Starlight & Promises (7 page)

The blood in her veins turned to rock, as did the marrow in her backbone. “Sir, why you should presume to speak to me in such a familiar way and deign to make personal remarks on my appearance and character, when we have not even been properly introduced, is beyond my comprehension.” Her hands fluttered in concert with her words. “My size, lack of size, or nature, contrary or otherwise, can be of no concern to you. When I have left your presence, which will be soon, I pray, we need never meet again. My business is with your master, not with you.” Beneath her breath, she added, “Thank the saints.”

An amused twinkle settled in his eyes. “I beg your pardon, m’lady. It was merely an observation and not meant to be taken personally.”

“Humph.” She settled herself with a shake of her shoulders. “For your information, sir, though why I should tell you, I do not know, I am of average height for a woman.”

He blew out a breath, picked up the ball, and placed it in her hands. “If you say so,
tigrina
, then I must agree.”

She failed in her attempt to burn him to cinders with her stare. “Do not presume to call me by that odious appellation. To you, I am Lady Samantha.”

“As you wish,” he replied with a slight nod. “Let us, then, conclude this business as quickly and painlessly as possible so you can deal with my … master.”

She turned her attention to the ball that she held in two hands as carefully as if it were a prickly horned toad. “And I am to do what with this?”

He pointed up. “Throw the ball through the basket, and I’ll give you an appointment for tomorrow. One try.”

Samantha tilted back her head, studied the distant basket. “Three tries.”

“Two. My final offer.”

She nodded, took off her hat and gloves, set them on the floor, and brushed the hair from her face. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer.
Please, Lord, guide my hand!
Then she threw the ball into the air. She peered through her lashes as it soared aloft and descended toward the man’s head.

He reached out with one hand, caught it, and passed it back to her, pointing to the basket again. “Concentrate. Open your eyes and watch what you’re doing. Though I realize your inclination may well be otherwise, the objective is to hit that, not me. Feel the ball go through the basket. Be the ball.”

“Concentrate. Be the ball,” she whispered and paused to inquire, “What sort of ball is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does if I’m obliged to be the ball.”

“A basketball,” he said with his first genuine smile. It transformed his face into something close to human.

“A basketball,” she whispered again. “Concentrate. Be the basketball.”

With her eyes open this time, she moved under the basket and threw the ball upward. It shot through the bottom and flew out the other end.

She clapped. “I did it!”

“It’s supposed to go through the other way.”

“You were not specific.”

He chuckled. “Right you are, Lady Samantha. I suppose I wasn’t. I’ll have to be more precise in the future. Tomorrow morning at eight. Arrive on time. Professor Badia demands the courtesy of punctuality.” He retrieved the ball, bounced it several times on the shiny boards, and threw it at the basket.

“Mister,” Samantha called out. “Um, I failed to catch your name. How should I address you?”

“Save your breath. Don’t,” he said without looking around, having recovered his previous surly manner.

“You see,” she persisted, “I require a ride back to town. Do you not recall? I informed you that my carriage broke down.”

“See Garrett.” He gave her his back, darting across the floor to the basket at the far end.

“See Garrett,” she mocked softly lest he hear her and she lose the concession she had so recently gained. She retrieved her hat and gloves and walked over to her boots.
What a rude, obnoxious man. Somewhat compelling, perhaps, but obnoxious nonetheless
. Recalling Garrett, the dreamy blond angel, she snatched up her boots and hurried out the door. Garrett had manners. He was a gentleman, unlike this hairy American ruffian.

That night, after an uneventful ride in a hired carriage back to her lodgings, Samantha drifted halfway between sleep and wakefulness, her nerves thrumming, and she dreamt.

He stalked her through a meadow carpeted in grass as golden as ripened wheat. Bright sun penetrated to her bones, and she parted the high stalks, moving quickly and silently. She stopped and crouched down to listen. How close was he? He panted through parted teeth and sniffed the ground, following her spoor. Large paws padded softly, drifted toward her. She rose, lifted her head above the tallest vegetation, saw the rounded top of his tawny head. His thick mane, a fusion of dark and light strands, arched upward from the nape of his neck
.

He raised his head, clear green eyes catching her gaze, holding her in thrall. While she stood utterly still, unable to move, he wove a flowing path, drawing in on her by sight instead of scent. The world fell still. All sound and motion ceased beyond this one spot in this golden meadow. Yellow sunlight poured down, the world beyond its sphere turning as black as the ocean depths. A curtain of life drew around them, as if nothing else existed outside its enveloping folds. They were the only living creatures on Earth
.

As the cat drew nearer, a quiver shook her. ‘Twas inevitable he would track her down. His canines, long and curved, gleamed in the sun, and his pink tongue lolled outside the wide mouth, which lifted into a knowing grin. A grin meant only for her
.

She had nowhere to go. No escape from his piercing teeth and lethal claws. Fear tore through her, hot and screaming in a high keening. Or was it her voice?

He crouched, his thigh muscles bunched into steel coils. His tawny tail whipped back and forth, flattening the grass and sending a wave of seeds into the crystalline air. Resigned to her fate, she lay back and bared her throat. When he sprang, he arched across the sky, a streak of golden fire and overwhelming strength. She closed her eyes, waiting for his weight to bear her into the earth
.

Samantha awoke with a jerk, tossing Narcissus off the bed and onto the floor. Her breath came in short, hot gasps. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed a hand on her chest and released a small, whispery laugh. “My goodness,” she uttered into the darkness. When she turned over and closed her eyes again, the iguana climbed back onto the counterpane and curled up beside her.

