Expedition of Love (7 page)

Quietly, she rose from her bed and donned her robe. After sliding her feet into her satin slippers and lighting a lamp, she crossed to the adjoining door to her father's cabin and knocked softly.

"Papa? I need to speak with you a moment."

"What? Kris?"

"I need to speak with you."

She heard a shuffling sound then the door opened. Her disheveled father stood in the doorway, his nightshirt hanging to his calves, a deep v in its center exposing his chest covered with silver curls.

Running his hand through his thinning hair, he squinted at her in the dim light. “What is it? Is something wrong?"

She sighed heavily, wrapping her arms around herself against the damp night air.

"No. Nothing.”
Nothing at all
. No physical reaction whatsoever. “I'm sorry to have bothered you. Go back to sleep, Papa."

Lifting up on her toes, she kissed his weathered cheek then turned back to bed.

Grumbling incoherently, he closed the door.

She sat in the soft glow of the lamp for several minutes trying to assimilate the results of her experiment into the facts she already possessed.

"Inconclusive,” she murmured. She needed to perform the same test using another subject, but that would be highly improper. Seeing a man in his nightclothes, a man like Stephen Baxter—her skin erupted in goose bumps. What on earth was happening?

She shifted her thoughts from him back to her father and the goose bumps subsided.

Interesting.

She then thought of Geoffrey Walters and what he might look like in his nightclothes and waited.

Nothing. How odd. She applied the same technique, using each of the other gentlemen in turn, but still nothing.

Lastly, she thought of the doctor and immediately rubbed at her arms to soothe her raised skin.

"Amazing,” she breathed. Never had she felt this way when thinking about a man. They usually incensed her, or bored her, but never excited her.

She nibbled at the tips of her fingers. “Oh, dear."

Was this sexual attraction? She fully understood the process of procreation, but held no first hand knowledge. Not really. A few stolen kisses over the years from overzealous suitors had been her only experience, and she hadn't been thrilled with the few she had received.

She imagined receiving a kiss from Doctor Baxter, and her nose wriggled and twitched. “Itchy."

If she were sexually attracted to him, wouldn't she think favorably of his kiss, as her body seemed to think so regarding the idea of him in his nightclothes?

"Curiouser and curiouser,” she mumbled, as she turned out the light and went back to bed.

She would have to pay close attention to her physical reactions when around him over the next few months, and derive her own conclusions since discussing such things with her father was out of the question. He would take her interest to mean something more, and her life simply had no room for that sort of nonsense.

Closing her eyes, she pushed the results of her unusual experiment from her mind, but her thoughts floated back to the intriguing doctor. She tossed and turned, twisting her nightdress around her legs, until she kicked off the covers, completely exasperated by her inability to sleep. Her clock ticked away the night as the ship swayed, slowly increasing its pitch and roll, while she begged for sleep.

Finally giving up when she heard a loud thump, she sat up and noted in the dim light of a gloomy dawn one of her beloved books on fossils lying on the floor beside her bed. Realizing they had sailed into a storm, she struggled to her feet and dressed as quickly as possible with only a few bumps and bruises to show for her efforts.

As she pinned her long braid in to a bun at the base of her neck, forgoing any attempt at a stylish coif, there was a knock on the outer door. Grabbing at the walls, she steadied herself as she made her way across the room.

"Miss Peterson, I'm sorry to disturb you, but your father sent me to request your assistance,” Mr. Walters said, holding tightly to the railing along the corridor. “Doctor Baxter isn't well."

"Not to be rude, Mr. Walters, but you look a bit green yourself."

His jaw clenched as he swallowed deeply. “Yes, ma'am. I have sailing experience, but nothing to prepare me for this. However, Doctor Baxter is a great deal worse, I'm afraid."

"Kristina, we need your mixture!” her father bellowed from the end of the corridor.

She waved at him then quickly grabbed the door for support. “Yes, Papa, I know!"

He nodded then disappeared up the steps, most likely to see the captain.

Gauging the right moment, she lurched into the corridor alongside Mr. Walters. “Where is Doctor Baxter now?"

"Still in his cabin."

