Starlight & Promises (8 page)

“Do you?” She attempted a small smile. “I suppose all scientists feel they are compelled to seek out new adventures. Even you.”

“Indeed.” His eyes twinkled beneath half-closed lids. “I also enjoy exploring unknown territory … and seeking new adventures.”

Something in his tone struck her as less than respectful. Samantha blushed again, losing her smile and her train of thought. The man was insufferable! Were all American men this ill-mannered?

He filled her speechless silence. “And on this uncharted island they found a Smilodon.”

“Yes,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. She pulled a paper from her reticule, leaned forward, and laid it on the desk. “James drew this illustration of the cat.”

Christian picked up the drawing and perused it, his brows lowered in concentration. “Again,” he said, handing it back, “why do you need me? This seems like a task Lord Stanbury and his colleague would prefer to handle on their own.”

Samantha bit her quivering lower lip. Her stomach plummeted, and tears gathered in her eyes. He would refuse to help her; she just knew it. “Richard is a botanist, not a zoologist. He requested that I engage a competent scientist with the right qualifications. But I … I fear something terrible has happened. Once I read his letter, I immediately wrote him back and received no reply. I’m the only other person who knows the island’s exact location. So you see, I must ask you not only to lead the Smilodon expedition but also to find my uncle.”

His face took on a pensive expression. “A
true
living Smilodon would be an incredible find. Your uncle is widely known for his scientific integrity. However, I’m obliged to ask myself whether I wish to become involved, to throw my bucolic life into turmoil. As I’m sure you’re aware, I no longer pursue wild animals.”

“Please, Professor Badia. I cannot do this without your assistance.”

He sighed. “Tell me about the two vessels, the one your uncle arrived on and the rescue ship.”

“I checked with the Naval Ministry. Both sank with all hands aboard a month later.”

“And James Truett?”

“Also missing.”

Christian left the chair and walked to the mantel, pouring himself a brandy. “Would you care for something? A sherry, perhaps?” He turned, sending her a look of inquiry. “Brandy?”

Her blush escaped before she could suppress it. Honestly, the man must believe her red face to be a permanent affliction! “No, thank you. I dislike strong spirits. Will you head my expedition? I have the funds, but I require your expertise.”

He stood at the hearth with one boot resting on the fender, gazed into the fire, and said nothing for a long time. At last he lifted his head. “I must admit it’s intriguing, my lady, but I’ll have to give your proposition some thought. I can fit you in again …” He strode over to the appointment book on his desk and flipped through the pages.

Samantha sprang to her feet and slapped a palm down on the book.

He raised his eyes to hers.

“Tomorrow,” she stated.

A vein throbbed blue against the skin of his temple, surely an ominous sign.

A steel band clamped around her chest, restricted her breathing. “This could easily be the most important discovery of the century,” she said before she could lose her nerve, “and you have played with me long enough. Should you decline, I have other interested parties. I repeat, I shall give you until tomorrow.” He could not possibly know she was bluffing, but he had humiliated her and was now tugging her about like a toddler on a leading string.

He chuckled. “Very well, Lady Samantha Eugenia Colchester, tomorrow it is. Be here at seven o’clock sharp.”

“On the contrary. This time
you
are obliged to make an appointment with
me.”
She handed him her card. “You may call on me at
precisely
nine o’clock at this address. Should you arrive even five minutes late, I shall assume you have no interest in the expedition and will contact my other sources.” She tilted up her nose and walked away, prepared to make a haughty exit. Though she was taking a risk, a colossal risk, she assured herself that the possibility of such a monumental discovery would sway him to reason. Besides, men such as Professor Badia must be dealt with firmly, lest they gain the false impression that they were in charge.

His voice stopped her before she reached the door. “What do your friends call you, Lady Samantha? I would wager something insufferably charming, such as Mandy or Sam.”

She whirled back around. “My friends call me Samantha. You, Professor Badia, may address me as …
my lady.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

As she left, she managed to pull the door to without slamming it.

