by Robert Thier
Cool off? As in…he felt hot? Mr Rikkard Ambrose?
My fingers skimmed over his wet skin. It was true. His voice was cold, his eyes were cold - but his body with burning. Burning for me.
‘Do it!’ I demanded. ‘No regrets!’
‘But-’
I stretched until my lips were at his ear, caressing his earlobe. ‘Do it!’
His eyes found mine. Even through the downpour all around us, I could see their swirling depths, calling me, demanding all of me.
‘Hold on!’ he commanded.
I clenched my legs around his hips, clinging to him like a little lovesick monkey. Removing one hand from under my thighs, he reached for the buckle of his belt. A cheap-looking, tarnished old thing that no London tailor in his right mind would put on for sale. But right then and there, I didn’t care how cheap his belt buckle was. I only cared that it would be opened pronto!
Torturously slowly, he slid one finger underneath the strap and started to pull. Inch by inch, it pulled back, taking the buckle with it.
‘Get a move on!’ I growled. His hand under my thigh was like a living, breathing brand burning into my skin. His fingers flexed, sliding up my thigh, and I couldn’t keep a small moan from escaping my throat. To hell with it! There was no way he could have heard over the roar of the waterfall.
‘Getting impatient, are we?’ his cool, composed voice whispered into my ear.
He’d heard! How the hell had he heard?
‘No!’ I denied.
He flexed his fingers again, and I sucked in a breath.
‘Indeed? I do believe you’re misreading the situation, Mr Linton.’
‘Get that blasted buckle open!’ I groaned. ‘And stop calling me Mister!’
His hand slid further up my thigh. ‘Hm…we might just come to an agreement on the latter point. A modification of terminology seems appropriate.’
Good God! His words set my body on fire, burning me up from tip to toe. I heard, from very far away, like a distant echo, the click of metal on metal. The belt buckle!
I glanced down, trying to see if it was open yet - but I could hardly see anything. For a moment I thought a haze of passion was clouding my eyes - but a haze of passion would be red, right? Or maybe a nice shade of purple. But certainly not brown! No self-respecting haze of passion would be brown, right?
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on - and got a mouthful of water in reply. Muddy water. Good God, the waterfall really had started spouting like crazy for some reason. And it wasn’t quite as clear and wonderful anymore as a few minutes ago.
Still, I’d be damned if I let a few drops of water keep me from my goal! My hand reached out and grabbed Mr Ambrose’s hair, directing his attention down towards the belt buckle.
‘Get on with it!’
His dark eyes met mine. Or at least I thought they did. It was a bit hard to tell through the increasing shower of mud. ‘I intend to Mr Linton. I-’
He was abruptly interrupted when a great bucketload full of dirty water hit him straight in the face.
‘Pfft! Brrz! Rg!’
His hand abruptly let go of my thigh and suddenly I was falling. Something hit the back of my head, and then everything was blue and brown and green and I couldn’t breathe anymore. A fish darted past me, casually waving its fins at me. I didn’t really feel like being courteous and waving back.
‘Bfft!’ Resurfacing, I spat water and mud, and probably a few smaller fishes. ‘What the hell…?’
But nobody heard my words. They were drowned out by the roar of the waterfall and the background music of a torrential downpour. With a speed only a rainforest can offer its guests, it had started pouring. Water hammered down on the little pool, turning its surface into a turbulent, liquid drumhead. The waterfall was quickly turning from a sprinkly little fountain into a sledgehammer made of water.
No! No, we’re not giving up! Not for a bit of bloody water!
Not waiting for his opinion on the matter, I grabbed Mr Ambrose’s belt buckle and pulled. Damn, those things were difficult to operate! How did men ever get them open?
I had just one second for wistful thoughts of my corset laces before a pair of strong hands grabbed me and pulled me up, away from the buckle. Mr Ambrose claimed my mouth with need, desire, and dirty water on his lips. Somehow, he still managed to taste delicious.
‘Get that damn buckle open!’ I demanded against his lips. ‘I want to-ppft!’
I gagged on a mouthful of mud.
