Her Sky Cowboy (8 page)

One way or another Bingham would be a global technological kingpin.

“What if this…
elimination
is the wrong
path?” Venus said, jerking Bingham out of his musings and back to plan A.

Mercury raised a brow. “You voice doubt now that we have sealed the pact?”

“Playing devil’s advocate.”

“How can it be the wrong path when it is different?” Saturn asked. “Every change we make carries us farther from what will be if nothing goes unchanged.”

“But the Peace Rebels already altered the course of history by traveling back in time and sharing their knowledge and infecting us with fear, greed, and wonder. What was to be will not be. At least not precisely so.”

“The greater the change,” Bingham said calmly, “the greater the chance of utopia.” He fairly choked on the word, as if he gave a rat’s arse, but the sparks in the others’ eyes urged him on. “Had the Peace Rebels not intervened, the world would be destined for destruction in 1969, blown to smithereens by nuclear bombs. Thirty-one years after the Mods’ invasion, we are not, as you said, what we had once been. In their history books, the four-year transcontinental Peace War did not exist, the American Civil War lasted four, not three years, and Prince Albert, rest his soul, died in 1861 instead of 1869. History has been altered. But has the course of mankind? Knowledge is power, and the more advanced we are, the wiser our actions. If we embrace twentieth-century knowledge now,” Bingham said with more conviction, “we could be populating other planets by 1969. Discovery, not destruction, would be our focus. Living in hope, not fear.”

“Hear, hear!”

They applauded his views, and, for their benefit, Bingham smiled in appreciation. On the inside he was laughing. How gullible these New Worlders were. “Now,” he said, while he had their ear and favor, “as to where to strike, I have a suggestion.”

“Said it before and I’ll say it again: A woman on board is bad luck.”

Tuck pushed aside his plate of food, his appetite slim as a bed slat, and frowned across the table at Axel. “Near as I recollect, that’s the sixth time you’ve mentioned that superstitious crock since we sat down to eat.”

“Yeah, Ax,” Eli groused as he peppered his stew. “Give it a rest.”

The big man who’d escorted Concetta to the safety of a village had returned three hours ago, his normally jovial mood unusually prickly. Eli had yet to shake his irritation. Then again, Tuck thought, Concetta had been as thorny as a bramble, and now Ax was bitchin’ up a dust storm.

“Thing is,” Tuck went on, “that’s a sailor’s myth. We’re not at sea. We’re in air. We’re not sailors; we’re skymen.”

“But this here is a ship.”

“A flying ship,” Eli clarified.

“Mark my words,” Axel said while tossing a handful of salt over his hunched shoulder, “we’re in for some rough weather, thanks to her.”

“Not that I’m siding with Axel,” Doc said, “but Miss Darcy could prove a distraction for the crew. Considering our cargo, we need to be extra vigilant.”

Tuck couldn’t argue with that. Amelia was distracting for a whole lot of reasons.

“All that sass irritates my bowels,” Axel added, then drank deeply from his iron mug.

“That sass might be what makes her a tolerable guest,” Eli said. “Least she’s not fragile.”

“That’s for sure and certain,” Doc remarked.

“Still think you’re funnin’,” Axel said as he tore off a chunk of brown bread. “That piece of metal was wedged deep. She didn’t whine? Or give you hell when you did your mendin’?”

“Not once. No crying either. Nor would she allow me to numb the pain. As I’ve stated before.”

Four times exactly, to Tuck’s recollection.

“Impressive,” said Eli.

To say the least. For the second time in a day, Tuck had been stunned by Amelia’s courage and stubborn determination. He’d been the one to buckle. When he’d seen her blinking back tears, the sweat on her brow, the greenish tint of that creamy white skin, he’d given Birdman a silent order to put her under. Proficient in the Chinese art of acupressure, Birdman had used a mere tap to render her unconscious, putting both Amelia and the men out of their misery. Watching her suffer in unnecessary pain hadn’t been easy.

“Much obliged,” Doc had said, then attacked his work with steadier hands.

That had been hours ago. Presently, Amelia was sleeping in Tuck’s cabin. In his bed. He tried not to dwell on that. Or the vision of her fine bare legs as he’d peeled off those trousers so that Doc could dress the wound. Ridding her of that corset had almost robbed him of his good sense and manner. She’d been clad only in that low-cut blouse and those brief bloomers. All that skin. The lean curve of her thighs and calves. The generous swell of her breasts. Distraction be damned—Amelia Darcy was fast becoming an obsession.

