She shook her head. “I wouldn't think it very wise for you to visit this Uktena in any case. I doubt it would approve of your treacherous ways. You're safer in Boston. Better yet, back in Texas. Good-bye."
His eyes snapped shut, waiting for the sting of the beam. Instead, a heavy blow fell on his temple. He cracked one eye as pain exploded in his head and saw the look of remorse on Romy's face as his knees gave out. Some lady, he thought as darkness closed in.
****
Romy stared at Abel's crumpled form. The first man she'd ever felt attracted to, challenged by, and he was a no-good treasure hunter. Pushing her skirt out of the way, she tucked the gun back in the holster strapped to her thigh. Better safe than sorry and the weapon had come in very handy tonight. Some habits were harder to break than others.
The fang had fallen from his open shirt collar. It gleamed with an unearthly light. Brighter than the stone he first claimed it was made from. A treasure in itself. He knew more than he was telling about the fang. Her fingers stretched toward it, but she hesitated. Curses were usually a bunch of rot designed to ward off would-be thieves. If it carried a curse, why would Abel have it? Another lie to dissuade her from helping Papa.
She slipped it over his head, brushing his hair as she did so. The lock fell across one eye, partially obscuring the fresh bruise blooming on his temple. Even unconscious, he was as handsome as the devil.
A glance over her shoulder told her she was still alone upstairs. Guilt niggled at her for leaving Abel in the library, but he'd left her no choice. Someone had let him in, the same someone could get him out.
"Bye, love. Have a nice nap."
Chapter Five
In spite of knocking Abel out cold, a thrill of excitement fluttered in Romy’s chest. The dirty thief would be fine, if a little dazed tomorrow. She’d been forced to do it, really. The worst that could happen was that he found himself locked up in jail for breaking and entering. No less than he deserved, because if not for her, he’d have stolen all of Christensen’s information.
Information now in her possession and she could hardly wait to go through it. If Abel wanted these papers, then they must contain valuable knowledge. She rolled the bundle into her satchel and tucked the fang into a concealed pocket in the lining of her handbag.
She paused in front of a long mirror frosted with more dragons. Christensen seemed to have an obsession with the silly creatures. Licking her fingers, she smoothed a few hairs into place, making a point to avoid looking at the reflection of Abel’s prone form on the carpet behind her, and pulled at the top of her bodice before walking out of the library. Romy closed the door behind her and made her way down the hall.
She hurried downstairs, listening to the strains of string instruments. In the past after announcing a new expedition, Papa had mingled with his admirers and suppliers. Tonight the dancing had resumed and Papa was nowhere in sight. The very last thing she wanted to do was seek Imogen’s help to find him.
A hand cupped her bare elbow and she let out a squeak of surprise. If Abel had come after her, she’d have no chance to get away from him without embarrassing herself in order to reach the Lighthouser. She spun, ready to cry foul and have him removed from the estate.
“Miss Farrington, I frightened you. My apologies.” Woefield’s voice was every bit as oily as his uncle’s. “May I call you Romancia?”
The rapid gallop of Romy’s heart slowed. The way he said her name made it sound almost indecent. She fought to keep her face neutral as she took in his crooked smile and flat eyes.
“Apology accepted, Mr. Woefield. However, I think it might be best if we didn't forgo formalities for now.”
His hand tightened on her elbow. “I was hoping we could use this time to get better acquainted. I’m sure my uncle and your father would agree.”
What gave him the idea that she wanted to spend time with him? “That’s a very nice idea, sir, but I’m afraid I have to decline your invitation. Have you by chance seen my father? I’ve had a rather difficult day and I’d like to go home since his big announcement is finished.”
Woefield’s brow furrowed. “Yes, he and Uncle retired to another room to discuss business. They may be a while yet. I’m more than happy to listen to your difficulties, pet.”
With his free hand, he caressed her from wrist to the elbow he clasped. Romy’s stomach tightened with disgust.
