by Cat Lindler
Drawn to a blaze in a marble-fronted fireplace, she rubbed her hands together, baking her chilled fingers. Two cut-glass decanters sat on the pink-veined mantel. She removed the stoppers, one at a time, and sniffed the vapors: brandy and whiskey. A little medicinal brandy could perhaps alleviate the cold that had settled into her bones from the forced walk. She choked down a quick sip, gasping when the strong liquor burned her throat, and replaced the decanter.
She strolled over to a wooden desk sitting in front of a sweep of royal blue velvet drapes. Floor-to-ceiling windows, crafted from octagon-shaped panes, looked out on terraced gardens. She moved closer for a better view, but in late autumn, naught was in bloom.
The study lacked the normal animal heads and other stuffed hunting trophies prevalent in the spaces men called their own. From what she recalled, Professor Badia held great contempt for trophy hunters and rebuffed their efforts to hire his tracking skills, sometimes gracefully, and, on occasion, forcefully. London was all atwitter when he broke the Duke of Pembroke’s nose with his fist for badgering him to lead a big-game hunt into Africa. Being acquainted with the stuffy duke, Samantha smiled at the mental image.
However, Professor Badia had a greater charm than simply humiliating the insufferable duke. He wrote brilliant, exciting papers and books about the wildlife he encountered and his experiences on expedition. And through devouring those writings, she came to know him.
Her mind’s eye held the picture of a white-haired gentleman in his sixties, distinguished, cloaked in an aura of loneliness. He would have a thin, dark face, seamed from long exposure to tropical climes, a figure spare and wiry from exhausting treks into the jungles. Thick spectacles would cover eyes watery and weak from squinting into the African sun. His thin, callused fingers would be stiff and permanently ink-stained from his prolific writing.
Samantha released a long sigh and sank into a chair before the desk, speculating on when Professor Badia would return, had he not already departed for the day. Surely the angel Jakes would have informed her should that be the case. He said the scientist was expecting her. Professor Badia simply had to see her.
While she waited, a faint thudding hummed through the air, coming at regular intervals from outside. She rose to her feet and strolled to a door beside the desk, opened it, and walked out into the sunlit cold. The noise emanated from a weathered barn behind the house. After looking around and noting no prying eyes, she made her way across the narrow yard and cracked open the barn door. A tall, dark-haired man at the other end of the rambling space was bouncing what appeared to be a leather ball. Standing in the doorway, she watched him.
“Shut the bloody door!”
Samantha hopped inside. The door slammed shut behind her. When she moved into the space, her boots’ hard soles clattered on the floor.
He spun around to face her with the ball held in his hands. “And either take off your boots or get off the damn court!”
Court? Looking down to the highly polished wood planks gleaming beneath her feet, she tiptoed toward the wall.
The man glared, standing with his legs apart, one hand splayed on his hip, the other balancing and spinning the ball on his fingertips.
“You have no need to curse,” Samantha whispered. Moving up against the wall, she studied him as he glided across the floor, bounced the ball, and tossed it at what looked like a peach basket with no bottom mounted high at one end of the barn. An identical basket was at the opposite end, and lines, circles, and curves were painted on the floorboards.
From the agile way he ran about and jumped up to the basket, Samantha could see the man was young. A student from the nearby university? He wore shockingly short cutoff trousers that exposed a long expanse of muscular calf and thigh covered with dark hair. A tight, sleeveless pullover shirt hugged his chest. His athletic attire was most immodest, but his supple movements and the sleek length of his frame extending to the basket mesmerized her. His body brought to mind an otter leaping through the marsh and diving deep beneath the reedy pools.
He stopped at the arc of a painted curve far from the wall, jumped into the air, and released the ball in a smooth motion with both arms extended over his head. The ball arched toward the basket and swished through its middle. When he turned, walking in her direction, she sidled toward the exit.
“Don’t move,” he snapped.