“She’ll rally, right, Doc?” Eli asked.

“She’ll rally.”

Tuck agreed, but again held silent. He didn’t want to talk or think about Amelia Darcy. Superstition had nothing to do with it. His gut warned of a large dollop of trouble,
and his gut was always right. The one time he’d chosen to ignore it had cost him dearly. Family. Home. Reputation.

“Here’s a question for you,” Axel said. “You said Miss Darcy needs to get to Italy on account of a dyin’ granddad. According to that article reporting her pa’s accident, that girl has two older brothers.” He raised a suspicious brow. “Why ain’t they travelin’ with her?”

“Inexcusable,” Eli said in between bites. “Don’t they care about seein’ their dyin’ kin and protecting their sister from scalawags?”

Axel shook his head. “Wouldn’t leave my little sister to fend for herself. No way, no how.”

Tuck didn’t react. Not visibly. But everyone else around the galley table did. Forks and mugs stilled midmouth. No one spoke. No one moved. Tuck needed air and he needed it now. The legs of his chair scraped across the wooden floor, breaking the silence. “Time for me to relieve StarMan.”

“Oh, hell. Damn, Marshal, I didn’t mean—”

He cut off Axel with a raised hand. “I know.”

“Nice going,” Eli muttered under his breath.

Axel cleared his throat, then stood. “Guess I should be getting back to work, too. Turbine’s been acting up. Thanks for the hot stew, Doc. Real treat.”

“Sure.” Doc stood and reached out as Tuck passed, then thought better of it. “Barely touched your food, Marshal.”

“No reflection on the cook.”

“Fruit and nut scones for dessert. Picked them up yesterday—”

“Maybe later.” Tuck pulled on his overcoat and left the cramped and stifling galley, striving to keep his stride measured and calm. Typically he took his evening meal at the table in his cabin, a time of solace as he read through literature and periodicals of interest, but since Amelia was sleeping there…

He was nearing the ladder leading topside when he spied her: hobbling along at a slug’s pace, shoulder against
the wall for stability. She looked vulnerable and beautiful and two seconds from falling on her pretty face. He wanted to thrash and ravage her at the same time.

“What are you doing?” he asked, bolstering Amelia by the shoulders.

“Looking for you.”

“To give me hell, no doubt. Something you can do in my cabin.” He frowned when she stiffened under his touch. Obstinate as a mule.

“I do not wish to return to the cabin. I need fresh air.” She felled him with those intense blue eyes. “And an explanation.”

Well, hell.

At least she’d had the presence of mind to pull on her duster, covering the skin that tempted good men to do wrong. “Icy and windy on deck,” he said, intimating that the duster alone was insufficient against the elements. Hoping she’d reconsider instead of risking her already compromised health.

She produced her fur-trimmed goggles and a black felt disk that, when popped, expanded into a worn top hat. Smirking, she pulled them on.

Tuck challenged her sass with a raised brow and a stipulation. “Only if I carry you.”

“I don’t—”

“Back to the cabin then.”

“Insufferable sod,” she mumbled under her breath.

“I’ve been called worse, darlin’.”

Mindful of her bandaged thigh, he lifted her off her feet and up the ladder. To her credit, she didn’t fuss.

Tuck hit the deck and cursed a primal twitch down south. Even the frigid night air failed to cool his illicit thoughts. She felt good in his arms. Right. Then again, he hadn’t been with a woman in more than three weeks. Maybe any woman would feel right.

“I feel better already,” Amelia said, breathing deeply.

“That makes one of us.” He looked for a place to ditch his precious cargo.

“I’d prefer a view from the bow,” she said as he prepared to set her on a rolled canvas.

“I’ve got better things to do than tote you around, Flygirl.”

“Then put me down. I’ll have my say, then make my own way.”

“You’re just dyin’ to bust open those stitches.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I doubt it.” Irritated, he whisked her forward, ignoring StarMan’s questioning gaze as they moved past the dimly lit cockpit.

“I don’t know why you’re so cross,” Amelia huffed. “I’m the one who’s been wronged.”

“How so?”

“I specifically stated I wanted to be awake and aware, and you had me knocked out.”

“I call the shots on this boat.”

“Is that your idea of an apology?”

“No, darlin’, it ain’t.”

