A working Leonardo da Vinci ornithopter.

The mere thought of the ancient flying machine gave Amelia shivers. She'd been studying the designs and theories of da Vinci since she was a child. Although she admired the Italian Renaissance genius's paintings as well as his studies regarding civil engineering, optics, and mechanics, she was most fascinated by his sketches and theories on flight.

Whilst several of his theories proved impossible, it was believed that at least one of his flying contraptions took to the air-even if momentarily and with calamitous results-in 1506. The suggestion was doc.u.mented in his own hand in the "Codex on the Flight of Birds."

The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri....

Mount Ceceri, a breathtaking summit close to da Vinci's home in Tuscany, was her destination. She intended to manipulate Captain Dunkirk into delivering her close to the mark. She refused to feel bad about employing dishonest means, as he was, after all, a dishonest man.

Frowning, Amelia fidgeted with discomfort as she examined the gown she was to don for dinner: a provocative evening gown with a barely there bodice and layers of scalloped, flowing skirt. She'd never seen anything like it. Sin black and bloodred. Silk and lace.

Scandalous.

She refused to care.

Because of Tucker Gentry, she could not afford to care. Because of him, she no longer had access to Bess, such as she was, nor her belongings: her clothing, tools, and stash of money. Mostly she mourned the loss of Papa's pocket watch. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! Each time she recalled how Tucker had allowed Dunkirk to kidnap her without so much as an argument or plea she wanted to wrestle him to the ground. When she thought about Leo injured-or worse, dead-she wanted to crush his soul. Blast the Sky Cowboy and her romantic illusions! She'd thought him n.o.ble. Trustworthy. She'd thought him smitten, just a little, with her. He'd kissed her. He'd toyed with her affections, dallied with her heart. Never had she felt so gullible. So...foolish. Perhaps she couldn't soothe her pride or save poor Leo, but she could still save her family. She'd wear the disgusting gown, and by G.o.d, she would ensure her pa.s.sage to Tuscany.

Amelia had never been one for aimless chatter, but she could think of no better way to dissuade Captain Colin Dunkirk from his obvious ploy of seduction than by prattling on about aerodynamics, the theories of lift and thrust, and fixed wings versus flapping wings whilst filling his head with empty flattery by p.r.o.nouncing the Flying Shark a remarkable airship, superior in countless ways to the Maverick.

He'd smiled throughout the candlelit dinner, responding now and then, but mostly he'd watched her. No matter how hard she tried to divert his prurient attention, he persisted in eyeing her as a starving man eyed a bountiful meal. She blamed the d.a.m.nable gown. It was a tad too small, so her waist was horribly pinched and her bosoms fairly spilled over the plunging decolletage. She supposed that one might consider her leather flight pants and favored corseted tail vests revealing, but somehow this frilly gown was far worse, perhaps because it was so decadently feminine. In addition, Dunkirk had insisted she wear her hair down, making her feel even more dreadfully exposed.

She could have refused, of course. But then she would've spent the evening locked in her suffocating cabin, and Amelia was intent on gaining the upper hand, being treated as partner as opposed to prisoner.

Unfortunately, somewhere between the chestnut soup and roasted pheasant she began to worry that Tucker and crew had good reason to question her sanity. Had she truly believed she could manipulate the Scottish Shark of the Skies? From the moment she'd confidently entered his large and somewhat risque cabin he'd undermined her bravado. His cunning and dark charm made her skin p.r.i.c.kle and her palms sweat. As did the sight of his fur-covered bed, only partially hidden behind an ornately painted Asian dividing screen. Stubborn will kept her seated and calm. She did not wish to anger him. Nor to bore him. Nor to placate him. She'd never straddled a more precarious fence.

Amelia realized with a start that she'd fallen silent, lost in anxious thoughts whilst the pirate drank deeply from his wine goblet, devouring her with his blatant, hungry stare. Cheeks burning, she cleared her throat, tempted to cover her cleavage with the faded cloth napkin. "Where was I?"

"Ya were listing the components needed to construct a new...what did ya call it? Oh, aye. Kitecycle." He angled his head. "Silence is infinitely more interesting."

Stunned by his rudeness, she frowned. "Do I bore you, sir?"

He grinned. "Ya amuse me, Amelia. May I call ya Amelia?"

"You may not. And why do I amuse, Captain Dunkirk?"

"Ya strive to be brave when ye're scared s.h.i.teless. The endless chatter. A nervous tell, yeah?" He gestured to her untouched plate. "No appet.i.te. Ghostly complexion."

