The Treasure Hunter's Lady (14 page)

The plank swayed again.

“Let's take this below and work out our differences,” he coaxed, wishing he dared let go of the rope long enough to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants.

“We've established there is nothing between us. Leave me alone. Don't try to use guilt to get me down. Papa is too far away to be bothering me about what tasks are suitable for women to perform right now.” She took another short step toward him. “I won’t let you do it either.”

He backed up, keeping his eyes on the board. The ropes groaned as their weight shifted. Abel swallowed hard as fresh perspiration drenched him. “I'm sorry.”

Romy scoffed. “You don't know why.”

“Because I have to find the Diamond. It should be so simple. Find the damned thing and go home. Instead, you're here and everything is complicated.”

A scowl carved lines on her face. “This is my fault?”

Feeling awkward as well as terrified of the empty space between him and the ground, he shook his head. “No. No, no. I mean you don't think I should hunt for it. Believe me, if I knew of any other way to . . . get around my problem, I'd do it. You don't know how much time I've put into this. How much I wish it hadn't happened. That we'd never laid eyes on that fang.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You and who else wish what hadn't happened?”

Shit. “No one. Can we, you and I . . . .” He gestured at the deck.

“You insist on keeping your bloody secrets. Go on down. I'm through with all this mythical nonsense. I wash my hands of it. And you.”

Romy turned her back on him, all her weight transferred to one leg.

“Rom—”

The
Ursula Ann
lurched. Abel lunged and grabbed Romy around the waist. The world tipped as the board slipped from beneath his feet. Her arms shot around his neck and restricted his airflow. For a small chunk of forever, the only things filling his vision were the brilliant blue sky and white, fluffy clouds. Then his stomach clenched. The gray-brown deck and a gaggle of astonished faces rushed up at them. Tendrils of Romy's hair escaped the braid and stung his face.

The deck stopped just shy of crushing their bones to powder. Or rather, the safety rope stopped them from slamming into the wood. The breath shot out of Abel's lungs. He gasped like a beached sea creature.

Romy relaxed her hold on him and slipped to the deck, nimble as a dancer. He saw himself reflected in her eyes, a big, hapless spider hanging from a surprisingly delicate strand of rope.

He unstrapped himself and landed with a lot less grace than she had. His knees buckled, but Van Buren grabbed his shoulder before he lost face with the crew. There wasn't much chance of keeping it with Romy around.

“What in the name of God was that about?” Van Buren demanded.

Romy flipped her braid over her shoulder. “There were two small holes in the canvas. Unless I'm badly mistaken, someone intentionally punctured your balloon. I went up to do a patch job. Some of your passengers don't fancy falling to their deaths and exploding. They'd rather meet their end splattered across the deck.”

Van Buren glared at her, then at the balloon, squinting as though he worried she'd caused more damage than she'd fixed. “I have an experienced mechanic to make any necessary repairs.”

“I only pointed it out to them because I found this on the deck.” She reached into her pocket and brought several long, slender shards of glass with pointed ends like a needle. “It appears someone thought puncturing holes in the only thing keeping us airborne would be a lark. I'm sure your mechanic would have done a fine job on the repairs, however these gentlemen,” she indicated the crew, “insisted he was too much of a woman to climb up there and do it. I thought I'd show them how much of a woman it takes to do such a simple task.”

Van Buren's tanned skin burned red and his glare fell on the crew. The men hung their heads and looked ashamed. A few cleared their throats while others made off, muttering about chores. The gawky Elliot met Abel's gaze, but his eyes darted away as quickly as they met.

Abel's relief was short-lived. Instead of celebrating his continuing life, he was ready to make good on his threat to throw Romy across his knees.

He straightened himself. “We’ll take our leave, Captain. I'd like a word, if you have time, Romy.”

“I'm afraid I have other plans. Perhaps—”

“In the cabin. Right now.”

She slipped the satchel over her head. It landed at Van Buren's feet with a clank. She threw a scalding look at Abel before she swept toward the lower deck. The remaining crew parted before her.