“That’s another thing. I insist you refrain from such intimacies. Endearments should be reserved for family and sweethearts, neither of which we are.”

“Next?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You removed my trousers.”

“Nothin’ personal,” he lied while settling her on a barrel that allowed her to peer over the gunwale. “Doc needed to bandage that leg proper-like. Don’t worry. Birdman left the room prior to the…unveiling.”

Her cheeks flushed and she looked away. “I can only hope you were gentleman enough to avert your eyes.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, donning his own goggles against the strong winds. “I’ve never been one to turn away from a curiosity.”

She cast him a furtive glance. “You considered my…my bare parts curious?”

His lip twitched at a hint of insecurity. A new and welcome twist. “Your legs are lovely, Miss Darcy. Your bloomers, what there was of them, are curious. Barely enough fabric to cover your lovely—”

“That’s quite enough,” she said, cheeks flushed. “And never mind my…”

“Unmentionables?”

“Precisely.”

Her falcon swooped in and settled close by, as if sensing she needed saving—if only from an improper conversation. Tuck watched, mesmerized, as she smoothed delicate fingers over the bird’s feathered head. He’d handled a canary and other such domesticated fowl, but never a falcon. He wanted to cover Amelia’s hand with his own, to join her in stroking the majestic, albeit altered beauty, but he refrained. Her relationship with this falcon was personal. Tuck hesitated to intrude. Not to mention that holding Amelia’s hand would be as inappropriate as discussing her bloomers. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the way she lovingly stroked that bird. He imagined those fingers stroking him and…

Christ.

“I know Leo is an oddity,” Amelia said, breaking in on his randy thoughts, “but he is a valiant and good creature. Promise me Mr. O’Donnell won’t hurt him.”

Her quiet plea spoke to the deepest part of him. “Axel’s more bluster than bite. Except in dire circumstances,” he added. “Leo’s safe.” He’d see to it. Tuck had a long and deep appreciation of birds. As a boy he’d been obsessed with the way they glided through the air. He couldn’t think of anything more thrilling than soaring through the open sky. Even now. However, Leo was a source of fascination for more than his ability to fly. Tuck wondered about his artificial parts. Who had made and applied them? How did they
work? How did metal function with muscle? When the time was right, he’d ask. For the moment Tuck pulled back, reminding himself that Amelia, though feisty, was recovering from what would have been in the hands of a lesser pilot a fatal wreck. Instead of engaging her in deep conversation, he’d do better to snuff this meeting and escort her to bed. The only thing stopping him was her reverent appreciation of the view. Gazing over the bow, rosy lips curved in a smile, wind ruffling the tendrils that had escaped her messy coiled braids and tattered magician’s hat…Amelia Darcy was a glorious sight.

“I’ve never flown at night. There is an added degree of danger,” she said in a thoughtful voice. “As if navigating whilst wearing a blindfold.”

“No different from sailing a ship on darkened seas.” He moved in, his arm brushing hers as he pointed up. “We navigate by the stars and astronomical compendiums, an instrument that—”

“I know what it does, Mr. Gentry. I own one myself.”

“Of course, you do.”

“Probably not as fancy as yours.”

“I’d wager not. Doesn’t mean it’s less dependable.”

“Are you humoring me, sir?”

“Not at all, miss.” He spoke close to her ear, breathing in her distinct scent. “In addition to conventional navigational means,” he plowed on, “tonight we’re blessed with the light of a nearly full moon. Truth told, we prefer travelin’ when the sun’s asleep. Less activity. Less chance of…unwanted encounters.”

“You mean air constables.” She quirked a wry grin. “Are you carrying illegal cargo, Mr. Gentry?”

“Never mind my cargo, Miss Darcy.”

“According to the
Informer
, part of the reason you’re able to circumvent ‘unwanted encounters’ is because of your customized blasterbeefs. I’m still uncertain as to how they operate.”

“As am I.”

She cast him a perplexed look. “But you designed—”

“With the help of an expert in the field. I’m a pilot, not an engineer.”

“Is it true you outmaneuvered Frank and Jesse James in an aerial showdown?”

“Read a lot of dreadfuls, do you?”

“I also enjoy daily newspapers, scientific periodicals, and materials related to past and future aeronautics.” She stiffened in offense and gave him her back. “I suppose you prefer your women docile and ladylike. The delicate sort who read about fashion and etiquette.”