“I would really rather not. Perhaps you could alert our driver and have him take me home.” She forced each word through her clenched teeth.
Anger flared in his eyes and his grip tightened enough to make her gasp. “But you consented to dance with that fool earlier? I saw the flirtatious looks you gave him. You probably thought you were being subtle, but no man could ignore the way you acted. I'm surprised he's not sniffing around, trying to get you out of that hideous dress.”
Woefield leered at her and lowered his mouth to her ear. His hand slipped up her arm to cup the back of her neck. His eyes seemed to burn into her cleavage. “There’s no need to be frightened of me, dearest. You must know I find the prospect of having such an untamed woman in my bed very exciting. Eventually your temper will subside, but until that day, I intend to enjoy every second of unbridled passion you bring me. Oh, I’d much rather have you without the confines of marriage given your reputation, but I’ll turn you around in society’s eyes in the end.”
Romy’s jaw fell open. “You presumptuous bastard!”
With all the force she could muster, she stomped on the top of his foot. He let out a howl that almost shattered her eardrums. The music died away with a shriek of bows against strings and the entire room turned to look at them.
Woefield’s hands fell off her body in a hurry. He limped back a few steps, red in the face with fury and pain. Romy straightened her shoulders, prepared to tell everyone in listening distance what he’d said to her, but he shot a glare at the guests and the dancing resumed as if nothing had happened.
“You’re already mine, pet. Uncle Andrew promised I could have you and have you I will. It's a matter of time. Then we'll see who's in charge.” Woefield hobbled away, cursing under his breath.
“Take Wincie or Sara. Or both of them for all I care, as long as I don’t ever have to suffer your touch again.” She wished she hadn’t put the Lighthouser away. One solid tap on the head and he’d forget her like yesterday's dinner. All she’d managed to do was make him angry and more determined to claim her.
If there was any fairness in the world, someone would back up the story about Woefield accosting her and report it to her father. The way she’d suddenly become invisible didn’t bode well. She had to get home before Woefield came back for another round and Abel had a chance to recover what she’d robbed him of.
Gardner was sitting with the other carriage drivers on the other side of the iron-fenced street. Romy gestured to him from the end of the drive. He didn’t bother with good-byes to his friends as he came toward her. She never gave much thought to him, other than when she needed to go somewhere, but at least he was loyal enough to do most of her bidding.
“I must get home right away. Papa is staying a bit longer, but I’m tired of the festivities, so you’ll have to return for him.”
The driver didn’t argue, just opened the carriage door and helped her inside. Romy clutched the overstuffed purse to her chest. The outside of the satin felt warm against her hands, even through her gloves. Shifting her fingers, she traced the outline of the fang the way Abel had inside the manor.
She thought of his hands—long and lean—and of the way his fingers caressed her back as he led her to the ballroom floor. Why did his touch make her feel alive and breathless when Woefield made her feel small and worthless? They were both disgusting men only out for what they could gain. They deserved each other more than either of them deserved her. Maybe when she showed Papa her information and persuaded him to let her accompany him, he’d realize she didn’t need a husband to make her happy.
As soon as Gardne
r turned into the drive in front of the cottage, Romy was on her feet. He'd barely applied the brake before she threw the door open and jumped to the ground without waiting for the steps to be lowered. The purse in her hands felt heavy and hot. She ached to examine the fang again.
“Do you need anything else, miss?” Gardner asked, shuffling beside the horses.
She waved off his question. “No. Go back and wait for Papa. I'm sure he'll be ready to come home soon. Good night. And thank you.”
The house was dark and a bit lonesome against the black sky. Papa wanted to be away from prying eyes, but still close enough that he could force her to be involved with the community. A woman came twice a week to clean the little cottage and a cook prepared meals every day, but otherwise they were alone once Gardner's services were no longer needed. She never minded the privacy and was grateful for it now.
