"Perhaps then, he touched you here?” Smoothing the material of her skirt down, his hand moved to cup her breast. The way his fingers closed around the swollen globe made her head swim. The nipple tightened under the thin fabric and stood, an erect point rubbing against the soft cotton fabric. Delicately, he rolled the turgid flesh between finger and thumb, causing an aching wave of desire to undulate from the point of contact through her stomach to her core.
"Oh God, no.” She turned and buried her face against his shoulder.
"Did you want him to touch you like that?"
Blindly she shook her head no.
"What of me, shall I stop?"
"No, don't stop, please,” she begged in a high thin voice.
"But I must,” he teased. “However, I need to know how this man touched you in this ‘affair.’ Did he kiss you?"
Drugged by the feelings coursing through her body, Margaret blinked up at him owlishly.
"If I may?” he asked, and she nodded hesitantly, unsure of what to expect.
His mouth covered hers, tongue licking at the seam of her lips and she was lost to the feeling, caught between her heart turning over and the moisture gathering at her cleft where the weight of his body pressed his hard male flesh against her softness. Her lips opened and he plundered her mouth, sliding against her tongue, conjuring images of his body moving against hers in the dark. Slowly, he pulled back; feathering kisses along her throat and jaw. Over the roaring of blood in her ears, she heard him ask, breath brushing hyperaware skin, “Did he kiss you like that?"
Unable to speak, she shook her head ‘no.'
"Then sinta, you have not had an affair, but you will.” With that promise he teased her lips open and tasted her mouth again as she arched against his muscled frame, oblivious to where they were, “But not today and not on this boat."
Gently, he traced the contours of her face with a fingertip as if memorizing every plane. His eyes were a dark enigma as he withdrew emotionally, then physically, to his cot. Her body felt splashed with cold at his leaving, but it was well-timed. Sir Joseph slipped and tripped along the deck, blustering back into the room.
"We've arrived!” he announced shaking water droplets around the room like a hound. “Did I miss anything?"
Chapter Seven
The rain stopped not with the slowness of a good English storm but with a jarring suddenness that made Margaret rub her eyes in surprise. Hesitantly, she poked her head out of the cabin and looked around. The sky was still filled with clouds but the rain had ended, leaving wet puddles all over the deck.
Her body was still edgy with the unspent energy Rizal's touch had stirred and the rain had suited her mood. With its loss, she felt like she'd lost a friend.
"Does the rain often just end like that?"
"Yes Miss, in rainy time,” the captain answered smiling through the gaps in his teeth. He, like the rest of the crew, seemed a nice man, always courteous and friendly, and she felt a momentary pang at not being able to properly thank them for the uneventful trip. After the rocky portage from England, the smooth sailing of the small boat, even under the pounding rain, had been a relief.
Being this close to land made her feet unaccountably twitchy. With the exception of walking forty feet along the pier, it had been just over six weeks since she had set foot on the earth. For the first time in her life, Margaret fully understood the term “cabin fever.” The closer they came to land, the worse it got until she stood bouncing on the balls of her feet, trying to see more of the shoreline as the gangplanks were settled.
Finally, the passageway was in place, the officials had gone over the ship's manifest and the port tenders were moving the baggage.
"You are in such a hurry,” the amused voice behind her made her jump and blush. Slanting Rizal a sideways look, she saw his wide smile and watched as he waved to a group of men on the shore. The pier was more of a very narrow dock. With all of the workers bustling to and fro, Margaret was shifting impatiently from foot to foot looking for an opening when she yelped as strong hands grasped her waist and urged her forward.
"Come.” He turned and called back to the captain something that made all the men laugh.
"What did you just say?” she asked, more curious than annoyed at being the butt of a joke.
"That I had better take you ashore before you decide to swim for it,” he teased. “Would you like a tour of the town? Or would you rather wait on Hooker?"
"I'd love to see the town,” she gushed, “but why do you call Sir Joseph, just Hooker?"
"Two subjects at one time, your mind is always busy isn't it, sinta?"
Somehow, the porters managed to step safely out of the way as they moved along the pier. The wood felt funny underfoot and Margaret would surely have pitched into the water numerous times if it weren't for the capable hands at her hips. In her excitement to step on firm earth, she hadn't even noticed how intimate the contact was. The men on shore did and dark looks were aimed at her, causing her to falter.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be touching me, Rizal. Your friends seem upset by it.” The hurt sound in her voice was unexpected and she bit her tongue to prevent any more gaffes in conversation.
"Those are my father's men, his guards. I do not care if they are happy or not. They have nothing to do with me."
She brightened at the firm, commanding tone to his voice. He was the leader's son; perhaps he had the way of it that their opinion didn't really matter.
Upon reaching the ground, Margaret bristled a bit when Rizal didn't remove his hands. “I think I can manage from here,” she said primly. Instantly his hands were lifted and she took a step then a second but everything seemed wrong and she stumbled. The ground seemed determined to slide out from under her feet. Immediately, his arms banded around her middle.
"If I may? Please try standing still while your body adjusts to being on land again. After so long at sea the body forgets what land is like. The sea, she always moves. The ground, not so often."
