Her Sky Cowboy Part 18

"Or upside down."

"Some say it is because he was left-handed and it was simply easier for him to write and read right to left."

"Nothin' simple or easy about Leonardo da Vinci, darlin'." Between that art theft case and his obsession for helping Peg fly, he'd read a powerful amount of material on the Renaissance genius.

"I already possess significant information," she whispered, then looked over each shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "It just occurred to me that I might find additional details or clues within this library's expansive and historical collection. Papa's resources were...limited," she said while carefully skimming and turning pages. "Also, I wanted to show you what we are looking for. Ah." She smiled. "Here."

"An ornithopter." A flying machine that soared by flapping its wings-like a bird or bat or some manner of insect. Da Vinci had sketched several versions, and Tuck had studied as many reproductions as he could clap his eyes on. He glanced at Amelia, who was staring hard at the detailed drawings. "So you have knowledge of what? The whereabouts of a lost design? Buried blueprints?"

"A working model. One constructed by da Vinci himself."

The notion glanced off his brain. "Impossible."

"This from a man who owns a flying horse."

Suddenly conscious of the other patrons hunkered over books at nearby tables, Tuck maneuvered his chair closer to Amelia and lowered his voice to barely audible. "Da Vinci studied birds and the theory of flight for almost twenty years. Sketched detailed designs of various ornithopters. Even constructed a few, but none of them flew."

"'The great bird will take its first flight on the back of Monte Ceceri...'" she recited in a reverent tone.

"From his 'Codex on the Flight of Birds.'" A collection of eighteen folios. Da Vinci's detailed examination on the mechanics of flight, air resistance, and the effects of wind on wings. "I'm familiar with the codex and the legend a.s.sociated with various versions of that quote, Amelia. Supposedly one of da Vinci's a.s.sociates test-flew one of his designs, launching from Mount Ceceri. Even if that were true, legend claims the a.s.sociate suffered a ruinous fall. That ornithopter was faulty, not to mention destroyed."

"There is a prototype. I know not its dimensions nor its precise design," she said, indicating various versions. "I simply know it exists and where it is hidden, although I'm not altogether certain how to get to it."

Crazy as a loon, Tuck could hear Axel saying. Like her pa. "Not that I consider myself an expert on all things da Vinci, but how is it I never heard or read about this working prototype?"

She looked at him as if he were daft. "Because it's been hidden for centuries in a secret extension of the workshop."

He refrained from smacking his head on the table. "If it's a secret, how do you know about it?"

Gaze riveted on a drawing, she tucked bright pink curls behind her ears and chewed her red-stained lower lip. At long last she blew out a breath and cast him a glance. "You were right. Briscoe Darcy did indeed pa.s.s on a bit of information to my father."

Tuck stared. His heart hammered against his ribs. She knew something about the Time Voyager, and the Time Voyager had known something about Leonardo da Vinci. A secret. An invention of almighty historical significance. How? What? Why? A dozen questions bombarded his reeling mind, as did one soul-wrenching notion.

If it did indeed exist, he could buy back his life with that ornithopter. As a rabid collector of precious art and rare antiquities, surely Judge t.i.tan would agree to anything in order to possess a functioning, one-of-a-kind da Vinci ornithopter. It was perhaps the one thing that could replace the priceless collection of miniature paintings t.i.tan had accused Tuck of stealing. Christ almighty. Potentially, Amelia had the power to solve all of Tuck's problems. Although that would entail sacrificing her own goals and compromising the financial future of her own family. How the h.e.l.l could he ask or expect her to do that?

Unless he could think of a compromise.

Poleaxed, Tuck dragged his hands through his hair, trying to corral his thoughts.

Amelia must have read something in his eyes, because she eased away and opened a second book.

He kept his tone casual. "You gonna enlighten me with details, Flygirl?"

"I'm contemplating the wisdom in that. For now."

Wary. Smart. "Fair enough." He sure as h.e.l.l didn't want to push and scare her off. "How can I help?"

She took a deep breath and nodded. "I realize now that I cannot do this alone. I'm sure we can come to some sort of business arrangement, but I don't want to waste time sorting that out now. I'm going to trust that I can trust you."

d.a.m.n. "I'll do what I can."

She smiled, squeezed his hand, then focused on the book.

He coldc.o.c.ked his conscience. Get the facts, then ponder the solution, Gentry.

"Mount Ceceri is our destination. Da Vinci had a workshop in the stone quarry." She placed her palm on the book. "We're looking for any mention of the workshop. It's the portal to a secret room, a vault of sorts. I know that much, but I do not know how to access that vault. There must be a code or a trigger."

