Starlight & Promises (18 page)

“I love the desert,” he said, dragging his gaze away from her intoxicating play and turning to make up the bedrolls. “Only when you leave civilization can you experience true night … and quiet.” When his pointed words failed to quell her capering, he called to her.

She gave him an impish look. “I have yet to catch them all,” she said, pointing up at the sparkling stars.

A smile came unbidden. “Leave some to guide the sailors, Sam, and come here.”

When she approached him, he examined her wounds, coated them with another layer of aloe, and pointed to a bedroll. “Now lie down. You’re exhausted, and we have a long day tomorrow.”

Though Christian snuggled into his bedroll and seemed to have no trouble finding sleep, Samantha’s mind declined to shut down. Despite her anger at Christian and her body’s exhaustion and pain, her imagination spun unfettered. She speculated about Christian. He was such a contradiction, strong with a masculinity that sent her heart thumping. Conversely, he could make her want to commit murder—his. He could be tender and sensual and utterly arrogant and infuriating. She wondered what made him the way he was.

“I know nothing about you, Chris.” She spoke more to the darkling sky than to him.

“Of course you do,” he replied in a sleepy voice.

She smiled at the opportunity to quiz him. “I mean, I know you are a scientist, a respectable one, and you study wild cats. I’ve read everything you have written.”

He rolled over and folded an arm beneath his head. The dying embers of the fire outlined his long body. “Everything?”

She sat up and bobbed her head. “Every word.”

“Good God, Sam. You must lead a boring life and have a great deal of idle time on your hands.”

“Not at all. I find your writing brilliant. You have such passion for what you do. Your essays reveal a deep love of wildlife. You see nature in a way few people can. What I meant to say is, I know nothing of the man behind the scientist. No one seems to. Who are you, Chris? I don’t even know how old you are.”

He settled onto his back and slipped his hands beneath his head. “Does it matter? I have no grisly skeletons rattling around my family closet. I am what you see. My life is no more complicated than that.”

She leaned forward. “But it is. Our roots, our upbringing, families, friends, and mentors determine who we are. Tell me something personal about yourself. I wish to know what made you who you are.”

“I’m a private man.” A note of reserve etched his voice. “I take no enjoyment in discussing the past, because it’s simply that, over and done with. It has no relevance now. I do what I do because I take pleasure in it, and when it ceases to satisfy me, I’ll do something else.”

She scooted her bedroll closer so she could rise above him. “Please?”

He looked up into her eyes and groaned. “Very well, if my surrender should convince you to go to sleep, I’ll answer
one
personal question.”

“Three,” she said automatically.

He laughed and looked away. “You’re still a tough negotiator.” He brought his gaze back to her and said in a firm tone, “Two questions. My final offer.”

She smiled. “Shall we start with your age?”

He snorted a laugh. “Is my age truly so important that you would waste one of only two questions? Your prospects appear bleak if you were ever to discover a magic lamp with a grateful genie.”

“I’m simply curious. You have the, ah, the strength and stamina of a man in the prime of life, but sometimes your mind seems older than Pettibone’s. And at times, your behavior is closer to that of a young man, someone of Garrett’s age.”

He grimaced. “Very well, Sam. I have no desire for you to compare me with either Pettibone or Garrett. I turned thirty-eight this year.”

She placed her forefinger to her lips and blinked. “That old.”

A grin flickered across his mouth. “Practically one foot in the grave.”

“I would hesitate to put it that way. You are quite well-preserved for such an advanced age.”

“I thank you for the somewhat dubious compliment, madam,” he said dryly. “Now ask your second question so I can get some sleep and some of that peace and quiet for which I visit the desert.”

“Are you a British lord?”

Christian remained silent, his expression guarded.

“You promised to answer two questions,” she ran on quickly, “and I recall no restrictions on particular subjects.”

“My mistake again. When I’m in your presence, I seem to find myself in that predicament more often than not. No, I’m not a British lord. I claim ownership to no peerage. The only title I’ve earned the right to use is Doctor of Philosophy, one I gained through hard work and perseverance. You see before you merely Christian Badia, American citizen.”

