A Kiss of Adventure

by Catherine Palmer

  Tillie dropped the banana peel into the grass. “Where am I supposed to sleep? Are you going to set up a tent or something?”

  “There’s your tent.” Graeme jabbed a thumb toward the Land Rover. “Home.”

  Tillie stiffened. “I’m not sleeping in there with you.”

  “What’s the matter? Wouldn’t your boyfriend approve?”

  “Arthur Robinson is my fiancé . . . sort of. And no, he would not approve.”

  “Arthur Robinson. That gray suit you were with? Well, I’d sure obey him if I were you.”

  Tillie bristled. He was baiting her. “I don’t obey Arthur. I obey my—my moral values. And my conscience.”

  Angry with herself and with Graeme, she stood. Walking toward the Land Rover, she stared up at the moon. Why hadn’t she told him she was a Christian? That she obeyed Jesus? Why couldn’t she just say it?

  Fuming, she climbed into the back of the vehicle, formed a pillow from a pile of clothes, and closed her eyes. She could hear Graeme moving around near the Land Rover. Lying stiffly on the hard metal, she thought of what he had said. Arthur was a fine man. He did deserve her respect, even her obedience.

  “I’m not sleeping out in the grass,” Graeme said, climbing into the front seat. “Okay?”

  “Scared?” she taunted him.

  “You bet.”

  Tillie wedged herself against the wheel well. She felt the front seat move as he tried to get comfortable in the cramped space. For some reason, the image of the last time Arthur had kissed her popped into her head. He was always so careful. He didn’t even like to hold her hand in public, and he never impetuously hugged her or gave her a peck on the cheek. Once, when she’d leaned her head on his shoulder, he had asked her to remove it. Those had been his exact words: “Please remove your head from my shoulder, Matilda darling.”

  She stared at the olive green wheel well. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father had never remarried. Hannah was already widowed when she had come to look after the Thornton children, so Tillie had had few role models for the proper behavior between a man and a woman. Maybe it wasn’t right to show affection. But then, why did she long for it so much?

  In a moment all was silent in the truck. She looked up at the stars winking down on the hidden Land Rover. Around it, a symphony of night noises swelled in intensity as the animals of Africa called to one another, challenging, seeking food and mates.

  “Look . . . Tillie,” Graeme said in a low voice. She went rigid as he leaned over the seat and put a warm hand on her bare arm. “I’m sorry about what I said. I’m sure your boyfriend is a nice guy. I know he’ll be glad to have you back safe and sound when this is all over.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And your folks, too. I imagine they’ll hear about this through the embassy.”

  Biting her lip, Tillie shrugged away from his touch. “My father lives in a remote area and probably won’t know about it until it’s over. My mother died when I was young.”

  Graeme was silent for a moment. “Well, it looks like we have something in common after all.”

  Tillie didn’t want to know anything about the man in the front seat. She didn’t want to feel sympathy for him. She didn’t want to like him. She didn’t even want to care about him—not in any deep way. Wasn’t it possible just to live out your witness and share the Lord with people without having a relationship with them?

  A man like Graeme . . . who lied . . . who had grabbed her off the streets for his own purposes . . . who was probably up to something illegal. . . . She didn’t know a thing about him that appealed to her. And she didn’t want to.

  If only this metal floor weren’t so hard. After being dragged alongside a loping dromedary, pulled nearly in two, and tossed headlong into a speeding Land Rover, her entire body felt bruised and stiff. Her shoulders ached, and a knot had lodged at the back of her neck.

  “Here, put this blanket under you.” He tossed it over the seat. “You’ll rest better.”

  She rolled onto her knees, spread out the blanket, and lay down again. She didn’t look at him—not more than a glance. He was big and his knees jutted up toward the Land Rover’s roof. This wasn’t right. Not that she would ever let the man touch her. It just didn’t feel right.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Thanks.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  “You, too.” She shut her eyes, and though she prayed hard, sleep didn’t come for hours.

