The river lord

by Kay Thorpe

  It would have been so easy to simply let herself go with the tide, to give herself over to the emotions his hands and lips were drawing from her, to mould her body to his as every instinct in her so desperately yearned for. Only the knowledge that anger alone had driven him to the point of finally taking her kept her from tossing self-respect to the winds and giving him what he sought. To draw back from that edge of temptation was almost more than she was capable of, the denial of need a physical pain. She loved

  him and she wanted him, but without his love it would mean nothing.

  `Don't, Greg,' she pleaded against his hair as his lips brushed aside the material of her shirt. 'Not like this ...!'

  `Why not like this?' His voice was thick and rough, his hands unrelenting. 'You want me. You've wanted me exactly the way I've wanted you from the start. Stop fighting it. Find out what it's like to be a woman in every sense of the word. I won't let you down.'

  `No!' It was a rejection and a plea both together, her hands pressing him away from her with the strength of desperation. 'Let me go, Greg. Please!'

  He looked down in to the pain-filled green eyes, his own dark and smouldering. 'You don't mean that. Every inch of you is begging me to make love to you. Why try denying something so patently obvious to us both?'

  `I'm not trying to deny it.' Her throat felt like sandpaper, the words barely audible. 'I just don't have it in me to forget everything else, that's all. You don't ... feel anything for me apart from this.'

  Derision sprang in his gaze. 'Would it make any difference if I swore undying devotion?'

  `No, because we'd both know it wasn't true.' She met his eyes unflinchingly, willing herself to lie still in the hard circle of his arms. 'It has to be more than just physical, Greg. That might be difficult for you to understand, but it's the way I'm made. You can laugh all you like, you won't make me ashamed of it.'

  He was silent for a long moment looking at her, the faint shafts of light angling down through the green canopy above striping his features and making it hard to decipher the subtle change in his expression. When he did speak it was in tones gone suddenly flat.

  `Let's take the laughing as done with.'

  Keely watched him press himself to his feet, then came

  numbly upright herself, aware of her dishevelment. Pain formed an iron band across her chest as she accepted the hand he extended towards her and allowed him to draw her to her feet. It was over now, once and for all. He wouldn't be bothering her again. She had made sure of that. He had all he needed from her.

  `They'll be waiting for us,' he said. 'I left markers to show the way back. Feel up to it?'

  She nodded, unable to find her voice, then her chin firmed. So let him think and feel what he liked. Giving way to emotionalism wouldn't change anything. If he saw her apparently unaffected by what had passed between them_ his triumph would be short-lived.

  When she reached his side he seemed about to say something else, but whatever it was he cut it off, turning abruptly to lead the way up the short incline in a direction she was almost certain he had not appeared from. Only on perceiving the scratches left on spaced trunks along the way could she bring herself to accept that he knew exactly where he was. But then he always did. Nothing would aver bring Greg Stirling down.

  It seemed an age before they reached the edge of the forest and found the village again. The Colbys were relieved to see the two of them, the Indians unmoved. The forest was their home, the thought of anyone getting lost in it obviously beyond imagination. Whatever the source of controversy earlier it had apparently been settled, for no move was made to stop the party from taking to the boats. Keely had a feeling their departure was regarded with some thankfulness. They were a disrupting influence with little to offer by way of compensation. These people were self-sufficient —probably one reason why Greg alone seemed to get through to them in any way.

  The river was running no higher or faster than it had been earlier, but in close-up the force intimidated. Con-

  trolled by the paddlers, the canoes avoided the main current at the centre but nevertheless snaked with increasing speed over the slick smooth body of water now extending yards beyond its former outer limits. Yet once used to the motion there was a real pleasure to be found in the breeze created by their swift passage.