More annoyed with her own stupidity, Margaret stood still and took in the sights of the town, or as much of it as she could see from the port.
The lanes were wide and muddy-looking but there were people hastening from place to place in odd-looking wooden sandals that kept their feet clear of the mud. The buildings were in neat, orderly rows following a clear layout. Most of the stores and dwellings looked to be made of stucco with thatched roofs, not much different from rural English villages. The main difference was the people and their clothes. Most of the women were dresses very similar to the native one she wore. A few had outfits that were more ornate with wide bows at the waist. There were even a few wearing what looked to be veils and shawls straight out of the Arabian Nights tales she had discovered hidden in her father's library.
Not paying attention, she heard Rizal engage the waiting men in conversation as they approached. The liquid language flowed past her ears until the words became hard and flew like arrows.
"Rizal,” she clutched at his hands still framing her hips. “What's wrong?"
"Nothing, sinta, we will take a small walk to get you proper shoes for walking in Tana Mapun. Then we will do as these men request and go to see my father."
The shopping trip ended up being much more fun than Margaret expected. Rizal ignored the protestations and demands of the honor guard and escorted her to a shop down the street from the waterfront warehouses. The woman inside made Margaret feel like a giantess, she was so small.
"Are all women here so small?” Frank curiosity was something she never learned to conquer.
"No, not all are as small as imp'o, the grandmother, here.” Dark eyes danced in amusement as she sat and pulled on the odd-looking stockings that went with the wooden shoes. “Without the coverings your feet would blister from the wood and rope,” he translated the explanation for the old woman as she teetered about the store. “Her daughter weaves, and she asks if you would need more dresses?"
Margaret felt guilty about allowing R
izal to buy her so many things. “I shouldn't allow you to do so much for me, Rizal, it is unseemly even for your people,” she said, spirits sagging.
He gripped her chin and met her gaze. “An hour ago I could have gladly taken your virginity. To my people that would have been the same as marriage vows. Consider it a courtship gift."
Margaret was too stunned by his words for her body to do anything but blush. Courtship? Was he really serious or just acting chivalrous after the encounter they shared on the boat?
"Do you really see yourself as so ugly and unworthy, little English songbird? You stir me as no other woman ever has. Yes, I want to pay court to you.” He stepped closer and nuzzled her ear, making her blush. “I also intend to take your virginity and make you mine forever. You belong with me."
As much as she wanted to argue that her place was in England, Margaret couldn't. Never in her life had she felt more alive than when Rizal was touching her. If her suspicions about the hunt for the Berbalangs were true, returning home wouldn't be an option anyway.
An hour later, Margaret was in possession of a small cache of new dresses, socks, and her interesting sandals. It felt like walking on little step stools and for the first few minutes, she staggered a bit but Rizal was always there, laughing, encouraging, and preventing her from falling.
The men waited patiently and escorted them wordlessly the rest of the way to the house of the datu. “We are not the most important of the three tribes on the island, we are second, but my father, he likes to act as though we are the best,” he explained walking into the whitewashed entry of his father's home.
It was a large, airy dwelling with tall windows covered with louvered shutters. A wide central stair off of the foyer led to the second floor. Voices from the rear of the house indicated where the datu was waiting.
Silently the honor guard escorted them to the back of the house where Sir Joseph was laughing and chatting amiably with an older, heavier version of Rizal. There were other differences; his skin was swarthier and his nose flattened as if from a brawl, but the dark sparkling eyes and easy-going smile made it simple to spot the resemblance. Unlike the guards, he bounded to his feet and happily embraced his son, speaking in a language slightly different than what Margaret had grown accustomed to hearing on the boat. She wasn't sure how she knew the language was different, but she did. One look at Sir Joseph confirmed her intuition. He was frowning, lost as the pair held a “private” conversation.
When Margaret made to excuse herself and take a seat next to Sir Joseph, Rizal paused and introduced her to his father. Hari smiled and took her hand, bowing over it, kissing the back, and she curtseyed in reply to the courtly gesture. The next volley of words made the older man look a bit puzzled then concerned, and he gave her an appraising look before laughing out loud and clapping his son on the shoulder.
"Where are my manners? Come and sit. This is a beautiful day and needs to be celebrated.” He moved to the portico where chairs were set up around a low table. “For the guests, yes?"
Gratefully, Margaret sank into the cushioned seat. The new shoes might have kept her feet clean and cool over the soupy mud in the streets but they took some getting used to.
"Well, now that Miss Thawley has arrived, I guess we should be getting underway.” Sir Joseph stretched and stood, holding his hat in his hands.
"No,” Hari said simply, turning to his menservants and issuing orders in the other dialect.
"I'm afraid I have to insist this time old friend.” Sir Joseph smiled graciously, moving towards the doorway that she and Rizal had just passed through.
"I say no. There is no rush, it is time for the meal and we will eat.” Hari gave Sir Joseph a hard look. “The trip to the Berbalangs’ tribe takes a day and maybe a half. I am giving to you a guide, why so hurried?"
