A Kiss of Adventure (6 page)

“And a journal.”

“He’d written a complete journal of his journey down the Niger. He wanted to find its mouth, but he disappeared six hundred miles from his goal. So did the journal. I want to know what happened to him.”

He met and held her gaze. “And I think, with the help of the clue in your amulet, I’m going to find out.”

FOUR

In the low light of the dying fire, Tillie could make out little more than the solid bulk of Graeme’s shoulders, the glint of a twisted copper-and-brass bracelet on his wrist, and the unwavering focus of his blue-green eyes. A writer? A journalist?

She conjured pale fingers pecking away at a computer keyboard. A sterile office. Rows of books. Framed university degrees on the walls. Not this hard-muscled pirate! Graeme was an adventurer, an explorer, a daredevil. Something menacing clung to him, something that announced that he could not be pushed around, while at the same time daring people to try. She had come to realize he gave away only very small pieces of himself, unwilling to let anyone know him too quickly or too well. He made her nervous . . . edgy. Chilled, she rubbed her bare arms.

“Cold?”

When she nodded, he stirred the fire with a stick. Sparks burst upward, a shower of orange stars. A tiny flame came to life and licked the edges of the charred wood. The heat warmed her, even though she knew the light would beckon more mosquitoes.

“Tired?” Graeme asked, his deep voice even.

“My feet hurt.”

“Tomorrow won’t be any better.”

“I know.”

She watched him run a hand behind his collar as if to unknot the kinks in his neck. He raked his fingers through his hair and gave his head a shake. “I’m bushed. Time to sack out.”

Bending to unbuckle a sandal, Tillie let out a deep breath. There was so much more about this man she wanted to know, but his terse sentences were devoid of all but basic information. Eat. Drink. Walk. Sleep. His questions were no better. Hot? Cold? Tired? The message was always the same.
Don’t ask about me, and I won’t ask about you.

Well, so what? Why should she care if the high-and-mighty Graeme McLeod was aloof and uncommunicative? She didn’t need to know anything from the man but the direction to Timbuktu. And tonight she was too tired to concentrate on anything but her aching feet. The chilly desert breeze on her bare arms made her shiver.

She studied him as he pulled a threadbare blanket from the knapsack and spread it on the stubbly ground. Close quarters again. She shut her eyes.
Just don’t let him touch me, Lord, because I’m afraid of what I’d do—

What you’re afraid of,
that mocking inner voice spoke up,
is that you’d like it.

The thought stiffened her tired spine, and her eyes widened a fraction. Ridiculous. Absurd. Totally impossible. There was nothing about this man that she liked or respected.

Liar.

She didn’t dignify the accusation with a response. Instead, she continued her study of her companion, watching as he stretched out full length, cocked his hands behind his head, and shut his eyes. When she heard his breathing deepen and felt sure he was asleep, she left the fire and sat down on her half of the blanket. Listening to the growing sounds of night, she threaded her fingers through her hair and began to braid it. Silky and thick, the familiar waves comforted her. The rhythmic motion of twisting the three hanks together began to calm her. This ritual she knew. She could braid anywhere, even at the edge of the desert in a night as dark as onyx. She could relax, let the tension ebb, bathe herself in the peace of one thing that would not change.

Behind her, a warm hand circled the plait. “Leave it down.”

She stopped, her heart racing. “I sleep with it braided.”

“Don’t. Leave it down.”

She dropped her hands and turned to him. He wore that look again—the one she had seen only once or twice since they’d met. Tender. Searching. Almost accessible. It was the look of a man who had chipped a small opening in the stony barricade around his heart.

His eyes beckoned. She looked away. She had no desire to know this man. She didn’t want to see inside his soul. She belonged to Arthur . . . to her work . . . to God. Graeme wasn’t a believer. The hard fact firmed her resolve to stay distant. She couldn’t let her feelings get in the way of what she knew was important and right.

“I always sleep with my hair braided,” she repeated quietly. She finished the plait, wrapped a rubber band around the end, and tossed it behind her. Willing herself not to think about the man beside her, she lay down with her back to him. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on Arthur. He liked her hair, and he never once mentioned the braid. It didn’t seem to bother him the way it bothered Graeme. Arthur was definitely better suited to her.

Arthur’s face swam before her eyes as exhaustion made its inroads. Pale blue eyes. Light brown hair. She could hear his voice now, so proper and British. All his plans. All his goals.
Darling, Matilda. Darling.
He thought she was charming, lovely. He wanted to marry her. Marry her . . .

“Sweet dreams,” someone murmured beside her.

It wasn’t Arthur’s voice. Nor was it his face that carried her into sleep.

Tillie woke with a start. A hard hand gripped her arm, and she felt a heavy breath on her neck.

“Be quiet!” Graeme hissed. “Don’t move.”

She swallowed and lifted her head, peering into the early morning mist that had rolled off the river. “What? What is it?”

“I hear someone out there.” He listened. “Great. Don’t those guys ever sleep?”

Adrenaline coursed through her. “Graeme?” She sat up. At first she could hear nothing. Then she began to distinguish a distant jingle, a low grunt, human voices. The Tuareg caravan.

Her breath hung as she leaned back into Graeme, instinctively seeking his protection. The
amenoukal
would find her. Her footprints were obvious in the dry dust of the road. What would happen? What would he do to her when he got his hands on her?

“I don’t know where the treasure is.” The words tumbled out. “I don’t know where it is, Graeme. I don’t know what Mungo Park meant—”

“Calm down.” Crouching behind her, he pulled her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “Listen,” he whispered in her ear, “if we let them pass, they’ll think we’re still ahead.”

