Starlight & Promises (10 page)

As Garrett passed by Samantha, he muttered, “When he sees this … I wouldn’t wish to be in your shoes.”

Had she a choice, neither would she. She tried to force a smile and failed.

When the carriage pulled up to the quay in front of the ship, Samantha inched back the curtain to peek out the window. Christian stood on the aft deck with his back to the dock, conversing with a man who looked like the captain. The situation appeared hopeful. If only she could keep everyone quiet, she could sneak her family aboard without attracting his attention.

The carriage brakes squeaked loudly enough to raise the moldering bodies from the graveyard. The coachman yelled at top volume to the dockhands for assistance. The horses whinnied more shrilly than Samantha ever heard a horse whinny. And as soon as Garrett opened the carriage door, Delia, Chloe, Pettibone, and Gilly spilled out onto the quay like chickens leaving a henhouse—squawking stridently, flapping their arms, and milling about aimlessly. Narcissus nudged open his cage door and plopped out onto the roadway. He looked around, spied Samantha, and made a beeline for her. She scooped him up before the wide-eyed dockhands could make a grab for him.

Clearly audible over the riot of noise came the voice Samantha had dreaded hearing all morning.

“Sam! Fetch your backside over here!”

Her stomach twisted with a sickening lurch.

“They are my family,” she said after she boarded the ship. Hugging Narcissus tighter to her chest, she caused him to squirm. “And gentlemen refrain from referring to ladies’ body parts in such a crude manner in loud voices in public places. I shall expect you to restrain your impulse to do so in the future.” She trusted a preemptory strike would throw him off balance, distract him from her entourage.

He resembled the Colossus of Rhodes, legs spread wide apart, arms folded over his chest. His face was a thundercloud, his eyes so razor sharp they could have pierced a caiman’s hide.

“For your sake,” he replied in a tightly controlled voice, “I hope they’re here to see you off.”

“No?” she whispered, losing a bit of her backbone.

He eyed Narcissus. The iguana returned the stare measure for measure. “Well, you can send them and that armful of reptile, whom I presume to be another of your relations, back to whichever insane asylum you sprung them from. They’ll not set foot on this ship.”

Samantha pulled herself up to her full height, stuck out her chin. She tried to look down her nose at him but found it impossible. He was too tall. She settled for a haughty sniff. “If they go, so do I.”

“Very well. I find that an acceptable solution. You have no business on an expedition of this sort.” He turned away, striding off across the deck.

“Have you not forgotten something?” she called out.

He halted, swung around to face her. “Indeed. My wits when I agreed to this.”

She tucked her mouth into a smile. “Only
I
know where to find the Smilodon.”

“On an uncharted island in the Furneaux Group. Now that I know it exists, I’ll find it without you. It might take me longer, but I’ll find it.” He walked away.

Samantha deposited Narcissus on the deck and ran after Christian. Cutting in front of him, she blocked his path. “But we have a contract!”

He scowled. “If you will recall, that contract specifically stipulates obedience to my orders.”

“You never told me I could not bring my family. So I did not disobey your orders. Did you really think an unmarried woman would travel alone?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to believe I didn’t think at all. I certainly didn’t imagine, even in my wildest nightmares, that a woman would be traveling with a damned iguana. Have we finished now?”

Anger surged up, choking her. She doubled her hand into a fist, drew back her arm, and punched him in the stomach.

He flinched, but clearly only from surprise.

She winced and shook her smarting hand. When she looked up to the expression on his face, she wished she could take it back—almost. She could hardly believe she had hit him. “I intend to hold you to the contract!” she shouted before he could lay hands on her. “I have a cousin who is a Boston barrister. Should you dare to touch me, I shall sue you for assault as well as breach of contract! You cannot treat a modern woman in such a manner.”

“America has lawyers, not barristers,” he said dryly, rubbing his stomach.

When he failed to retaliate, she drew on her reserves. “If you refuse to cooperate, I shall head up my own expedition,” she said with a toss of her head. “Though I would find you useful, much as one finds a shoehorn a useful tool, I do not need you. I will find the cat on my own and return with it to England while you are still wallowing in the doldrums.”

