The Treasure Hunter's Lady
Allison Merritt
Copyright 2012 by Alice Cummings
Smashwords Edition
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ISBN 978-0755353774
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To my husband and mom who love me on gloomy days and sunny ones too.
To the two people I miss most in this world who believed I’d achieve my dreams and did everything they could to help me.
To D’Ann and Brenda who talked me through the high and lows of this adventure and to all my writer friends who offered support, encouragement and ideas.
I’d be hiding in my closet without all of you.
Chapter One
Boston – 1884
Abel Courte leaned against the straight-as-a-pin picket fence and stared up at the stars, brilliant white against the black curtain of sky. Night hid the fragrant summer roses blossoming around the backyard of the cottage. The scent masked the pungent aroma of people living too close together and garbage left to rot in the alleys.
A thousand miles away, the same stars were shining down on San Antonio, Texas. Homesickness rolled over Abel like ocean waves. He'd give anything to be back there helping his aunt tend her garden, working side-by-side with his uncle or playing a game with his twin cousins. On a map, Boston wasn't so far from Texas, but it might as well be another world.
A shuffling noise made him reach for the Bennett Special laser pistol tucked into the holster beneath his canvas duster. The hammer fell into place with a quiet snick, followed by the high-pitched whine of the magnetic core warming up. Not a stealthy device, but he liked that the gun let opponents know that he wasn't unarmed. It was so much lighter and easier to use than a traditional firearm—unless he was faced with a gunfight. He swallowed the idea. There was no reason for anyone to suspect what he was doing here except the man he'd come to meet.
“Mr. Courte?”
The voice belonged to a tired old man, not the adventurer Abel was expecting. But there was no mistaking the British accent.
“Dr. Farrington.” His statement exuded confidence he didn't feel.
A match flared before Farrington lowered it to a candlewick. Soft light illuminated the immediate area while keeping the meeting discreet. Harsh shadows darkened the archeologist's face like a death mask. “Maggard, if you please.”
Abel nodded. His eyes fell on a package wrapped in brown butcher paper in the doctor's hands. “Just Abel then.” He reached for the parcel automatically, but drew back short of snatching it. “Is that it?”
He didn't miss the tremble in the older man's hands as he held out the offering. His own hands almost matched shake for shake. Maggard transferred the parcel to Abel. The package was lighter than it looked. Not as thick either, though he couldn't rightly say what he expected.
Maggard peered into the darkness, maybe deliberately ignoring the exchange. “Is it with you?”
As hard as his heart was beating, he'd have sworn a herd of cattle was tearing through town. Like something with a power of its own, the talisman beneath his shirt seemed to throb.
“I couldn't leave it in Texas.” He didn't want to say the thing urged him to take it back to where it had come from. That was ridiculous.
“I understand,” Maggard answered. Something about his face told Abel he meant that. “How is the marking?”
The dark tattoo curling around his bicep and along his shoulder seemed to squirm against his skin. He resisted the urge to scratch at it. “Slow moving, but on a steady course. You?”
“Nearly reached its destination.” Maggard let out a ragged sigh. “If I had any idea of the consequences, I'd have told that bastard where he could—” His voice cracked. The lines on his face deepened. “Everything I'm doing now is to protect my daughter. I'm afraid he'll try to use her in this. I only want her to be safe. I'm sure you understand.”
Abel thought of his family back home and nodded.
“One of us has to end this, Abel. Now you know everything I know. Though I wonder if he knows something we don't.”
“I'm going to find out,” Abel promised. He paused. “Do you think it's really out there? The lair, I mean?”
“The venom came from somewhere. After all the oddities and wonders that have crossed my path, it seems entirely possible that the Horned Serpent exists. There are many tales of serpents in hundreds of cultures. I think we've all discovered this is something more than a story. Only a fool would deny what's happening to him.”
Abel fought a bout of skepticism. It seemed surreal that he was having this conversation with a man he'd never met before. “I guess.”
The candle flickered and died. “Be careful, young man. You've just made a powerful enemy.”
****
Romy Farrington feared she’d suffer from a permanent squint if she didn’t get out of the overly pink parlor soon. Pink cushions, pink silk walls, pink floral accent rugs and—heaven forbid—pink horsehair settees. If one enjoyed strolls in the parks during summer sunsets when the pinks were burning brightest, one might be able to endure Imogen DuGuard’s parlor. Romy didn’t have an issue with sunsets, just the eight by ten foot room where she was currently trapped. The colors distracted her and made it difficult to remember what she’d been talking about.
Imogen stared at her over her teacup. “I don't understand.”
“You don't . . . understand?” Romy repeated.
A troubled look settled over Imogen’s horse-like face. “I can't fathom your obsession with wading knee-deep in water filled with bloodthirsty parasites. In trousers, no less. How do you ever hope to marry well if you don't present yourself as a lady?”
Romy looked to her other companions, Imogen's daughters, Sara and Wincie. Both avoided her eyes. They were plain, spiritless creatures who looked almost identical despite a year's difference in their ages. Romy wasn't sure which one was older. Wincie refilled her teacup while Sara feigned interest in a nearby vase of flowers. Not that she'd expected any help from them.
Neither woman ever acted out of the ordinary—perfect ladies through and through. If she had been raised like them, she might feel shame at the mention of dressing like a man. As it was, she only felt frustrated that she was forced to endure their company. To brush up on her manners, to learn proper etiquette for holding teas, to discover the art of attracting wealthy bachelors so she might someday marry well. Twenty-one years old and her father, Dr. Maggard Farrington, sent her to study up on such things. Even though he knew Imogen despised her. Romy had the suspicion money was changing hands for these “lessons”.
“We weren't always wading through water. Sometimes it was sand or snow,” she defended.
Imogen's right eyebrow lifted a fraction. Her skeptical face didn’t change.
