by Sally Orr
She murmured something incoherent before lifting her head off his chest. “I have an idea,” she said. “Hold your gloves out.”
His spirits lifted with the knowledge she was awake and well. If her request would make her happy, then why not? The gloves were not his best pair, but old ones still decent enough to be worn by a gentleman with his sartorial reputation. He had chosen them for the journey because they were warm and soft like kitten fur. Pulling out his gloved hands, he held them before her nose for approval.
She grabbed a hand and pulled it down close to hers. Then she took off her gloves and slipped her bare palm on top of his. “My hands are cold. I believe if we put our hands in the same glove, they will become warmer.” Her frozen little fingers slid smoothly between his, but there was not enough room for them to reach the fingertips. She attempted to slide her other hand into the other glove, but the second was tighter than the first.
He whispered into her ear. “Push.”
She pushed.
Electricity shot through him, and his breathing quickened. For heavens sake, he might as well be running.
She wiggled her fingers as far as they would go.
Her touch felt unbearably intimate. They spent the next several minutes with their joined hands resting on her belly, both breathing loudly.
He closed his eyes. An inescapable urge made him slide his right hand out an inch and shove it back in. To his surprise, his hand felt warmer, and his body felt warmer too. He continued this pleasing gesture. His fingers encircled hers. Then he pulled out and slid in again. He quickened the pace and felt warmer, much warmer. Rub. Rub. Rub.
“What are you doing?”
The sweet sound of her voice called him back to his sense of decorum. “Ah.” Boyce tried to come up with a scientific explanation to please her. “It’s my idea. I call it chafing. It makes you warmer, right?”
She twisted to face him, her eyes wide. “I do feel warmer—strangely so. Continue.” She kept both hands steady, allowing him to thrust again with his hand.
Within minutes, the warm air from her rapid breaths on the underside of his chin proved unbelievably arousing. If he closed his eyes, her steamy breath felt like numerous little kisses. Taking a peek at her face, her parted lips only increased his discomfort. He scooted slightly away from her, since his forward behavior might shock a naive young lady. Time to focus on something else. “Are you having trouble breathing?”
“Altitude,” she said a little too quickly. “The pulse rate of the human heart increases with altitude. It is scientific fact. My panting is not…is due to the rarefied air. An aeronaut’s heartbeat can escalate to over eighty beats per minute. This is quite normal, I can assure you.”
Her raspy voice sounded like London’s most beautiful high-flyer beckoning him to a night of passion. He pushed her forward an inch. “Your voice changed. Promise me you are well?”
“I promise. The moisture content of the air is very low at high altitude, so my throat is dry. It’s perfectly normal, like the extreme cold. Although it is colder than I expected. I must have miscalculated. With the heat from the lamp being insufficient, we’ll just have to maximize contact.”
“So my chafing idea was a good one?”
“Yes, it was, but let’s continue the friction.”
He hesitated, unsure how to explain why friction might be a bad idea. Perhaps she possessed some additional knowledge about the cold atmosphere that he lacked. However, a first mate must follow his captain’s orders. Cupping their joined palms under her breasts, he pulled her higher on his chest. Now he observed her lips were no longer apple red but bloodless enough to match her skin. “Put your lips on my neck. Your lips are very pale, and my neck is warm.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I’m worried about you. Do you want me to do it first?” He rocked her sideways in fun. “I promise I won’t call it a kiss.”
She trembled a little, perhaps from the cold. “No, I’m not sure this is necessary under the circumstances. Since friction is not involved, I doubt the gesture will go far in making either of us warmer.”
“Please,” he whispered.
She hesitated. “If you insist, we can do the experiment. But remember, it’s not a kiss.” She then placed her lips just under his ear.
The coldness of her lips caused a shiver to run from his ear to his toes. Best to concentrate on the friction, instead of kissing her witless. With their joined hands still in the gloves, he vigorously rubbed every inch of their bodies within reach. Both of their thighs, her stomach, and under her breasts were chafed.
While he rubbed, her lips remained under his ear, and they began to feel warm and wet.
“Ah, yes, a positive reaction,” she whispered.
Deciding it would be safer for all concerned to return to the finger-stroking scheme, Boyce pulled his hand almost out of the glove and shoved it back in. With each arousing push, he grunted softly. Gradually, the chafing slowed until he stopped altogether. Then he heard a sound that wasn’t his galloping heartbeat, something outside of the basket. He listened carefully for several minutes. The pulsing noise began to sound like crashing waves. “Listen.”
He lost consciousness.
Five
Eve had no concept of the power behind repeated, rhythmic touch when applied by an attractive male specimen. Everyone heard stories about the successes of London’s rakes and libertines, and she had always wondered why women would fall for that sort of charm. Now, sitting here, undergoing a thorough petting, she developed a better understanding of the power behind masculine wiles. Her rapid heartbeat became too fast to distinguish individual beats, and every inch of her skin falling under his touch tingled. Nevertheless, logic dismissed her reactions as a natural female response to…the rubbing started again, and her world swirled in a dizzying haze.
