Expedition of Love (11 page)

Oh, and that dreadful beard. She knew it would tickle fiercely. Her father's always did when he kissed her cheek, but to be kissed on the lips with all that scruff, it simply wasn't tolerable, and yet she would have allowed it. She wanted it desperately.

Krisinta jumped to her feet and paced to the tiny portal. Resting her forehead against the glass, she watched as Viedma passed by her window. She didn't want a man in her life. They demanded control, obedience. Definitely not a woman with a career and ideas of her own. But she couldn't stop this overwhelming pull toward him. She wanted to touch him, to feel his hand holding hers, his arms wrapped around her, his lips against hers.

"Stephen,” she breathed. “Perhaps that hadn't been a dream after all.” If he could be so bold as to kiss her, then he could easily have carried her to her bed and stroked her cheek. As a matter of fact, she would almost guarantee he had done just that.

Well, that was a relief, of a sort. She'd begun to wonder if she were a bit off in the head to have such a vivid dream. One that still sent delicious shivers up and down her spine.

Her supposed explanations and silly strategies were nothing but smoke. He had carried her, cradled her in his arms, then placed her in bed and caressed her cheek, and today he was going to kiss her.

Her nose twitched at the thought. His beard wouldn't be so bad. She'd probably get used to it. She wondered if it felt as soft and silky as his hair.

"It might even be pleasant,” she murmured.

Moaning, she closed her eyes. “What am I saying?” Just because there appeared to be a mutual chemical reaction between them didn't mean anything would come of it. Did it?

She chewed at her bottom lip. The soft chugging of the steamboat kept pace with her thoughts as she moved away from the window. After pulling off her gloves, she removed her hat and absently patted her hair.

She had always wondered about sex from a scientific perspective, how it would feel and so forth, but now, as a woman experiencing the first taste of desire, her longing to know it all nearly engulfed her. As a learned woman, she was clearly aware of the process, but her textbooks had not taught her about the real world. For that information she badgered her neighbor and friend, Mrs. Sadie Stillwell.

Although a widow, Sadie had experienced a few years of married life with a man she adored before he was killed in a riding accident. Her discussions with her friend were very enlightening, and the scientist in her logged the data for future reference. But she never imagined she would feel this way about the prospect of being intimate with a man. She had only considered the mechanics, never the emotional aspect.

Her heart started to race as her mind conjured up the images and sensations of kisses and tender caresses. Brushing her cheek with the tips of her fingers, she remembered his gentle touch, the exquisite firmness of his chest, the strength of his arms.

"Oh my.” She sank down to the bed and lay back as wave upon wave of heat washed over her. Goodness, if this was how a memory of a man's touch could affect her, she wondered what the living-breathing version would induce.

The more she pondered it, the more she wanted to experience it, but she didn't wish to marry. A decided hindrance, as most women generally did one before the other. Then again, she wasn't most women, but how to convince Stephen? He seemed to be a stickler for protocol and the like, a gentleman in every sense of the word, and would undoubtedly insist on marriage.

"I suppose I could say no. After the fact."

She giggled. It appeared she would have to seduce the man. “How delightful!"

What an intriguing adventure. Oh, if Sadie could hear her now, how red she would be. How wonderfully shocked. Their discussion about sex and the goings on behind closed doors had nearly been her friend's undoing. This would surely make her swoon.

Feeling deliciously sinful, rather like Eve before she tempted Adam, she rose to repair her chignon. A certain doctor of paleontology was on board somewhere toting about a good deal of guilt from their awkward encounter, if she surmised correctly.

As she patted and tucked the wayward strands there was a soft knock.

"Stephen,” she whispered, and hurried to open the door. “Oh, Mr. Walters."

Of course. How silly of her. Adam did not come to Eve. And in the case of Stephen Baxter, the attraction between them was not to his liking. He wanted her to forget the near kiss and forgive him.

Not likely.

"You forgot to retrieve this, Miss Peterson.” He held out her basket of fresh fruit, a hint of distaste upon his face.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I didn't come to collect it earlier. I felt like lying down for a few minutes."

