Clad in Cullen's old clothing, Samantha climbed topside. Christian eyed her from a distance. The outfit strained at the seams, but it would be more appropriate than one of her gowns. When she strolled up to him, he inhaled sharply at the curve of her hips in the tight-fitting trousers, her small, firm breasts jutting against the shirt's thin material. He handed her a wide-brimmed straw hat. "Wear this to keep the sun off your face," he said. She took it, turned, and walked away, and he added, "And for God's sake, don't…”

When she bent down to collect her pack, his hand itched, and he stepped up behind her to pat her tempting bottom so nicely displayed beneath the tight wool. She straightened with a gasp. He grinned and winked. "Nice fit, Sam." A blush covering her face, she sputtered, struggled into the pack's straps, and settled them over her shoulders.

He picked up his pack, went to the ladder leading over the side, and climbed down into the dinghy. As Christian pulled on the oars, he granted Samantha a smile. She returned it, all innocent and unsuspecting. Were she able to interpret his thoughts, her sunny mood would flee in an instant. Wait until she encountered live wildlife, the kind existing outside the London Zoo. Suffered from exposure to extremes of heat and cold, constant dirt, prickly plants, and biting insects. Experienced firsthand a lack of privacy. Limped along on sore feet and nursed an aching back. Then she would be content to remain safely ensconced in Hobart. His smile inched into a grin.

* * *

As Samantha trudged behind Christian across the island's arid landscape, she entered a fantasy world. They traversed bizarre terrain, so extraordinarily alien, as though the ship had landed them on another planet, perhaps Mars, instead of an island in the Pacific. She always believed the Oceanic Islands consisted solely of green, moist jungle, huge ferns, and overhanging vines. The area through which they traveled was as far from jungle as was her London drawing room.

Few trees graced the sandy plain, and those were twisted into grotesque shapes, as though tortured by a sadistic gardener. When she rubbed her palms against the trunks, gray, hairy bark flaked off. The wood beneath was ironlike, dry and dense. Sparse, grayish-green leaves drooped from the branch tips, and when she touched one, it felt fat, waxy, and smooth.

They encountered little wildlife. A few circling hawks and the occasional lizard or beetle scurrying across the hot sand. A brown fox darted across her path in pursuit of a strange mouse hopping ahead of it on impossibly long back legs. Misshapen cacti, scattered amongst the trees, arose in the near distance, and a small, curious, wrenlike bird flitted around one tall cactus, sticking a sharp probe into holes on the plant's surface. Samantha looked for Christian to ask him what the bird was doing, but he ranged far ahead, and she lacked the strength to catch up with him.

Her pack grew heavier with every step, and the straps cut painfully into her shoulders. Christian had set a brisk pace, and with her shorter legs, she found it difficult to keep up. The hot—no—searing air dried her throat and sucked the moisture from her skin, like walking through a furnace. Was it truly December? Snow would have fallen in Boston by now, but here at the bottom of the world, high summer reigned.

Despite her discomfort, she reveled in the open space and the freedom, especially the freedom of wearing trousers. The thought caused her to question why society had condemned women to drafty, unwieldy skirts for so many centuries. If every woman should have the opportunity to wear trousers, just once, they would soon be all the rage. Skirts, petticoats, and corsets could be naught but a male plot designed to keep women in bondage, and she resolved to acquire several sets of male trousers when she returned to England.

Several hours went by, and her ache evolved into acute physical pain. She cast a glance at Chris's back, far in the distance. "Chris?" she gasped as loudly as her parched throat would allow. In the still, dry air, her plea carried to his ears, for he halted and turned around with a questioning look.

She commanded her aching legs to trot forward until she drew alongside him. "May we take a short break? Your legs are longer than mine, and you are walking too fast. I'm not accustomed to carrying a pack. It hurts my shoulders."

"An animal expedition has several rules," he said with a patronizing expression and in a similar tone. "First, to actually find animals, you must refrain from talking. Second, this is not a stroll through Regent's Park. If you cannot keep up the pace because you have shorter legs, walk faster. And third, my pack is heavier than yours. If you wished to carry a lighter load, you should have packed fewer items."

Her face fell. "But you are larger than me. Your pack should be heavier."

"Do you wish to trade?"

She closed her mouth, though she had a notion to remind him that he filled the packs, not she.

Turning away, he focused his eyes on the horizon. "No? Then allow us to move on—quietly. I want to cover more territory before we stop. We'll take a break about an hour from now." He nodded toward a steep ridge in the distance.

She groaned and shifted the pack, moving it a scant inch off the grooves in her shoulders.

When he finally called a halt in a depression shaded by a line of stunted trees straggling along a creek, Samantha dropped her pack with a grimace. She stumbled past him and knelt beside the creek, cupping her hands and splashing water over her face and neck.

He allowed her to rest for an hour before he stood and came to her side. "Ready?"

She mumbled to herself and struggled to her feet.

Christian walked to the creek and dipped his canteen into the water before taking off at a more modest speed. Samantha missed his detour as she fought with her pack and tried to find the least painful position. Three hours out into the hot sun, she ran out of water. "Chris, may I have a drink of your water? My canteen is empty."

