Court of Veils

by Violet Winspear

‘I don’t think it’s venomous,’ Duane said quietly. ‘I thought it was when I first caught sight of the beauty. Do they scare you?’

  ‘It’s beastly,’ she whispered. ‘I’d have died if - if I’d known it was that close to me.’

  ‘Do you want me to despatch it?’ he asked.

  ‘C-couldn’t you put it in a tin and throw it out of the window?’

  ‘Soft-hearted about a spider?’ he jeered, but for a brief moment he turned to look at her and those mocking eyes of his were more tawny than green. ‘Have a look on that shelf for an empty paint tin, and a dry brush. Hurry, child. Our hairy friend is beginning to stir and I don’t want to lose him.’

  She didn’t want that either, and she quickly stepped over the boat tackle lying about on the floor, climbed on to the pile of canvas sails and searched along the shelf of paint tins for one that would serve their purpose. To her relief she found one with about an inch of dried paint in it, and also a piece of stick that had probably been used for stirring turpentine. She jumped down off the sails and approached Duane with caution. ‘Here you are,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted from the spider.

  ‘Thanks. Now go and stand by the door while I pop our friend in the can.’

  Roslyn didn’t need to be told twice, her nails digging into her palms as with a deft flick of the stick Duane ejected the tenant of the web and clapped a hand over the top of the tin. He then suggested that Roslyn open the door for him because it might take longer to open the window and he could feel the spider tickling his fingers.

  She knew at once that he still wasn’t certain whether the thing had a venomous bite or not - instantly she threw open the door and stood back so that he could hurl the tin and its occupant far into the rainswept night.

  ‘And you call me reckless!’ she exclaimed.

  He grinned down at her, rain in the grooves of his face and one large drop running down a lance of his copper hair. It plopped on to Roslyn’s face and she drew back a little from him.

  ‘I was giving Beelzebub the benefit of the doubt,’ he said.'

  ‘Well, that’s more than you ever gave me, Mr. Hunter.’ She was retreating so he could close the door, when there was a sudden loud rumbling noise. It wasn’t thunder. It was as though a ton of coal was being shot down the face of the cliffs!

  The rumbling went on for more than a minute, then it slithered into silence ... a silence broken by one or two muddy thumps.

  ‘Whatever was that?’ Roslyn whispered.

  ‘A landslide.’ He spoke curtly. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, half the cliffs have slid down on to the shore.’

  He brushed past her into the boat-shed, grabbed the hurricane lamp and hastened out into the rain. Roslyn followed without thinking of the storm, as anxious as Duane to find out how bad the landslide was.

  Wires of unease were knotting inside her as she ran along beside him. Lances of lightning and shadow crossed their path like foils, and soon they were squelching through mud and Duane was warning her to watch out for large pieces of rock that could twist her ankle in an instant.

  She knew without being told that he was making for the path that led down from the cliffs, and she prayed they would find it intact and that they would be able to get back to the shelter and safety of the hotel. It had been crazy, venturing down here in the first place. The things she remembered made her feel more mixed up in her mind than ever.

  ‘Duane, what were you doing down here?’ The question had been in her mind for the past half hour, and she didn’t know why she asked him now, as they ploughed along in the mud and rain.

  ‘I was taking a stroll,’ he yelled above the rumble of thunder. ‘Did you think I followed you?’

  She cast an indignant sideglance at him just as the lake seemed to ripple with white fire. It threw Duane’s tall figure into relief, magnifying in its glare his wide, aggressive shoulders and pagan head.

  ‘Of course not,’ she yelled back, knowing full well that while she had been on her way down here, he had been with Isabela ... discussing deception and how much he disliked people who played such a game.

  She was getting out of breath, falling behind Duane and stumbling over lumps of rock that had fallen from the cliffs, a warning that they were close to where the landslide had occurred.

  Duane was several yards ahead of her by now, playing the light of the lamp up the cliffside. ‘Angels weep!’ she heard him exclaim. ‘The whole path is a chute of mud and rock. Come and take a look!’

