Her Sky Cowboy (20 page)

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“Astonishing.” Amelia could scarcely contain her excitement as Tucker steered the air dinghy toward the floating island of ships. She counted five sizable dirigibles connected by rope-banistered gangways and kept aloft by twin steam-powered balloons—massive and colorful. Several small transports were anchored to nearby floating docks. Even from this distance, she could hear music. Her own sheltered heart sang. She was about to embark upon another adventure.

She’d heard Jules mention the growing popularity of skytowns. She suspected from the looks her brothers traded that they both frequented the meccas of scandalous, outlawed pleasures. She’d read gossipy insinuations in the
Informer
regarding a certain noble indulging in a certain decadence in a certain airborne establishment. She knew they existed, even though they were only whispered about. Europe’s dirty little secret.

“Remember what I told you,” Tucker said.

“‘Do not gawk like a foreigner. Do not succumb to the too-good-to-be-true-so-it-is hawkers.’” With her back to him, she gave a mock salute and openly gawked. “No worries, Marshal.”

“And don’t call me Marshal. I’m no longer the law, and I don’t want anyone in a skytown thinking I am.”

“Must tax your sensibilities something terrible,” Amelia said whilst adjusting her goggles. “Being in the midst of illegal activities and not having the authority to quell it.”

“Most of the pastimes aren’t illegal so much as restricted or frowned upon. Try as she might, your queen can’t erase the social and cultural influence of the twentieth-century Mods. New Worlders need a place to indulge and let off steam. Freaks need a place to socialize without being policed or judged.”

Struck by his ardent tone, Amelia glanced over her shoulder. “Are you a New Worlder, Mr. Gentry?”

“Don’t cotton to labeling myself, Miss Darcy.”

“But you have an opinion on the preachings of Peace Rebels and whether or not to accept or change our destiny.”

He didn’t answer.

Her pulse flared. “Please assure me you are not a Flatliner. Surely you must care about the fate of the world and—”

“Word of advice: Don’t invite or engage anyone, and I mean anyone, in a political or religious discussion in a skytown.”

She faced front and rolled her eyes. “No gawking, no succumbing, no engaging. Understood.” She dropped the subject. For now. Though she knew it was wrong to judge a person based solely on his or her beliefs, she couldn’t imagine spending a lifetime in an intimate relationship with a man who possessed a vastly opposing worldview. She wasn’t one to bite her tongue or bury her head in the sand. Not that she planned or wanted to spend a lifetime with Tucker. Not that he’d offered. In fact, he had been most forthright about his inability to sustain a permanent relationship. Which led her to believe he was indeed a New Worlder, or at least someone who leaned toward the freethinking, free-loving nature of the Mods. Otherwise he would have insisted upon doing the right thing regardless of his vagabond, outlaw status.

Unless, of course, he was promised to another, or perhaps secretly married.

“Absurd.”

“What’s absurd?” Tucker asked as they neared the outer docking isle.

Her cheeks flushed. “I, uh…I was thinking about what you said about Freaks needing a place to socialize. Absurd that they’re shunned by the mainstream. Since when is being different a crime? Were that the case I would have been locked away long ago.”

“Come here.”

Amelia swiveled and shifted closer to the man at the wheel.

He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her in for a swift but knee-melting kiss.

Breathless, she quirked a bewildered grin. “What was that for?”

“Being you.” Smiling, Tucker tied off the air dinghy and escorted Amelia across the narrow gangway.

“Dodgy construction,” she noted in a tight tone.

“Temporary, but safe. Just don’t look down.”

She wasn’t afraid of heights, but the walkway was more like a swinging bridge than a stationary gangway. Surrounded by fluffy white clouds, she truly felt as if she were walking on air. The unstable sensation incited a case of the stomach wrens. Or perhaps it was the realization that she was stepping into another world. She’d heard about and read about Mods and Freaks her entire life, but Mods lived in seclusion, and Freaks preferred the bustle of major cities. Easier to get lost in, she supposed. Although she’d heard they leaned toward psychedelic bohemian Victorian fashions, a trend called ModVic, and had kaleidoscope eyes. How could they possibly blend? She glanced up at the Peace Rebel flag waving from one of the masts. Once a sign of peace, now a symbol of chaos. “I’ve never met a Freak.”

“Not that you know of,” Tucker said as they stepped upon the deck of the first airship.

