“That easy, huh?”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “Do you have a plan to confront it?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. You’re sitting on two grosses of dynamite.”
Romy leapt up, scattering the papers. “Two grosses? Do you intend to blow up Bismarck? The crates aren’t even marked.”
“I’m not tryin’ to advertise my intentions.” He bent to gather up the papers. “Some shipping companies frown on carrying explosives.”
“I’ll wager Van Buren isn’t one of them.”
“The docks might’ve taken issue with it. I don’t exactly have a license to be buying and shipping that much nitroglycerin.”
“You let me sit on those crates.” She shot a wary look at them.
Abel scoffed. “Those sticks are packed as carefully as a newborn baby. They have to be assembled with caps and fuses. Everything is kept separate to avoid any mishaps. You might as well finish your reading.”
She hesitated, but must have decided he wouldn’t risk his own life sitting there if he wasn’t absolutely sure it was safe. Romy sat like she thought the slightest bump would set the explosives off and took the sheets from him. He watched her become absorbed in the stories again. She studied the words, running her fingers along the lines and the illustrations.
“Here's a poem about finding the lair. And it's quite catchy.” She rang her finger along each line as she read.
“‘On a river with an old name,
A stone's throw if you've fine aim,
Where silence falls,
'Tween broken walls,
There's a canyon where you'll find things.
Within golden eye,
The truth doth lie,
Be careful what your heart brings.’”
Abel rolled his eyes. “Reminiscent of Renaissance poets. Stirring, poignant even.”
Her dark blue irises cut through him. “As though you'd know. If you don't believe in it, why are you bothering with all this reading? Why are you here?”
“I didn’t say I don’t believe it. I just don’t understand waxing poetic about it. I'm a treasure hunter, remember?” She'd never believe the truth.
She put the paper down and played with the end of her braid. “Ah, yes. The reason you and I can never be friends.”
Abel detected a hint of sadness in her voice. “I never said I wanted to be friends.” He reached out and caught a loose strand of her hair to twirl between his fingers. It was softer than a rabbit pelt. She looked young and vulnerable with her hair pulled back and dressed in clothes too large for her, but something in her eyes made her look wise beyond her years. He wanted to kiss those shadows away and erase the doubts about herself that she’d mentioned to him at the ball.
“Stop that.” She swatted his hand and burst his daydream. “You're far too familiar with me.”
A chuckle burst from his lips. “Not as familiar as I'd like to be. You vex me something awful, you know that? All prettied up in that ball gown, every inch the lady. Out here you're chompin’ at the bit to explore. I can't put my finger on what drives you, darlin'.”
“Nor shall you ever.” She stared down her nose at him. “You couldn't fathom what makes a person want to share their finds with the world. Instead you'd rather see the profit.”
She'd probably never gone without anything in her life. Looking away from her, he studied the patched balloon overhead. “There's a lot to be said for money jingling in your pockets. The way people treat you when you're dressed up fine, like you're more important if you have money.”
“You already have a buyer lined up, don't you?”
She sounded sad again. But he couldn't make her believe him. “What if I do?”
“He or she is bound to be disappointed. You're never going to lay one greedy hand on that treasure. I'll make sure of it.”
“What about you, Romy?” He leaned close to her, using his fingers to cup her chin. “Can I put them on your soft skin? Touch your lips with mine like we did in that alley? Tussle your hair and trail my fingers down your ivory throat and farther?”
Her lips parted slightly and a blush warmed the skin beneath his fingers. She shook her head and the glassy look faded from her eyes. “You're crude for talking to lady in that manner. That snake is going to eat your black soul the second it sees you.”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Up until that moment, I plan to have fun.”
“Just how many women have you posed those questions to? How many women have let you trail your fingers . . . lower?”
Her curiosity caught him off guard. The blue eyes he was growing so fond of snapped with jealousy. Amusement turned solely to lust, which shot straight to his groin.
