Expedition of Love (9 page)

He returned to the door. “Oh, I'm fine, miss. And your guests seem to be well, too."

She smiled, wanting to ask about Doctor Baxter, but knew word of her curiosity about a specific individual would be a bit too telling. Her father needed no encouragement on that front.

"Have they eaten this morning then?” she asked instead.

"Yes, miss. Not much, mind you, but they seemed better for the little bit they could manage."

A silent breath of relief eased past her lips. The memory of Doctor Baxter, ghostly white with seasickness, pulled at her heart, and yet the feel of cradling him in her arms as she gave him his tea had been stimulating.

She cleared her throat and brought her thoughts back to Joshua. “I'm glad to hear they're better. Thank you."

"You're welcome, miss.” He smiled with a tiny bow and turned toward the door then paused. “Oh, and the gentleman with the beard, the doctor, asked after your health. May I tell him you're feeling better?"

Stunned was the only word she could think of to describe how she felt. Had he carried her to her bed? The heat of her sudden embarrassment flushed her cheeks. What on earth happened in her cabin last night?

"Miss Kristina?"

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry, Joshua. Please tell him I'm feeling quite myself this morning and that it was good of him to ask."

The steward nodded and closed the door behind him.

She sank down into her chair at the table and stared at her food.

"Nothing happened,” she murmured. Nothing at all. It was all her silly imagination and a series of coincidences.

Satisfied with her reasonable explanation, she opened a book about the late Jurassic period and ate her meal. She refused to let a man such as Stephen Baxter occupy her thoughts another moment. What did it matter if she found him interesting? He was still a man, one she didn't wish to get involved with on any other level than professionally. Whatever these strange urges were, they would likely go away if she ignored them.

Nearly an hour later, after having devoured both her breakfast and her book, she decided to go up top for some fresh air. As she stepped out into the sunshine her gaze immediately fell on the doctor sitting on the foredeck with a sketchpad and pencil. His deep brown curls shifted and twisted in the wind. Her fingers tingled, aching to experience their luxuriousness once more.

The memory—or dream—plagued her again. Had she felt his strong arms and firm chest pressing against her body? Did he caress her cheek ever so tenderly, or did she merely posses a fantastic and rather tactile imagination?

"Bother,” she murmured. The man had taken up residence in her thoughts once again, destroying her reasonable explanation for the previous night's events.

She took a deep breath to still her excited pulse. This attraction business could not be good for one's health, and she hadn't actually proven she was attracted to him. There were several pieces of contradictory evidence. She did detest that awful beard, for one, and he rarely ever smiled. And more importantly, she didn't want to be attracted to him or any other man. Ignoring the matter still seemed to be her best strategy.

Moving closer, she peered over his shoulder at his drawing.

Impressive. Who would have thought a talented artist lay beneath his stern demeanor.

Drat. That only added to a growing list of things she liked about him. Not good, not good at all.

"Good morning, Miss Peterson,” he said as he continued to sketch. Stephen knew she was there. He could feel her hovering behind him, her perfume circling and enveloping his senses.

"Good morning, Doctor. Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes, lovely.” But not as lovely as you, he thought.

She gracefully came forward and sat in the deck chair beside him.

No hat, he mused, then forced his gaze away from her auburn locks and back to his work. “You aren't wearing a hat, Miss Peterson. Aren't you afraid you'll burn?”
And drive me to distraction with the wispy strands caressing your cheek?

"Never wear them while I'm sailing. I've lost too many to count."

They both chuckled, and he began to feel a little more at ease with her. Beneath her perfect exterior was a fascinating and intelligent woman, one he liked very much.

What a startling thought. He had so little experience with women as companions he'd never considered liking one on a cerebral level. The only women he had any real acquaintance with were his mother's friends, a small group of feathered gossiping females, but all-in-all a pleasant lot. However, they didn't prepare him for a woman of Kristina Peterson's ilk. In his mind she broke the mold of womankind, completely unique down to the tiniest detail.