“But are you an aristocrat?” she persisted.

His brows came together. “You intend to beat this subject to death, do you not?”

“I find myself compelled to do so when you allow me only two questions.”

He took a deep breath. “My father was a British earl. I was born on our estate in England, but I came to my majority in Massachusetts.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean he
was
an earl? A peerage is normally inherited. If your father no longer lives, the title would go to his eldest son, whom I presume from your prickly answer to be you.”

“My father discarded his title, relinquished all claim to it, renounced it, denounced it, and became an American citizen. He petitioned the Crown to award the earldom to some other inbred drain on society.”

“It sounds as if you admired him for what he did,” she said more softly. “Tell me about him.”

Christian cast her a stern glance. “Is that not question number three?”

“I do believe it to be a statement and still part of question two.”

Staring up at the stars, he said, “My father was a remarkable man but too idealistic for the times in which he lived. He was a reformer, one of the earliest. He felt true spiritual and emotional empathy for the misery he saw every day—the poverty, disease, starvation, injustice, and prejudice. Not because one man was inherently superior to another but because of the circumstances into which he was born. An accident of birth determined a man’s place in life. My father saw the established hierarchy, based on inherited privilege, conspiring to maintain the inequity.

“He did what he could to aid those less fortunate, lobbied in the House of Lords for reform, lent his support to labor unions, and used his wealth to effect good in an attempt to change the system. He established and supported hospitals for the poor, schools, homes for unwed mothers and orphans, and employee-owned factories. And when the money was gone, he sold and gave away the contents of the estate.

“Society mocked and shunned him. We even received death threats. The newspapers, controlled by the aristocracy, lampooned him in political cartoons, dubbing him ‘The Battersea Earl,’ referring, as you know, to the meanest section of London.”

Her heart twisted. “That must have been distressing for you.”

“No, Sam,” he said with a quick look at her. “It was most gratifying and quite wonderful. I championed my father’s ideals and still do. He believed inherited wealth to be unearned money tainted by the sweat of slaves and serfs and penniless croftholders for hundreds of years.

“When we had naught left to sell, when he had given it all away, we sailed to America and homesteaded in Massachusetts, where we built the farm through our own sweat and labor. Everything I have, I worked for, and therefore, it means much more to me.”

A frown plucked at her lips. “Do you, then, hate British lords so dreadfully?”

“I have no hate for individuals.” He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps I should qualify that by saying, not all of them. Many are as much poor dupes as everyone else—victims of their birth. What I hate is the system that perpetuates the nobility, one that stubbornly allows an archaic institution to continue while the world changes around them.”

His gaze darted to her face. “Forgive me if I should hurt your feelings, but can there be any more useless creature than an aristocrat? They neither work nor do they contribute anything useful to society. Their sole legacy is noble offspring, who in turn become an additional burden on the working class. The aristocracy bemoans a welfare system yet refuses to acknowledge that their own class structure perpetuates the most heinous form of welfare—living off the sweat and backs of the poor.”

She contemplated his words, and her mouth pursed.

“Have you the same animosity toward British ladies?”

He laughed, reached out, and tweaked the tip of her nose. “With the proper guidance and incentive, women, even British ladies, can be whipped into shape, taught to work and carry their own weight.”

“Humph. I do believe I have no liking for that ‘whipped into shape’ part of your answer. Be that as it may, with your reformist leanings, you must favor women’s suffrage.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far—” When she slapped him on the shoulder, he grinned. “Most assuredly. I support the notion in principle. Men and women should have the same rights but only the rights they earn. Unfortunately, society has prevented women from learning what they need to know to compete with men on an equal footing. In that way, men protect their own interests and maintain domination of the home and the workplace. Women can learn as capably as men, but they’ve not had the opportunity on account of men controlling the institutions and governments.”

“Then why do you insist on being in charge?” she challenged.

