Amelia saved the eye roll until after he left. She had no intention of antagonizing Dunkirk or any member of his crew. A lone woman amongst twenty-something men? Unsavory pirates? She was smarter than that. In fact, in the last hour she had striven to think like Jules, who was indeed brilliant. What would he, a decorated military man, do in this circumstance?
First, he would keep his head and try to outwit them. She was sure of it.
She had something Dunkirk wanted. Or at least she would once she reached her destination—although in truth there were no guarantees. Amelia was operating on history, optimism, and her memory. Long ago, in a moment of unguarded fancy and too many glasses of port, Papa had shared a story with her involving a secret note and a secret room—secrets revealed to him by Briscoe Darcy. She’d listened in wide-eyed wonder.
“Why can we not go there and see for ourselves, Papa?” she’d asked.
“Because it is dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.” Then Papa had lectured her on human nature. He’d quoted from the Book of Mods and explained the importance of moral responsibilities. None of this had quelled her desire to see the two marvels hidden within that secret room, but the lecture did indeed influence Amelia’s political and social views. Panicked that he’d burdened his ten-year-old daughter with such a volatile secret, Papa had begged her to forget their conversation. Not wanting to upset him, she’d agreed, but the best she could do was stifle the knowledge. She had cherished and guarded that secret for ten long years.
Amelia tamped down a flutter of guilt. Reginald Darcy would not approve of this venture. But she would be careful and, above all, responsible. She would not tamper with the marvel Papa had feared. She would not touch it. She would not even look upon it. She was, in fact, obsessed with the other invention. The one that could do no harm and only bring glory to the Darcys.
A working Leonardo da Vinci ornithopter.
The mere thought of the ancient flying machine gave Amelia shivers. She’d been studying the designs and theories of da Vinci since she was a child. Although she admired the Italian Renaissance genius’s paintings as well as his studies regarding civil engineering, optics, and mechanics, she was most fascinated by his sketches and theories on flight.
Whilst several of his theories proved impossible, it was believed that at least one of his flying contraptions took to the air—even if momentarily and with calamitous results—in 1506. The suggestion was documented in his own hand in the “Codex on the Flight of Birds.”
The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri….
Mount Ceceri, a breathtaking summit close to da Vinci’s home in Tuscany, was her destination. She intended to
manipulate Captain Dunkirk into delivering her close to the mark. She refused to feel bad about employing dishonest means, as he was, after all, a dishonest man.
Frowning, Amelia fidgeted with discomfort as she examined the gown she was to don for dinner: a provocative evening gown with a barely there bodice and layers of scalloped, flowing skirt. She’d never seen anything like it. Sin black and bloodred. Silk and lace.
Scandalous.
She refused to care.
Because of Tucker Gentry, she could not afford to care. Because of him, she no longer had access to Bess, such as she was, nor her belongings: her clothing, tools, and stash of money. Mostly she mourned the loss of Papa’s pocket watch.
Bloody hell!
Each time she recalled how Tucker had allowed Dunkirk to kidnap her without so much as an argument or plea she wanted to wrestle him to the ground. When she thought about Leo injured—or worse, dead—she wanted to crush his soul. Blast the Sky Cowboy and her romantic illusions! She’d thought him noble. Trustworthy. She’d thought him smitten, just a little, with her. He’d
kissed
her. He’d toyed with her affections, dallied with her heart. Never had she felt so gullible. So…foolish. Perhaps she couldn’t soothe her pride or save poor Leo, but she could still save her family. She’d wear the disgusting gown, and by God, she would ensure her passage to Tuscany.
Amelia had never been one for aimless chatter, but she could think of no better way to dissuade Captain Colin Dunkirk from his obvious ploy of seduction than by prattling on about aerodynamics, the theories of lift and thrust, and fixed wings versus flapping wings whilst filling his head with empty flattery by pronouncing the
Flying Shark
a remarkable airship, superior in countless ways to the
Maverick
.
He’d smiled throughout the candlelit dinner, responding now and then, but mostly he’d watched her. No matter how
hard she tried to divert his prurient attention, he persisted in eyeing her as a starving man eyed a bountiful meal. She blamed the damnable gown. It was a tad too small, so her waist was horribly pinched and her bosoms fairly spilled over the plunging décolletage. She supposed that one might consider her leather flight pants and favored corseted tail vests revealing, but somehow this frilly gown was far worse, perhaps because it was so decadently feminine. In addition, Dunkirk had insisted she wear her hair down, making her feel even more dreadfully exposed.