"You confuse fear with disgust. I never eat fowl." Her stomach had turned the moment his cook had served the roasted bird. Ever since she'd adopted Leo, she couldn't stomach the thought of eating his feathered friends. To add insult to injury, she a.s.sumed one of Dunkirk's men had shot Leo from the sky. Swallowing bitter fury, she pushed the plate aside and focused on her host. "No offense."

"None taken." He arched a wickedly suggestive brow. "We all have our predilections, yeah?"

There was no mistaking his train of thought, and it only fueled her anxiety. The man obviously thought to impress and seduce. He'd bathed and changed into brown leather trousers and a flowing white shirt, open at the collar and showcasing his bronze chest. If the display of muscle was supposed to make her swoon, he'd failed.

He'd shaved his beard and tamed his dark, wild mane into a queue, drawing attention to the hard planes of his face, which oddly enhanced his rugged good looks. Only the scar across his cheek detracted, a reminder that he lived dangerously. That he was a scoundrel, an infamous thief who thought nothing of blowing airships to bits whilst absconding with their booty.

Amelia had read nearly as many tales about Dunkirk as she had about Gentry. She supposed she should be fascinated by the pirate's exploits and flattered by his attentions. She was not.

Head held high, she kept her voice steady but firm. "Captain Dunkirk, I do wish you would look me in the eyes when addressing me rather than ogling my...blessings. Your lecherous regard is most unseemly."

"Blessings, eh?" He grinned, then met her gaze, which only heightened her unease. "Indeed, ya are blessed with a fine face and form, la.s.s. No wonder Gentry was taken with ya."

Amelia's heart fluttered at the notion, pounded in memory of that knee-quaking kiss and then, as Tucker's betrayal flashed in her mind, thudded with monumental disappointment. "Mr. Gentry couldn't wait to be rid of me."

"Ya dinnae know the man well."

"Nor do I want to."

"Saving yerself for me then?"

"I'm not saving myself for any man."

He smiled and she blushed. Perhaps he'd misconstrued her intent. "Let us cut to the chase, shall we?" Anxious to end this discussion, Amelia used the napkin to cover her plate, hiding the poor, wretched pheasant from her sight. "You intend to plunder my hidden treasure."

He laughed. "Aye, la.s.s, I do."

She failed to see the humor, but plowed on. "You cannot steal it if you do not know where to find it, and I refuse to disclose the location unless we come to an arrangement."

He raised a brow. "A partnership?"

Now she was getting somewhere. She forced a smile. "Yes."

"Ya wish to bargain with me, la.s.s?"

Although he looked somewhere between amused and astounded, she continued to smile. "Yes." She needed pa.s.sage to Italy, and she needed a way to transport the invention, once found, back to England. This airship would do, and as a miscreant, surely Dunkirk could be bought. "If you aid me in my quest, and if I win the jubilee prize, I will compensate you with a percentage." There. That sounded reasonable.

He stood, then rounded the table and topped off her wine, even though she'd barely imbibed. Setting aside the decanter, he leaned in and toyed with one of her long curls. "What if I be wanting something else?"

His close proximity rattled her composure, as did his wondering gaze. Naturally, he focused on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I, uh..."

"Point of interest, Amelia, I dinnae bargain. I take."

She knew then that she'd been an infernal twit, thinking she could somehow manipulate this infamous rake and ruffian. He'd been toying with her. Whether by seduction or force, Dunkirk meant to have her and her treasure. For the first time since she'd defied Jules and Simon and embarked on this quest, Amelia felt out of her depth and very much in danger. She imagined her brothers' guilt and fury should she suffer harm or humiliation. They'd forever blame themselves for her ill fate. She couldn't let that happen. She'd gotten herself into this muddle and she would b.l.o.o.d.y well get out.

Then she saw it-him-through the window beyond the captain's shoulder. Shrouded in black. Face illuminated by moonbeams. Mode of transportation unknown.

The Sky Cowboy. Her Sky Cowboy.

Amelia fought the urge to swoon. She had never swooned in her life, yet at this moment she felt positively light-headed. Dizzy with relief and, good Lord, infatuation. Blast and d.a.m.nation! Even though he'd betrayed her, she was still smitten with the man who'd given Jesse James an airborne run for his tainted money.

From her angle, Tucker appeared to be floating on the winter wind. He pointed at her, then pointed up. He wanted her on deck.

Since she wanted to escape Captain Dunkirk, and since she'd never once felt physically threatened by Tucker, she set aside her grievances with the cowboy, opting for the lesser evil. Forcing her gaze from the window, she touched a palm to her forehead. "I...I fear I am unwell, Captain."