He repeatedly rubbed her torso under her breasts with their hands encased in soft fur. Within seconds, she felt a pleasant ease she had never experienced before. When he first had started this “chafing” routine, she blamed her response on the altitude, but it did not take long before doubts rose in her mind. Now those doubts had decidedly flown. She had never studied passion, but she was no fool. Passion was whispered about, and every good student of science naturally observed the details of everyday life. She, of course, had paid attention, but even she was awed by the intensity of her physical response to his touch—a response she mistrusted, because her intellect had no control over it. Therefore, she could be led astray and into difficulties where she possessed no skills to extract herself.
Parker continued to play her like a fiddle.
Was he aware of her body’s response to his immediate touch? She let out a small chuckle. Of course he knew. The chafing stopped, and their joined hands rested on her belly. She waited, then lifted her head a little and noticed his eyes were closed, probably in sleep. The sight of his whisker growth visibly darkening his cheeks lured her to reach out and pass several fingers over the roughness. She forced herself to glance away. Why did Parker engage her passions? Or were his actions an innocent way of ensuring warmth? Either way, she did feel warmer.
Parker slowly collapsed to his right, pulling the oilcloth away.
A gush of icy air cooled her left side. “Parker, are you asleep?”
No response.
He appeared to be in a rather uncomfortable position, so she concluded he had fainted from the rarefied air. Examining him, she found a regular heartbeat and steady breaths. Thank heavens. She tucked the blanket under him to keep him warm. Then she checked her instruments and recorded their altitude, temperature, and humidity. They had climbed higher than she had expected, which explained his lack of consciousness. They were currently losing altitude, so she didn’t think releasing gas was necessary. He would likely wake soon.
She decided to take scientific advantage of the rarified air
and retrieved a bottle of water from one of the boxes on the floor. The bottle was designed to evaluate the chemical composition of the atmosphere. She stood carefully, so as not to disturb the blanket, grabbed the bottle, and pulled the cork to empty the water over the side of the balloon. This would ensure that only air from their current altitude would enter the bottle. Then she capped the bottle, labeled it with the current altitude, and wedged it back into the basket for transport. Once the bottle was received at the laboratory, it would be opened underwater and the air trapped in the inverted glass measured for the amounts of oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon.
Before she returned to the warmth of the oilcloth, she also examined the terrain below, but it was too dark to distinguish any distinct features. She had heard crashing waves earlier and now only a few lights were visible in the distance, so more than likely, they were well over the Channel but had not yet reached the shores of France. She listened closely for any noise that would betray a dangerous loss of elevation, like the sound of waves, but all she heard was the soft rush of the wind over her head. This observation, the cold air, and her fast heartbeat convinced her that her altitude calculations were correct. They had not lost altitude significant enough to be in any immediate danger.
She examined the balloon above her and observed additional evidence that they were indeed very high. The silk balloon had taken on a silver sheen from a thin coating of frost. The frost also coated the rigging, making the ropes resemble waterfalls of liquid silver.
Pushing Parker into a more comfortable upright position, so he’d have fewer pains when he woke, she shook his shoulders until he moved slightly. She then sat and pulled his arm over her shoulders. “Are you well?”
He nodded sleepily. “Tired.”
Then she wrapped them both tightly with the wool-lined oilcloth. She snuggled her face into his firm chest and soon fell asleep.
She woke when Parker suddenly sat board straight.
“I’m leaking,” he exclaimed. “Look at me.”
After a moment to gather her wits, she rubbed her eyes and made a quick assessment of their circumstances. She found him holding his nose with his handkerchief. Gently pulling his hand away, she found fresh blood staining the snowy linen.
“Tell me. Have I stuck my spoon in the wall?”
“No, you haven’t.” She rose to her knees and grabbed his handkerchief. “You are bleeding from the altitude, nothing more.” She dabbed the balled linen on his nose and discovered the bleeding had ceased. “There, the bleeding has already stopped.”
He looked skeptical. “Look at my coat. It’s ruined. We’re both disheveled.”
She bit her upper lip and reached for his hand. “Honest, you are well. Why don’t you get up and see? I hoped we might catch a magnificent sunrise this morning, but we must have missed it because we are shrouded within bright clouds at the moment. Although, I bet you have never been inside a cloud before.”
With a quick glance at the wall of gray surrounding the basket, he dismissed any interest in viewing the inside of a cloud. Instead, he stood to survey his attire. Then he brushed his trousers, coat, and waistcoat. “Don’t suppose you have a looking glass on board?”
She had never heard that question before in a balloon. “No, remember weight is at a premium. We usually don’t carry such frivolous items.”
He swirled his tongue over the front of his lower teeth. “What I wouldn’t give for a little tooth powder too. I suppose no powder?”