“I don't think you really want an answer to that question, darlin'. Let it rest with what I'd like to do to you.”
A sharp gasp left her lips. From out of nowhere, her hand rose and slapped his cheek. Wincing, he raised his own to rub the stinging skin.
“I can't believe you'd say such a thing to me.”
“Crude cowboy and treasure hunter,” he reminded her. Just the idea of running his hands over her bare skin made him hard. The jolt of reality she'd given him didn't do much to lessen his feelings.
“Among a good many other things.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Sometimes you come across as a decent human being and fool me. The next thing I know you're as foul-mouthed as a sailor.”
“I'm not the one who tried to tempt me into handing over the fang. I recall you rubbing against me, pushing your chest out in hopes I'd be distracted. Don't pretend you didn't.”
“I did no such thing,” she denied, but the blush was back. “The bump on your head must have you confused. Or perhaps the chef's culinary attempts are causing you to hallucinate.”
“We both know that ain't the truth.” He leaned over, prepared to kiss her again and maybe entice her to go back to the cabin.
Her hands met his shirtfront in an attempt to push him away. “We're also aware that we can't be friends and therefore—”
Someone behind Abel cleared his throat. He turned to look at the intruder.
“I don't think the lady appreciates your attention, friend.” Romy's champion was the balding man who occupied the other cabin. His resemblance to a blue heron didn't escape Abel's notice.
Abel stood, pushing his shoulders back. He'd seen the fellow on board the Ursula Ann, but hadn't paid him any mind. As far as he was concerned, a man's business was his own. Until he crossed a line. “The lady is in my charge until we reach Bismarck, mister. She's capable of handling herself if she doesn't like my attention.”
“Gentlemen,” Romy protested.
Abel ignored her. He was pleased by the way the other man's eyes widened, hinting at his fear. The sparse mustache over his upper lip twitched.
Tugging at his shirt collar, the man hitched himself to his full height. “I think you ought to have a bit more respect for the lady.”
“You ought to have more respect than to jump into a conversation where you ain't wanted.” His hands balled into fists at his sides. Punching someone was the release he needed to calm the sexual and mental frustration building inside him. The stork-like man had it coming for interrupting what might have been a perfectly good kiss.
“Now, now, gentlemen.” Romy rose and slipped between them. “You have to excuse Mr. Courte. He wasn't brought up with good manners like the rest of us. From my understanding, there are still a good many savages roaming around the States.” She smiled at the stranger, batted her eyelashes and shot a sly look at Abel.
His blood boiled. “Wait just a damned minute—”
“I'm Romy Farrington.” She extended her hand to the man. “Would you like to take a walk around the deck with me, mister . . . ?”
“Elliot. Jack Elliot.” The stork-man’s eyes darted between them.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Elliot. Come, let's enjoy the weather a while.”
Fighting the urge to tell Romy no such walk wa
s going to take place, Abel's short fingernails dug into his palms. She slipped her arm through Elliot's and they set off across the deck.
“Were you discussing native myths with that brute?” Elliot's voice floated back to Abel. He couldn't hear her response.
Shit, Romy, don't tell him anything. The anger melted away from Abel. His hands shook and a hazy fog fell across his vision. Weak in the knees, he dropped back to the crate. The papers rustled in the breeze, but all he could do was stare as the words blurred.
If he didn't know better, he'd swear the ink rearranged in the dark image of a snake.
What the hell? Shaking his head, he blinked and looked at them again. The words came into focus in the same scrawling handwriting as they had moments ago. He didn't like to think about what it meant. A shudder ran down his spine.
****
Romy wanted to keep Abel from beating the man, but she didn't have a desire to speak with anyone about the Diamond. Unsure how to answer his question about myths, she merely smiled. “I'm new to America, as you may have noticed by my accent, but I'm quite curious about the customs and history of the indigenous people. Folklore in particular. Mr. Courte has done extensive research on the subject.”