Samantha’s scent had barely cleared the air when Garrett opened the door and popped his head inside. “Spicy, isn’t she?”

Christian scowled. “Were you listening at the door again?”

“Wouldn’t have to if you would invite me in.”

“Indeed,” Christian muttered. “She’s spicy all right, like sour pickles.”

“Come, Chris, are you not being a bit judgmental?”

“Judgmental? Damned right. She’s a bloody aristocrat!”

Garrett frowned. “She’s not Lady Jane, you know. Don’t even look like her.”

Christian swung the door closed with emphasis, nearly bouncing it off Garrett’s head.

“Cork-brained clodpate! Lack-witted lobcock! Reprehensible reprobate! Moronic muttonhead! Vituperative villain! Boorish bacon brain! Thick-witted troglodyte! Addlepated, addlepated …” Samantha ran out of additional appropriate alliterations for Professor Christian Badia. She paced past the clock yet again and glared at the hands: a quarter of ten. Snatching a picture off the mantel, she smashed it against the wall. What was she to do now? Should he fail to come, and that appeared to be his intention, she had no options left. She scowled at the clock and slumped into a chair. The minutes ticked by. Tension twisted the muscles of her neck into knots and accelerated the pulse banging against her temples. Why, oh why, was Christian Badia the only person qualified for this expedition? She racked her brain for other possibilities. None came to mind.

The clock struck ten, and a knock resounded on the door.

Samantha rose, running her hands over her hair and green damask dress. “Enter,” she said.

Pettibone opened the door. “Professor Christian Badia,” he announced in his bored, nasal tone.

Samantha composed her expression. “Please see him in, Pettibone.” She would be damned if she would allow Professor Badia to see how his tardiness upset her.

Christian strolled up to the door, handing his hat and cloak to Pettibone. He wore fawn-hued riding breeches and black boots. His white lawn shirt was cravatless, open at the throat, exposing the dark hair Samantha was painfully aware also covered his chest. A brown hunting coat molded to his shoulders. His blond-streaked brown hair swept back into a queue tied with a rawhide strip. Odors of leather, horses, and brisk autumn air accompanied his entrance.

“You are late,” she said, the words simply springing from her mouth of their own volition. She nearly bit her tongue for giving him such an obvious opening.

He grinned as wickedly as Satan at a feast for the newly damned. “I fear so. But only a
little
bit late.”

She flinched and walked over to a fireside table. “Tea, Professor Badia?”

“No thanks, Sam. I would rather have coffee if it’s available.”

Her hackles rose at the diminutive of her name. Did the man have no manners at all? The tea she was pouring overran the cup rim, spilling into the saucer. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking and rang for the butler. “Professor Badia would prefer coffee.”

Pettibone bowed stiffly and sniffed. “Yes, m’lady.”

“Please be seated,
Professor Badia.”
She indicated a seat by the fire.

He inclined his head, settled into the chair, and stretched his legs, so muscular in the skintight breeches, out in front of him. When he crossed one ankle over the other knee, she looked up, her gaze colliding with his. His eyes glimmered with amusement and something else: something dark and knowing, barely detectable behind the mirth.

She nearly dropped the cup of tea. Heat crept up her cheeks and down her neck.

“Perhaps I should go first,” he said as she managed to find her chair. “Once again, you seem to be at a loss for words.”

She started to open her mouth, thought better of it, and stirred her tea instead.

“I’ll agree to head this expedition only if you consent to my conditions.”

She arched her brows. “Conditions?”

“Conditions.”

Samantha looked away. What mischief dwelled in his mind now? Perhaps he would require her to row the ship to Tasmania or catch sharks with a hatpin. She caught herself nibbling on her fingernails and halted the nervous gesture. Had he noticed? She glanced at him.
Oh, bother
, he had. She dropped her hand and pressed her spine against the wooden spindles of the chair. In spite of her reservations of there being “conditions” to which she must agree, she gave a jerky bob of her head.

