The Treasure Hunter's Lady (2 page)

“Gardner!”

The paper collapsed like a dying butterfly. Gardner peered down at her. “Yes, miss.”

“I'm on my way to Madame Claire's.”

“Of course,” he responded, one foot already on the step to swing down from the bench.

She held up her hand to stop him. “No, no. I'll walk. Have the carriage in front of her shop in about two hours, won't you?”

Gardner glanced down the street with its immaculate lawns and flowerbeds. “Walk, miss?”

She’d expected him to question her desire to go alone, but after enduring two hours with the DuGuards, her patience was wearing thin. “Have you developed a hearing problem in the last few hours, Gardner?”

He rubbed the back of his sunburned neck. “No, miss. In front of Madame Claire's in two hours.”

She nodded, satisfied with his response. “Good man.”

He removed his hat and ran his finger around the brim. “I'm supposed to escort you to the seamstress. You know what your father said, miss.”

Wretched rules. She ground her teeth and tried to stamp out her growing anger. “I know what Papa said, some foolish thing about not letting me out of your sight. Be that as it may, was I not inside this manor without you? Did I sneak out and escape your vigilant watch? Am I not standing before you, prepared to pick up my gown for this evening?”

“Well, yes. There's no need to—”

Romy smiled, widened her eyes and assumed her sweetest tone. “Of course there's no need to alert Papa to this minor change of plans. I know you'd never betray my trust that way. If I'm going to be on time, I must set off right this second. I’ll see you shortly, Gardner.” She gave him the same little wave she'd given the ladies, spun on her heel and fled down the walk.

A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the coachman stationary on the bench with his mouth open in silent protest. Romy chuckled. Poor man would still be trying to figure out what had happened when he rolled up in front of the dress shop.

Several blocks down, she cut through a debris-strewn alley to avoid the Saturday crowds at market. The stench of decaying food hit her nose and bits of discarded paper and cloth dotted the muddy path.

Sparrows picking through the trash fluttered out of her way. They were dreadfully dull little birds that reminded her of Imogen and her kin. An oriole soared from one rooftop to another; its bright orange foliage vibrant among the smaller birds. The sparrows flew away, but the oriole landed on an abandoned crate and cocked its head at her.

“If I were a bird, I'd fly away from this place and go anywhere I wanted.” A deep sense of envy settled around her as the bird flitted to a garbage pile, pecking for scraps.

A year and a half ago, her father, world-renowned archeologist Dr. Maggard Farrington, put together a team of men to explore the Amazon River Basin. At his right hand, Romy helped catalog new species of flora and fauna. For a month they traversed the mighty river without a hitch in their plans. With one rash decision, she'd not only destroyed Papa's work and her life, but the lives of several loyal men who dedicated themselves to the archeology trade. Men who never returned home to their families.

She’d watched Papa toss out all of their exploration paraphernalia. Her protests that they might someday need those things fell on deaf ears. The moment they had escaped from South America, he insisted she take up the mantle of a proper lady, something he'd never pressed on her before.

She longed for things to be the way they once were. After spending most of her life in exotic countries without rules or restrictions, she'd come away spoiled. They'd spent a brief time in London recovering, as much as one could recover from seeing men she'd known most of her life die horribly, but in the end, Papa had settled on retiring to Massachusetts. He worked part-time for the Smithsonian, writing articles and studying artifacts, leaving once or twice a month to lecture at colleges or geological societies.

Papa ignored her less-than-subtle hints that they explore parts of the state with few human inhabitants and often walked away when she brought up the past. She thought it would be better to continue the life they once had rather than pretend to be something they were not. He didn't subscribe to her theory.

He insisted she visit the city and make friends. While he never came out and said it, she knew he wanted her to marry and have babies to occupy her time rather than nurse old memories.

No matter how pleasant he made city life sound, she felt trapped. It was as though he expected manners and parties to wipe away a lifetime of freedom. Sometimes she considered running away, but it would break his heart. She couldn't do that to Papa.

On the street, merchants haggled with an assortment of customers. Their voices pulled her from dark thoughts and dumped her in the dreary alley. The oriole was gone; she felt foolish for standing about like a halfwit.