  In her anxiety to take a look she hastened her pace without taking due care. Here the ground was not only littered with boulders, but the rain had turned the piles of fallen soil into puddles of slippery mud. Roslyn ran right into one of these and was thrown off her feet in an instant, landing painfully and awkwardly on her right shoulder. She lay stunned, the rain splashing down on her, and the pain of her shoulder making it impossible for her to rise from the ground for a moment or two. She was making the effort when Duane reached her side. He caught hold of her with his free hand. ‘What have you gone and done?’ he demanded, for she was unable to suppress a small groan.

  ‘I - fell over in the mud. M-my shoulder hurts.’

  He played the lamp over her pale face and muddy figure, then he set it down on the ground and explored her shoulder with a careful hand.

  ‘Ouch!’ she said.

  ‘I know it’s painful,’ he growled, ‘but you haven’t broken anything. Why the devil didn’t you take more care?’

  ‘I - I wanted to see how bad a state the path is in. Is it very bad?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The mud that just tumbled you is some indication of the state that path is in. Trying to climb it would be madness. It’s like a chute of wet black ice, peppered with rocks. Using the rocks for handholds wouldn’t work. The mud has probably loosened them and we’d only pull them right out.’

  ‘But—’ the breath was shocked out of her. ‘But we can’t stay down here all night.’

  ‘We’ll spend the night in the boat-shed,’ he said firmly. ‘It would be lunacy to attempt that climb. There might be another fall and we’d be buried under a cascade of mud and rocks.’

  ‘You’d risk it if you were alone,’ she flared, trembling from the pain of her wrenched shoulder, almost weeping with her need to wash off all this mud and climb into a clean, warm bed.

  ‘I might,’ he agreed. ‘But at the moment I am not alone. I’m stuck with you, you little hellion, and we’re both going to have to make the best of it until morning. The mud will dry as soon as the sun gets up. Now back to the boat-shed, young lady.’

  ‘I’m not going back.’

  ‘You are, my girl.’ He picked up the lamp and caught at her left arm. She struggled to get away from his grip, tears starting to her eyes at the pain she caused herself.

  ‘Now don’t make things worse than they are already,’ he chided her. ‘The boat-shed is dry and we’re both getting soaked to the skin out here in the open. If you want a cold or a fever, I don’t! Now be a sensible girl, before I lose my temper.’

  ‘Lose it!’ she blazed. ‘I shall feel more at home with you if you’re cutting and sarcastic. I’m more used to that than the “good scout” treatment. I prefer it.’

  ‘You little fool—’ then even as his hand tightened on her arm, lightning zigzagged across the lake, lighting up the mess that lay at the foot of the cliffs, and forking into the heart of a nearby palm tree. There was a fearful rending noise, then before the appalled eyes of Roslyn the tree exploded into flame from top to bottom.

  ‘Come on, let’s get out of this!’ And not waiting for further argument, he hooked a sinewy arm around her waist and hoisted her right off the ground. The mud squelched under his long strides and he made it to the gaping door of the boat-shed in about four minutes. He marched in, still carrying Roslyn like a rag doll, and kicked the door shut behind them. The door rattled on its hinges as he released her and they stood looking at one another in the flickering lamplight.

  ‘
You poor scrap, if you could see yourself!’ He put back his head, dark and rough with rain, and his laughter filled the room.

  ‘You look like one of hell’s angels yourself,’ she snapped back. Then wincing with the pain of her shoulder she sagged against one of the palm supports and wiped the rain from her face with her hand. ‘The way that tree burst into flame,’ she said, shuddering. ‘It reminded me of the plane when it crashed - the way it lit up from end to end, a-and then seemed to buckle with its own pain. I saw that - just before I passed out—’

  ‘How’s your shoulder?’ he turned from putting the lamp on a shelf. His eyes flicked her face, peaky under the streaks of mud. ‘Carrying you like a sack of oats couldn’t have helped, but you were acting like a stubborn little jackass.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she retorted. ‘You certainly have a delightful way of speaking to a girl.’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ He arched a mocking eyebrow. ‘I’ve met females who really go for that line. They consider the insult a prelude to seduction.’

