by Nancy Morse
She felt his body shudder and his arms go taut around her as his moment of explosion came just as her own climax washed over her. They came together in a flurry of passion that would not be denied. Somewhere in the distance a lion roared, but all Julia heard was the roaring at her temples as he took her to a place she thought existed only in her dreams.
Gradually, the frenzy of their bodies slackened. He relaxed heavily against her, moving inside of her gently now, joined together in a slow return to reality. His shoulders trembled as he withdrew and rolled off her to lay by her side on the sisal mat. Winding an arm beneath her, he pulled her toward him.
“Regrets?” he asked between slackening breaths.
Her limbs still felt weak and rubbery, and she knew if she tried to get up, she would lose her balance, so she nestled against him, burning her face in the crook of his neck.
“No,” she murmured against his skin.
How could she explain the emotions swirling inside of her like tornadoes of dry African dust? She was stunned by a feeling that went beyond the joy of sated desire to something new and frightening. Could it be that she was falling in love with this blue-eyed coffee farmer?
He reached up and pulled the blanket off the cot and down over them. “Get some sleep,” he whispered. “We’ll be breaking camp at dawn.”
For a long time he just lay there listening to the sounds of the night. They were familiar, comforting sounds. But on this night it was the gentle rise and fall of breath from the woman sleeping in his arms that held him breathlessly still. He turned his head and looked at her. She was so utterly beautiful, a rare ray of hope for his famished heart. He wanted to hold her like this forever, to protect her against what he knew lay ahead in the Tanganyikan bush, to spare her the heartache of whatever tomorrow might bring.
He had battled with himself long and hard over whether he was doing the right thing bringing her on this journey. He could lead her to the ivory cache, but then what? He had no intention of leading her to Roger Thorpe, if he could even find the bastard. The elusive poacher was much too dangerous, and if discovered, Jonathan had no doubt he would not hesitate to restrict his killing to elephants. His only hope was to get Julia close enough to the cache for it to spark a memory. If not… He was past trying to figure it all out. Simply past it. He would have to take it one dangerous step at a time and hope that his love was strong enough to hold her safe.
His body was still hot for her despite the cool air that sifted into the tent, yet as much as he wanted to, he made no move to take her again. He couldn’t take the chance that moving too fast might destroy the delicate thread of trust that existed between them. Still, he could not help but wonder if his touch awakened more than her passion. Did it stoke a smoldering ember of remembrance of him somewhere deep down inside of her? Could she tell from the way he made love to her how very much he loved her? Did she feel anything for him? Anything at all?
Chapter Fourteen
The immense plains of the Serengeti stretched as far as the eye could see, as dry and dusty as the tawny coats of the lions that prowled them. To the south, the grasses had dried out or been eaten down to a stubble by the vast herds of wildebeest and zebra that arrived on the short-grass plains in November. This was where they would stay until April when they would begin their migration north.
There was no respite from the heat and the emptiness. The soil, weathered ash from the Ngorongoro volcano, covered crystalline rock and low outcrops of granite. On the distant horizon great thunderheads trailed shawls of rain, but none of it came to the Serengeti, not even the short rains that would have brought relief to the parched land and the thirsty wildlife.
Wakula walked ahead of the party, keeping a close eye on the wildlife as the sun climbed higher in the sky. When it was directly overhead, the Swahili tracker stopped abruptly, loped back to Jonathan, and dropped the butt of his spear on the ground.
“Masharubu,” he whispered.
Jonathan removed his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. Holding a hand over his eyes to shield against the harsh glare of the sun, he peered out across the savannah. Sure enough, the giraffe and zebra were all staring fixedly in one direction.
Julia watched the exchange. Except for the Swahili words Jonathan had taught her—jambo for hello and asante sana for thank you very much—she didn’t know what they were discussing, but she could tell by the worried look on Jonathan’s face that it was serious.
“What did he say?” she asked anxiously when Jonathan returned to her side.
“Moustache,” he replied. “It’s Swahili slang for lion.”
She followed Jonathan’s gaze with hers and gasped at the sight of a big male lion standing near the edge of a salt-lick, his tail swinging in lazy arcs.
“Look at his eyes,” Jonathan whispered. “He’s not afraid. We have to show him that we’re just as fearless. We have to walk past him.” He turned and issued quiet instructions to the porters. Grasping Julia’s hand and feeling her tremble, he said, “Stay close to me and do as I say and we’ll be all right.”
One after another the porters followed with Wakula in the lead, shield and spear at the ready. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, startling both Julia and the lion.
“What is he doing?” she exclaimed under her breath.
“He’s showing the lion that we’re not afraid,” Jonathan whispered.
From across the dusty plain came the strong, pungent smell of the lion and of death. They could see now that he was guarding the carcass of a small impala, his jowls stained red with the blood of his prey. His tail ceased swinging, and his great maned head turned toward them.
Under his restraining hand Julia felt Jonathan’s muscles tighten. “He’s angry,” Jonathan said. “He’s trying to decide whether or not to attack. Stay here and don’t move.”