It took several minutes and some creative maneuvering to get out of the monstrosity of a dress. It pooled on the floor, a small mountain of blue and white laid over an Oriental rug. The satin handbag gleamed just as ugly on the coverlet. She pulled the drawstrings and turned it upside down, dumping the contents on the bed.
A pot of rouge, a pencil stub, Abel's papers and a few crumpled receipts scattered over the quilt. Several papers drifted off the coverlet, but she was more interested in the fang. It fell out last, though it was the heaviest of the objects. Amid the other things, it glinted shiny, foreign and dangerous. The part of her that believed in fairy tales and magic hesitated to examine it. Cursed, Abel had said. For all his easy smiles and teasing, he'd looked deathly serious when he called it that.
Her other half, the part that liked overcoming mysteries, picked the fang up. It was lighter than it looked. Holding it aloft, she imagined the size of the serpent's head that housed a tooth like this. Easily the length of her hand, something as huge and unearthly as the fang itself must have grown it. If such a creature were to rear up and strike, the force of the head alone would be enough to cause serious damage to its victim. Not that she believed it was a real serpent's fang or that it had come from any kind of animal. Dragons weren't real, so that wasn't the answer either. From the way it shone, as though fresh from a jeweler's shop, she estimated it to be a year or two old.
It was in very good condition, better condition than most of the artifacts she'd laid eyes on. Logically, it couldn't be anything more than a fancy attempt to pass off some odd stone as a relic. Pretty, but not really worth anything. So why had Abel been so insistent about tracking down the Horned Serpent?
She traced the jagged crack along the front. A small piece had been knocked out and the pointed end was dull. It might have made a fearsome weapon for a real creature. Hanging from a leather thong, it looked harmless.
Romy looked away from fang, staring at her bedroom door, but not seeing it. Papa had sold so much of their equipment. She didn't think there was any machinery left for carbon dating and nowhere to set it up if she had it. Frustration made her frown. For the first time, she wished they were back in England where she had contacts who could do some tests on the thing. Here on this continent, she didn't know any scientists.
What few things he'd kept from their exploring days—which was very little—were still packed in boxes and stored in a corner of his room. She set the fang aside and reached for the dressing gown lying across the end of the bed.
She respected Papa's privacy, but she wanted her tools. Surely he hadn't thrown away a lifetime of memories just because of one little slip up. A double pang of guilt jangled her nerves. Innocent lives warranted more respect than calling their loss a slip up. Those men had believed in Papa's mission. The harder he tried to forget who he was, the more determined she was that they should continue to document the past and the present. Starting with this fang and the legend of the Serpent.
With her chin up, she marched down the hall and straight into Papa's room. It was stark, with heavy drapes and a bed barely big enough for one person. A scarred wooden trunk sat at the foot of it. There were no photographs, no paintings, not even a decorative rug to cover the stone tiles on the floor. But there were two wooden crates stamped with Papa's initials.
The palms of Romy's hands itched as she anticipated reaching in and pulling out the tool kit he'd given her for her fifteenth birthday. The wooden-handled brushes were from his first set, re-bristled just for her. Rock hammers and chisels were dinged and dented from years of use. How she’d missed the familiar objects.
He hadn't bothered to lock the crates, as though he believed she'd never sneak into his room to retrieve them. Papa's word had always been set in stone if she wanted to continue to travel with him. She'd taken it seriously until now. She had nothing left to lose.
The first crate contained leather-bound journals with pages full of animals and plants unique to certain places in the world. She'd drawn so many of the illustrations in those books. It was bittersweet to pick them up and flip through pages crinkled from moisture and stained with soil, bits of animal fur or sticky plant residue. She smiled at the childish drawing of an arctic fox folded and tucked between two pages about Upper Canada her father had written.
One chronicle close to the top had a rusty red fingerprint on the corner.
Blood.
An icy ball of sickness formed in her stomach. She didn't know whose blood it was and didn't want to know. She placed another journal over it, hiding it from view. These precious books that detailed all the trips weren't what she wanted anyway.