  From her seat in the bottom of the canoe in front of Greg who was paddling too this time, Keely viewed the scenery rushing by and found a fatalistic acceptance. If they were meant to capsize they would do so, and worrying about it wouldn't help. If everything went well they would be back on the Dorita by tonight, and in Manaus by the day after tomorrow. There she would part from Greg for all time. There was nothing to keep them together. She could even accept that right now.

  The first stretch of rapids roused no chink in her apathy, terrifying though the rumbling, tumbling white water undoubtedly was. They went down on the tongue, a V-shaped chute of smooth water in towards the left bank which cut between obstructions and contained no waves or whirlpools. It was a bit like being on a long, low roller-coaster, though without the assurance that they were going to come out the right way up at the bottom. When they did it was almost a surprise.

  `Better than I expected,' Greg commented when they were in straight-running water again. 'Feeling okay?'

  Keely nodded without turning her head. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the forward thrust of the paddle balancing that of the single Indian in front. Between the pair of them they had the river beaten.

  With three Indians to steer, plus the added advantage of extra ballast to keep them on an even keel, the rest of the party found little difficulty in navigating the same passage, falling in behind them again as the river carried them onward. Greg didn't speak again.

  They stopped for lunch where the river had flooded some distance into the trees not far below the second stretch of rough travel, tying up to a handy mangrove root to open up the strips of dried meat wrapped in palm leaves. Keely didn't feel like eating, but Greg insisted on it. The meat was tasteless anyway, and tough as old boots. She swallowed it with difficulty, glad of even plain water with which to wash it down. There was no time to brew tea. They still had a long way to go.

  It was the lower rapids which almost brought disaster on them. Before attempting to run them, Greg directed both craft into the bank in order to walk some distance down river and view the prospects. The river here was much wider now, the spot where Keely had bathed four days ago at one with the swift racing currents. The afternoon was well on. If Greg decided it would be wiser to port the canoes round this stretch it meant another night in the open, and another wet one, by the look of the sky. Even stopping for a short time one became immediately conscious of the breathless oppression of solid steaming heat.

  Greg came back looking thoughtful but determined. 'I think we can make it,' he said. 'We're going to have to make it if we're to beat the rain back to the boat.' His eyes moved to Keely as he spoke, assessing the clammy pallor of her face. 'We'll none of us be dry by the time we're through here, but at least it's still daylight. Another night in wet clothes and there'll be more than one case of fever. What do you say?'

  `I say we make the run,' Mark said without hesitation. `It's a calculated risk as opposed to a certainty.'

  Greg nodded. 'Jason?'

  There was a momentary hesitation before the younger man also agreed with the decision. Keely was not asked. Not that it made any difference. So far as she was concerned the sooner this whole affair was over the better.

  Their own canoe went first,- heading out for the bend which hid the beginning of the rapids from view. Keely's disinterest vanished abruptly on rounding it. Ahead of them the river dropped out of sight in one concerted rush, the water dark and moving with terrible power. When they went over the top it was like dropping in a lift, the prow pointing downwards at an angle which seemed almost to stand them on end. Where before there had been rocks showing at intervals throughout the drop there was now nothing but me
rging cataracts, only the direction of the flow revealing the danger hidden beneath the surface. Spray soaked them as the prow of the canoe cut into conflicting channels, one moment jutting clear of the water, the next almost submerged beneath it. Only the powerful use of the paddles kept them moving on a straight enough line to stay afloat.

  Keely could hardly believe it when they finally emerged after passing through the explosion of white water at the base of the fall and came out into the calmly flowing river width again. They had diced with death and won. Heart thudding, nerves strained to the utmost, she wondered dazedly how on earth the Indian in front of her could remain so unmoved by the experience. If she never faced danger again the memory of this last few moments would be enough to give her nightmares for years to come.

  Greg directed them to the calmer waters of the flooded banks to wait for the others to make the same journey, back paddling against the current to hold them steady. Seen from this angle the whole drop appeared impossible: a series of polished slopes finishing in a welter of foam. It had taken them well over an hour to port the canoes along the bank on the way up the river; they had made it down again in less than two minutes.