He didn’t want to tell her that if the lion charged, there would be no time to escape, and that it would surely kill or maul one of their party before it could be stopped. Tiny beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and trickled down the sides of his face. He went down on one knee, raised the Winchester to his shoulder and took careful aim. Wakula stood beside him, a nocked arrow trained on the beast.
The lion rushed at them.
From where she watched with wild, frightened eyes, Julia saw Jonathan stand up, motionless and ready.
The dust billowed beneath the lion’s massive paws when he stopped just yards from Jonathan. For many tense moments the man and the animal stared into each other’s eyes, each challenging the other to make the next move. With deliberate slowness Jonathan lowered the rifle.
Perhaps it was the realization that the tall, blue-eyed human meant him no harm, or the great beast simply tired of the challenge, but it had all the appearances of a truce. The lion remained where it was, neither advancing nor retreating, its tail slicing the grass like a scythe, its coat crusted with the dried blood of the impala, its golden eyes watching for any sign of treachery.
Jonathan backed slowly away and motioned for them to leave. As they left the lion to his kill, he fell in place beside Julia.
“Of all the damn-fool stunts!” she charged, trembling now with rage as she stomped along.
He was stunned by her reaction. “What are you so angry about?”
“Do you have any idea of the danger you were in by facing down that lion?”
“I knew what I was doing,” he said defensively.
“What if he had attacked you? You could have been seriously hurt.”
“I’m prepared for that. I carry a vial of morphine with me at all times.”
She shot an angry glance at him. “And do you also carry a coffin with you? For God’s sake, Jonathan, he could have killed you.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “Does that mean you care what happens to me?”
“I care what happens to me,” she countered. “If you’re killed, what will I do then?”
He didn’t delude him
self into thinking he was anything more to her than a means to an end, but hearing it was like a punch to the solar plexus. The air went out of him and he stopped in his tracks as she stormed on ahead. His own temper surfaced in a heartbeat. Catching up to her in several long strides, he caught her arm and spun her around to face him.
“If my shot didn’t take him down, Wakula’s poison arrow would have. And if anything happens to me, Wakula can get you back to the farm. From there you can make arrangements to get to Nairobi or anywhere else you want to go. Does that satisfy you?”
She tried to wrench free, but his fingers refused to relinquish their hold. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then say what you meant. Say it!”
“I—I can’t explain it. Last night I thought—”
“You thought what? Did you remember something?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t a thought or a memory. It was more of a feeling.”
“A feeling about what? About me?”
“I don’t know, I tell you. Don’t ask me to explain what I don’t understand.”
His fingers bit into her tender flesh. Tiny blue veins spiked his temples, and his voice grated angrily through clenched teeth. “Try.”
“I can’t,” she exclaimed. “Just leave me alone.” Pulling free of his grip, she stalked away.
A tight line formed over Jonathan’s mouth as he watched her go. Had last night sparked a memory of their nights together and their words of love whispered beneath the African stars? Did his touch remind her of how it used to be between them, how they could not keep their hands off each other, how their passion threatened to set the whole Rift Valley on fire? How much longer could he endure this torture? He wanted to catch up to her, drag her into his arms and tell her everything. But he knew he would not act upon the desperate impulse, not if it meant causing her more harm and losing her forever. His only hope was to wait.
He turned to Wakula who had watched the exchange with his usual laconic look. With a hapless shrug, he signaled with his fingers for the Swahili tracker to keep an eye on her while he went back to check on the porters.
Chapter Fifteen
From out of the mist a voice was calling.
Although it was too far off to place any significance to it, something about the accent and the way he spoke told her he was British. She turned her head, straining to hear it better, but it faded away, enveloping her in a silence so deep it had a sound of its own.
Something flashed in the darkness. She tried to move toward it, but couldn’t. Her body felt like lead. She waited, inert, with no power of movement or motion as the brightness coalesced into form, shimmering like a mirage in the hazy distance. Something was there, just beyond her reach.
Across the dry, flat savanna an image appeared like a weary traveler under a baking sun. She heard him breathing as he came nearer. It was a man. He wore a white suit that gleamed against the brightness. Where his face should have been was a black hole from which issued a voice. Unlike the voice that had called softly from out of the mist, this one hissed a familiar warning. “If you know what’s good for you, you will leave this place and never come back.”
She tried to see his face, but saw only the glint of his eyes in the black hole.
“You heard too much. You’ll have to die.”
“I swear I won’t say anything,” she cried.
The man in the white suit lifted his rifle.
“Oh, please,” she said, her voice scratching at the back of her throat. “Please…”
The rifle swung at her, the stock moving in an arc aimed at her head.
Disbelief. And pain. Terrible pain.
She crumbled to the ground. Through eyes growing dull she saw him hurry away and heard his shriek of laughter as he disappeared into the bush.
She had no idea how long she lay there, half-in, half-out of delirium, the blood that leaked from her head wound staining the ground.
