The thought stiffened her tired spine, and her eyes widened a fraction. Ridiculous. Absurd. Totally impossible. There was nothing about this man that she liked or respected.
Liar.
She didn’t dignify the accusation with a response. Instead, she continued her study of her companion, watching as he stretched out full length, cocked his hands behind his head, and shut his eyes. When she heard his breathing deepen and felt sure he was asleep, she left the fire and sat down on her half of the blanket. Listening to the growing sounds of night, she threaded her fingers through her hair and began to braid it. Silky and thick, the familiar waves comforted her. The rhythmic motion of twisting the three hanks together began to calm her. This ritual she knew. She could braid anywhere, even at the edge of the desert in a night as dark as onyx. She could relax, let the tension ebb, bathe herself in the peace of one thing that would not change.
Behind her, a warm hand circled the plait. “Leave it down.”
She stopped, her heart racing. “I sleep with it braided.”
“Don’t. Leave it down.”
She dropped her hands and turned to him. He wore that look again—the one she had seen only once or twice since they’d met. Tender. Searching. Almost accessible. It was the look of a man who had chipped a small opening in the stony barricade around his heart.
His eyes beckoned. She looked away. She had no desire to know this man. She didn’t want to see inside his soul. She belonged to Arthur . . . to her work . . . to God. Graeme wasn’t a believer. The hard fact firmed her resolve to stay distant. She couldn’t let her feelings get in the way of what she knew was important and right.
“I always sleep with my hair braided,” she repeated quietly. She finished the plait, wrapped a rubber band around the end, and tossed it behind her. Willing herself not to think about the man beside her, she lay down with her back to him. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on Arthur. He liked her hair, and he never once mentioned the braid. It didn’t seem to bother him the way it bothered Graeme. Arthur was definitely better suited to her.
Arthur’s face swam before her eyes as exhaustion made its inroads. Pale blue eyes. Light brown hair. She could hear his voice now, so proper and British. All his plans. All his goals. Darling, Matilda. Darling. He thought she was charming, lovely. He wanted to marry her. Marry her . . .
“Sweet dreams,” someone murmured beside her.
It wasn’t Arthur’s voice. Nor was it his face that carried her into sleep.
Tillie woke with a start. A hard hand gripped her arm, and she felt a heavy breath on her neck.
“Be quiet!” Graeme hissed. “Don’t move.”
She swallowed and lifted her head, peering into the early morning mist that had rolled off the river. “What? What is it?”
“I hear someone out there.” He listened. “Great. Don’t those guys ever sleep?”
Adrenaline coursed through her. “Graeme?” She sat up. At first she could hear nothing. Then she began to distinguish a distant jingle, a low grunt, human voices. The Tuareg caravan.
Her breath hung as she leaned back into Graeme, instinctively seeking his protection. The amenoukal would find her. Her footprints were obvious in the dry dust of the road. What would happen? What would he do to her when he got his hands on her?
“I don’t know where the treasure is.” The words tumbled out. “I don’t know where it is, Graeme. I don’t know what Mungo Park meant—”
“Calm down.” Crouching behind her, he pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Listen,” he whispered in her ear, “if we let them pass, they’ll think we’re still ahead.”
“Our footprints are all over the road. They’ll know where we stopped.”
“We’ll have to count on the fog. It’s thick this morning. They’ll have found the Land Rover, so they know we’re on foot. Nothing we can do about that. Just be still. When we’re sure they’ve gone on past, we’ll take off behind them.”
“I can’t stop shaking,” she whispered hoarsely.
He rubbed his hand down her arm. “Fear no evil. Remember?”
Chagrined, she let out a groan. “I’m a jellyfish.”
She could feel his chuckle through her back. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If God’s looking down on this little spot of Africa at all, he’s got to be wearing a smile. Matilda Thornton: pillar of faith.”
Tillie shut her eyes. She was weak, and Graeme knew it. When put to the test, her faith didn’t hold up. She couldn’t keep from trembling and wishing for escape. As for trusting in the promises of God . . . well, she was trying. That was the best she could do right now.
