Her Sky Cowboy (11 page)

“So why not deflate the balloon and hoist the sails?”

“Problem with the retracting mechanism on the masts.”

“Oh.” Amelia regarded the engineer and the turbine with a frown. “It would seem you are plagued with several problems this morning.”

Axel glared over his shoulder. “How about that?”

“Your tone suggests I am somehow at fault,” Amelia shot back.

“The
Maverick
was in tip-top shape till you boarded.”

“Are you suggesting I somehow sabotaged—”

“No, he is not,” Tuck said firmly. He should’ve told Axel to shut the hell up sooner, but he’d been impressed with Amelia’s reaction to his surly engineer. The woman held her own. Maybe it was because she had two older brothers, but she was not easily intimidated. He liked that. He liked her.
Hell
. “Was there something else, Flygirl?”

“What?” Brows scrunched, she massaged her temple, then focused back on Tuck. “Oh, yes. If you would be so kind as to show me to Bess…Good Lord,” she complained, “the infernal clinking.”

“Clanking,” Axel growled. “I’m working on it.”

Amelia grabbed the wrench out of his hand and knocked it hard against the coils. The ominous sound stopped.

Tuck and Axel stared.

Amelia shrugged. “Sometimes it just takes a good whack.”

Axel grabbed back his tool. “Can’t be that easy.”

“Sometimes it is. I have a lot of experience with malfunctioning machinery. Papa’s inventions, though brilliant, were unfortunately plagued by flaws.”

Axel narrowed his eyes. “Prone to bad luck, was he?”

On that note, Tuck grasped the woman’s arm and steered her away. “A word in private.”

“That was my intention in the first place.”

On second thought, privacy would prove disastrous. Privacy would tempt indulgence. He burned to kiss this feisty girl senseless. Instead, he finessed her toward the companionway, out of earshot but within sight of StarMan. “I asked you to stay below.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but in addition to wanting to initiate repairs on Bess, I have someone to thank.” She flashed her walking cane. “Could you point me to Mr. Boone?”

He should’ve recognized Eli’s handiwork. “I’ll pass on your appreciation.”

“I’d rather do so in person.”

“Miss Darcy—”

“Mr. Gentry—”

“Ahoy! Incoming!”

What now?
Tuck wondered, just as a cannonball whizzed over the hull. “What the hell?”

“Pirates!” Birdman called from his post in the shrouds.

“All hands, battle stations!” Tuck hauled Amelia into his arms.

“What are you—”

“Hush.” He whisked her down the ladder, adrenaline pumping. Hurrying toward his cabin, he envisioned his illegal cargo hidden two decks below. Cargo that, once delivered, would advance him toward his means of returning home to America. To Lily. Unless some low-down sky pirates stole his booty. “Goddammit.”

“You can outrun pirates,” Amelia said, her voice now high-pitched and breathy. “You’ve done it before. I once read in the
Informer
—”

“Sails down. Blasterbeefs at quarter capacity. No running from this one.” He kicked open the door to his cabin and set her on her feet. “If you value your life, lock the door behind me and stay quiet as a church mouse.”

Her eyes were huge, alight with fear and, damn it all, excitement. “But maybe I can help,” she said. “I can shoot—”

He shushed her with a kiss. Not smart or timely, but dammit, her offer torched his blood. He nipped, sampled, and consumed. She tasted of nectarines and sunshine. More intoxicating than whiskey. Addictive as opium. Though passionate, the kiss was brief, leaving her breathless and him wanting more. “You can help by staying safe.”

They shared a look sparking with mutual lust. He heard an explosion, felt the ship rock. At this moment, he wasn’t sure what had suffered the hit—the
Maverick
or his heart. Unbalanced twice in one day, Tuck pushed away with a growl. “Lock the damned door,” he said, then swung into the hall.

Eli jogged up from behind, tossed him a.357 Annihilator. “Ready to tussle, Marshal?”

Hopped up on a nectarine kiss, Tuck broke into a run. “Let’s kick some scurvy ass.”

Amelia stood, stunned and reeling from Tucker Gentry’s kiss. Not so intimate nor intrusive as Phin’s fervid assault, but twice—no, aeons more powerful. She wanted more. She wanted Tucker.

The ship shook with an explosion, shattering her sensual daze and prodding her into action. Cowering in his cabin, hiding quiet as a mouse? She couldn’t imagine. From what she’d seen this airship operated with a skeleton crew. Surely she could help. An unknown variance? A wild card of sorts?