"Oh, I do love the sea. The gentle rock of the boat as it rides the waves.” She turned to him suddenly, her eyes wide with concern. “Oh, dear. I'm sorry, Doctor. Such talk is liable to upset your constitution. I do hope I haven't made you unwell."

He smiled at her, unable to hide his delight in her concern for his wellbeing. “On the contrary. I'm afraid I owe you an apology. I behaved rather surly yesterday when I should have been thanking you for making my illness bearable. I hope you can forgive me."

"Oh, nonsense. You behaved exactly like my father. I'm quite used to it. But in any case, I accept your apology."

Relieved she held no ill will, he nodded his thanks and returned to his drawing, her bright smile too compelling to bear any longer.

"I always wanted to learn to draw, but never found the time,” she said. “Are you naturally gifted or did you receive instruction?"

"I had some instruction when I was younger, but I believe I get what talent I have from my mother. Her favorite pastime is painting."

A silence fell between them, and he risked a glance in her direction. She sat perfectly still staring out over the water, a somber expression marring her exotic face.

"I'm sorry, Miss Peterson. Have I said something to upset you?"

"No, I was just remembering. My mother liked to stitch. She made beautiful floral displays with a needle and thread so abundant in detail I often felt as if I could pluck a blossom from one of her creations."

His heart ached for her grief. Pain he could only imagine, never having lost a loved one. “You miss her a great deal."

"Yes, I do.” She blinked several times then turned to him with a soft smile. “So what are you drawing?” Squinting, she leaned in closer to his sketchpad for a look.

He sucked in a deep breath at her nearness. The sunlight kissed her hair as the breeze lifted her delicate perfume into the air. He envisioned reaching up and touching her intricately arranged tresses, pulling out the pins, unwinding the locks, then feeling their silkiness slip between his fingers before bringing them to his face and enveloping himself in the sweet scent of her.

"I'm not familiar with this particular specimen. It looks like a cousin of the Ankylosaurus."

Her remark yanked him brutally from his fantasy, and he snapped up his head in astonishment. A move, which cost him dearly, for she too had lifted her head, bringing their faces entirely too close together, and yet he found himself unable to move. Her deep brown eyes pulled him into their depths, holding him captive.

What would she do if he were to lean forward and press his lips to hers, taking what he had no right to take? His gaze lowered, and he watched as she nibbled at her bottom lip, pushing him closer to the edge. Would she slap his face as he would deserve, or would she return his extremely improper gesture?

Her lashes lowered as her gaze returned to his drawing, stifling his dangerous musings. Of course she would refuse his advances. She was a lady. He would be lucky if slapping his face was all she did, and if she should tell her father—he repressed the horrible image of his friend and colleague's face red with anger that he should be so bold as to kiss his daughter.

She looked up once again. “You, um, seem surprised I would know of the Ankylosaurus,” she said softly.

"No. I mean, yes.” He didn't have any idea what he meant with her in such close proximity.

"I hope you didn't think I only knew of Mary Anning's work."

Gathering his strength, he managed to put some distance between them. “No, no. I—"

Her mouth split into a wide smile. “It's quite all right, Doctor. I'm used to men not believing I have more than fluff between my ears. So, is it a cousin?” She glanced back at his drawing.

"Yes, it's a Hylaeosaurus."

"Is this what you hope to find?"

"No."

She looked up at him with a teasing light in her eyes. “No? Then what do you want?"

"I want—”
You
. He managed to stop the word before it passed his lips, but not the husky tone of his voice. Apparently his internal battle was far from over.

Clearing his throat, he concentrated on the feel of the sketchpad clutched in his hand. The smooth paper, the firm edge of the pencil between his fingers, anything to keep him anchored, and drive away the longing coursing through his veins. “I believe we shall find fossils dating from the Cretaceous period, but hope to discover much older specimens. And with luck, perhaps something new."

She nodded thoughtfully, listening to him with apparent interest.

The growing heat low in his belly eased, and his muddled brain registered what she had done. “Miss Peterson, I understand you've been exposed regularly to fossils and have studied paleontology on some level with your father over the years, but to recognize the correlation between my rough sketch and the Ankylosaurus is a rather phenomenal task."

