A Kiss of Adventure (10 page)

“I agree.” Working to separate her hair into three hanks, she decided she might cut the braid off when she got home. In all her years roaming the wild Kenya brush, her skin had never felt so dirty, her hair so tangled, her mouth so brackish. As she began the rebraiding, Graeme’s hand closed over her own for the third time.

“Leave it down.”

His dark hair caught red glints from the fading sunlight. She read the expression on his face, one she was coming to know intimately. For a moment she hesitated; then she lowered her hands. He took her hair and combed his fingers through it, working out the start of the damp braid.

“You have beautiful hair, Tillie.”

That word again . . .
beautiful.
He had called her a beautiful woman the night before. With a sigh, she leaned back against the edge of the boat. She could sense him looking at her. Just the color of the man’s eyes made her heart pound against her ribs. Suddenly she sat up, unable to bear the tension between them.

“Graeme,” she began, meaning to tell him the truth about everything. About Arthur and how he and she were meant for each other. About the way God had brought them together and surely wanted them together for life. But as she tried to formulate the words, she realized that they would never come. They weren’t the truth at all.

Silently, she reached out to Graeme and touched his cheek. She ran her gaze over the knotted line of his jaw, its hardness in angular contrast to his silken hair. She could see the craggy slope of his nose, his father’s legacy. Gently, she traced her fingertips over the planes of his face, as if her caress could somehow smooth away every mar, her touch erase each memory.

“Graeme,” she whispered.

He covered the bridge of his nose with his hand, a childhood instinct of trying to hide it. Then he dropped his hands to his knees. “Beauty and the beast,” he said with a derisive laugh.

“I had Prince Charming in mind.” She put her index finger on the arch of his nose and ran it slowly down. “‘Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.’”

“More Bible verses, Cinderella?”

She smiled. “Blame Hannah. She says our looks don’t matter. If any man is in Christ, he’s a new creature; the old things pass away, and new things are created.”

“New things.” He ran his fingers through her long hair and pulled a strand of it over one shoulder. “That’s for sure.”

Tillie closed her eyes and lay down. Graeme eased himself into position beside her, ready for sleep. She rested her head on his chest. Like a jewel-studded bowl turning slowly overhead, the sky faded from sapphire to amethyst and then to ruby and topaz before melting into the utter blackness of onyx. Sleep came swiftly.

Tillie did not wake up until well after sunrise. Graeme sat in the prow, trying to steer with the branch she had used as a club and watching her sleeping face. By the time Tillie opened her eyes, the sun was beating down, intensifying the queasiness in the pit of his stomach.

He studied the little morning ritual that had become so familiar to him. Tillie . . . soft morning Tillie . . . wiping her eyes, running her fingers through her hair, stretching with both arms open wide as though she could hug the whole world. A little yawn. A little sigh. She folded her arms over her knees and blinked sleepily like a kitten just stirring from a nap.

As she looked around at the muddy river, he could read her surprise at the increase in river traffic. The day before, they had passed several small villages and had seen a few boats. Now the river was crowded with canoes and dugouts.

“What’s going on?” she wondered aloud.

“Segou. We’re almost there.”

“Can you see the town?”

“It must be just ahead. But Tillie . . . we have company.”

Her hand tightening on the edge of the boat, Tillie followed the line of his gaze. Far on the east bank, the caravan of Tuareg camels wove along the busy road. The
amenoukal
rode in the lead, the banner of her torn skirt whipping in the breeze.

“After all that,” she murmured, “we didn’t escape.”

He tried to read the expression in her blue eyes. Fear? Worry? No, it was something else. A kind of peaceful resignation had settled around her like a shawl. It was as though all her apprehensions about the Tuareg had been wrapped in some kind of certainty that everything was going to work out.

As they drifted helplessly toward the main pier of the picturesque little town, Graeme realized he felt a strange sense of comfort himself. With the Tuareg still in pursuit, Tillie would need him. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t abandon her in Segou. It would be natural for him in this situation to stay close to her, to watch over her. For some reason, that sounded like the best job description in the world.

She turned to him, her hair long and loose, like a golden cape. “What are we going to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Could we bypass Segou and take the boat on to Timbuktu?”

