Lady X's Cowboy

by Zoë Archer

  www.ZoeArcherBooks.com.

  Books by Zoë Archer

  The Blades of the Rose

  Historical Paranormal Adventure Romance

  Warrior

  Scoundrel

  Rebel (2011 RITA finalist, Best Paranormal Romance)

  Stranger

  “The Undying Heart” in Half Past Dead

  The Hellraisers

  Historical Paranormal Romance

  Devil’s Kiss

  Demon’s Bride

  Sinner’s Heart (coming April 2013)

  The Ether Chronicles

  Steampunk Romance

  Skies of Fire

  Night of Fire (by Nico Rosso)

  Skies of Steel (coming October 2012)

  Nights of Steel (by Nico Rosso, coming November 2012)

  The 8th Wing

  Sci-Fi Romance

  Collision Course

  Chain Reaction

  Other Historical Romance

  Lady X’s Cowboy

  Love In a Bottle (coming soon)

  Nemesis Unlimited

  Gritty Victorian Historical Romance

  Sweet Revenge (coming June 2013)

  Untitled Nemesis Books 2 & 3 (coming Winter 2013 and Spring 2014)

  Excerpts

  Warrior (The Blades of the Rose)

  She and her father managed to remember their manners enough to offer Captain Huntley a seat and some English tea. She handed the captain a cup of the steaming beverage, which he took with large, work-rough hands. Their fingers brushed against each other. The sensation of his touch ran through her like wild horses. He breathed in quickly as her skin went sensitive and alive, feeling everything at once, but mostly him.

  They stared at each other, manners forgotten. A blaze there, in his golden eyes, and an answering flare within her. Hot and sudden, like wildfire on the steppe after a dry season.

  He broke the contact first, pretending to study his cup as he took a sip of tea. Thalia tried, but failed, not to watch the shape of his mouth on the painted rim of the cup. How might those lips feel against her skin? She knew better than this, she chided herself, and as soon as Captain Huntley had finished his tea, she would show him the door and never see the man again.

  Though he seemed to have other ideas.

  “I can’t pretend to know what any of those messages mean,” he said to her father. He glanced down at her father’s braced and bandaged leg. “But it’s clear that you need some help. Let me give it.”

  “I thank you, Captain,” Franklin answered, “but no. We can manage on our own.”

  Batu had found a small folding camp chair, and now the captain sat in it, but the chair did a poor job of containing him. He kept stretching out his legs and trying to fit himself into the seat that had, in the past, comfortably held Thalia, and nearly every other man who had come into their ger, but it was like trying to put a waistcoat on a tiger.

  He looked at her father, then at Thalia, sitting nearby. She struggled to ignore the leap her stomach gave when she felt his golden scrutiny.

  “I doubt that,” the captain said bluntly. “You need me.”

  Thalia ground her teeth together at his presumption. How like a military man to step in where he knew nothing and didn’t belong, and start issuing orders.

  “Rest assured,” her father replied, “that we do not. You did your duty to Anthony Morris with honor, but now you have discharged that duty and can return home to England.”

  That prospect did not seem to elate Captain Huntley. He worked the clean square line of his jaw as he contemplated the fragile china in his hand. “Sir—” he began.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Thalia said, cutting him off, and he didn’t care for that one bit. A flare of anger gleamed in his eyes as he looked at her. “We do appreciate your offer of help, but this is personal business.”

  “Personal enough to get a man killed?”

  Thalia stood. She didn’t care if she was being rude, violating every principle of Mongol and English hospitality, but she had to get rid of the tenacious, irritating captain immediately. It had nothing to do with her reaction towards this man. It was purely a matter of protection. She walked to the door and held it open.

  “Thank you,” she said again in a clipped, frosty voice. “Everything you have done has been extraordinary, but you can go no further in your task. My father and I are perfectly capable of managing the situation on our own.”

  Her father kept his expression carefully neutral, providing neither assistance nor resistance.

  After a moment, a wry smile curved in the corner of Captain Huntley’s mouth and he set his teacup down on the table with a sharp clack. He unfolded himself from the chair with surprising grace, then picked up his pack and shouldered it. With a slight clicking of his heels, he bowed to her father with a murmured, “Sir.” Her father, not much inclined to ceremony, took the captain’s hand and shook it.

  “You stood up for Tony, which I wish I could have done,” Franklin said. “And your honor does you credit. Godspeed to you, Captain, and good luck.”

  The captain offered no similar reply, but shook Franklin’s hand gravely. He then strode to the door, stopping in front of Thalia. She kept her gaze trained on the space just over his shoulder, trying to avoid that sharp jolt of sensation that came from looking into his eyes. “I’ve sailed half way ‘round the world,” he said quietly, his voice like whiskey, rough and warm, “including chugging through the Bay of Bengal on the leakiest, rustiest and least seaworthy freighter that ever insulted the ocean, which, after the luxuries of the first steamship, did little for my constitution. I’ve taken the most damnable journey through China, and most of my coin is now lining the pockets of every single government agent between here and Peking.”

  “I am sorry about that,” Thalia said, and meant it. “We haven’t much money, ourselves, but surely we can spare some for your return.”