Determined not to fold under the stare, Romy continued. “Manners aren't important in the wilderness. The discovery is at the heart of the matter. One never knows what one will find—a new plant species, a mother spider monkey caring for her infant, even a long-lost treasure. It's worth the small discomforts to see your name on a placard in the Smithsonian Institute.”
Imogen dabbed at her wide mouth with a linen napkin. “How many placards bear your name, Romancia?”
Sara tittered, but the sound died at her mother's slight frown.
Romy opened her mouth, but her throat clogged. The question was designed to put her in her place. Her hostess already knew the answer. “Well, none, but Papa—”
“So you see, a lady has no business in adventuring,” Imogen interrupted. “Her heart should be in her home. When you marry, your main concern will be preparing a comfortable, soothing environment for your husband.”
The sisters nodded in unison like marionettes. Romy suppressed a shudder. There was not one particular place she felt comfortable calling home. Her home was the world, free for the taking. Trying to get women like her companions to comprehend her life before the move to Boston was like trying to teach a bull to walk upright. Hopeless.
Wincie looked up from her tea. “I understand when Andrew Christensen returned to town, he brought his nephew, who is also the heir to his business empire. I suspect he's every bit as dashing as his uncle.”
Dashing to the DuGuards meant obscenely wealthy.
Imogen nodded. “Samuel Woefield. He’s the sort of man you ought to set your sights on, Romancia. Think how proud your father would be to introduce you as Mrs. Woefield.”
Romy's mouth went dry. She couldn't imagine spending the remainder of her life with a boring businessman entertaining throngs of elitists clamoring for Woefield's attention and money.
Sara sighed happily. “Can you imagine marrying a man as rich as Mr. Woefield? It would be like marrying royalty. Oh, the wedding and all the guests!” She pressed her hand to her breast as if to calm her pounding heart. Romy resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
Wincie shook her head. Wisps of hair, a dull shade of blonde, swirled around her face. “Sara, it's our duty to introduce Romancia to Mr. Woefield. Her father is an important man in England and just as popular with the intellectuals in Boston. We must see to her needs. There are plenty more successful men in the world.”
Sara looked ashamed and offered an apologetic smile to the room. “Of course, Wincie. Romancia is an honored guest.”
Because of Papa. If she'd only been born a son, no one would question her desire to follow in his footsteps. No one would order her to marry a stuffy old goat. It was a pity that her mother had given her father a daughter.
The clock announced the hour. Romy counted the chimes and her agitation dissipated. Before the last percussion faded, she rose from the horsehair settee. She hoped the smile she pasted across her face reflected regret, but more likely it gave away her relief.
“I must be going, ladies. Madame Claire expects me to pick up my gown for this evening's festivities.”
Sara and Wincie adopted identical looks of disappointment. Imogen frowned with unmasked disapproval.
“You could send a servant to fetch it,” Wincie suggested. “Stay a bit longer. You have the most interesting stories.”
Imogen glared daggers at her daughter.
“I believe she needs to adjust the hem the tiniest bit.” The lie hadn’t completely formed in her mind before she got it out.
“Have you considered another seamstress, Romancia?” Imogen asked.
Romy frowned. “Should I?”
The older woman eyed Romy's current gown. “Madame Claire seems to be stuck in the past by several decades.”
Sheer strength of will kept Romy from inspecting her dress for discrepancies. The pattern had come from her mother's things. Helena Farrington, a famous pianist in her time, had designed many gowns before her passing. While Madame Claire argued the color clashed with her client's red-gold locks, the sketch had shown it dusky pink and Romy would have it no other way, though she considered herself lucky not to have gotten lost amid the décor in Imogen’s parlor. She couldn’t help running her hand down the damask. Maybe the gown's hoop skirt and rows of drop lace—sans bustle—were a bit out of date, but if she had to wear a dress, it would be on her terms.
Imogen and her daughters wore dresses cut to fit their slender forms. Bustles rounded out their figures and emphasized their whittled waists. The latest fashions from London and Paris. Pretty yes, but no less difficult to get around in than the one she wore. Given her way, all the dresses in the world would be burned and the ashes dumped in the ocean, but Papa insisted on a neat appearance. And Imogen would have fits if Romy dared come to her door in trousers.
“I'll consider your suggestion.” For about ten seconds. She forced a bright smile. “Thank you for having me, ladies. Until this evening.”
She wiggled her gloved fingers at them and as soon as she closed the parlor door behind her, she took off at a steady trot, lifting her skirt in a way that no doubt revealed her ankles. The butler gave her a bemused frown, which she ignored.
Would Papa believe her if she were to feign terrible stomach pains an hour or two before the ball? He’d all but demanded her presence at Andrew Christensen's party. In her opinion, one ball was as good as another, but none of them compared to the theater of exotic places.
The Farrington's hired carriage waited in the drive. A short ginger-haired coachman sat atop the bench in the late summer sunshine. He perused a local rag that often withheld important truths and made up gossip to amuse the gentry.
“Gardner!”
The paper collapsed like a dying butterfly. Gardner peered down at her. “Yes, miss.”
“I'm on my way to Madame Claire's.”
“Of course,” he responded, one foot already on the step to swing down from the bench.
She held up her hand to stop him. “No, no. I'll walk. Have the carriage in front of her shop in about two hours, won't you?”
Gardner glanced down the street with its immaculate lawns and flowerbeds. “Walk, miss?”
She’d expected him to question her desire to go alone, but after enduring two hours with the DuGuards, her patience was wearing thin. “Have you developed a hearing problem in the last few hours, Gardner?”
He rubbed the back of his sunburned neck. “No, miss. In front of Madame Claire's in two hours.”
She nodded, satisfied with his response. “Good man.”
He removed his hat and ran his finger around the brim. “I'm supposed to escort you to the seamstress. You know what your father said, miss.”
