"You're two hours into my watch," he persisted.

"I'm good."

"Doc's got your supper waiting below."

"Not hungry."

"That's what Miss Darcy said."

Tuck glanced over his shoulder. "She still at it?"

"Even Eli, who typically minds his own affairs, voiced concern. She's been sequestered in that workroom since we launched from Chateau de Malmaison. Intent on repairing that dig. Unnaturally intent."

Tuck heard his friend's thinking loud and clear: He wanted Tuck to intercede. It had been the very action he'd been avoiding. He'd aimed at giving her time and s.p.a.ce. Was certain she'd grow bored and come up for air. She'd pester him about something, like better supplies, or ask him to make good on his promise regarding Doc. She'd pick his brain about the blasterbeefs, or Peg, or question him about the estimated time of arrival in Italy. But here they were, hours later and sailing over southern France, and she hadn't done any one of those things.

Nor, for all of his deep thinking, had Tuck formulated a clear plan regarding their circ.u.mstance. If only he'd kept things professional. He'd been a fool to think he could engage in a s.e.xual relationship with that woman without risking his heart. He'd known before he'd even kissed Amelia that she was different. She'd la.s.soed his interest when she'd tried pulling that kitecycle out of a nosedive, stirred his blood when she'd pointed a gun at Axel in defense of her bird. The warning signs had been plentiful; he'd just ignored them. He wanted Amelia, but he also wanted his life back. He needed that ornithopter, but so did she. The future of his family (including his crew) was at stake. So was hers. "What a mess."

"You'll sort it out." StarMan nudged him aside. "Meanwhile, go tend to Miss Darcy. Her self-imposed confinement is making the crew twitchy. Me included."

Tuck rolled his tense shoulders, glanced up through the shield, and saw Birdman in his crow's nest with Leo perched alongside, both looking down at him. He clearly read the minds of both man and bird. Go to her.

He looked toward the bow and caught Eli giving him the evil eye before returning to whatever gadget he was tinkering with. Axel was busy polishing the blasterbeefs even though they gleamed. "What the h.e.l.l's Ax got to be nervous about? Thought he'd be thrilled by Amelia's absence. Less chance of chaos."

"He thinks trouble's brewing."

At that moment, Axel shot him a look of the d.a.m.ned.

"Oh, for chrissake." Tuck swept off his flight cap and goggles, shoved them in a cubby on the console, then tugged off his gloves. "I'll be back."

"No hurry. Sun's setting. When night falls I'm doubling back. All's clear."

"For now." Tuck strode toward the stern, deep in thought. He couldn't shake the sense of foreboding that had dogged him since morning. Since the skytown. He hated fanning Axel's unfounded fears, but he felt it too: Trouble was brewing.

Just as he neared the ladder he caught sight of Peg, who'd been given free range of the deck for the past couple of hours. His heart swelled when the black steed left the rail he'd been staring over and walked toward Tuck, his mane and tail ruffling in the wind, soft black muzzle twitching. Tuck figured he wanted a licorice treat or his ears scratched. At the very least, an affectionate nuzzle. Instead, Peg nosed his shoulder, giving him a good hard shove toward the ladder.

"You, too, huh? Don't worry. I'm going."

Moments later Tuck stood two decks below, staring at the closed door of the workroom. He knocked.

"Go away."

Her voice was choked and quiet. Concern slithered under his skin. He knocked again. No answer. Tried the handle. Locked. "Amelia, it's Tuck. Open the door."

Silence.

Hitching back his coat, he reached in his vest pocket for a skeleton key. The key tripped the lock and Tuck entered the vast room, shutting the door softly behind him. Whoa. Somehow, some way, she'd constructed new wings. That had meant building the frames, then measuring, cutting, and mounting the strong canvas. The wing span was greater than what he remembered of the original kitecycle. Impressive design, reminiscent of a da Vinci, even though he wasn't sure the dimensions would coincide with the tandem bicycle's cha.s.sis.

On the far side of one wing, he spotted Amelia sitting on the planked floor, cross-legged, hunched over, and, Christ almighty, sobbing. Though she barely made a sound, her small shoulders shook and she rocked back and forth. As he neared, he made out choked sobs and wheezes that tore at his heart.

Kneeling in front of her, he gently smoothed tangled pink curls from her tearstained face. "Amelia, honey, what's wrong?"

"I broke it."

"Broke what?"

"My screwdriver."

She was breaking down over a broken tool?

"The frame of the velocipede is horribly bent," she choked out. "I was trying to..." Sniffle. "...and then I..." Wheeze. "...when it...and then I...See?" Bawling loudly now, she offered up the mangled tool. "How am I supposed to...How can I finish...with this?"