"Rule number four, Sam, always fill your canteen when you have access to fresh water. You never know how far you might have to walk to the next water hole. Next time, use your head." In spite of his chastising words, he passed her his canteen and allowed her to drink.

* * *

By the time they made camp, light was fleeing rapidly on the short-lived heels of a tropical dusk. The lowering sun hit the cacti, throwing Brobdingnagian shadows—like the giant characters in Gulliver's Travels—stretching across the barren plain. Samantha staggered, and sweat drenched her clothes. She could not even remove the pack from her shoulders. When she raised her arms, cramping pain seized her shoulders and back.

Christian came over and lifted the pack. "Why did you not tell me the straps were cutting into your shoulders?" His voice was thick with concern.

Tears of pain stung her eyes. She turned to look at the bloodstains on her shirt. "I thought you knew."

His eyes darkened. "Devil take it! Had I known, I would have called a halt before now. Slip down your shirt. Those cuts need treating."

Too tired and in too much pain to argue, she unbuttoned the shirt, eased it off her shoulders, and grimaced at the wide, raw patches on her skin. When he wet a handkerchief and cleaned the bloody stripes, she whimpered and flinched away.

"I know it hurts, but I have to clean the injury, or infection will set in." He reached into his pack and withdrew a brown bottle. "Now clench your teeth, because this may burn."

When he poured the weak solution of carbolic acid on the open wounds, she bit back a scream, and wetness streamed down her cheeks. She dragged in a shuddering breath. "It hurts terribly now."

"Wait a minute, and the pain will ease." He left her to tramp through the area beyond the campsite.

She could not believe her eyes. What was he doing now? Chasing after some animal while she was suffering? She failed to keep the angry edge from her question. "What are you looking for?"

"Aloe. Ah, here's one." He returned with a fat leaf in his hand that had a waxy skin, silver green with spiked edges. He squeezed it until a clear, jellylike sap oozed from its cut edge and rubbed the substance over her wounds. An immediate cooling seeped into her skin. After a short while, the pain ebbed to a dull ache.

"How does it feel now?"

She allowed a smile to creep over her mouth. "Better."

"Capital. You can collect wood for the fire. However, don't stray from my sight. Have a care where you step and what you grab. Snakes can resemble branches."

Her good humor fled, and she sent him a goggle-eyed look. Was that a hint of mercy in his features? If so, it swiftly disappeared.

"I hardly expect you to carry the wood on your shoulders," he continued. "A minor injury should not excuse you from your fair share of work."

After she had collected enough firewood for a dozen campfires, he demonstrated the technique for starting a fire using twigs and dry grass. "Why go to all that trouble?" she asked. "Why not simply use Lucifers?"

He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "Matches become wet, and you might not have any. A fire could mean the difference between life and death. You must become competent with alternative methods and using the materials at hand." As soon as small flames appeared, he smothered them and handed her the twigs. "Now you do it," he said, rising to his feet. "I'll hunt for dinner. I expect to find a fire when I return."

"Chris—" He vanished before she could finish her objection. The infuriating man moved as quickly as a chameleon. She stared at the twigs, thinking perhaps she should have paid closer attention to Christian's rambling. Images of sleep, and a bath, and a ten-course meal had caused her mind to drift while he droned on about twigs and fire. Never did she believe he would expect her to do it.

When Christian returned, Samantha still sat in front of the fire pit, her right thumb in her mouth, biting on the nail. The twigs lay undisturbed on the ground. He halted and silently studied her, aware of what she was going through. He recalled his maiden voyage into the field. Her pain and frustration were genuine. Why could he not simply carry her pack and start the fire? Remembering his ultimate motive, he shook his head as though to suppress the urge to give in to the sight of her misery. She would learn naught if he were to make her wilderness jaunt a pleasurable stroll. Capitulation now would ruin his intentions. He supposed he could slow down the pace…a bit. She was considerably smaller than he. Perhaps he would remove a few items from her pack. He could still make his point by the time they returned to the ship. His goal was to discourage her, not kill her.

 "Aren't you a bit old to be sucking your thumb?" he said from directly behind her. I have something else you can put in your mouth, the devil on his shoulder suggested.

She jerked out her thumb. When she looked over her shoulder, he arched a brow. "I cannot help but notice we don't yet have a roaring fire."

 "The twigs declined to cooperate," she said in a sullen voice. "I have no option but to believe you gave me defective wood."

He suppressed the smile tugging at his mouth and sat on the ground beside her. "Then I suppose we'll have to eat our dinner raw." He pulled out a wriggling grasshopper from a pouch hanging at his belt. "But I must admit they taste better roasted."

Her eyes opened as wide as saucers. She scrambled away, her knees churning up the sandy ground. "That is a bug!" she screeched. "I will not eat bugs. I care not what you do to me, but you'll not force me to eat a bug!"

He couldn't control his grin. "Sam, Sam, calm down. What did you expect? My returning to camp with lamb stew and meat pasties slung over my shoulder? Bugs are less disgusting than you might imagine. They're full of energy. You enjoy lobster, do you not, and shrimp and crayfish? All are arthropods, exactly like this grasshopper. Sometimes, insects may be the only meal you can capture."

