A cracking sound drew him around, his gun out, the hammer back, and Penny marveled at the effortless move, then looked where he aimed. Maxwell stood frozen, his camera shudder clicking continuously.
"Damn you, Max."
"You are acquainted with this runt?" Ramsey gestured with the barrel.
"Jesus, what a front page this'll make! Penelope Hamilton flees hospital with her latest lover, Captain Blood!"
In three strides Ramsey was on him, fisting his shirt front and lifting Max off the floor. * 'If you value your hide, whelp, ' '
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Ram said in a tone that could shave ice—"I suggest you beg off those words."
Maxwell looked uncertainly at Penny. "Is he for real?"
Ramsey shoved the barrel beneath the man's chin.
"Yes, I believe so." Humor colored her voice.
"The words, pup, afore I splatter your empty head!"
"Oh, for crying out loud, will you just put him down?"
"Nay." Ramsey didn't take his eyes off the impudent brat. " Tis insulted you, he has." Ramsey shook him, making the cameras bang together. "Apologize to the lady!"
"Sorry, Mi—mis H-Hamilton."
He wasn't satisfied, Penny thought, moving around the car. Stopping beside them, she impatiently opened the camera and yanked on the film. Max groaned.
"You can let him go, now, Sir Galahad."
Ramsey abruptly opened his fingers. The photographer dropped to the concrete on his rump as the hollow echo of rapid footsteps came to them.
Penny grabbed Ramsey's arm. "Come on!"
She dragged him to the car, opening his door, his head banging against the metal rim as she shoved him into the leather seat, then sealed him in. Then she was beside him, muttering something about pointless gallantry and turning the key. The silver beast roared and Ram's eyes went wide. People converged outside the coach, shouting her name and questions; small flashes of light blinded him and he turned his face away.
"Seat belt," she said, and he copied her movements, harnessing himself in. She shifted a stick resting atween them, and Ramsey thought he'd be catapulted through the glass when the contraption unexpectedly lurched. Instead he was plastered to the seat, the scenery whizzing past him with amazing speed. His spine numbed with his effort to remain calm, and he swallowed, glancing to her, then to the rushing view before him as they burst from the darkened cave and into the dawn light.
''Sweet Jesus!'' Ramsey wasn't certain leaving captivity was wise now and dared a look out the rear window. His eyes widened further. God almighty! The building was over six floors high! He looked at Mistress Hamilton. The little witch
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was bloody close to smiling, rather pleased with herself, it appeared. How on earth she could enjoy this bizarre ride was beyond his comprehension, yet Ramsey willed himself to relax, studying first the panel afore her. A needle moved past a series of numbers within a glass covered dial; approaching fifty, he determined.
She shifted the black stick.
"What does M.P.H. represent?"
Penny glanced at him; his face was extremely pale. "Miles per hour."
"Nay! Tis impossible to reach such a speed on land! You lie!"
She looked offended, but kept her eyes on the road. ' 'Why should I lie?" Then added, "Never mind."
She rotated the wheel sharply, and the world passed in a blur. We have struck a pig, he deduced, for the squeal was too sharp to be aught else. Then he realized they were speeding down another street. Again, she moved the stick and the silver carriage sped faster. Ramsey closed his eyes, ordering himself not to be ill. He didn't care for this at all. Then they slowed or at least he felt the roaring lessen, and he opened first one eye, then the other.
"You okay?"
He shot her an irritated glance. "I despair to imagine what havoc you might wreak were those reins in your hands, Mistress Hamilton."
"Reins? As in a horse?"
"Aye, and God save me from women drivers," he swore, scowling darkly as a thought suddenly occurred to him. "Why were all those men chasing you?"
She ignored his emphasis and said, "They're reporters."
"That offers me no help, woman."
"They report the news." The Jag felt unreasonably small with him in it.
"And our escape—'twas noteworthy?" He received naught but a shrug.
Penny downshifted, stealing a quick look at her passenger. If he didn't know why she was always hounded, she wasn't
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going to tell him. It was kind of nice talking to someone who wasn't going to run to the papers at the first opportunity.
