A Kiss of Adventure (2 page)

“I am always okay. You know that.” Dismissing her with a wave, Hannah went back to counting out coins to pay for the produce they’d chosen.

Yes, Hannah was always okay. Slipping her arm through Arthur’s, Tillie turned him away from the main market area. She needed time to think. Would it be disobeying God to reject Arthur’s proposal?

It did seem they’d been thrown together by a divine hand. Like two pale birch trees in a forest of hardy African baobabs, they never could have missed each other here in Mali. They found they had much in common. They both enjoyed travel, reading, playing Scrabble, gardening. They liked to sample exotic cuisines and collect indigenous art. And they were Christians.

But could she really imagine being
married
to Arthur? Upright, uptight, oh-so-British Arthur, with his business suits, Eton ties, and polished shoes. Arthur with his Dictaphone and two-pound, leather-bound daily planner. Could she marry a man who ran his life by a strict schedule when she had always followed her heart?

It didn’t feel right, but maybe feelings weren’t all that important. “‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,’” Hannah would say, “‘and do not lean on your own understanding.’”

Oh, Hannah. Why is trust always so easy for you and so hard for me?

“Darling?” Arthur had pulled out his planner and was flipping through the pages as they made their way between the stalls. “I see I’m to be back at the embassy in twenty-seven minutes for an engagement. I’ve so little time, and really, we must talk. I’ll come back to the market another day and get a carving for you, shall I? I’ll bring it with me when I pick you up for our dinner this weekend.”

“I want a kapok tree, and you won’t know what they look like. Come on. You can talk while we walk.”

He shrugged in resignation, and they edged between rows of stalls stacked high with blue-black dates, green plantains, dried fish, yellow papayas, and bananas. Arthur was a rock of stability, a reminder of the security Tillie had longed for since her mother died. Hannah had provided that stability for years—but where Hannah’s loving determination had been an anchor for Tillie’s drifting family, Arthur’s persistence felt like manacles she couldn’t wait to escape.

“I must know what you’re thinking, darling,” he said, stepping over the carcass of a goat. “I’d appreciate not being kept in suspense about this.”

“I was thinking of the day we first met. That party at the embassy. Remember?”

“How could I forget?” Arthur’s pale blue eyes went almost green in the slanting sunlight. “You, in that black dress with your hair hanging loose about your shoulders. Your arms tan and your legs long and slender. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“Do you remember what we first talked about? Those stories you told me?”

Arthur shook his head and grinned. He caught the heavy golden braid that snaked down her back and gave it a tug. “What stories are those?”

“You told me the history of Mali,” she reminded him, a little irked that he’d forgotten. “You talked about the wonderful old library in a mosque in Timbuktu. You described the ancient books someone has been stealing, and you told me how you’re helping the Malian government track down the thieves. You told me about the Tuareg tribesmen who used to raid the salt caravans on their way to Timbuktu. The ‘blue men.’ You said you’d even met a Targui once. And you told about the British explorers who came here to trace the Niger’s course.”

“Mungo Park and that lot?”

“Yes, Mungo Park. Don’t you remember? I was so thrilled, I could hardly go to sleep that night. The stories were about Africa—Africa at her rawest and most beautiful.” Her troubled eyes searched his face. “I was sure you loved Africa as much as I do, Arthur.”

His smile was indulgent. “I think I actually told you those things to frighten you. Perhaps I thought you’d look to me for protection while you were here. How little I understood you in those days.” He paused and gazed at her. “When I began to realize how comfortable you were in Africa, my first thought was to change you, to remake you into a version of myself. Instead, you changed me. I’ve learned to appreciate the people here. I’m even used to the heat. I honestly can say I know now why God brought me here. I was led to you.”

Understanding his confession—but hardly comforted by it—Tillie looked away to watch the women, all dressed in heavy black-veiled burkas, complete their transactions for the day. Chickens flopped at their moorings, unaware of their impending fate. Mangy brown dogs rooted in small piles of trash and rags in hopes of finding a bone or a scrap of meat.

Tillie worried her lip between her teeth, glancing almost absently across the sea of faces—until she saw a small shape dart behind a booth. She frowned and silently voiced a prayer for protection. Curious in spite of her nervousness, she felt half-inclined to investigate. Arthur would have a fit over that. She tugged him toward an aisle between the stalls.

“Of course, life in London could be rich as well,” he was saying. “Think of it. Breakfast in a tearoom. The smell of fresh bread baking. Beautiful dresses in glass shop windows. Churches with proper ministers, songbooks, and organs. A flat with a television, a laundry, a well-stocked kitchen. Can you see it?”