The lid to the other crate was tighter and it took her a minute to pry it up. Her sadness evaporated when she saw the waterproof canvas bag that had accompanied her since she was a little girl. Her name was inked in careful block letters at the top, faded from years of exposure to the elements. Tears of joy blurred her vision when she pulled it out.
Romy unfastened the clasp holding the pack shut. The tangy scent of leather from an almost-new pair of gloves filled her nose. It was like being greeted by an old friend. Heaven help her, she'd missed her things and her old life.
A smaller book found its way into her hands; her personal diary of the trip along the Amazon—right up until the night before their disaster. Romy closed her eyes and remembered the rainy scent of the jungle and the itch of mosquito bites on her neck. The banter of the men as they paddled down the green-brown waters, happy to be on their way to food and a night's rest. The diary fell open to the pages marked with a frayed satin ribbon and a column of flowing handwriting.
Mr. Farrar and I regret that our journey is almost at its end. Tonight we shall camp among the natives and partake in their harvest festival. One would think the excitement of festivals would wear off, as many as we've been to among different cultures, but there is always something new to experience.
Fresh tears welled in her eyes. Yes, they'd met something new—sacrifice, bloodshed, unyielding fear, and the loss of dear friends. She slammed the journal shut. For a second, she considered returning the pack to the crate and going to her room to crawl beneath her covers.
Stuffing the diary back into the satchel, her fingers brushed the tool kit. There it was: the thing she'd missed most. Her fingers curled around the smooth leather case and untied the string as she settled it in her lap. All the tools were in neat order. A burst of enthusiasm filled her from top to bottom. Christensen intended for Papa to find the Diamond and she was going to be right there at his side like always. One by one, she examined the tools, from tiny brushes to picks and hammers.
Lost in fond memories, she jumped when she heard the front door slam. Romy grabbed her pack, jammed the lid back on the crate and crept back to her room. She stuffed the sack beneath her bed and tucked the fang into her robe pocket.
“Romancia?”
“Coming, Papa.” Hoping she didn't sound as breathless as she felt, she straightened her dressing gown and went to the door.
He met her in the hall. Spikes of hair stood up around his head and she knew he'd been running his hands through it. The eleg
ant ascot tied around his throat earlier at the ball hung limply down his shirtfront. He looked worn and tired.
“Welcome home.” Undeterred by his frown, empowered by her stealthy skills as a thief twice in one night, she touched his arm, prepared to lead him back to the sitting room where they could talk about the trip.
“We need to have a discussion.”
He was deathly serious, as he'd been since their arrival in America.
“All right. Would you like a drink before we start?”
He shook her hand off and took her elbow much the same way Woefield had. “I know what you're planning. You're as transparent as glass; sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, which is why I didn't tell you about this to begin with. You must stay here, do you understand?”
Romy's brow furrowed. “You make me sound like an errant child.”
“I don't know where you went after the announcement, but I know what your absence meant. You came straight home to get your things together. It isn't a possibility this time.” Disappointment from her actions rolled off him in waves.
The contents of her stomach curdled, but her hope didn't die. “But what about next time?”
“There won't be a next time.”
“You said that when we left London. No more traveling, remember?” She forced down the fear that he really would leave her. “Now there is an artifact to find and you haven’t been on an expedition alone since before I was born. I can list plenty of reasons why you should let me go. To start, you need me.”
He shook his head. “This isn't a negotiation. I have no choice except to go. But you . . . . There's one reason you should stay and that's Mr. Woefield.”
Some odd emotion glittered in his eyes, the same shade of blue as hers, but Romy couldn't name it. His gaze dropped as soon as the name left his mouth. If he looked into her eyes, she knew he'd see a combination of anger and disgust.
“Woefield is exactly the reason I need to go on this trip. Do you know what he suggested to me back there in that over-glorified crypt? That I belong to him. That I'm no better than a horse or hunting dog because Andrew Christensen promised me to him. No one has the right to promise me—”
The Treasure Hunter's Lady Page 5