"Who protects you?" He'd seen none who'd constitute a chaperone or guardian,
"Say again?" It was cute, his playing with the electronic windows.
"Who sees to your safety?'' Surely women didn't walk about unescorted.
"/ do." Penny picked up the car phone and dialed with her thumb.
Ram glowered his disapproval, his gaze glazing over her slim form, the delicate hand wrapped around a thin oblong box. " Tis a speck, you are," he scoffed. "Give over now, lass. I'll have the truth."
"It is." Her brows drew down. "How long did you say you were stuck on that island?"
Ramsey's lips twitched. Marooned, was it? 'Twas certainly an enterprising concept.
"Daniel? Miss Hamilton," she said into the box. "My bags arrive? Have we been cleared for take off? Good, I'm about three blocks away. Warm her up.''
Ramsey grabbed the box when she made to replace it, depressing the numbered tabs and putting it to his ear as she had. Naught, and he frowned at the box.
"A telephone," she said, enjoying his confusion. Christ. This guy was right out of the dark ages.
Ram silently replaced the box, turning his face away to view the sights beyond the glass. Scarcely dawn, the township appeared blue-gray and he tried to absorb everything passing afore his vision; the bright colored awnings and bold advertisements for food and lodging. The prices stated were an outrage, for a night's lodging equaled the price of his last shipment of pepper! He pressed his face against the glass to see the tops of structures appearing to scrape the clouds, then smothered a snicker over the giant slab of wood with the image of a pirate emblazoned across a ship, beneath his feet the invitation to visit his lair. No sailor worth his salt would don a plumed hat
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such as that. At least the Scots have done well, he noticed, the McDonald clan owning four taverns thus far.
"What is our destination?" he asked, poking through the glove box. "Since you've taken the choice from me."
"We aren't going anywhere. And I'm here." Penny turned the wheel, and the Jaguar slid into the parking slot. She turned off the motor and Ramsey scowled at the abrupt silence, ducking to examine the dashboard. "Goodbye, Mister O'Keefe." He looked up. "It's been an adventure escaping with you." At least he'd kept her mind off Tess, she thought, her smile falling. She extended her hand, and Ramsey grasped it, his eyes colliding with hers as he drew it to his lips, placing a soft kiss to the back. "Oh, please." She wiggled free, shaking her head as she opened the door. "Here, have fun." She tossed him the key and he caught it. "It's rented until tomorrow."
Ramsey fought with the latch til the door sprang open, then climbed out. She was already walking toward a small building. 'Twas no wonder the wench wore breeches; she moved too bloody fast. A man in a small red cap spoke to her, nodded, then disappeared beyond Rani's line of vision. What could she possible want here, he wondered, tossing the key into the carriage and striding after her. Afore he rounded the comer of the building his attention caught on a large box with a glass front. A newspaper, he realized after closer examination. Bending down, he squinted against the sunlight, shielding a corner of the glass to read the date: "June 16, 1989."
Nineteen.
Oh, sweet Mary, Mother of God.
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Chapter 8
The hatch opened like a yawning mouth, hydraulics lowering the curved section of fuselage as Penelope approached the silver Lear jet.
"Let's go," she shouted above the whining engines, mounting the steps and ducking inside. Daniel immediately raised the small staircase as soon as she passed, then sealed the hatch. Penny dropped into the lush velour seat, brushing her hair from her face. The loose strands brought her mind immediately back to Ramsey O'Keefe, and she peered out the small thickly glassed window toward the sun bleached terminal. She couldn't see him and suddenly realized that giving him the keys to the Jag wasn't such a hot idea. He was just too innocent about cars.
The jet engines squealed, the wheels rolled.
"Belt up, Miss H.," came over the intercom. "We're cleared."
Absently, Penny strapped herself in, staring out the window.
The aircraft taxied beyond the terminal, and she saw him, hunched over, his dark head bowed between outstretched arms, palms flat on top of a newspaper vending machine. Was he dizzy again?
Abruptly he straightened, wrenching in her direction. His eyes went wide as coins, his gaze clinging to the aircraft. Wind lifted strands of his long hair, whipped at his shirt and coattails as he stood immobile.