"Nothing more invigorating than solving a mystery."

"Solving this mystery will restore honor to my father's reputation. Solving this mystery will secure a comfortable future for my family. I must succeed, Tucker."

Shoving aside his own selfish inclinations, he focused on Amelia's genuine need. h.e.l.l or high water, he'd think of a solution to their mutual quandaries. "The Darcys will triumph, darlin'. Mark my words."

Six books and several hours later, Amelia was bleary eyed and brain-fatigued. She wanted nothing more than to leave this impressive and oppressive library, even though they hadn't discovered any hints or clues pertaining to the secret vault. She was spent, mentally and physically.

"Don't despair," Tucker said as he helped her from her seat. "We're dealing with da Vinci. The clue wouldn't be obvious. I'm guessing something will click when we're in the workshop. A connection between something we actually see-a painting, a symbol, an object-and something we read here or somewhere else. Something that will trigger the opening of the secret room."

"So you believe me now?" Amelia asked whilst refastening the b.u.t.tons of Cherry's coat. "You think the ornithopter Briscoe mentioned exists?"

"I think it's worth investigating. I hope it exists."

Something in his tone, his manner. An urgency. She'd sensed it when she'd first mentioned the connection between the Time Voyager and the da Vinci ornithopter. It had stopped her from revealing further details. She could hear Tucker's mind turning but couldn't guess his thoughts. "If we find it, you won't pinch it from me, will you?"

"I won't steal it. You have my word."

The promise did not temper the flutter of unease. Then again, she could attribute the attack of stomach wrens to two things: fear of failure-what if she was wrong about the ornithopter or couldn't locate the secret room?-and the constant sensual awareness of Tucker-she had but to look into his eyes and she was sucked into a spectacular vortex of desire.

She was also suddenly and incredibly famished.

"I don't know about you," Tucker said whilst pulling on Digger's bowler, "but I've worked up quite an appet.i.te. What would you think of dinner, then a boat ride down the Seine, Mrs. Peckinposh? Unless you'd rather attend the theater. I saw an advertis.e.m.e.nt for-"

"Newspapers and periodicals!" Distracted, Amelia followed the arrow to another reading room. "I wonder if they stock the Informer."

Tucker moved in behind her as she scanned scores of major city newspapers. "If you want to know what's happening in London, you'd do better to consult the Daily or Times. The Informer leans toward sensationalism."

"Precisely why I want to catch up on the last few days. I'm curious as to whether the Clockwork Canary has followed up with another attack on the Darcy name. My brother Simon recently suffered a professional setback, a high-profile project d.a.m.ned by corruption." She snagged an issue-yes!-and scanned the front page. "Oh, bother."

"Something about Simon?"

"No, something about the race for the jubilee prize. 'According to Mr. P. B. Waddington, spokesperson for the Jubilee Science Committee,'" she read, "'inquiries pertaining to specifics on the contest have been rolling in. Waddington estimates at least two hundred professionals are now in pursuit of a lost or legendary invention of historical significance.'"

She glanced at Tucker, who was reading over her shoulder, and thoughts of the race derailed. Were he to lean a smidgen closer, he could suckle her earlobe, just as he had done last night, just before she'd seen sensual stars. Her inner thighs tingled at the memory of him plunging deep....

"You okay?" he asked. "Your cheeks are flushed."

Crikey. "I was just thinking...wondering..." She cleared her throat. "What do you suppose Mr. Waddington means by 'professionals'?"

"Men who specialize in artifacts, maybe? Archaeologists? Professors of antiquities? Treasure hunters?"

"Two hundred," she said, forcing images of Tucker's naked body from her mind. "And within the first week. The deadline is five months away. Imagine how many people could join in the quest by then."

"But how many of those people will actually locate a lost or legendary invention? Not many, I'd wager. Furthermore the risk of not making the cut is d.a.m.ned high. What const.i.tutes 'significant'? How does a buried abacus from 2600 B.C. stack up against legendary flexible gla.s.s lost under Roman emperor Caesar's reign? Who determines the level of brilliance, the value to mankind?"

"The Jubilee Science Committee, I suppose."

"Whoever they are."

Amelia ignored the doubt welling in the back of her mind and traded the newspaper for another edition. "Are you preparing me for failure?" she asked in a soft voice.

