Starlight & Promises

by Cat Lindler

  Christian regretted taking his anger out on Garrett. But, damn it, he didn’t want to think about the past, much less banter about it with Garrett. “I need no help,” he said gruffly. “Particularly the help of some young pup.”

  An affronted expression still plastered to his face, Garrett looked up. “As to the letter, I was mistaken in thinking I tossed it into the rubbish. Somehow it became mixed in amongst the bills, and you are quite aware of our financial situation and how monstrous that pile has become.”

  “What?” Christian said, preferring not to dwell on his finances. “Been too busy bedding the entire local female population that you can’t find a few minutes to carry out your duties with a bit of diligence?”

  Garrett’s face crumpled. “A low blow, Chris.”

  “Obviously not low enough, if what I hear is true.” Christian shook his head. “Sometimes I rue the day I plucked your disreputable, criminal carcass off that dock in San Francisco. I should have left you with the rest of the wharf rats.”

  “What if she’s not a crackpot?” Garrett asked quietly, shifting the subject back to the point.

  Christian made his way to the hearth and poured a whiskey from a cut-crystal decanter sitting on the mantel. He turned back around. “Not a crackpot? You mean what if her uncle really found a Smilodon?”

  Garrett nodded.

  One side of Christian’s mouth edged up. “You know damn well the Smilodon has been extinct for ten thousand years.” With a jerk of his hand, he downed the whiskey. “Even if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t find one in the South Seas. Impossible. Smilodon never existed in Oceania.” He dropped the letter on the floor and fell silent for a moment. Suppose Garrett is right? His hand cupped his chin, lashes lowering to half-mast, and racked his brain for possibilities. His chest tightened, and his heart picked up its pace. Striding over to the bookcases, he yanked out several volumes, rifling through the pages.

  “Inspiration strike?” Garrett ventured.

  Christian raised a hand, throwing Garrett a quelling look over his shoulder.

  Garrett clamped his lips together.

  Christian stopped flipping pages, his gaze skimming a passage. “It could be a mesonychid,” he mumbled. “No. Impossible.” He slammed the book closed and shoved it back onto the shelf.

  Garrett retrieved the letter from the floor, holding it to his nose and sniffing. “But, Chris,” he moaned, “she wears a most intriguing scent.”

  Christian snorted a laugh. “Sometimes I forget how devious you are. Your mind permanently resides between some wench’s thighs.” He returned to the mantel, reached for the decanter, and downed another slug of whiskey, this time straight from the bottle. “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “Give her an appointment. I’ll relent this once and let you check out her assets while I listen to her crackpot claim.”

  At the smug smile on Garrett’s face, Christian’s eyes narrowed.

  “I already have.”

  “Already have what?”

  “Given her an appointment. She’ll be here next week.”

  “How?” Christian sputtered. “She’s in England, for God’s sake. Did you exchange missives by carrier pigeon? Is she flying over on a pterodactyl?”

  Garrett held out the letter. “Check the date.”

  Christian snatched it from Garrett’s hand and examined it. It was dated two months ago. “More devious than even I imagined.” He laughed softly and reached, once more, for the whiskey.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Hobart, Tasmania

  Richard and James prepared for Samantha’s arrival as best they could with the meager resources in Hobart. Each day at high tide, Richard met the docking ships, anxiously awaiting a return letter from his niece, and his impatience grew out of proportion to the distance between England and Tasmania.

  He didn’t truly expect a reply so soon, and James admonished him to be patient. Nevertheless, images of the Smilodon raced through his head. For it to have escaped extinction for so long, it wouldn’t be a lone animal but rather one of a population. Evolution and the rules of mortality decreed that no animal existed in isolation.

  His need to return to the island grew stronger each day, but he held it inside, fearing expressing too much interest in the Furneaux Islands, too many questions relating to tides and reefs and ocean depths, might alert others to the location’s importance.

  On their way to the tavern one misty evening, Richard and James passed through a street darkened by extinguished gaslights. A chill worked its way down Richard’s back, and he shivered. Wary of the darkness and unusual silence, he urged James to gravitate toward the center of the street, away from the ebony pools of shadow hugging the storefronts.