His jaw clenched. “I couldn't help but notice how flushed you were. I wondered if perhaps Doctor Baxter had said something to upset you."

"Oh, my no. Not at all. I'm afraid it's this heat.” She fanned herself as she elaborated on her falsehood. “Our spring was a chilly one, where it appears Argentina's autumn is unseasonably hot. You can never tell what the weather will be like when you cross the equator."

"No, I suppose not."

"Well, thank you again for returning my basket, Mr. Walters."

He leaned casually against the frame, not allowing her to close the door. “Don't you think we've known each other long enough to be on a first name basis?"

His voice held a suggestive tone, which made her uncomfortable. “Oh. Well. I'd rather not. It seems so unprofessional, and we must maintain certain standards on this venture."

He reached out and took her hand, and she cursed herself for removing her gloves.

"Come now. Surely we can use our first names and still maintain a level of respectability?"

She tugged her hand free before he could kiss it, and gripped her basket firmly. “No, Mr. Walters. I'm afraid not. You seem intent on pursuing a relationship of which I have no interest. I offered you my friendship, but nothing more. I fail to see why you continue on this course."

He looked her over with a most unsettling grin. “So you're saving yourself for Baxter, is that it?"

Her temper flared. She'd had quite enough of Geoffrey Walters and his facade of gentlemanly behavior. No matter what he saw on the dock or how true his statement may be, he had no right to behave so abominably.

Narrowing her gaze, she slid her hand into the basket, locating the cool smooth crock of goat's milk nestled beneath the fruit.

"He's too old for you, don't you think? Wouldn't a younger, more virile man be better?” he asked with a leer.

Old indeed. Stephen Baxter was barely six years her senior and this insolent progeny of man had the audacity to suggest he was better suited for her.

Fully disgusted and livid beyond reason, she opened the container of goat's milk and in one swift movement dumped its contents over his head.

He jerked up straight and stood stock still staring open-mouthed, milk running down his cheeks and neck, trickling behind his collar. His handsomely cut jacket, once a warm blue, now appeared a sickly shade of gray. His face reddening, tinting the white liquid an odd shade of pink, plainly signaled it was time to retreat.

"I hope I've made myself clear this time, Mr. Walters.” She promptly closed her door and turned the lock.

She heard his departing footsteps as he stomped off in a huff.

"Of all the nerve,” she hissed. “And a what a waste of fresh milk."

She set down her basket on the small dresser built into the wall then froze. “Oh, no. What will Stephen say?” She chewed her lip until it felt numb.

He could still send her packing with a word, but would he? He knew she didn't ask for Mr. Walters’ attention.

No, he wouldn't send her off for that, but perhaps she'd best leave her plan of seduction until after they reached their destination. In all likelihood, it wouldn't sit well with him, giving him more reason to send her home.

Yes, she would have to wait until just the right moment, when they were far away from civilization and little could be done about her presence. And more importantly, she would have to be careful of her father. If he knew what she had in mind, if he suspected in the slightest, he'd move heaven and earth to marry her off.

With a hard swallow, she gathered her wits together and ventured out of her cabin. By now the rest of the group was probably wondering how their companion had managed to become covered in milk. There was little room on the steamer with only five compartments of which only three were available for their use.

Mr. Walters shared his with the others, while Stephen shared his compartment with her father. Hiding something as odorous as a jacket drenched with milk in the heat would not go unnoticed.

She stepped directly to the railing beneath the covered walkway and admired the view. The lush greenery alongside the river, and the breeze blowing off the water, cooled her skin. Hopefully her flush of anger had dissipated, and no one would suspect. Except perhaps her father.

Stephen paced the deck near his cabin wondering how in Hades he was going to work if at every turn he had to fight the urge to kiss her? He would have to find ways to avoid being left alone with her. There was no doubt he would give in to temptation if she looked at him in that particular way as she did on the dock.

He paused by his cabin door. Why didn't she pull away when he started to kiss her? She must have been frozen with shock, or perhaps she hadn't realized his intent.

