“No, actually.”
“You wouldn't have to worry about my safety if the captain returned my gun.” She looked pointedly at Van Buren, who didn't give an inch. He stared back, unfazed by her request.
Abel gave her a dry look that spoke volumes. “No, I'd have to worry about mine.”
He left her standing by the crates. Her mouth dropped open and Van Buren chuckled. Unafraid of him despite Abel's warning, she silently dared him to make another crude comment. At last he turned away. Only then did she look around for hidden or obvious threats. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, though she felt shaken from her dream—always the bloody Amazon, would it never change?—and another close call with Abel's lips.
****
The galley was empty save for messy pots in the washbasin and a tiny table with two stools. As Abel slopped thin gruel into a bowl, he considered going back to Romy and paddling her. For her own good. Damned if she didn't seem to think this voyage was a game. Lives were at stake, though he doubted she knew it. He hooked one foot around a stool, pulled it out and sat down. Inside his head, a monkey with a tom-tom pounded out a ceaseless rhythm. It didn't help that she'd looked at him with eyes riveted to his mouth and then the little minx had the gall to look square at his crotch as though she could see right through his pants. She had all the subtlety of a starved coyote running down a rabbit.
The captain appeared at the bottom of the steps, quiet for a man so big. “I don't trust her, Abel.” Van Buren's thick eyebrows drew together. “She spoke with Elliot about the Diamond. I cannot say if she gave him information, nevertheless the situation doesn’t sit well with me.”
Abel ground his teeth, but didn't look up at his old friend. “Lucky for you it doesn't matter if you like or trust her. It's just a few more days. I can't afford to let something happen to her.”
Couldn't live with himself if she fell into danger. She was treading close to it just by being with him.
“Because of Farrington or Caden?” Van Buren asked.
Hearing his uncle's name sent a wave of homesickness rolling through him. “Both. Not to mention Patience.” If his Aunt Patience ever thought he'd allowed harm come to a woman, even one as stubborn and thick-headed as Romy, when he could've stepped in, he'd never hear the end of it.
“Miss Farrington complicates things.” Van Buren poured a cup of coffee. He glanced up, eyes mischievous. “You want me to keep her busy when we arrive in Bismarck? I could hand deliver her to Maggard.”
Abel rubbed the bruise on the side of his head. “Believe me, there's nothing I'd like better than to march her straight up to her daddy and say 'keep this one locked up'. She's frustrating, that girl.”
“But pretty, no?”
The tone of the captain's accented voice didn't escape Abel's notice. He glowered at his friend. “Pretty, but not to be trifled with. Like a Venus fly trap to an insect.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Not for a fleet of airships bearing my name.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think her father realizes she's with you?”
Abel didn't know how to answer. He hadn't spared Maggard much thought, especially where it concerned Romy. “In some ways I hope he does. In others, for the sake of my own hide, I hope not.”
Van Buren grunted. “I had not thought of that. Fathers of beautiful young women the world over must tremble with rage at the idea of you sharing a cabin with their beloved offspring.”
“Don't laugh. Someday you might learn how they feel.” Abel stabbed the spoon into his gruel. As though he needed reminding that Romy would be within arm's reach all night long. Annoyed, he scratched at his collarbone. “I don't think she knows anything about the Diamond that will help Elliot.”
“How much do you think she knows about sharing small spaces with men? Or do you think she's aware of the hunger men have for women?”
She was perfectly aware, of that he had no doubt. “For the love of God, Dutchman. I don't know, and what's more, I don't care. I have to find the Diamond. Then I can think about—oh, hell. She's beautiful, but she's just a woman. You can get a woman anywhere.”
Van Buren nodded. “Perhaps it’s better to find one that doesn’t want to kill you. Speaking of.” He lost his amused look and nodded toward the stairs where Romy was watching them. “I have things to see to.”
He rose and strode toward the staircase. Romy didn't acknowledge the captain as she passed by him, but came to stand squarely in front of Abel. Red tresses hung free around her shoulders. Her clothes had a rumpled, worn look that added fatigue to her face along with the circles beneath her eyes.
“Forgive me for mocking you on the deck,” she said.
He studied her, letting his eyes graze her from head to toe before he spoke. “Is this a peace offering, Miz Farrington?”
She fidgeted with her shirtsleeves, tugging them down over her wrists then shifted her weight as if she was uncomfortable by his gaze. “You could call it that. Where will you sleep?”