‘Yes!’ he growled! ‘One second and I’ll-Rrrg!’
Bloody hell! It was getting increasingly difficult to whisper sweet, hot nothings at each other without getting a mouthful of fertiliser.
Mr Ambrose’s fingers released me, fumbling at the buckle.
‘Do it!’ I commanded. ‘I want you so badl-mmpf! Grk!’
Damn! How come heroines in romance novels never had to deal with this kind of stuff?
‘Doing…best…I…can! I am-ppft!’
‘What’s the - mfff! - matter?’
‘Damn…slippery thing…won’t…opmpff! Grks!’
‘Do you need a - pfft! - manual?’
‘Mind your - Grk! Mpf! - language!’
Exasperated, I rolled my eyes upward - which was why I was the first to see the piece of driftwood tipping over the edge of the waterfall and hurtling down towards us.
‘Look out!’
I shoved Mr Ambrose in the chest - which had about as much effect as a chick shoving a Rottweiler. I catapulted myself back, landing hard against the rock.
‘What is the meaning of this, Mr Linton?’ Mr Ambrose demanded, regarding me through the downpour with narrowed eyes. ‘Have you lost your mi-’
That was when the piece of driftwood hit his head with a dull thunk.
‘Oh my God, Sir! Are you all right, Sir?’
‘Ng…!’ he said - and collapsed into the pool.
Farewell
Pulling that blasted granite block of a man to the shore took me nearly half an hour - partly because he weighed about a ton, partly because I was so busy cursing every atom of water in the pond and the waterfall. But the most difficult problem was the man himself. No matter that he was only half-conscious and bleeding from the head, he was apparently quite well enough to know he did not wish to be saved from drowning by a girl. I pointed out that while I worked for him, I technically was no girl, correct? He had said so himself, after all.
For some strange reason, this didn’t seem to soothe him.
‘L-let g…of m…me.’
‘Shut up!’
I tugged on his collar, hard. Reluctantly, he slid a few more inches out of the water.
‘Th-that is an ordl…ordo…order!’
‘And this is a better one: shut up right now!’
Amazingly, he did. Though, to judge by the way he sagged and his head lolled to the side, I guessed it wasn’t one hundred per cent voluntarily.
‘Help!’ I yelled, though there was little chance of anybody up the cliff hearing me over the roar of the waterfall. ‘Help! Socorro! Socorro!’
It turned out I needn’t have worried about nobody hearing me up on the cliff. I had hardly dragged Mr Ambrose onto the bank when, from behind a bush a little up the path, a familiar head of grey hair appeared.
‘Ah!’ The old Indian lady looked from me to the prone figure of Mr Ambrose, impressed. ‘You wear him out? Good girl!’
‘No. The piece of wood did that for me.’
‘Wood?’ The old lady grinned. ‘You use piece of wood? What you up to, you naughty girl, eh?’
‘Will you help me to get him up to the village? Or call for help, please?’
‘No worry! He no have stamina? He fine in morning.’
For the first time I was profoundly grateful that Mr Ambrose was unconscious. I shuddered to think what he might have said - or done! - if he had been awake for that particular part of the conversation.
‘His, um, stamina is fine. He got a knock on the head.’
‘Oh?’ Stepping forward, the old lady bent over to examine Mr Ambrose’s head wound - and then shrugged. ‘No worry! I did same with my first husband sometimes. Three good knocks on head, and he be good husband.’
Deciding that it probably wouldn’t be very fruitful to continue this conversation, I took a tighter hold on Mr Ambrose’s arm and tugged. Slowly, he began to slide farther up the bank. The old Indian lady, after a few minutes, sighed and grabbed the other arm, helping me to pull him through the downpour, away from the muddy waterfall. We didn’t make it very far, though. We had only got to the start of the cliff path when Mr Ambrose slipped out of our exhausted arms and slumped to the ground. We promptly followed, panting like race horses after the Derby.[26]
‘He…heavy!’ the old lady grunted. ‘Lot of muscle! Make good children, will he!’
I did not venture an opinion on the matter.
