by Kate Roman
Roy shook his head. “Bigger than that. It could be buffalo, but I don’t think so.” He hesitated. “It looks like men.” Roy swore again, louder. “Looks like a party from Thornside.”
“My uncle!” Ash froze. “Hunting us?”
“It’s possible. They’re coming from the direction of my compound. Or maybe they’ve just been out decimating the wildlife in the name of sport. Must be at least one rhino left on the veldt with a horn Big White Mas’a wants for his collection.” Roy struggled to keep the fear from his voice. His fears were real. Ash’s family was coming for him, whatever his form.
Ash winced. “He makes me ashamed to be English.”
“He makes me ashamed to be human,” Roy answered.
Approaching across the veldt came a procession of six or eight natives, many of them carrying bundles on their heads. With them marched Gerald Haywood and another white man.
“My father,” Ash said in a low voice.
Roy laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Ash’s eyes were huge, showing every bit of the fear Roy had seen in him the first day he’d brought him home. Roy’s heart ached.
“He can’t hurt you now. Neither of them can.” Roy put every ounce of conviction he had into the words. “I promised to keep you safe.”
Ash nodded, swallowing hard.
A few yards past the baobab tree, Haywood called a halt. Under Roy’s scornful eye, the natives put their bundles down and erected from them a pole-and-canvas shelter. One of them set to making a fire while the Haywood brothers seated themselves beneath the shade.
“His Highness takes tea,” Roy spat. “Ash, wait here and stay hidden. I’m going to get closer and listen, all right? If necessary, I’ll go in and ask what they’re doing.”
Ash grabbed Roy’s arm, squeezing. “Be careful.”
“I will, but I don’t really have to be. As long as they don’t see you, they have no reason to make trouble for us.”
Ash nodded again and stepped back into the mopanes. “They won’t see me. Count on that.”
Roy followed, guiding Ash to the back of the thicket where there was no chance of observation. He pulled Ash into his arms, holding him close and looking deep into the young man’s blue eyes. “I will keep you safe.”
“I know.” Ash breathed deep and managed a smile. “You must think I’m a terrible coward.”
“No,” Roy said simply and kissed Ash hard. “I don’t think that at all.” I think hanging’s too good for those two sick bastards, but I don’t think you’re a coward. Roy forced the thoughts away. As he headed out across the veldt he felt Ash’s gaze on his back, watching.
It was simple to approach the makeshift camp unobserved. No one was on watch. Haywood and his guest had canvas at their backs, and the natives were gathered around the small fire, only interested in whatever refreshments they could imbibe before Haywood started barking orders—and cracking his infernal bullwhip—again.
Roy stopped in the long grass a couple of yards away, listening.
“That Bennett fellow’s terribly unreliable, Rollie. Never where one wants him to be. But I shouldn’t think it matters.”
Roy froze, staring at the canvas wall. It was Gerald Haywood speaking, but he couldn’t imagine what interest Gerald Haywood would have in him.
Rollie—Ash’s father, Roy realized—answered in a bass rumble, his voice too low for Roy to make out the words.
“Bennett’s not much of a tracker.” Haywood spoke again. His deep, commanding voice carried easily. “It was only chance that he’d seen the beast. No stone unturned, old boy. But not to worry. We’ll have that lion before the rains, or my name’s not Gerald Haywood!”
Roy sat back on his heels. Better a dead lion than Ash in the hands of those self-proclaimed gentlemen, he thought grimly.
“I suppose there’s no chance he’s still alive?” This time, Ash’s father’s voice carried clearly.
“Not after all this time.” Gerald Haywood’s answer was swift and decisive. “No, it’s just bad luck the lions dragged the body away where it couldn’t be found. You needn’t worry, Rollie. He’s dead all right.”
Cold anger curled in Roy’s gut as he remembered the whip marks on Ash’s skin, the broken ribs, and his own suspicion that Ash was lucky to have survived.
“That is what you wanted, I suppose?” For the first time, Gerald sounded unsure.
