“Maybe later.” Abel leaned back against the wall. He stretched his legs out and rested his hands across his flat stomach.
“Do you feel like company?”
He raised his eyes, giving her a long, searching look before he answered. “I guess.”
“If I'm going to be a bother I can ask you another time,” she offered with a noncommittal shrug.
He waved off her concern. “It's fine.”
Romy took a seat on the crate and rested her chin on her knuckles. Her shoulders and back rolled forward. An unladylike position if there ever was one. If he noticed, he didn't comment on it. She liked that she could be herself with him, but as quickly as the thought came to her, she squashed it. Liking Abel wasn’t going to help her quest to change his mind.
“Tell me how you decided to become a treasure hunter.”
His eyes flickered to her and the lines around his mouth deepened. “Not this again. I'm not giving up, so let's put that behind us.”
“You look like you'll expire before we ever reach Bismarck,” she retorted. “Though as determined as you seem, I may have to dissuade your corpse from pursuing the dashed Diamond. Anyway, I'm not trying to talk you out of it. I just want to know how one makes the decision to give up a life of model citizenry for one of crime. I solemnly swear to pass on all judgment.”
Annoyance flickered across his face and he leaned his head back against the rough wall. He stayed silent so long she thought he intended to ignore the question.
“My mama drowned in a flood when I was little. My father, hardly an upright citizen to begin with, didn't much care for feeding an extra mouth.” Abel didn't open his eyes as he spoke. There was something raw in his voice. “I decided work wasn’t the way for me. Picking pockets and swiping little trinkets was more like a game than any kind of work. And I was good at it.”
She pictured a young Abel, a little street urchin, hiding with his stolen goods, pleased with himself at his cleverness. “It sounds horrible.”
His face twitched with what she assumed was distaste and the pain of the past. He opened his eyes and shrugged as though it was long ago and no longer mattered. “It was what it was. So how come your daddy didn't leave you home with your mama?”
Romy shifted on the crate. She remembered her mother’s love of music and her tinkling laughter. The loving looks that passed between her mother and father. She’d wanted to be just like her mother when she grew up. Strange how she’d forgotten that until now. “She died when I was a little girl.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek and he swallowed, but didn't react any other way.
“She was a very talented pianist. Theaters around the world begged her to play for them. The first concert I ever went to, she . . . collapsed on the stage. One minute she was playing Mozart and the next the notes soured. There was nothing anyone could do.” The sting of shock and the loss came to her anew. “Papa took a sabbatical from Oxford where he taught natural history and decided to go into the field. In the end, he allowed me to accompany him and somehow I never stopped. Until the Amazon.”
“How old were you the first time?”
She smiled, pushing back the memory of her first summer away from London and the grief she still felt over losing her mother. “Ten years old.”
Abel scowled. “Seems like it'd be dangerous having you along.”
So the carefree cowboy disapproved of her ventures. “Perhaps you think my father would have done better to dump me in a boarding school. Not everyone sees me as a burden.”
He tilted his head. “That ain't what you said at the party. You said you thought Maggard wanted to marry you off so he could go back to exploring.”
She hesitated. “Indulge a woman in a moment of self-pity.”
“No.” His keen eyes bore into her face.
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked, taken aback by his blunt answer.
“I said no. What good has self-pity ever done for anyone? Hell, throw your shoulders back, tilt that little chin up and tell the world who you are, Romy. Don't hide.”
She scoffed. “Easy for you to say. You're a man. Capable of making your own decisions and planning your own future. The moment I was born I was draped in a dress and told to mind my manners. I wasn't given a choice. Do you think I got credit alongside the men in Papa’s troupe? That my name will ever appear in publications as an expert in archeology? When Papa decided the world was too dangerous for his daughter, he dropped everything and exiled us to America. Now he's forced me into an unwanted betrothal. I don't belong to myself. I never have.”
