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 th
em. 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 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.
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 2