  They traversed half the street’s length before encountering a malodorous puddle of water stretching across their path. As they circled around it, four men stepped out of a black alleyway in front of them. Glare from a lone streetlight flashed off knives in the fists of two of the men; the others displayed pistols. All were taller than average height, wider than the broad side of a ship. Their faces were lumpy and hard, framed with bristly beards. Their eyes glittered like chips of marble and held cold stares.

  Richard tensed and reached for the pistol inside his coat.

  “If I were ye, mate, I wouldn’t de it,” said a harsh voice.

  The man who spoke stepped forward. Richard had never laid eyes upon a more fearsome creature. Tall, beefy, red-haired, scarred, and one-eyed, with a whitened, puckered hole where the missing eye had been, he wore a ragged, dirty frock coat over a bare, furry chest.

  “I’ll just take that,” the man said, leaning forward and plucking the pistol from Richard’s inside coat pocket. He inclined his head toward James. “Now ye.”

  “I’m not armed,” James said stiffly. “Take what coin we have and leave. We have little of value.”

  The man squinted from his one good eye, and his gaze ran over Richard’s and James’s clothing, which was obviously well-cut and made of fine fabric. “A couple o’ swells like ye two should be good fer a fair amount o’ coin. Ye dinna look like no charity cases ta me.” He turned to his men and grinned. “De they, lads?”

  The others remained silent, faces devoid of expression. Slowly they moved, as soundless as wraiths, and surrounded the two men.

  James threw a well-aimed fist at the man in front of him, knocking him back on his heels, but he was no match for four men bigger than he. Richard knotted his fists and gathered himself to fight when a cudgel came down on the back of his head. His vision receded to black, and he soon joined his friend, lying unconscious in the street.

  James opened his eyes to near darkness. Odors of rotting fish and harbor sewage permeated the air, gagging him. Damp planking lay beneath his body, and timbers creaked about him. The floor swayed and dipped gently, a jarring bump arresting the motion at intervals. His mouth was dry, his eyes gritty. He tried to rise, but scratchy rope bound his hands in front of him and also trussed his feet.

  Richard!

  James struggled to speak. His voice came out in a raspy whisper. “Richard?”

  No answer, and James shuddered. He dug his fingernails into the wood floor, squirmed and inched and pulled himself across the rough planks. After a few feet, he bumped up against a body. He ran his hands over the body’s shape and clothing: Richard, lying motionless on his side.

  A sudden bright light seared the darkness, making his eyes sting and water. The light came from a lantern, a looming black shape discernible behind it.

  “So ye’re awake. ‘Tis about time.”

  James recognized the voice of the one-eyed man and tried to wet his cracked lips. “What have you done to Richard? Have you killed him?”

  A booted foot swung out and kicked Richard in the ribs. The unconscious man moaned.

  “Nah, ‘e’s still alive. Ye must ‘ave a ‘arder ‘ead.” He let loose with a guttural laugh.

  Rage at the man’s actions flickered through James. “Where are we?”

&n
bsp; “‘Board the Manta Ray, bound fer New Zealand. We be sailin’ t’night. Behave yerselves, answer our questions like nice gen’lemen, an’ ye’ll be a’right.”

  “Why are we here? What do you want with us?”

  The man fell silent, and the light receded into the distance. Once again, the smells and darkness enfolded James.

  When Richard recovered consciousness, the pain began. He lay on the planks in a pool of wetness he suspected was his own lifeblood. Richard wiped the gore streaming into his eyes with the back of his arm and looked up at James, whose back was striped by a whip, wrists tied by rope to the rafters above, body hanging limp and swaying with the ship’s motion. Blood dripped from his flesh, coating his legs and forming a puddle on the deck beneath.

  The man with the cat-o’-nine-tails, a fine specimen of scurvy manhood, had ceased the flogging and now turned his gruesome face toward Richard. “See what ye an’ yer mate made me de?” he snarled through broken teeth. “I’ve gone an’ killed ‘im. Make it easy on yerself. Can’t save yer friend now. Tell ol’ Smythe where ye saw that animal, an’ the cap’n will put ye ashore at t’next landfall.”