Abel swung his legs off the bed and leaned forward, a hairsbreadth from her face. His eyes darkened and his hands cupped her shoulders. “You always have a choice. No matter what anyone tells you, or how they try to persuade you, you know what the right answer is. You don’t want to marry Woefield, then don’t. Tell Maggard you won’t do it. He’s not gonna force you.”
Samuel Woefield was the farthest person from Romy’s mind. The blood in her veins surged as Abel spoke. His closeness made her more aware of her own body and the growing ache in the center of her. Abel’s lips settled into a firm line as he waited for her to react. The tension between them reached a peak and Romy scooted forward. She touched Abel’s face and her body hummed. She’d been waiting for a moment like this since he’d saved her in the alley. Her lips touched his and it felt like a thunderbolt.
Kissing him was instinctual, a primitive move that she’d held back for too long. She’d never wanted to throw aside her inhibitions so badly.
His hands roamed across her body, sliding up her thighs, lifting her shirt to touch the skin beneath. Their tongues met, stoking the desire that coursed through her. With a groan that was half chuckle, he hauled her into his lap so she straddled his hips.
She'd never considered being naked with a man until now and never wanted anything worse. His arms enclosed her waist, drawing her closer. The warm, welcoming heat of his mouth slid down her spine. Her nipples strained against the fabric of her undershirt, reaching out, aching to be touched. As though he read her mind, he pushed her shirt up to cup her breasts, letting them fill his hands. She arched her back, pushing her breasts forward and he sampled one nipple with his tongue. Romy grasped his shirt, blinded by the sensation.
He pulled his lips away and drew in a sharp breath.
“There won't be any goin' back.”
The husky drawl of his voice made her weak with wanting. He was right. She shouldn’t even be in this position. But one of his hands was on the small of her back tucked under the band her of trousers and the other still lazily teased her breast. The contact proved too much to turn away from.
Rather than answer with words, Romy nodded. Her hand dropped to the bulge in his pants and she ran her fingers over the rough material. He smiled, shifting his hips and bumping against her palm. She struggled with the buttons on his trousers. The inquisitive part of her wanted to see him, touch him, savor him. And the feminine side she’d hidden from the world for so long quivered with the anticipation of being held and loved.
Outside the cabin, someone pounded the door. Romy nearly fell trying to get off of his lap. She stared at him as her heart raced. “Who is it?”
His hands dropped from her body. Eyes wide, he looked at the door as though he'd just realized where they were. “Hell, Romy. We almost—we shouldn't be doing this.”
“But—” She fumbled to untangle her shirts and get them pulled down again.
He righted his clothing before she had her over shirt tucked in. “You’re someone’s little girl, not a lady of the night. A virgin for God’s sake.”
His rejection hurt. It left her feeling empty and alone. The sparks of passion that fueled her seconds ago turned cold as a winter’s night. Not to mention the embarrassment of knowing someone stood behind a flimsy sheet of wood, close enough to hear every sound they'd made.
She tried to think of a something more to say, but her mind seemed to contain nothing other than c
obwebs and shadows. She stomped to the door and threw it open, eyeballing the dirty little airman there.
“Yes?”
His gaze flitted between them and his eyes drew wide. Terrified he'd guessed what they'd been about to do, she attempted to straighten her clothes again. “Go on, then.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but the captain thought you might want to see this.” He stuffed a sheet of creased paper into her hand and departed. Romy stared after him then smoothed the paper.
REWARD $500
Desperately seeking the return of Romancia Farrington. Miss Farrington is a slender woman of slightly over average height, blue eyes and red hair. Last seen September 1, in the company of a Caucasian male. The man, who may be going by the name Abel, was approximately six feet tall, dark blond hair, brown eyes and known to have broken into and stolen items of value from the home of a notable citizen of Boston. If either the culprit or Miss Farrington is seen, contact the local police force post haste.
Romy's heart skipped a beat. Papa had reported her missing. The paper trembled in her hand as she turned to Abel.