Opening her eyes, she looked up at the stars that were beginning to glitter in the African sky and said a silent prayer of thanks for the night coming to rescue her from the terror of the day. Until she heard a sound that plunged her into a new and different brand of terror. She tried to move but the pain was too great and her head spun wildly. A moan passed her parched lips, but the sound was cut short by the deep, menacing roar of a lion.
No! No! No!
From out of the mist a voice was calling.
“Julia. Julia. Wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered open. She lifted her hand to her head. There was no lump at her temple, no sticky blood beneath her fingertips, no pain. Nevertheless, sensations of fear
and terror tore through her.
Blinking past the after-effects of the nightmare, she came fully awake to find a face bent over her, blue eyes intent upon her. They were pretty eyes, like the sky on a cloudless day, in a handsome face fraught with worry. With a stifled moan, she sat up.
Jonathan put his arm around her and held her close. “You had a bad dream, but you’re awake now. And safe.”
Wrapped in the curve of his arm, her trembling subsided. “This wasn’t like the other dream,” she said. “The one that’s been haunting me for the last two years. This one was terrifying.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She stiffened and said haltingly, “There was a man in a white suit. He said I would have to die because I heard too much. He hit me with his rifle. I lay on the ground bleeding. I couldn’t move. I heard the roar of a lion. And then, nothing.” She looked at him, struck by the desperate desire to sink into the protection of his arms. “What does it mean?”
“I think it was a memory. But what about the other dream, the one you said you’ve been having for two years?”
Julia sucked in her breath. A flush of embarrassment stained her face. In an attempt to hide it she turned her head away. “There’s a man in that one, too. I don’t know who he is. He makes love to me and makes me feel like I’ve never felt before. I can touch him and hear him and feel him all around me, but I can’t see his face.”
Jonathan wanted to shout Look at me. See my face. Remember me. “Could that also be a memory?” he tautly suggested.
She moved out of his embrace and swung her legs around to the side of the camp bed. “I don’t know. It seems so real, so it must be. That’s why I have to find him.”
The color drained from his face. He rubbed his hands over his eyes as he grappled with himself over just how much to tell her about the dream, about himself, about Roger Thorpe.
He let the silence linger. Then he swallowed hard and said quietly, “This man you’re looking for, Roger Thorpe, he’s not what you think he is. He’s the leader of a poaching ring. He’s made his fortune slaughtering elephants for their ivory and men who cross him. I’ve been after him for years, but he’s always one step ahead of me. He’s unscrupulous and dangerous. Do you honestly think you could have fallen in love with a man like that?”
Partial truth was better than none, he reasoned as he waited impatiently for her response.
“If what you’re saying is true, then, no, I don’t think so. But I couldn’t have known that about him.”
“Everybody in the protectorate knows that about him.”
He could tell by her expression that she was not convinced.
“Could it be rumor?” she ventured.
“I wouldn’t call giant gray corpses littering the ground with their tusks sawed off and their thick hides full of arrows a rumor,” he bitterly responded.
“Yes, but—” The scream of baboons interrupted her thoughts.
“Last summer I found an entire bachelor herd slaughtered not far from here,” he went on. “An Abyssinian lay close by barely alive with a bullet wound to the chest. He’d been shot by one of the King’s African Rifles, probably an askari who saw hard service during the war. The Abyssinian died, but not before I got some answers out of him.”
“Did he n
ame Roger Thorpe?”
“There’s no way he would have known Thorpe’s name. The Abyssinian system is feudal. These poachers answer to a regional lord who, in turn, pays tribute to a governor appointed by the emperor.”
“Then what proof do you have that’s he’s involved?”
He gave her a dry look. “The worst mistake you can make out here is to assume you know what an animal is going to do. But men are different. They give themselves away. I’ve seen Thorpe at the Muthaiga Club. He reeks of it, and that’s all he proof I need.”
“Why hasn’t he been apprehended?”
“Because he has friends in high places who like the income his illegal activities provide. How else do you think some of those government officials live as well as they do? I doubt the crown pays them enough for fine champagne and race horses.”
A sudden realization lit in her eyes. “You’re not taking me to Roger Thorpe, are you?”
He shook his head.
Looking dejected, Julia slumped back down onto the camp bed. “Then I won’t know if he’s the one if I never see him.”
“You’ve already seen him.” In answer to the questioning eyes that turned on him, he said, “In Nairobi. The man in the white suit.”
“That was Roger Thorpe?”
“In the flesh.” He could see she was struggling to assign recognition to the face. “Did it trigger a memory?”
She replied hesitantly. “No. But Jonathan, the man in the nightmare wore a white suit.”
“White suits are all the rage,” he said. “Probably the only man who doesn’t own one is me.” He got up. “Wash your face and get dressed. As fetching as you look in that little thing you’re wearing—”
“A camisole,” she said, just now realizing the sight she presented dressed in next to nothing. Not that he hadn’t seen so much more of her, she thought, cheeks reddening.