“In the cabin. I'm not taking any chances on your friend the human stork slitting my throat over a legend.” The only people who knew about the Diamond and hadn't attempted to kill him so far were Van Buren and Farrington. How Elliot had learned of it didn't interest Abel, but he damn sure didn't want to wind up murdered over the thing.
A soft, surprised laugh left her mouth and her eyes grew wide. “In the cabin? Are we sleeping in shifts?”
“I'll sleep on the floor.” Couldn't be any worse than the rough excuse for a bed. At least the floor was worn down and free of splinters. He almost laughed at her expression. If she didn't get control of her emotions, her eyes would pop right out.
Romy seated herself across from him and leaned in to whisper. “Everyone is going to think that you and I are . . . that something is going on between us. Something that most assuredly is not, and will never go on between us.”
It sounded like a challenge to him. He fought back a smile. “You don't have to whisper. We're alone. Besides, it's too late for that. They already do. It's better this way. If the crew thinks you're my woman, they won't bother you. I have a threshold of respect among men like these.”
The disgust that crossed her face sent a pang through him. She couldn't see beyond her own illusions. Men like these. None of Van Buren's crew were in the league of murderers or thugs, but Abel felt Romy would be safer tucked away in the cabin. As for anything between them, hell, they'd shared one innocent kiss. Some of the things he'd said were ill placed, but she seemed to expect that of him. Things would be much simpler if everything was black and white, the way she believed. It was no good denying that he wasn't a rugged cowboy out for riches and glory.
She pointed at him. “One lustful look or crude comment and I'll . . . .”
“I'm terrified to hear the end of that sentence,” he muttered dryly. “Let's call a truce for the remainder of the journey, darlin'. As much fun as it is to needle you, I have bigger issues to consider.”
Petal pink lips tightened for a moment. A worry line developed between her winged eyebrows then faded. “Truce, Abel. For now.”
“Good enough,” he conceded. “You gonna eat? Don't you have a long day of informing Mr. Elliot about the Horned Serpent?”
The line formed again. “I did no such thing yesterday.”
Nonchalant, Abel shrugged. “That’s not what Van Buren reports.”
“Maybe he should stick to operating this flying death trap!” She pushed the stool back and stood up. “All you men care about is finding that stupid rock and making money off of it. I've had it with all of you!”
“Romy,” he said.
“What?”
He smiled. “Did anyone ever tell you that you're beautiful when you're angry?”
The stiffness went out of her spine. “You're needling again, cowboy.”
Instead of answering her, he started in on his cold breakfast. Romy huffed and went up the stairs. Abel watched her bottom sway as she took the stairs two at a time and smiled to
himself. Keeping the peace with her would be harder than he imagined.
Chapter Ten
Cursing broke into Abel's concentration. He looked up from the map he was copying and tilted his head.
“Stubborn, stupid lock.”
Romy. Causing trouble despite their agreement. With a sigh, he stood up from the empty crate he'd used as a seat and moved to the cabin doorway. At the end of the hall, the vixen crouched on her knees, poking a hairpin into the lock on a trapdoor that led to the cargo area. Her bottom strained against the fabric of her britches, wagging back and forth as she jiggled the lock.
“As handsome a picture as I've ever seen, but I have to interrupt and ask what it is you're attempting to do here, darlin'.”
She bolted up and assumed an innocent expression—until she got a good look at him. Frustration clouded her face. “Oh. Just you.”
“Just me,” he confirmed, leaning against the doorjamb and folding his arms over his chest. “I'd still like an answer.”
Romy stood straight, lifted her chin and looked down her nose at him. An expression that was getting tiresome.
“I would like a change of clothes.” She might have been asking someone to pass the gravy dish as polite as her words were.
“What makes you think they're in the cargo hold?”
She threw her hands in the air and rolled her eyes toward the upper deck, all pretense of politeness forgotten. “Where are items stored until they become useful?”
Abel nodded. Most of the items in her pack would never come in useful if he had his way about it, but if she wanted clothes, he could arrange it. “I'll ask Van Buren for the key. Then, to prove I can be a gentleman, I'll even fetch you some more water. I know this ain’t one of those luxury passenger ships you're used to, but they can spare a few drops for bathing.”
For a second, her eyes sparkled and he saw her fight for control of her temper. She resumed her vaguely polite expression. “That would be preferable. Thank you.”
“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.”
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 9
