain his mission. Romy had no place aboard this ship, no place in his life. Yet she'd weaseled in, bound and determined to stop him.

“You clearly have the aptitude for it.” She looked up at him. “I don't recall ever hearing a story where a fortune seeker came out on top. Mapmakers, on the other hand, are often rewarded for their contributions to society.”

He gritted his teeth. “Right. Maybe someone will name a country after me. Abelachia sounds like the kind of place folks would flock to. You’re suggestin’ I should jump at the opportunity to join up with your daddy and plot the uncharted territories he discovers.”

Something wary and a little sad swirled in her eyes. The shirt slipped, showing him another shadow of cleavage. Sudden tightness gripped his throat as he lifted his eyes to her face.

A line of worry formed between her eyes again. “Abel, you can't mean to go through with this. My father has unlimited resources at his disposal. He's gone on hundreds of expeditions. If this stone truly exists, he'll be the one to find it.”

“You'd better hope not. If he gets it, then he's obliged to turn it over to Christensen.” That wasn’t going to happen as long as he drew a breath.

“Would that be so bad?” she asked softly. Two short steps brought her to his side. One slender, well-formed hand rested on his bicep. Sweat broke out on Abel's brow.

“I have to get it, Romy. Or die trying." He remembered his offer and shook his head. He had to get out of here before he uncovered the rest of her. "I'll be back with that water.”

****

Romy knew his look. The fevered expression of men who'd discovered an ounce of gold. It got into their blood, pounded a steady mantra in their minds. An eager voice whispered to them about easy riches. Even though she despised his profession, she liked Abel. He seemed to want to honor their truce. All she wanted was to convince him the task he was undertaking was wrong. That stealing an object for money would never bring him the satisfaction he wanted out of life.

There was a quick tap at the door. She waited for him to enter, but as the seconds stretched out, the door remained fixed. Romy found the two ewers on the floor outside. He clearly didn't want to be drawn into another conversation about treasure hunts. Or maybe he was being polite after seeing her in a state of undress, but he’d barely been able to keep his eyes off of her. She’d been subject to lusting looks from men before. His was different somehow. It made her feel appreciated, like the womanly curves of her body were there to be explored and admired. It almost tempted her to give in to his hungry gaze. Despite their differences of opinion, there was something unfolding between them and she desperately wanted to understand what it was.

She had to stop thinking like that. The cowboy was a distraction that wouldn’t help her stop him from finding the Diamond.

Bringing in the pitchers, she realized she and Abel had something in common. No amount of cajoling or lecturing could make her want to behave in society's bounds. Degrading his profession would only drive him farther in that direction.

To make him see the error of his ways, first she might offer her friendship and then, as they neared Bismarck, she could offer him . . . what?

Romy smiled. He’d restrained himself against her advances so far, but by getting close to him, maybe she could make him see that she needed protection on the journey back to Boston. If that didn't work, she'd have to shoot him after all.

She'd never shot anyone. The Lighthouser in Van Buren's possession had been fired at stationary targets, but she mostly carried it to make Papa feel like she was invulnerable to threats. Abel was the last person she wanted to shoot. The crudeness he sometimes displayed fell in perfectly with her idea of a Wild West cowboy. It made him seem dangerous and untouchable. It made her long to tame him.

He'd left his hat on a nail sticking from the wall. She picked it up, weighing it in her hands, running her fingers along the soft felt, before settling it on her crown. It was too big and the brim fell over her eyes.

Out of all the stories she'd heard, men of the American West were supposed to be impulsive, have nerves of steel and brawn where their brains ought to be. Abel filled that image. Except for the brains. He was quick, never at a loss for words when sparring verbally with her. All the more reason to keep an eye on him. She replaced the hat on the nail and shed her undergarments.

After she washed off the worst of her travel dirt, she donned clean clothes. Used to functioning without a mirror, not that it made any difference what she looked like a mile above the ground, she made quick work of braiding her hair. She felt better for her improvised bath, more businesslike. Or at least ready to discover what made Abel tick. Maybe learning his story would be easier if she left the top buttons of her shirt undone. What was it about men that made them susceptible to a woman’s flesh?

As she turned the knob, the door opened with its now-familiar grating sound, forcing her back. Abel stood in the hallway, his face ashy-green and pinched.

“What's the matter?” she asked, alarmed by his color.

“Air travel's not my favorite.” He brushed past her to sit on the bunk. “It'll pass.”

Heaven forbid he act anything but manly. “I didn't notice any turbulence. Are you sure it's the motion of the ship and not the food?”

He offered her a faint smile. “Positive.”

“Does the ship have a doctor?” Her ire rose at his mocking laughter. At least he still felt well enough to laugh. “I'll assume that’s a no. Would you like some tea? I'm acting on the presumption the sky pirate stocks tea in his galley.”

“Maybe later.” Abel leaned back against the wall. He stretched his legs out and rested his hands across his flat stomach.

“Do you feel like company?”

He raised his eyes, giving her a long, searching look before he answered. “I guess.”

“If I'm going to be a bother I can ask you another time,” she offered with a noncommittal shrug.

