The Treasure Hunter's Lady (33 page)

****

“Quarantine? For what?” Abel growled.

The butler held a thin handkerchief over his large nose. His voice sounded stuffy behind it. “No one informed me of the illness, sir. Only that visitors should be turned away at the door.”

“Black plague? Red death? Yellow fever? Allergies to cowboys?”

The faintest smile tipped the butler’s lips. “I wouldn't know about cowboys, sir.”

Abel beat his bowler against his leg. “I've had it. She's going to talk to me, by God.”

The butler started to shut the door. His hankie fluttered to the ground, forgotten. “I'm afraid—”

“You will be if you don't get the hell out of my way.” Abel slapped the bowler on his head and balled his fists. “I don't want to shoot you, but I will.” He pulled his coat back to reveal the pistol at his side.

“Of course, sir. Right this way.” The door opened to allow him entrance.

It had taken long enough. He didn't bother to wipe the snow from his shoes or to remove his coat. He glared at the butler. “Stay here. This is between Miss Farrington and me.”

The butler's eyes rounded. “I wouldn't dream of interfering. You should know that she still has company. They're in the drawing room, but you might exercise some caution. These ladies usually leave her in a bit of a temper.”

Same old Romy. “I learned the hard way most things do.”

He stepped inside, taking in the freshly painted walls and antique furniture. It was a fancy house, suited for the upper-class daughters of respected archeologists, but not the kind of place where Romy would be happy. The woman needed space and clean air. Not to stay shut up in stuffy rooms. Oh, the décor was feminine and frilly enough to make him feel like a clumsy, overgrown oaf, but it was the opposite of Romy’s personality. He’d wager his last cent that she hadn’t picked out a single bauble in the house. Two gilded cherubs holding a clock grinned at him with far too much innocence. Oil paintings of smiling little girls with baskets of flowers and kittens stared at him from the wall. And the cloying scent of flowers filling the hallways almost choked him. The overall effect was too much.

Walking over the plush carpets, he peeked through doorways until he found the parlor. She sat looking into the room, her back ramrod straight. Her hair was tucked up in some kind of roll that left the ends hanging down in curls. It was beautiful, like he remembered. He wanted to run to her, gather her up in his arms and carry her the hell out of here.

The three women facing her all looked at him. The oldest, a horse-faced creature if God ever made one, sent him a scowl. The other two were plain, though they tried to dress it up by wearing colorful gowns and arranging their hair. None of them had the vibrancy that rolled off Romy.

Horse-face bared her teeth. “Pardon me, but who do you think you are, bursting in on a ladies' meeting without announcement as though you own the house?”

Romy turned and grasped the back of the couch she sat on. Her normally fair skin was pale against the black of her mourning dress. Red lips formed an ‘O’ of surprise.

“Bloody hell! What are you doing in my house, Abel?”

“Romancia, language!”

They both ignored the woman. Underneath her shocked expression, he wondered if Romy was as happy to see him as he was to see her.

He drank in her face and ran his eyes over her. She looked thinner and almost frail in her black crepe. “Saving you from yourself. Look at you, skinny as a sick chicken. This house looks like a French whore decorated it.”

The three visitors gasped and one of the girls fanned her face as her color rose.

Romy ignored his observations. “Did Arthur let you in?”

He shrugged and grinned. “You think Arthur really wanted to let me in? Me and Mr. Lighthouser talked him into it.”

“You didn't pull a gun on my staff!”

“You know what they say about the Lighthouser? Clean kill, no mess. A lady told me that. Sweet little thing with red hair streaked with gold, and a figure that'd haunt a man in his sleep. Had some kind of big, godawful bows all over her dress though. It was an abomination. Take her out of it and . . . .” He whistled. “That was a woman.”

Horse-face turned red either from embarrassment or anger, or maybe both. “What is the meaning of this? Romancia, call for Arthur and have him remove this miscreant immediately!”

“Mama, perhaps we should go,” one of the plain girls suggested.

“And leave her to this-this intruder? Girls, go find Arthur and have him summon the police. And stay away until they come. This may get ugly.” Horse-face rose as though she planned to defend Romy. Neither of the girls moved.

Abel sighed. “Can't you get rid of them?”

Romy pursed her lips and picked up an embroidered napkin to twist between her hands. “You look well. How have you been?”

Now she wanted to play the polite stranger. It galled him, but he gave her an answer. “I feel better than I ever have.”

Her blue eyes lifted and locked on his. “And your uncle?”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “He's good. Last I heard he was running Patience ragged. I guess he gave up lab work to go out in the field. If I ever seen another snake again, it’ll be too soon. That old fart can’t get enough of them.”

Romy smiled, but Abel didn't miss the sadness on her face. “Good for him. For your family. Well, as you can see I have a previous engagement. It's rude to ignore company. I have a very busy afternoon ahead of me.”

He gritted his teeth. She was throwing him out for these frothy, swooning females? “Me too. A few weeks in this city and I'm ready to go home. I'm headed back to San Antonio. Van Buren's in town. He’s leaving in,” he took a watch from his pocket and flipped the cover, “an hour, give or take.”

“Thank heaven for certain miracles,” Horse-face muttered.

Romy looked stricken, but then made a sour face. “You have my condolences on what’s bound to be a less than pleasant flight.”

“You want me to give the sky pirate any messages?” He tucked the watch back into his pocket.

She almost rolled her eyes, but stopped before the action was complete. “I'm afraid ladies don't mingle with riffraff like sky pirates. I have a reputation to think of.”

“Reputation.” He shook his head. “That’s why you turned me away so many times? A big, rowdy cowboy might ruin that precious reputation?”