She could have refused, of course. But then she would’ve spent the evening locked in her suffocating cabin, and Amelia was intent on gaining the upper hand, being treated as partner as opposed to prisoner.
Unfortunately, somewhere between the chestnut soup and roasted pheasant she began to worry that Tucker and crew had good reason to question her sanity. Had she truly believed she could manipulate the Scottish Shark of the Skies? From the moment she’d confidently entered his large and somewhat risqué cabin he’d undermined her bravado. His cunning and dark charm made her skin prickle and her palms sweat. As did the sight of his fur-covered bed, only partially hidden behind an ornately painted Asian dividing screen. Stubborn will kept her seated and calm. She did not wish to anger him. Nor to bore him. Nor to placate him. She’d never straddled a more precarious fence.
Amelia realized with a start that she’d fallen silent, lost in anxious thoughts whilst the pirate drank deeply from his wine goblet, devouring her with his blatant, hungry stare. Cheeks burning, she cleared her throat, tempted to cover her cleavage with the faded cloth napkin. “Where was I?”
“Ya were listing the components needed to construct a new…what did ya call it? Oh, aye. Kitecycle.” He angled his head. “Silence is infinitely more interesting.”
Stunned by his rudeness, she frowned. “Do I bore you, sir?”
He grinned. “Ya amuse me, Amelia. May I call ya Amelia?”
“You may not. And why do I amuse, Captain Dunkirk?”
“Ya strive to be brave when ye’re scared shiteless. The endless chatter. A nervous tell, yeah?” He gestured to her untouched plate. “No appetite. Ghostly complexion.”
“You confuse fear with disgust. I never eat fowl.” Her stomach had turned the moment his cook had served the roasted bird. Ever since she’d adopted Leo, she couldn’t stomach the thought of eating his feathered friends. To add insult to injury, she assumed one of Dunkirk’s men had shot Leo from the sky. Swallowing bitter fury, she pushed the plate aside and focused on her host. “No offense.”
“None taken.” He arched a wickedly suggestive brow. “We all have our predilections, yeah?”
There was no mistaking his train of thought, and it only fueled her anxiety. The man obviously thought to impress and seduce. He’d bathed and changed into brown leather trousers and a flowing white shirt, open at the collar and showcasing his bronze chest. If the display of muscle was supposed to make her swoon, he’d failed.
He’d shaved his beard and tamed his dark, wild mane into a queue, drawing attention to the hard planes of his face, which oddly enhanced his rugged good looks. Only the scar across his cheek detracted, a reminder that he lived dangerously. That he was a scoundrel, an infamous thief who thought nothing of blowing airships to bits whilst absconding with their booty.
Amelia had read nearly as many tales about Dunkirk as she had about Gentry. She supposed she should be fascinated by the pirate’s exploits and flattered by his attentions. She was not.
Head held high, she kept her voice steady but firm. “Captain Dunkirk, I do wish you would look me in the eyes when addressing me rather than ogling my…blessings. Your lecherous regard is most unseemly.”
“Blessings, eh?” He grinned, then met her gaze, which only heightened her unease. “Indeed, ya are blessed with a fine face and form, lass. No wonder Gentry was taken with ya.”
Amelia’s heart fluttered at the notion, pounded in memory of that knee-quaking kiss and then, as Tucker’s betrayal flashed in her mind, thudded with monumental disappointment. “Mr. Gentry couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”
“Ya dinnae know the man well.”
“Nor do I want to.”
“Saving yerself for me then?”
“I’m not saving myself for any man.”
He smiled and she blushed. Perhaps he’d misconstrued her intent. “Let us cut to the chase, shall we?” Anxious to end this discussion, Amelia used the napkin to cover her plate, hiding the poor, wretched pheasant from her sight. “You intend to plunder my hidden treasure.”
He laughed. “Aye, lass, I do.”
She failed to see the humor, but plowed on. “You cannot steal it if you do not know where to find it, and I refuse to disclose the location unless we come to an arrangement.”
He raised a brow. “A partnership?”
