Her Sky Cowboy (21 page)

After a tense moment Amelia broke eye contact and pulled on red kid gloves, focusing diligently on each finger. “Were I to give in to what I am feeling, Mr. Peckinposh, I fear I would lose the ability to function for weeks. I would be paralyzed by the guilt and—” She shook off her thoughts. “We should go.”

He caught her by the elbow, sensitive to that bone-deep sorrow. Grief intensified by guilt? Talk about an almighty burden. “What’s gnawing at your conscience, Flygirl?”

She worked her jaw. “How do the blasterbeefs work? How does Peg fly?”

“That your way of telling me to mind my own business?”

“Why should I entrust you with my deepest personal feelings and thoughts whilst you refuse to share even one secret with me? Or perhaps you would prefer to confess something about your personal life?”

“Like?”

“Never mind.”

She hurried ahead of him down the narrow hall and up the ladder leading topside.

He strapped his leather satchel over his chest, nabbed the ridiculous zebra valise, and followed. When Amelia hit the deck, she headed back toward their air dinghy.

“You’re going the wrong way, Mrs. Peckinposh.”

She swiveled on her white heels and stormed back. “We’re not going to Paris? Just because we…” She looked around, noted passersby, and reined herself into character. “Just because we had a lovers’ tiff?”

He stroked a pink curl out of her wide eyes. “We’re going to Paris, sugarplum, but not in the Sky Cowboy’s air dinghy. I rented a special transport, docked at that rig over there on Black Panther Lane. Something more suitable for Digger and Cherry Peckinposh, international stuntmen and stars of Professor Dingle’s Flying Circus.”

She pursed her painted red lips. “Should I be worried?”

“You should be thrilled.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m going to let you pilot.”

Amelia hadn’t appreciated Tucker’s interest in her mourning process. She preferred to think of Papa in the present tense. As if he were still alive. She preferred to pretend. The truth of the matter led her down a miserable lane where she experienced all manner of horrible thoughts and feelings. Perhaps she would wallow after she won the jubilee prize and restored honor and respect to the Darcy name, but until then she would stand strong. She would pretend. Adopting Cherry Peckinposh’s frivolous, adventurous persona, even if only for one day, soothed her injured soul. As did Tucker’s invitation to pilot their rented dig. As apologies went, it was a doozy.

Unfortunately, five minutes into their flight, her
excitement had twisted into damnable anxiety. The horror! Amelia couldn’t remember ever being so nervous. Not when she and Papa had first taken Bess for a ride. Nor the first time she’d captained the
Flying Cloud
. It wasn’t so much that this flying contraption differed from anything she’d ever manned; the experience was complicated by the presence of the Sky Cowboy, a man whose aviation skills she worshiped. A man who’d erased her innocence and stolen her heart. Even his outrageous guise as Digger Peckinposh could not detract from his charismatic aura. She was as sensitive to his magnetic pull as she was to his opinion of her flying skills. The latter proved supremely distressing. Papa and her brothers had always thought her overconfident, reckless even, yet this moment her nerves jangled like those of a fledgling aviatrix.

Did Tucker sense her trepidation? Did he guess he was the cause? Her cheeks flushed and her fingers tightened on the controls as she flew in between an air taxi and a commercial zeppelin. A bit dicey, but doable. Should she have gone the long way around instead? Not wanting him to know he had the power to make her question her judgment, Amelia offered another reason for her discomfort. “I’ve never flown amidst such traffic.” This was, in fact, true. All manner of dirigibles navigated the skies over Paris. Private and commercial. Primitive and advanced.

Tucker, or rather Digger, squeezed her shoulder. “You’re doin’ fine.”

His touch instilled pride, but it also distracted. She ignored the sensual tingle between her thighs and focused on the matter at hand. “The last time you saw me piloting a dig, I crashed. Are you not nervous?”

“I am not.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re good.”

If she weren’t already dreadfully head over heels for this man, that statement would’ve pushed her over the edge. “But I crashed.”

“Impressed the hell out of me. You could’ve bailed like your friend Concetta, but you fought to pull that kitecycle out of a dive. You’ve got courage and heart. Skill. Unfortunately, you were operating an inferior piece of machinery.”

