her into action. Cowering in his cabin, hiding quiet as a mouse? She couldn’t imagine. From what she’d seen this airship operated with a skeleton crew. Surely she could help. An unknown variance? A wild card of sorts?
Tucker would not appreciate her presence. And what if Doc or Eli tried to protect her instead of the airship? What if their crewmates suffered? No, if she joined this fight, better to blend with the men. Heart pounding, she hobbled to the massive chest pushed against the starboard wall. Yes, it was rude to poke about in someone’s belongings, but she assumed good manners were moot in times of danger. Rooting through her host’s clothing, she quickly settled on a worn greatcoat with an attached cowl. She traded her own coat for Tucker’s—overly large and long on her petite frame, all the better to disguise her womanly curves. She wrapped one scarf around her neck, hiding the lower portion of her face, then pulled on her goggles and Papa’s top hat. Feeling somewhat anonymous, she procured the stun pistol from her satchel and slid it into the voluminous coat’s pocket, then nabbed her walking cane and limped toward the door.
Thud. Thud.
Though helpful, the brass stick knocked against the planked floors and could well alert someone of her approach. Amelia retracted the cane and stuffed the mechanism into her other pocket. She’d have to deal with the limp.
Breathing deeply, she lifted the long hem of Tucker’s coat and braved the hall, creeping forward as silently as possible. Her own ears rang with the boisterous activity above: shouting, gun blasts, tussling footfalls. A battle raged, filling Amelia with fascination and dread. She’d craved adventure and she’d gotten it.
Crikey
.
She neared a ladder and paused, startled by sudden chilling silence. Had someone surrendered? Was everyone dead? Swiping her clammy hands down Tucker’s wool coat, she steeled her spine, then crept up the rungs. Nearing the top, she heard voices and froze in place.
“Ye’re ootnumbered and ootgunned, Sky Cowboy.”
“But not outsmarted.”
The other man laughed, a grave and haughty sound that caused Amelia to frown in disgust. His arrogance would be his undoing. Was he unaware of Tucker’s history? His reputation? Did he really think he’d bully a man who’d tangled with the most notorious outlaws in the American West?
“I’ll match my Boomer Cannons and Stormerator against yer wits anytime, mate.”
“I’m not your friend, Dunkirk.”
“That’s Captain Dunkirk to ya,” a third voice barked.
The
Captain Dunkirk? Amelia wondered. Scottish Shark of the Skies?
Bloody hell.
Perhaps there was reason for concern.
“Ya holding a grudge because I beat ya in faro last month, cowboy?”
“Easy to win when you’re a low-down cheat,” Axel said.
“I’m pissed,” Tucker said, “because you blew a hole in my bally.”
“Prepared to dae worse if ya dinnae give me what I want.”
Amelia reached in her pocket and palmed her gun. She couldn’t imagine Tucker and his men giving over anything to these plundering, murdering scoundrels. She braced for a fight. As soon as chaos commenced, she’d sneak on deck and stun the living daylights out of someone. Unless the gun malfunctioned. Highly possible, since it was a prototype of Papa’s. She considered the retracted cane. She might do better with a blow and a jab.
“Hand over the lass,” Dunkirk said, “and ya and yer men live to see another day.”
Amelia blinked. Was he referring to her?
“No women on this boat,” Eli said.
“Bad luck,” Axel said.
“True, that,” Dunkirk said. “But worth the risk with almost a million pounds at stake. What say you?” he asked in a louder voice, causing several men—his crew?—to cheer.
Amelia’s brain reeled as she tried to make sense of the circumstance. How did Captain Dunkirk, an infamous air pirate of international skies, know that she, an inconsequential citizen of Kentshire, was aboard
Tucker would not appreciate her presence. And what if Doc or Eli tried to protect her instead of the airship? What if their crewmates suffered? No, if she joined this fight, better to blend with the men. Heart pounding, she hobbled to the massive chest pushed against the starboard wall. Yes, it was rude to poke about in someone’s belongings, but she assumed good manners were moot in times of danger. Rooting through her host’s clothing, she quickly settled on a worn greatcoat with an attached cowl. She traded her own coat for Tucker’s—overly large and long on her petite frame, all the better to disguise her womanly curves. She wrapped one scarf around her neck, hiding the lower portion of her face, then pulled on her goggles and Papa’s top hat. Feeling somewhat anonymous, she procured the stun pistol from her satchel and slid it into the voluminous coat’s pocket, then nabbed her walking cane and limped toward the door.
Thud. Thud.
Though helpful, the brass stick knocked against the planked floors and could well alert someone of her approach. Amelia retracted the cane and stuffed the mechanism into her other pocket. She’d have to deal with the limp.
Breathing deeply, she lifted the long hem of Tucker’s coat and braved the hall, creeping forward as silently as possible. Her own ears rang with the boisterous activity above: shouting, gun blasts, tussling footfalls. A battle raged, filling Amelia with fascination and dread. She’d craved adventure and she’d gotten it.
Crikey
.
She neared a ladder and paused, startled by sudden chilling silence. Had someone surrendered? Was everyone dead? Swiping her clammy hands down Tucker’s wool coat, she steeled her spine, then crept up the rungs. Nearing the top, she heard voices and froze in place.
“Ye’re ootnumbered and ootgunned, Sky Cowboy.”
“But not outsmarted.”
The other man laughed, a grave and haughty sound that caused Amelia to frown in disgust. His arrogance would be his undoing. Was he unaware of Tucker’s history? His reputation? Did he really think he’d bully a man who’d tangled with the most notorious outlaws in the American West?
“I’ll match my Boomer Cannons and Stormerator against yer wits anytime, mate.”
“I’m not your friend, Dunkirk.”
“That’s Captain Dunkirk to ya,” a third voice barked.
The
Captain Dunkirk? Amelia wondered. Scottish Shark of the Skies?
Bloody hell.
Perhaps there was reason for concern.
“Ya holding a grudge because I beat ya in faro last month, cowboy?”
“Easy to win when you’re a low-down cheat,” Axel said.
“I’m pissed,” Tucker said, “because you blew a hole in my bally.”
“Prepared to dae worse if ya dinnae give me what I want.”
Amelia reached in her pocket and palmed her gun. She couldn’t imagine Tucker and his men giving over anything to these plundering, murdering scoundrels. She braced for a fight. As soon as chaos commenced, she’d sneak on deck and stun the living daylights out of someone. Unless the gun malfunctioned. Highly possible, since it was a prototype of Papa’s. She considered the retracted cane. She might do better with a blow and a jab.
“Hand over the lass,” Dunkirk said, “and ya and yer men live to see another day.”
Amelia blinked. Was he referring to her?
“No women on this boat,” Eli said.
“Bad luck,” Axel said.
“True, that,” Dunkirk said. “But worth the risk with almost a million pounds at stake. What say you?” he asked in a louder voice, causing several men—his crew?—to cheer.
Amelia’s brain reeled as she tried to make sense of the circumstance. How did Captain Dunkirk, an infamous air pirate of international skies, know that she, an inconsequential citizen of Kentshire, was aboard
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