  A cold fury welled up in Richard. “I’ll tell you nothing. You’ll kill me either way.”

  Smythe grinned, a bone-chilling sight, particularly in the hold’s shifting shadows tossed about by the dim lantern. “Well now, ain’t ye t’smart one?” He pulled a knife from his belt and sliced through the ropes holding James. The body fell in a boneless heap to the planks. “I guess ye need more persuadin’ from me cattail.” Stepping toward Richard, he stroked the whip as though it were a woman’s breast.

  When shouts broke out, coming from overhead, replacing the sound of sighing timbers and slapping waves, Smythe cocked his head toward the sounds. “Bloody ‘ell!” he swore and bolted for the ladder, leaving Richard and James alone.

  Richard crawled over to James and cradled his friend’s battered head in his hands. “Are you alive?” he whispered.

  No answer came.

  Richard pressed his ear against the bloody chest and listened. Nothing.

  But then a faint heartbeat. Richard feared he only imagined it, but it came again, ominously slow and faint. His own heart lifted. James was still alive.

  The shouts above grew louder, followed by stampeding feet and cannon fire. An explosion burst on deck. Timbers crashed, sending a shudder through the planks, as though from a fallen mast. Acrid smoke seeped through the hatch to the ship’s bowels.

  They were under attack, and for the first time, Richard tasted the hope of freedom.

  After endless minutes of cannon barrages, the impact of a large object rammed against the hull, transmitting a quake through the ship. Now the metallic clash of steel against steel and pistol fire mingled with shouts and curses, as attacking sailors boarded the Manta Ray.

  Richard fought his way to his feet, faltering from pain and loss of blood, and staggered up the ladder. He threw back the hatch cover leading to the deck, gaze sweeping over the battle in progress.

  The crew of the Manta Ray, which Richard suspected to be a pirate ship, fought fiercely to beat back the invaders. Richard hoped to see uniforms, British uniforms, and possible rescue, but that wasn’t the case. The other ship’s crew appeared as evil and ill-featured as his captors, and his faint hope turned to despair. From all accounts, they had fallen into the midst of two pirate ships battling for supremacy.

  They had to leave the Manta Ray before the battle was decided. Even if the invaders won, he and James would be no better off than they were at the moment. Perhaps even worse. The two crews appeared evenly matched, and the fight would probably rage on for some time.

  In the confusion, they might be able to slip away. But where? He peered through the railing. Ocean lay in every direction, with no sight of land. His jaw clenched tight. Land or no land, they had to seize their chance. The possibility of drowning or becoming a meal for sharks daunted him a bit, but ‘twould be an easier death than the pirates on the Manta Ray planned for them.

  Adrenaline and resolve moved Richard’s body and masked his pain as he struggled back down the ladder, slipping on his blood, which squelched beneath his feet. He tied a rope around James’s chest below his arms and dragged him topside. The trail of gore they left behind might telegraph the route of their escape, but he hoped the pirates found themselves occupied with more pressing matters.

  The engaged pirates, battling for their lives in tight groups over the splintered deck, spared them hardly a glance. Clasping James to his chest with one arm, Richard used his other arm to pull himself along, half-crawling, half-sliding to the ship’s gunwales. He lashed two nearby empty water casks together with rope and heaved them over the side. Squeezing under the railing, he said a prayer and rolled overboard into the ocean.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Massachusetts

  “Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be hanged.”

  “Humph,” Lady Samantha Colchester said after reading the painted wooden sign to the crow perched on the fence post. “Professor Badia cannot discourage me that easily. In any event, I have an appointment.”

  The bird cocked its head, examining her with a shiny black eye.

  Wan sunlight bled through a gray November sky to scatter light on neat, square fields, meadow swells, and midnight green spruce copses. Frost coated brittle autumn grass, and an ice film skimmed atop water in roadside ditches. She turned toward a noisy flock of crows settling on an adjacent field to glean corn stubble for kernels the harvesters had missed.

  “You had best join your friends,” she said, coming back to the sociable crow on the post, “or you shall miss your dinner.”