  Graeme stared up at the black ceiling of the Land Rover. He preferred stars. He preferred silence. He preferred being alone.

  Not that the woman behind him wasn’t attractive. What man in his right mind would resent the company of a long-legged blonde with bright blue eyes and a smile that could melt butter? From what he could tell, she had a keen intellect, too, and a spirit of adventure to go with it. Africa didn’t beckon the timid.

  He glanced over the seat back at the sleeping figure of the woman he’d thrown bodily into his vehicle that afternoon. She must be tougher than she looked. He’d expected her to burst into tears, hand him the document, and beg to be taken to safety. Instead she had argued with him, tricked him, threatened him, and bullied him.

  He liked that in a woman.

  His grin died as her boyfriend’s image floated into his mind. Old Arthur probably liked it, too. The guy had nearly shot the Targui to save her. A stupid move like that would have gone over great with the Malian government. Graeme could see the newspapers plastered with it now. Love could do strange things to a man.

  Not that Graeme would know. He lifted a hand to the open side of the Land Rover and traced the denuded silhouette of the baobab tree with a finger. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in pursuit of a female. His research had taken all his time and energy in the past few years, and he’d been more than happy to lose himself in his quest. Things with women didn’t work out well for him. Never had.

  Of course, when you took into account what he’d grown up with, it was no wonder. That was fine, too. He didn’t need people around. Didn’t like them. Especially women.

  Now he had this blonde lioness tagging along. Her presence would attract the Tuareg like a swarm of bees to a frangipani tree. Any man with an ounce of sense would hand her back to her boyfriend at the first opportunity. Graeme McLeod had never had to be responsible for anyone but himself. And why should he? He’d taken care of his own needs for as long as he could remember. That was enough.

  He hunkered up on one elbow and looked again over the seat at the sleeping woman. She could be trouble. Already was, in fact. He studied the long braid that curled down her arm. Moonlight painted it a pale, lustrous gold. Gold. Like the treasure of Timbuktu. He gently picked up the hank of long hair and weighed it in his palm. Soft, heavy, it was warm from the contact with her skin. He held it to his nose and shut his eyes. How long since he’d been this close to another human?

  The treasure of Timbuktu. What was it? She had asked him that evening. Just as he’d asked himself a thousand times before. He didn’t know.

  But the scent of her golden hair tugged at him more surely than the promise of all the treasure in Timbuktu.

  His eyes flew open at the realization, and he dropped her braid as though it had stung him. Sinking back onto the Land Rover’s cramped seat, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared out at the baobab tree.

  THREE

  A jingling sound disturbed Tillie, and she rolled over. She heard voices . . . low male voices murmuring, conferring. A branch broke. Coming fully awake, she listened to the sounds from the edge of the clearing.

  “Graeme?” she whispered.

  Nothing. The Land Rover was empty. As a prickle of alarm slid down her spine, she sat up. “Graeme?”

  He opened the Land Rover door. “Mornin’, glory.”

  “Where were you?” She looked into his eyes. Blue-green in the morning light, they were soft, almost gentle. “I—I thought I heard something.
”

  “Sleep well?” He climbed into the front seat, put the key in the ignition, and turned toward her.

  “Sort of.”

  “You wiggled.”

  “You snored.”

  He grinned. She let her focus dart from his eyes to his powerful arms and back to the mane of dark hair framing his face. How could anyone look so fresh at this hour of the morning? Brushing awkwardly at her tangled hair, she realized how dirty and stiff she felt. The blue cotton skirt she had ironed the morning before was now creased into a hundred wrinkles, and her sleeveless blouse had lost a button.

  “Well,” she said, coughing slightly. “I guess you didn’t hear anything then? Back there—”

  “I heard ’em, all right.” He peered through the brush toward the road they’d driven down the day before. “Camels.”

  “Camels?” Tillie gasped. “Tuareg!”