"No!" she yelled, her eyes filled with fire. "You cannot trick me. I will not eat bugs!"

He popped the insect into his mouth and made a production of crunching and swallowing it.

She shuddered, her face turning green, leapt to her feet, and ran into the bushes. He heard her vomiting and shook his head. After extracting a box of Lucifers from his pack, he started a fire. He caught her voice at intervals, still defiant, coming from the camp perimeter. "I will not eat bugs! You cannot make me! I shall starve first!"

Having checked the surrounding area for snakes and other hazards, Christian allowed her to crash about beyond the fire's circle for an hour. Meanwhile, he cleaned the fish he had caught, spitted them, and grilled them over the flames.

 "Sam, dinner is ready. Return to camp before you hurt yourself in the dark."

"You cannot force me to eat!" she shouted back from wherever she was hiding.

"If you say so, but this fish looks tasty."

"Fish?" Within a heartbeat, she stormed up behind him with a leafy branch clutched in both hands. It smacked him across the shoulders, over the head, and on his back. By the time he made it to his feet and wrestled the weapon away from her, she managed to smite him with more than a few hard licks.

Her hair escaped the braid she had fashioned that morning and whirled in a chaotic storm about her head. She pushed the strands out of her face, features contorted with rage. Her eyes snapped, and she pointed a shaky finger at him. "You did this on purpose! You had no intention of having me eat bugs. You are trying to frighten me and convince me to quit this expedition. The same with your walking too fast and giving me a pack too heavy for me to carry. But I will not! I will not quit! No matter what evil schemes you have in your twisted mind, I refuse to buckle under to your attempts at intimidation!"

She tossed her head, and her butterscotch hair went flying. Her face glowed as red as the campfire, eyes wild and dark. Christian had never seen her looking so beautiful. A disturbing ache settled inside his chest, right around the region of his heart.

"I should have known"—she sucked in a ragged breath—"you would not take me on an excursion because you believed I might enjoy it, or because you wished to be nice to me, or wanted to spend time with me. You are the cruelest, most devious, most obnoxious, insufferable man I have ever had the misfortune to meet." Tears painted muddy tracks down her dusty cheeks. "And I hate you, Christian Badia!" she sobbed. "I hate you!"

He caught her shoulders and gathered her shaking body into his arms. While he stroked her back, her sobs subsided to hiccups. All this brouhaha over a grasshopper? He had expected revulsion, perhaps anger, but not hysteria. Perhaps he had pushed her too far. The situation wasn't working out quite as he had planned. He wiped her face with his handkerchief. "You're quite right, Sam. I did want you to give up. I now realize you desire this too greatly to crumble at the slightest obstacle. I promise, no more games. Instead, I'll teach you what you need to know to survive and help out on the expedition."

When she looked up, hopefulness combined with wariness lined her features. "You truly mean what you say? This promise of yours is not another trick?"

He put genuine warmth into his smile. "Honestly. No more tricks. We'll see how well you get along. If I'm satisfied you'll be safe in the field without constant supervision, you may accompany us. I vow to keep an open mind and grant you every chance to succeed. When we reach Hobart, we'll discuss it."

She pulled back from him and grinned. "Wonderful, let us eat. I'm starved!"

He suffered a pang of loss when her warm body left his arms. "Help yourself." He gestured at the fish. "You'll find tin plates and utensils in my pack." While she retrieved the eating implements, he brought out a bag of native fruit he had picked earlier.

He handed her a wrinkled green fruit. She gave him a cautious smile, and her eyes narrowed. "Is it edible?"

"You'll like it. It's sweet."

She bit into the fruit, and juice ran down her chin. "Delicious," she said, a mouthful of fruit and tender fish garbling her words.

Christian had the sudden, inexplicable urge to lick the stickiness from her skin. He barely prevented himself from acting on his desires.

While they finished their meal, the sky became ebony black and the stars sharp and bright, true darkness falling over the desert. Samantha looked up with wonder written across her face. "I never imagined such an absolute night could exist. The stars are so incredibly brilliant and close. I do believe I can catch one." She stretched out an arm and pretended to grab a star and put it in her pocket. Throwing him a triumphant glance, she laughed.

She skipped through the camp, catching stars as though they were fireflies, and his throat tightened at her pixielike play. She was too alluring tonight. He tried to tell himself she was merely a girl, not yet fully grown, but he knew better. A woman's fire ran through the veins of her small body and ignited him whenever he drew too close. Part girl, part woman; he wanted it all. Carnal thoughts bedeviled him, and he consigned them to the recesses of his mind.

"I love the desert," he said, dragging his gaze away from her intoxicating play and turning to make up the bedrolls. "Only when you leave civilization can you experience true night…and quiet." When his pointed words failed to quell her capering, he called to her.

She gave him an impish look. "I have yet to catch them all," she said, pointing up at the sparkling stars.

A smile came unbidden. "Leave some to guide the sailors, Sam, and come here."