  ‘No wonder you’re cynical about women, if that’s the type you’re used to mixing with.’ She tilted her chin scornfully, though she felt a spasm of nervousness as she took in his rain-ruffled hair above the captive devils in his eyes; his wet shirt moulded to the hard bone and sinew of him.

  Outside the rain hammered cold steel bars around this shelter on the shore ... she was intolerably alone with Duane Hunter, a savage, unpredictable man.

  ‘Why,’ he drawled, ‘do women always assume there is a hidden meaning in all male remarks?’

  'All women don’t assume any such thing. Ugh!’ She pulled the wet wool of his sweater away from her neck. ‘How I’d love a hot shower right now, and a huge warm towel to dry myself on.’

  ‘Me, too,’ he growled, grimacing down at the mud caking his shoes and the legs of his trousers. ‘With a mulled rum-punch to follow.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a big cup of coffee, all steamy and sweet.’

  ‘Instead, child, we are going to have to make the most of what we’ve got.’ He frowned and studied the pile of canvas sails, then he looked at Roslyn, slumped slim and tousled against the palm support, her teeth clenching her bottom lip.

  ‘Is the shoulder paining you?’ he asked.

  ‘It is a bit sickening,’ she admitted. ‘I think I must have wrenched it.’

  ‘Here, let me see what I can do to ease it - now don’t jib away from me like a nervous filly!’

  ‘Well, you’re always so rough—’

  ‘You think me a pretty unfeeling sort, eh?’

  ‘Yes, unfeeling - not exactly pretty.’ She met his eyes, green shot with devil’s gold. She felt him peel the soggy sweater up over her shoulders and he began to massage her neck where it joined her shoulder, gently but deeply. His hands were warm, the skin calloused from years of working among trees ... all sorts of trees and soils and their fruits.

  ‘The Indians might be primitive,’ he said, ‘but they know a whole lot about the human body. Indian women do this for their children when they tumble out of trees -there, that’s the spot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he was making her sleepy, that large, warm, calloused hand on her neck, her shoulder, her spinal column. The ache was receding ... and there was an uncanny silence all round that mystified her. Then she realized that the rain had died away. The storm was over, but she and Duane would have to stay here in the boat-shed until morning.

  ‘There,’ his breath ruffled the hair at her temples, ‘how does that feel? Easier?’

  ‘Heaps better. Thank you for the osteopathy.’ Now he wasn’t touching her she felt suddenly conscious of the updrawn sweater and drew it down quickly.

  ‘You’d better not keep that on all night,’ he said, frowning. ‘Maybe I can cut you a piece of that canvas to wrap round yourself, like a sarong. It is dry - h’m, let’s see if there’s a knife handy, or a pair of scissors.’

  He stepped across the punts and boat tackle and began to search the cluttered shelves. The flame of the lamp was smoking, as though the oil was running low, and Roslyn thought tiredly that she had been wrong about his lack of feeling. He could feel for others and be kind in his own brusque fashion.

  His wet shirt, she noticed, was drying on him. Though he was tough as his own trees, it couldn’t feel very comfortable. She shifted a sandalled foot forward, then back. She wanted to suggest that he remove the shirt, but she didn’t know how to say it without sounding ... provocative.

  A bubble of laughter rose in her throat and escaped.

  ‘What’s funny?’ He glanced round inquiringly.

  ‘Nothing - well, as a matter of fact I was wondering how to suggest you take off your wet shirt without sounding as though I’d like to see your muscles. Please take it off. You did mention something about fever—’

  ‘Fever? Oh, sure, that’s a legacy most jungle planters collect.’ He tugged the shirt out of the band of his trousers and whipped it off. When he turned again to the shelves, the smoky lamplight played over his upper body, revealing the pale outline of a scar that jagged across his right shoulder, deep in the brown muscles. An animal must have caused it, she thought. A jaguar hiding in a tree, leaping down when his back was turned and rending his body ... as that woman he had known had rended him on the inside. Turning him into the type of man whose kindness had to be counter-balanced by hardness. ...

  She had seen the muscles ridging his jaw when he had briefly turned to look at her. He had flung down his shirt as though, all at once, this whole situation irritated him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE had found something sharp and was ripping at the canvas ... rip, rip, cutting the silence like a lash.