“We haven’t eaten for almost two days, Tillie. And we need an oar.”

“I know.” Her eyes searched his, as though she could read answers in them. He’d never been looked to for guidance, never been needed, rarely been wanted.

“I think we ought to chance a stop.” His voice sounded lower, more gentle than she’d ever heard it. “Once we hit the pier, we can make a run for safety. We can lose ourselves in these crowds pretty easily. And there are a lot of ways to get out of Segou. There’s a river steamer, tourist buses. . . . I may even be able to round up a vehicle—” He broke off. “Tillie . . . what are you staring at?”

She had paled to the color of dry ivory. Her fingers knotted together in her lap. He twisted around. Toward the pier marched the Tuareg caravan—camels and warriors, women, children, pots and pans, bells and folded tents, a modern vision of the army of Israelites on the march. Like the Red Sea, the crowds parted to let them pass. Fishermen shouted at the clumsy camels. A little boy leapt into the water. Someone threw a coconut. At the end of the pier stood a stiff Moses in a pale khaki suit and a straw hat.

Tillie swallowed. “It’s Arthur.”

SIX

Arthur had come to save her, and she should be thankful. God had provided. God had blessed her with Arthur. She should be grateful, aching to fall into his arms, dizzy with joy.

“Matilda!” he shouted, lifting his rifle in a sort of salute. She hesitated, then waved. “Matilda, darling!”

Tillie turned to Graeme. He met her eyes, a small wry smile on his lips.
Don’t make me leave him, Lord,
she heard her traitorous heart whisper.
Not yet.

It wasn’t dreading London or losing her neem trees that made her want to be near Graeme. It was the man himself. Something about him. The way he smelled of sunshine and Africa. The reflection of the blue-green sky in his eyes. The rhythm of his heart in her ear, and the solid fortress of his chest against her cheek. The touch of his fingers in her hair, and the sound of his voice when he said her name.
Hey, Tillie-girl. Mornin’, glory.

No, not yet. Please, Lord, not yet.

“Guess this is it,” he said.

“Yes.” She meant no.
Please, no.

“You’d better tell your boyfriend to watch his backside. Those Tuareg aren’t likely to be intimidated by that popgun of his.”

Tillie had no choice but to turn from him. The
amenoukal
was lashing a vendor away from his dromedary as Graeme spoke. She knew the man would not stop at the mere presence of a British authority. In 1990, the Tuareg in northeast Mali had rebelled against the government. They’d gained a degree of autonomy, but unrest continued. Their lack of respect for leaders other than their own was well documented, and Arthur would be a mere irritant in the path of their pursuit.

“Arthur,” she shouted at him. “The Tuareg! Behind you!”

He turned in the direction she was pointing, stiffened, and raised his gun. The
amenoukal
continued to advance.

“He knows he won’t be shot,” Graeme said quietly as they drifted to the pier. “British and French soldiers won’t shoot without provocation.”

He tossed a rope to a youth and pulled the boat until it bumped against a piling. Tillie laid her hand on his arm. “Graeme, we can’t use our plan of escape now. Arthur will try to stop the Tuareg. He could be killed.”

Graeme nodded. “I know.” He concentrated on tying the boat.

“Then, I guess . . . thank you for bringing me to Segou,” she said.

“No problem.” He looped the end of the rope into a coil. “So long, adios, and all that.”

“Okay, then . . . ’bye.”

He kept fiddling with the rope, not looking at her. The Tuareg headed down the pier. Arthur brandished his rifle. Her heart aching, she knew Graeme was pushing her out of his life. She swallowed the hurt, brushed past him, and lifted her hands to the waiting dockworker.

“I represent the British government,” Arthur shouted in his perfect Eton accent. As Tillie stepped onto the pier and walked to his side, she had no doubt that his words were unintelligible to the
amenoukal
. Arthur grabbed Tillie’s arm and pushed her behind himself. “I give you fair warning, sir. Should you come one step farther, I shall be forced to shoot.”

