"Blooming h.e.l.l," she hissed, wondering how big and deep the cut was, how long it would take Doc Blue to st.i.tch her wound, antic.i.p.ating the needle piercing her skin, the thread tugging, tightening....She felt ill.

She opened her eyes to stem the nausea, mortified that d.a.m.nable tears blurred her vision. She thought she saw Tucker nod at either Doc or Chang. Light-headed with pain, Amelia felt a swift tap at her temple, then blissful peace.

CHAPTER 5.

BRITISH SCIENCE MUSEUM.

LONDON, ENGLAND.

"It is settled."

"Dismal business, this."

"A small and necessary price for the reformation and salvation of mankind."

Nine men. One goal. Or so eight of them thought.

The Viscount Bingham, odd man out and referred to in this covert society as code name Mars, noted the others' grim expressions with morbid humor. Men of peace, yet they plotted to a.s.sa.s.sinate the queen.

Hidden away in a secret room, seated around a table once owned by Sir John Flamsteed, a seventeenth-century astronomer and Britain's first astronomer royal, nine t.i.tled men of science and industry raised their crystal goblets to seal the treasonous pact.

"To the Age of Aquarius."

"Aquarius," they all repeated, vowing their silence and commitment with the mention of the society's name, the clink of gla.s.s on gla.s.s, and a swallow of port.

An astrological cycle of change revered by the Mods, Aquarius ruled electricity, flight, freedom, modernization, astrology, rebellion, and-among other things the Vics had yet to experience-computers. Though the precise year of arrival was in dispute, to those in this room, and many outside these walls, the Age of Aquarius was now.

Unfortunate that Queen Victoria, a woman ruled by staunch morals and bitter heartbreak, seemed intent on halting progress. As if she could go back in time by slowing time. All in the name of love. d.a.m.n her royal eyes. Were she to lift the ban on building and perfecting time-traveling devices, she could reunite with her deceased beloved, or perhaps save him in some fashion by time traveling herself. But that would involve altering history-something Briscoe Darcy and then the Peace Rebels had already done. Something she was very much against.

One would think, at the very least, that given Prince Albert's voracious appreciation of science, the queen would honor her husband's memory by allowing Mod technology to flourish. Instead, she denounced the development and sales of marvels, including rocket packs, telecommunicators, and advanced weaponry, to name only a few. Unlike her husband, she had never embraced the fantastical futuristic knowledge of the Peace Rebels. She was not surprised when that advanced knowledge and a few corrupt Mods ignited a war and divided society. And she was famously bitter when that advanced knowledge had failed to save Prince Albert's life. Unlike the men in this room (and much of the altered world), Queen Victoria saw no advantage in cultivating twentieth-century technology-technology that, according to the Book of Mods, had steered mankind toward the brink of destruction.

New Worlders were of a different mind. Knowledge was power, and, knowing what could be, they would choose an alternate path, using technology only for good.

As a Flatliner, Bingham cared only about what futuristic knowledge could do for him. He saw himself as a visionary and entrepreneur, and as far as he was concerned, this a.s.sa.s.sination was long overdue. The difference between Bingham and the other eight plotters was that they approached this "elimination" with trepidation. In order to soothe their consciences, they'd adopted the n.o.ble mind-set that they were sacrificing the regal one for the good of the many. Bingham wanted the deed done, period. No regrets. Only a promise of a brighter future. His shining future. Rather than risk his freedom and life by orchestrating the a.s.sa.s.sination on his own, he'd sought out progressive souls (and potential scapegoats), tripping upon this society.

Jupiter set aside his goblet and initiated talk of possible locations for the unsavory deed. The attack would take place during the Golden Jubilee, a monumental event honoring the queen's fiftieth anniversary of her accession. There would be much pomp and circ.u.mstance over the two-day period, and in some instances chaos due to the clamoring ma.s.ses-some adoring, some disenchanted.

But where did Aquarius stand the best chance of success? Where could they do the most harm and therefore the most good? Where should they strike? The train en route from Windsor to Paddington? Buckingham Palace? Westminster Abbey? Or perhaps the procession through London? They were privy to the chain of events and closely guarded details, thanks to having a man on the inside-a boon that had come at substantial cost. Now to use that information wisely.

Bingham listened with interest and disgust as his cohorts bickered. Their utopian mind-set was frivolous, but their objective-to unleash and embrace the advanced knowledge of several brilliant and reclusive Mods-served his purpose well. That advanced knowledge included specifics on how to construct futuristic wonders in the realms of transportation, weapons, and communications-knowledge that would make him a man of enormous wealth and power. He had finessed his way into this secret society with one goal-to monopolize the technological market worldwide. The British Empire would make a fine start.