Torn between amus.e.m.e.nt and perplexity, Tuck inspected the damage. The steel rod had broken plumb off of the wooden handle. The handle itself was in two splintered pieces. No way in h.e.l.l could he fix it. "I'll get you another."

"But this was Papa's. He gave it to me. Gave me the whole set. I promised I'd take care," she sobbed, "but then I got frustrated and now he's broken."

He?

Oh, Christ. This wasn't about the d.a.m.ned screwdriver. "Amelia-"

"I should have been there. He'd been so obsessed with Apollo. Trying to outdo Briscoe, I think. Or maybe...maybe he wanted to fly me to the moon. He got distracted sometimes. Scatterbrained. But usually I was there to help. Only I wasn't. I was...I was..." She doubled over, racked with grief.

h.e.l.l's fire. This girl blamed herself for her pa's death. Heart in throat, Tuck pulled Amelia into his arms. He leaned against the wall with her cradled in his lap. He shushed and rocked gently. Stroked her wet cheeks as she gripped his coat and soaked his shirtfront with tears.

"I'm sorry. I can't..." Sob. "...can't stop..." Hiccup. "...crying."

He thought about her nightmares, how she cried in her sleep but suppressed her grief by day.

"I can't remember the last time I cried."

"Long time coming, darlin'. Let it out. You'll feel better."

"I don't want to feel better. I don't want to heal and move on. I want to go back. I want one more day. No, fifty more years! I want to watch him fiddle with his toaster contraption. Do you know how many pieces of soggy or crispy charred bread popped out of that thing? But we always slathered it with jam and ate it. Always. I want burned bread. I want to help him test the wireless telecommunicator he'd been tinkering with for four years." She swiped her sleeve under her running nose, then held her thumb and index finger an inch apart. "He was this close to perfecting a palm-size telecommunicator. Do you know how famous he would have been if he could've marketed that?"

"And rich," Tuck said, wanting to support her elevated view of her pa.

"Stinking rich! But he could not focus on one thing long enough to perfect it. He had all these ideas"-she rapped her knuckles to her temple-"jumping and swelling in his brain. Imagine how that would feel? So you have to purge them, and because you are impatient things go wrong. Except I was usually there to help. I couldn't always make things right, but I could keep him safe."

She locked eyes with Tuck then, and his d.a.m.ned heart shredded and bled. "His obsession of the moment was Apollo 02," she said in a cross between a crazy and reverent whisper. "Have you ever seen a rocket ship?"

"Only in sketches."

"It was a magnificent thing, but Papa had been studying and experimenting with different fuels. I asked him to hold off until I got back. I wanted to be there in case he got, you know, distracted. He said he would, but he did not. I should've been there, but I was not." She choked and sniffled and raised her voice. "I was petty and selfish and now he's gone!"

Tuck held her close as she wept against his chest. "I'd bring him back if I could, Amelia."

"But you can't."

"No, I can't. And neither can you."

"I miss him, Tucker."

"I know, honey." Her words dried up, but the tears flowed. Tuck held tight, offering his presence, his calm. He didn't know what else to do. h.e.l.l, he'd thought he could handle Flygirl, but he'd never handled anything like this. Her tears, her guilt tore at his very soul.

After a spell the sobs eased and she relaxed in his arms. Exhausted, no doubt, between the hours of physical labor and the emotional breakdown. He stroked her back, kissed the top of her head. "Amelia-"

"I guess I will borrow a screwdriver, if you don't mind." She pushed out of his lap, looking tortured and limp from exertion. Eyes red and swollen, she sleeved tears from her cheeks while turning away and weaving toward the cha.s.sis.

Embarra.s.sed and disoriented.

Tuck pushed to his feet and swept her into his arms.

She didn't fuss. Just rested her head on his shoulder and held tight as he whisked her toward his cabin. As he neared, he spied Doc coming out of his room. What in Sam Hill? "Looking for me?" he asked in a dark tone.

"No, I...Well, yeah. Sort of." Doc adjusted his wraparound specs and leaned in. "What's wrong with Miss Darcy? Should I get my bag?"

"She'll be fine." He felt her grip tighten, sensed her humiliation. "What did you want?" Tuck asked as he sidestepped Doc. What the h.e.l.l were you doing in my cabin?

"You missed supper and so did Miss Darcy. Thought you might want something later. Brought a tray, is all."

Tuck nodded and cursed his sudden suspicious streak. Doc often served him food in his cabin. He'd served Amelia too. "Thanks. Do me a favor. Go topside and spread the word that Miss Darcy's fine. Just tired. We'll be up later."

Doc nodded and left.

Tuck carried Amelia into his cabin and laid her on the bed. Unable to help himself, he glanced toward the table, primed to catch Doc in a lie. The food tray was there. Relieved, Tuck turned back to Amelia and stripped her to her chemise.

She didn't say a word.