She would’ve taken exception to his negative view of Papa’s design, but she was too stunned by his praise of her character and talent. She should probably thank him, and as soon as she found her voice she would.

“What do you think of this dig?” he asked whilst stoking the firebox. “Compared to Bess, I mean.”

The mention of Bess made her pounding heart ache. She cleared her throat and rolled back her shoulders. “She’s all right, I suppose. The steam engine is more advanced, and the gondola is a luxury. Still…”

“You’d prefer an exposed chassis as opposed to being more protected from the elements?”

The two-person gondola was certainly more comfortable, but still…“Although the windows are generous they are still windows. There’s something inspiring and invigorating about the open air.”

“There’s also comfort in clinging to the sentimental, no matter how flawed.”

“Bess wasn’t flawed,” she snapped.

Tuck didn’t argue.

Amelia sighed. “Fine. Bess was flawed. Massively flawed. I do not recall ever being aloft for more than fifteen minutes without some malfunction. Still, she was a product of Papa’s imagination and determination. A gift. For me. Flawed, but cherished.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pointed out the starboard window. “See that park? Set her down there.”

“You want me to land?”

“That a problem?”

“No. It’s just…I’m not ready.”

“Thought you wanted to see Paris.”

“I am seeing Paris. I find this vantage point vastly engaging.
Surely nothing on the ground can compare to soaring the skies.” If she could fly forever, she would. Up here she was beholden to no one. Free of conventions, restrictions, and expectations.
Bliss
.

Tucker cocked his head. “Most women would be anxious to sample the gourmet pastries and exclusive fashions. Then again, you’re unlike any woman I’ve ever known.”

She flushed. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s interesting.” He tempered that cryptic statement by leaning forward and grazing her cheek with a kiss. “Trade places.”

His lips, his touch, his infernal magnetism incited a tremor of delight.
Crikey
. Throwing herself at him whilst in flight would probably be a bad idea. She cleared her throat. “Why?”

“You want a scenic tour of Paris? I’m gonna give you one. It’ll work better if I’m in control. I know where I’m going; plus, you can gawk to your heart’s delight through those windows you hate so much.”

She wasn’t keen on being a passenger, but she would enjoy the tour. Amelia shifted as Tuck slid into the pilot’s seat. Even though he sported Digger Peckinposh’s fancy clothes, the moment he took control of the small aircraft he radiated a manly intensity that turned her knees to pudding.

“Buckle in, Flygirl. I’m taking some shortcuts.”

She settled into the passenger seat, secured the leather safety harness, and within seconds Tucker was soaring at an accelerated speed, edging past larger transports, skimming rooftops. She grinned like an idiot as she did indeed gawk out the window.

Paris, France, second largest city in Europe, directly after London. Amelia’s time in the British capital had been brief but the impression long-lasting. Mostly she’d been stunned by the overcrowded streets—pedestrians, personal automocoaches, public transport, even horses and buggies clogged
the narrow streets. At times she’d felt invigorated. At other times suffocated. Even the sky had been congested with an astonishing amount of traffic. How the pilots could see clearly amidst the film of grimy smoke that coated the air, she had no idea.

The skies of Paris were less congested and not nearly as polluted, but, looking down, she saw the city itself appeared nearly as choked with humanity. As was typical of this altered age, the Industrial Revolution had melded with bits and pieces of twentieth-century technology. Steam power thrived, yet electrical power gained momentum by the day. Amelia noted the endless industrial smokestacks and the factories that housed enormous electric generators. She thought about the chaos below. The hordes of people. The overpowering scents and sounds. This was by far a more pleasurable means of exploring the vast metropolis.

Tucker pointed out the several cultural locations. The Arc de Triomphe at the western end of the Champs-Élysées. The Louvre Museum on the right bank of the Seine. He talked about the advanced thinking and heated debates amongst forward-thinkers whilst drinking or gambling or partaking in the visual delights of any one of a hundred revues and risqué cabarets: wireless communication, quantum theory, computers. She’d read about such wonders in the Book of Mods, but she’d never engaged in thoughtful conversation regarding these matters with anyone other than her father and brothers. Once again, she felt the vexing hindrance of her sheltered life.

“I confess I’m beginning to feel a bit intimidated about mixing with the progressive Parisians.”

“This from a woman who tried to manipulate the Scottish Shark of the Skies.”