Wretched rules. She ground her teeth and tried to stamp out her growing anger. “I know what Papa said, some foolish thing about not letting me out of your sight. Be that as it may, was I not inside this manor without you? Did I sneak out and escape your vigilant watch? Am I not standing before you, prepared to pick up my gown for this evening?”
“Well, yes. There's no need to—”
Romy smiled, widened her eyes and assumed her sweetest tone. “Of course there's no need to alert Papa to this minor change of plans. I know you'd never betray my trust that way. If I'm going to be on time, I must set off right this second. I’ll see you shortly, Gardner.” She gave him the same little wave she'd given the ladies, spun on her heel and fled down the walk.
A quick glance over her shoulder revealed the coachman stationary on the bench with his mouth open in silent protest. Romy chuckled. Poor man would still be trying to figure out what had happened when he rolled up in front of the dress shop.
Several blocks down, she cut through a debris-strewn alley to avoid the Saturday crowds at market. The stench of decaying food hit her nose and bits of discarded paper and cloth dotted the muddy path.
Sparrows picking through the trash fluttered out of her way. They were dreadfully dull little birds that reminded her of Imogen and her kin. An oriole soared from one rooftop to another; its bright orange foliage vibrant among the smaller birds. The sparrows flew away, but the oriole landed on an abandoned crate and cocked its head at her.
“If I were a bird, I'd fly away from this place and go anywhere I wanted.” A deep sense of envy settled around her as the bird flitted to a garbage pile, pecking for scraps.
A year and a half ago, her father, world-renowned archeologist Dr. Maggard Farrington, put together a team of men to explore the Amazon River Basin. At his right hand, Romy helped catalog new species of flora and fauna. For a month they traversed the mighty river without a hitch in their plans. With one rash decision, she'd not only destroyed Papa's work and her life, but the lives of several loyal men who dedicated themselves to the archeology trade. Men who never returned home to their families.
She’d watched Papa toss out all of their exploration paraphernalia. Her protests that they might someday need those things fell on deaf ears. The moment they had escaped from South America, he insisted she take up the mantle of a proper lady, something he'd never pressed on her before.
She longed for things to be the way they once were. After spending most of her life in exotic countries without rules or restrictions, she'd come away spoiled. They'd spent a brief time in London recovering, as much as one could recover from seeing men she'd known most of her life die horribly, but in the end, Papa had settled on retiring to Massachusetts. He worked part-time for the Smithsonian, writing articles and studying artifacts, leaving once or twice a month to lecture at colleges or geological societies.
Papa ignored her less-than-subtle hints that they explore parts of the state with few human inhabitants and often walked away when she brought up the past. She thought it would be better to continue the life they once had rather than pretend to be something they were not. He didn't subscribe to her theory.
He insisted she visit the city and make friends. While he never came out and said it, she knew he wanted her to marry and have babies to occupy her time rather than nurse old memories.
No matter how pleasant he made city life sound, she felt trapped. It was as though he expected manners and parties to wipe away a lifetime of freedom. Sometimes she considered running away, but it would break his heart. She couldn't do that to Papa.
On the street, merchants haggled with an assortment of customers. Their voices pulled her from dark thoughts and dumped her in the dreary alley. The oriole was gone; she felt foolish for standing about like a halfwit.
Down the street a short distance, Madame Claire's brick shop begged for attention with its bright blue door. A man stood in front of the glass windows. Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, he wore an odd felt hat, a Stetson, she thought it was called, and faded denims tucked into calf-high leather boots. The hat was pushed up far enough to let the sun shine on his bronzed features. High cheekbones, fair brows and a firm jaw covered with golden stubble. The cut of his wrinkled shirt and denims were different than those of the locals in their business attire. He looked like an honest-to-goodness cowboy. A slight grimace twisted his mouth and his eyes narrowed at an old woman dressed as a fortuneteller brandishing a crystal ball. When he spoke, Romy saw a flash of white teeth. His posture went rigid as though the woman surprised him with her divination.
She itched to discover what a cowboy wanted in a city as dull as Boston. A bell clanged on the door at Madame Claire's and a plump woman bustled out, skirting the gypsy and the cowboy.
Romy's shoulders slumped as she recalled her mission to retrieve the party dress. Besides, Papa would suffer an apoplexy if he learned she'd talk to someone like that. Heaving a sigh, she stepped into the cobblestone street and cast a yearning look at the cowboy.
Rip.
The hem of her skirt stuck out, caught on a nail head protruding from the side of a wooden building front. A tear several inches long gaped in the material. Romy groaned. Britches would never have caught on the nail. Out of spite, she thought of letting it continue all the way to the hem. A sharp tug would set her free. But the dress cost a pretty sum and guilt wouldn't allow her to be so careless.
“Dashed merchants can't even manage the upkeep on their own shops.” She bent over, her bottom sticking up in the air as she fumbled with the lace snagged around the head of the nail. Soft kidskin gloves kept her from getting a grip on the metal. One or both of the pins holding her hat to the froth of curls piled atop her head slipped. The feathered contraption dropped into the dirt and with it, every hairpin holding up her curls. A tangle of locks spilled over her face.
“Oh, I hate you! I wish I'd taken the scissors and sheared you off.” All her hair ever seemed to do was get her into trouble. She batted at it, pushing a few strands behind her shoulder.
A rumble filled the air. Tendrils, still tangled around her face, obscured her vision of the street. The ground trembled beneath her feet and a nearby horse let out a frightened whinny.
Grabbing a handful of hair, she peered out from beneath it and her heart lurched when she saw one of those new cog-work automobiles chugging toward her at an alarming speed. The glossy black body looked like a coffin on wheels. As it approached, the panicked horse broke free from the railing. The animal veered closer to the building, clearly out of control.
“Move outta the way, lady!” The driver halted the vehicle in the center of the road and squeezed a bulb that let out a long bleep.