“You
, Lady Samantha, are a lunatic,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You will do no such thing. As you so succinctly stated, we have a contract.”

“And
you
, Professor Badia, are an unmannered lout whose presence I can very well do without.”

An odd look stole into his eyes, and he smiled. ‘Twas not a smile that comforted her. If a gila monster could smile, it would smile like Christian at that moment. “I believe I have reconsidered,” Christian said, “but not on account of your threats.”

“Then why?” she asked, though her mouth was as dry as the gila monster’s shed skin. At the smirk on his face, a hard knot formed in the pit of her stomach.

He draped his arm across her shoulders, yanked her up close to his side, and all but pulled her off her feet.

While his heat seeped into her, her heart pounded as loudly as a herd of stampeding Galápagos tortoises and jumped into her throat.

“I’ll make your family comfortable and will enjoy ensuring you pay for their ease. When I finish with you, you’ll beg me to send you home. But mark my words. I’ll keep you by my side until I’m quite prepared to relinquish you.” He lowered his head until his face came within inches of hers. His hot breath scorched her skin. “Are you familiar with the crow’s nest?” He pointed.

She looked up, way up, to a small bucket at the top of a tall mast. Her eyes widened.

“Hand me one more unanticipated problem, and you’ll find yourself spending your days and nights up there, standing watch. By the time we reach Tasmania, you’ll believe you’ve sprouted wings.”

He laughed softly, leaving her standing there, trembling, her emotions so jumbled she was incapable of even remembering why she was on a ship.

His shouting shook her out of her daze. He gestured at Narcissus, who was chewing on a line securing a sail. “And cage that animal before I make him into soup!”

T
he cabin door burst open and banged against the bulkhead.

“On deck, Sam!”

Samantha’s eyes popped open. When she sat up abruptly, her hammock flipped over, dumping her onto the deck. Narcissus hit the boards beside her and scrambled for cover. She brushed away the snarled hair obscuring her vision and blinked at Christian. The black outline of his body filled the doorway. He grinned, teeth gleaming in the semidarkness. She began a slow burn.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Then I return for you.”

The door slammed shut.

Heavy with sleep, she pushed herself to her feet, rubbed her sore bottom, stumbled over to the washbasin, and splashed water on her face. The cabin was darker than it should be, illuminated by a lone lantern swaying from an overhead beam. She glanced at the porthole in the left bulkhead. The pink blush of predawn faintly tinted the sky. The sun still languished beyond the horizon! Her slow burn worked itself into a simmering boil.

She lit another lantern and searched for her clothing among the jumble. Bodies and baggage filled the suffocatingly small cabin to bursting. The ship offered only three cabins, and the women had appropriated the larger one, normally taken by the captain. Aunt Delia and Chloe slept in the double bunk. Hammocks hung from the rafters for Samantha and Gilly. Narcissus now curled up on the narrow window seat along a bank of windows set in the bow, the only flat surface not piled with clothing. Christian and Garrett shared a tiny cabin next door. The captain made do with an even smaller cabin, more like a wardrobe, across the companionway running below deck. Poor stuffy Pettibone, much to his indignation, was obliged to bunk with the ship’s crew. She failed to comprehend why Christian had not engaged a more comfortable ship.

She cast a look at her family, and her lips pursed. They slept the sleep of the dead. She would never understand how they slumbered through Christian’s bellowing.

She hurried with her dressing, knowing Christian’s threat to return was not an idle one. What new torture had he devised for her today? The first morning after sailing, he pulled her from her hammock when she refused to rise at dawn and hauled her topside, dressed only in her night rail. Once there, he presented her with a mountain of clothing that required mending.

“Since you took it upon yourself to drag a gaggle of extra bodies aboard without requesting permission, you’ve burdened the crew with additional work. While we’re at sea, you’ll make yourself useful.” He pointed at the clothing. When she opened her lips to protest, he cut her off, saying, “You may consider that an order.” He parted with a venomous smile.

The second morning proceeded much the same as the first. Only this time, he assigned her to laundry duty for the entire crew. By the third morning, Samantha learned ‘twas in her best interest to rise, dress, and rapidly present herself topside when he awakened her. Now if she could only master that damnable hammock!