  ‘I’m sorry to have put you to all this trouble,’ Roslyn said, wincing.

  ‘Being sorry after the deed isn’t much good! This canvas will feel a bit coarse, but it will keep you warm, and preserve your modesty. Do you know how to wrap yourself in a sarong?’

  ‘No.’ His tone of voice had stung. ‘But I am sure you do, Mr. Hunter, being such a ladies’ man.’

  He slewed round to look at her, copper-hard as an Indian in the lamplight, his brows meeting in a dark ridge above his green-gold eyes. ‘Worried that I won’t behave like a gentleman?’ He gave an unkind laugh as his eyes took her in from head to foot. ‘I only wish there was a mirror in this place so you could see what you look like. A half-drowned young cat comes nearest to it. Here you are, pussy, do you want me to show you how to wrap a sarong?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ she said, snatching the length of sailcloth from him and giving him her most withering look. He returned it, with interest, then presented his back to her and proceeded to unroll more of the canvas.

  ‘We’ll bed down on this,’ he said without looking round. ‘We might as well make further use of it. How are you managing?’

  By now she had his damp sweater off and was wrapping the canvas around her... more like a toga, she knew, than a glamorous sarong. ‘All right,’ she said, stepping out of her trews.

  ‘May I turn round and receive the full benefit of the seductive picture you must make?’ he asked sardonically.

  ‘Is there any need for you to be so - so nasty?’ she inquired. ‘I didn’t ask to be stranded in a boat-shed with you. I’d sooner risk that climb to the headland than stay here.’

  ‘I’m sure of it.’ He turned round lazily, flicking his eyes over her, a corner of his mouth quirking with amusement. ‘Pussy, you wouldn’t exactly qualify as a South Seas model for Gauguin - look, tuck that free end in just above your bosom. That’s the ticket! Now you don’t have to hang on to the garment for dear life. D’you feel comfortable?’

  ‘About as comfortable as a flea in the fire,’ she said witheringly. ‘It may not worry you, being stranded down here like this, but I - I don’t like it. People are going to think it - odd.’

  ‘By people, I take it you mean Tristan?’ An eyebrow followed the quirk of his mouth. ‘My dear child, he knows me well enough to be c
ertain I wouldn’t touch a hair of your head.’

  ‘I’m sure Tristan knows your tastes,’ she retorted. ‘But women aren’t quite so tolerant as men.’

  ‘By women, I presume you mean Isabela?’

  She nodded, holding the front of the canvas toga, though it was now secured, and feeling as gauche as she was certain she looked.

  He studied her, his eyes narrowed, then he resumed his task of fixing them a couch for the night. His back muscles rippled as he shifted boat tackle to one side, making room for one of the punts to be hoisted and righted. He then took hold of the lamp, spluttering and darkening by the minute, and played its smoky light from stem to stern of the punt. It wasn’t harbouring any spiders and, with his profile looking haughty in the lamplight, he lined the punt with canvas sails.

  ‘We should rest in this quite comfortably,’ he said to Roslyn. ‘You can take one end, I’ll take the other. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Hunter.’ She spoke in a more subdued voice, ick it had to be admitted that he was a resourceful man. The canvas-lined punt did look more inviting than the floor.

  ‘We’d better get into our gondola before the lamp goes out. Upsadaisy!’ He lifted her over the side. ‘When I get in at the other end, I’ll pull more of the canvas over us. Settle down, I’m just going to spread out my shirt, and sweater. They should be dry by the morning.’

  She curled down in the bottom of the punt and watched him lay his two garments alongside her shirt, trews, and muddy sandals. The lamp was spluttering out as he stepped over the side of the punt, which rocked as it took his weight. Roslyn was relieved when she heard him toss his shoes to the floor; being so tall his feet would rest alongside her face when he stretched out to sleep.

  She heard him yanking more of the canvas over the side. ‘Don’t be nervous about tucking it around you,’ he said. ‘I had a good look in case anything was lurking in the folds. Wow, it doesn’t feel exactly like the best linen, does it? Never mind, it will keep us warm.’ His long legs came slithering down beside her. ‘Are my feet anywhere near your face?’ he wanted to know.