by Marie Laval
The man tightened his hold, squeezing the air from her lungs.
‘I thought I told you to stay up there.’
She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Saintclair took his hand off her mouth, turned her over so that she faced him, but he didn’t let go of her.
‘You also said I was safe,’ she whispered back.
‘Why didn’t you stay put?’
‘There was a man…I stabbed him.’ She started shaking. ‘It was horrible. I’ll never forget it.’
‘Yes, you will. You did what you had to.’
He bent down and lifted her chin between his thumb and forefinger. There was just enough moonlight now for her to see the clear irises of his eyes and the line of his mouth.
‘I think we managed to scare our attackers away,’ he said. ‘Come.’
He took her hand and led her across the riverbank towards the camp. A scene of utter devastation awaited them. The tents flapped in the breeze, ripped open, their contents strewn around. Among empty bags, parcels of food, and torn blankets were the bodies of five men. Harriet didn’t stop to examine them too closely. From their clothing she could see they didn’t belong to their party.
They found Ahmoud sitting on the ground, wrapping a strip of cloth around his hand. Archie crouched next to him.
‘Harriet! Thank God you’re safe,’ Archie exclaimed when he saw her.
At one time, she would have rushed into his arms for comfort and reassurance. Not anymore. Their relationship had been strained since leaving Bou Saada. Something was irreversibly broken between them—was it friendship, trust, or a deeper feeling she might have once had for him? She didn’t know, but she found herself looking at him and wondering where the man she knew had gone.
Saintclair knelt down next to Ahmoud, to speak to him and make sure he wasn’t badly injured.
‘Where are Musa, Hakim, and the others?’ he asked.
‘They are chasing after the few raiders who are still alive.’ Ahmoud waved at the dead bodies. His lips curled into a smile. ‘You did well there, my friend. You got them one by one. They never saw you come. They were far too busy ransacking the camp.’
‘They were after the ransom money, of course,’ Saintclair said, grimly. ‘I can’t understand how they managed to find us. I only decided about our route at the last minute.’
‘Did they get the money?’ Archie asked.
‘No, I had time to hide it. We’d better tidy the camp now, get rid of these…’ He pointed towards the bodies. ‘And prepare something to eat. Everybody will be hungry and tired.’
It took over an hour to put the camp back in order. Two of the tents were too badly ripped to be fixed, but the others were roughly stitched back together. Ahmoud and Saintclair disposed of the dead bodies while Archie helped tidy up and Harriet took care of the meal. By the time Musa, Hakim, and the other men came back, she had hanged a pot of water to boil above the fire, lay pieces of bread on hot stones and mixed strips of meat with semolina, chickpeas and raisins.
Harriet’s cheeks glowed from the heat of the fire as she stirred the couscous, breathing enticing aromas of vegetables and spices. She thought of Aunt Elizabeth, who always complained about her lack of domestic skills. Her elderly relative would be pleased with her tonight. Tidying the camp and rustling something to eat for everybody in such a short time was no mean feat.
Harriet shook her head. Actually, Aunt Elizabeth wouldn’t be pleased at all. Not only had she killed a man to defend her own life, but she camped out most nights in the wilderness, exposed to terrible perils and in the company of wild, dangerous men. She wore men’s clothing, hadn’t combed her hair or taken a bath in three days, and probably looked like … No, it was better not to think about what she looked like.
‘That smells good,’ Saintclair remarked, coming up behind her. Her heart skipped a beat and she dropped the spoon into the cauldron.
There was something else Aunt Elizabeth wouldn’t approve of, she pondered as she tried to retrieve the spoon without burning her fingers. Something Harriet couldn’t hide from any longer. She added more raisins and stirred the couscous. Hoping that focussing on practical things would help block out the unwelcome, confusing, painful, yet exhilarating sensations the man standing close by aroused. It didn’t. To be honest, he didn’t even have to be near for her to feel that way. The sound of his voice, the mere thought of him, were enough for her heart to beat faster, for her skin to become hot and shivery.