Dunkirk raised a brow. "If ya mean to now capitalize on Doc Blue's insinuation that ya are gravely ill...too late."

She didn't blame him for doubting her. She'd been feisty and fit since they'd met. She realized now that she hadn't even limped when she'd entered his cabin. Indeed, she felt no pain in her thigh at all. Not even a twinge. Odd. Switching tactics, she gestured to her goblet. "The wine-"

"Ya barely drank."

"Yes, but it is overly warm in here and...this gown. It's crushing my ribs. I need air." Since she wasn't sure she could fake a swoon, instead she beseeched him with the same look that had swayed Papa and, upon occasion, her brothers. "Please. Let us continue our negotiations on deck."

"Ya still think to bargain with me." He chuckled, then aided her to her feet. "Ya intrigue me, la.s.s."

"I thought I amused you."

"That, too."

Since she'd claimed to feel faint, she couldn't shrug off his touch as he half carried her from the cabin and through the dank, dimly lit pa.s.sage. She noted two things as he whisked her topside.

First, unlike with Tucker, Dunkirk's touch did not incite delicious sensations and knee-quaking desire. The thought of lying with this man frosted her blood. Further incentive to jump ship.

Second, the Flying Shark, though in good working order, lacked the spiff and shine of the Maverick. It also stank of stale tobacco, kerosene, and unwashed bodies.

Once on deck, Amelia panicked. What now? What was she supposed to do? Say? Where in the devil was Tucker? Was he alone? One man against Dunkirk and crew? She thought about the retracted walking stick she'd managed to stuff within her layered stockings and thick boot. If she acted swiftly and surely, she could conk Dunkirk on the head with the bra.s.s k.n.o.b, rendering him unconscious. Acupressure wouldn't require such muscle. If only she'd had time to learn Birdman Chang's trick.

At that moment an explosion ripped through the dead of night. Startled, she bit back a scream, her stomach churning as images of Apollo 02 battered her mind. She turned in tandem with Dunkirk, spying flames at the stern, hearing shouts from the crew.

"What the...?" Dunkirk stashed Amelia behind a protective barrier. "Stay here."

Another explosion. This one from above. The zeppelin. "Holy..."

"f.o.o.k!" The captain took off, shouting orders while chaos commenced.

Was this Tucker's plan? The element of surprise and distraction? She'd seen him through a portside window. She was now indeed portside. She took a chance and hurried to the rail just as the cowboy drifted up within eyesight. Her heart caught in her throat. "Crikey."

"Jump."

She didn't think. If she did she'd argue that they were a great distance above the earth. That she had no more than a sliver of moonlight and the fire from the explosions to light the dark and vast sky. That if she jumped and missed, she had no parachute to slow her descent. Instead, she gathered her skirts and climbed up on the rail.

Tucker extended a hand. "Show some sa.s.s, Flygirl."

From behind, she heard a shout. Heard a gunshot, then a screech that sounded very much like Leo's. She started to turn, but the airship listed. Adrenaline surging, Amelia reached out, jumped, and landed on what felt like the back of a horse with a force that jarred her entire body.

Tucker glanced over his shoulder. "You okay?"

Her pulse raced; her lungs seized. Instead of plummeting to the ground, she'd landed safely on Tucker's curious mode of escape. A flying horse? Her mind strained to make sense of it. Meanwhile, she took comfort in Tucker's presence, in his courage and strength. He gave her hand a rea.s.suring squeeze, and her blood stirred in a most curious manner, making her chest ache and her body tingle. It is the circ.u.mstance, not the man, she told herself. One daring rescue couldn't possibly mend the romantic illusions he'd shattered mere hours before. Yet her heart was full, her mind crowded with the memory of his knee-melting kiss. Gobsmacked, she managed a nod.

"Hold tight." Snapping the reins, he nudged the horse-or rather, the bird-horse-into action. Ma.s.sive wings flapped, propelling them away from the burning airship.

A Pegasus.

As she lived and breathed, the Sky Cowboy owned a mythical horse. Straddling the ebony beast, feeling its body heat and quivering power, she knew it to be real-not a figment of her imagination or a mechanical configuration-even though her mind screamed, Impossible!

Just then thunder boomed and lightning flashed. Amelia shivered as an ominous cloud mushroomed around them, seemingly devouring the Flying Shark. Tucker urged the horse faster, cutting through the perimeter of the cloud as a hard rain pelted them.