As the sounds of the caravan grew louder, Graeme tensed behind her, his iron arms still around her. Tillie waited, barely daring to breathe as she listened to the occasional cluck of the Tuareg camel drivers and the steady tinkling of saddle bells.
She fought against the lump in her throat. Graeme had every right to mock. Where was her faith? She closed her eyes. Fear no evil . . . Thy rod and thy staff . . . valley of the shadow . . .
The sounds of the caravan stopped. A shout of discovery rang out from one of the Tuareg, and the air suddenly filled with excited cries.
“Game’s up,” Graeme growled against her ear. “They’ve pegged us. We’re going to have to make a run for it. Follow me.”
He grabbed the knapsack, leapt to his feet, and started through the brush in a line parallel with the river. Tillie scrambled after him, her heart in her throat. A few yards away, she could hear the shouts of the Tuareg as they plunged into the thicket on their camels.
“Can you swim?” Graeme called over his shoulder.
“Yes,” she huffed. But a river filled with hippos . . . crocodiles . . . snakes. No, Lord. Please, not that.
Sucking in deep breaths of crisp morning air, she ran, heedless of the soft earth giving way beneath her feet. Run! she told herself. Run, Tillie! She hurdled a fallen branch, skidded down a stony escarpment, splashed through a stream. Climbing the bank on the far side, she tripped over a root and sprawled to the ground. Mud smeared the side of her cheek. The taste of metal filled her mouth. Blood.
Crashing sounds of the Tuareg camels closed in. Bells. Shouts. She pushed onto her elbows. Got to run, Tillie! Get up! Get away!
“Come on, Tillie-girl.” Graeme was there, pulling her upright, dragging her behind him.
“You go,” she puffed, her lungs bursting. “They want me. They’ll keep me alive for the treasure. But you . . . you . . . just go on.”
“Move your feet, lady! We’re not stopping now!”
They burst through the underbrush and out onto the sandy bank of the Niger. Fifty yards away, the Tuareg amenoukal, who had waited for his prey to be flushed out, swung around on his saddle.
“Oh no!” Tillie swallowed a gulp of air. “Graeme, look!”
Tall, regal beneath his blue veil, the chieftain narrowed his dark hooded eyes. “Enta da!” he bellowed, lifting a scrap of pale blue cloth like a battle banner. “Eglir! Tek! Tek!”
“My skirt,” she mouthed. “Graeme, he’s got a piece of my skirt.” It must have torn off as she waded through the thorny brush into the clearing the night before.
“We couldn’t have left a better calling card.” Graeme raked his fingers through his hair. “Come on; let’s head downriver until we can find a place to cross.”
“Io! Io!” At the beckoning of their leader, the Tuareg warriors swung back through the brush toward the river. The amenoukal spurred his dromedary full tilt down the road.
“Run!” Graeme shouted. “Run!”
Tillie sprinted behind him down the road. “O Lord, O Lord,” she chanted with every breath. “Help, help, please help!”
They followed the road around a bend in the river. Graeme began to outpace her, and she knew she didn’t have much left. In a minute he’d head into the river. She could hear the camels closing in. Go, Tillie, go! Her thighs ached. A sharp pain knotted her side. Help, Lord,
help! She was slowing.
“Hey!” Graeme shouted a few feet ahead.
Swiping at her eyes, Tillie slogged toward him in a slow-motion nightmare. Her sandals weighed two tons. Her mouth was a dry crack in her face. What was Graeme shouting about? He ran toward her, pulled her toward the river, forced her legs to run.
A putrid, musky smell engulfed her. She couldn’t breathe. Mere paces behind her, the mounted Targui lunged. His hand latched onto her collar. He jerked. Buttons flew. Tillie screamed.
Her feet flew out from under her, and she hit her head on something hard. As her vision swam, she realized she hadn’t been lifted up—she’d been thrown down. Down into something. And that something was sliding into the current of the muddy Niger.
Tillie rolled to her knees, aware that the dromedaries were charging into the river after them. Graeme thrust a short pole into her arms. “Push!” he shouted, plunging an oar into the water. “Push out into the river!”