He took off his coat and boots and crawled under the covers, pulling her against his body.

Not a peep.

He tried again. "Amelia..."

"Yes?"

Thank G.o.d. "Your father's death, the explosion, it was a tragic accident. Not your fault."

"If I'd been there-"

"Maybe you would've died, too."

She didn't comment, and he figured she'd never thought of it that way. "Sometimes bad things happen to good people. No rhyme or reason." He thought about his own parents. A random stagecoach robbery. Every day he thanked G.o.d that his baby sister hadn't been with them on that trip.

"Not fair."

"No, it's not."

"He wasn't a kook," she said, sounding weary.

"Bet your pa was a right interesting character." Tuck kissed her temple. "Like you."

"He was a great man. If people only knew. He could've been famous, like Briscoe, but he cared more about mankind than about himself."

Tuck didn't know what she meant by that. Famous like Briscoe? Cared more about mankind? Was she referring to something having to do with time travel? Was that something connected to da Vinci's secret chamber? Was that why Ashford had been adamant about withholding that knowledge from the world? Because whatever was in that chamber posed a ruinous danger to mankind?

Nothing like working a puzzle without all the pieces, but Tuck hesitated to ask Amelia to elaborate. Sensitive to her weary state, he allowed her to take the lead.

"Papa deserves some glory," Amelia said, her voice growing more ragged with every word. "I have to make this right."

"We'll make it right."

"We?"

Tuck held her close, feeling as if he were drifting through s.p.a.ce, no control, no direction, no grip on the future or his life. The eternal optimist, he had faith that at some point all of the pieces would fall into place, and when they did he'd do his d.a.m.nedest to spin this fiasco in their favor. "We."

CHAPTER 21.

Astonishing how a good cry could cleanse one's soul. Amelia wondered whether her mother experienced such relief after a tearful vent. Although, if so, why was Anne Darcy always so miserable? Amelia felt...exhausted yet serene. Sad, but not depressed. Above all, ready to attack the new day with a positive mind-set. Granted, deep down she still harbored guilt concerning her father's demise. She didn't suppose that would ever go away, but she had put those destructive feelings into perspective.

Thanks to Tucker.

Remarkable how he'd gently coaxed her into baring her soul regarding that awful day. She'd been so weary and he'd been so strong. Later she'd melded against his body, reveling in his warmth. A chaste bonding. He'd been fully clothed. They'd slept that way through the night, tightly spooned except for the time he'd left her to cover his watch. She'd slept more soundly than she had in days, barely stirring when he'd returned in the wee hours, once again pulling her into his arms. Somewhere around dawn, he'd gently kissed her cheek and rolled out of bed, telling her to sleep in. Amazingly, she had.

We.

That one word kept floating though her mind. Calming. Rea.s.suring.

We.

She didn't know how, couldn't imagine how, but she accepted Tucker's word on faith. Somehow they would conquer this quest together. Somehow they would make things right.

We.

Fresh from a bath and wrapped cozily in her dressing gown, Amelia padded to the concave windows of the man's cabin and watched the scattered clouds and distant landscape as the airship flew toward Italy. She smiled as she caught a glimpse of Leo soaring below and only wished that Peg could fly at will any time of the day rather than being confined to the cloak of night. She wondered whether the horse longed for the vast open skies over that ranch Tucker had owned in Wyoming territory. According to that candid interview in the Informer, Tucker had sold the ranch after he'd been arrested. To a.s.sist in covering the cost of legal bills, Amelia a.s.sumed. Or perhaps he'd been thinking ahead, stashing away the cash for a fast getaway. She'd been too consumed with her own problems and agenda to ask about the details regarding his flight from America and the life he'd left behind-details not covered within the penny dreadfuls. "I shall address that oversight today."

Amelia stood on her tiptoes and tried to see the ground directly below, but all she saw was white. Impossible to orient herself, although from the sudden drop in temperature she a.s.sumed they were nearing the Swiss Alps.

Shivering against a chill, she padded across the room and opened her leather valise, so much more sensible than Cherry Peckinposh's zebra satchel. She rooted through her spa.r.s.e supply of clothing, less colorful than Cherry's wardrobe and not so frilly, yet far from conventional, according to her mother.

Amelia hurriedly dressed-boyish wool trousers, a white chemise topped with a wine-colored peasant blouse, a brocade waistcoat, and a green velvet mantle with dolman sleeves. She pulled on thick socks and her comfortable chunky-heeled boots and regarded herself in the reflecting gla.s.s. Instead of wasting time braiding and coiling her hair, she simply swept back the sides, securing them away from her face with decorative combs. The rest of her hair flowed unchecked to her waist, a wild ma.s.s of pink-tinted curls. She grinned. The overall look bordered on ModVic. "Mother would think you ridiculous," she said to herself, then frowned.