Her Sky Cowboy (17 page)

She sat rigid, nestled between his legs.

Ignoring the discomfort of his throbbing arousal, Tuck took the soap from her clenched hand and lathered her tense shoulders. “Tomorrow we drop our cargo near Paris.
Maverick
’s in need of fine-tuning. Figure my crew can use a respite, given that we haven’t been at port in a while. Day or two; then we’ll move on to Italy.”

She glanced over her bare, glistening shoulder. “You said you’d take me to Paris but no farther.”

“Changed my mind.”

“Because you want my treasure?”

“Won’t deny I’m curious about it.” Tuck wrestled with
his annoying conscience and lost. What the hell? He’d take the honest high road and lay his cards on the table. “Because of my legal quandary I’m in need of a bargaining chip. For the time bein’ I’m focused on building my bankroll. Figure we can work out a deal.”

Amelia chewed her lower lip, causing his blood to stir. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that.” He knew better then to press just now. Sensed she’d shut down. She’d gone through more in one day than most women did in a lifetime. He’d do better to take it slow, catch her off guard, but damn, Tuck wanted her to put a name to that treasure. An invention of historical significance, somewhere in Italy. What the hell could it be? As suggested by Doc, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with her kin’s time machine—which posed a bit of a moral dilemma. Tuck had no interest in trading now for the future, and tampering with the past could well worsen the present. The way he saw it there was no adventure as grand as living in the moment. Unfortunately, there were plenty of folk who’d jump at a chance to dip their toes into another dimension, consequences be damned. Reintroducing a working time machine into society—even into the hands of the British government—struck Tuck as dangerous. Still, a percentage of that monumental prize money would go a long way toward financing his personal goals of reuniting with his sister and properly compensating his men for saving his neck.

“What is it?” Amelia asked. “What’s wrong?”

Tuck blinked out of his gloom.

“You drifted away.”

“Doin’ some thinkin’ of my own, is all.” He rinsed her long, thick tresses, then pulled her back against him, kneading her shoulders, her arms. “How do you feel?”

“Exhausted.”

“Sore?”

“Not in the way I think you mean,” she said softly. “But my entire body aches. It’s been a tense and most active day.”

As irritated as he was with the situation, as much as he didn’t trust Amelia Darcy, he sure as hell liked the feel of her. Hell, he liked
her
. He thought about the way she’d whacked the blasterbeefs, clearing the stator coils, and almost laughed.

Feeling the tension ease from her limbs, he continued to massage her muscles—shoulders, arms, thighs. She sighed and he took advantage, skimming his fingers between her legs, over her womanly folds.

“What are you—”

“Shh.” He nipped and suckled her earlobe, pleasured her with his fingers—stroking, rubbing. She moaned, her legs parting wider. “That’s it, honey.” His other palm slid up and over her taut stomach, teased the underside of her full breast, then closed over the firm mound. He ached to suck her buds but rolled them between his fingers instead. Plucking, pinching.

Her moans grew louder as he continued to stroke her to orgasm. She tensed and trembled, and he urged her to let go. She bucked with a climax, and swear to God, he nearly lost control—simply from the intense pleasure of watching Amelia come apart under his touch.

She let out a shaky breath. “Are there no limits to your talents?”

He smiled close to her ear. “Just part of what you hurried me through before.”

“Then I regret my lack of patience.”

He considered the woman in his arms, wondering whether she’d be so bold as to allow another man to broaden her sexual horizons. The notion rankled. At the same time he had no right to judge or censor. “Just so we’re straight on this, Amelia, I can’t offer marriage.”

“I wouldn’t accept if you did. I have no desire to be shackled to any man.”

“But you want to know the pleasures of a man’s touch.”

“I wish I hadn’t rushed you.”

Tuck pondered the next few days, tried to sort through his jumbled feelings regarding this complicated and infinitely fascinating woman. For once he couldn’t think ahead with any clear direction. He decided to fall back on Amelia’s current mind-set: living in the here and now. One day at a time. No missed opportunities. If any man broadened her sexual horizons, he wanted it to be him.