  “Time to catch the school bus.” Graeme turned the key, put the Land Rover in gear, and sped out of the clearing onto the track just ahead of the long parade of camels. The fearsome blue-veiled figure atop the largest camel drew his sword, shouted, and spurred the caravan toward the vehicle.

  “Here they come!” Tillie shouted over the rattle of the Land Rover’s wheels. “Go!”

  “I’m going.”

  “Can’t you drive any faster?”

  “This baby’s doing good to get up to forty.”

  “Forty! What kind of a vehicle only goes forty?”

  “This one. Get up here, and tell me what our pals are up to.”

  She clambered into the front seat beside him and peered past his shoulder as the gaily decorated camels slowly receded in the trailing dust. Their veiled drivers continued to shout and brandish swords that glinted pink in the early light.

  “They’ve fallen back, but they’re mad,” she told him. “And they know they’re on the right track.”

  “No doubt about that one. We’ll have unwanted company all the way to Timbuktu.”

  Chewing at her lower lip, Tillie realized that although the Land Rover outdistanced the camels, the road had narrowed into a single rutted lane. She glanced at the gas gauge. Less than half a tank. She’d seen a gas can bolted to the rear of the Land Rover, but could they get far enough ahead of the Tuareg to have time to make use of it?

  The muddy Niger also took on a new look. Its normally placid flow had churned into bubbling white rapids. The shallow water rushed over glass-smooth stones and swirled into pools dug by spinning pebbles. “Hand me a banana, Mat,” Graeme shouted as he drove.

  “Mat?”

  “Matilda, right?”

  “Tillie.”

  She reached over the seat, pulled two bananas from the bunch, and handed one to Graeme. Then she leaned back, peeled her breakfast, and tried to keep her thoughts as far as she could from the man beside her. It was impossible to talk over the roar, which was too bad because conversation would have distracted her. As it was, she had the dubious privilege of being able to study her companion at length— something she refused to do! She didn’t want to waste any energy dwelling on an adventurer who courted danger and was probably up to no good.

  Better to think about her neem trees. She was sure the small staff PAAC had employed for her could look after them. Still, it bothered her to be away.

  Mat. What kind of a dumb nickname was that? Better than Matilda, anyway. She wished Arthur wouldn’t call her that. Even darling got on her nerves. Mat. It made her sound tough. Spunky. Bold.

  Never mind! she scolded herself, realizing where her thoughts had drifted again. You have more important things to figure out. Such as how to get word to Hannah and Arthur, what to do if the Tuareg got their hands on her, and what the writing in the amulet meant.

  Mornin’, glory, he’d said to her. She sort of liked that. As though she were a flower. A growing thing. She liked the way he’d smiled at her, too. Calm and assured, even though he’d already seen the camels. Even though she looked like a dust mop on a bad day.

  Tillie’s relentless thoughts drifted from her banana to his hands. His long fingers spread over the steering wheel, and he worked the rattling gearshift expertly. He had rolled his window down, and his hair blew away from his face, revealing the hard planes and angles. How had he broken his nose? Why did he always grit his teeth? She could see the dust settling on the ends of the long black lashes that framed his deep-set eyes.

  Where had this man come from? What had brought him to Africa? The amulet, of course. The journal of Mungo Park. The treasure of Timbuktu. But why did he look so comfortable here? So much more at home than Arthur.

  At the thought of her almost-fiancé, Tillie shook herself mentally. Will you stop already? The best thing you can do about Graeme McLeod is ignore the man! Sufficiently chastised, she settled back in her seat, determined to follow her own counsel.

  They drove without speaking, and Tillie watched the rapids melt away and the river return to placid brown.

  Finally, Graeme pulled the Land Rover to a stop and broke the quiet. The sun had passed its zenith and was lowering in the west, and the rays filtered through the dust settling around the vehicle. “It’s time to eat and gas up,” he said. He reached behind him, opened a box, and took out two more bananas.

  Tillie mentally groaned in hunger, but she said nothing as he offered her one.

  “Banana?”

