The Treasure Hunter's Lady (8 page)

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 Norse 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.

Her stomach gurgled, announcing for the thousand-and-third time it was empty. How long would it take to reach Dakota Territory? Probably a matter of days. Long, hot days without water.

“I mustn't think that way. He can't leave me in here without staples. He wouldn't do that,” she tried to assure herself.

Someone would bring water and food. Abel might be a grave robber, but he wasn't cruel. At least, she hoped not. What did she really know of him? One swift rescue in an alley, one heated kiss, one quick dance and a conversation about a mystical serpent. It didn't amount to much.

It was inconsiderate of Abel not to bring her things. Van Buren had removed her gun. If he didn't return it, she'd make the overgrown giant of a man sorry. Somehow.

Exhaustion caught up with her and left muscles aching all over her body. There hadn't been much time for sleep in the last twenty-four hours. If she were properly rested, she'd be able to escape from the dratted little cabin. She scrubbed her hands over her face, wiping away a sheet of sweat.

Overhead, footsteps and the muffled voices of the crew halted her pacing. They'd gotten supper, no doubt about it. Those smug little men had full stomachs and comfortable hammocks in their quarters. Romy cast a rueful glance at the hard surface posing as a bed. Termites and God alone knew what other kinds of bugs probably called it home.

She wanted to pound on the door, but the last time she'd tried, two or three hours ago, a similar knocking came from the cabin next to hers and a shout to shut her “bloody mouth before I shut you up” coerced her into stopping. She didn't expect Abel to keep good company. He was no better than that sky pirate everyone called captain.

Even if someone let her out of the cabin, there was nowhere to go. She was still trapped thousands of feet above the ground. A nagging voice in her head chanted that boarding the airship had been a bad idea. Being a captive never figured into her plans. The ship teemed with unsavory characters. Abel and hunger were the least of her troubles.

Sheer desperation had her twisting the doorknob again. A soft rap on the other side made her stop.

“Hello?” Romy beat her palm against the wooden surface.

“You want to stop trying that knob,” Abel called.

“Wh-why?” she squeaked.

“It might break off. Then you'll be stuck in there until Van Buren lets them tear the door down. But he’d never allow that.”

Romy stared at the door as she listened to his laughter. The sound enraged her further. “Damn you, Abel! Let me out!”

In the seconds that followed she heard footsteps heading away from the cabin.

“Wait! Wait, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have threatened you. I won't call you names again. Please, Abel, don't go.” She pressed her ear to the door, but didn't hear anything. “Abel?”

A groan of frustration left her throat. She muttered every swear word she knew and called him every name she could think of. Wary of his warning, she didn't touch the doorknob again. The situation looked hopeless. She kicked the leg of the bed and winced at the pain in her toes. She sat heavily on the splintery surface.

“I'll rest for a while. Sleep, regroup and figure out how to pick that lock in the morning. I won't stay here the entire trip.” Satisfied with her plan, she stretched out, tucking her elbow under her head.

“Didn't even leave me a blanket. Thoughtless louse.”

****

The shriek of rusted hinges yanked Romy from sleep. She bolted upright when Abel stepped in. Her undershirt was plastered to her body. The shirt she'd worn over it was crumpled up as a pillow and no use to her. But for all the attention Abel showed her, she might as well be part of the woodwork.