The Treasure Hunter's Lady (7 page)

With her chin up, she marched down the hall and straight into Papa's room. It was stark, with heavy drapes and a bed barely big enough for one person. A scarred wooden trunk sat at the foot of it. There were no photographs, no paintings, not even a decorative rug to cover the stone tiles on the floor. But there were two wooden crates stamped with Papa's initials.

The palms of Romy's hands itched as she anticipated reaching in and pulling out the tool kit he'd given her for her fifteenth birthday. The wooden-handled brushes were from his first set, re-bristled just for her. Rock hammers and chisels were dinged and dented from years of use. How she’d missed the familiar objects.

He hadn't bothered to lock the crates, as though he believed she'd never sneak into his room to retrieve them. Papa's word had always been set in stone if she wanted to continue to travel with him. She'd taken it seriously until now. She had nothing left to lose.

The first crate contained leather-bound journals with pages full of animals and plants unique to certain places in the world. She'd drawn so many of the illustrations in those books. It was bittersweet to pick them up and flip through pages crinkled from moisture and stained with soil, bits of animal fur or sticky plant residue. She smiled at the childish drawing of an arctic fox folded and tucked between two pages about Upper Canada her father had written.

One chronicle close to the top had a rusty red fingerprint on the corner.

Blood.

An icy ball of sickness formed in her stomach. She didn't know whose blood it was and didn't want to know. She placed another journal over it, hiding it from view. These precious books that detailed all the trips weren't what she wanted anyway.

The lid to the other crate was tighter and it took her a minute to pry it up. Her sadness evaporated when she saw the waterproof canvas bag that had accompanied her since she was a little girl. Her name was inked in careful block letters at the top, faded from years of exposure to the elements. Tears of joy blurred her vision when she pulled it out.

Romy unfastened the clasp holding the pack shut. The tangy scent of leather from an almost-new pair of gloves filled her nose. It was like being greeted by an old friend. Heaven help her, she'd missed her things and her old life.

A smaller book found its way into her hands; her personal diary of the trip along the Amazon—right up until the night before their disaster. Romy closed her eyes and remembered the rainy scent of the jungle and the itch of mosquito bites on her neck. The banter of the men as they paddled down the green-brown waters, happy to be on their way to food and a night's rest. The diary fell open to the pages marked with a frayed satin ribbon and a column of flowing handwriting.

Mr. Farrar and I regret that our journey is almost at its end. Tonight we shall camp among the natives and partake in their harvest festival. One would think the excitement of festivals would wear off, as many as we've been to among different cultures, but there is always something new to experience.

Fresh tears welled in her eyes. Yes, they'd met something new—sacrifice, bloodshed, unyielding fear, and the loss of dear friends. She slammed the journal shut. For a second, she considered returning the pack to the crate and going to her room to crawl beneath her covers.

Stuffing the diary back into the satchel, her fingers brushed the tool kit. There it was: the thing she'd missed most. Her fingers curled around the smooth leather case and untied the string as she settled it in her lap. All the tools were in neat order. A burst of enthusiasm filled her from top to bottom. Christensen intended for Papa to find the Diamond and she was going to be right there at his side like always. One by one, she examined the tools, from tiny brushes to picks and hammers.

Lost in fond memories, she jumped when she heard the front door slam. Romy grabbed her pack, jammed the lid back on the crate and crept back to her room. She stuffed the sack beneath her bed and tucked the fang into her robe pocket.

“Romancia?”

“Coming, Papa.” Hoping she didn't sound as breathless as she felt, she straightened her dressing gown and went to the door.

He met her in the hall. Spikes of hair stood up around his head and she knew he'd been running his hands through it. The elegant ascot tied around his throat earlier at the ball hung limply down his shirtfront. He looked worn and tired.

“Welcome home.” Undeterred by his frown, empowered by her stealthy skills as a thief twice in one night, she touched his arm, prepared to lead him back to the sitting room where they could talk about the trip.

“We need to have a discussion.”

He was deathly serious, as he'd been since their arrival in America.

“All right. Would you like a drink before we start?”

He shook her hand off and took her elbow much the same way Woefield had. “I know what you're planning. You're as transparent as glass; sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, which is why I didn't tell you about this to begin with. You must stay here, do you understand?”

Romy's brow furrowed. “You make me sound like an errant child.”

“I don't know where you went after the announcement, but I know what your absence meant. You came straight home to get your things together. It isn't a possibility this time.” Disappointment from her actions rolled off him in waves.

The contents of her stomach curdled, but her hope didn't die. “But what about next time?”

“There won't be a next time.”

“You said that when we left London. No more traveling, remember?” She forced down the fear that he really would leave her. “Now there is an artifact to find and you haven’t been on an expedition alone since before I was born. I can list plenty of reasons why you should let me go. To start, you need me.”

He shook his head. “This isn't a negotiation. I have no choice except to go. But you . . . . There's one reason you should stay and that's Mr. Woefield.”

Some odd emotion glittered in his eyes, the same shade of blue as hers, but Romy couldn't name it. His gaze dropped as soon as the name left his mouth. If he looked into her eyes, she knew he'd see a combination of anger and disgust.

“Woefield is exactly the reason I
need
to go on this trip. Do you know what he suggested to me back there in that over-glorified crypt? That I belong to him. That I'm no better than a horse or hunting dog because Andrew Christensen promised me to him. No one has the right to promise me—”

“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.