"And the others?"

"Richard seems to be fine, but I fear Scott is nearly as bad as the doctor."

"I see. Then I shall need some things from the galley. If you would be kind enough to assist me, I would appreciate it."

"Lead the way."

They staggered and bumped their way to along the corridor, holding fast to the brass handrails.

"Miss Peterson, I would like to apologize for my behavior last evening."

She glanced back over her shoulder at the contrite expression on his face. “Apology accepted."

He breathed a heavy sigh and grinned. “Thank you. I feared I had ruined what slim chance I might have of courting you."

She smiled at his temerity. “I'm not the right woman for you, Mr. Walters. Our difference of opinion on women's rights alone is proof of that. However, I can always use a new friend,” she offered.

He chuckled. “Friends it is, but that doesn't mean I shan't try to convince you otherwise."

Laughing, she pushed open the galley door. First he insults her intelligence, then he makes improper advances, and now he apologizes while still managing to flirt. What a puzzle this man was. She would have to be careful with this new friendship.

Joshua, the cook's assistant, already had hot water prepared. She thanked him and gathered the necessary herbs, mostly peppermint and ginger, to make her stomach-soothing tea. After giving Mr. Walters a healthy dose and taking a smaller one herself, she enlisted his aid in carting the steaming brew back to their sick companions.

"I'll take care of Doctor Baxter while you attend Mr. Thomas,” she said.

With a nod, he was off to perform his duty while she, thanks to the sudden dip of the floor, bolted awkwardly into Doctor Baxter's cabin.

The unpleasant aroma of a sickroom greeted her as heartrending moans drifted from the bed. The poor man. He was obviously not accustomed to sailing.

Quickly moving to his side, she noted the pallor of his skin and the beads of sweat across his brow. Placing a pot of tea and a small bowl of fresh water on the table, seating them securely between the brass edgings, she sat down beside him and pressed a cool damp cloth to his forehead.

He moaned then opened his eyes. She grinned as they widened with awareness.

"Miss Peterson, what are you—you shouldn't—"

"Shh. Lie still while I prepare your tea."

He groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. “I don't believe I care for any, thank you just the same."

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but you have to drink this. It will make you feel better."

"I think death is the only thing that will make me feel better."

She held in her chuckle, certain he wouldn't appreciate it as she poured a few tablespoons into a cup. “Come now. Sit up for just a moment."

Slipping her arm beneath his shoulders, she lifted his head from his sweat-dampened pillow.

"Really, Miss Peterson. This isn't necessary. I'd prefer it if you—"

"Hush,” she said softly, bringing the cup to his lips.

As he struggled to sip the tea, she made mental notes of her body's unusual reaction to cradling him against her chest. So odd, considering she had done the same for other guests of the Sweet Anita over the years when seasickness occurred. But never had she felt such a swelling in her breast or tautness in her stomach. Perhaps she needed more of the cure herself.

Her gaze moved over his chest, exposed by his gaping nightshirt, and she wondered how the dark curls would feel against her bare skin. As he took a few more strained sips of the tea, she lifted her gaze to the crown of his head. The deep brown locks, mused and somewhat curly, begged her to press her cheek against them.

What on earth had gotten into her? She was behaving like one of those empty-headed women she couldn't abide, thinking and dreaming about the feel of a man's hair while he sat cradled in her arms like a dreadfully ill child. How could she behave so horribly?

She pulled the cup from his lips and set it aside, then mopped his brow with a cool cloth. Her internal scolding didn't stop her wayward fingers from slipping into a few of the curls, brushing them back from his forehead. Thankfully, he didn't use that dreadful hair tonic the other men did, allowing her to enjoy the silky and decadent feel of his hair.

His soft moan pulled her thoughts back to his needs, and she retrieved the cup from the table. “Here you must try and take a little more."

Certain he would die at any moment, Stephen savored the thought that his last moments on earth would be of Kristina Peterson gently cradling him against her sweet body. He relished the gentle touch of her hand, the softness of her voice, her delicate scent—oh no.

"Miss Peterson, I'm afraid I'm about to ruin your lovely dress.”
Dear God, how humiliating
.