Tillie could, and she wasn’t at all sure she liked what she saw. They stepped into a narrow cobblestone street, nearly empty of Bamako’s usual odd assortment of old trucks, bicycles, and oxcarts. Sagging houses leaned toward the street. Wooden and iron balconies hung lopsided overhead.

Tillie glanced into open doorways at the lounging grandfathers and children who stared as she and Arthur walked by. She lifted a hand to wave at a little girl peeking at her from behind the trunk of a scrubby palm. Again, she sensed movement behind her. She stiffened and whirled. A small ragged figure darted into an alley. She caught her breath and grasped Arthur’s hand.

“What is it, darling?”

“Let’s get out of the market.” She started away from the passage where the figure had vanished.

“Matilda!” He protested as she pulled him along. “What about those tree carvings you were so determined to find?”

“Later.” Annoyed with herself even more than with him, she dropped his hand and hurried down an alley alone. As she emerged onto the next street, she caught another glimpse of the scurrying little figure, now moving in the shadows on the other side. Her heart beating in rhythm with her footsteps, she watched as the dark shape slipped into a tiny fabric shop.

“Darling, for heaven’s sake.” Arthur caught her wrist and pulled her up short. “What can you be thinking of, rushing about in this heat?”

“Someone’s following us,” she whispered.

“Who? Where are they?” Scowling, he peered across the street.

Tillie nudged his elbow and pointed with her chin in the direction of the hidden figure. “I keep seeing someone in the shadows. At the marketplace . . . and now here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling! No one’s following us. You’ve let your imagination run away with you.”

“It’s not my imagination. I wouldn’t doubt it’s the same scoundrel who tried to break into the house last night and rob us. I’m going to put an end to this nonsense.” Lifting her chin, she started across the intersection. At that moment, a ragged child flew into the afternoon sun. Like a fluttering bird, he flung himself onto Tillie. She staggered under the impact, groping for a handhold and finding nothing but the boy’s scrawny shoulders.

As they struggled to regain balance, he grabbed her face with bony little fingers and pulled her ear to his mouth. “You are Tree-Planting Woman?” he whispered in broken English. “You are Tree-Planting Woman?”

“Arthur!” She pushed at the child’s hands. “Get him off!”

“ I’m trying!” Arthur wrestled with the clinging boy, grasping at flailing arms and trying to pin kicking legs.

Tillie broke loose and stumbled backward. The child flew at her again, grabbed her braid, and shouted out his question. “You are Tree-Planting Woman?”

“Ow! Yes, I plant trees!” she gasped. “In the PAAC compound. Pan-African Agri—Ouch! Let go! I plant trees, okay?”

In the next instant, the boy threw his arms over her head, tossing something around her neck as he did so. Then he dodged out of Arthur’s grasp and bolted away down the street. Tillie lurched toward Arthur, her pulse hammering in her temples as she grabbed for his arm. “Arthur?”

His expression stopped her. Arthur, his cheeks drained to pale white, gazed into the distance. “Tuareg,” he mouthed.

Rags flying behind him and thin black legs churning, the little boy ran toward a tall, white single-humped camel.
“Amdu!”
the child shouted.
“Elkhir ras!”

High on a large leather saddle sat a man, all but his dark eyes veiled in indigo blue cotton. Two multicolored silk sashes crossed his chest and ended in rows of tassels at his hips. Wearing a stone bracelet, a silver ring, and an elaborate wrought-iron key, he carried a wicked-looking spear, a steel broadsword, and a large, decorated-hide shield. A small dagger was strapped to his arm above the elbow.

“Enkar!”
he snapped at the boy as he reached down and yanked him onto his dromedary.
“Io!”

“Tuareg,” Arthur repeated dully. “Here . . . in Bamako.”

As the boy’s excited cries filled the air, the Targui suddenly lunged forward.
“Tek! Tek!”
he commanded, dark eyes on Tillie as he spurred his camel.

“He’s—he’s coming after . . . me!” she screamed.

“Don’t run!” Arthur threw one arm around her and pulled a pistol from his jacket. He leveled it at the charging Targui, but before he could fire, the camel rammed into him. The weapon clattered across the street.

Strong charcoal-hued fingers snaked around Tillie’s arm and jerked her into a dragging stumble beside the loping dromedary. As the Targui lifted her into the air, a battered Land Rover with a canvas roof rattled around the corner. Spooked, the camel skittered and stopped.