  When a wind caught the edges of her cloak, she shivered, pulled it tighter around her shoulders, and consulted the watch on a gold chain about her neck. “Blast it!” she said to the crow. “I’m damnably late. Though why you should care, I wouldn’t know.”

  With a squawk, the crow took to wing.

  Squeezing between the fence slats, she forced her bustle through behind her. When she limped up to the house and climbed the front steps, her reflection in the door’s glass panels provoked a frown. Hair trickled out from the pins beneath her hat. Her bustle sat askew at a most unbecoming angle, and dirt smudged her face. Perspiration dribbled down her sides and gathered between her shoulder blades, causing her damp dress and underpinnings to cling to her beneath the dusty cloak. If that weren’t enough, a rock in her boot cut into her foot.

  She tugged at the bustle, plopped down on the top step, and unlaced her boot. While she wrenched it off and dumped out the rock, the door opened behind her.

  “My, my, what have we here?” a melodic male voice said. “Surely not a damsel in distress.”

  Over her shoulder, she peered at the speaker. No older than his early twenties, tall and slender, with a chest and shoulders beginning to broaden with maturity, he was the most stunning young man. Blond hair fell in soft waves, touching his shoulders and framing his face. Lush lashes edged blue eyes. The paintings of the angel Gabriel in the London National Gallery surely depicted this man.

  She found herself unable to form a suitable answer with her normally glib tongue.

  The angel circled around her, went down on one knee. “Allow me.” He held out his hand for her boot.

  She blinked and drew a breath. “No, no, I shouldn’t. ‘Twould be improper. I need no assistance, truly. I shall do it.” With heat surging into her cheeks, she shoved the boot back onto her foot.

  “Then allow me to lace it up for you.” When he tilted his head, his flaxen hair picked up the scant sunlight as though drawing it from the sky. “Please?”

  With a flustered smile, she allowed him to retie the laces. Afterward, as he rose gracefully and offered his hand, she released a groan and swayed to her feet.

  The angel escorted her through the door and accepted the cloak she doffed, hanging it on a coat tree. Dropping into a chair behind a wooden desk at the foot of the hallway
stairs, he leaned back, propped his feet on the desktop, and crossed his boots at the ankles.

  “Garrett Jakes at your service,” he said, his tone now crisp and professional, his slender hands folded across his flat abdomen. “How may I help you?”

  She reached into her reticule, drew out her calling card, and passed it across the desk. “Lady Samantha Eugenia Colchester.” As his dreamy gaze wandered over her figure, she cleared her throat. “I have an appointment with Professor Christian Badia.”

  She prayed Mister Jakes would be gracious enough to overlook the tiny detail of her late arrival and her disheveled appearance. She attempted an unsuccessful swipe at tucking her straggling tresses beneath her hat, but an errant curl persisted in dangling in front of her eye. She blew at it, trying to will it into obedience.

  Garrett’s smile nearly blinded her. “You’ve no reason to fret, Lady Samantha. You look ravishing.” Then he sighed, waving toward a door to the right of the hallway. “You’re expected.” When she remained stationary, he gave her a questioning look from beneath those incredible lashes.

  “Were you planning to announce me?” To her dismay, her voice emerged high and squeaky.

  He smiled again and batted his lashes.

  Her stomach jumped in counterpoint.

  “Completely unnecessary. You may enter, and don’t bother to knock. Professor Badia eschews ceremony.”

  Samantha tugged down the jacket of her traveling dress, struggled once more to tame her hair, walked over to the wooden pocket doors, and entered. The empty room suggested that Professor Badia must have stepped out for a moment, and she took the opportunity to look around the study. Bookshelves crammed with hundreds of tomes lined the paneled walls, and a wrought-iron stairway spiraled upward to a second-story library loft ringed with a wooden catwalk.

  She had never met the professor but felt as if she knew him. Christian Badia was a zoologist with a specialty in wild cats and, more importantly, an animal tracker, the best in the world. She had managed to uncover little information about the reclusive man’s personal life. Supposedly affiliated with Harvard University, he rarely appeared in public. He had discovered dozens of new species but declined the honor of naming them. Only one species tempted him to a touch of egotism: a small, reddish gold wild cat he found on the island of Borneo and dubbed Felis badia.