  He looked coldly at her. “I don’t want sympathy and I don’t want your coin.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Tell me what Morris’s message means.”

  She shook her head. “That is one thing I cannot give you, Captain. It would imperil not only you, but many others, as well.”

  Though it clearly didn’t satisfy him, he pressed for no more. He gave Thalia a small bow, but there was an intangible something that was deeply ironic about the gesture. He stared at the ground for a moment, and Thalia followed his gaze to the tops of her muddy, heavy boots, which stuck out from the hem of the dress. Yes, she was a genuine elegant English rose. Thalia drew herself up to her full height and resisted the urge to twitch the gown’s fabric over the boots. Their gazes met and held. Dangerous, she thought. He might not be a Blade, but he was a man, and not any man, but one who could inflict serious damage on her, if she let him. She could see that plainly. Oh, God, she was glad he was leaving. She would have had to be on her guard constantly, had he stayed.

  “Miss Burgess,” he rumbled.

  “Captain,” she said coolly.

  With a nod, he placed his hat upon his head and walked out into the dusk. He never hesitated, instead moving straight and steady through the still-crowded lanes. Without any urging on his part, the throngs parted to let him pass. Rather than watch him disappear into the mass, which she felt possessed to do, Thalia shut the door, then turned and looked at her father. The confines of the tent, or, more accurately, the confines of her own body, still vibrated with Captain Huntley’s presence. He lingered there, the sun’s afterimage burned into her.

  “You may be a Blade,” she said to her father, “but you also have a broken leg. Both of mine are whole and hale. The responsibility now falls to me.”

  “Only you, my dear?” Her father found the crutches next to his chair and pulled himself up, waving away the solicitous Batu. He limped towards her, his expression concerned and dark. “This will be a dangerous task. I cannot send my only child, my only daughter, into such peril.”

  “There’s no
choice, father,” she answered levelly. “I must go.”

  “But you aren’t a Blade, Thalia,” he countered. “I am.”

  Thalia knew he was trying to protect her, but his words still stung. “You cannot ride, not as fast as you need to go. I can ride fast, I can shoot straight, and I will make sure that whatever needs protection will be kept safe.”

  After a few moments, her father sighed and shook his head. She knew then that, though he did not like it, he understood that she spoke the truth and was giving her leave to carry out the work of the Blades. As she had longed to do ever since she was ten years old and had first learned of their existence.

  She tried to make herself smile, but her heart was pounding with mingled fear and anticipation. Nearly everything she knew about the world of the Blades had been related to her by her father or other members of the group. Their activities were shrouded in danger and mystery. Some Blades never returned from their missions. She might soon be added to that number. But there was no room for failure. There was much more than her own life at stake.

  “I set out at first light,” she announced.

  Warrior Available Now!

  The Blades of the Roses Series Available Now!

  Skies of Fire: The Ether Chronicles

  The skies above the Carpathian Mountains.

  The deck of the airship HMS Demeter rocked from the force of another concussive blast. The hull took no damage, but the crew lurched like drunkards as they fought to keep the ship steady. A direct hit to the engines from the enemy’s ether cannons would send the Demeter plunging down over a mile to the jagged mountains below.

  “That was a bit close, lads,” shouted Captain Christopher Redmond. The din of cannon and deck-mounted Gatling guns nearly drowned out his voice, gone hoarse with yelling orders. “Let’s make ’em earn their gulden. Hard to starboard!”

  He was loud enough for the crew to hear. Dawes, the helmsman, turned the wheel, and the ship banked sharply to the right, narrowly missing another blast from the Hapsburgs’ ether cannon.

  Through his goggles, Christopher stared at the enemy ships. Bad odds. Five-to-three in favor of the Huns, and one of the Hapsburg dirigibles was a dreadnought, carrying thrice as many guns. The corvette class Demeter was tiny by comparison, only as long as two railway carriages.

  A convoy of Russian and British seafaring vessels had been attacked by a Hapsburg airship as they’d traveled across the Black Sea. The Demeter and two other British airships were there to respond and had flown to the aid of the convoy. Fighting among the vessels had ranged all the way into enemy territory. Over the Carpathian Mountains, four more Hapsburg dirigibles had joined the fight, resulting in this disastrous battle.

  No British reinforcements would fly in to lend support. All he and the other British captains could do was fight, and hope they made it out alive.

  Which might not happen. The Danae and Psyche were taking heavy hits, and, faintly over the boom of gunfire and roar of the wind, Christopher heard the airships’ captains bellowing orders to their crews.

  “Looks like they’re beating a retreat,” noted Pullman, the Demeter’s first mate.

  “Which means we have to do the same,” Christopher said. “Damn it.” He hated retreating. The Man O’ War part of him rebelled at the thought alone. He battled to keep down his impulse to fight—a continual struggle, since the telumium implants that had made him into a Man O’ War fed his already strong aggression. Retreat was counterintuitive to men such as he, men who had been transformed into amalgams of flesh and metal.

  But sometimes retreat was the only option. Strategy took precedence over gallantry.

  He smiled grimly to himself. Sounds like something Louisa might say.

