“You’re a pain in the ass, Miss Darcy. Frankly speaking.”
“I do not recall making a nuisance of myself.”
“First you slowed us by almost crashing into the
Maverick,
then insisting we haul your wreck aboard.”
“Yes, well—”
“Then we were delayed by Dunkirk and in turn had to outrun ALE.”
“Not my—”
“Last night we flew out of our way, then cooled our rudders while the marshal risked his life and delayed our valuable shipment in order to rescue you.”
“I can see how—”
“Since you boarded we’ve experienced one misfortune after another.”
“I am not bad luck.”
“Maybe not. But you are trouble. Thanks to you we ticked off ALE and Dunkirk, and one or both is tracking our hides. We should be lying low for a spell. Instead we’re vamoosing to Italy. That is, after we fit this boat with repairs. Not that anything was wrong with the
Maverick
before—”
“—I boarded. Yes, yes. I follow your warped line of thinking.” Her own patience snapped. “Where’s Mr. Gentry?”
Axel nodded toward the château. “Takin’ care of business.”
Amelia gawked at the burly engineer. “He left the ship?”
“Along with rest of the crew.”
“I cannot believe…Why wasn’t I invited along?” Surely Tucker knew she’d consider a visit to the Château de Malmaison a once-in-a-lifetime thrill. She thought she’d made her decision to explore rare opportunities quite clear.
Axel grunted. “What? So you could muck up the delivery? Tuck may be softhearted when it comes to you, but when it comes to money he’s a hardheaded bastard.”
“Yet he risked a substantial payday, putting his ship and cargo at risk by stealing me away from Dunkirk.” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to remind him of his own words, except that it made her feel less the fool. She was beginning
to wonder who had manipulated whom regarding her intimate liaison with the Sky Cowboy.
Axel quirked a sardonic brow. “According to Dunkirk, you’re worth a fortune. Guess the marshal considered you a smart risk. A man can buy anything with enough money. Including freedom.”
Amelia didn’t care for his insinuation one whit. Then again, she was pretty sure the narrow-minded lunkhead would say or do about anything to alienate her from Tucker and hasten her departure. As it happened, Tucker had freely stated his financial concerns the night before. Exasperated, she whirled and paced toward the stern, hands on hips. Of all the men to be stuck with. She would’ve preferred the company of any one of the other crewmen. She could’ve asked Doc Blue about his seemingly magical skills. Birdman Chang owed her a lesson in acupressure. She was most eager to question Eli Boone about the intricacies of the retractable masts and walking stick. She suspected he also had knowledge of Peg’s amazing detachable wings. But no. Tucker had left her with this superstitious, cranky, pea-brained oaf.
Furious, she paced back to said oaf. “Where’s Bess?”
“Two decks below. Near the stern. A heap of mangled canvas, wood, and metal. You can’t fix her!” he shouted as she stalked away.
“
Can’t
is not in my vocabulary, Mr. O’Donnell.”
Once Amelia had retrieved her tool bag and Axel had shown her to the cavernous storage room that housed the remnants of her kitecycle, she’d waited until she was sure he’d returned topside before skipping out in search of Peg. The scent of hay was stronger than ever. She simply followed her nose to the opposite end of the ship. Peg’s stable was nearly as big as her temporary workspace. Spacious and well lighted. Cozy and clean. Remarkably ventilated. Peg, however, was not in residence. Amelia assumed Tucker had
ridden or flown the horse to the great estate. Surely the mighty creature enjoyed freedom, fresh air, and exercise. She remembered Tucker’s tender manner with the steed, his gentle touch with Leo. She remembered Axel’s words:
Marshal’s got a way with animals
.
Her heart swelled. A fine quality indeed.
Intrigued, she inspected the tidy stall and tack area, the generous mound of sleeping straw, the bales of hay and barrels of oats. She sniffed out the licorice stash. She’d never known a horse to eat licorice. Then again, she’d never known a horse to fly. She noted the organized tack, the grooming supplies, and a massive cabinet. She tried the doors. Locked. Was that where they kept Peg’s detachable wings? Aside from the obvious—Peg was well tended, in fact perhaps spoiled—there was little more to learn here, and Amelia was beginning to feel like a snoop. Were Tucker to find her now, would he accuse her of trying to learn his secrets? Of studying the mechanical wings in hope of reproducing them or selling the designs?
