Isla supposed the situation could have been worse. Drawing Nigel Crowe from his cabin might have been a good idea, if awkward silences and palpable mistrust were just the thing to have at a gathering.
She had greeted Crowe warmly and suggested he would be ever so much more comfortable without his boots and heavy jacket, and when she’d taken him to the waterfall where Daniel, Bonadea, and Lewis were swimming—bare-chested, to her eternal embarrassment—they had not thrown rocks or held his head under the water.
As it was her idea to invite him, she took it upon herself to point out the items of interest she’d discovered—“These flowers are the brightest orange I have ever seen, and Mr. Bonadea tells me there are monkeys in the trees!”—and for his part, he did respond, albeit monosyllabically, with an almost pleasant expression.
With the sun sinking toward the horizon, Lewis and Daniel dragged three large logs onto the beach. Quince and Isla gathered twigs and branches for firewood, while Crowe lingered, clearly uncomfortable. He seemed relieved when Quince handed him a kit and asked him to start a fire.
Isla spied the dinghy approaching with Robert and Samson to deliver dinner. “I am quite famished,” she said and sat on one of the large logs. “I haven’t been swimming in an age, and I forget how much energy it requires.” She smiled at Crowe and Quince, who shuffled their feet in the sand and conspicuously did not look at each other.
“Please, gentlemen, sit with me. You are obliged to provide a lady with conversation at a social event, yes?”
Mr. Quince smiled and slowly lowered himself to the log, and Mr. Crowe eventually did the same on her other side. The ’tons neared the beach and rowed up as far as they could onto the sand, at which point they began arguing about who should perform which task.
Mr. Quince rose and approached the two assistants. “Let us see if we can’t sort out this tangle, my friends.”
Beside her, Crowe muttered, “He is aware they’re not human?”
Isla was determined to maintain her good humor. “He treats everyone and everything the same. One of his more admirable qualities.” She stretched her hands toward the fire. “Now that the sun is setting, I am quite chilled.”
“You’d have been better off staying aboard the ship.”
She glanced at him. “Come now, Mr. Crowe. You cannot deny the beauty of this place. If you do, I shall not believe you.”
He cleared his throat. “Passable, I suppose.”
Coming from him, she figured it was high praise. “Very passable indeed. Have you traveled much?”
He shrugged. “To Port Lucy. All of the rest of my time has been in England.”
“I have been all over our British Isles and a few times to Paris, but I have never traveled this far.”
He met her eyes. “And you are going to Port Lucy for research.”
She nodded. “I have questions that need answers. I was given to understand they could be found in Port Lucy.”
“I can’t imagine what questions the mighty Dr. Cooper might not be able to answer.”
She smiled at him despite realizing he’d not meant his comment as a compliment. “So, you do acknowledge I am a doctor!”
He scowled, and she winked at him. “I am teasing you, Mr. Crowe. I regret that I have never taken the time to understand your moral and political leanings. I would very much like to.”
“Why? So you can use everything I say to defeat me?”
“No. So I can use everything you say to better understand you—perhaps with an aim toward a smoother working relationship when we return home.”
He rubbed his forehead and leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “One conversation before a campfire will not an alliance make. Especially one with opposing goals.”
“It is a good beginning.” She mirrored his stance. Quince and the ’tons faded into the background, and Daniel and the other two men had disappeared into the interior for larger firewood. “Why do you dislike shifters so much?” She kept her voice low, unobtrusive.
His smile lacked warmth. “A shifter ruined my life. Took everything from me.”
She nodded. “Will you tell me about it?”
He looked at her. “No.”
“And you dislike me because I offer therapy and help to shifters, when your belief is that harsher preventive measures, such as incarceration, is for the greater good.”
“Something like that.”
“Perhaps we can agree that there are many people who are predatory shifters who are not violent in the least, even in shifted form? Even the instinct is governed by the human’s moral principles.”
“You are naïve.”
She shook her head. “I have seen it myself, more times than I can count. I wish you knew others besides just the one who ruined your life.”