“Tek! Tek!”
the Targui shouted and flailed at his beast with the reins as he struggled to maintain his grip on Tillie.

“Help!” she screamed. “This guy’s trying to kidnap me!”

The Land Rover swerved toward the balking animal, then slowed as it drew alongside. The driver dove at Tillie, wrapped an arm around one of her legs, and pulled. “This way!” he shouted. “Hop into the truck!”

“Are you crazy?” she shrieked. “Let go! You’re . . . you’re tearing me in half !” Suspended between the white camel and the Land Rover, she spotted Arthur. He had retrieved his gun and was aiming it at the Targui. As Arthur fired, the warrior dodged, and Tillie was jerked from his hands.

An iron arm locked around her waist and threw her into the Rover. Blue sky whirled overhead, and she glimpsed the rough stubble of a beard and a tangle of black hair as she slammed onto the vehicle’s steel floor behind the two front seats. She rolled onto her knees and lunged for the open side.

“Arthur!” she bellowed, thrusting her head and shoulders out of the opening.

“Get back inside! You want to tear your head off?” The driver reached behind, grabbed her, and held her down with one rock-hard arm as he steered through the crowded street. Coughing and choking back hot rage, Tillie watched as Arthur ran after the Land Rover.

“Matilda! Stop! Get out of there!” he cried, his features contorted. “Darling!”

The Targui had regained control of his dromedary, and it moved past the Englishman, gaining on the Land Rover. As the vehicle swerved around another corner, Tillie tumbled and bumped against solid flesh.

“Hang on, lady. We’ve got the Tuareg on our tail!” The driver stomped on the gas pedal. His thick black hair whipped at the corners of his grin as he glanced at her. “Grab that hand strap over the window, and don’t let go.”

“Take me to the United States Embassy!” Tillie demanded above the roar of the engine. She clutched the strap he had indicated as the Land Rover hurtled down a hill toward the Niger River. Anger boiled through her, but she knew enough to be afraid, too. Maybe this had something to do with Arthur’s investigation of the manuscript thievery ring in Timbuktu. Or maybe it had to do with her work for PAAC.

Either way, it was far more adventure than she had bargained for, and she wanted out.

TWO

“Listen, I work for the Pan-African Agriculture Committee,” Tillie yelled over the rattle of the Land Rover’s engine. “I want to talk to the authorities. Take me to the embassy.”

“The embassy?” The driver uttered a muffled curse. “You don’t know what’s going on here, do you?”

“I know I just about got kidnapped by a Targui.”

“Do you plant trees at the PAAC compound?”

That question again. “Yes, I plant trees. Why? What’s going on?”

The man glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing. “Did the Targui give you anything? A piece of paper?”

“Paper?” Tillie suddenly recalled the child’s odd action— her focus darted to the palm-size amulet that swung from her neck. The hand-wrought silver locket had been threaded onto an intricate hand-beaten silver chain. Strange symbols were engraved on the tarnished metal, and they surrounded a bead of yellow amber embedded in the front. The ancient amulet was encrusted with dirt and grime and looked as though it would crack if she tried to open it. She glanced up again.

“Hey!” she exclaimed when she looked out the window.

“Where are you taking me? This isn’t the way to the embassy!” She tried to pull herself upright as the Land Rover bounced along a crowded street that led to the river. She shot the driver a wary look. “Who are you? Are you in cahoots with that Targui?”

“I work alone.”

Frowning at the terse reply, she shielded her actions from him as she dropped the necklace down her blouse and buttoned the top button. The locket was meant to be hers. After all, the ragged boy had given it to her . . . the tree-planting woman.

Hanging on to the strap, Tillie ventured another peek behind. The Targui was nowhere in sight, his dromedary no match for the Land Rover. And yet this maniacal driver continued his headlong race through Bamako.

“I asked you a question!” he hollered. “The Targui—did he give you anything?”

Tillie scowled. “And I asked you a question!
Two
of them, in fact. Neither of which you have deigned to answer, so I’ll repeat them. Who are you, and where are you taking me?”

His eyes sparked. “I’m Graeme McLeod. Now, how about handing over that paper?”

The Land Rover barreled onto the road that ran along the brown Niger River. Tillie tightened her grip on the leather strap. “I don’t have any paper.”