She jammed the pole into the river bottom. The tiny boat inched toward midstream. On the bank, two native fishermen shouted curses at the white-skinned thieves who were making off with their dugout. But the danger lay with the lead camel—the amenoukal’s white camel—which continued making its way in the powerful river. The veiled Targui snarled at Tillie and unsheathed his gleaming broadsword.
“Graeme,” she uttered in rigid disbelief. His back to the shore, he was frantically pulling the rope that held the anchor. “Graeme . . .”
The amenoukal raised his weapon and let it fall in an arc aimed at Graeme’s neck.
“Graeme!” she screamed. “Watch out!”
Tillie heaved her pole out of the water and swung it over her head to block the attack. The shock of the broadsword smacking into the pole reverberated down her arms. The wood broke in two and hurtled through the air as she fell backward to the floor of the boat and breath whooshed from her lungs.
Graeme dropped the stone anchor beside her, and the boat swung free. Using the broken pole, he maneuvered it toward midriver. Caught by the current, the dugout drifted away from the amenoukal’s floundering dromedary.
“Hey!” Graeme laughed out loud. “We did it!” He reached down, grabbed her around the shoulders, and pulled her toward him, planting a kiss on her cheek. “We did it!”
“Did we?” She grabbed the side of the boat, as stunned by his kiss as by their escape. “Are you sure?”
“Take a look.”
The amenoukal, a demonic vision brandishing a broadsword, faded from view in the river mist. She let out a breath. “We got away.”
“Darn right we did.”
“Thank God.” Relief coursed through her. She hugged her knees to her chest and buried her head, fighting unexpected tears.
“Mat—you all right?”
Unable to speak, she squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the boat wobble as he moved to crouch in front of her. He unfolded her arms and lifted her chin.
“What’s the matter?”
She shook her head. “I was so scared. I’m still scared.”
“Come here.” He ran his hands up her arms, pulling her closer to him. “You were a champ. You saved my life back there, you know.”
Dismayed at the unexpected flood of warmth she felt for a man she shouldn’t trust, she shrugged away. “He would have killed you! It’s not worth it. Whatever the treasure is, it’s not worth a human life.”
“Nobody got hurt.”
“Not this time.” She met his eyes. “Look, we both know he’s not going to give up. We’re in this leaky little boat. A boat we stole—”
“We’ll get it back to the fishermen.”
“Maybe so. But how far can we go? The river may be deep enough for a boat right here, but Arthur told me it’s been so dry there are places you can just about wade across the Niger. And we’re moving at a snail’s pace. He’s going to catch up, Graeme, and I’m not about to sit by and watch him behead you. It’s all a misunderstanding, anyway. The treasure, the tree-planting woman, all of it. Once I explain that I don’t know anything about any treasure—”
“Explain? Was that a man you can explain things to?” The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Come on, Mat, cheer up. We won this round.”
She let her focus drift to the shore. Every time she looked at Graeme, she saw that sword swinging toward his neck. Her stomach turned over. She didn’t want him to die. Not on her account. Not on any account. She glanced at him again.
“Mat,” he said, taking her hand between both of his. “Tillie . . . there’s nothing wrong with feeling scared when the situation fits. It doesn’t mean you’re weak. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed. You’ve got a strength, something inside you. It’s something I’ve never seen. Back on the road yesterday you told me you didn’t believe God ever abandons us. So this morning in the brush and on the river . . . did he?”
“No. His love never leaves us.” Pulling her hand away from his, she stared out at the swirling brown river. “But that doesn’t mean we live under some lucky charm, some guarantee of safety or protection. We can be victimized by circumstances like illness or accidents . . . or by human evil. It’s just that during those times we know he’s there, loving us, helping us endure. All our lives, in whatever we face, he loves us and stays with us.”
Graeme studied her face for more than a minute, his eyes searching hers as if he could read answers in them. “If you honestly believe the God of the entire universe is with you through every problem, and he’s always there to love you no matter what, that’s something. That’s really something.”