Down the street a short distance, Madame Claire's brick shop begged for attention with its bright blue door. A man stood in front of the glass windows. Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, he wore an odd felt hat, a Stetson, she thought it was called, and faded denims tucked into calf-high leather boots. The hat was pushed up far enough to let the sun shine on his bronzed features. High cheekbones, fair brows and a firm jaw covered with golden stubble. The cut of his wrinkled shirt and denims were different than those of the locals in their business attire. He looked like an honest-to-goodness cowboy. A slight grimace twisted his mouth and his eyes narrowed at an old woman dressed as a fortuneteller brandishing a crystal ball. When he spoke, Romy saw a flash of white teeth. His posture went rigid as though the woman surprised him with her divination.

She itched to discover what a cowboy wanted in a city as dull as Boston. A bell clanged on the door at Madame Claire's and a plump woman bustled out, skirting the gypsy and the cowboy.

Romy's shoulders slumped as she recalled her mission to retrieve the party dress. Besides, Papa would suffer an apoplexy if he learned she'd talk to someone like that. Heaving a sigh, she stepped into the cobblestone street and cast a yearning look at the cowboy.

Rip.

The hem of her skirt stuck out, caught on a nail head protruding from the side of a wooden building front. A tear several inches long gaped in the material. Romy groaned. Britches would never have caught on the nail. Out of spite, she thought of letting it continue all the way to the hem. A sharp tug would set her free. But the dress cost a pretty sum and guilt wouldn't allow her to be so careless.

“Dashed merchants can't even manage the upkeep on their own shops.” She bent over, her bottom sticking up in the air as she fumbled with the lace snagged around the head of the nail. Soft kidskin gloves kept her from getting a grip on the metal. One or both of the pins holding her hat to the froth of curls piled atop her head slipped. The feathered contraption dropped into the dirt and with it, every hairpin holding up her curls. A tangle of locks spilled over her face.

“Oh, I hate you! I wish I'd taken the scissors and sheared you off.” All her hair ever seemed to do was get her into trouble. She batted at it, pushing a few strands behind her shoulder.

A rumble filled the air. Tendrils, still tangled around her face, obscured her vision of the street. The ground trembled beneath her feet and a nearby horse let out a frightened whinny.

Grabbing a handful of hair, she peered out from beneath it and her heart lurched when she saw one of those new cog-work automobiles chugging toward her at an alarming speed. The glossy black body looked like a coffin on wheels. As it approached, the panicked horse broke free from the railing. The animal veered closer to the building, clearly out of control.

“Move outta the way, lady!” The driver halted the vehicle in the center of the road and squeezed a bulb that let out a long bleep.

Odd how the horse seemed to float on air instead of tread over the ground, owing to the feathery hair on its pasterns.

A singular thought pushed its way to the front of her mind. Trampled in the street of a bloody city by an over-glorified pony instead of sacrificed to native gods in the jungle. If she survived, Papa would expect her to go to the party anyway. Life wasn't fair. Not at all.

Chapter Two

“You! You are in terrible danger! I can read your fortune and teach you to escape this awful curse.”

An old woman, no taller than Abel's chest, blocked his path and stared up at him with round, rheumy eyes. Colorful scarves and beads decorated her drab threadbare dress. A deep frown carved lines into her wrinkled face.

You have no idea, lady.
“Thanks for the offer, ma'am, but I've got no silver to cross your palm. All my coins are spent.”

She lifted a crystal ball, shaking her head. “I don't ask for money, but you must heed my words! I see a marked man. There is much misery in your future.” She handed the ball to a small, dirt encrusted child behind her and grabbed Abel’s hand in a firm grip, turning it palm up. Her foggy eyes bore into his as her long, yellow nail raked his skin. “You see this? A short lifeline.”

He grimaced at her cold fingers and the dramatic words.

“But!” She tapped a scar at the base of his thumb with a crooked finger. “Love searches for you. A beautiful woman will change your life. Cleanse your soul, or all will be lost!”

He stared down at the scar. If he squinted a little it looked like a lopsided heart. Logic caught up, reminding him of his rowdy youth. It might have come from any of the scrapes he'd gotten in over the years. The old woman was trying to trick him into a deeper reading; she didn't know a thing about his purpose in Boston or the trouble brewing in his life.