  The middle of a disastrous battle was no time to think of her, of the curve of her neck or the way she picked her morning rolls apart before eating them in discrete bites. A cunning strategist, his Louisa.

  She’s not mine any longer. She made her choice.

  “Prepare for withdrawal!” he yelled. Right now, he had to get his ship and crew to safety. Perhaps if he survived, he might allow himself a conciliatory dram of whiskey in his quarters, permitting a rare foray into regret and self-pity. A good deal of gunpowder and ether lay between now and then, however.

  Turning to issue another command, he paused for a moment, catching a faint whine—a sound undetectable to the normal ear. He threw himself to the deck, taking Pullman down with him. Both men looked up to see a bullet hole in the bulkhead just behind them.

  “You’d been any slower,” Pullman breathed, “that bullet would’ve drilled right through your head and mine.”

  Another reason to thank the telumium implants. The rare metal stimulated his adrenal glands, making him stronger and faster than an ordinary man, and sharpened his senses. He could see the rivets on an airship half a mile away and hear a bullet seconds before it made impact.

  The implants also made him a target. If he was killed, his airship would lose its most important source of power—him. The metal plates that were fused with his flesh powered the batteries that ran the engines, a reaction which created the ether that kept the ship aloft. Snipers armed with ether rifles always accompanied airships into combat, counting on the fact that a Man O’ War captain was impelled to stand above deck and put himself in the heat of battle. Christopher knew two captains who had been taken out by snipers.

  Damned ungentlemanly, the use of snipers. Ten years ago, no naval force would have ever considered such ill-mannered tactics during combat. But ten years ago, the Man O’ Wars didn’t exist. Warfare, and tactics, had changed since then.

  Grabbing his own ether rifle from its mounted scabbard on the ship’s central support, Christopher took up position at the rail. He sighted the would-be assassin on the deck of a Hapsburg ship, his enhanced vision bringing the enemy into perfect clarity. After drawing a steadying breath, Christopher fired. Moments later, the sniper dropped.

  “Good shot, sir.” Pullman grinned as he collapsed his brass spyglass.

  “They’re all good shots, Mr. Pullman.” Christopher jammed the rifle back into its holster.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Christopher cursed when he saw three of the five Hapsburg ships position themselves between him and the retreating British airships. If he wanted to join his comrades in their withdrawal from the battle, he’d have to get through the Huns. Including their massive dreadnought, with its superior firepower. Trying to break through their line would see him and his ship blown out of the sky.

  His alternate route didn’t look much better. Two Hapsburg ships advanced from the other side, a high rocky ridge behind them. But these airships were smaller frigates. There just might be a chance…

  “Bring her about, Mr. Pullman,” he ordered. “Until we’re facing those two enemy ships. And prepare to vent the ether tanks.”

  “Captain?”

  Christopher grinned. “We’re going to show these Huns a little British audacity.”

  After giving Christopher an answering grin, Pullman shouted the order to the venters, who made the necessary adjustments to the large tanks at the back of the ship. They signaled their readiness, and Pullman yelled, “Make ready for venting!” He repeated his command into the shipboard auditory device so the crew below would know to prepare themselves.

  Like the other members of the crew, Christopher braced himself, taking a bit of rope from a capstan and wrapping it around his hand. He secured his footing.

  The wooden-hulled airship turned, placing her side to the three enemy ships as she was aimed toward two more Hapsburg ships. It was a risky stance to be in, but the Demeter had to be positioned for her flight.

  He had to time this just right. At any moment, they could be fired upon.

  A few seconds more, and then—

  “Now!”

  The venters threw the levers. Three things happened simultaneously. The Demeter dropped lower, a fast plunge of twenty feet. Enemy ships fired, blasting the area w
here his ship had just been. And the ship rocketed forward, pushed faster by the rearward release of ether from the tanks. Christopher was grateful for his goggles, as brittle wind scoured his face. That had been one of the first adjustments: speed. Even at its slowest, an airship was damned faster than any seafaring vessel, including a clipper. He allowed himself a smile. There was something deeply thrilling about racing through the sky with the velocity and view of a god.

  The forest below became a green blur, smeared with gray from rocky outcroppings.

  Gravitational force shoved at him as the Demeter sped forward, but he kept himself from falling, his legs wide-braced, his grip secure on the rope.

  The ship raced forward, right toward the two Hapsburg frigates. Between the two enemy craft was a distance of barely a hundred feet, making for a tight squeeze. If the Demeter cleared the narrow space, it would be a feat worthy of a dance-hall ballad.

  “Hold straight and steady, Mr. Dawes,” Christopher shouted at the helmsman.

  Though Dawes had turned chalk-white, his eyes wide behind his goggles, he did as he was ordered, keeping the Demeter on course. Some of the crewmen on deck crossed themselves, and a few took out lockets that held photographs of wives and children.

  Christopher had no locket with a sweetheart’s photograph. As a member of Naval Intelligence, Louisa had been protective of her image, not wanting any record of her face that could possibly fall into enemy hands. When she left him, all that had remained behind were memories and anger. And one kidskin glove. She had a habit of misplacing gloves.