‘Just you wait and see.’ Reaching over, the old lady affectionately patted my stomach. ‘A few months, and you see what I mean.’
Groaning, I covered my eyes with my hand.
*~*~**~*~*
It took a while for me to digest what had almost happened.
Congress.
And not the kind they had in America, either, with the delegates and the boring speeches. No, this was far worse. Amorous congress. With Mr Rikkard Ambrose!
What kind of demon had taken temporary possession of my mind?
I didn’t know. But I knew it had to have been a damn devious one! There was simply no other way to explain what had happened. I mean, me? Me playing the blanket hornpipe? Basket making? Getting my bread and butter?[27] With Mr Rikkard Ambrose?
And it wasn’t even as if he had wrestled me to the ground and overwhelmed me with the overwhelming force of his dark, ice-cold eyes and delicious body. That I could have understood. Instead, it had been me who had attacked him, and practically ordered him to dance the fandango de pokum[28] with me. In the middle of the jungle! Under a waterfall!
Not for a moment had any of the repercussions crossed my mind. And to be honest, if I thought of Mr Ambrose’s hot mouth on mine, devouring me in the sweetest way possible - they still didn’t seem all that important to me. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous. If we really and truly did it, I could end up pregnant - or worse - married! I mean, if there was a way to live in sin for the rest of my life without blowing up like a balloon…now, that would be interesting. But marriage? Ugh!
Really? Are you sure that’s how you feel, Lilly?
Yes! Marriage was an instrument of the patriarchy designed to oppress womanhood!
Is it? Is it really?
Yes! I had only to think back on that Times article on ‘quarrelsome wives’, and the idea of marriage made me want to get a bucket to puke in. I would die before I ever became a slave to a man!
But spending the rest of my life side-by-side with one…
Strange how the idea didn’t seem quite as abhorrent as it had a while ago. Especially if we were talking about one particular man.
Getting Mr Ambrose up the cliff hadn’t been half as difficult as I had thought. He had woken up shortly after we had dragged him ashore, and after the old lady had called two of her people down, had managed to stagger up to the village with two strong natives supporting him. I had to admit, I enjoyed the sight. It was probably the first and last time I would see Mr Rikkard Ambrose staggered.
I wasn’t particularly worried about his head wound. That man had a skull as thick as a rock, and I was betting he would be up and about again in no time, ready to order me about and stare at people just as coldly as ever. Still…when the old lady asked if anyone would sit up with him during the night, for some reason I volunteered.
So now I was sitting next to Mr Ambrose in the dark silence of the hut, gazing into space, lost in thought. Mr Ambrose was a dark form against the wall, lying on a thin mat, as stiff in sleep as he was awake. He didn’t snore, didn’t move, gave no sign of life at all - but I still wasn’t worried. He would pull through. Of course he would. I definitely absolutely totally wasn’t worried.
Is that so?
Bloody inner voice of mine! Couldn’t it shut up for two minutes?
Swallowing hard, I shifted closer to Mr Ambrose. A strip of moonlight was falling into the hut through the door, illuminating his face. There was no trace of blood now. The tribe’s doctor, or medicine man, or whatever he was called, had washed it off, and applied a nasty-smelling poultice to the head wound. But in my mind’s eye, I could still see the line of blood trickling down the side of his face. His hard, cold, incredibly beautiful face…
Suddenly, my hand started to move. I had no idea why. I certainly didn’t tell it to sneakily creep out of my lap and across the floor. I most definitely didn’t tell it to skulk across the floor and sidle up to Mr Ambrose’s cheek like a thief in the night. This was outrageous! Who had taken control of my bodily parts?
My hand didn’t seem to share my outrage. In a manner that was altogether too self-satisfied for my taste, it settled down on Mr Ambrose’s cheek and - of all things! - began to stroke it! In a way that was suspiciously reminiscent of tenderness.
But things didn’t stop there. Oh no! My hand had the bloody cheek to slip away from his cheek (no pun intended) and slide down, over his chest and abdomen, until it reached his hands, lying folded on his taut belly. And what did it do then? It took his hand, and squeezed it, sweetly, almost lovingly.