“No one would ever believe you're a cowboy in those clothes.” The smile on her face looked brittle. “No, Abel. That's not it.” Her knuckles turned white over the napkin she clutched. “I promised Papa I'd be a lady and when I'm with you that is the very last thing on my mind. I want to keep my promise.”

Anger welled up in his chest. “So you're just gonna shut yourself away and never be happy?”

 “I'm happy!” The tears running unchecked down her face belied her exclamation.

“You're miserable. I'm miserable. I'm trussed up like some damn turkey so I won't embarrass you in front of the neighbors when I come to call. In front of your high-and-mighty friends here.” He ignored another collective gasp. “But you never want to see me. I've been doing this for weeks—for you.”

“Imogen and her daughters are nice people, Abel. The kind of women that set a good example for the world.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “No one asked you to do anything for me. Least of all dress up and be someone you clearly aren't.”

“No, they didn't. I did it because I love you, dammit. And you love me too. Swallow your pride. Your daddy knew you'd never be a lady. Hell, he didn't want you to be a lady or he'd have sent you to some boarding school instead of letting you run around the world. He as much told me he didn’t give a damn if you ever married, so long as you were happy.”

More tears. “There are rules, even if you don’t want to follow them, about mourning periods and gentlemen callers. Go! Leave me alone.”

He felt guilty for all of three seconds before he made up his mind. “All right, I'll go. I'd hate for Arthur to fetch the law. Or one of your little lady friends to faint.”

She sobbed into the cloth she held, allowing him the opportunity to cross the room and get around the couch. He swept her up and lifted her over his shoulder.

Horse-face let out a shriek. “Where do you think you're taking her, you beast?”

Romy’s small fists pounded against his back. “What are you doing? Put me down! Abel, you can't do this!”

“I believe I can. I'm doing it right now.”

She hiccupped. “Where are you taking me?”

“Texas.”

He tipped his bowler at Romy's guests. “Sorry for the interruption, ladies. Don't worry 'bout Romy, I'll take good care of her, but she probably won't have time to write.”

As he carried his angry reward out of the parlor, he thought he heard one of the girls say, “How romantic!”

****

Seated in a cab, Romy crossed her arms over her chest and refused to speak to Abel. After the initial shock of his actions wore off, she reveled in the warmth his closeness stirred in her. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was headed home. But she couldn't let him know how much it pleased her.

He watched her with a smug smile. “That face would shrivel a lemon, darlin'.”

“You’d frown too if someone said you looked like a chicken and wouldn’t even allow you the time to pack a bag.”

Romy turned away to let him stew on that. She thought she heard him laugh.

They arrived at the docks and he took her hand, leading her to the slip where the
Ursula Ann
waited. Despite her earlier insult to the captain’s ship, she had to fight a happy smile.

Van Buren stared when he saw them, his face as impassive as ever. “About time. I was prepared to leave without you.”

“Took some persuading to get Miz Farrington to agree to the trip.” Abel winked at her.

Her chin tipped up. “He's taken me hostage, Captain. I'd like to report him.”

It was Van Buren's turn to grin. “Sorry, I don’t allow law enforcement aboard my craft. Sky pirate rules.”

She felt the blush burn on her cheeks. “I may have been a bit rude when I called you that.”

Van Buren snorted. “A bit?”

“Yes, Captain. A bit. That's all. Are you going to sail this death trap of an airship, or do I need to do it?”

Abel stepped in. “Don't let her near the wheel, Van Buren. She crashed the last boat we were on together.”

Van Buren scowled. “No passengers touch my wheel. Prepare to take off. And remember, no rocking the ship.”

As the
Ursula Ann
lifted from the dock. Romy leaned against the deck rail and looked down at Boston's snowy streets. “Considering your dislike of air travel, I thought you'd take a train back to Texas.”

“Too crowded for my liking.” Abel stepped up behind her and wrapped her in his arms. “Are you mad because I kidnapped you?”

“No. Although it wasn't very nice of you to insult Imogen and her girls.”

“She made me mad. If I learned one thing from all the traveling we did, it's that you don't need anyone to fight your battles.”

She turned to face him, resting her hands on his shoulders. “Bless her. She was so kind after Papa died.”

Abel frowned. “I'm sorry I couldn't save him, darlin'.”

“It wasn't your fault.” She pursed her lips and prepared to give him news that he would lord over her from now until the end of time. “You're right, you know. He never really wanted me to be like them. He knew that wasn't me. And for all his scowling and gun pointing, I believe he was pleased that we'd gotten together. I think he'd like that you're taking me home.”

It hurt to talk about him in past tense, but Abel's presence made it easier to look into the future.

“I think so, too,” he said, voice rough.

She traced his lips with her finger. “Will you take me on adventures when we get to Texas?”

“Darlin’, every day is gonna be an adventure.” Abel drew her against him and they watched Boston shrink as the ship rose from the dock.

###

About the Author

A life-long love of reading turned Allison Merritt into an indie author who writes historical and fantasy romances, often combining sub-genres. She lives in a small town in the Ozark Mountains with her husband and dogs. When she's not writing or reading, she hikes in national parks and conservation areas.

She graduated from College of the Ozarks in Point Lookout, Missouri with a B.A. in mass communications that's gathering dust after it was determined that she’s better at writing fluff than hard news. Allison is a member of the multi-genre writing group
Ozarks Romance Authors
in Springfield, Missouri. You can visit her on the web at
http://havenovelwilledit.blogspot.com
, on Twitter
@allison_merritt
and on Facebook at
http://facebook.com/allisonmwrites
.

The Treasure Hunter’s Lady
received an honorable mention in the 2011 Weta Nichols Writing Contest sponsored by Ozarks Romance Authors.