Odd how the horse seemed to float on air instead of tread over the ground, owing to the feathery hair on its pasterns.
A singular thought pushed its way to the front of her mind. Trampled in the street of a bloody city by an over-glorified pony instead of sacrificed to native gods in the jungle. If she survived, Papa would expect her to go to the party anyway. Life wasn't fair. Not at all.
Chapter Two
“You! You are in terrible danger! I can read your fortune and teach you to escape this awful curse.”
An old woman, no taller than Abel's chest, blocked his path and stared up at him with round, rheumy eyes. Colorful scarves and beads decorated her drab threadbare dress. A deep frown carved lines into her wrinkled face.
You have no idea, lady. “Thanks for the offer, ma'am, but I've got no silver to cross your palm. All my coins are spent.”
She lifted a crystal ball, shaking her head. “I don't ask for money, but you must heed my words! I see a marked man. There is much misery in your future.” She handed the ball to a small, dirt encrusted child behind her and grabbed Abel’s hand in a firm grip, turning it palm up. Her foggy eyes bore into his as her long, yellow nail raked his skin. “You see this? A short lifeline.”
He grimaced at her cold fingers and the dramatic words.
“But!” She tapped a scar at the base of his thumb with a crooked finger. “Love searches for you. A beautiful woman will change your life. Cleanse your soul, or all will be lost!”
He stared down at the scar. If he squinted a little it looked like a lopsided heart. Logic caught up, reminding him of his rowdy youth. It might have come from any of the scrapes he'd gotten in over the years. The old woman was trying to trick him into a deeper reading; she didn't know a thing about his purpose in Boston or the trouble brewing in his life.
“Love, danger and despair—almost the perfect fortune, but you forgot riches, darlin'.”
Abel pulled his hand away, straightened his hat and continued down the street. It wasn't normally his way to believe in fortunes or magic. Recent events were enough to change his mind, but he wasn’t buying into any mysteries issued from fortunetellers. He had plenty of mystery without that.
Behind him, the old woman cackled. “We shall see what the future brings, cowboy.”
The market stalls and shops bustled with more than fortunetellers and their hints of the future. Abel was aware how out of place he looked in town. Men dressed in tailored business suits and bowler hats returned from supper. Ladies in day dresses with servants in tow and fishwives trailing small children browsed wares, haggling over prices. From his high-heeled boots to his Stetson, he stuck out. His Texas accent was a dead giveaway that he wasn't from these parts. Not that the merchants minded, as long as they got their payments in advance.
He needed to visit one more shop before moving on to a more important task—crashing a party to see if Maggard's hunch was right. Across the street, he spotted a tailor. God willing the man could rig him up a suit in a few hours.
The sound level rose around him. A gleaming horseless carriage rolled along the cobbled road. A fine-looking machine, but the driver didn't seem to care that he was upsetting the livestock. Horses fought their tethers as the vehicle rolled by. A big black draft horse broke free, charging down the road in white-eyed fear.
“Move outta the way, lady!”
The blaring horn cut through Abel. His head turned at the warning shouted above the cacophony, searching for the lady in trouble. A cascade of red curls caught his eye. They belonged to a woman on the edge of the street, her dress caught on something. A hint of stocking clad leg—bright red stockings that clashed with her pink skirt—showed above her black boot. Her back was to him, her face hidden. She was frozen, apparently terrified by the horse about to run her down.
Abel didn't hesitate. He covered the empty space between them in a few strides. Throwing his arms around the woman's waist, they toppled into the alley beside the store seconds before the horse whipped past in a whirl of hooves and dust.
For a moment neither of them moved. Without warning she burst into a frenzy of arms, legs and ruffles. She struggled, battling against her hair and his grip. “That imbecile! He should be issued a citation. He should be dragged from that contraption, publicly flogged and berated!”
“Whoa, now, darlin'. Slow down.” He fought the urge to laugh at her tirade.
“Are you holding up for him?” she demanded in a clipped British accent. “Let me go!”
Abel realized his hands were against her chest, her breasts firm against his palms through her bodice. She sat in his lap, squirming in the most delicious way. He removed his hands to help clear the hair from her face. When the tangle streamed down her back, she sprang up, but her feet caught in her skirt and she landed on her knees in front of him. Her face was strained; her brow furrowed. Blue eyes shot sparks and luscious lips curved in a frown.
His gaze lingered on her rose petal pink mouth. Kissable. For the space of two or three heartbeats neither of them said anything. If he'd ever seen such a striking pair of eyes, he couldn't remember them. He wanted her. More than anything, he wanted to see her indigo depths spark with lust for him. He leaned toward her and lowered his mouth to hers. She gave a little start before melting against him, lips parted slightly. Abel's hand moved up her shoulder, cupping her jaw. Her heart pounded a fast rhythm against his fingers. A soft moan left her throat. Hands curled into his shirt.
Feverish heat swirled through Abel's veins. Her fingers slipped into his hair, gentle against his scalp, brushing his ears in a way that made his limbs tingle. Heaven and hell could've crashed down around them and he'd never know it.
With a jerk, she pulled back. A deep crimson blush crept over her face.
“Oh, my. You shouldn't have—oh.” She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips and turned her eyes on his face again.
She looked as dazed by the kiss as he felt. Shaking his head, he tightened his grip around her waist and climbed to his feet, hauling her up at the same time. He retrieved his hat and replaced it. “You all right, ma'am?”
A layer of grime covered her damask skirt and dirtied her white gloves. She brushed at the stains, avoiding his eyes. “I must be going.” She hesitated, lifting her eyes again. “Thank you for removing me from harm's way.”
“My pleasure.” He peered out of the alley. The automobile had rolled on and someone had captured the frightened horse, but who knew what other trouble she might run into before she reached her destination. “Maybe I ought to escort you. See that you get where you're going safely.”