  “Thanks.” She began to peel. “Graeme, I’m glad you’re taking me to Timbuktu instead of . . . well, what I mean is, I’m thankful for the Land Rover. I don’t think I’d do too well on a camel.”

  “You’d be fine on a camel.” He smiled at her. “The skirt might be a little awkward.”

  “I guess it would.”

  Tillie took another bite and looked out the window, suddenly uncomfortable. Though there was nothing overly personal in the comment, the look in his eyes had held a warm awareness. All she’d intended to do was thank him, not draw his attention to herself. That was the last thing she wanted.

  In fact, she told herself stubbornly, at this moment what she wanted most was a good hot meal and a warm bed. At home. With Hannah. Surrounded by security and safety.

  Are you sure? a soft voice within her inquired, and she shifted uneasily in her seat. Of course she was sure! And yet . . . she couldn’t deny that the escape that morning had done more than startle her. She’d felt a rush of excitement when the Land Rover roared out of the clearing and she saw that they had outmaneuvered the amenoukal.

  “I’m glad you spotted the Tuareg this morning,” she said, trying to dispel the awkwardness of the moment. “I don’t know what they want with the amulet, but they’re sure determined.”

  “What they want is the treasure.”

  She studied him for a moment. “What do you want, Graeme? Are you after treasure, too?”

  He inclined his head. “Of a sort.”

  “What sort? You told me you’ve been tracking this down for more than a year.”

  “I have. And I’ll get it. No matter what.”

  “No matter what? No matter if someone gets hurt? No matter if you have to do something illegal? No matter what happens to me?”

  His profile hardened. “Those are not my primary concerns right now. I’ve got to get to Timbuktu before the Tuareg do.”

  Tillie stared at him. “So you don’t care whether I’m safe or not?”

  “You’re safe.”

  “But you don’t care. I don’t know where the treasure is, so I’m useless to you, right?”

  “You’ll slow me down.”

  “Wait a minute.” Tillie flung the banana peel to the floor. “You mean if I’d been outside the Land Rover this morning and the Tuareg had gotten too close, you would have driven off without me? You’d have left me there?”

  “Hold it, now!” Graeme shot her a frowning glance. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “That’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever heard. If I inconvenience you, you’ll just go off and leave me.”

  “
Inconvenience me? No. However, if you continue to get on my nerves . . . ,” he growled.

  “If I slow you down, you’ll leave me in the desert. You’ll let the Tuareg have me.”

  His scowl deepened. “Right now, I’d consider personally feeding you to a crocodile,” he snapped, throwing his own banana peel into the paper sack behind him. Without another word he threw open the door and stomped outside. Turning in her seat, Tillie watched as he lifted the spare container of gasoline from its bracket and emptied it into the tank. He was blazing mad—hotter than the afternoon sun beating on her back.

  Maybe she’d been wrong to question him. Maybe she’d judged him unfairly. Hannah had certainly warned her not to be judgmental if she didn’t want to be judged herself.

  Graeme stormed back to the Land Rover, climbed in, and turned the key in the ignition. The Land Rover sputtered to life, then coughed and died. He pumped the gas pedal several times, then tried the key again. Nothing.

  As he pounded the steering wheel, Tillie decided she’d better not criticize his motives again. She had no idea where he stood in this entanglement with the Tuareg—and if Arthur was close on their heels, it wouldn’t be long before she could turn the whole mess over to him and the government.

  Until then, it seemed much wiser not to further antagonize the man who, for the present, held her safety in his hands.

  “Great. Just great.” Graeme ground his teeth. Turning the key now caused only a useless whirring under the hood.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Tillie asked.

  “How should I know?” he snapped. “The temperamental thing has done this to me over and over. Slide over here and start it when I tell you to.”

  She watched as he opened the hood to pour a little gasoline into the carburetor. His faded shirt flapped open in the breeze, and he wiped a greasy finger on his jeans.

  “Now!” he yelled. “Crank her up.”

  She turned the key, and the Land Rover whined down to nothing, like the last sobs of an exhausted, crying child. She groaned.