As Christian relaxed into his chair, Pettibone appeared with the coffee. “Cream or sugar, Professor Badia?”

“Black will be fine. Thank you.” He accepted the cup and sipped the brew. “Great coffee,” he said to Pettibone. “You aren’t looking for new employment, are you? I could use a majordomo.”

“I hardly think so.” Pettibone snorted under his breath, shuffling out and closing the parlor door with a rather loud bang.

“I suppose not.” Christian smiled wryly and directed his gaze to Samantha once again. “We were speaking about conditions.”

“You were speaking. I was listening. I continue to do so.”

He saluted her.
“Touché
. Conditions, then. First, you’ll pay all the expenses incurred.”

“That was my intention.”

“Next, Lord Stanbury and I will share authorship on any publications resulting from the expedition.”

“I agree,” she said, surprised his conditions were so reasonable. “Uncle Richard should have no difficulty with coauthorship.” The tension lifted from her shoulders.

He grinned like the hare confronting the tortoise prior to the race, his teeth flashing in his tanned face. “Fine. Now for the difficult one. This is to be my expedition. I’ll take sole charge, make all the plans, and give all the orders.” When she started to speak, he cut her off. “I’ll brook no opposition on this. I’m familiar with that part of the world. It’s primitive and dangerous, infested with sea pirates, criminals, headhunters, and cannibals. In assuming responsibility for the expedition’s safety, I’ll tolerate no interference or challenges to my authority.”

She controlled her voice with difficulty. “I understand. I realize you have the superior experience. I shall follow your orders.” Surely that could not be
too
difficult. Step here; do not step there; hide behind this tree …

“You had better. You can travel with us to Tasmania. I have friends there who run a respectable boarding-house. I’ll send reports to you when I can.”

“No!” She jumped up, and her cup of tea went flying. It splashed across his breeches. “You go too far. I must go to the island with you.”

He stood just as abruptly, cursed, pulled himself up to his full height. His cup dropped on the side table with a clatter. The liquid remaining in the cup sloshed out and spilled onto the table. With a handkerchief drawn from his coat, he brushed at the scalding tea on his leg. “You will not!”

“I will!”

His eyes narrowed, darkened. “Not!”

“How will you find the island without me?”

“You will inform me of its location before we reach Tasmania.”

Her mouth quirked into a wide smile. Slowly and distinctly, she said, “No … I … will … not.”

“Damn it, Sam,” he said on an explosive breath. He threw the soaked handkerchief to the floor. “Have you any notion of what you’re saying?” Raking a hand through his hair, disheveling it, he stalked away, pacing across the room, his large form seeming to dwarf the space. “The South Seas are treacherous enough for armed men, much less pampered society ladies. I’ve already mentioned the unsavory human elements we will meet: not
might
, but
will
. In all likelihood, we’ll encounter spiders the size of dinner plates and centipedes over a foot long, whose bite can cause your arm or leg to swell to four times its normal size.” He paused, skewering her with his gaze. “Snakes, too. Have you ever heard of the two-step viper?”

“No, but it sounds interesting. What color is it?”

“What color is it?” he sputtered, rumpling his hair again. “This is no joking matter. Its venom is lethal, killing before the victim can take two steps. Even the plants, deceptively beautiful, harbor poisonous spines or sap that strips skin from flesh. And were that not enough, the men I hire will be no gentlemen. You would have no privacy. I cannot afford to make a mistake and risk lives because I’m distracted by playing nurse to you.”

Samantha returned his stare. “I have no need of a nurse. I’m far from being a child. I have no fear of your flesh-stripping plants nor two-stepping snakes and headhunting cannibals. I’m not a helpless, pampered female, but a modern woman. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in any situation. In fact, I have a reputation as a well-respected amateur herpetologist. I accompanied Uncle Richard on many such expeditions.” Her conscience thumped her a bit at the lies. Small lies, but lies nonetheless. “I will not give you the island’s location. I shall obey you in all else, but I must go with you. This is
my
expedition. I have to find Uncle Richard.”