“That was different. At least we spoke the same language. I don’t speak French.”

“I do.”

“I noticed.” She’d been impressed and more than a little
smitten. “I don’t suppose you speak Italian as well?” she joked.

“Sì, bella.”

Her stomach fluttered and a smile teased the corners of her mouth. Did he just call her beautiful? He’d definitely said “yes.” “You speak French and Italian?”

“Plus a few other languages,” he said matter-of-factly. “Always had an ear for foreign speech and dialects. Spanish, Chinese, different American Indian tongues. Not fluent in all, but versed enough to get by. Came in handy when I was an air marshal. America the melting pot. Now that I’m in Europe…” He shrugged. “Simplifies things to converse in an associate’s native tongue.”

Was there no end to this man’s talents? Beyond impressed, she thanked her lucky stars. Tucker could not only transport her to Italy, but translate for her once there. “Astounding.”

“Here’s the deal,” he said, pushing the dandified bowler to the back of his head. “I’m going to circle the city once more, and by the time I land, you’re going to have at least one place in mind that you’d like to go.”

Crikey
. The City of Light. The most progressive city in the world, given the Parisians’ more liberal stance on morals and Mod technology. Art, architecture, industry, inventions. So much to experience and so very little time. How to choose?

Tuck glanced over his shoulder. “About Peg.”

“Sorry?”

“I can’t explain how he knows what to do when it comes to flying, except to say he was born with the instinct.”

If she hadn’t been buckled in she might have fallen out of her seat. He was going to share something about one of his guarded secrets. “How do you mean?” she asked tentatively.

“I’ve had Peg since he was a yearling. Bought him off a breeder who’d threatened to put him down because he was
too wild. Jumped corrals. Went loco when harnessed. But I didn’t sense a mean streak. I sensed a gentle spirit in need of open spaces and a patient hand.”

“Axel said you have a way with animals. I saw it with Leo. It’s as if you speak their language, too.”

“Just put myself in their shoes, so to speak. I had a ranch in Wyoming territory. Lots of land, and Peg got the run of it. That freedom soothed his temperament. Still, I knew early on he was different. I’d catch him peering up at the sky—sometimes for a second, sometimes for a spell. Realized after a while that he was fascinated with birds. I’ll never forget the day I saw him take off across the pasture like a bat out of hell. Then he leaped, stretching his body and legs as if to soar, hooves pawing the air.”

“He was trying to fly?”

“That’s how it looked. Body of a horse. Heart of a bird. Though I didn’t understand how an animal could yearn to go against his nature, I did understand the intense desire to fly. We bonded in that way, and my chest ached every time he took that running leap and hit the ground.”

Amelia’s own heart bloomed. “You decided to find a way to make Peg’s dream come true.”

“I was working a case in San Francisco. Art theft. In the course of the investigation I had reason to examine some sketches of Leonardo da Vinci’s.”

Amelia’s heart pounded. “Did you say da Vinci?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“No matter. Go on.”
Thud. Thud
.

“There were drawings of one horse jumping over another, body and legs stretched, just like Peg. Then there were sketches of a flying contraption—wings strapped to a man—and I thought, Why not wings strapped to a horse? I researched da Vinci’s notions on flight. Researched birds. I devised a special harness and a set of wings mimicking the anatomy of a bird. Consulted a techno-surgeon on the skin-replication techniques used on automatons. As an
afterthought I created a sensor of sorts meant to detect Peg’s heartbeat, tap into his power—more symbolic than anything—an iron disk embossed with the image of a Pegasus that fits over his heart.” Tucker shook his head. “I swan, it was like magic, Amelia. I don’t know how it works; it just does. Near as I can tell, the wings are fueled by Peg’s unique passion. Out of curiosity, I’ve harnessed other horses with the wings and sensor.”

“But it didn’t work.”

“Not once.”

“Which makes Peg quite rare and unique.” Amelia’s mind raced. “Were someone to discover his gift, they might try to steal him and profit from his extraordinary ability. Or worse, conduct experiments in hopes of discovering his secret. How awful!” She placed her hand on Tucker’s shoulder. “Please know that Peg’s secret is safe with me. As much as I would like to boast about my wondrous flight upon his back, never will I divulge his unique gift. I know you do not trust me—”