He never looked more out of place than he did now, she thought, her heart doing something she couldn't name.
He's alone. And I've abandoned him.
No, I haven't. He's a big boy, she argued. He'll be fine.
But what about his lack of knowledge with the car, his childlike curiosity over the cellular phone. Could he really be that out of touch?
Suddenly she punched the intercom. "Stop the plane, Daniel."
"What? Miss H., we're about—"
"Stop, now!"
Penny was out of her seat and at the door, punching controls, sending the steps down before the wheels ground to a halt, cabin pressure releasing into the humid Bahama morning. It hadn't locked in place before she leaned out and shouted, "Mister O'Keefe!"
He peered, squinting against the sun and Penny waved him over, almost laughing at his startled expression when he recognized her.
' 'Mistress Hamilton?'' he mouthed in undisguised awe, moving toward the plane, his pace unhurried. And cautious, if she judged correctly.
"Come on!" She waved impatiently. "We still have tower clearance!"
This has to be the dumbest thing I've done yet, Penny thought. But, she couldn't leave him. Not when he looked so much like a little boy lost at the circus, unable to decide whether or not to find his family or watch the three-ring show. He walked up to the jet, rapped on the wing, the fuselage, then slowly mounted the aluminum steps.
"Will you please move along, Mister O'Keefe. Quickly." When he didn't, continuing to run his hand over the rubber hatch seal, she grabbed his arm and yanked him inside. The
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copilot secured the door as she directed Ramsey to a seat. Penny pushed the black intercom button.
"Okay, Daniel, let's roll. And Daniel?"
"Yes, Miss H.?"
"Thanks."
"We aim to please, ma'am."
Wheels rolled, the pressure equalized, and Penny looked at Ramsey. As he done with everything else they'd met, he was curiously examining his surroundings, poking at the cushions, feeling the velour interior, jiggling the small table bolted to the floor. It was sort of charming.
"Sit here," she said, switching seats so he was near the window. Like a mother she belted him in, the click bringing his attention from the view outside.
Do all the conveyances of this century require a harness, Ramsey wondered, then briefly glanced outside as the silver bird-ship rattled. The world seemed to race to catch up with them, the noise increasing to a whine.
"What sort is this metal vessel?" His gaze wandered over the inside of the craft.
"A plane. A Lear jet to be exact." He wasn't impressed.
" 'Twill travel the roads such as the silver carriage?" Penny's brows drew together, "No," she said carefully. "It flies."
Ramsey swallowed, his throat muscles grating like sand. "Tell me 'tis not so, woman. Balloons and birds fly, not metal—" He looked toward the window. "Great Neptune!" He gripped the thin lip beneath the window, knuckles gone white. "We're leavin' the bloody ground!" He pressed his nose to the glass as the Lear jet lifted off the runway, taking them over the tops of bent palm trees and azure hemmed beaches. "Ahh, God almighty," he moaned softly. " 'Tis a sin to tempt this. A bleedin' sin!" Ramsey felt her touch on his arm and vaguely heard his name. He didn't respond. His heart remained wedged in his throat, and he couldn't choke it down.
He was flying.
Sweet Jesus in heaven—flying!
"Mister O'Keefe?"
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"Humm." He didn't take his gaze from the scene below.
"You okay?"
She was inquiring after his health, he decided. "Oh, aye, lass, aye." He sank back into the seat, chuckling quietly between rapid breaths.
"I can't believe you've never flown." His hands trembled, she noticed.
Ram closed his eyes, shaking his head. "Never." Ahh, Tess, you should have warned me, lass.
"We'll be in Florida in less than two hours."
Ramsey's gaze snapped to hers. He'd not deny the possibility. Twas a world far more advanced than he ever imagined. And now he wanted to see all of it. Do everything.
Then he was unconscious.