Tucker would not appreciate her presence. And what if Doc or Eli tried to protect her instead of the airship? What if their crewmates suffered? No, if she joined this fight, better to blend with the men. Heart pounding, she hobbled to the massive chest pushed against the starboard wall. Yes, it was rude to poke about in someone’s belongings, but she assumed good manners were moot in times of danger. Rooting through her host’s clothing, she quickly settled on a worn greatcoat with an attached cowl. She traded her own coat for Tucker’s—overly large and long on her petite frame, all the better to disguise her womanly curves. She wrapped one scarf around her neck, hiding the lower portion of her face, then pulled on her goggles and Papa’s top hat. Feeling somewhat anonymous, she procured the stun pistol from her satchel and slid it into the voluminous coat’s pocket, then nabbed her walking cane and limped toward the door.

Thud. Thud.

Though helpful, the brass stick knocked against the planked floors and could well alert someone of her approach. Amelia retracted the cane and stuffed the mechanism into her other pocket. She’d have to deal with the limp.

Breathing deeply, she lifted the long hem of Tucker’s coat and braved the hall, creeping forward as silently as possible. Her own ears rang with the boisterous activity above: shouting, gun blasts, tussling footfalls. A battle raged, filling Amelia with fascination and dread. She’d craved adventure and she’d gotten it.
Crikey
.

She neared a ladder and paused, startled by sudden chilling silence. Had someone surrendered? Was everyone dead? Swiping her clammy hands down Tucker’s wool coat, she steeled her spine, then crept up the rungs. Nearing the top, she heard voices and froze in place.

“Ye’re ootnumbered and ootgunned, Sky Cowboy.”

“But not outsmarted.”

The other man laughed, a grave and haughty sound that caused Amelia to frown in disgust. His arrogance would be his undoing. Was he unaware of Tucker’s history? His reputation? Did he really think he’d bully a man who’d tangled with the most notorious outlaws in the American West?

“I’ll match my Boomer Cannons and Stormerator against yer wits anytime, mate.”

“I’m not your friend, Dunkirk.”

“That’s Captain Dunkirk to ya,” a third voice barked.

The
Captain Dunkirk? Amelia wondered. Scottish Shark of the Skies?
Bloody hell.
Perhaps there was reason for concern.

“Ya holding a grudge because I beat ya in faro last month, cowboy?”

“Easy to win when you’re a low-down cheat,” Axel said.

“I’m pissed,” Tucker said, “because you blew a hole in my bally.”

“Prepared to dae worse if ya dinnae give me what I want.”

Amelia reached in her pocket and palmed her gun. She couldn’t imagine Tucker and his men giving over anything to these plundering, murdering scoundrels. She braced for a fight. As soon as chaos commenced, she’d sneak on deck and stun the living daylights out of someone. Unless the gun malfunctioned. Highly possible, since it was a prototype of Papa’s. She considered the retracted cane. She might do better with a blow and a jab.

“Hand over the lass,” Dunkirk said, “and ya and yer men live to see another day.”

Amelia blinked. Was he referring to her?

“No women on this boat,” Eli said.

“Bad luck,” Axel said.

“True, that,” Dunkirk said. “But worth the risk with almost a million pounds at stake. What say you?” he asked in a louder voice, causing several men—his crew?—to cheer.

Amelia’s brain reeled as she tried to make sense of the circumstance. How did Captain Dunkirk, an infamous air pirate of international skies, know that she, an inconsequential citizen of Kentshire, was aboard the
Maverick
and in pursuit of the jubilee prize money? Overcome with curiosity, she peeked out of the windowed hatchway.

“Lookee here,” a gruff voice said, hauling her up on deck by the scruff of her coat’s cowl.

“Bollocks.” The crude word slipped from her lips, the severity of the situation dashing all semblance of decorum. Wide-eyed, she took in the ominous sight. Tucker and his men were surrounded by a gang of leather-clad ruffians wielding swords and revolvers of various enormity. Outnumbered and outgunned indeed.

Equally disconcerting was the pirate airship floating alongside with its menacing weaponry, the attached zeppelin balloon painted to resemble a great white, hence its moniker—the
Flying Shark
. Glancing up she noted that the
Maverick
’s steam-powered balloon was badly damaged. With the mast and sails still lowered, if Mr. O’Donnell
didn’t get the airship’s blasterbeefs operating full-out, and soon, the compromised
Maverick
would plummet to the ground along with all on board.