“I’m sure of it.” She managed a smile. “And maybe because of it, I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Aw, I thought your worries had something to do with the prospect of never seeing my handsome face again.” He sat back and regarded her with a lazy grin. “Now I find out you just want to make sure I don’t die before you can save my sinful soul. Baptize me in the waters of the Jordan. Pluck me from the fires of hell. Rescue me from eternal damnation. Wash my transgressions in the crystal—”
“Enough!” Tillie had to smile. “In the first place, I can’t save your sinful soul. That’s between you and Christ. In the second place, I’m beginning to like you better than I should. And third, if you’ve never felt the peace—”
“Whoa, let’s go back to the second place.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. Why had she let that come out? “Let’s don’t.”
“Let’s do.” His voice was quiet as he spoke. “Look, Tillie, the truth is, I didn’t plan on you any more than you planned on me. I didn’t count on . . .” He paused, searching for words. “I didn’t expect to . . . it’s just that I’m a basic kind of guy, you know? Happy, sad, mad—that’s about the range of my emotional makeup. I like to eat, sleep, take a hot shower when I can get one. I figure you live and then you die, and that’s about it. But while I’m here, I like to do things that make me feel good.” He bent and brushed a kiss on her lips. “Like kiss a beautiful woman.”
As he drew back, she covered her mouth with her fingers. His kiss, even though it had been feather light, burned in a way Arthur’s never had. Confused, she stared into his eyes as if he could explain why. He shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t have wanted him to. But he had, and she had. And now her heart hammered in her ears, and her lungs couldn’t seem to take in enough air.
“Looks like we made off with a mess of fish,” he said, turning away. “No wonder those two fellows were so mad. We stole their boat and their dinner.”
“Mmm,” she murmured, barely hearing him. She had wanted him to kiss her. She couldn’t deny it. She looked down into the boat. The minute Graeme had grabbed her off the street, she had felt them moving toward this moment. Now it was done, and she had betrayed the good, Christian man who loved her.
“It’s really more a dugout than a boat,” he said. “No seats.”
She stared blankly at the rough fishing net, a length of damp rope, and the fish. A dozen or more pe
rch lay squirming wide-eyed in a waterproof basket filled with water.
She couldn’t let it happen again. She wouldn’t. Graeme was not the right kind of man for her, no matter how attractive she found him. Come to think of it, maybe that was why she found him so attractive. Because he was dangerous, risky, all wrong.
You don’t even know who he really is, she chastised her heart. You’ve seen so many sides of him you don’t know which is the real Graeme McLeod.
What about his quest for the document and the treasure? Was he a treasure seeker like the Tuareg? Or had she guessed right about him being part of the rare-book smuggling ring? If not that, then probably some other illegal venture.
Whatever he was, Graeme was not for her. She couldn’t fall victim to his rugged looks and his air of adventure when she knew his heart wasn’t right.
Be strong in the Lord, she told herself. Be of good courage.
“Did you notice that village we passed a few minutes ago?” he was saying. “I bet those fishermen live there. We’ll send their boat back to them once we hit Segou.”
Tillie had not seen the village. In fact, she had done nothing but think of the escape. And then the kiss. Biting her lip, she hugged herself against the chill morning air. She had to get past it and move on toward her goal of handing her problems with the Tuareg to the authorities. Once she could get away from Graeme, the turbulent feelings he aroused inside her would ebb. Everything would be the same again. Normal. Comfortable. Predictable.
Graeme was handling the oar, expertly steering them midcur rent around floating driftwood and an occasional jutting boulder. She watched him, telling herself to recognize the truth. He was just an ordinary man; his kiss had been nothing more than a gut response to their escape; her inner turmoil was merely lack of sleep and a good meal.
“You’ve been on a boat before,” she said, making conversation.
“Haven’t you?”
“Sure. But you’re good at rowing. Last time I tried it, I went in circles.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “I guess in my line of work I’ve learned to run just about anything that moves. Boats. Motorcycles. Hot-air balloons. I ran a train once. Kabul, Afghanistan. Great place.”
A Kiss of Adventure Page 6