Her eyes fell on the tear in her skirt. She tugged the material up, revealing a lacy white petticoat and a few inches of curved leg. One slender finger poked through the hole. “Blast and damn!”
Her outburst made him smile. He didn't bother trying not to stare at her leg. “You ought to see about getting that patched up. As it happens I'm on my way to a tailor. I'd be happy to—”
“I'm late,” she interrupted. The material fell into place as she straightened. A look of consternation covered her heart-shaped face. “Late to see my seamstress. There you stand trying to draw me away with moist kisses and you're no better than a common vagabond by your dress. Blast and—”
“Damn,” he finished for her. With no one else to blame for her lack of sense, she'd turned her anger on him. Naturally. “Seems to me you're the one carryin' on like a magpie. Watch your step crossing the road next time. You might not always run into a wayward cowboy willing to save your neck.”
“Rude American,” she countered, hands framing her hips.
He squared his weight and cocked an eyebrow. “I stopped a crowd of folks from weeping at your wake and you're having a fit of temper. Any proper lady would've offered a reward to her hero.”
She drew herself up and sniffed disdainfully. “You've received your reward, sir. Remove yourself from my path so that we may both carry on with our business.”
Her hair slipped over her shoulders again, curling around her face in untamed ringlets. Dear God, her eyes were icy and crackling with ire. A grin tugged at his lips. He swept his hat off, stepped aside and gestured for her to go along. “A fine reward it was. Maybe we'll meet another day in some close alley.”
She checked for her handbag as she muttered, “I certainly hope not.” Thrusting her nose into the air, she turned and left him there.
Red-gold hair flew behind her like living fire. She glanced over her shoulder and he returned her gaze with a wink and grin. She picked up the skirt, all but running across the street. He shook his head. It was lust, probably caused by the crazy old fortuneteller’s wild predictions about love.
Abel settled his hat on his head again. Of all the times to meet a filly he'd like to tame, this was the most inconvenient. Some things were just more important than chasing women. He traced the amulet under his shirt.
****
The ballroom in Andrew Christensen’s home was filled wall-to-wall with guests. Romy recognized several of the faces, but she stuck to the areas where the gas lamps didn’t throw much light. For the last twenty minutes she’d been desperately avoiding the DuGuards. Once or twice she feared they’d glimpsed her, but she had managed to blend into the crowd or the shadows before they could approach. All the running and ducking had left her overly warm and exhausted.
She tried to judge the distance to the refreshment table and calculate her odds of making it there without being spotted when she heard a familiar voice call her name.
“Romancia!”
Romy flinched at the sound of Sara's—or was it Wincie's?—voice. She attempted to hide behind a robust gentleman in a black suit, but her stiff skirt crashed into his legs. He sent her a bewildered look and shuffled off. Like a compass to north, the trio found her.
Imogen stopped short, eyes bulging. “Romancia. That dress is . . . .” She faltered for a word.
“Unique,” Wincie supplied, shielding her eyes with her hand.
Eyesore was a more appropriate term. Somehow the shade had come out all wrong. Blue as a gaslight flame, it stuck out amid the more subdued colors filling the ballroom. Row after row of gathered satin ruffles spilled down the wide skirt, which had given her trouble as she navigated through the door earlier. The stiff cream bodice of scalloped lace—cut obscenely low in her opinion—itched like the devil. Romy feared the stares and whispers would start up again now that Imogen had singled her out.
How she'd like to find that cowboy and make him pay for saving her life.
“It's fortunate that you're so lovely.” Imogen eyeballed the giant blue and white bow at the waist. Several more striped bows could be found at the back and on the cap sleeves. “You could walk around in a canvas sack and attract the stares of admiring gentlemen.”
Romy didn't dare trust the compliment. She knew for a fact her nose was too long, her eyes too wide and far apart, giving her an almost doll-like appearance. Her mouth was too big, particularly when her mind let loose. And she was very close to allowing it.
“Thank you for that kindness, Imogen,” Romy said through her teeth.
Sara bounced a colorless ringlet hanging by her ear. “Has Mr. Woefield made an appearance yet?”
“Haven't seen him,” Romy answered truthfully. Though if he'd asked for Romy, anyone in the room could point her out. She scoured the corners again, looking for a place to hide from Imogen's flock and Mr. Woefield.
“Exquisite design.” Wincie ran her hand over a dark green marble column. “We've never been invited to Mr. Christensen's manor before.”
Sealed tombs had more warmth than the businessman's city mansion. Romy swallowed her distaste for the house and its design. “I met him for the first time last year, before we moved to Boston. He has a house in the New York countryside much more to my liking.”
The country manor was surrounded by nothing but ancient forests and rolling hills. A massive stable housed big, sleek hunting horses. He'd allowed her use of the horses and the grounds, but it didn't change her opinion of Andrew Christensen. On the surface, he appeared composed and generous. Something in his eyes struck a nerve with her. When he thought no one was looking, he let his easy smile and jovial manner slide into something small and greedy. She'd once asked Papa about Christensen's shifty change of character, but he claimed not to notice any strange behavior.
“I fear dear Romancia will never be content in the city. Perhaps if she finds my nephew to her liking, I'll gift them the summer house.”
Smooth as polished glass, Christensen slipped through the crowd to stand at Romy’s side. A plump, younger man followed in his wake. Her father approached on her other side. His face was pinched as though he had a headache.
She didn't know whether to be more alarmed by Papa's appearance or Christensen's innuendo.
Christensen held two crystal flutes of pale champagne. He offered one to Romy. “Care for a drink, my dear?”
Papa gave her the slightest inclination of his head.
She accepted the sparkling flute and smiled politely. “I'm parched. Thank you, Mr. Christensen.”