“…a poltroon all his life, Ger.” Roy missed the first part of the reply. “A cur I’d have best put down when I had the chance. Weak as milk, like the bitch that bore him. I’d have sooner had no heir than one so paltry.”
Roy frowned in confusion.
“Dear brother…” Gerald hesitated, and Roy listened intently. “I have been meaning to ask: was it perhaps the wisest course of action, bringing the boy back here? After what happened last time, I mean.”
“You’ve seen him, Ger. Did he look like anything the Haywood line would produce? He’s weedy and thin and has an uncommon, queer way about him. This refusal to ride to hounds. It had to be stopped, Gerald, that’s what. That’s the whole reason I brought him out here. If Africa put the madness in him, it can jolly well take it back out again!”
What madness?
“I’m not sure I follow, old chap,” Gerald Haywood answered. “Ash wandered off; his mother followed and managed to find him, brought him back. This whole idea you have that somewhere along the way he was changed, that he became some sort of—”
“Damn and blast!” Sir Roland roared. “Too long have we Haywoods borne the curse of that woman’s wretched, impure wickedness, and as far as I’m concerned, once we’ve taken the bloody lion that took Ashcroft, that’s an end of it. Do you hear me, Gerald? An end of it. I’ll be off on the next boat home, and you and the rest of this godforsaken place can do what you like!”
Roy reeled, unable to believe what he was hearing.
“I quite think,” Gerald Haywood said slowly, “that perhaps I should accompany you back to Southampton, Rollie. I think you might be in need of more assistance than you realize.”
There was the sound of something heavy being dashed to the ground. “Blast you and blast your bloody assistance! Where were you when I needed assistance with Elizabeth? Answer that! Where were you? Off on one of your bloody safaris! Out in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization, completely unreachable, leaving me to deal with the whole situation with nary a lick of support.”
“You know,” Gerald said quietly, “I never quite bought the story of the riding accident. Elizabeth was one hell of a horsewoman.” He paused for a moment. “You killed her, didn’t you, Rollie?”
Roy’s blood ran cold.
“Rollie, I think perhaps it’s time we went home.”
“I’ll not set foot in Thornside till I have that blasted lion’s head to take back with me! I will have something to show for my troubles, Ger, or my name’s not Roland Atworth Haywood!”
“Dear brother, please. Calm yourself. The sun out here, sometimes it has this—”
Roy heard a bellow like a bull elephant; then Sir Roland launched himself at his brother, and the two men tumbled to the dirt, a mass of rolling, spluttering imperial dysfunction.
Roy took two steps toward the embattled Haywoods, then froze, hearing a low, bloodcurdling snarl. He turned slowly.
Mere yards away stood a lion. And not just any lion.
Roy stared. The animal was pale gold, its mane luxurious and shaggy but neither dark nor long. It was a young beast, and Roy was certain it was the same lion he had seen so recently in the clearing. And now, with the taste of his lover’s skin still on his tongue, Roy was willing to bet his life on the lion being his beloved Ash. It’s true, Roy thought, staring at the lion. It’s all true. The storm, Ash’s mother, Mambokadzi’s story. The land claims its own.
He had no idea how it was possible, but the lion in front of him was Ash Haywood.
It stood its ground, staring at Roy, then lifted its lip and snarled again. Roy stood frozen to the
spot.
The lion abruptly swung away. With a ferocious growl, it bounded past the tent and into the middle of the natives the Haywoods had brought with them. It overturned the pot on the fire, sending them all scuttling backward, shouting and yelling.
Gerald Haywood swore loudly, and Ash’s father shouted something incomprehensible. A rifle barked, but the big cat didn’t flinch. It stopped, facing the tent, and roared loud and long, then bounded into the long veldt grass, disappearing entirely.
The camp was in an uproar.
Gerald’s bullwhip cracked, and natives screamed, running about pell-mell while his brother shouted angrily. Roy drew back slowly, putting more distance between himself and the camp.
It was the strangest encounter of Roy’s life. The lion had snarled at him as if to get his attention, then leaped into the camp…almost as though it was taunting Haywood and his brother. Roy took a deep breath. And this time, he’d noticed something else. The young lion had brilliant blue eyes.