"Oh, dear. And I so hoped you'd be able to keep the tea down.” She quickly returned his head to his pillow and placed a clean bowl for his use by his side.

His eyes closed, he gripped the edge of the dish, waiting and hating every embarrassing moment. Slowly, thankfully, the massive wave of nausea receded. “I think I'm all right now."

Unwilling to face her in his current state, he kept his lids clamped shut, listening to her movements, the subtle swish of silk and satin.

She took away the bowl, then brushed his skin with her dainty fingers as she returned the cloth to his forehead. He ached for them to slip into his hair once more. He knew her attentions were due to her concern over his health, but couldn't deny the sincere pleasure he received from her touch. He failed to repress his moan of relief as the cool fabric bathed his brow.

"Better?” she asked.

"Yes."

For several seconds he thought he felt her hands hovering over him, and was about to open his eyes, when she began to tenderly stroke his brow. Her fingers drifted down the edge of his face, brushing aside his hair. He battled the desire to turn his head and press a kiss to her palm.

Realizing how dangerously close he came to acting out his desires, he said, “I think it would be best if you go now, Miss Peterson. This is highly improper, not to mention embarrassing."

She removed the cloth from his head. “I fail to see how acting as your nurse is improper. And as for embarrassing, that's utter nonsense. You can't help being sick."

"Still, I would prefer it if you left."

She sighed. “Very well. I should check on Mr. Thomas. He isn't feeling much better than you, and there are others to tend to, I imagine."

He felt the mattress shift as she stood, and opened his eyes, granting himself a small glimpse. If he wasn't mistaken, she was blushing. Or perhaps she felt unwell too. She adjusted the items on the bedside table before returning the freshened cloth to his head.

"There now.” She straightened with her hands braced against the furniture. “I'll be back later to check on you."

"Please, Miss Peterson—"

"You are a guest on this ship, Doctor, and I will see to your comforts.” She turned to the door, still moving with delicate grace against the pitching and rocking of the ship. Reaching the door, she held on to the handle and looked back at him.

He stared with fascination as her brow knit and her teeth nibbled at her bottom lip. A low groan rose from deep in his chest, which had nothing to do with being seasick.

"Do you, um, require other assistance? I mean, do you need to, um, is there something Mr. Walters or Joshua might help you with?"

Good Lord! Here he was imagining how her lips would taste, and she was thinking about his need to use the water closet.

"No! And I don't require any further assistance from you, thank you.” His head pounded against the backs of his eyes. He hadn't intended to snap, but damn it to hell, she was driving him insane!

"Very well, Doctor.” With a crooked grin, she disappeared through the door, leaving him to suffer in peace.

And suffer he did, but not from the roiling of his stomach. An ache much lower grew more prominent by the minute as her image teased and taunted him.

Kristina leaned back against the wall, one hand clutching the railing, the other grasping her throat. Her heart was pounding, her pulse was racing, and her face felt thoroughly flushed. What had come over her to touch the man that way? What must he think?

That I'm terribly forward
.

She moaned softly, lamenting her behavior.

"Are you all right, Miss Peterson?” Mr. Walters asked, as he came out of the other young man's room.

"Yes, I'm fine. I think I might need a bit more of the tea, however. How's Mr. Thomas?"

"The same, I'm afraid. I'm not having much luck getting him to drink the tea."

"Well if he wishes to feel better he has to drink it.” She pushed away from the doctor's door and started toward the next cabin. “Would you be so kind as to see if Doctor Baxter requires any assistance while I take care of Mr. Thomas?"

"Certainly."

Although she would much rather return to her cabin and hide, which was not an option.

Her father appeared at the end of the corridor, wet to the skin.

"We're almost out of this mess,” he said. “The sea's calming a bit as we continue further south. How are our passengers fairing, my dear?"

"I believe Doctor Baxter is better, and I was just about to see to Mr. Thomas. I'm sure they'll be relieved to hear this infernal rocking is almost over.” She looked him over carefully. “And you, Papa, need to get out of those wet things. I don't want to have another sick person to tend to."