A shrewd light glowed in his light hazel eyes. “You may omit the formalities, Romancia. Your father and I are business partners and old friends. And this is a night for celebrating such relationships. Have you been introduced to my nephew?”
A little taller than herself, the gentleman Christensen nodded to offered her a wan smile. “Samuel Woefield.”
Muddy green eyes roved over her, lingering on the display of cleavage. She gasped with indignity, but Papa pinched her arm before she could speak. With reluctance, she extended her hand and the young businessman accepted it, brushing his lips across her knuckles. Thank God for gloves, at least. She tipped the champagne glass to her mouth, glad to have a reason to occupy her hands.
Christensen smiled. “Someday, Maggard and I may be more than partners. We may share blood.”
As for blood, hers turned cold. The sip of champagne she'd been about to swallow shot down her airway. A spray of bubbly liquid spewed from her mouth. One of the girls pounded on her back in an unhelpful manner. Romy gasped for air and straightened. Everyone within a ten-foot radius turned to stare. Woefield looked horrified as he brushed at wet spots on his jacket like they were embers.
Papa took her elbow. “Are you well, Romancia?”
“Air. I need air,” she wheezed, pressing her hand to the base of her throat.
“Of course.” He gave Christensen an apologetic look. “Excuse us.”
The circumference of her skirt made it difficult for Papa to support her, so he walked as close as he could, leading her through a pair of French windows to a narrow balcony outside. The second he released her arm she knew she was in trouble. He shut the doors and rounded on her. “Dear God, what was that display about? It's the best news you could hope for and you spit champagne at the man! Are you mad?”
Tears stung her eyes, but she held them at bay. This man was not her father. If she didn't know better, she'd guess the Amazonian people had inserted an imposter in his place. Papa was the most patient man she knew and he certainly never considered her a lunatic.
Maggard paced the length of the balcony, alternately staring into the distance and shooting harsh looks at her. “This is a very important night for us, Romy. It's set up partly to ensure your future. A future you cannot afford to ruin by acting like a heathen. Your mother, God rest her soul, never acted like a savage in a room full of important dignitaries and benefactors of the Smithsonian. What goes on in your head—I hope I never find out. Do you suppose you can manage to act civilized now?”
“Yes, Papa.” A tear slipped down her cheek and she hated herself for crying. “But suppose I don't want to marry Samuel Woefield?”
His head jerked up and an expression hard enough to chip diamonds crossed his face. “There are women inside that room who would face ravenous wolves to marry him. Count yourself among them.” He paused and his face softened. “Come inside when you're more composed.”
She pressed her hand to her eyes realizing, too late, the kohl on her eyelids would smear on the white gloves and down her face. She wanted to yell at his retreating back that the women inside the ballroom were ravenous wolves.
****
Scaling the thick vines growing over the brick wall surrounding Christensen's property sounded easier than it looked, though it probably wasn't the toughest challenge Abel would face any time soon. At least Maggard's information appeared correct. The manor was a quarter mile away—a leisurely walk.
A hand shot out of the shadows and clutched his shoulder. Abel jumped and spun, reaching inside his coat for the Bennett. Obadiah Huber, a half-German, half-African man melted out of the darkness.
“You're going to draw unwanted attention if you fire that weapon, Courte.” His eyes and tone remained calm though he frowned at the handgun.
“You ought to know sneaking up on people gets you shot,” Abel snapped.
White teeth flashed in Huber's face. He worked in the house as a porter, with access to any room in the mansion. “You need me. How else are you going to get inside?”
“True.” He begrudged every favor he had to cash in to get another step further in his journey.
“This is your invitation to the ball.” Huber offered a piece of heavy paper. “Come find me once you're inside. I'll lead you up to Christensen's library.”
Abel studied the front of the invitation, with its flowery words in embossed letters. He didn't recognize the name on the invite, but it hardly mattered. The back of the invitation had Christensen's family seal stamped dead center. Pompous bastard. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation.”
A scowl passed over Huber's lined face. “If you get caught snooping around in there, I've never heard of you.”
“Fair enough,” Abel conceded. “See you on the other side.”
He tucked the invitation in the pocket of his vest and set off across the manicured grounds. The evening hadn't progressed far; plenty of rich folks in their fancy garb were still arriving. He only needed to slip in line to be on his way to Christensen's library.
Worry licked at the back of his mind. If he got caught, he'd go to jail for certain. The local law enforcement wouldn't take kindly to a stranger breaking into the home of a prominent citizen. Even if they understood what was at stake, which they wouldn't, because he still had trouble getting his head around it. The term wild goose chase came to mind. Good-bye freedom, hello insane asylum for deluded criminals. Not that he'd be there long at the rate things seemed to be escalating. The tremor in his hands was unrelated to nerves. Shoving the worry aside, he proceeded across the back lawn.
An elegant waltz drifted from a few open windows along the rear of the manor. The kind of music he'd learned to dance to at the university, but had no use for in Texas. All this spit and polish just to get together and brag about how much money each person had accumulated turned his stomach. People with too much money in their hands had odd ideas about things, no matter where they came from.
Like that woman in the alley. Damn near turned into a greasy spot in the street; all she cared about was getting to a seamstress. Abel couldn't think of a single reason to be in such a hurry to mend a dress—unless it was a wedding gown. Women got particular over weddings, but even with that as an excuse, he couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
He passed beneath a low balcony and heard sniffling over the strains of music. Abel peered up at the biggest skirt he'd seen since photographs of the antebellum South. It took a moment for his eyes to relay to his brain what he was seeing. Who else but the woman parading through his thoughts could be wearing it? Her face was buried in her gloved hands, but there was no mistaking that hair.
“This would be the part where you say, ‘Romeo, oh, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” Abel couldn’t help himself.
She lifted her head and stared down at him through reddened eyes. “You!”
He grinned. “Remember me, do you? I was hopin' for an alley, but a balcony will do just fine.”