The
amenoukal
slowed his dromedary and gestured behind himself with his broadsword. From the back of the caravan, a small white camel ambled forward bearing a beautiful woman on a tooled leather saddle. She wore a flowing white burnous, heavily embroidered in silver at the neck. Her light skin, fine nose, and almond eyes revealed a patrician ancestry. She held her head high, her swan neck straight in the haughty posture of royalty.

The
amenoukal
spoke a few words to her, and she nodded. Then she turned her kohl-rimmed eyes to Tillie. “Ahodu Ag Amastane,
amenoukal
of Tuareg people,” she said in careful English, “will take Tree-Planting Woman now.”

Arthur glanced at Tillie.

“It’s me,” she whispered. “I’m the tree-planting woman.”

He scowled at the
amenoukal
. “You may not have her, sir. She belongs to the American government. She belongs to me.”

The
amenoukal
fired a series of questions at the regal woman. She listened, answered gracefully, then bowed on her camel and turned it back into the caravan. By now a huge, jostling crowd had gathered on the pier, everyone gaping at the dromedaries and the white-skinned strangers.

The
amenoukal
raised his spear, his coffee-bean eyes locked on Tillie.
“Tek!”
he bawled out.
“Tek! Tek!”

Lowering his spear, the
amenoukal
spurred his dromedary down the plank boardwalk. The caravan filed after him. The rickety pier shuddered beneath the camels’ splayed feet. Children screamed. A cart rolled into the water. Dogs howled. Arthur took aim.

“Don’t shoot him!” Tillie cried out.

“Robinson, give me that thing,” Graeme barked behind them.

Arthur whirled around. “Who is this, Matilda?”

“Give me the gun,” Graeme commanded. “I’ll hold them off. Get Tillie out of here.”

She flinched at the anger in the Targui’s dark eyes. “Arthur, give him the gun.”

The camels loped toward them. Onlookers shouted and scurried for cover.

“Now!” Graeme growled. He jerked the rifle from the Englishman and pushed Tillie off the pier. For the second time she went under the Niger’s muddy water. She bobbed to the surface in time to see Arthur leap into the river beside her.

“Follow me,” he sputtered.

They swam between docked boats and past floating trash. A tattered basket. A coconut. A sandal. Behind them, Tillie could hear the angry yells of the Tuareg, the shrieks of the crowd, and then gunshots.

“No!” Turning, she started back toward the pier.

Arthur grabbed Tillie’s arm and pulled her up beside him. “Come on, darling! Let’s get out of here.”

She wrenched her arm from his grip and turned to the pier. Tuareg dromedaries had overrun the spot where Graeme had been standing. Two of the camels had splashed into the river and were roaring and spitting as their owners fought to right them.

Arthur took her arm. “Come on, love. Don’t waste your breath.”

“He brought me all this way, Arthur. The least I can do—”

“It’s you they want. We’ll check on him later. Now, come.”

She had no choice but to stumble out of the river and follow him as he pushed through the throng of market-goers. They raced down narrow streets crowded with brown mud houses and whitewashed mosques. Her bare feet ached, but she scarcely noticed. All she could think about was Graeme.

Arthur turned onto a flight of stone steps. They ran up and around a corner, through a brass-studded wood door, and into unexpected cool air. Refrigerated air. Chilled marble floors. The scent of sandalwood. The lobby of a hotel.

Tillie stopped. Stared. She could hear her skirt dripping on the floor. The room was filled with mottled shadows, philodendrons in ceramic pots, arrangements of fresh orange-and-blue bird-of-paradise flowers. Low wooden coffee tables stood among sturdy linen-upholstered armchairs. A rack of magazines occupied one corner beside a cart of petit fours and tiny cucumber sandwiches.

She turned to Arthur. “Where are we?”

“My hotel, of course.” He wrung out the tail of his suit coat. “I must see if they’ve laundry service. Wretched business, swimming in the Niger. We’ll have dysentery, no doubt. I suppose they’ll have to check us for parasites before we can catch our flight to England. Come along, then, darling. I’ve a bit of a surprise for you upstairs.”

“Arthur, I can’t stay here,” she said in a low voice. “The Tuareg want me. I’m the tree-planting woman.”