She let out an impatient sigh and turned her attention to making tea. She was behaving like a naïve, infatuated girl. With her very limited experience of men, it was only natural that she should be impressed by Lucas Saintclair. After all, he was handsome, brave, and unlike any man she had encountered before. His was a life of danger and adventure in a wild, fascinating country. She spent every single day and most nights in his company.
There was also the fact that he had kissed and touched her like no man had before.
The memory of the moonlit terrace at Ksar-el-Boukhari made her hands shake as she added yet more tea leaves to the boiling water. She took a deep breath. She might be attracted to him but she neither liked nor respected him. Saintclair wasn’t chivalrous. He was ruthless and callous, a mercenary without any morals. He only agreed to help rescue her father because she had offered him access to one of the greatest treasures of all times.
She wasn’t in love with him.
She shook her head. Of course, she wasn’t in love with him, what a silly thought! Love was warm, strong, tranquil and reassuring. It didn’t cause deep churning pain, unbearable ache or constant torment. Did it?
‘If you add any more tea to that pot of water, we won’t have enough for the rest of the journey, Miss Montague,’ Saintclair remarked as he sat down and leaned against a large rock. He stretched his legs in front of him and closed his eyes, so still for a moment she thought he had fallen asleep.
‘I’ll show you something tomorrow morning,’ he said, his eyes still closed. ‘I think you’ll like it.’
‘What is it?’
He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘It’s a surprise.’
The evening was spent talking about the raiders’ failed attack and devising a new route to Laghouat, their next stop. Saintclair believed the bandits would rally more men and try again.
‘Something puzzles me,’ he added. ‘At first I thought they had followed us here, but now I’m not so sure. I would have seen them trailing after us…No, the only explanation is that they knew we’d come this way and they were lying in wait. What I can’t understand is how they found out about our route. This isn’t the easiest or the fastest way to the Sahara, by any means.’ He shook his head.
‘They were Tuaregs, weren’t they?’ Archie asked, finishing his second helping of couscous. ‘They’re known to track travellers, and raid villages and caravans.’
Lucas set his cup of mint tea on his knee and looked straight at him. ‘They weren’t Tuaregs. If they had been, we would be dead by now.’
He drank his tea and stood up. ‘I’m taking first watch with Hakim. The rest of you should get some sleep. Watch changes every four hours.’
Once the food and pots had been cleared and tidied away, Harriet spread a thick blanket on the ground and wrapped herself into her burnous.
The men rolled themselves inside the coats and blankets. Archie chose to sleep inside a tent. Soon the camp was quiet, and the only sounds troubling the night were the snoring of the men, the crackling of the fire and the occasional night bird.
Harriet couldn’t get comfortable. The ground was hard and cold, so cold she kept shivering, unable to fall asleep. She was still wide awake hours later when Saintclair and Hakim came back from their watch.
‘What are you doing out here?’ he asked, standing next to her.
‘Trying to sleep,’ she mumbled.
‘Why don’t you go in a tent?’ He grabbed his saddle bag and unfolded his blanket.
‘I want to keep an eye on
things.’
He let out a laugh and crouched down next to her.
‘I see you don’t trust us to keep watch.’
‘You can laugh all you want, but the more of us who are alert, the better our chances of staying alive.’
‘You’re damned right, Miss Montague. You look cold,’ he said, suddenly serious. ‘Move over.’
Ignoring her startled expression, he pushed her to one side so that they could both fit on the same blanket, then lay down against her and wrapped his own cover over both of them.
‘What are you doing, Saintclair? This isn’t appropriate,’ she protested, trying to pull away from him.
‘Do you want to be warm?’ He looked her over and raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s no better way than this, believe me. Don’t worry. I won’t try to take advantage of you. I’m far too tired.’
Silently, she lay down again.
‘Now, turn around. That’s it.’ He wrapped his arm around her waist and snuggled against her back.
Oh God, how was she supposed to sleep now? She lay still, hardly able to breathe. His hand was so hot on her stomach it burned, and his arm pinned her safely in place. She felt the warmth of his chest, of his legs encasing her.
He coughed.