Samantha flattened her back to the wall, examining him through her lashes. He was taller than she surmised at first glance, more than a foot taller than she. ‘Twas not unexpected. She stood only three inches over five feet, and most of her male acquaintances towered over her. His flesh exposed not an ounce of fat and looked to be carved from stone. Golden stone. Wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist and hips and a flat belly; muscles rippled along his chest and abdomen under the shirt and flexed down his bare arms and legs. Sunlight filtering through a high window lit his face, revealing brown hair streaked with golden highlights that fell thick about his cheeks and to his shoulders in the back. Harsh planes and angles chiseled his arresting features. Heavy, dark brows, nearly black, slashed across his forehead above brilliant green eyes as sharp as cut emeralds. Their intensity pinned her shoulders to the wall.
He moved closer, striding seamlessly, like a predator stalking prey through the tall grasses of the veldt. Despite the softness of his step, irritability dripped from his expression. An odd little shiver went through her. She threw a desperate glance at the door. It seemed unimaginably distant, so she settled for closing her eyes.
His footsteps neared, a whisper on the polished floor. They stopped. When she looked up, he stood directly in front of her. Her nose nearly touched his chest; his heat surrounded her. She craned her face upward. He was older than his agility indicated. Small lines radiated from the corners of his eyes, a few silver hairs touched his sideburns and temples, and dark stubble shadowed his cheeks and deeply cleft chin. Her shoulders drew inward a bit as something strange and hot twisted in her belly, fanning out through her toes and fingertips. Fear, no doubt.
“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his voice as sharp as the angles of his cheekbones. “Do you make a habit of intruding on private property?”
She straightened her spine. “Who are you?” she countered. “An employee, I would assume. I am unaccustomed to being addressed in a surly manner by servants.” Moreover, he had cursed at her. Three times, no less.
His lips curved in what could be considered a smile on any other man. On him, it more resembled a sneer. “I asked you first.”
She nibbled at her lower lip. On second reflection, could he be someone of importance, such as Professor Badia’s son? If that were the case, she had made an inauspicious first impression.
“Lady Samantha Eugenia Colchester,” she said, her voice underlain with an annoying tremble. Men didn’t ordinarily unnerve her. She thought of them, for the most part, as silly creatures concerned only with the cut of their coat or the fall of their cravat. This man managed to disorder her senses, and she swallowed with difficulty before gaining her composure. “I have an appointment with Professor Badia. Please tell me where I can find him.”
“Well, Lady Samantha Eugenia Colchester, you missed your appointment.”
“I realize I arrived a bit late—”
He snorted a laugh. “No, not a bit late; a good deal late. In fact, you’re an hour and a half late.”
Samantha stiffened. “How could you possibly be aware of my situation?” He had no right to speak to her in such a tone of voice and treat her with disrespect, regardless of his position. “I demand to speak directly with Professor Badia. ‘Tis exceedingly urgent. If you were simply to fetch him for me, he will thank you for your service.”
A dark eyebrow winged upward. “You demand? And you command me to fetch him?” He grinned, grasped the bottom edge of his shirt, pulled it off over his head, and used it to wipe the sweat from his face. “I beg your pardon, Lady Samantha. I’m Professor Badia’s secretary, and believ
e me, you missed your appointment. His office is closed for the day.”
Facing an endless expanse of bare masculine chest liberally covered in fine, dark hair, she blinked, his words flying past her ears all but unheard. She caught her breath, what breath remained after shock drove the main portion of it from her lungs. “Y-y-you are indecent. Cover yourself this instant!”
He chuckled. “You overstep your bounds. I seem to recall that you barged in here uninvited.”
She processed what he had said before she lost her concentration, and wet her lips. Professor Badia’s secretary? She lowered her eyelashes. “You see, ‘tis dreadfully important I meet with Professor Badia. I came all the way from England with a proposal I know he’ll wish to hear. ‘Tis a matter of life and death,” she finished on an inspired whim.