“I don’t know anything about that, but I do know you look half-dead, and we both smell like the very devil himself. Now, not another word. I’m taking you upstairs to have a good bath and a hot meal. After that, you can tell me everything that’s happened.”

Without waiting for her response, he started up the narrow flight of stairs. Tillie glanced at the hotel manager, who was clearly displeased at the puddle of Niger River water forming on his marble floor. Broken Land Rover, boat, crocodiles, hippo . . . marble floor, air-conditioning, Persian carpets. She felt like she had entered some sort of time warp.

“Matilda, darling.” Arthur’s voice filtered down the stairs.

She started up, her bare feet moving as though they were directed by someone other than herself. She walked down a carpeted hall, following Arthur’s trail of droplets until she came to him. At a heavy wooden door, he pulled out a key and inserted it. As he pushed inward, she caught her breath.

“Hannah!”

“Ndimi. Njoni kwangu.”
Beckoning with familiar Swahili endearments, the old woman folded her close, heedless of the younger woman’s wet clothes and river smell.

Tillie found she couldn’t stop her tears.
“Kuja kwako kumenifurahisha sana,”
she murmured, thankful that Hannah had come.

“Bas, bas,”
Hannah soothed.
“Habari gani, katoto?”

“I’m okay.”

“Nitupende.”

“I love you, too. Oh, Hannah, are you all right?”

“Of course, my child.” Dark fingers cupped her face. “Let me see my Tillie. Ehh, your eyes are sad. Tell Mama Hannah. Where have you been all these days alone?”

“I haven’t been alone. God was with me, Mama Hannah. And so was Graeme.”

“Graeme who? The chap on the boat?” Arthur locked the door behind them. Stepping to the table, he flipped open his suitcase. She saw that it held his pistol and a supply of ammunition. He snapped the bag shut and turned to her. “Perhaps you’d better tell me right now what’s been going on.”

“I’m tired.” She rubbed a hand over her eyes and leaned on Hannah. The room was dark and cold. In its center stood a carved bed covered with heavy blankets and white pillows. “I need to sleep. I’ve been in that boat . . . three days . . . or was it four?”

She wandered across the room and pushed back the door that led into a modern bathroom with gleaming fixtures and a claw-footed white tub. “I need a bath. I’ve been in the river. . . . There was a hippo. . . .”

“Food first,” Hannah announced, snapping to life and marching to the bed. Wrapping Tillie’s chilled, wet body in a warm bathrobe, the old woman gave her a tender kiss on the forehead and settled her on the covers. “
Bwana
Robinson, please call to the hotel kitchen for hot soup, a bit of meat, and some fresh bread.”

Arthur picked up the phone and began to order. As Tillie sank against the mattress, she smiled at the way Hannah could make anyone obey. She took the old woman’s hand and closed her eyes. Graeme’s face materialized. Black hair blowing in the breeze. That look in his blue-green eyes. She sat up in bed and reached to grab Arthur’s wet coat sleeve.

“You have to find Graeme,” she told him. “Graeme McLeod, the man in the boat. They’ll think he has the document. They’ll kill him to find me, Arthur. You have to do something.”

“Document?” He frowned as he eased her back onto the bed. “He’ll be all right, darling. You must rest. I’m taking care of you.”

Tillie wanted to tell him she didn’t need protecting. God had seen her past a crocodile and a hippo, for heaven’s sake! She had lived on bananas and slept on a tiny boat in a swarm of mosquitoes. She had swum across the Niger and learned to trust the Lord one moment at a time. But the words ricocheted in her head and refused to form on her tongue.

In moments a knock sounded at the door, and Arthur brought in a tray piled with food. Sitting beside Tillie, Hannah ladled soup down her throat and forced her to eat the bread and stringy beef. Just when Tillie thought she had enough energy to explain about Graeme again, she closed her eyes and tumbled into exhausted sleep.

Tillie woke in the night. At first she was lost, groping for the sides of the boat, seeking out Graeme’s warmth. Then she recognized Arthur asleep in the chair beside her bed, his suit crumpled and his light brown hair spilling over his forehead. Hannah lay next to her in the bed, her skirt tucked modestly around her feet. Tillie sat up, painfully aware of what her body had gone through in the days on the river.