“Love, danger and despair—almost the perfect fortune, but you forgot riches, darlin'.”

Abel pulled his hand away, straightened his hat and continued down the street. It wasn't normally his way to believe in fortunes or magic. Recent events were enough to change his mind, but he wasn’t buying into any mysteries issued from fortunetellers. He had plenty of mystery without that.

Behind him, the old woman cackled. “We shall see what the future brings, cowboy.”

The market stalls and shops bustled with more than fortunetellers and their hints of the future. Abel was aware how out of place he looked in town. Men dressed in tailored business suits and bowler hats returned from supper. Ladies in day dresses with servants in tow and fishwives trailing small children browsed wares, haggling over prices. From his high-heeled boots to his Stetson, he stuck out. His Texas accent was a dead giveaway that he wasn't from these parts. Not that the merchants minded, as long as they got their payments in advance.

He needed to visit one more shop before moving on to a more important task—crashing a party to see if Maggard's hunch was right. Across the street, he spotted a tailor. God willing the man could rig him up a suit in a few hours.

The sound level rose around him. A gleaming horseless carriage rolled along the cobbled road. A fine-looking machine, but the driver didn't seem to care that he was upsetting the livestock. Horses fought their tethers as the vehicle rolled by. A big black draft horse broke free, charging down the road in white-eyed fear.

“Move outta the way, lady!”

The blaring horn cut through Abel. His head turned at the warning shouted above the cacophony, searching for the lady in trouble. A cascade of red curls caught his eye. They belonged to a woman on the edge of the street, her dress caught on something. A hint of stocking clad leg—bright red stockings that clashed with her pink skirt—showed above her black boot. Her back was to him, her face hidden. She was frozen, apparently terrified by the horse about to run her down.

Abel didn't hesitate. He covered the empty space between them in a few strides. Throwing his arms around the woman's waist, they toppled into the alley beside the store seconds before the horse whipped past in a whirl of hooves and dust.

For a moment neither of them moved. Without warning she burst into a frenzy of arms, legs and ruffles. She struggled, battling against her hair and his grip. “That imbecile! He should be issued a citation. He should be dragged from that contraption, publicly flogged and berated!”

“Whoa, now, darlin'. Slow down.” He fought the urge to laugh at her tirade.

“Are you holding up for him?” she demanded in a clipped British accent. “Let me go!”

Abel realized his hands were against her chest, her breasts firm against his palms through her bodice. She sat in his lap, squirming in the most delicious way. He removed his hands to help clear the hair from her face. When the tangle streamed down her back, she sprang up, but her feet caught in her skirt and she landed on her knees in front of him. Her face was strained; her brow furrowed. Blue eyes shot sparks and luscious lips curved in a frown.

His gaze lingered on her rose petal pink mouth.
Kissable
. For the space of two or three heartbeats neither of them said anything. If he'd ever seen such a striking pair of eyes, he couldn't remember them. He wanted her. More than anything, he wanted to see her indigo depths spark with lust for him. He leaned toward her and lowered his mouth to hers. She gave a little start before melting against him, lips parted slightly. Abel's hand moved up her shoulder, cupping her jaw. Her heart pounded a fast rhythm against his fingers. A soft moan left her throat. Hands curled into his shirt.

Feverish heat swirled through Abel's veins. Her fingers slipped into his hair, gentle against his scalp, brushing his ears in a way that made his limbs tingle. Heaven and hell could've crashed down around them and he'd never know it.

With a jerk, she pulled back. A deep crimson blush crept over her face.

“Oh, my. You shouldn't have—oh.” She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips and turned her eyes on his face again.

She looked as dazed by the kiss as he felt. Shaking his head, he tightened his grip around her waist and climbed to his feet, hauling her up at the same time. He retrieved his hat and replaced it. “You all right, ma'am?”

A layer of grime covered her damask skirt and dirtied her white gloves. She brushed at the stains, avoiding his eyes. “I must be going.” She hesitated, lifting her eyes again. “Thank you for removing me from harm's way.”