“Oh, no. Don't you dare come up here.” She looked like she was about to say something else, but whatever thought crossed her mind faded when she glanced over her shoulder. “My entire evening has gone wrong since I saw you on the street.”
“I'm wounded.” Abel feigned a hurt look. “How can you say such horrible things to me, darlin', after that kiss?”
She held her hand up to stop him. “Just go away. I'm in enough trouble without anyone finding out about that.”
“You’re not gettin’ off so easy.” He pulled out the invitation and waved it.
Her eyes narrowed. “Where on earth did you get one of those? There's no chance Mr. Christensen invited you to this ball.”
“Stay right there,” Abel ordered. Her eyes widened at the command and she looked ready to offer a heated retort, but he had a feeling she wouldn't disappear.
The thugs at the door didn't blink twice at his invitation. One took it and nodded him inside before urging the next guest forward. Too easy.
Huber met him inside the door. “Come, I'll take you upstairs.”
Abel shook his head. “Minor change in plans. Let me mingle with these folks a while. Don't want to be seen leaving too soon. Meet me at the staircase at nine?”
The dark-skinned man narrowed his eyes. “What game are you playing?”
“No games,” he promised. “I ran into someone I know outside. Thought it might be nice to catch up.”
“Nine o'clock. Do not be late,” Huber warned.
Chapter Three
For the life of her, Romy couldn't figure out why she didn’t return to the ballroom. If Papa found out she was meeting a cowboy, heaven help her. But her legs refused to move her back inside lest she suffer more humiliation, so she stayed rooted to the bench, pretending great interest in the garden. It both flattered and frightened her that the cowboy had somehow discovered her whereabouts. Every nerve in her body came alive when he opened the door.
“How is it that the feistiest redhead in Boston isn't surrounded by a hundred slack-jawed gentlemen?” He leaned against the French window frame, somehow casual in his formal wear.
A little thrill of excitement tingled through her. A black tailcoat displayed the width of his shoulders and tapered to his waist. Underneath his coat, a dark gray waistcoat hugged his midsection. Rather than the usual bow tie or thin silk tie some men wore, he had placed a string-tie around his neck. Black pants molded against his muscular legs, looser than his denims, but still magnificent. His blond hair was trimmed several inches shorter than it had been earlier. If not for his drawl and cock-sure smile, she might not have recognized him as the man from the alley. He tugged at his coat sleeves and smiled as though he knew she was admiring him.
She glared, trying to pretend she wasn't attracted to him. “You have some explaining to do. Starting with why you're following me.”
A wide grin overtook his face, transforming it from handsome to god-like. Grecian statues had nothing on this cowboy-turned-gentleman. Her heart gave a funny little flop at his smile and her blood ran hot when his eyes crinkled at the corners. Beautiful whiskey-colored eyes set in a tanned face and framed by dark lashes. She struggled to draw a calming breath.
He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it. She stared it, full of suspicion.
“Got a little something running down your face.” He gestured in a circle.
Romy snatched his kerchief, wiped it across her face and wished she was anywhere except Christensen's house. She got the nerve to look up and he nodded in approval. She tried to hand the soiled cloth back, but he shook his head. Streaks of kohl and rouge marred the once white cotton. No wonder he didn't want it.
“To answer your first question, I wasn't invited to this little shindig. That invitation is a fake.”
Her eyebrows shot up as she flew to her feet. “You really are following me. You can't do that. I have rights, you know. If you touch me again, I'll scream and have you thrown out.”
He laughed. “You wouldn't.”
His confidence made her angrier. “Try it and find out what happens.”
He leaned in close; his warm breath caressed her cheek. “I can see it in your eyes. You're hungry for another kiss.”
“You—you,” she sputtered. “You're a vulgar man who preys on innocent young women.”
He held up his hands in defense. “I just call 'em the way I see 'em.”
“You have no more idea of what I want than a blade of grass has.” She could deny it all day long, but with his lips so close, she longed to press hers against them. The conflicting emotions confused her.
“If I can't coax out another kiss, then I'll settle for an introduction.” He offered a big, long-fingered hand. “Abel Courte from San Antonio.”
Texas—a true cowboy. Somehow she'd know he was genuine. She forced her excitement down and turned her nose up in a perfect impression of Imogen. “I've never heard of any Courtes.”
His grin didn't fade an inch. “You wouldn't have. I doubt our people travel in the same circles. My people would be too dirty, too . . . how'd you put it? I remember now, vulgar, for your gentle breeding.”
“I'll have you know—” Romy bit her tongue. She'd been forbidden to mention she was anything but a lady tonight. Not an explorer, an amateur archaeologist, botanist or anything else for that matter.
“What? You got someone in your family tree tarnishing your bloodline?” he teased.
She frowned and fed him another lie. “No.”
“I didn't think so. You got a name or should I call you Red?”
She thought better of telling him her name, but one look in his eyes changed her mind. He didn't give off the impression of someone intent on doing her harm. “Romancia.”
Cocking his head, he smiled again. “That's a bigger mouthful than Red.”
“Romy,” she clarified.
“Romy.”
It came out soft and sweet, like he'd picked it ripe from the vine and savored the syllables. It melted the last of her suspicions about him.
He nodded. “It suits you. Rolls right off the tongue.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes. Then she clasped a hand over her mouth, horrified at the noise. Abel stared before he burst out laughing.
“Oh, dear. Forgive me,” she whispered.
He stopped laughing, but the smile didn't leave his face. “Anything for a lady.”
“I am a lady.” By repeating it, she hoped the message would sink into her overstimulated brain.
“Temper like that, you couldn't be anything else. Since we're on a first name basis now, you want to dance? The music is a little different than the square dances back home, but I think I can manage without embarrassing you too much.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes again. “Have you seen this dress? I'm the laughingstock already.”