“What?” he asked, half-rising from the bed.
“I'm afraid you're a wanted man.” The words came out in a squeak.
“What?” His eyes widened with alarm. He snatched the sheet from her and scanned it. The color drained from his face and he sank onto the bed again, staring at the notice. “He gave them my name. That rotten, no good—how could he do this?”
“Are you talking about my father? Don't you dare call him names. He's only worried that I might be in danger!” she defended.
Abel looked up at her, anger creasing his forehead. “Danger? Dammit, Romy, of course you're in danger. You have no idea—no idea—how deep you're in.” He pressed his hand over his eyes before rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They think I kidnapped you. Good God, anyone who kidnapped you would take you right back. What a load of horse shit.”
“Excuse me?” She planted her hands on her hips. He didn’t respond as he read the paper again.
Both infuriated and humiliated, she crossed to the door and fled up the stairs to the deck. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sought the solitude of the crates. How could he say such things about her? She wiped her sleeve across her mouth, determined to rid herself of the memory and the feeling of his skin against hers. She had no experience with men's urges and despite every warning her mind shouted, her heart continued to lead the way. Stupid, stupid.
Abel would see the notice as the perfect opportunity to be rid of her and Van Buren was probably having a good laugh at her expense. The way her luck was running, they'd turn her over to the proper authorities the second the Ursula Ann landed in Bismarck.
Chapter Eleven
How to get a message to Farrington without Christensen intercepting it? Sweat beaded on Abel's forehead as he paced the cabin. All his instincts insisted the wanted notice was a ploy Christensen had come up with to interfere with Abel's landing in Dakota Territory. If only he had the opportunity to ask his uncle's advice.
A cold chill slithered down his spine. If he failed to get to Bismarck, if he was detained for any reason, he'd never get to ask Caden's opinion on anything again. Things were getting messier by the mile.
His worrisome thoughts were swallowed by a mental image of Romy’s wounded eyes and trembling pink lips. He was the last person who ought to be encouraging her to follow her heart and the last man who ought to be seducing her. But damned if she didn't make him forget he had a schedule to keep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her alluring body tempting him. She made a beautiful picture in her ball gown, but the fiery gaze she'd turned on him moments before she kissed him was the one that made his heart race. The innocence and awe on her face when he’d kissed her breast made his heart soft and his cock hard. He had to get his priorities straightened out before he fell in love with her.
Abel sighed. What could he do? Tie her to chair and drop Maggard a 'gram saying where his daughter was?
Knowing Romy, it wasn't a good option. She'd gnaw her way through bonds just to see him ruined.
Or, his conscience butted in, you could tell her the truth. Tell her your story. She might understand and she could be of some use in hunting the thing.
“Quiet,” he growled, feeling foolish for talking to himself. The tattoo on his shoulder seemed cold beneath his shirt. He pressed his fingers to his collarbone. If he allowed her to come along, he'd be risking her life on top of those already caught up in the mess and damned if he'd be the one to endanger her. So many ifs. He recalled a moment years ago when Caden clapped him on the back and advised him to take a risk once in a while.
Easier said than done.
At least he didn't have to worry about her falling in love with him. She'd called him every name she could think of to add insult to injury. No, better to leave her with Van Buren and let him sort out the wanted notice. Maggard clearly wanted her back and he could have her.
Abel thumped down on the crate and pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't remember feeling so helpless. The memory of her hands on his body made him ache in all the right places. Did she have any idea how she affected him? Probably not. He wasn't prepared to tell her the truth about himself. It was better if she thought of him as greedy and self-absorbed. It would make things easier when they said good-bye.
He'd have the memory of her flashing eyes and haughty profile to fill his nights. If only it didn't include the hurt he'd seen on her face as well.
****
Abel woke to the sway of a hammock beneath him and an unpleasant churning in his stomach. To spare another argument with Romy, he'd sought an empty spot in the crew quarters.