Probably.
In truth she was merely dying of curiosity. How could a horse fly? Could a similar design work for a man? Or, more precisely, a woman? Soaring the skies upon Peg had been wondrous, but soaring the skies on her own? Like the fabled Icarus? Only, unlike the winged man of Greek mythology, she would not fly too close to the sun. Not that she thought Peg’s wings were constructed from wax, although they could be. The feathers had looked and felt real enough, but how were they affixed to the framework, and what constituted the frame? Metal and hinges? How did the wings attach to Peg? How did Peg make them flap or know when to glide?
Blast
.
The mystery of it all taxed her being. Needing to focus on something else, Amelia hurried back to her workspace. Upon a second and more intense look at the mangled heap,
she blew out a breath, acknowledging the great challenge before her. “What a bloody mess.”
Whilst sorting through the rubble, she wondered how her brothers were faring in their quest, then just as quickly shoved them from her mind. She wished them success. Truly she did. One significant find was all the family needed. But that did not dim her personal determination. Surely the Darcys weren’t the only ones vying for the jubilee prize. What if the Jubilee Science Committee was ultimately presented with a dozen inventions of historical significance? Or fifty? Or a hundred? Who determined the scale of significance? The committee? The queen? Unlike Prince Albert, rest his soul, Her Majesty was not a great proponent of science. Would she recognize the importance of a da Vinci ornithopter?
Amelia snuffed that line of thought. Second-guessing her invention of choice was fruitless. Besides, the ornithopter was of vast interest and significance to her. And she knew where to look for it. Peeling off her scarves and coat, she pushed up her sleeves, nabbed her tool bag, and immersed herself in the resurrection of Bess. Her restless mood instantly settled.
Sunlight poured through two concave windows, spreading warmth and light. Time passed in an intense blur. She had no grasp of the hour or the physical toll. She simply worked. Although there was nothing simple about the process.
Amelia sat back on her haunches at one point, acknowledging a throbbing at her temples, an ache in her back. Her brain hurt as badly as her body. She’d drawn on memories. Her father’s words and musings. Her recollection of the building process. Since she hadn’t been present during all of Papa’s working hours, she was not aware of his every move. Thus she felt as though there were missing pieces to this puzzle. Not to mention she was working with damaged goods. Although Mr. O’Donnell had provided her with some pristine raw materials.
Amelia had no illusions. The engineer had not acted
out of kindness so much as desperation. He probably thought that if she did reconstruct Bess, she’d abandon the
Maverick
and fly off under her own power and command in order to privately secure her “treasure.”
Good riddance
, she could hear him say. As it happened, she did not relish having to share even a percentage of the jubilee prize, and truth be known, part of her harbored the ugly possibility that Tucker might try to steal the invention for himself. What had Axel said?
When it comes to money, he’s a hardheaded bastard
. Bothersome, that. Still, she’d rather contend with Tucker than Dunkirk. Also, the
Maverick
would travel much faster to Italy than her kitecycle. It would provide greater protection were Dunkirk to sniff out her trail. All that considered, Bess was merely Amelia’s mode of escape should there be an emergency.
Exhausted, she dragged a hand over her face, disgusted with her pitifully slow progress. She’d tinkered and corrected damage to the main engine, and because of Mr. O’Donnell, she had new canvas for the wings. But the wrought-iron frame of the tandem velocipede was bent beyond her personal ability to repair. As were the iron tires. The wooden spokes of the wheels and the skeletal frame of the kite wing had suffered severe fractures. “Crikey.”
“Twin-cylinder double-acting engine?” Tucker hunkered down beside her and pointed out various parts. “What about those connecting rods?”
Caught up in her frustration, she hadn’t heard his approach. Now his presence filled every particle of the spacious room, making her nerves jangle and her heart dance. She could scarcely breathe. “Designed to run directly to the rear axle.”
“Fire tube boiler?”
“Originally fitted behind the rear seat. Doubles as a water tank.”
“Heat?”
“Provided by crushed coal. Kept a backup supply in
augmented saddlebags.” She shrugged, sighed. “Those appear to be missing.”
“Easily replaced. You mentioned rocket fuel.”