He propped a hand on the wall beside her head. Two long, tanned fingers settled under her chin and tilted up her face. Closing his eyes, he took a deep sniff. His brows hunkered together in a scowl. “Have you been drinking?”
“N-no, indeed not.” She held her breath, her face growing hot.
His eyes gleamed. “You said a matter of life and death? I must say, that changes things. Are you in need of another appointment?”
“I am.” She pulled away from his hand, looked down.
He leaned closer, and his voice turned soft. “How badly?”
“Qu-quite badly,” she said, voice shaking from the proximity of his hard, hot, sweaty body.
“How badly?” Slowly, drawn out this time. His fingers lifted her chin again, and his mouth descended.
Her gut twisted. “How dare you!” She jerked her head sideways, bringing up her hands between them to shove on his chest. Never before had she touched a man’s bare chest. Slick with perspiration, hot and disturbing, as if it were on fire. Springy hair tickled her palms. Taut muscles moved beneath his skin, and he was as hard as he looked. “I shall have you dismissed, you malodorous masher,” she said, pushing against him and fighting the frisson of heat speeding through her veins.
He eased back and laughed, a bone-deep rumbling across the small space between them.
A melting in the private area between her legs, a sudden moisture, sent a hot rush of blood into her face again.
“Whatever is the matter, your ladyship? Am I not up to your aristocratic standards?”
She panted from the exertion of pushing on him and the strange feelings upsetting her equanimity. “Please. Let me go. I beg you.”
He stepped back, rested his hands on his hips, and eyed her with an inscrutable expression. “Very well. I apologize if my actions were untoward. You may have another appointment.”
A glimmer of hope trickled through her.
“Next month.” He spun on a heel, walking away.
Samantha ran after him, grabbing at his arm. “No, wait. Please. I must see him sooner. I have already waited more than six months. I would not have been late, but my hired carriage lost a wheel. I walked for miles in the cold. I had rocks in my boots. The gate was locked. I was obliged to climb through the fence. My bustle nearly fell off—”
He stopped midway across the floor, held up a hand, and cast an ominous glower at her boots, which were making a racket on the wood surface. “You are now on the court.”
She looked down; her lips pursed. “Oh.” She plunked her bottom on the floor and tugged on the laces of the half boots, her fingers fumbling as though they were made of iron sticks, and she muttered, “What a bloody nuisance! How ungentlemanly! Remove my footwear! What well-bred lady traipses around in her stocking feet? In point of fact, what lady plops herself on the floor to remove said footwear? Not even a chair for my comfort. Only an uncivilized half-wit would expect a lady—”
She suddenly recalled the man’s presence and glanced up. Was he listening? It appeared not. His profile was revealed in the dusky light. His eyes were turned away, and his expression showed total unconcern for her ignoble position.
Pulling off the boots at last, she flung them against the wall, climbed back to her feet, and tugged at his arm. “I have discarded them. See?” She hitched up her dress hem and wiggled a tiny, stocking-covered foot.
His lips twitched at the corners, and he beckoned with a finger. “Come with me.” When they stood beneath a peach basket, he looked up, as though measuring the distance between the top of her head and the height of the basket.
“Not a chance,” he mumbled.
“Beg pardon?” She hadn’t quite caught the meaning of his words.
He looked down at her. “I said, ‘You don’t have a chance.’ You’re such a little one.” His eyes sharpened, and his gaze swept up and down her body, making her flush with warmth. Then again, perhaps he was measuring her for a coffin. The errant thought gave her a chill, but she brushed it off as mere fancy. Truly, the man’s dour mood was transferring itself to her.
“You know,” he said at last after his leisurely perusal, “you remind me of a tigrina.”
She tilted her head to one side and narrowed her eyes, the better to project her disapproval. “A what?”
“Tigrina,” he repeated.