He fell, more than rolled, out of the woven net and staggered to an empty bucket by the wall. Sharp pain pierced his sides as he heaved. Every muscle in his body protested the expulsion, leaving him unable to do anything but sag against the wall for what seemed like an eternity.
Fortunately, none of the crew was around to taunt him about the sickness. He swept a sweaty palm over his forehead, brushing aside the damp hair that fell across his face. Shit, he wanted to stretch out on the floor and stay there until he died. If he had any luck, death would come for him soon.
Back to the wall, he pushed himself up and summoned the strength to mount the stairs. Every step challenged his perseverance. Halfway up the flight, he almost said to hell with the venture.
Voices drifted down the stairwell.
“Look at 'er go. A regular monkey. Five dollars says she don't make it to the platform. She'll realize the mess she's in and slide back down.”
“I'll take that bet. Seven says she'll do it.”
Another man spoke up. “Ten that she'll fall right off the platform and into the void, boys.”
The blood froze in Abel's veins. He scrambled up the remaining stairs. As he reached the deck, his breath caught in his chest. Twenty feet in the air, Romy climbed hand over fist up one of the thick ropes securing the hydrogen balloon to the ship. Her red braid swayed between her shoulder blades with reckless abandon. A dark leather bag was slung over one shoulder and bounced against her hip as she went up.
Knots placed every few inches provided hand and footholds, but not a damned thing would save her if she slipped. Heart in his feet, Abel pushed between the rowdy crewmen and snagged one of the safety harnesses from its hook on the railing. He buckled it around his waist and chest without thought of whether it was done correctly.
“What're you doin'? We're tryin' to see if the girl can make it to the top,” one of the airmen protested.
It didn't take a fancy degree to figure out one or more of these men had goaded Romy into the climb. Abel ignored the objections. He placed one hand above a knot and began his ascent after the crazy redhead, cursing under his breath the entire way. At the top of the ropes, a narrow board gave access to the underside of the balloons, presumably for repairs. Platform, his ass. If she had any sense at all, she'd wait for him on that board so he could
secure the safety rope around her.
At a mere ten feet, vertigo assailed him; he lost his foothold for a few heart-stopping seconds. Swallowing the bile that burned in his throat, he concentrated on Romy's slender form. She was reaching for the board.
A mixture of cheers and catcalls came from below.
“What in the hell is going on out here?” Van Buren's voice broke above the rest. “We are losing altitude and you are all standing around like this is a Sunday picnic.”
Abel didn't spare the deck a glance. His eyes tracked Romy's graceful transfer from the rope to the board. She got to her feet and bowed to the deck with flourish like a circus performer. A bright smile decorated her flushed face. The woman was pleased with herself! Anger surged through him. Despite the wind tearing at her clothes, she rummaged in the bag and removed some tools. She didn't acknowledge that he was now only a few feet from the top.
The rope was positioned a good foot from the board. Abel made three clumsy attempts to swing over to it before he finally grabbed one end and managed to pull himself onto the weathered plank.
It shook and for the first time he saw a hint of fear pass over Romy's face before she glared at him.
“What do you think you're doing? Are you trying to get me killed?” She held a small canvas patch in one hand and a long, curved needle in the other.
“Are you insane?” He held his arms out for balance as he wobbled across the platform.
A low, annoyed noise issued from her throat. With a shake of her head, she turned back to the balloon. The board rocked unsteadily beneath them as the wind pushed him and lifted his hair. It was so sharp, it hurt to breathe.
Using small, meticulous stitches that seemed to require a lifetime each to complete, she sewed the patch to the balloon. When she finished, she reached for another patch and Abel realized there was more than one hole in the balloon. They'd been slowly leaking hydrogen. Not enough, apparently, to send them hurtling to the ground, at least not right away. She leaned back to admire her work. The platform swung a few inches.
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 10
