Free The Treasure Hunter's Lady by Allison Merritt Page B

thought you said you're engaged.”
    “I did. To Mr. Christensen's nephew and heir.” Her mouth was set in a straight line, her eyes flat and hard like broken shards of china. Pretty white hands rested against her hips as she faced him.
    “Ain't that something?” He almost choked on the words. Somehow he couldn't picture Romy married to anyone related to Christensen. She'd die of boredom, she'd said as much to him. For all the praise his uncle gave Maggard, the announcement surprised him. “I guess your old daddy must be proud of you.”
    Her eyes dropped.
    “So you're not real pleased with the prospect? I reckon you threw a pretty big fit when he told you not to come on his little adventure.”
    Her hands curled into fists. “You're so arrogant, you think you know everything. I wish I'd never met you. I hope you never find that stupid jewel and Uktena eats you.”
    “I hope Christensen knows what he signed his nephew up for.” Abel stepped backward until he was out in the hallway. He slammed the door behind him and withdrew the key from his pocket.
    Romy didn't come after him. Opening the door once more, he stuck his head back inside the cabin.
    “By the way, darlin', until you apologize for knocking me senseless and insulting my honor, you can stay right here.”
    He shut the door, locked it and replaced the key. Romy hit the door hard—he hoped with her hands instead of her thick head—and started cursing at him.
    “Let me out this instant, Abel. You aren't funny. If you let me out right now I won't shoot you later!”
    She carried on for a good fifteen minutes. Whistling tunelessly, Abel headed for the deck. It was well past his dinnertime.
     

Chapter Seven
    “I deserve it. He has every right to lock me up until we reach Bismarck. I did threaten to shoot him. I put that bruise on the side of his head. And took his maps and fang. But I asked nicely first. I used my manners. Wouldn't Papa be proud?”
    Romy paced the floor to offset the panic of being locked in the Spartan cabin. The room was scarcely bigger than the crate she’d occupied previously. The absence of a window didn't go unnoticed either.
    Her stomach gurgled, announcing for the thousand-and-third time it was empty. How long would it take to reach Dakota Territory? Probably a matter of days. Long, hot days without water.
    “I mustn't think that way. He can't leave me in here without staples. He wouldn't do that,” she tried to assure herself.
    Someone would bring water and food. Abel might be a grave robber, but he wasn't cruel. At least, she hoped not. What did she really know of him? One swift rescue in an alley, one heated kiss, one quick dance and a conversation about a mystical serpent. It didn't amount to much.
    It was inconsiderate of Abel not to bring her things. Van Buren had removed her gun. If he didn't return it, she'd make the overgrown giant of a man sorry. Somehow.
    Exhaustion caught up with her and left muscles aching all over her body. There hadn't been much time for sleep in the last twenty-four hours. If she were properly rested, she'd be able to escape from the dratted little cabin. She scrubbed her hands over her face, wiping away a sheet of sweat.
    Overhead, footsteps and the muffled voices of the crew halted her pacing. They'd gotten supper, no doubt about it. Those smug little men had full stomachs and comfortable hammocks in their quarters. Romy cast a rueful glance at the hard surface posing as a bed. Termites and God alone knew what other kinds of bugs probably called it home.
    She wanted to pound on the door, but the last time she'd tried, two or three hours ago, a similar knocking came from the cabin next to hers and a shout to shut her “bloody mouth before I shut you up” coerced her into stopping. She didn't expect Abel to keep good company. He was no better than that sky pirate everyone called captain.
    Even if someone let her out of the cabin, there was nowhere to go. She was still trapped thousands of feet