‘I feels like I’m holding a wooden plank, could you relax a little?’
‘It’s just that…’
‘Go to sleep, Harriet,’ he whispered.
It was the first time he had said her name. It made her feel warm and mellow inside.
Within seconds, his breathing was deep, slow and regular. His arm slackened but still held her in place. She drew air in slowly, deliciously conscious of his warmth enveloping her, his body cradling her. Feeling a little bolder now he was asleep, she touched his hand, traced the outline of his fingers. He stirred and murmured something against her and she froze. What if he should wake up now? She would die of shame.
Better do as he said and try to fall asleep. She closed her eyes and imitated the regular pattern of his breathing, and surprisingly she drifted to sleep.
He had been awake since the last star disappeared in the dawn sky. It was a habit of his, never to sleep past dawn. The light was changing from dark blue to grey. To the east, pale yellow and pink hues added touches of warmth to the sky. He should get up, start the fire and go down to the river to fetch some water for the tea. Instead, he buried his face in Harriet’s neck and breathed in her scent—the rose soap she liked so much and her own delicious, female scent.
This was sheer torture. All he wanted to do was explore her body, slide his hands down the soft curves of her hips then slowly glide upward to her breasts. Even though she wore far too many layers of clothing for his liking, the feel of her body nesting snugly against his thighs and his chest stirred a savage, almost uncontrollable urge inside him.
He pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. She murmured something. Unable to resist any longer, he caressed her stomach in light, slow circles. He heard her moan softly. His fingers itched to explore further. He already imagined the feel of her breasts in his hands, the tightening buds of her nipples under his thumbs. His pulse throbbed, his blood surged and roared.
She stirred in her sleep. Her hips moved against him. He drew a sharp breath as fire coursed through his veins and pressure built. His hands reached up, eager to hold, caress. And take. Overwhelmed by the need to have her naked under him, to lose himself inside her, he pulled her closer and trailed his mouth along the tender skin of her neck.
He used the last of his self-control to make himself stop. He wouldn’t force himself on her. The scornful words she had said not so long before echoed in his mind. He wasn’t about to forget them.
He wanted her, that much was true, but if he ever made love to her, she would be awake, wide awake, and she would want him as much as she wanted him. He would look into her misty grey eyes and watch them become stormy and dark with passion. And then she would beg him to take her.
He pulled away slowly, made sure she was well covered and got up. A swim in the river, that’s what he needed. The cold, freezing water was sure to tame the fire inside him. As he walked away from camp, he waved at Musa and Ahmoud who had taken last watch. The raiders, whoever they were, hadn’t come back. They were safe. For now.
Chapter Sixteen
It was cold and she was alone.
She shivered and opened her eyes to a transparent dawn. She hadn’t heard Lucas leave. Heaving a sigh, partly relief and partly regret, she sat up and lifted a hand to softly stroke her neck. She just had the most delicious, shameful dream in which he had kissed her just there, again and again. He kissed her as if he really wanted her, and she had whispered his name. Lucas...She withdrew her hand. Enough of these silly thoughts, it was only a dream.
She got up and rubbed her hands along her arms. Her breath steamed in front of her. The difference of temperature between night and day never ceased to amaze her. How could it be so hot during the day and so cold at night? The heat would soar from the moment the sun appeared beyond the line of the horizon until the steppes became a hazy, burning hell, after noon. It was May and they hadn’t even reached the Sahara yet…She would never admit it to anyone but the journey was proving far harder than she had thought. It wasn’t only the heat and the relentless pace dictated by Lucas she found gruelling. There was the promiscuity, the lack of privacy. Her clothes were filthy, her hair stiff and matted.
She closed her eyes and felt a sudden yearning for the study in her London house. She could almost breathe in the mixed scents of leather, paper and wax furniture polish, feel the grain of her armchair under her fingertips and hear the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. She pictured herself opening the patio door onto the terrace and walking out in the spring rain. It was so vivid she licked her lips as if to taste the cool spring drizzle.