Her mouth firmed. “I’m certain, even on our short acquaintance, that you mean insult with that remark, do you not?”
“Not at all. A tigrina is a rather small cat with spotted fur. All fluff, pointy teeth, and sharp claws. It has a contrary nature, spitting and hissing and then running away at the first sign of confrontation.”
The blood in her veins turned to rock, as did the marrow in her backbone. “Sir, why you should presume to speak to me in such a familiar way and deign to make personal remarks on my appearance and character, when we have not even been properly introduced, is beyond my comprehension.” Her hands fluttered in concert with her words. “My size, lack of size, or nature, contrary or otherwise, can be of no concern to you. When I have left your presence, which will be soon, I pray, we need never meet again. My business is with your master, not with you.” Beneath her breath, she added, “Thank the saints.”
An amused twinkle settled in his eyes. “I beg your pardon, m’lady. It was merely an observation and not meant to be taken personally.”
“Humph.” She settled herself with a shake of her shoulders. “For your information, sir, though why I should tell you, I do not know, I am of average height for a woman.”
He blew out a breath, picked up the ball, and placed it in her hands. “If you say so, tigrina, then I must agree.”
She failed in her attempt to burn him to cinders with her stare. “Do not presume to call me by that odious appellation. To you, I am Lady Samantha.”
“As you wish,” he replied with a slight nod. “Let us, then, conclude this business as quickly and painlessly as possible so you can deal with my … master.”
She turned her attention to the ball that she held in two hands as carefully as if it were a prickly horned toad. “And I am to do what with this?”
He pointed up. “Throw the ball through the basket, and I’ll give you an appointment for tomorrow. One try.”
Samantha tilted back her head, studied the distant basket. “Three tries.”
“Two. My final offer.”
She nodded, took off her hat and gloves, set them on the floor, and brushed the hair from her face. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer. Please, Lord, guide my hand! Then she threw the ball into the air. She peered through her lashes as it soared aloft and descended toward the man’s head.
He reached out with one hand, caught it, and passed it back to her, pointing to the basket again. “Concentrate. Open your eyes and watch what you’re doing. Though I realize your inclination may well be otherwise, the objective is to hit that, not me. Feel the ball go through the basket. Be the ball.”
“Concentrate. Be the ball,” she whispered and paused to inquire, “What sort of ball is it?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if I’m obliged to be the ball.”
“A basketball,” he said with his first
genuine smile. It transformed his face into something close to human.
“A basketball,” she whispered again. “Concentrate. Be the basketball.”
With her eyes open this time, she moved under the basket and threw the ball upward. It shot through the bottom and flew out the other end.
She clapped. “I did it!”
“It’s supposed to go through the other way.”
“You were not specific.”
He chuckled. “Right you are, Lady Samantha. I suppose I wasn’t. I’ll have to be more precise in the future. Tomorrow morning at eight. Arrive on time. Professor Badia demands the courtesy of punctuality.” He retrieved the ball, bounced it several times on the shiny boards, and threw it at the basket.
“Mister,” Samantha called out. “Um, I failed to catch your name. How should I address you?”
“Save your breath. Don’t,” he said without looking around, having recovered his previous surly manner.
“You see,” she persisted, “I require a ride back to town. Do you not recall? I informed you that my carriage broke down.”
“See Garrett.” He gave her his back, darting across the floor to the basket at the far end.
“See Garrett,” she mocked softly lest he hear her and she lose the concession she had so recently gained. She retrieved her hat and gloves and walked over to her boots. What a rude, obnoxious man. Somewhat compelling, perhaps, but obnoxious nonetheless. Recalling Garrett, the dreamy blond angel, she snatched up her boots and hurried out the door. Garrett had manners. He was a gentleman, unlike this hairy American ruffian.
That night, after an uneventful ride in a hired carriage back to her lodgings, Samantha drifted halfway between sleep and wakefulness, her nerves thrumming, and she dreamt.