Now she was getting somewhere. She forced a smile. “Yes.”
“Ya wish to bargain with me, lass?”
Although he looked somewhere between amused and astounded, she continued to smile. “Yes.” She needed passage to Italy, and she needed a way to transport the invention, once found, back to England. This airship would do, and as a miscreant, surely Dunkirk could be bought. “If you aid me in my quest, and if I win the jubilee prize, I will compensate you with a percentage.” There. That sounded reasonable.
He stood, then rounded the table and topped off her wine, even though she’d barely imbibed. Setting aside the decanter, he leaned in and toyed with one of her long curls. “What if I be wanting something else?”
His close proximity rattled her composure, as did his wondering gaze. Naturally, he focused on her breasts. “I, uh…”
“Point of interest, Amelia, I dinnae bargain. I take.”
She knew then that she’d been an infernal twit, thinking she could somehow manipulate this infamous rake and ruffian. He’d been toying with her. Whether by seduction or force, Dunkirk meant to have her and her treasure. For the first time since she’d defied Jules and Simon and embarked on this quest, Amelia felt out of her depth and very much in danger. She imagined her brothers’ guilt and fury should she suffer harm or humiliation. They’d forever blame themselves for her ill fate. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d gotten herself into this muddle and she would bloody well get out.
Then she saw it—
him
—through the window beyond the captain’s shoulder. Shrouded in black. Face illuminated by moonbeams. Mode of transportation unknown.
The Sky Cowboy.
Her
Sky Cowboy.
Amelia fought the urge to swoon. She had never swooned in her life, yet at this moment she felt positively light-headed. Dizzy with relief and, good Lord,
infatuation
.
Blast and damnation!
Even though he’d betrayed her, she was still smitten with the man who’d given Jesse James an airborne run for his tainted money.
From her angle, Tucker appeared to be floating on the winter wind. He pointed at her, then pointed up. He wanted her on deck.
Since she wanted to escape Captain Dunkirk, and since she’d never once felt physically threatened by Tucker, she set aside her grievances with the cowboy, opting for the lesser evil. Forcing her gaze from the window, she touched a palm to her forehead. “I…I fear I am unwell, Captain.”
Dunkirk raised a brow. “If ya mean to now capitalize on Doc Blue’s insinuation that ya are gravely ill…too late.”
She didn’t blame him for doubting her. She’d been feisty
and fit since they’d met. She realized now that she hadn’t even limped when she’d entered his cabin. Indeed, she felt no pain in her thigh at all. Not even a twinge. Odd. Switching tactics, she gestured to her goblet. “The wine—”
“Ya barely drank.”
“Yes, but it is overly warm in here and…this gown. It’s crushing my ribs. I need air.” Since she wasn’t sure she could fake a swoon, instead she beseeched him with the same look that had swayed Papa and, upon occasion, her brothers. “Please. Let us continue our negotiations on deck.”
“Ya still think to bargain with me.” He chuckled, then aided her to her feet. “Ya intrigue me, lass.”
“I thought I amused you.”
“That, too.”
Since she’d claimed to feel faint, she couldn’t shrug off his touch as he half carried her from the cabin and through the dank, dimly lit passage. She noted two things as he whisked her topside.
First, unlike with Tucker, Dunkirk’s touch did not incite delicious sensations and knee-quaking desire. The thought of lying with this man frosted her blood. Further incentive to jump ship.
Second, the
Flying Shark
, though in good working order, lacked the spiff and shine of the
Maverick
. It also stank of stale tobacco, kerosene, and unwashed bodies.
Once on deck, Amelia panicked. What now? What was she supposed to do? Say? Where in the devil was Tucker? Was he alone? One man against Dunkirk and crew? She thought about the retracted walking stick she’d managed to stuff within her layered stockings and thick boot. If she acted swiftly and surely, she could conk Dunkirk on the head with the brass knob, rendering him unconscious. Acupressure wouldn’t require such muscle. If only she’d had time to learn Birdman Chang’s trick.
At that moment an explosion ripped through the dead of night. Startled, she bit back a scream, her stomach
churning as images of
Apollo 02
battered her mind. She turned in tandem with Dunkirk, spying flames at the stern, hearing shouts from the crew.
“What the…?” Dunkirk stashed Amelia behind a protective barrier. “Stay here.”