Roy turned to look at the mopane trees behind him. There was no sign of Ash, but then he hadn’t really expected there to be.
Haywood’s party headed off in the direction the lion had taken. Less than a hundred yards away the group came to a halt, milling about like lost sheep.
Roy narrowed his eyes against the lowering sun, watching. It seemed the natives had lost the lion’s tracks, something that seemed incomprehensible. Although he couldn’t help remembering the traces of the lion he had found on the trail and the absence of any tracks at all.
But trackless or not, the lion was Ash, and Haywood was too close. Squaring his shoulders, Roy walked out onto the veldt, headed for the Thornside party.
He caught up with them just as Haywood was unhooking his bullwhip from his belt. “What do you mean he disappeared? Full-grown lions don’t disappear, you savvy?” he roared.
Roy hastily moved forward. “Have you struck trouble, Haywood? Anything I can help with?”
“What the—” Gerald Haywood turned, lash twitching in his hand. “Oh. Bennett.” He took a deep breath, visibly taking command of himself. “We’re hunting a lion. Very bad job, you know—the boy that was taken—this lion’s a man-eater. And it’s taken to pillaging my compound whenever it feels like it. The day you were there, it killed my best stud bull, and just a few days ago it came right inside the stockade and made off with my game bag! I’d only been out for an hour and shot a couple of guinea fowl for the pot. I went inside to put my gun away, and the next thing I see it, large as life, charging through the gate with my bag in its mouth. And now here’s my boys”—he swung on the natives—“telling me they can’t track the damn thing.”
Roy stared. All he could think of was Ash’s unlikely story of jumping on the two guinea fowl and breaking their necks. But if Ash was the lion, he thought in confusion, he could jump on them and break their necks.
Haywood seemed to realize he’d neglected his duty as a host. “Rollie! A thousand apologies. This is Bennett, the feller I was telling you about. Bennett, my brother, Sir Roland Haywood. It was his son that the lion—ah, well. A bad business all-round.”
Roy forced his mouth into an approximation of a smile and mumbled something incomprehensible. He might be forced to shake Ash’s father’s hand, but nothing would make him say it was a pleasure.
“I’ve notified the DO and we’ll have a team of crack hunters out here sharpish,” Gerald said, puffing out his cheeks. “But I’d like to get it ourselves, you know. What, Rollie?” He slapped his brother’s shoulder.
“Quite right, old boy.” Sir Roland nodded vigorously.
“Where was your last sighting of the lion?” Roy asked innocently.
“Why, here!” Gerald Haywood’s mustache bristled. “Not half an hour ago. The damned thing jumped into the middle of our camp, bold as you like. Scared my boys into fits, then ran off.”
“Unusual,” Roy said coolly. “And they can’t track it, you say?”
“No!” Haywood threw his hands up in annoyance. “Now the damn thing’s a juju. Heathen carry-on. Still, once I get it in my sights, we’ll see what its juju’s really worth then!”
Roy made a brief examination of the ground and saw exactly what the trackers meant. The prints where the lion had bounded away from camp were clear—and then there was nothing. It was as though the lion had disappeared into thin air. Roy rubbed his face with his hands. From what he knew about the lion, it had probably done just that.
He took his leave from the Haywood brothers, promising to send word if he sighted the lion, then headed off in the direction of his compound so as not to give the men cause for suspicion. Once the grass had swallowed him up, Roy doubled back and made it to the mopane grove before the Thornside party was out of sight.
The knapsacks were hidden by the base of one of the trees, but there was no sign of Ash. Roy gave a low whistle and waited, but no answer came. Roy started to worry.
Whatever Ash was, Roy just wished he wouldn’t disappear. Especially not when Haywood was about.
As though in answer, a low whistle sounded nearby. Roy jumped up, answering anxiously, and the sound came again.
Moments later, Ash appeared at a quick jog-trot, coming from the direction Haywood’s party had taken. He carried Gerald Haywood’s heavy bullwhip, and his eyes sparkled with triumph.