Seconds later they were clear of the storm, soaring through the night air with the ease and grace of a bird. Dazed, Amelia clung to Tucker, front plastered to his strong back, arms wrapped like a vise around his waist, legs draped over his thighs so as not to hinder the creature's wings. She half expected a cannonball to blow them out of the sky. But there was no gunfire, no more explosions. Only the sound of the wind, the pounding of her heart, and ma.s.sive wings buffeting the current.

She realized then that they blended into the night sky. As far as she could tell their mount was pure ebony, and Tuck was dressed in head-to-toe black. In kind, Amelia's gown was deeply subdued. Only her golden curls threatened to give them away. She considered ripping fabric from the hem of her skirt and wrapping it around her head like a turban, but that would mean letting go of Tucker. She felt unbalanced as it was.

"How did you find me?" she shouted near his ear.

He gestured to the left.

"Leo!" Her beloved falcon was alive and well and flying alongside them. She burst with joy and a million questions, but emotion clogged her throat. Though her hair whipped and obscured her vision, though the wind stung her face and burned her eyes, she refused to bury her face against Tucker's broad shoulders. Refused to miss one moment of the glorious experience. Yes, Leo had flown alongside Bess and the Flying Cloud, but this was different. This time Amelia almost felt as though she had wings herself. She'd thought the Pogo Pack rocket ride had been a rush. Nothing would ever compare to this thrill.

Moments ago she'd antic.i.p.ated death. This moment she'd never felt more alive. Amelia's soul danced as they sailed amongst the stars. She hugged Tucker, silently thanking him for this dream come true, breathing in the scent of bay rum, wool, horse sweat, and...licorice?

"Home, boy," Tucker said to the horse.

Peeking around the man's shoulder, Amelia spied flickering lights and the silhouette of a ship. The Maverick.

Blast.

She ached to ask Tucker to circle the airship, to fly her to the moon and back. The man owned a mythical horse. Surely he was capable of such magic. Unfortunately, she was clearheaded enough to realize that they could still be in danger because of Dunkirk. She couldn't expect the Maverick and its crew to lie in wait like sitting ducks whilst Tucker showed her the stars via Pegasus.

Sighing, she hugged the man who vexed and inspired and, d.a.m.n him, ignited desire and tender affections that befuddled and annoyed her emanc.i.p.ated self. Grateful for the unique and wondrous experiences of the past two days, Amelia swallowed her pride and spoke her heart. "Thank you."

CHAPTER 11.

Peg's hooves. .h.i.t the deck of the Maverick and, for the first time in more than an hour, Tuck breathed easy. His plan had been risky, d.a.m.ned by most of his crew; even so it had worked. But instead of feeling boastful or proud, he was p.i.s.sed.

Knowing Dunkirk's style, he'd a.s.sumed an elaborate seduction. He just hadn't antic.i.p.ated Amelia succ.u.mbing. The sight of her in that revealing gown, smiling and flirting with that b.a.s.t.a.r.d in his G.o.dd.a.m.ned cabin, had torched Tuck's blood. It had also doubled his conviction to steal her back p.r.o.nto, since clearly the woman didn't have a lick of sense.

After pinpointing her whereabouts, he'd planted the detonators, then returned to signal her to rendezvous. For a moment he wondered whether she'd ignore or betray him. She'd made her fury evident when she'd cursed him to "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l" after he'd allowed Dunkirk to carry her off. Maybe she'd decided any airship traveling to Italy would suit her purpose-even the airship of an unscrupulous pirate. Maybe she thought she could handle her abductor. But then she'd feigned sickness, and Tuck knew she'd opted to escape the Scottish b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

He didn't want to focus on the relief he'd felt when she jumped onto Peg. Or the pounding of his heart when she'd clung to him like a honeysuckle vine. Or the lump in his throat when she'd hugged tight and whispered her grat.i.tude. He sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to focus on the jealousy that had ripped through him like a blistering sandstorm at the thought of her in Dunkirk's bed.

"Take us out of here," Tuck called to StarMan as he handed Amelia down to Doc. "What are you looking at?" he asked the younger man while vaulting out of the custom-made saddle.

Doc tore his gaze from the woman's tantalizing curves. "Nothing. I...That is-"

"Ask Eli to see to Peg." Eli was the only man he fully trusted regarding the delicate mechanics of the horse's wings. Tuck patted his beloved stallion's neck, offering a licorice treat before trading the reins for Amelia and spiriting her from appreciative eyes. Axel and Birdman were drinking in their fill as well. "You men have your orders!" he snapped, then whisked her down the ladder.

"Where did you ever find a creature like that? A Pegasus. As I live and breathe. How-"

"Later."

"And Leo. I was certain he'd been shot. I distinctly saw-"

"Doc."