“Look, lady, you don’t know this, but your life is in danger. I’m trying to protect you, okay?” His eyes flashed with irritation. “And you’re sure not making it easy. Didn’t you get that Targui’s message? He and his pals are after you. You’re the tree-planting woman. Now give that piece of paper to me, and this will all be over. I’ll take you straight to the embassy.”

“Take me there right now. I’m under the protection of the United States government. If someone is after me, they can handle it.”

Graeme clenched his jaw. “Ten months . . . ,” he muttered. “Ten months of searching, and I have to run into this. Okay. If you won’t give me the paper, you’ll just have to come along for the ride.”

Glaring at him, her heart in her throat, Tillie debated giving the man the amulet and being done with the whole ugly mess. She was crazy not to. But the boy had given it to her, to the tree-planting woman. She had to know why. What was in the locket—and why did this man want it so badly?

As the Land Rover rattled along the river road, a hundred thoughts raced through Tillie’s mind. Hannah. Where was she, and what would she do when Tillie didn’t show up at the house? Arthur. Would he really have shot and killed that Targui? The thought sickened her. And this . . . this ruffian driving her who knew where. She had no idea what kind of man he was or what he would do to get the amulet from her.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to calm her racing heart and thoughts. How could God let this happen?

She looked at McLeod again. With his shaggy black hair and scruffy chin, the man looked the perfect pirate. His long, sunbaked nose might have made him handsome but for the obvious fact that it had been broken at least once. His strong white teeth could have lent him a dashing air, but the cynical tilt to his lips erased every trace of the debonair. His square jaw and firm chin were appealing, but his teeth were locked in a clench so tight the muscle in his cheek jumped. All the man needed was an eye patch, and he could have passed for a buccaneer.

An American pirate in Mali? Well, why not? The desert attracted all kinds of adventurers. This renegade’s faded blue jeans and tan shirt clung to his tall frame, revealing a strength Tillie knew she should fear. But her outrage at the events of the afternoon overrode any wariness.

She climbed into the empty front seat and shifted her focus to the passing houses. She had no idea where he was taking her. Obviously they were traveling away from the city’s center, but where were they going?

“I hope you realize this is as much a kidnapping as when that Targui grabbed me,” she snapped. “You could spend a lot of time in jail, you know.”

He turned to her, and for the first time she looked into his eyes. Deep blue-green, they were the color of the desert sky. One corner of his mouth turned up, softening the harsh line. “I prefer to think I rescued you. I guess you haven’t thought about where you’d be if I hadn’t come along when I did.”

“I can take care of myself, McLeod. That Targui never would have gotten away with me.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

Tillie pursed her lips and looked away. They were leaving the city, and she began to worry in earnest. The houses grew farther apart. Dusty fields took their place. A glint of sunlight on the river caught her eye, and she tried to remember what Arthur had told her the night they met.

Explorers had come to find the direction in which the Niger flowed. Mungo Park was the one who discovered that the river was shaped like a huge question mark. It began far to the southwest of Bamako and wound north toward the Sahara. Then it turned southward and spilled out into the Bight of Benin.

Of course! The Niger flowed north from Bamako. Tillie scrutinized the muddy waters and saw that the Land Rover was traveling with the current. Graeme McLeod was taking her north.

Toward the desert.

Oh, Lord.
Panic rising in her throat, she realized Arthur would have no idea where she was by now. The Targui must be miles behind. Who was this man—and what could he possibly want with the amulet? Her mind quickly ran through possible ways to escape.

“I need a rest stop,” she announced. “A bathroom.”

“Sure you do.” His mouth tipped into a slight smile. “We’ll stop when the sun goes down.”

“Sunset!” Tillie glowered at him. “Hey, I’m expected back at my house already. People are waiting for me, and I have to go to work tomorrow. Look, McLeod, I told you I need to stop now. I mean it.”

“We’ve got to get to the rapids before the sun sets.”

Rapids!
Tillie looked down at her cotton skirt and sandals. How was she ever going to escape this demon in the darkness, near rapids, and in these useless clothes? She rested an elbow on the door handle and tried to moisten her lips. It was useless. Her nostrils burned with the acrid scent of the air. The sifting dust that covered her legs and skirt in a fine powder absorbed every droplet of moisture from her body.

The sun dipped swiftly toward the flat, barren horizon, as it always did in Africa. As Tillie was beginning to abandon all hope of escape, Graeme swung the Land Rover off the track.

She craned forward. “What are you . . . where are—”

“Right here.” He pulled the Land Rover to a halt in the midst of a scrubby growth of banana trees.