Christian rose up on an elbow to face her. His voice became serious. “Because on this expedition, I have the most experience. I assume that fact to be the reason you hired me. A party with more than one leader foments rebellion, and confusion sets in, resulting in preventable harm.” His tone softened. “Were we planning a shopping expedition to Harrods, I would gladly allow you to take the lead.”

She affected a small pout and changed the subject. “Do you ever regret your father’s decision? His abandoning an earl’s lifestyle, the wealth and prestige?”

“What is there to regret? I have everything I could wish for—my work, my home, my basketball court. I have as much wealth as I deserve. How much does one man need? And as for prestige, I have the respect of my professional colleagues and friends not because of who I was born but because of who I am and what I’ve accomplished.”

“Is there nothing else you want? A wife? A family?”

His eyes glinted with emotion, but she had difficulty deciphering what she saw in them. “Garrett is like a son to me and quite the handful, thank you very much. I suppose someday I might consider marriage and children.”

“I daresay you had best consider quickly, as you are not getting any younger,” she replied.

“I thank you for reminding me.” He stretched out and rolled away from her on his side. “Now, go to sleep, or you’ll regret your lack of it tomorrow. Some way, I’m not certain how, you managed to slip more than two questions by me.”

D
awn blazed forth in a fiery yellow ball, a wave of scorching heat, and a loud buzzing on Samantha’s bedroll. She lay on her back, her stiff body aching, her brain slowly rousing. Lifting her head, she peered down the length of her legs. A snake with a tail of rattles coiled on the blankets between her spread knees. It watched her with flat, elliptical eyes, a red tongue flicking in and out of its mouth.

She turned her head a fraction to find Christian’s bedroll empty. She had encountered a few venomous snakes in her reptile-hunting career, all of them adders. She now eyed the snake with fascination and remained motionless, examining it and trusting it would decide to leave on its own. Yellow spots marched down its length above a red stripe painted on a background color of tropical sand. It shook its tail again, and the noise that had awakened her buzzed like a hive of bees.
A rattlesnake. How delightful!
She recalled the ones the London Zoo imported from America. A thrill rippled through her. The longer she studied the animal, the more beautiful it seemed, in a cool, sinister way.

Perhaps she could charm it, like she had read about in books on India. She’d had no success with English crowned snakes, but a rattlesnake could prove more susceptible. She began a rhythmic humming and stared into its eyes. The snake calmed down and rested its head on its coils.

A wiggling movement came from the ground beyond her feet, and Christian’s low voice reached out to her. “Don’t move, Sam. Lie still.”

She had no intention of moving.

The wiggling came again, and a brown mouse with a pointy nose scurried into view. The string tied around its tiny waist led to a long, spindly branch that waved back and forth.

Christian was fishing for the snake! At the idea of fishing for snakes, she stifled her laugh for fear of startling the reptile.

The mouse ran back and forth on its tether, and the snake lifted and turned its head, its oval gaze intent on the small creature. Its forked tongue flickering in and out, the snake uncoiled in an unhurried motion to slither off from between Samantha’s legs and move past her feet.

Christian swung the branch in a wide circle, backing up into the brush, drawing the snake farther away. A loud squeak came from the mouse when the snake caught its breakfast. Christian trotted into sight, ran to her, and bent down on one knee. “Are you unharmed?” Muscles across his cheeks tightened and etched deep lines in his forehead.

She threw back the blankets, came to her feet, and stretched. “Of course I am.”

He rose beside her, grasping her upper arms. “Did it bite you?” His words came out in a tremble. When she shook her head, he inhaled a straggly breath. “I assumed you would be terrified and do something foolish, like try to kick it off the bedroll. You took at least ten years off my life.”

She lifted and firmed her chin. “Calm yourself. At your age, I doubt you can afford to lose ten years. I already informed you of my herpetological background. I have no fear of snakes, nor am I foolish.”

He regarded her with new respect, his mouth relaxing into a smile. “Perhaps you’ll prove to be less troublesome than I originally believed.”