Tucker cupped the back of her neck, his thumb stroking as if to ease the tension thrumming through her body. Instead, sensual shivers stole down her spine. "Just pointing out," he said reasonably, "that although the ornithopter might be judged significant and impressive, another invention could overshadow the magnitude of the discovery."

The way Briscoe Darcy's time machine overshadowed anything and everything invented by Papa. She shook off the somber thought. "I feel confident that between Jules, Simon, and myself, one of us will win that prize. I feel it in my bones."

"What inventions are your brothers tracking?"

"I don't know. They didn't say. But I'm sure they're something spectacular." She blinked at the headline midway down the front page of yesterday's issue. "What the devil?"

Tucker moved in and together, in glorious, stimulating silence, they read.

EXCLUSIVE SCOOP-THE CLOCKWORK CANARY TO SING DARCY'S EXPLOITS!

The Informer's star reporter has taken a sabbatical in order to chronicle the exploits of the Honorable Simon Darcy, London's most controversial civil engineer (and relation of the infamous TIME VOYAGER), as he joins the Race for Royal Rejuvenation-now known as the Triple R Tourney! The Clockwork Canary will chronicle a firsthand account of Mr. Darcy's adventures, to be published in serial form upon completion of the expedition. Prepare to be dazzled by tales of risque romance, high drama, and nail-biting intrigue! Will Mr. Darcy dazzle and deliver like his notorious cousin? Or, like his unfortunate father, will his dreams go up in smoke?

Amelia's hands shook-the whole paper shook-as that last line burned through her blood like a lit fuse.

"Let go of the paper before you rip it to shreds, darlin'." Tucker relieved her of the infernal Informer, then, after returning the newspaper to its proper place, steered Amelia toward the nearby exit. "Time to be on our way."

She trembled with frustration and rage as Tucker escorted her outside onto the bustling sidewalk. "How could Simon...Why ever would he agree...The Canary, of all people!"

"Maybe he was offered a substantial amount of money. I know I was, and that was just for an interview. This is for serialization. Could amount to a windfall."

"Surely Simon's not that desperate."

"If he's anything like you, the money's not for him but for the family. Here's another angle: This high-profile expose could garner favorable attention and return respect to the Darcy name. Sounds to me like your brother's capitalizing on the situation. Stacking the odds in the family's favor."

She sighed. "Simon is rather enterprising."

"See there. No cause to fret." Changing subjects, he signaled an automocab whilst listing several popular restaurants. "You mentioned wanting to experience everything. Let's start with French cuisine and take it from there. I swan, I could eat an entire cow."

Amelia's lip twitched, and her mood lifted. The mention of something as ordinary as food helped to put her bizarre circ.u.mstance in perspective. Since they'd skipped a midday meal and were well into the evening, nourishment was indeed in order. In addition to settling her swirling stomach, sustenance might help to clear her thoughts. Her brain was jammed with the sketches and notes of a Renaissance genius, swimming with the story her father had repeatedly shared with her regarding their own innovative kin and his dimension-breaking launch from the Crystal Palace.

Although only once had he mentioned Briscoe's cryptic note. A note he'd given to Papa on that historic day. A note Papa had hidden away, then later destroyed. Indeed, Amelia had no proof that that note had ever truly existed. But why would her father lie? His distress had been all too genuine after he'd told Amelia about the contents-a secret he'd kept for twenty-some years. She'd always supposed that he had been bursting to share the revelation with someone, and she'd always felt honored it was her. He'd entrusted her with the secret and now she was set to betray his trust. Although not wholly, she reminded herself, and for very good reason. When she'd learned about the jubilee race, she'd taken it as a sign. Briscoe had intended for her father to benefit from his discovery. And he would.

Whilst Tucker signaled yet again for transport-goodness, the traffic was oppressive-Amelia shook off the enormity of her quest and absorbed her surroundings. Whereas the library had been achingly quiet, the streets and sidewalks buzzed with activity. Illuminated dirigibles sparkled in the sky amidst the twinkling stars. Music floated from a nearby cafe, and the tantalizing aroma of freshly baked goods tempted and teased. Relaxing into the whimsy of Paris, Amelia leaned into Tucker, her pulse racing when he slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed. She smiled up into his intoxicating eyes. "Whereas you crave steak, Mr. Peckinposh, I crave Parisian pastries. What say you?"

"I say I know just the place."

CHAPTER 17.