Laughing, she sat back, sparking something to life deep inside him he did his best to ignore.

"I'll take that as a compliment,” she said brightly.

He smiled, enjoying the delightful sound of her laughter. “It was meant as one."

Her gaze fell to his mouth for a moment before she looked out to the ocean. “Yes, well, I'm glad to hear you won't think me a burden on this trip, Doctor.” She turned and looked at him once more. “I want very much to be a part of this expedition and not just with my camera."

He warmed at the determination visible in her bewitching eyes. “I have no doubt you will be a valuable member of our team."

"Then you don't regret my coming along?"

"Regret is no longer the word I would choose.” His gaze cut to Mr. Walters walking toward them.

Her brow furrowed as she turned to see what he was looking at. “Oh, now I see. Not to worry. I believe we've come to a reasonable understanding."

Before he could ask exactly what she meant, Mr. Walters was upon them.

"Miss Peterson. What a delight it is to see you. I had heard you weren't well."

The image of her lying wrapped in peach satin assaulted Stephen's mind. Thankfully, she didn't appear to remember his abominable behavior the evening before, but he would never forget how she felt in his arms, and how badly he wanted her there again.

Mr. Walters took her hand and kissed it.

Stephen clenched his jaw at the young man's audacity. How dare he be so forward? And yet, hadn't he taken indecent liberties with the woman himself while she was nearly unconscious with fatigue? And didn't he nearly do more a moment ago?

"I'm quite well this morning. And how are you faring, Mr. Walters?” she asked.

"Couldn't be better. However, I was wondering if you would care for a game of cribbage. Neither Scott nor Richard seem to be up to another beating this morning."

She laughed. “I'm afraid I detest Cribbage, but I'll be happy to trounce you in a game of chess. Or if you prefer, and if you could convince the other gentlemen, I'd be happy to play a round or two of poker."

Stephen grinned, but held in his chuckle. He didn't think a day would pass that Kristina Peterson wouldn't cease to amaze him. She had to be the most unorthodox female he had ever met, and the most intriguing.

Mr. Walters smirked. “I wouldn't dream of taking your money."

She paid no attention to his arrogance. “Ah, but you forget who taught me how to play.” She winked slyly at Stephen, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Good Lord, was she flirting with him or simply including him in her private joke? Either way, she most definitely should not have winked. It was highly improper, and worst of all gave him a whisper of hope.

Mr. Walters chuckled politely. “In that case, I think we should stick with chess. Shall we?” He extended his arm.

"All right, but you were warned.” She placed her hand on his sleeve and rose. “Have a good morning, Doctor."

He nodded as they walked off. Clutching the sketchpad firmly in his hands, he pushed down the desire to storm after them and steal her away from his student. The sight of her smiling at another man, touching another man, made his blood boil. He had to get control of this ridiculous jealousy before he gave in to the insanity.

And that wink. He would replay that enchanting movement in his mind for the rest of the day and then some, improper or no.

The weeks aboard ship passed quietly, with the exception of Mr. Walters’ constant attempts to court her. So much for declaring they had come to an agreement. Thankfully, he hadn't tried to steal a kiss again, but Kristina didn't appreciate his boldness with the back of her hand, and she took to wearing gloves more frequently, even though she despised the things.

His mouth against her skin gave her chills of the least favorable kind, and while they played chess he constantly eyed her as if she were a pastry. Of course after she beat him soundly three times in a row, he hadn't sought her out as an opponent again. Which, in a way, was worse.

She had the distinct impression the man stood over her shoulder as she played the other gentlemen simply so he could peer down her dress. Most annoying, but she had no choice except to keep a civil tongue in her head.

Although she had been in the right to threaten to throw him overboard on their first evening aboard ship, he hadn't done anything as forward since, and she couldn't afford to alienate him or any of the others. Doctor Baxter may believe she was a valuable member of the team, a thought that thrilled her beyond belief, but she didn't think he would put up with any further nonsense either. If she stepped out of bounds, or rather if she let her temper get the best of her with Mr. Walters, he may send her home on the next ship instead of the annoying young man, as he had threatened to do.