  The second canoe flashed into view, paddles slashing from side to side as the Indians strove to keep it straight. The

  Colbys clung on grimly to the sides much as Keely had done herself, faces frozen into masks. There was one bad moment when she was sure they couldn't right themselves in time, and then they were through the maelstrom and racing down towards them, relief written plain on the two white countenances at least.

  `Some experience !' Jason shouted across as the canoes drew level. 'Pity you couldn't have got some film of it as you came down!'

  Greg muttered something caustic beneath his breath and gave the order to press into the lead. Keely could sense his eyes on the back of her neck, but she could not have brought herself to turn round.

  `It was just one of those things people say in the relief of the moment,' she ventured after a while, and heard him snort.

  `Only an idiot makes a comment like that. Why bother sticking up for him now?'

  She didn't have to ask what he meant. She already knew. Jason had provided a defence of sorts against him; another man to stand between them. Where was the point now in keeping the pretence going? Greg knew how she felt about him. He had to know.

  `Shall we be staying with Paul again on the way down river?' she queried for want of anything to say.

  `No.' The negative was short. 'We keep going. There's a boat leaves for Balem in a couple of days. You're going, to be on it.'

  So there it was in black and white. But there had never been any doubt, had there? Greg didn't need her; he didn't need anyone. She was going home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THEY'D certainly gone to town on the spread, Keely conceded with gratification, flipping over the glossy pages. It was all there : Inman's story; Sir Mark Colby's involvement; the expedition to find the Fire Flower—and all with her name to it. The exposures had come out even better than she had hoped for too. The hardest part of the job had been choosing which ones they were going to use in the feature.

  `Happy?' asked the grey-haired, heavy-featured man seated behind the littered desk under the huge window. He was smiling as he said it.

  Keely looked up and smiled back. 'You know I am, Ben. It almost makes it worthwhile.'

  `Almost?' His eyebrows shot up. 'You mean you wouldn't do it all over again for the same incentive?'

  `Not in the same circumstances,' she acknowledged after a pause. 'If there was a next time I'd want to be prepared for all events.'

  `Practical but not always possible.' Ben Reynolds studied her for a moment, taking in the faint lines of strain beneath the fading tan. 'What you need is a holiday. Why don't you go somewhere quiet for a week? The next job will hold.'

  `I can't,' Keely said without regret. 'There's that television interview with Sir Mark this week, and I've three talks booked with various organisations.' Her face changed as the import of what he had said sunk in. 'You have another job lined up for me?'

  `You bet I have,' with a significant glance at the open

  magazine. 'How do you fancy becoming our permanent roving reporter? There's a team of zoologists going into the Colombian mountains to look for a cat that's reputed to have been seen there with sabre teeth. Probably turn out to be a myth, but in a region as unexplored as that there's sure to be more than one good story. You wouldn't be the only female along this time either. Two of them are women.'

  Colombia. Keely cast her mind back to the heat and the ever-present insect pests of the Amazon jungle and wondered if it would be the same. In the three weeks since her return to England the memories had remained as clear as if she had left only yesterday. They had reached Manaus without mishap, though somewhat later than anticipated owing to the grey mists which had made navigation on the main river so much more hazardous. The rains had arrived with a vengeance by the time they landed, and Keely had been thankful to join Sir Mark and his nephew aboard the river steamer down to Balem on the Atlantic coast where they could get a plane home.

  Of Greg she had seen nothing at all after landing in Manaus. He hadn't even come to the quay to see them off. It was as if having got them safely back he wanted nothing more to do with the expedition. There had been an attempt on the part of the magazine to get in touch with him in Manaus in order to verify certain facts and figures, but apparently he had already left the city. Where he was now no one seemed to know.