“Our footprints are all over the road. They’ll know where we stopped.”

“We’ll have to count on the fog. It’s thick this morning. They’ll have found the Land Rover, so they know we’re on foot. Nothing we can do about that. Just be still. When we’re sure they’ve gone on past, we’ll take off behind them.”

“I can’t stop shaking,” she whispered hoarsely.

He rubbed his hand down her arm. “Fear no evil. Remember?”

Chagrined, she let out a groan. “I’m a jellyfish.”

She could feel his chuckle through her back. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If God’s looking down on this little spot of Africa at all, he’s got to be wearing a smile. Matilda Thornton: pillar of faith.”

Tillie shut her eyes. She was weak, and Graeme knew it. When put to the test, her faith didn’t hold up. She couldn’t keep from trembling and wishing for escape. As for trusting in the promises of God . . . well, she was trying. That was the best she could do right now.

As the sounds of the caravan grew louder, Graeme tensed behind her, his iron arms still around her. Tillie waited, barely daring to breathe as she listened to the occasional cluck of the Tuareg camel drivers and the steady tinkling of saddle bells.

She fought against the lump in her throat. Graeme had every right to mock. Where was her faith? She closed her eyes.
Fear no evil . . . Thy rod and thy staff . . . valley of the shadow . . .

The sounds of the caravan stopped. A shout of discovery rang out from one of the Tuareg, and the air suddenly filled with excited cries.

“Game’s up,” Graeme growled against her ear. “They’ve pegged us. We’re going to have to make a run for it. Follow me.”

He grabbed the knapsack, leapt to his feet, and started through the brush in a line parallel with the river. Tillie scrambled after him, her heart in her throat. A few yards away, she could hear the shouts of the Tuareg as they plunged into the thicket on their camels.

“Can you swim?” Graeme called over his shoulder.

“Yes,” she huffed. But a river filled with hippos . . . crocodiles . . . snakes.
No, Lord. Please, not that.

Sucking in deep breaths of crisp morning air, she ran, heedless of the soft earth giving way beneath her feet.
Run!
she told herself.
Run, Tillie!
She hurdled a fallen branch, skidded down a stony escarpment, splashed through a stream. Climbing the bank on the far side, she tripped over a root and sprawled to the ground. Mud smeared the side of her cheek. The taste of metal filled her mouth. Blood.

Crashing sounds of the Tuareg camels closed in. Bells. Shouts. She pushed onto her elbows.
Got to run, Tillie! Get up! Get away!

“Come on, Tillie-girl.” Graeme was there, pulling her upright, dragging her behind him.

“You go,” she puffed, her lungs bursting. “They want me. They’ll keep me alive for the treasure. But you . . . you . . . just go on.”

“Move your feet, lady! We’re not stopping now!”

They burst through the underbrush and out onto the sandy bank of the Niger. Fifty yards away, the Tuareg
amenoukal
, who had waited for his prey to be flushed out, swung around on his saddle.

“Oh no!” Tillie swallowed a gulp of air. “Graeme, look!”

Tall, regal beneath his blue veil, the chieftain narrowed his dark hooded eyes.
“Enta da!”
he bellowed, lifting a scrap of pale blue cloth like a battle banner.
“Eglir! Tek! Tek!”

“My skirt,” she mouthed. “Graeme, he’s got a piece of my skirt.” It must have torn off as she waded through the thorny brush into the clearing the night before.

“We couldn’t have left a better calling card.” Graeme raked his fingers through his hair. “Come on; let’s head downriver until we can find a place to cross.”

“Io! Io!”
At the beckoning of their leader, the Tuareg warriors swung back through the brush toward the river. The
amenoukal
spurred his dromedary full tilt down the road.

“Run!” Graeme shouted. “Run!”

Tillie sprinted behind him down the road. “O Lord, O Lord,” she chanted with every breath. “Help, help, please help!”

They followed the road around a bend in the river. Graeme began to outpace her, and she knew she didn’t have much left. In a minute he’d head into the river. She could hear the camels closing in.
Go, Tillie, go!
Her thighs ached. A sharp pain knotted her side.
Help, Lord, help!
She was slowing.

“Hey!” Graeme shouted a few feet ahead.

Swiping at her eyes, Tillie slogged toward him in a slow-motion nightmare. Her sandals weighed two tons. Her mouth was a dry crack in her face. What was Graeme shouting about? He ran toward her, pulled her toward the river, forced her legs to run.

A putrid, musky smell engulfed her. She couldn’t breathe. Mere paces behind her, the mounted Targui lunged. His hand latched onto her collar. He jerked. Buttons flew. Tillie screamed.

Her feet flew out from under her, and she hit her head on something hard. As her vision swam, she realized she hadn’t been lifted up—she’d been thrown down. Down into something. And that something was sliding into the current of the muddy Niger.

Tillie rolled to her knees, aware that the dromedaries were charging into the river after them. Graeme thrust a short pole into her arms. “Push!” he shouted, plunging an oar into the water. “Push out into the river!”

She jammed the pole into the river bottom. The tiny boat inched toward midstream. On the bank, two native fishermen shouted curses at the white-skinned thieves who were making off with their dugout. But the danger lay with the lead camel—the
amenoukal
’s white camel—which continued making its way in the powerful river. The veiled Targui snarled at Tillie and unsheathed his gleaming broadsword.

“Graeme,” she uttered in rigid disbelief. His back to the shore, he was frantically pulling the rope that held the anchor. “Graeme . . .”

The
amenoukal
raised his weapon and let it fall in an arc aimed at Graeme’s neck.

“Graeme!” she screamed. “Watch out!”