He remained silent, examining something under his fingernail.
“You must agree, you must, that in the time we have known each other I have brought to justice several shifters who have intentionally waited until shifting to commit their crimes. Why, I believe the first time I saw you was at the tribunal for a man who was particularly heinous.” She wrinkled her brow. “His name was Glad . . . Gladworth . . .”
“Gladstone.”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes! You remember. He was not a nice person, shifter or no. He had run afoul of the law repeatedly, abused a woman and her daughter as a man and, as a wolf, went on a killing spree.” She shook her head. “So you see, I fully admit that there are times when rehabilitation is not a viable option. It was a pleasure to see him stopped. To have a hand in it.”
“Your testimony sealed the prosecutor’s arguments.” His tone was flat. Quiet. “Gladstone was executed.”
She nodded slowly, confused. “You disapproved?”
He gazed into the fire. “He was my brother.”
She felt as though the breath had been punched from her lungs. “Your brother . . .”
He raised a brow at her, his hands hanging between his knees. “Do not tell me you’re sorry, that if you had but known . . .”
She shook her head, drawing in a desperately needed breath. “I am so sorry you had to share blood with such a cruel and tormented man.”
He chuckled hollowly. “Not very understanding of you, Dr. Cooper. For all you know, I loved him and hate you for driving the final nail into his coffin.”
“If you felt your brother was unjustly served, you would be marching with my cousin Emme, not remaining on the PSRC as one of its most extreme proponents of incarceration and execution.” She paused, understanding dawning. “Gladstone was the shifter who ruined your life.”
He met her gaze but was quiet.
“Why do you stay? Why remain on the committee? It can hold nothing positive for you. You would take vengeance against a whole populace for the actions of one?”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “If the committee doesn’t remain vigilant, people like you will ensure that criminals run amok.”
She shook her head. “You arrived on the committee last year just before Gladstone was put on trial. What did you do before that? I know nearly everyone in our line of work, and you came from—well, not London. Not another government agency.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I am an artist. Commissioned portraits, some architecture. Now then, are we sufficiently informed about the other? Will we work together splendidly?” His familiar sneer was back.
“Perhaps not, but at least I understand your point of reference.” She tipped her head. “Answer one more question for me.”
He rolled his eyes briefly. “It’s no wonder shifters talk so much in your offices—your questions never stop.”
“Gladstone ruined your life, took everything from you, and I was the one to brought him to an end.” She paused, suddenly feeling vulnerable. “I understand frustration with a sibling—all too well, in fact. But ought we not to share some small moment of communion? A mutual respect if nothing else?”
His jaw worked, but then he said, “I believe I’ll return to the ship.”
Suddenly she was aware of Quince working with Samson and Robert to set up dinner, and Daniel, Bonadea, and Lewis talking as they emerged from the island’s interior. Crowe stood and turned to leave, but Isla called after him.
“Nigel. Wait.” She shivered despite the heat from the fire. “We need not be friends, or even pleasant colleagues. But do not return to the ship. Stay here and have dinner, at least. I will leave you in peace.”
“I do not recall giving you permission to use my given name, Miss Cooper.”
She raised a brow. “And I specifically recall instructing you to use mine.” She motioned toward Quince and the ’tons. “Get something to eat and enjoy the fire before we all return to the ship for the evening.”
“You mean before we all make a pretense of returning to the ship and retiring for the evening?”
She deliberately ignored his insinuation about the three shifters. “Oh, I will retire, I assure you. I am out like the proverbial light at midnight, no questions.”
He paused before shaking his head almost imperceptibly. She wasn’t certain, but she thought the corner of his mouth may have twitched slightly, and when he turned away from her, he went to the makeshift buffet table, not immediately back to the ship. Perhaps it wasn’t a lost cause, perhaps she might be able to breathe easier for Quince, Bonadea, and Lewis. Maybe Crowe would begin to see them as people rather than animals. And perhaps, when she returned to London, Crowe might make an effort to pull the reins on his combative approach to her profession. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly more than she’d had upon awakening that morning.