“Auxiliary power. Used for extra thrust. Takeoff only.”
“Clever.”
“Papa’s idea. He—” Her breath caught; her chest ached. “I don’t know how to re-create that part. I don’t…The frame and wheels…”
“Also replaceable.”
“Arrogant to think I could salvage Bess working with these original parts alone.”
“Not arrogant. Optimistic. Hopeful. I admire that.”
She cast him a sideways glance. “You do?”
Tucker nodded, then indicated the engine. “Impressed with what you’ve done.”
“You’re patronizing me.”
“Not my style.” He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “You didn’t sleep well last night. You must be exhausted.”
Had she tossed and turned with her nightmares? She didn’t ask. She had no desire to discuss the troubled dreams regarding her father. “I don’t know what you mean—”
“Then never mind.” He gestured to Bess. “You’ve accomplished enough for today. Make a list of supplies and I’ll see you have what’s needed.”
She looked up into his mesmerizing gaze, her body tingling in recollection of their lovemaking. “You’re making it difficult for me to be angry with you.”
He quirked a grin and stroked her burning cheek. “What have I done to earn your ire this morning, Flygirl?”
“It’s what you didn’t do. An invitation to accompany you to Château de Malmaison would have been appreciated.”
“But unwise. The fewer people who know you’re with me, the greater our chances of outwitting Dunkirk.” He studied her with an enigmatic expression. “And anyone else who may have designs on you.”
“No one else knows of my agenda. Mother and Concetta know of my general destination, but they do not know what I’m after.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyone who reads the newspapers knows about the global contest honoring Queen Victoria. You’re related to the Time Voyager; hence assumptions will be made. Figure that puts you in a dicey position.”
Amelia tensed. “You think I know the whereabouts of something having to do with a time machine?”
“Briscoe Darcy’s time machine or some aspect thereof. Given who you are, Amelia, it’s a natural conclusion.”
She snorted, feigning astonishment whilst scrambling to snuff his suspicions. From the preachings of Papa, not to mention the upheaval instigated by the Peace Rebels, Amelia well knew the detrimental effects of time traveling. She felt bound by a duty to mankind as well as a promise to Papa to make sure that aspect remained hidden.
“So I’m wrong?” Tucker prodded.
“Briscoe was long gone by the time I was born.”
“He could have shared relevant information with your father—”
“He didn’t.” She waited for lightning to strike her down and cursed her burning cheeks.
“Perhaps another member of the family.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
He angled his head. “Alienated from the rest of the Darcy clan?”
Not a comfortable subject, but preferable to time travel. “I’ve never met my aunts or uncles.” Or cousins or any of their offspring. They did not visit; nor did they write. A black sheep of sorts, Papa had lost touch with extended family long ago. It was a subject that had made her normally gregarious father sad, so Amelia had written off her relatives. To her knowledge, her brothers had done the same. Odd how she’d never felt isolated until this moment.
“Sensitive topic?”
“Not really,” she lied, then avoided his gaze by returning her tools to her pocketed canvas bag. “After the invasion of the Peace Rebels and learning that Briscoe had indeed appeared in the future only to disrupt our time, life for a Darcy—every Darcy—became most complicated.” She frowned, feeling prickly regarding their infamous relation—someone Papa had admired. Someone who had cast a shadow over Papa all of his inspired but unremarkable life. “Let us just say that those related to the Time Voyager quickly tired of being hounded. Either people damned us for playing an unwitting part in the Peace War, or they tried to coerce or bribe us into sharing pertinent information regarding Briscoe’s time machine. Various factions of those related to my father’s distant cousin scattered to the four winds years ago in search of serenity, Mr. Gentry. So, yes, I am alienated from the rest of the Darcy clan.”
“I’ve upset you.”
Before she could respond, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. A tender apology then as she melded against him—a kiss meant to arouse. Cradling the sides of her face, he teased open her mouth and suckled her tongue, causing her brain to spin and her body to burn. Delicious wanton desire. Bliss.
Caught off guard by the intensity of her needs, Amelia tangled her fingers into Tucker’s hair and kissed him with fervor. He’d promised to show her more intimacies, various planets, incredible stars.
What if tomorrow never comes?
She wanted him. Here. Now. Filling a dark emptiness and satisfying a ferocious hunger.