“May I ask what you're doing in his company without a chaperon?”
Insulted by his insinuation, she slackened her hold on his arm. “As he said, I can take care of myself. He's only escorting me as far as Bismarck where I intend to meet my father and my . . . fiancé.”
His mustache twitched. “I meant nothing by the question. It was innocent, I assure you. I'm curious about the legends surrounding the Horned Serpent myself. I wonder if we can enlighten each other on the subject.”
Her smile wobbled. The request sounded innocent enough, but his direct mention of the Serpent’s name made her realize he’d been eavesdropping. “I'm afraid I don't know much. I've been busy attending parties and painting. All the silly things women do that wouldn't interest a man such as yourself.”
His gray eyes darkened. “You must know something, as the daughter of the good Dr. Farrington.”
Her heart jumped into her throat. Elliot had put two and two together to guess she was Maggard's daughter. He knew far too much already. Was everyone in the bloody country after the Diamond?
“I can see I've startled you with that knowledge. Your likeness was all over the papers going on two years ago. A fatal trip to the Amazon, if I'm not mistaken.” He smiled thinly.
Romy stifled a gasp. “That was a long time ago. Papa insisted I stay out of this expedition. I know as much as he told me, which was next to nothing. I'm engaged and exploration is not for the likes of reputable, soon-to-be married women.”
“I see. That's too bad, isn't it?” Something in Elliot's voice suggested he didn't believe her.
She forced a smile. “I've always thought so, yes.”
“Well, it's been delightful talking to you, Miss Farrington. I'm going below deck to take care of a few things. I hope we'll be able to enjoy another chat before we reach Dakota Territory.” He took her hand, kissed the knuckles and smiled. She resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her trousers.
“I'm sure, Mr. Elliot.” Though she planned to avoid him at every turn until they disembarked. He'd gained nothing by talking to her and unless he planned to kidnap and beat the truth from her, she'd never tell him a thing. She'd let Abel take care of him first.
A prickle of unease raised the hair on the nape of her neck. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Van Buren fix a hard stare on her. She glared back. The blighter could take a leap over his own deck rail. Whom she spoke to was none of his concern. Her passage had been paid in full.
The deck creaked under her feet as she headed back to the crates to find Abel. His cozy nook was vacant. The stack of papers had slipped between two crates. She pulled them out, flipped through the pages and frowned. The last page was done in rusty red ink like old blood, the spidery scrawl difficult to read.
The Serpent's Curse
The Serpent is hidden in the deepest canyons, but none in this world. If the Diamond is sought by evil hands, the whole of the world might be undone. Beware the Serpent's gilded gaze, beware, those who would trespass where they are not welcome. His mighty stare will bring death and destruction to the seeker's family. Terrible pain and misery shall be his reward.
The smallest scratch from the Serpent's fangs will render the offender ill with a malady unlike any other. The cure? None is known. Except the liquid from the Serpent's own Diamond. Death will come slowly. None who claim to have touched the Serpent's jewel live to tell of it.
“Rubbish,” she muttered.
A cloud drifted in front of the sun, darkening the sky. She tried not to take an ominous meaning from the weather. But she recalled Papa and Abel expressing a need to find the Diamond, rather than a desire. For reasons other than riches and glory? Papa's sad countenance the night of the party made her bite her lip. The strange tattoo on Abel's arm and his refusal to answer her questions about it.
Was she making too much out of the stories by imaging symptoms that weren't there? If only the stubborn men would get their heads out of their arses and tell her something!
Chapter Nine
Something hit Romy's foot. Scrambling to grab the Lighthouser from her hip holster, she opened her eyes before remembering Van Buren had taken the gun. She blinked and stared up into Abel's face set against the pearly colors of morning. Relief washed over her. Her back and shoulders ached. Dew and a coating of sweat dampened her clothes. The dregs of her dream faded into a clearer picture of her surroundings; the rundown deck of the Ursula Ann and the handsome treasure hunter who looked as though he'd like to murder her.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked.