Still, he did not trust these k.n.o.bs not to falter in the moment of truth. To ensure his goals he'd set an additional plan into motion: the Royal Race for Rejuvenation-an event that he'd secretly coordinated with the Jubilee Science Committee. As the anonymous benefactor, Bingham would have full access to progress reports and discoveries pertaining to legendary inventions. He had cast a wide net in order to disguise the narrow scope of his intent-to locate the designs, prototype, or key component connected to a working time machine.

Because of his rumored close connection to Briscoe Darcy, Lord Ashford had been an obvious source of information. Yet fraternizing with that eccentric b.u.mpkin and his idiotic wife had not produced the desired results. As for their daughter, though she was a tempting bit of flesh, Amelia Darcy's temperament proved a barrier. If she possessed valuable knowledge pertaining to time travel, she would not willingly share it with Bingham. Forcing information out of her might prove morbid fun, but what if his efforts proved unsuccessful? That particular venture struck him as risky and unwise; therefore he'd devised the Triple R contest.

Broadening his horizons had been crucial in his inspired quest. Were he to possess a working time-traveling machine, such as the one devised by Briscoe Darcy and copied by the Peace Rebels, futuristic intelligence would be his for the taking. Unfortunately, the construction of time machines had been outlawed. Of the two successful models, Darcy's was rumored to be stuck in the future and the Mods' destroyed, the engineering designs of both hidden or lost...unless someone recovered them. He cared not who, but Bingham's money was on a Darcy. To ensure that all three of Ashford's offspring partic.i.p.ated in the global treasure hunt, he'd issued personal, albeit anonymous, invitations.

One way or another Bingham would be a global technological kingpin.

"What if this...elimination is the wrong path?" Venus said, jerking Bingham out of his musings and back to plan A.

Mercury raised a brow. "You voice doubt now that we have sealed the pact?"

"Playing devil's advocate."

"How can it be the wrong path when it is different?" Saturn asked. "Every change we make carries us farther from what will be if nothing goes unchanged."

"But the Peace Rebels already altered the course of history by traveling back in time and sharing their knowledge and infecting us with fear, greed, and wonder. What was to be will not be. At least not precisely so."

"The greater the change," Bingham said calmly, "the greater the chance of utopia." He fairly choked on the word, as if he gave a rat's a.r.s.e, but the sparks in the others' eyes urged him on. "Had the Peace Rebels not intervened, the world would be destined for destruction in 1969, blown to smithereens by nuclear bombs. Thirty-one years after the Mods' invasion, we are not, as you said, what we had once been. In their history books, the four-year transcontinental Peace War did not exist, the American Civil War lasted four, not three years, and Prince Albert, rest his soul, died in 1861 instead of 1869. History has been altered. But has the course of mankind? Knowledge is power, and the more advanced we are, the wiser our actions. If we embrace twentieth-century knowledge now," Bingham said with more conviction, "we could be populating other planets by 1969. Discovery, not destruction, would be our focus. Living in hope, not fear."

"Hear, hear!"

They applauded his views, and, for their benefit, Bingham smiled in appreciation. On the inside he was laughing. How gullible these New Worlders were. "Now," he said, while he had their ear and favor, "as to where to strike, I have a suggestion."

CHAPTER 6.

"Said it before and I'll say it again: A woman on board is bad luck."

Tuck pushed aside his plate of food, his appet.i.te slim as a bed slat, and frowned across the table at Axel. "Near as I recollect, that's the sixth time you've mentioned that superst.i.tious crock since we sat down to eat."

"Yeah, Ax," Eli groused as he peppered his stew. "Give it a rest."

The big man who'd escorted Concetta to the safety of a village had returned three hours ago, his normally jovial mood unusually p.r.i.c.kly. Eli had yet to shake his irritation. Then again, Tuck thought, Concetta had been as th.o.r.n.y as a bramble, and now Ax was b.i.t.c.hin' up a dust storm.

"Thing is," Tuck went on, "that's a sailor's myth. We're not at sea. We're in air. We're not sailors; we're skymen."

"But this here is a ship."

"A flying ship," Eli clarified.

"Mark my words," Axel said while tossing a handful of salt over his hunched shoulder, "we're in for some rough weather, thanks to her."

"Not that I'm siding with Axel," Doc said, "but Miss Darcy could prove a distraction for the crew. Considering our cargo, we need to be extra vigilant."

Tuck couldn't argue with that. Amelia was distracting for a whole lot of reasons.

"All that sa.s.s irritates my bowels," Axel added, then drank deeply from his iron mug.

"That sa.s.s might be what makes her a tolerable guest," Eli said. "Least she's not fragile."

"That's for sure and certain," Doc remarked.

"Still think you're funnin'," Axel said as he tore off a chunk of brown bread. "That piece of metal was wedged deep. She didn't whine? Or give you h.e.l.l when you did your mendin'?"