Instead of answering, Sir Joseph twisted the brim of his hat in his hands as if considering how to proceed. “There is one place I wished to stop and record photos and other details before leaving for the tribe. It will take only an evening for myself and Miss Thawley to do this. We would be back in the morning to meet our guide."
"Where is this place?” The wide-open face of the datu went studiously blank, as the aging Englishman stonewalled the question. “There is no place on my island that you can go without my say-so."
Sir Joseph nervously cleared his throat and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, sponging his brow. “Technically it is not your island; it is under the authority of the Americans who've given me all the authority I need to do what I feel is best."
There was a long, tension-filled pause as the two men stared impassively at the other. “Ah,” Hari didn't explode as Margaret feared he would, rather he wiggled into his chair, making himself more comfortable. “The Americans, they are here to aid you?"
"Well, no.” Sir Joseph looked a bit lost for words.
"No, they are not. They do not even have soldiers here. Until a few months ago, the Americans were not aware my island was part of the Philippines.” Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Hari clasped his fingers together and laid them on his chest. “I am thinking maybe you made this known to them, yes? You and your quest for the Berbalangs."
Sir Joseph remained silent, twisting his hat and staring at the floor.
It was another clear indicator to Margaret that this “spur of the moment expedition” that her father sent her on, wasn't. How many people had been lied to, and why? She marveled that a simple folktale could be so important to such a distinguished man of science. That it was made her feel very ill at ease.
"Makes no never mind,” Hari waved his hand dismissively. “You have no say-so, the Americans are not here to have say-so and this girl, she is Rizal's nobya, so she is for me to say where she goes, not you."
"Nobya?” Sir Joseph looked slightly sick. “Without a pamaeaye? To an English?"
Margaret had no idea what the words meant but they thwarted whatever plans the man had for her.
Hari shrugged. “Rizal has many brothers, his mama is gone, it is for me to say. And I say if he is happy, then he can marry the English girl."
Marry? Spots danced in front of her eyes as the room started to spin. She wanted to curse her stupidity on the boat. This was all going way too fast. It was one thing to be attracted to a man, it was quite another to arrange a marriage to him, without her family's consent, in the space of a day's acquaintance.
"Her father would never stand for it,” Sir Joseph brightened. “This, I can promise you. You and your son are Muslim, she is a Christian girl. Your own faith prohibits it."
Hari shrugged. “Rizal's mother was Spanish and Catholic, my mother's mother was Chinese and Shinto. It matters not in Cagayan, so long as there is love."
Stunned beyond words, Margaret shook her head lightly hoping the funny buzzing sound in her ears would fade. How could Rizal be serious? But looking into his face, he met her gaze and held it. He meant every word he had spoken in the shoe shop.
Chapter Eight
He knew that Margaret was aiming to corner him, to tell him there was no way he could be sure about such a big decision as marriage. Walking through his father's garden, Rizal bent and appreciated the delicate scent of the roses the old man was so proud of. Could he make her understand that his decision was as immediate and sure as a master gardener looking through an arboretum, seeing the one bloom that would make his life complete and going after the cultivation of that plant?
It was simple. Never before had he looked at a woman and felt his attention captured to the point where he forgot about time and surroundings. Yes, the argument could be made for pure lust, but he enjoyed listening to her ramble on three subjects at once, as she did over meals. He understood her change of topic and mind without having to pause to think on it.
She cared about people, no matter that they didn't give a damn about her. It bothered him that she was so softhearted, but at the same time he found it endearing. Over dinner, she had shared stories of her mother and sist
ers, almost nothing about her father. But she took to his father, laughing at his bad jokes and old tales.
Margaret brightened a room with a smile. For too many years he had been on the move, studying abroad, leading jungle fighters to repel the Spaniards, sailing the shoals around the islets surrounding the Tana when it was pirate season and sailing off to America to lobby for independence. The discovery that the quiet, unassuming botanist might have been to blame for his people's sudden American tang made him want to gut the old fool. They would have discovered the oversight sometime, but there was always the chance to use that gap to prove they should stand with the Sulu Sultanate.
The most interesting thing about the beautiful young woman, however, was something that she seemed utterly unaware of. Her heritage.
Margaret begged Sir Joseph for a few moments to say goodbye to Rizal. He hadn't looked thrilled with the notion, but scowled and waved her toward the formal gardens. It didn't matter that he wanted to leave immediately; they were bade to wait on their guide, Kanani. She really didn't think that the famed botanist was going to get away with running about the island without a watchdog.
In the arched entrance to the garden, she paused to watch Rizal. He was utterly relaxed, at ease in a way that she hadn't yet seen. On the boat or around others he was constantly on guard. It was if he had something to hide and feared it would slip out the moment he rested.
He lifted a soft pink rose bloom and bent to draw the scent in, and she felt her heart turn over in her chest. The flowing clothes of his land suited his looks. It wasn't that Rizal wouldn't look elegant in English fashions, but the embroidered white shirts and simple black pants fit him in a way that no other style could possibly match. With his breadth of shoulder and strength of arms, the billowing shirt gave him room to move and accentuated his physique. The bleached color of the cloth let the dark golden shade of his skin stand out and the midnight brown of his eyes turn black.
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