He finessed Amelia so that she was facing him, ignored the stutter of his pulse as he looked into those hypnotic eyes—eyes that viewed the world with never-ending wonder. “You want to explore? Learn the extensive pleasures of lovemaking? I’ll show you the stars and introduce you to a few planets, but there’ll be no promises or ties beyond your being true to me as long as we’re keepin’ company. That agreeable?”

She furrowed her brow. “Seems a little one-sided.”

“How so?”

“If I am to be faithful, then you should be true to me as well. For as long as we’re keeping company.”

Her candor and sass never failed to amaze. He quirked a brow. “Think I can handle that.”

Teeth chattering from the cooled water, she offered her pruney fingers. “Shall we shake on it, Mr. Gentry?”

He grasped her hand and pulled her up with him, lifting her from the tub and wrapping her in a towel. Carrying her to his bed, he winked down at the brazen minx. “I can think of better ways to seal the deal, Miss Darcy.”

Amelia stirred but clung to the last vestiges of sleep, her hazy mind and achy body assessing and acknowledging her scandalous behavior the night before. She felt no regret, only wonder. What did that make her exactly? Emancipated? Progressive? A rebel? A hussy?

Face buried in her pillow, she calmed her rising anxiety and dug deep. According to gossip, her brothers had bedded many a companion, and yet their reputations as honorable men remained intact. Granted, she was a woman, and the social and moral rules of conduct were vastly different, not that they made sense to Amelia. Why should she be judged harshly purely because of her gender? At heart she was the same person as before, just…more worldly. Although she aspired to a great many things, mostly having to do with flying, lovemaking had never been on her must-do-or-die list.

It was now.

No denying the realization, the relentless yearning. Now that she’d sampled the arousing delights of Tucker Gentry, she longed for more. More kisses. More caresses. More shockingly intimate stimulation.

Dazed with desire, she’d allowed Tucker to touch her in the most brazen and illicit ways. By the time he’d entered her the second time, she’d been shameless, begging for more, begging for release. They’d peaked at the same time, falling into sated, silent exhaustion.

She didn’t remember falling asleep. But she remembered
him holding her close, the mutual pounding of their hearts, the possessive feel of his hand upon her hip, of her palm upon his shoulder. Then suddenly she was dreaming. Fragments of her life, good and bad. Papa cheering her first flight. Pulling her from the wreckage. Offering courage whilst the doctor stitched the gash in her leg. She’d dreamed about the day Papa had presented her with the modified version of Leo. About the story he’d told her time and again, rehashing the day he’d attended the exhibition at the Crystal Palace. The day he’d seen his cousin Briscoe disappear in a rainbow of light via his time machine.

And the one time he’d mentioned the secret letter.

She’d dreamed about her brothers and her mother struggling to resurrect the family’s reputation and finances. She dreamed about Papa dying. Heart-wrenching, and yet there’d been an intangible sense of comfort. For the first time since Papa’s death, she’d greeted the dawn with a sense of hope as opposed to depression.

Amelia slowly opened her eyes, mourned the absence of Tucker for a brief second—he had an airship to captain, after all—then disengaged herself from the tangle of blankets. Hurrying toward the blessed water heater, she decided to embrace the new day with a nonchalant air. She would face Tucker and his men as she had the previous days, with confidence and a dash of bravado, as if nothing had changed. Even though her heart and mind were full of their wondrous lovemaking, she would focus on the future. On her goal. Although Tucker had agreed to transport her to Italy, she intended to rebuild Bess—partly because she preferred an alternative mode of transportation, should the need arise. Partly because she burned to keep one of Papa’s inventions alive.

Thirty minutes later, Amelia approached the cabin door, her hair braided and coiled in her own unique fashion, dressed in her mended leather flight pants—stitched back together courtesy of Doc—a cotton blouse, and her leather
tail vest. Bracing for the brisk winter winds, she’d donned her duster and scarves, goggles and top hat—everything as normal. “I am the same, yet better. Worldly.”

Breathing deeply, she stepped into the hall. It occurred to her suddenly that Doc had not yet appeared with breakfast. Not that she expected to be served, but thus far all of her meals had been taken in Tucker’s cabin. As she navigated the hall, she was also aware of the unusual silence and warmer temperature. Smelling licorice and hay, she hesitated, contemplating whether or not to seek out Peg. He must be stabled on this deck or just below. Admittedly she was bursting with curiosity regarding that winged horse, but at the same time the undeniable sense that they were no longer in flight propelled Amelia topside. She scaled the ladder and climbed on deck, noting the bright sunshine and lack of wind.