O
n the dot of eight the following morning, Samantha stood at attention in front of Garrett’s desk. He melted her with a smile, gesturing toward the door. “He’s expecting you,” the dreamy man said, then gave her a warning look. “You’d better knock this time.”

Considering her scruffy appearance the preceding day, Samantha had taken especial care with her wardrobe. She had brushed her hair into submission and coiled it into a becoming style under a jaunty blue hat and dotted veil. Her navy blue suit fit snugly, but modestly, with long, tight sleeves and a high collar edged with white lace. The skirt swept back to a bustle draped with a velvet train. Smart black leather half boots with a medium heel peeked out from beneath her hem. White gloves completed the ensemble. Aunt Delia had inspected her earlier with a critical eye and pronounced her quite acceptable.

For most of the previous night, Samantha had tossed and turned, plagued not only by her disturbing dream but also by visions of a broad, hairy chest and hard, green eyes. In addition to addressing the business bringing her to Professor Badia’s door today, she had every intention of mentioning the rude employee’s behavior.

The man had tried to kiss her. And, good Lord, she’d almost let him! She even recalled his scent: salty and earthy, distressingly … male. Each time she called to mind his disrespect and reprehensible behavior, an unpleasant cauldron of heat seethed low in her belly. She attributed the reaction to disgust. A man of his ilk should be locked up, kept away from decent women.

She dared not inform Delia of the man’s inappropriate attentions. She had enough difficulty convincing her aunt to allow her to visit Professor Badia without a chaperone.

Samantha knocked on the pocket doors. She interpreted the grunt coming from beyond the wooden barrier as permission to enter. She went inside and quietly closed the doors. The drapes were drawn, the sole light coming from a fire on the hearth and a small table against the far wall.

Professor Badia, she presumed, bent over the table, his eye pressed to a microscope. Candlelight, reflected in a tilted mirror, illuminated the specimen on the stage. His outline revealed a large body, and she smiled. So much for spare and wiry. Standing in silence with hands laced at her waist and tadpoles wriggling in her stomach, she waited for him to acknowledge her.

He readjusted the mirror and fiddled with the lens, ignoring her for endless minutes. At last he straightened, walked over to the windows. Tall and sturdily built, he wore formfitting trousers and a dark frock coat. He pulled back the drapes and turned around.

Her hands tightened into fists, and the breath stuck in her throat. She released it in an explosion of sound. “You!”

Professor Badia waved toward a chair. “So it seems,” he said dryly.

Samantha remained at the door, as though her boots were nailed to the floor.

He gestured again. “Please have a seat, Lady Samantha, unless you wish to leave now. My time is valuable. I’m here at your request, and I’m not a patient man.”

She forced herself to move, slid into the chair, and clamped her lips together, fearing only nonsense would spew forth, or worse yet, vile oaths. She fought the urge to leave at once, but he represented her last hope, so she swallowed her pride.

He sank into the desk chair, rotating it to face her, crossing his legs, and bracing his elbows on the armrests. Listing his head to one side, he stroked his chin with the fingertips of his right hand while his eyes held hers in a penetrating gaze. After a long silence, he sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to initiate this conversation, since you appear to be tongue-tied. Exactly what do you require from me?”

“Your expertise,” she said without thinking.

His mouth turned up in a slow smile. “Your request could be interpreted in many ways, my lady.”

The heat of a blush ran down to her toes. “Y-y-you know perfectly well I meant your animal tracking and expedition expertise.” She hadn’t truly noticed his lips before, though she did now. Full and sensual, they appeared soft in contrast to the sharp points of his cheekbones, the firmness of his jaw, and the ruggedness of his body. When she realized she was staring at his mouth like a smitten schoolgirl, she glanced away to focus on a point beyond his left shoulder.

“What do you want to do with them?” he asked softly.

Her eyes widened, her gaze bouncing back to him. Of course, he meant his scientific talents. She inhaled a calming breath to prevent her mind from wandering again. “As I told you in my letter, my uncle Richard discovered a living Smilodon.”

He shifted, as though bored, and looked out over the room.

“I realize how ridiculous that must sound,” she quickly went on, “seeing as the saber-toothed tiger has been thought to be extinct for at least ten thousand years, but Richard is a serious, respected scientist, an Oxford-educated botanist. He says he has found a Smilodon, and you may trust his word. He is not prone to delusions, pranks, or exaggerations.”

Professor Badia sat straighter. “Your uncle is Lord Richard Colchester, the Earl of Stanbury?”

“Yes. You have heard of him?”

He inclined his head. “I have several of his monographs. They’re quite excellent.”

A smidgen of optimism settled in her chest.

“Well, get on with your story,” he said. “How did Lord Stanbury manage to find this Smilodon?”

His apparent interest, lukewarm though it was, encouraged her to continue. “Uncle Richard was in Tasmania, arranging a botanical expedition to explore an isolated region of the interior, when a native approached him with a dried flower Richard had never seen before. The native said he found it on an island in the Furneaux Group. Uncle Richard became quite excited because the plant fit no recorded family of flora. He chartered a small boat with his friend James Truett, the botanical illustrator, intending to make a cursory survey of the island preparatory to a full expedition. A storm at sea caught them and sent them off course. You see, it was the typhoon season. When they reached the nearest landfall, an uncharted island with no landing harbor for boats, Uncle Richard and James swam ashore and camped out on the beach, while the crippled boat limped back to Tasmania with the crew.”

He gestured for her to halt. “Why did they not return with the boat?”

She chuckled. “You would have to know Uncle Richard. For the opportunity to explore completely unknown territory, he would swim across the English Channel. And the boat’s crew promised to send back rescue.”

He leaned back in the chair and tapped his full bottom lip with his steepled fingers. “I understand.”