Roy stared at Ash in disbelief. “You were out there—you’re a lion,” he said stupidly.
Ash stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”
“You were out there with the lion.” Roy gulped, staring into his lover’s eyes. Is he really a lion? Perhaps I’m going mad. “And if you were seen—”
“No one saw me. Not even the lion.” Smirking, Ash held the bullwhip out. “He dropped it. There was some kind of commotion. I don’t know if the natives saw Onai or maybe the lion was in the grass ahead, but they all stopped and milled around. I went over to see what was going on, and when they moved off, this was lying in the grass. So I took it. If it saves even one man a beating…”
Roy privately thought Haywood probably had a spare. Ash went to the knapsacks, picking one up and slinging it over his shoulders. “Do we sleep at your compound tonight?”
Roy considered. With Haywood prowling the veldt, he felt happier with Ash hidden in the highlands. But they needed meat, and he couldn’t deny a slight yearning for the comforts of home. “Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Thirteen
They arrived as dusk was falling, heralded by the plaintive bleating of the goats and the pig’s hopeful oinking—the livestock asking for a second supper. But their round bellies and full water pots showed that the native children had done their work well, and Roy only scratched the animals’ heads in greeting before going inside.
The hut was as he had left it, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as they entered. This small sanctuary on the vast savanna had come to mean a great deal to him, and it was all the more important now that Ash had joined him.
He stowed their packs, watching approvingly as Ash went out and started a fire in the fire ring, then built a careful hardwood grate above the flames. Ash had come so far already in such a short time.
Roy took pumpkin, wild rice, and the remaining stew meat from the dassie out to the fire, then sat on his heels and watched as Ash consigned the ingredients to the pot. “You’re becoming an expert at camp cooking,” he said.
Ash looked up. “It’s the only kind of cooking I know.”
The firelight played across Ash’s face, highlighting his features. Roy stared, thinking of what he had overheard. Ash had survived so much, so many experiences that would have killed or broken most men.
Roy’s heart clenched. Ash had done more than survive. The beautiful young man before him seemed so innocent, so in need of protection, and yet carried a core of strength greater than anything Roy had ever known, even in the fires of war.
Lion strength.
Roy moved to the log, gaze still on Ash. “I overheard Hayw
ood and your father talking today.”
Ash looked up, immediately watchful. “Do they suspect something?” Roy saw his Adam’s apple work as he swallowed. “If only I have not brought trouble down on your head.”
“No. They suspect nothing. Haywood said there was no chance you could still be alive. He’s on a blood quest for the lion that took you.”
“And thus the veldt pays for my safety,” Ash said bitterly.
“He hunts lions anyway. He also said…” Roy hesitated. “He said you’d been here before, as a child. Did you know that?”
Something kindled in Ash’s eyes. “I didn’t know. When my father referred to my origins, it was to point out that I was not worthy to be a son of his. What else did you hear?”
Roy hesitated.
“Out with it,” Ash said softly. “I can already see it written on your face.”
Roy related the conversation he’d overheard between the Haywood brothers. The look on Ash’s face at the end nearly destroyed him.
“My mother,” Ash said thickly. “She and my father…”
Roy caught him as his knees buckled, taking his weight. No matter how strong Ash thought himself, there were some things too hard for a man to bear alone. Ash knelt in the dust, and Roy could feel the sobs the young man held captive.
“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” Roy asked softly.
Ash looked up, wiping his hand roughly across his cheeks, creating tracks in the dust. “I knew…I knew something wasn’t right. I just…”
Roy sank down in the dust next to his lover. “Tell me.”
“Sometimes,” Ash said slowly, “I think I remember her—my mother. And other times, it’s hard to know if I just want to remember her so much.” He leaned into Roy’s chest. “I remember eyes like mine, and blonde hair. I remember her smile. I remember I’m sleepy and warm and comfortable, but I can hear my mother’s voice, clear as a bell. I can see her running. I can…” He shook his head. “I can remember her hands outstretched, and then she’s carrying me.”
He fell silent, and Roy let him alone with his memories for a few minutes. Eventually, Roy asked, “How long has your father been ill?”