He waved off her concern. “It's fine.”

Romy took a seat on the crate and rested her chin on her knuckles. Her shoulders and back rolled forward. An unladylike position if there ever was one. If he noticed, he didn't comment on it. She liked that she could be herself with him, but as quickly as the thought came to her, she squashed it. Liking Abel wasn’t going to help her quest to change his mind.

“Tell me how you decided to become a treasure hunter.”

His eyes flickered to her and the lines around his mouth deepened. “Not this again. I'm not giving up, so let's put that behind us.”

“You look like you'll expire before we ever reach Bismarck,” she retorted. “Though as determined as you seem, I may have to dissuade your corpse from pursuing the dashed Diamond. Anyway, I'm not trying to talk you out of it. I just want to know how one makes the decision to give up a life of model citizenry for one of crime. I solemnly swear to pass on all judgment.”

Annoyance flickered across his face and he leaned his head back against the rough wall. He stayed silent so long she thought he intended to ignore the question.

“My mama drowned in a flood when I was little. My father, hardly an upright citizen to begin with, didn't much care for feeding an extra mouth.” Abel didn't open his eyes as he spoke. There was something raw in his voice. “I decided work wasn’t the way for me. Picking pockets and swiping little trinkets was more like a game than any kind of work. And I was good at it.”

She pictured a young Abel, a little street urchin, hiding with his stolen goods, pleased with himself at his cleverness. “It sounds horrible.”

His face twitched with what she assumed was distaste and the pain of the past. He opened his eyes and shrugged as though it was long ago and no longer mattered. “It was what it was. So how come your daddy didn't leave you home with your mama?”

Romy shifted on the crate. She remembered her mother’s love of music and her tinkling laughter. The loving looks that passed between her mother and father. She’d wanted to be just like her mother when she grew up. Strange how she’d forgotten that until now. “She died when I was a little girl.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek and he swallowed, but didn't react any other way.

“She was a very talented pianist. Theaters around the world begged her to play for them. The first concert I ever went to, she . . . collapsed on the stage. One minute she was playing Mozart and the next the notes soured. There was nothing anyone could do.” The sting of shock and the loss came to her anew. “Papa took a sabbatical from Oxford where he taught natural history and decided to go into the field. In the end, he allowed me to accompany him and somehow I never stopped. Until the Amazon.”

“How old were you the first time?”

She smiled, pushing back the memory of her first summer away from London and the grief she still felt over losing her mother. “Ten years old.”

Abel scowled. “Seems like it'd be dangerous having you along.”

So the carefree cowboy disapproved of her ventures. “Perhaps you think my father would have done better to dump me in a boarding school. Not everyone sees me as a burden.”

He tilted his head. “That ain't what you said at the party. You said you thought Maggard wanted to marry you off so he could go back to exploring.”

She hesitated. “Indulge a woman in a moment of self-pity.”

“No.” His keen eyes bore into her face.

“I beg your pardon?” She blinked, taken aback by his blunt answer.

“I said no. What good has self-pity ever done for anyone? Hell, throw your shoulders back, tilt that little chin up and tell the world who you are, Romy. Don't hide.”

She scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You're a man. Capable of making your own decisions and planning your own future. The moment I was born I was draped in a dress and told to mind my manners. I wasn't given a choice. Do you think I got credit alongside the men in Papa’s troupe? That my name will ever appear in publications as an expert in archeology? When Papa decided the world was too dangerous for his daughter, he dropped everything and exiled us to America. Now he's forced me into an unwanted betrothal. I don't belong to myself. I never have.”

Abel swung his legs off the bed and leaned forward, a hairsbreadth from her face. His eyes darkened and his hands cupped her shoulders. “You always have a choice. No matter what anyone tells you, or how they try to persuade you, you know what the right answer is. You don’t want to marry Woefield, then don’t. Tell Maggard you won’t do it. He’s not gonna force you.”

Samuel Woefield was the farthest person from Romy’s mind. The blood in her veins surged as Abel spoke. His closeness made her more aware of her own body and the growing ache in the center of her. Abel’s lips settled into a firm line as he waited for her to react. The tension between them reached a peak and Romy scooted forward. She touched Abel’s face and her body hummed. She’d been waiting for a moment like this since he’d saved her in the alley. Her lips touched his and it felt like a thunderbolt.

Kissing him was instinctual, a primitive move that she’d held back for too long. She’d never wanted to throw aside her inhibitions so badly.

His hands roamed across her body, sliding up her thighs, lifting her shirt to touch the skin beneath. Their tongues met, stoking the desire that coursed through her. With a groan that was half chuckle, he hauled her into his lap so she straddled his hips.

She'd never considered being naked with a man until now and never wanted anything worse. His arms enclosed her waist, drawing her closer. The warm, welcoming heat of his mouth slid down her spine. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her undershirt, reaching out, aching to be touched. As though he read her mind, he pushed her shirt up to cup her breasts, letting them fill his hands. She arched her back, pushing her breasts forward and he sampled one nipple with his tongue. Romy grasped his shirt, blinded by the sensation.