  Without volition, Keely found she had turned back to the quarter-page colour plate which showed the male members of the expedition on board the Dorita. She had taken it the morning they left Paul's place, without any of them knowing. It showed Mark and Jason discussing some point of interest on the port bow, and Greg at the helm, back to the 'camera, legs slightly splayed in that rock-like stance so typically his, the dark hair lifting in the breeze. It

  was all she would probably ever see of him again, she thought numbly.

  When she looked up Ben was watching her with a certain understanding in his eyes. 'Think about it,' he said. 'You've got a couple of weeks to decide. We can always send Whitfield along at a pinch, but he's hardly likely to come up with the same quality write-up as you. You've managed to make that stinking heat felt! I hear there's been a feeler out for you to write a book on the expedition. Any ideas on that score?'

  Not ones she was willing to commit to paper, Keely acknowledged wryly. The feature itself had taken everything she had. Nothing could persuade her to re-live that fortnight detail by detail again.

  `Not my kind of thing,' she said, and stirred to reach for her scarf and bag. 'I'd better be going. I've a luncheon appointment with Sir Mark Colby in half an hour. Thanks for the preview, Ben. The layout looked good in proof, but it looks even better here.'

  `We're on the stands,' he said. 'Buy yourself a copy for luck. And if you won't go off somewhere for that holiday at least stay away from the office for a few days. That's an order.'

  Keely would far rather have involved herself in work, but an order of that nature from Ben Reynolds was not to be lightly dismissed. He was too shrewd by half not to have guessed at least a part of the truth.

  The truth being, she reflected on her way out of the building into the cold grey January day, that she had made a complete fool of herself over a man who hadn't once given her any cause to believe their relationship could take on any permanency. The real problem was going to be in teaching herself to stop comparing every other man she met with Greg, to the former's detriment. So maybe they didn't

  make many like him. That should be a matter for thankfulness, not regret.

  Mark was waiting for her in the Savoy's American bar, looking suave and distinguished in a silver-grey pinstripe suit. He came to his feet on her approach, holding out a hand to her and bending his head to lightly kiss her cheek.

  `Hallo, my dear. Nice to see you again. What will you have to drink?'

&n
bsp; Keely chose a Martini, and sat studying the cover of the magazine lying on the table- while he ordered. The Fire Flower had come out beautifully on film, every shade of colouring showing up, the curving petals seeming almost to move. Yet nothing could surpass the actuality. To see that was to see perfection. If only the seeds the Colbys had brought back could be made to germinate. They had already analysed the soil samples and found nothing they couldn't duplicate under controlled conditions. Now all that remained was the waiting. Success would be the ultimate triumph. A totally new orchid to give to the world, and one of incomparable beauty.

  `You didn't buy this, I hope,' she said when she had Sir Mark's attention again. 'You've been sent complimentary copies.'

  `I couldn't resist it,' he admitted. 'Seeing it there on the stand at the station this morning gave me one of the biggest and best thrills of my life. The greatest of all, of course, will be if and when we see our own home-grown blooms first open.'

  `Is there any doubt?'

  `In such a field there's always doubt.' His smile was wry. `There's one man been trying to graft a unique hybrid rose from Tibet for eleven years now, and only just succeeded after three separate expeditions to bring back fresh samples. Would you like the thought of perhaps taking a trip back to the Amazon in the not too distant future?'

  `I don't think so, thanks.' Keely tried to keep her voice light and casual as she added, 'Have you heard from Greg at all since you got back?'

  `As a matter of fact, I have.' He patted his pockets and found what he was looking for. 'This came the day before yesterday. I must confess, I never expected to see him in England again. Always said he couldn't stand the climate.'

  Keely took the cable with hands gone suddenly nerveless. Greg coming here. It couldn't be true !

  The message was headed : Balem, Brazil, and said. nothing beyond · the bare details : Arriving Heathrow th. Staying Browns. She read it twice before the import really got through. The th was today. Greg was right here in London—or at any rate, on his way here. But why? Why now, after all this time?