A man moved into their path and greeted them in French. To Amelia’s surprise Tucker responded in kind. Fluently. She blinked at her escort, then back to the greeter, who switched to English.

“My name is Doobie. Welcome to Skytown, miss,” he said with a nod toward Amelia. “We have but one law: Make love, not war.”

A credo of the Peace Rebels. Amelia vibrated with excitement. She tried not to stare as the colorfully garbed man explained the layout of the “town” and its most popular venues. Difficult, that. Doobie was a curiosity indeed. Medieval tunic embroidered with flowers and accentuated with
studs. Long, unkempt hair. An Indian-type band around his forehead and a sprig of daisies behind his right ear.

He looked to Tucker. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Got a transformation center on this mecca?”

“The Fantasy Factory on Prankster Street. Next dig over, one deck down.” He squinted through his rose-colored spectacles. “You look familiar.”

“No, I don’t.”

Doobie nodded. “My mistake.” He glanced to Amelia and smiled. “Have fun, chickadoodle.” He bade her good-bye as Tucker pulled her away, but not with a wave.

“Did you see that?” she whispered, stunned. “Doobie gave me the two-finger! Was he a Mod? He looked too young, but—”

“Not a Mod.”

“A Freak? Except I saw his eyes over the rims of his spectacles when he bowed his head. Plain brown, but—”

“A Vic dressed up like a Mod, honey. An actor. Part of the appeal and atmosphere. Just like the rest of these hawkers,” he said without making eye contact with any one of the colorful people they passed.

Amelia, however, tripped twice, distracted by sights she’d seen only in the Book of Mods. Men and women dressed to the nines in threads of the Love Generation. One played a guitar, singing about “blowing in the wind.” One smoked an odd-smelling cigarette, offering a “toke” to Amelia as they passed. Another was passing out free necklaces—“love beads.” She accepted two colorful strands with a smile. “Thank you.”

A doe-eyed woman with a diamond stud in her nose gestured to a doorway. “Hemp headbands and bracelets, incense, leather cuffs…”

The woman’s words faded as Tucker steered Amelia away. “Come on, Flygirl, before she sells you a bong.”

“What’s a bong?”

“Never mind.”

They crossed another swinging gangway. Dig number two—Prankster Street. “I’m surprised by how deserted this skytown is. More hawkers than patrons,” Amelia noted as they descended a deck.

“That’s because it’s early. Skytowns come alive after sundown.”

“Must be something to see.”

“Paris is something to see. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Oh, no.” She tugged him to a stop, wide-eyed, adrenaline racing. What if she didn’t win the jubilee prize? What if her brothers failed? What if she was doomed to live out her days with Mother at Ashford, or someplace even
more
remote? Or to marry some wealthy conservative, someone like Lord Bingham? What if this was her one shot at freedom? She gripped the Sky Cowboy by the lapel of his greatcoat. “I want to experience it all, Mr. Gentry.”

He wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed. “Then you will, Miss Darcy.” He glanced at the sign hanging above a curtained doorway.

THE FANTASY FACTORY

Tucker cocked a brow. “Ready?”

A free license to forget her troubles? To pretend and cavort with this man for one night? In the City of Light? She smiled up into his eyes. “Oh, yes.”

The Fantasy Factory was divided into two emporiums—gender specific—each staffed with a costumer, coiffeur, cosmetic artist, and a certification forger who provided each slicked-up customer with his or her customized identification card—not legal, but official-looking enough to ensure a twenty-four-hour fantasy. Hefty deposits were required and refunded upon return of the elaborate costume. Some folks indulged for pure escapism or sexual fetishes. Others took advantage of the temporary transformation as a means of momentary anonymity. It had seemed an easy solution to enable Tuck to show Amelia the Parisian sights without having to look over their shoulders for Dunkirk, corrupt air constables, or international bounty hunters on the prowl for foreign outlaws. Posing as man and wife also afforded another sort of freedom altogether.

Two hours later, Tuck and Amelia walked out of the Fantasy Factory hand in hand as Mr. and Mrs. Digger and Cherry Peckinposh, aerial stuntmen presently employed by a start-up flying circus. As soon as they cleared the exit, Tuck pulled his “wife” into a private alcove. “Your hair is pink.”

“Temporarily.”

“Bright pink. Like a Caribbean flamingo.”

“You’ve been to the Caribbean?”

“On second thought, more like a Japanese cherry blossom.”