Peeling off her hat and goggles, she looked up and saw that the sails and masts were lowered. The clouds were sparse and floating high above. The blasterbeefs were abnormally quiet. Looking ahead over the bow, instead of sky she saw trees. As she’d suspected, somewhere between last night and this morning, they’d taken refuge in a densely wooded area. Landing in the secluded clearing had taken great skill, and she bemoaned the fact that she’d missed the event.

At that moment, Leo flew out of a copse of trees, swooped in, and perched on the rail. Smiling, Amelia rushed to his side. “Greetings, my friend.”

Smoothing a hand over his back, she inspected the wondrous creature for bandages or stitches but saw no sign of injury, even though she was certain he’d been shot. Again, she marveled at Doc’s methods. She wanted to thank him for his efforts and wondered at his absence. Come to think of it, she’d yet to spy even one of the crew this morning. Pulse tripping, she searched the vicinity, then, spying a man-made trail that cut through a swath of trees, peered beyond.
In the distance, set amidst a breathtaking mix of woods and meadows, she saw a massive estate that more closely resembled a palace. Even Lord Bingham’s luxurious mansion paled in comparison to the grandeur of this country residence.

“Something, ain’t it?”

Amelia turned, bracing as the ship’s engineer joined her at the starboard gunwale. She noted the unlit cigar dangling from his mouth, the Blaster holstered in his shoulder rig, his grease-stained hands, and the bandage covering the wound he’d sustained during the tussle with Dunkirk. She wondered whether he blamed her for the injury. He certainly blamed her for everything else.

“The Château de Malmaison,” Axel said with something that resembled a rusty smile.

She wasn’t sure what surprised her more: that they’d landed near the home that had once belonged to Napoléon Bonaparte and Joséphine de Beauharnais, and then later Napoléon III, or that Axel O’Donnell had addressed her with a modicum of civility. Grateful, she peered back at the estate. “Even at this distance,” she noted in awe, “the opulence is astounding.”

“Why anyone would want to live in that ostentatious monstrosity beats the stuffing out of me. Although I wouldn’t mind a gander at the gardens. Heard tell zebras and kangaroos roam about the rosebushes. Never seen a kangaroo.”

Presently an eccentric duke of excessive wealth owned Malmaison and, like Joséphine, had populated the magnificent gardens with exotic wildlife. Amelia had read an exposé in the
Informer
that focused not only on the menagerie but on his legion of automocoaches and a small collection of aerostats. “I’d prefer a tour of his aero-hangar.”

“Ain’t you got any interests beyond flying, girl?”

She did now, but she wasn’t about to mention her new obsession with lovemaking to the
Maverick
’s engineer—or
anyone else, for that matter. Ignoring his question, she asked one of her own. “Why are we here?”

“Business.”

She put two and two together and whistled low. “Transporting illegal cargo for a famous nobleman. Whatever you smuggled, he must be paying a fortune.”

“Ain’t nothing compared to the booty you’re tailing. Elsewise Dunkirk never would’ve left the
Maverick
without searching her hold.”

Amelia turned and regarded the hulking man with a furrowed brow. “What precisely are you transporting?”

“What precisely are you tailing?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Same here.”

Sensing a hint of hostility, Leo screeched.

Axel narrowed his eyes on the falcon. “Who fixed that bird up with mechanical parts?”

“My father,” she answered with pride.

“Surprised they work.”

She bristled. “Contrary to that article in the
Informer
, Papa was not an inept lunatic. He was, in his own way, quite brilliant.”

“If you say so.”

“I knew your civil humor was too good to be true.”

“Marshal asked me to be nice to you. I tried, but the effort wore thin fast.”

For a fleeting moment she wondered whether Tucker had mentioned their intimate liaison, but then she realized it was not the sort of thing a man bragged about, unless he wanted to risk gossip that could result in her brothers forcing him down the church aisle. He’d stated clearly he could not marry; therefore surely her secret was safe. This was simply Axel being Axel. He’d disliked her upon first meeting. “You are a vexing man, Mr. O’Donnell.”