"Not once. No crying either. Nor would she allow me to numb the pain. As I've stated before."

Four times exactly, to Tuck's recollection.

"Impressive," said Eli.

To say the least. For the second time in a day, Tuck had been stunned by Amelia's courage and stubborn determination. He'd been the one to buckle. When he'd seen her blinking back tears, the sweat on her brow, the greenish tint of that creamy white skin, he'd given Birdman a silent order to put her under. Proficient in the Chinese art of acupressure, Birdman had used a mere tap to render her unconscious, putting both Amelia and the men out of their misery. Watching her suffer in unnecessary pain hadn't been easy.

"Much obliged," Doc had said, then attacked his work with steadier hands.

That had been hours ago. Presently, Amelia was sleeping in Tuck's cabin. In his bed. He tried not to dwell on that. Or the vision of her fine bare legs as he'd peeled off those trousers so that Doc could dress the wound. Ridding her of that corset had almost robbed him of his good sense and manner. She'd been clad only in that low-cut blouse and those brief bloomers. All that skin. The lean curve of her thighs and calves. The generous swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Distraction be d.a.m.ned-Amelia Darcy was fast becoming an obsession.

"She'll rally, right, Doc?" Eli asked.

"She'll rally."

Tuck agreed, but again held silent. He didn't want to talk or think about Amelia Darcy. Superst.i.tion had nothing to do with it. His gut warned of a large dollop of trouble, and his gut was always right. The one time he'd chosen to ignore it had cost him dearly. Family. Home. Reputation.

"Here's a question for you," Axel said. "You said Miss Darcy needs to get to Italy on account of a dyin' granddad. According to that article reporting her pa's accident, that girl has two older brothers." He raised a suspicious brow. "Why ain't they travelin' with her?"

"Inexcusable," Eli said in between bites. "Don't they care about seein' their dyin' kin and protecting their sister from scalawags?"

Axel shook his head. "Wouldn't leave my little sister to fend for herself. No way, no how."

Tuck didn't react. Not visibly. But everyone else around the galley table did. Forks and mugs stilled midmouth. No one spoke. No one moved. Tuck needed air and he needed it now. The legs of his chair sc.r.a.ped across the wooden floor, breaking the silence. "Time for me to relieve StarMan."

"Oh, h.e.l.l. d.a.m.n, Marshal, I didn't mean-"

He cut off Axel with a raised hand. "I know."

"Nice going," Eli muttered under his breath.

Axel cleared his throat, then stood. "Guess I should be getting back to work, too. Turbine's been acting up. Thanks for the hot stew, Doc. Real treat."

"Sure." Doc stood and reached out as Tuck pa.s.sed, then thought better of it. "Barely touched your food, Marshal."

"No reflection on the cook."

"Fruit and nut scones for dessert. Picked them up yesterday-"

"Maybe later." Tuck pulled on his overcoat and left the cramped and stifling galley, striving to keep his stride measured and calm. Typically he took his evening meal at the table in his cabin, a time of solace as he read through literature and periodicals of interest, but since Amelia was sleeping there...

He was nearing the ladder leading topside when he spied her: hobbling along at a slug's pace, shoulder against the wall for stability. She looked vulnerable and beautiful and two seconds from falling on her pretty face. He wanted to thrash and ravage her at the same time.

"What are you doing?" he asked, bolstering Amelia by the shoulders.

"Looking for you."

"To give me h.e.l.l, no doubt. Something you can do in my cabin." He frowned when she stiffened under his touch. Obstinate as a mule.

"I do not wish to return to the cabin. I need fresh air." She felled him with those intense blue eyes. "And an explanation."

Well, h.e.l.l.

At least she'd had the presence of mind to pull on her duster, covering the skin that tempted good men to do wrong. "Icy and windy on deck," he said, intimating that the duster alone was insufficient against the elements. Hoping she'd reconsider instead of risking her already compromised health.

She produced her fur-trimmed goggles and a black felt disk that, when popped, expanded into a worn top hat. Smirking, she pulled them on.

Tuck challenged her sa.s.s with a raised brow and a stipulation. "Only if I carry you."

"I don't-"

"Back to the cabin then."

"Insufferable sod," she mumbled under her breath.

"I've been called worse, darlin'."

Mindful of her bandaged thigh, he lifted her off her feet and up the ladder. To her credit, she didn't fuss.

Tuck hit the deck and cursed a primal twitch down south. Even the frigid night air failed to cool his illicit thoughts. She felt good in his arms. Right. Then again, he hadn't been with a woman in more than three weeks. Maybe any woman would feel right.

"I feel better already," Amelia said, breathing deeply.

"That makes one of us." He looked for a place to ditch his precious cargo.

"I'd prefer a view from the bow," she said as he prepared to set her on a rolled canvas.

"I've got better things to do than tote you around, Flygirl."