She grinned. “When I told the coiffeuse I wanted to be
a daring and evocative circus performer, she suggested a hair color to go with my chosen fantasy name and persona. She said vibrant hair colors are all the rage with the performance artists who frequent Paris. She said no one would give me a second look.”

“Except every breathing man within half a kilometer.”

She furrowed her brow and toyed with a pink-tinted loose and wild curl. “Are you suggesting men will find this color and style attractive?”

He skimmed her low-cut pink satin blouse and red brocade corset, the flouncy, lacy layers of short skirts, and the striped hose that accentuated her shapely legs. Instead of her clunky black boots, she wore white, pointy-toed, midcalf button boots with spiky heels. She looked good enough to eat. She even smelled of cherries and peppermint. “The whole package is attractive, darlin’, in a whimsical, exotic way.”

“You’re staring at my décolletage, Mr….Peckinposh.”

Not that Amelia was showing more cleavage than any fashionable lady dressed in the latest evening wear, but the ensemble itself more closely resembled the costumes worn by the dancing girls in the cabarets of Montmartre. The free-spirit persona coupled with those lovely bosoms gave a man wicked thoughts. “They’re sparkling.”

She shrugged. “Felicia said all circus performers sparkle.”

“Mmm.”

Snorting, she gestured to his colorful ensemble. “You’re not exactly the picture of subtlety yourself.”

At least he’d talked the costumer out of the formfitting metallic breeches. Tuck drew the line at flashing his package. Instead he wore black wool trousers with black satin stripes. His shirt was also black satin. The waistcoat was metallic red-and-black brocade. The frock coat was cranberry red. The bowler hat wouldn’t have been too bad except the red band was accentuated by a damned gauzy black rose the size of his fist.

Then there were the accessories.

Elaborate bronze-and-iron wrist cuffs adorned with clockwork, a reversible locket-style Beetle Bug pocket watch, five ornamental rings, and red-tinted goggles with attached magnifying loupes.

“I haven’t seen that much jewelry on a man since, well, ever.” She fluttered her glittery lashes. “Spectacularly pretty getup, Mr. Peckinposh.”

He grunted, remembering how the costumer had wanted to replace his working Blaster with some showy prop gun: the Particle Beam Combobulator. The damned thing shot sparkly confetti. So, yeah, it could’ve been worse.

She narrowed her kohl-lined eyes. “This was your idea. Said our best way to avoid unwanted attention was to go incognito.” She perched her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know I would never wear such revealing, frilly clothes; nor would I fancy pink hair, allowing the bothersome curls to blow willy-nilly; nor would I apply glitter to my cheeks and bosom or red lip rouge to my mouth. These bloody boots are cramping my toes, and just look at this ridiculous overnight satchel. Zebra stripes with pink trim? Honestly!”

Tuck laughed. Her outrage highlighted the humor of the moment. The brilliance of their absurd, dandified appearance. “I apologize, Mrs. Peckinposh. The transformation is indeed impressive.” He inspected her hands and lowered his voice. “Not a trace of grease. Don’t reckon your own ma would recognize you.”

She raised a newly defined brow and matched his hushed tone. “Mother would faint were she to see me in this absurd getup. Actually, first she would accuse me of being shameless, scandalous, and rebellious. Then, after chastising me for ruining my chances of ever marrying a respectable man, she’d burst into uncontrollable sobs. Then she would faint.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“Manipulative, mostly. Annoying.” She plopped her zebra valise on the floor. “Anne Darcy can cry at the drop
of the hat. I suppose you could call it a talent, being able to summon tears, whilst I…”

“What?” Tuck asked while helping her into the coordinating coat.

She shrugged. “I can’t remember the last time I cried.”

He could. Last night and the night before that. “Not even when your pa passed?”

“I grieved. I still…grieve,” she said, voice tight, “but I see no need to dissolve into a weeping idiot.”

“Sometimes tears are cathartic, Amelia.”

“Cherry,” she reminded him, then turned and met his gaze. “One of the many tales I read about you in the penny dreadfuls mentioned that you lost both of your parents years ago. As a point of interest, did
you
cry?”

“Considered myself too old to cry—thirteen goin’ on fourteen—but yeah.” After the burial. Not when they’d been shot and killed in the stagecoach robbery. That moment he’d been too riddled with shock and rage, vowing to make it his life’s mission to hunt down murdering thieves. Now he was accused of being the very thing he hated.