The foul-smelling oaf who’d plucked her from the ladder hauled her forward. The stench of gunpowder triggered thoughts of
Apollo 02
. The explosion. The destruction.
Papa
. Amelia swallowed bile and focused her attention on the towering brute facing Tucker. Though the
Informer
described Captain Dunkirk as devilishly handsome, between his sin black hair, unkempt beard, the jagged scar marring his right cheek, and his piercing obsidian eyes, Amelia saw nothing but a wicked scoundrel.

He removed Amelia’s hat, revealing her coiled braids, then smirked at Tucker. “Ya thought to disguise Miss Darcy as a lad?”

“How do you know me?” she blurted.

“Common acquaintance,” he said, turning his disconcerting focus on her.

“You’ve been hornswoggled, Dunkirk,” Tucker said in an even tone. “You can’t squeeze blood from a stone. Her family can’t pay a thousand pounds for her return, let alone a million.”

“Ransom is not my objective. Like ya, I intend to capitalize on her knowledge of a hidden treasure.”

Amelia swallowed hard and braved Tucker’s gaze. Up until this moment he had not known her true objective. His eyes crinkled with confusion. Was it possible he was unaware of the global contest? A heartbeat later, she sensed his fury. No matter the details, he’d been duped.

His expression, however, betrayed nothing as he focused back on Dunkirk. “You should know,” he said, casually bumping up the brim of his Stetson, “that Miss Darcy is a fanciful sort.”

“Crazy as popcorn on a hot skillet,” Axel said, crossing his arms over his brawny chest.

“Loco,” StarMan added solemnly.

She noticed then that Tucker and crew had been stripped of their weapons. Blood stained the ripped sleeve of Chang’s shirt, and Mr. O’Donnell had a nasty gash on his Neanderthal forehead. Dunkirk’s men sported injuries as well, but they didn’t glare at her as though she were at fault.

“Damaged goods,” Doc threw in, and Amelia felt as though he’d just stabbed her heart with the shard he’d removed from her thigh. “Hope you have a good physician on board, Captain Dunkirk. Otherwise she may not make it as far as the Swiss border.”

Amelia blanched further. What the devil was he talking about? She was mending, not failing.

Dunkirk looked her up and down, then focused on her mouth, telegraphing lewd thoughts with a wicked smile. How mortifying!

“What did she offer ya for yer courier services, cowboy? A percentage of the prize? Twenty percent? Thirty? A dive in the dark?”

Tucker said nothing, and Amelia started to sweat.

“Ahoy!” someone shouted from the enemy airship. “ALE, dead ahead!”

Dunkirk ordered his men back to the
Flying Shark.
“Interfere with our retreat, cowboy, and I’ll blow ya oot of the sky.”

Tucker raised his hands in surrender. “Truth told, you’re doin’ me a favor, Dunkirk. That filly’s brought nothing but bad luck.”

Amelia stared at her hero in unabashed disbelief. Surely he wouldn’t let her go without a fight. Even if he was irritated with her, he wouldn’t allow these pirates to whisk her away to God knew what end? She thought about the cargo he refused to talk about. Was it worth so much? Was he willing to risk her life in order to save his booty?

Panicked, she thought back on something Tucker had said to her the night before:
You don’t know what I’m capable of
.

Damnation!
Her head and heart pounded with rage. If he wouldn’t save her…She pulled her stun pistol, only to have it knocked away by Dunkirk.

“Feisty lass.” He laughed, then hauled her up and over his shoulder. “This should be fun, yeah?”

“Bastard!” she yelled at Tucker, then pummeled Dunkirk’s back, calling him every obscene name she’d ever heard her brothers utter as the air pirate dashed over the gangway linking the two airships. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Leo swoop down to attack, heard a blast, then, seeing feathers fluttering down from the sky, screamed and walloped Dunkirk in the side of his head.

“No time fer this shite,” he growled, passing her off to another ruffian after jumping aboard the
Flying Shark.
“Stow her below, Cromwell.”

Chaos erupted in tandem with the shattering of Amelia’s heart. Was Leo dead? Dying? She damned Tucker Gentry, who’d promised to keep her falcon safe. She damned him for stealing a kiss, then quashing her illusions. Even as this Cromwell scoundrel locked her inside a cramped, dismal cabin, she plotted her escape. She would survive this, and she would prevail.

“Bad luck, my foot!”

Tuck’s blood burned as he handed Leo over to Doc. “Make this right.”