She shook her head, opened her eyes, and sighed as she looked at the camp. This was no time to daydream. She’d better get ready while the men were still asleep and wrapped up in their blankets. It was the perfect time to go down to the river. She took a liquorice stick out of her bag and started chewing on it to clean her teeth and freshen her breath. Then she extracted a clean pair of drawers and a chemise and grabbed hold of her bar of soap.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Lucas was in front of her. With his damp hair curling at the tips, his white shirt open on his chest and the dark stubble on his cheeks, he reminded her more than ever of a pirate—a strange pirate, of course, stranded in the desert, and a long way away from the sea.
She stared at the droplets of water that glistened on his chest, at the hard plane of his stomach, and swallowed hard.
‘I’m going for a swim.’ She gestured towards the river.
‘Oh no, you’re not.’ He crossed his arms on his chest.
‘Why not? What are the chances of my meeting with a lion again?’ she asked, defiant.
‘I wasn’t thinking about lions, more about raiders. The men who attacked us may still be lurking around.’
‘I think I proved last night that I could defend myself.’ Her voice quivered as she relived her terror when the man had jumped on her and tried to strangle her, when she had pulled her dagger out and plunged it into his stomach.
‘Hmm… You did well, that much is true.’ Lucas started fastening his shirt.
‘Is the man I killed still up there?’
‘He must be. I didn’t move him. I had enough with the other five.’
‘Then we must bury him. No man deserves to be left in the open to rot or be eaten by predators.
He narrowed his eyes.
‘Some do.’
‘If you’re not prepared to show any Christian compassion, then I’ll go up there and deal with him myself,’ she replied, although she had no idea how she would be able to bury a dead man on her own. She wasn’t even sure she would have the nerve to look at him, let alone touch him.
He shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose I’d better come
with you. I did say I had something to show you. It’s up there, in a cave.’
Her eyes lit up. ‘Rock paintings?’
He nodded.
‘Wait a minute. I’ll take my drawing things!’
She dug into her bag for her sketch pad, her pencils, and a box of pastels, and stuffed the bar of soap, the drawers, the chemise, her comb, and the liquorice stick in the large pockets of her burnous. Lucas looked at her. His lips twitched with repressed laughter.
‘Anything else you want to shove into your pockets?’ he asked. ‘Maybe you could take the tea pot with you. I’m sure we’ll be thirsty later’
She threw him a black glance. He grabbed a shovel then led the way up the hillside. She slowed down when they approached the spot where she had stabbed the raider.
Lucas glanced at her. ‘Sit down here, I’ll deal with him.’
‘I was the one who killed him. I should help…’
He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her down.
‘I said I would do it. Sit.’
This time she didn’t protest. He walked up to the corpse, knelt beside it.
She heard him mutter to himself in French. She might not understand the words, but his tone left little doubt in her mind that he was cursing.
‘That’s strange,’ he said at last. ‘I didn’t think the raiders were Tuaregs, but this one isn’t even a native.’
She jumped to her feet and rushed to his side.
‘Let me see!’
‘Look at his hair.’ He pulled the man’s turban off to reveal a head of dark blond hair. He turned the man’s head towards him. The open, glazed eyes were blue.
Kneeling down next to the body, he patted the man’s black tunic, the pockets of his trousers and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing, no papers, no letters, nothing we could identify him with.’
He slid a ring off the dead man’s finger and showed it to Harriet.
‘Only that ring.’
She held it in front of her. It was a large signet ring made of jade featuring a snarling silver wolf. She had seen such a ring before, but where? She closed her eyes, chasing after an elusive memory. Images flashed in her mind. A castle with square towers. A terrace overlooking a park that sloped down towards a lake. Stormy clouds in an evening sky. She was standing on the terrace, looking in through a window at a group of men arguing in a dimly lit parlour. Her father was there, holding a glass of brandy. Something glittered on his finger as he lifted his glass to his lips. He was shouting. She had never seen him so angry before and it frightened her almost as much as the nightmarish ring on his finger—a green ring with a snarling silver wolf. She had sat on the cold stone flags and curled up into a ball, too terrified to move…