Sitting back, he let out a breath. “Okay, now let’s get you some relief and a bite to eat. You can get out of the Land Rover and take care of business in the bushes. But I wouldn’t advise trying to run. The moon won’t be up for hours, and you probably know there are some unpleasant critters in this part of Mali. Cheetahs, lions, leopards . . . jackals.”

Giving the man a final glare, Tillie threw open the door and slid out of the Land Rover. The banana trees closed over her head, and the dry, scratchy grass crept up beneath her skirt to her thighs. One thing was for sure. She wasn’t about to go any farther without finding out what was inside the locket. Maybe it held the answers to what was going on.

She crept behind a kapok tree and drew the amulet out of her blouse. Squinting in the twilight, she gingerly pried apart the silver clasp, opened the locket, and touched a tiny square of folded paper.

“Okay, so there is something,” she muttered.

Holding her breath, she lifted the message from its hiding place. Whatever had been written on it must explain why she’d been chosen by the ragged boy . . . why the Targui had come into Bamako on his camel . . . why Graeme McLeod had taken her out of the city—

“I’ll take that,” he growled from behind, locking her wrist in one hand and jerking her against him as he tried to tug the paper away. “You lied to me, lady.”

“I did not!” Tillie gasped through clenched teeth. “I didn’t know there was anything inside the amulet.”

“Amulet?”

“Yes, and anyway, the boy gave it to
me
.”

The heat from his hand burned her stomach as they struggled over the paper, each wanting it but neither willing to risk tearing the fragile scrap. Suddenly he let go of her and she stumbled forward, the amulet’s contents still in hand. Surprised, she stood staring at him in the fading light.

“Look, I want you to cooperate with me,” he said, his voice softer. “If you’ll come back to the clearing, we can sit down and talk this over.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ve spent ten months in Mali tracking down that document. Longer than that in England. I’ve got to have it, okay? You’ll go along with me one way or another.”

“Oh, really?” She refolded the paper and slid it back into the locket. Slipping the chain around her neck, she pushed past him toward the clearing. Finding the fallen branch of an old gray baobab tree, she sat on one end.

“So explain,” she demanded when he hunkered down beside her.

“Are you going to let me see the paper?” He took a small flashlight from his pocket. Flicking it on, he held it out. Its weak beam cast a gentle glow on the tall yellow grass and her leather sandals.

“I want to read it first,” she declared. “The boy gave it to me. It’s meant to be mine.”

He considered for a moment, then nodded. “You’re probably more right about that than you’re going to like.” He held the flashlight out to her.

“Whatever that means.” She slipped the chain over her head and took the flashlight from him. “Just don’t grab me anymore, okay?”

“No problem.”

She gently opened the ancient silver locket and lifted out the paper. As she unfolded it, she heard the man beside her draw a deep breath. She thought she detected a quiver of anticipation in his hands.

The paper was very old—yellowed and creased. A single paragraph in English had been written in a spidery hand. Tillie held up the flashlight and read silently:

25 December, 1806—

I believe it is Christmas Day somewhere, though not here. I know I will not live to see tomorrow. The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ailie when I get back will you let me rest? Will you keep the Moors away? The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street. Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu. One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. She will plant trees and make it a garden for tea parties. She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. And the curse of the Bight of Benin will be ended.

Mungo Park

Graeme lifted his chin. “So what does it say?”

“It’s weird. Sounds like he’s rambling.”

“Who? Who’s rambling?”

She looked at the document again. Mungo Park—he was the explorer Arthur had told her about. Had he really written this? And what about the tree planting? What was the significance of that?

“Are you finished?” Graeme’s deep voice broke into her reverie. “May I see it now?”

He reached out to take the paper, but Tillie whisked it away. “Wait a second!” she whispered. “First I want you to tell me something.”

“What?”

She could sense his eagerness, like a leopard stalking prey—muscles coiled and ready to spring. It seemed all he could do to resist overpowering her to have his way.

“I want you to tell me who you are,” she said. “Why do you want this paper so badly?”

“I told you. I’m Graeme McLeod, I’m an American, and I’ve been trying to find that paper for nearly two years.”

“Why? What do you think it says?”

“The more you know about it, the more danger you’ll be in. Just let me see it.”

“First tell me why you want it.”

He sighed and she could see his knotted biceps tighten further. “I believe that paper is a page from the diary of Mungo Park.” He searched her eyes as if seeking confirmation.

“Mungo Park,” she murmured, keeping her focus trained steadily on him, betraying nothing. “The explorer.”