The second she vanished into the stairwell, Van Buren's expression gave away his disbelief. “I may forget returning her to Maggard. No man on this vessel voluntarily repairs the balloon until we make port. Or when we’re on the verge of exploding.”

Abel scowled. “Don't give her any ideas.”

Chapter Twelve

The murderous look in Abel's eyes meant he full well intended to give her a tongue-lashing. He stood in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest, and anger glowing in his whiskey-colored eyes.

Abel wasn't happy. But then, neither was Romy. Who was he to interfere with her actions? A small spark of curiosity burned inside her. He'd said he cared what happened to her and she wanted to know if it was the truth.

Rather than let him start lecturing her about how stupid she'd been—quite ignorant, given the shift in the wind, but she’d feared no one would respect her if she went up with a safety device—she blurted, “Tell me again.”

“What?” he growled.

“Why you care whether or not something happens to me. Because of my father? You seem to know him so well.”

His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. With a quick flick of his wrist, he shut the door and advanced. The heels of his boots made sharp taps against the floor. “I
do
care. It’s not about promises I’ve made to anyone else, it’s not because I’m trying to keep you safe from the crew.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut her off. “It’s not because you’re a woman.”

She gazed at the floor. “You’d be the first man to admit that.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt because you’re too stubborn to listen. You're completely out of your mind. Were you hoping to get Maggard’s attention with this stunt? Hoping it would get back to him that you’re just fine on your own? It's no wonder he wants to marry you off to someone as boring as Christensen's nephew! He probably considers it a miracle that you haven't killed yourself yet.”

Abel turned on the ball of his foot and paced back to the doorway before he swung around again.

Romy swallowed hard. He wasn't the first person to accuse her of madness. “I-I wasn't trying to do anything like that. I thought as no one else wanted the job, I might as well—”

Abel's eyes pierced hers, freezing the words in her throat.

“Maggard wants to protect you, but you’re impulsive, reckless. A few days with you and I'm at my wit's end.”

She flinched at his description. Was that how Abel saw her? How Papa thought of her? An empty-headed woman with no thoughts other than her own selfishness? She sank onto the bed and lowered her chin into her hands. “You're right.”

He was halfway back to the door when she squeezed the words out. “What?”

“You're right. I only ever think of myself. Look at him, back at doing what he loves most and leaving me behind so I can't cause any more trouble. Marrying me to Woefield so I can't recreate that disaster in the Amazon.” Tears stung the back of her eyes as she stared up at Abel. “I wrongly assumed I could do better than him at finding your Diamond.”

His expression sobered and he stopped pacing. “I didn't mean that.”

“No,” she interrupted. “Do you remember hearing about our trip to the Amazon? What happened to all those men?”

He hesitated. “Just what made the papers. He never spoke of it to . . . in public.”

“Those men died because of me.” She heard them, as clear as if they were right in front of her. The terror-filled screams of dying men and the blood-curdling howls of angry savages.

“We were traveling along the river, collecting samples of plants and a few animals. Our guide assured us we could pass the night in one of the villages. Friendly Indians he said, as long as I didn’t let them know I was a woman. They didn't see many Europeans, much less women. We arrived in time for their harvest feast. They fed us and entertained us with stories. The women and children giggled over the boatmen's clothing and facial hair. It seemed so exciting, so exotic. Until they brought out a naked young woman.” Romy hugged herself, squeezing her eyes closed as she tried to ward off the memory. “She was no more than a child. I'll never forget her eyes. They were huge and frightened in her little brown face.”

The acrid scent of wood smoke seemed to fill her nose. The image of long shadows stretched and bobbed across the ground as the natives danced around their fire were burned into her mind. “They forced the girl to lie down on this large rock table. An altar. The chief raised a knife and I realized they intended to sacrifice her to ensure their crops would be fertile again in the coming year.”

Abel dropped down beside her, watching her with an intense expression, but he didn't speak.

“I couldn’t let them to do it. I yelled for him to stop and jumped between him and that poor girl. One of the warriors grabbed me and I lost my hat. Can you imagine what they must have thought, all this stupid red hair falling out from beneath it?” She shook the end of her braid. “That surely I'd come from the heavens to bless their land. They had no intentions of allowing me to leave.”