She shook her head, smiled, and glanced up at the balloon. They had broken through the clouds, and the morning sunlight began to warm the balloon. As the gas heated, the balloon swelled rapidly, causing the great pleats of silk to unfold with a sound similar to ripping canvas.
She busied herself with a current reading of her instruments and calculated their present elevation. They were much lower than expected, so she consulted the Results book to determine if their current height would be sufficient to complete the next experiment. Previous explorers had observed spices lose their taste on high mountains, like the peak of Tenerife. So this experiment would test the previous observations to determine if the taste of various spices became insipid in rarefied air. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to assist me in our final experiment.”
He spun to face her, a glint in his eyes. “Ho, ho, would I.” He surveyed the small space of the basket. “But what’s left? No more animals I hope. Got some surprise over there in that small box?”
She chuckled and removed several small snuffboxes from the chest. “These contain spices. I would appreciate if you would describe how they taste. For example, does the pepper taste like pepper as you know it? Perhaps it tastes weaker or even more intense than your previous experience on the ground.”
He sat on the small bench at one end. “Come sit on my knee.”
She took a single step before logic prevailed. Touching him had proven dangerous in the past. “This is serious. I see no reason to sit on your knee. Just take a box and place one pinch of the spice on your tongue. Then describe the sensations you get from that spice.”
“I love sensations.” He winked. “Now be a good lady of science and sit on my knee. I will close my eyes and open my mouth. You can then add the appropriate pinch of spice. But don’t tell me the identity of the spice. I want to give you an unbiased response.” He spread his knees outward and patted his large, firm thigh. “Come.”
Blast. Why couldn’t the man trapped in her balloon have been a gentleman whose company was calm and comforting? Why, instead, was the man sitting before her one of the most handsome gentlemen under God’s blue skies? Trapped in a basket, she could not run or ignore him. The only thing she could do was to keep her mind strictly focused on the task before her.
But just look at him—what a specimen.
She cataloged his most alluring features. The dark brown hair escaping his cap was unruly and fetching. She knew his locks were soft to the touch, and his embrace was as warm as a fire in a cottage hearth. His bloodstained cream breeches were soft and outlined every muscle in his legs. He would be a good model for scientific study on muscle development… Her heartbeat raced, so she stopped her unsuccessful attempt to describe him dispassionately. Fetching? Cottage fires? Something was wrong with her. She vowed to stifle all future wayward thoughts of feelings and focus on facts.
He had a wry smile on his lips, evidence he knew exactly the type of emotions he created.
It took a great deal of discipline to drag her gaze up to the balloon.
A chuckle escaped him, and he patted his thigh again. “Come, come. Do not delay. We need to complete the experiments first before we land. That was my agreement with your father, and I have every intention of holding up my part of the bargain.”
She stared at his broad thigh again then gulped. Focus. You can do this one simple task. As soon as she took her place on his thigh, she had second thoughts about this scheme. Her impulse at the moment was to lean in and wrap herself within his arms and then wiggle in an unspoken desire for another thorough rubbing. “Oh!” How could she even think that?
“Something amiss?”
With her cheeks warming every second, she chastised herself for her wayward thoughts. Happily, she found a suitable excuse. “The altitude has given me the headache.”
He smiled, no doubt aware of her shocking fib.
She removed her gloves, opened the first snuffbox, and took a pinch of the ginger. “Right, open your mouth.”
Leaning slightly forward, he opened his mouth.
That very second, the only experiment she wanted to do was brush her hands over his whisker growth, run her fingers through his forelocks, and kiss his full lips. It took every ounce of any intelligence she possessed to place the pinch of ginger on his tongue with a steady hand. The instant she felt the wet warmth of his tongue, she jerked her hand away.
* * *
&nb
sp; If Boyce closed his eyes, he might get himself through this experiment without getting himself into the type of trouble unique to gentlemen. Then his physical response to the sight of her fetching blush, hesitant naïveté, and prominent, lusty pout would disappear. They would complete the last experiment, land in a field, and he could restore her to her father. He shut his eyes, vowed to think only of the spice, and clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth to taste it properly. “Tsk, tsk.”
“Well?”
He kept his eyes closed. “Have you ever licked…no, steady on.” He took a deep breath and forced himself to forget about licking. “Bland, like week-old rice pudding. You try it.” Proper manners dictated he open his eyes, so he did so unwillingly, unsure of his physical response.
She placed a regulated pinch upon her tongue and closed her lips. Her cheek distended slightly, so she was probably rubbing the ginger all over the inside of her mouth. This unknowingly seductive action necessitated he clear his throat—numerous times.
Slightly parting her lips, she inhaled sharply. Perhaps to determine if the rush of air would intensify the flavor.
“Ah, hem.” He squirmed on his seat, his discomfort growing.
Without paying any particular attention to him, she rose and scribbled notes in the Results book. When finished, she stared at him in an odd, unsettled countenance. “Ready for the salt? Oh, I forgot—”