Dressed and scrubbed but still not fully awake, she shuffled down the companionway and up the ladder to the deck.

Christian waited by the railing, consulting the watch in his hand. “Not bad. And with two minutes to spare. You learn quickly, nearly as quickly as a dog. I once read that a dog can learn any trick in three days.”

Samantha growled.

“Tame that temper, or I’ll tame it for you and have you climbing the rigging.”

“So, what is your pleasure today,
Master?”
she said, her good sense having taken flight. “Emptying the bloody slops? Scraping the bloody barnacles off the bloody hull? Keelhauling the bloody damned malingerers?”

He made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Watch your mouth. Your aunt raised you to be a lady.”

“As though you would know a lady from a stinkpot turtle,” she muttered.

He wagged a finger. “Temper, temper. You’ll only make it harder on yourself. Until now, I’ve taken it easy on you.”

She snarled, gathered her nerve to punch him again, and sighed instead. ‘Twould be a futile gesture. He was too big, and she could not truly hurt him. Why expend the energy and damage her hand only to have him laugh at her? Besides, he would then chop her up for shark bait and toss her overboard. Failing that, he would surely set them ashore, bag and baggage, at the first landfall.

“Can you cook?” he asked.

She looked up, eyeing him with suspicion. “Of course.”

Christian crossed his arms over his chest.
“What
can you cook?”

She tapped a forefinger against her chin and rolled her eyes skyward. “Well, let me think. I can make canapés and French finger pastries, radish roses, which are difficult in the extreme because the little edges tend to break off, pâté swans—I sculpt those especially well—and cucumber sandwiches. You know, those little triangles without the crust? My specialty would be strawberries dipped in chocolate silvered with sugar.” She flashed him a triumphant smile.

“In other words, you cannot cook.”

Samantha poked a finger in his chest and stamped a foot on the deck. “Of course I cannot cook, you bloody halfwit! I’m a
lady
. I
employ
a cook.”

One dark eyebrow arched sharply. “Beg pardon, what did you call me?”

“Nothing you would wish to hear again,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze. Her finger ended up in her mouth, where she trimmed the edges of a tattered nail.

“Hitch up that skirt, your ladyship. You’re going up the rigging. You can stand watch in the crow’s nest.”

Halting her unconscious manicure, she gave him a startled look. Her bottom lip trembled. “I will not!”

The eyebrow rose higher. “You what?”

“I cannot.” Her voice wavered, and her lashes swept downward to shield her emotions from his relentless stare. “I suffer from a fear of heights,” she whispered.

He exhaled a long breath. “Then report to the galley.” He gestured at a small building sitting on deck. “You’ll learn to prepare meals. This ship is feeding more mouths than one cook can handle.”

When Christian turned and walked away, Samantha mocked him with an insolent parody of a salute. “Aye, aye, Captain
Bluebeard.”

T
he
Maiden Anne
docked at Charleston, South Carolina, the first landfall since sailing from Boston. Samantha propped her elbows on the rail, rested her face in her palms, and gazed at the gleaming city. Morning light glittered on graceful brick homes adorned with wrought-iron balconies and towering white columns. Late-blooming magnolias overpowered the odors of salt and fish with heady perfume, and lacy shawls of Spanish moss draped stately cypress and live oaks.

They would load supplies for only one day and leave on the dawn tide. The crew and Samantha’s family readied themselves to go ashore and chattered in excited voices behind her. Captain
Bluebeard
had ordered her confined to the ship for some slight and completely justifiable insubordination. Christian was making her life miserable, which ‘twas his obvious intent. She sighed. Arguing only merited more punishment.

Aunt Delia came up beside her and patted her on the cheek. “No long face, Samantha,” she said with the carefree air of one whose head didn’t permanently rest on the block beneath the headsman’s axe. “You can weather whatever he dishes out. Never forget you are a modern woman, and modern women do not pine.”

“Then why do I feel like a prisoner?” Samantha grumbled. “He is exceedingly unfair. He gains a perverse pleasure in torturing me. The way this journey is developing, the first land I shall set foot upon will be Tasmania.”