“Not being sacrificed, that's certain,” she muttered. He gave her a puzzled look. “Never mind. Is it morning already?”
She winced as she pulled herself to her feet and stretched.
“You noticed. Care to explain why you slept on the deck last night?” From the set of his jaw she guessed he was clenching and unclenching his teeth.
She’d nodded off over his papers in spite of her worry about the dynamite, but she’d be hanged if she planned to admit that to him. “You took the cabin. I don't mind sleeping in the open.”
Whiskey-colored eyes flashed. “This ain’t one of your daddy's expeditions. You don't make the rules here. Some of these men aren't the most savory characters, if you catch my drift. From now on, you sleep downstairs.”
She arched a brow and struggled to keep her temper cool. “You're issuing orders to me?”
“Yes,” he growled, “you came aboard a ship where no one wants you. Or aren't you concerned about all the dirty looks you're getting?”
Patience wearing thin, she shook her head and waved a dismissive hand. “They're ignorant men who formed biases based on stories told by other ignorant men. But they aren't going to hurt me. That's foolishness.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped. “The only reason they haven't is because I claimed responsibility for you. And whatever else you think of me, I won't let anyone here hurt you.”
“Oh, a gentleman treasure hunter. That's something I haven't heard before.” She tried to walk away, but he grabbed her shoulders. At first she fought his hold, but the contact combined with his expression made her stop. Could that be genuine concern on his face? She looked down at the time-worn deck so she wouldn't have to decide.
“It's not a laughing matter, Romy.”
His face was close to hers, his mouth inches away. A hot, heavy emotion poured through her like honey over bread. Heaven help her, Abel in a temper made her jittery and not because he was intimidating. Every muscle in her body wanted to pull him closer to her. She licked her lips, anticipating the missed kiss from yesterday afternoon. Her eyes roved down to the crotch of his denims. If the bulge behind the fly was any indication, he wanted the kiss as much as she did. That and more.
Behind them, s
omeone snorted in unmistakable disgust. “Take it downstairs. Both of you will feel better after a good romp.”
Romy spun like the guilt-ridden, lusting creature she was and came eye-to-chest with Van Buren's knit sweater. She tilted her head back to look up at him. “Excuse me?”
“Too many excuses between the two of you already,” he said. “Settle your differences now so when you get to Bismarck you have no regrets.”
“Thank you for the insight, Captain,” Abel said through his teeth.
Romy glared at the Dutchman. How dare he suggest that she and Abel were going to make use of the cabin for anything other than sleeping? “Disgusting, dirty, gutter-wallowing—”
Abel's hand landed over her mouth. She attempted to bite him, but he jerked away.
“Enough.” He scrubbed the same hand through his hair. “For your safety, please consider sleeping in the cabin at night. I'd feel responsible if something happened to you.”
Surprise jolted through her. The cowboy truly sounded like he meant that. Her pride butted the shock away. With her chin up, she met his gaze. “Wouldn't it better serve your purposes if I stayed out of your way?”
“Where I'm from we treat ladies a certain way, Miz Farrington. A gentleman never sits while a lady stands. So you take the cabin.”
What an absurd philosophy, coming from Abel! “Now you concede I'm a lady. Is this how you cowboys treat women on the frontier? You—what's the phrase? You ‘stake your claim’ on a woman, then threaten any other man bold enough to look in her direction? I believe that's precisely how the Neanderthals handled their disputes. It appears you Americans failed to evolve.”
He didn't break eye contact. “You'll give these rough crewmen the wrong idea about us if you keep on this way, darlin'.”
“Don't call me that.” She sighed and rubbed her lower back. Maybe the hard bed in the cabin would be better than out here. “Fine. In order to spare you undue worry, I'll sleep inside. Now wasn't asking easier than ordering me about like some two-bit trollop?”
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 8