A thought sparked to life in his mind as he rested his hand on the doorknob to his cabin. Could she actually want him to kiss her?

No, no, that was ridiculous. She would never seek his attentions. Not when she had the choice of any man in New York.

Slightly raised voices came from the next cabin along with an odd odor.

"I don't care if you burn it, just get the thing out of here!"

"See here, Richard, I'm not about to toss out one of my best jackets. There's got to be a way to have it cleaned,” Geoffrey said.

"Dip the smelly thing in the river. That should take care of it,” Scott suggested.

Stephen stepped up to the open door as a wave of rank air billowed out assaulting his nose. “What is that damnable smell?"

"Geoffrey's jacket, sir. He had a run-in with a goat."

"I did not have a run-in with a goat. Just a mishap with a crock of goat's milk."

He looked the man over noting the distinctive smell wasn't only coming from the jacket but the man himself. “Did you bathe in it, Mr. Walters?"

"Well, I—"

A deep chuckling sounded behind him. “I'd say you received a bit of my little girl's temper,” Edwin said. “I understand she purchased some goat's milk this morning."

Stephen snapped his gaze back to his odorous assistant. “Would you care to explain this?"

"A simple accident, really."

"I'll wager you're lucky to still be aboard the boat and not swimming in the river, young man. Best watch yourself,” Edwin said, his voice dropping all note of amusement. He slowly turned and entered his cabin.

Stephen bit down his anger. “Don't assume I won't send you packing, Mr. Walters, simply because we are leaving civilization behind. I can and will have you removed from this expedition if there are any further incidents. Now, I suggest you get cleaned up before your roommates toss you out to sleep on the decks."

Grinding his teeth, he joined Edwin in their cabin.

"That boy can be an infernal nuisance,” Edwin mumbled.

Stephen sat rigidly on his bunk, forcing down the need to rush to Kristina's side. What exactly did Mr. Walters do that prompted her to take such action?

His stomach twisted. If he so much as stroked a lock of her auburn hair, he would soundly thrash him. His mind conjured horrendous images of Mr. Walters taking liberties and her helpless to stop him.

He jumped to his feet, determined to find out what happened before his imagination turned him into a raving madman.

Edwin's chuckling stopped him in mid-stride. “I don't find this amusing."

"No, no. But you must admit, when Kris makes a point, she certainly does it with flare.” He continued chuckling until he burst into all out laughter.

His joviality slowed the rage pumping through Stephen's veins until it receded all together. The humor of the situation slowly brought a stiff chuckle from deep in his chest.

She certainly knew how to defend herself, to a degree, and if his assistant had been truly forward, she would've done a great deal more than dump milk over his head. Of that he had no doubt.

His laughter stopped abruptly. Why hadn't she done something of the kind to him? Why hadn't she thwarted his attempt to kiss her? Possibilities of what Mr. Walters may have done, all more serious than his own infraction, flashed to the forefront of his mind. He had to know.

Footsteps alerted Kristina that someone approached, but she remained still, her gaze on the riverbank. The sound suddenly stopped, then shuffled a moment, then came closer. She didn't turn to see who hovered just behind her right shoulder, she already knew. For some reason whenever he was near, she could feel him. How very strange.

"Hello, Doctor,” she said softly then turned.

He opened his mouth then snapped it shut. Taking a deep breath, he clasped his hands behind his back.

Was he still concerned about their near kiss, or unsure of how to ask if she had dumped milk over Mr. Walters’ head?

She decided to put him at ease, hoping to regain the camaraderie and friendship they'd attained on the Sweet Anita, although it had existed at more than arm's length. “Whatever concerns you, Doctor, needn't any longer. It's far too beautiful here to let anything ruin it."

His lips twitched then gave way to a small grin as he gazed into her eyes. She yearned to ask him to kiss her, but held her tongue and looked back to the river. Such forward behavior would not be welcome to a man such as he, and she had vowed not to pursue him until they reached their destination.

He stepped up beside her. Every nerve ending in her body came to life. Stealing a glance at his strong hands resting on the railing, her skin rippled with awareness at the memory of his touch.