Penny gasped, feeling his forehead, which was cool, then his pulse, racing like mad. She worried her lower lip for a second, then unbelted herself to get him some water. He hadn't eaten anything solid since—lord, she didn't know when. In the small galley, she searched the latched silver cabinets for cups, then slipped one into the dispenser and punched the button, filling a plastic cocktail glass with ice water. Returning to her seat, she absently set the cup on the stationary table as she checked his pulse again, pleased it had slowed. She was about to release his hand when its sandpaper roughness grazed her skin. She frowned, turning it palm up. Lightly, she ran her fingertip over the unusually thick calluses, the skin bunched and stained dark from hard work. What had he done to survive, she wondered, studying his features as she relaxed into the seat.
Who was this man, really? Where had he come from? And why did he talk like someone out of a fairy tale? Her gaze dropped to the worn grip of the pistol protruding from just inside his coat. He knew how to use it, treated it with a lover's care and a smile tugged at her lips as the image of him holding the antique gun on poor Max burst vividly in her mind. Max would have crapped his jeans if he'd thought it worked. So would I, she knew. Unwillingly her gaze slipped down over his long legs, relaxed and stretched out, nearly touching the next cluster of seats. She remembered how they looked bare;
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golden-brown to midthigh, extremely muscular, lightly dusted with dark hair, everything, down to the last detail—much to her annoyance—including the shiny scar that wrapped around his right knee.
He wasn't anything special. Extremely odd, but nothing special. For heaven's sake, the hippie had his head stuck somewhere between the ridiculousness of a knight in shining armor and a little boy playing pirate. Yet he seemed lost, and beyond the constant excitement brightening his eyes, she recognized the loneliness lurking beneath. It matched the one she saw in the mirror.
' 'Is it me boots that hold such a fascination, lass?'' Her gaze shot to his; he was grinning. "Or dare I hope 'tis the man yer interested in?"
She shoved the drink at him, her lips pulling into a tight line. "You passed out."
"Nay." He downed the water, savoring the clear sweet taste as he examined the cup. " 'Twas merely a nap."
"If you insist." A big kid, she thought as he watched the plastic bend and retract.
Ram cast her a side glance, eyes bright and teasing. "Is that worry I hear in your voice?''
"Hardly."
"Ahh, such a sour puss you are, lass," Ramsey said, glancing, then returning his gaze sharply to the view out the window. "Dear God!" He straightened, the sides of the plastic cup splitting in his grip. They rode above the clouds!
"Pretty, isn't it?" she said close to his ear.
' 'Oh, aye." Montgolfier would never believe this, he thought, trying to slow his breathing as he sat back.
"Are you going to be all right for a minute?"
"I believe I can manage," he answered with a slight scowl, offended by her coddling. She smirked, rising and moving to the opposite side of the flying ship. Ram watched her at leisure, considering whether or not those lush lips were always pinched in a frown as she lifted an oblong box, much like the one in the silver carriage. A telephone, he remembered, deducing she received some sort of response after pushing all those tabs. His gaze clung to her lips, lovely, damned kissable, yet he never met a female with more to smile about, yet rarely took a moment for the simple pleasure.
Blast, if the woman didn't have an elegant reef built around her. Pleasant to look upon, yet dangerously sharp. Anyone with a salt of sense could feel it. 'Twas nary a wonder why she'd no chaperone or protector; those cat-green eyes were more powerful at keeping people at bay than the sting of Toledo steel.
Acquainted with many women in the past, Ram often made a wide berth round such dower females, unwilling to battle their dark secrets for a few moments atween plump thighs. Was that not why you took the leap, old man? For a faceless woman who'd fill the emptiness brought from your world? Ram observed Penelope Hamilton, the stiffness of her carriage, the incredibly beauty of her face and figure, yet a pretty face he'd never had difficulty finding afore, in his century. 'Twas a woman, full of mind and determination, of the independence he recognized in Tess, that he wanted.
Mayhaps 'twas merely the confidence and power she wielded over men and machine that drew him to Penelope Hamilton. 'Twas definitely not her delicious little package that intrigued, for save one instant when he'd clapped a hand over her mouth in the dark, she was the most emotionless wench he'd met. By God, she'd such an "/ can not be conquered, therefore do not bother," look in her eyes, Ram was reluctant to strike even further conversation with her. His finest seductive attempts had failed miserably, and he wondered what it would take to win Mistress Penelope Hamilton's cold heart.
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