His warm gaze roamed over her from head to toe, but skipped neatly over her bust line and came back to her face.
“I like it. It's unique like you. Foul-mouthed little vixen one minute, an innocent young woman the next. You pull some of the lace and those godawful bows off of there and you might have something.”
She frowned, looking down at the hideous creation. “You really think so?”
A sparkle appeared in Abel's eyes. “Or we could strip you out of it entirely and see what kind of frilly little under—”
“Let's dance,” she interrupted. “I'm not familiar with your dance squares or what have you, but I’ve already caused a commotion amongst these people. It wouldn't matter if I painted my face and prayed to the Indian gods for a flood. Nothing would surprise them.”
He stiffened as if she'd said something offensive.
“Mr. Courte?”
The smile that seemed never to fail him vanished. His eyes, so alive with merriment a moment ago went flat.
“Have I upset you?”
He shook his head and pressed a hand to the center of his chest. His fingers traced a shape she hadn't noticed under his shirt. An amulet or talisman of some sort, she reckoned. Romy raised her eyes again. The smile was back, a forced imitation of the earlier one.
He seemed to struggle with taking his hand from his chest. “You didn't upset me. I remembered something I'd forgotten.”
“You're quite sure you're all right?” she asked uncertainly. Why she cared about this arrogant stranger was a mystery. Maybe it was the thrill of doing something she shouldn’t, but mostly likely it came from the flattering things he said.
“Sorry, darlin'. I've got time for a quick dance before I've got to get out of here.”
She ignored the endearment. “Are you a fugitive, Mr. Courte?”
He laughed, sounding normal again.
“Call me Abel. A fugitive from society maybe, but there's no price on my head. It's been too long since I got to stumble around the floor with a pretty gal. Let's go.”
His hand slid down her back, settling a few inches above her bottom. A possessive touch, if there ever was one. Even through the layers, she felt the heat of his palm. She remembered sitting on his lap, pressed close to his body, the pleasant shock of his mouth on hers. He was right; she wanted him to do it again.
Her inner Imogen, a devilish voice she fought to suppress, protested. You're a lady. A lady, not a harlot. What would Papa say?
But it didn't matter. She was only going to share one dance with him and then they'd likely never cross paths again. They found an empty spot on the ballroom floor. He moved with grace, stepping in time to the music. Whatever he said about not knowing the dance was bunk. His movements were catlike and sure. Eyes burned into them from all around the ballroom. She wondered what they thought, all those people watching her dance with a mysterious stranger. It pleased her even as she worried Papa might be looking on as well.
“You dance well—for a cowboy.”
He winked. “Maybe not as well as your ordinary gentleman, but I do a fair waltz. How long have you been in America?”
“How do you know I wasn't born here?” she asked.
He gave her knowing look. “I might be from Texas, but I ain't as dumb as some think. These New Englanders talk funny, but they ain’t got anything on you.”
She smiled. “All right, a year. Long enough for me to realize I don't quite fit in.”
Abel looked around, as though trying to figure out why she considered herself different from these people. “You prefer England?”
She searched his face to see if he was really interested and not being polite. “Honestly?”
He nodded. “Tell me the truth.”
Romy pursed her lips and glanced around to be sure no one was listening. “It's not that I dislike England. It is home, after a fashion.”
“But?”
She stared over his shoulder, wishing she could confess everything to someone. To him. “I don't like the rules. I wouldn't mind Massachusetts so much, but Papa won't let me explore anything outside the city. There are certain places ladies cannot go.”
His eyebrows shot up, giving away his surprise. “How would you go exploring in a ball gown? You might do a repeat of your performance in the street this morning.”
“I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand.” Even in his dress clothes, he emitted a carefree air. “You have no idea how dreary it is to sit and sew or to paint landscapes. To go to tea parties where you aren't wanted. Some days I think I might go mad if I see one more hairpin.”
A smile crossed his lips. “I'll bet you run your parents ragged with all the trouble you get into.”
She bit her lower lip. It was true. Poor Papa had lost everything because of her mishap in South America. Now she was failing him as a lady. “I love my father, but I don't think I please him as a daughter.”
Concern filled Abel's eyes. “I'm sure that's not true, Romy. You look pretty in that dress. And you dance like your feet don't touch the floor. What more could he want?”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “To marry me off so he can get back to his life.”
“What life?”
Lowering her eyes, she stared at the odd shape beneath his shirt. “You must have heard of Dr. Maggard Farrington.”
He stiffened again, but didn't lose his step. “You're his daughter?”
His grip slackened. For a moment she thought he'd turn her loose altogether. Annoyance tugged her lips into a frown. “You needn't look so shocked.”
“I'm not,” he denied a little too casually. His eyes scanned the crowd around them and he recovered himself. “I'm a fan of his work. He's made some interesting finds.”
“Thank you, I'm aware of his accomplishments.” And had accompanied him on every expedition. They should have been anywhere but in a crowded ballroom in Boston. Except then, she'd never have met Abel, which would have been a pity.
Sympathy shone from his eyes. “Of course you are. Big shoes to fill. It must be hard, as a woman.”
She tried to pull away, insulted at his insinuation, but he held tight. “Because I'm a woman? I can go anywhere a man can go. I'm not some simple child who needs her hand held and reminded not to pet the wild animals.”
“Romy?” he said in a hushed voice.
“What?”
“You're getting kinda loud, darlin'.”
Shameful heat burned her face. “You see? This is why I disappoint him. I can't remember to keep my mouth closed.”
He smiled again. “I think it's kinda endearing. Who wants to marry a mouse of a woman? I like a gal with fire in her eyes.”
Somehow she couldn't see him with a woman who dared to express herself. Some petite woman with quiet strength might suit him better. Bothered by the image, she quipped, “Then solve all of my problems and propose, won't you?”