She trembled, remembering the short-fingered, callused hands pulling at her jacket, yanking out strands of her hair.

Abel's arm slid around her shoulder. “It's all right,” he whispered in her ear. “You don't have to tell me the rest if you don't want to.”

The words tumbled out of her like water over stones in a creek. After holding it in so long, she was relieved to be able to tell someone. “I saved that unfortunate girl from sacrifice, but put the rest of us in danger. Papa pulled out his carbine and ordered the guide to tell them to leave me alone. Someone fired a shot and one of the natives threw a spear. There were shouts from both sides I'll never forget. I hear those cries in my sleep.”

His hold on her tightened.

“In the end, nine of our men were stabbed to death, including our native guide. We fled without our supplies, without our finds. Just pushed up the river as fast as we could with those angry men pursuing us for miles. There was no time—no chance of recovering the bodies.”

His arms locked around her and pulled her to his broad chest. He stroked her hair as she pressed her face against him, inhaling the leather and cedar scent of his shirt. Her arms wrapped around his chest. The warmth of his body grounded her. “Have you ever felt so helpless, so out of control? The world keeps turning and you're powerless to stop it.”

“All the time,” he murmured. “I'm sorry you had to see that.”

“I'm so selfish, wanting Papa to return to his explorations. What's to keep another disaster from happening? No wonder he's so angry with me these days. I ruined everything.”

“He's not angry with you,” Abel soothed. “He's probably mad at himself for letting you get drawn into that kind of situation. What would he have done if he lost you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. “He could go back to the museum without everyone whispering what a disgrace his daughter is.”

“Suppose that's not what he wants. Maybe he just wants you to settle down and be happy.” He stroked her hair, sending tingles down her back.

“His idea of happiness and my idea are as different as horses and cattle. I can’t even stomach the idea of being married to Woefield.” She frowned up at Abel, wishing she could stay in his embrace forever. “He knows that and he doesn’t care.”

Abel thumbed a tear away from her face. “I’m sure he thinks Woefield can provide for you. You’d never want for anything.”

Except she’d have to give up all of her dreams. “I should go back to Boston when we dock. A good daughter would do the one thing her father asks of her. He hasn't been the same since we returned. It's my fault. I owe him this. I wish we could come to some kind of compromise, he and I.”

“Maybe someday you will.”

Though she hated to, she pushed out of the circle of his arms. “Sorry to bother you with that. The past is done. I suppose I ought to consider this trip my last hurrah. From the little I've learned about Van Buren, I expect he'll have the law enforcement waiting to greet me at the docks.”

Abel sighed. “I know what you mean, having the whole world against you. In the end, it would be easier to go along with what everyone else believes, but you have to do what you believe is right.” He gave her a meaningful look.

If she didn't know better, she'd say he'd just given her permission to carry on with trying to stop him.

“Does this mean our truce is on again?” she asked.

“So long as you promise no more acrobatics.” He gave her a stern look then softened it with a smile that erased the strain on his face.

“I promise.” She attempted to sound sincere.

His smile grew and he leaned closer. “That's a bad disguise, darlin’.”

His mouth was distractingly close. “W-what do you mean?”

“You can look so angelic and at the same time frustrate me something fierce.”

“It's because of my hair,” she said, tearing her eyes away from his lips. Why didn't he look away?

“Your hair?” Abel cocked a brow and twirled a wild curl around his finger, giving it a gentle tug. The sensation sent a thrill down Romy’s spine.

“It’s the one thing Papa insisted I keep to remind me I’m a woman. I can hide everything, make myself inconspicuous, but when it’s trying to escape the braid, well, it’s a dead giveaway that I’m female. It seems to have some hold over men.”

“Romy, believe me, it ain’t your hair. A man would have to be blind to think you’re anything less than a woman. There have been some fierce wars fought over ladies a lot less attractive than you.”

“The trouser-wearing type?” she asked, unable to keep from laughing. He didn’t laugh, but looked so serious, she thought something was wrong. “Abel?”