‘Wake up, will you?’ I whispered. ‘There are plenty of people left in the world for you to fleece and terrorise.’
*~*~**~*~*
Mr Ambrose woke up the next morning, grouchy as an old bear who had just woken out of hibernation to find out he’d had a full-body shave. Luckily, by then my hand had started to behave itself again, and I was sitting in my corner of the hut, where I belonged. I greeted him with the brisk efficiency of a secretary who hadn’t spent the day before half-naked in a pool with her employer, and informed him straight up that, no, we couldn’t leave right away, not until he could stand up on his own two feet and walk in a straight line for more than three steps.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Linton,’ he snapped, and pushed away the blanket my traitorous hand had pulled over him during the night. ‘I feel perfectly fine.’
Bracing himself against the wall, he pushed himself up and started forward. ‘There, you see? Perfectly finnng…!’
There was a thud as his face collided with the floor. I had to admit, I felt a bit sorry for the poor floor. It didn’t deserve such a harsh beating.
‘Back to bed with you, or I’ll be calling Karim!’ I threatened. ‘He’ll tie you down if he has to.’
‘Unlike you,’ Mr Ambrose informed me, his voice muffled against the floor, ‘Karim is a loyal employee. He will follow my orders, not yours.’
‘Not if I threaten him with you-know-what. Back to bed, now!’
‘This is mutiny. If we were on a ship, you could be hanged for this.’
‘How fortunate for me that we are not on a ship, then, Sir.’
He continued to grumble a bit, and then contented himself with being icily silent at me. Nobody could be icily silent like Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I swear, he brought the temperature in the hut down to minus twenty degrees. Fortunately, after nearly a year in his employ, I was almost immune to frostbite, and was able to change his bandage without my fingers turning black and falling off. The old Indian lady came in after a while and told Mr Ambrose in no uncertain terms that he was not going to leave until he had fully recovered.
Of course, I should have expected him to make a record-time recovery out of sheer contrariness. After only a day, he was back on his feet, and after two days, he was ordering Karim about, gathering supplies and making other preparations for our departure. Our time in the Indian village was coming to an end. I had to admit, I was a bit sad about that. I had grown really fond of the old lady who was in charge here. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea we were leaving. I wasn
’t completely sure Mr Ambrose would survive her next attempt at matchmaking.
The last few days I spent taking long walks, building up my muscles, gathering supplies and using every free minute to expand my Portuguese vocabulary. I had a feeling I was going to need it before this journey was over.
Finally, the day of departure arrived. The old lady would not be coming with us. She had - with considerable regret - explained that her bones were too old and creaky for adventure. But she had hand-picked those of her people who would be accompanying us, among them the big fellow with whom Mr Ambrose had had a staring contest on the first day, and a girl called Amana, for whose company I was profoundly glad, since she was one of the few women who hadn’t smiled condescendingly at my failed pottery attempts. Her name meant ‘rain’ in their language - but to judge from her temperament, ‘gentle, nice little shower’ would have been more appropriate. Except for being stark-naked and brown as chocolate from head to toe, she reminded me of my little sister Ella.
We were all gathered in front of the old lady’s hut, our weapons ready, our packhorses laden with provisions. I felt a little tug in my heart as I looked around at all these people, many of whom had somehow become my friends, although we only spoke a word or two of the same language. It was strange. I didn’t make friends easily, back in London. But here…
The curtain covering the hut’s door was swept aside and the old lady stepped out, using a rifle as a walking stick. The sight of her brought my meandering thoughts to an abrupt halt. She flashed me a brief, warm smile, then shot one at Mr Ambrose which wasn’t quite so warm.
‘We gather,’ she began in her throaty voice, ‘to say goodbye to friends. They have been good friends. Some good hunters-’
She nodded at Mr Ambrose and Karim.
‘-and some good company.’
She nodded at me. I couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘We will welcome them back at any time - if they bring me such nice presents again.’
Her fingers flexed around the rifle. Mr Ambrose’s left little finger twitched.
‘They have asked to be guided to the city in the mountains, far away to the west. What do you say, my people? Do we grant their request?’