Tucker couldn't pinpoint the moment he'd lost his heart to Miss Amelia Darcy. He'd fallen brains over boots somewhere between the library and the cruise along the Seine. Her inquisitive mind and independent nature would have been a deterrent for most men, but they stoked his desire something fierce. He got an iron-hard erection when she mused on da Vinci, mechanics, and anything having to do with aviation. Her loyalty to her family and falcon cinched his heart. He cursed the moment she'd almost flown her kitecycle into the Maverick and at the same time considered that moment a blessing. On the one hand, she'd complicated his life even more and twisted him up to the point of compromising his judgment. On the other...Amelia reminded him of everything good and pure, pa.s.sionate and constructive.

After the tainted fiasco in his homeland and more than a year in exile, he'd grown d.a.m.ned cynical. He'd spent the majority of his days risking his life in the name of justice. Then, based on the word of a vengeful, powerful official, the system had failed him. His gut clenched and burned every time he thought about the G.o.dd.a.m.ned betrayal. Years of honorable work overshadowed by one unfortunate affair. His reputation tainted, his livelihood ripped away, all because of a manipulative, twisted woman and her obsessive, twisted pa. If it weren't for StarMan and the rest of his crew, Tuck would've swung.

Six feet under American soil or three thousand miles across the Atlantic?

The choice had been instant, if not simple. Long-term agenda: Wrangle back his freedom and reunite with his sister. Short-term: Provide a comfortable and profitable existence for the men who'd saved his life by risking prosecution. Until Tuck cleared his name (one way or another), StarMan, Eli, Doc, Axel, and Birdman were also banned from America-fugitives from the law, alienated from family and friends. Tuck was saddled with legal issues and moral obligations. Loving Amelia was bad all the way around for everyone concerned.

Unfortunately his brain was at war with the rest of his body.

"What troubles you, Mr. Peckinposh?"

They'd been playing this game all night, maintaining the Fantasy Factory ruse. Mr. and Mrs. Peckinposh. Tuck liked the thought of Amelia being his and his alone a little too much. "Bothers me that we're calling it a night with so much left undone," he lied.

"We dined in a luxurious restaurant and indulged in delicious pastries whilst floating along the Seine. I have never experienced such grand cuisine or glorious sights. What more could there be at this late hour?"

Throughout the evening, whether it was by comment or expression, Amelia's innocence had hog-tied his senses and deepened his tender regard. He'd lost count of the times he'd tempered the urge to pull her into his arms for a kiss, settling on holding her hand or caressing her cheek or gently embracing her waist. "Music. Dancing. Theater. You haven't experienced Paris in full until you've sampled-"

"Culture." She shook her head. "I fear I wouldn't know what to...how to...it's not something I've been exposed to."

"All the more reason to explore." Selfishly, he wanted to hurry her back to their hotel and behind closed doors. He ached to hold and caress her, to seduce her with sweet words and a kiss that would deepen and take them to another plane. But he was also sensitive to her almost desperate need to live life to the fullest. What if there's no tomorrow? Not that he aimed to allow any harm to befall her, but he sure as h.e.l.l didn't want her leaving Paris with regrets. What if this was her one and only journey to France? "Thought you wanted to broaden your horizons, Flygirl."

"I do." She stopped and turned, looking up at him with her pretty painted face, the sparkles on her cheeks almost as tempting as smudges of grease. "I want to make the most of every moment. With you."

His heart pounded, an exhilarating and excruciating slug-slow thud.

"I've never made love in Paris."

Thud. Thud. "Neither have I." He'd bedded Chantel, but he'd done so with l.u.s.t and friendly affection. Never love.

Amelia placed her hand on his chest, over his pounding heart, her mesmerizing blue eyes glittering with desire. "Then what are we waiting for, Mr. Peckinposh?"

"h.e.l.l if I know, Mrs. Peckinposh."

Amelia had never stayed in a hotel, certainly not one as spectacular as Le Meurice. She'd seen the exterior when they'd swung by earlier to drop off their overnight bags. Impressive architecture, multiple stories. She knew it was grand, but she was not prepared for opulence. The interior was breathtaking. Indeed, she found it impossible not to gawk. Patterned marble floors, white marble columns accentuated with gilded leaves, elegant furnishings, vaulted ceilings. Frescoes. She gaped up at the chandeliers, dripping with crystal and gold, and let out a breathy whistle.

"Do you really think show people such as the Peckinposhes would stay in such an extravagant hotel?" she whispered.

"They would if they experienced a recent windfall." Tucker leaned in, his warm breath tickling her ear. "And if this were their honeymoon."

She jerked around, b.u.mping his nose. "You told the hotel clerk we were newly wed?"