Ryman, Rebecca (23 page)

As
Raventhorne helped her up the ladder onto the howdah, his expression showed
approval of her gear. His own, of course, was as careless as ever, the only
addition being a gun belt. To Olivia's enormous relief as she settled herself
inside the howdah, he stepped across its low surround and perched on the
elephant's head next to the mahout, his rifle across his knees and his arms
folded. Warily, Olivia stretched out her legs in the opposite direction from
him, wondering if by any chance he suspected the unkind thoughts that had
crossed her mind.

He
did. "I told you I am not totally without social graces," he
murmured, enjoying her discomfiture, "although I find it difficult to
believe you have never been close to a man before. After all, you are
twenty-two and not entirely ugly."

"I
have,"
she retorted with only a slight rise of colour, "but never to one as
bumptious as you."

He
laughed and let the matter drop.

The
procession, ceremonial in its grandeur, moved lugubriously
into the dense
trees, followed by many on foot. Daylight was now bright although filtered
through the dense canopy of branches above. Around them birds squabbled for
choice worms, butterflies swooped and glided around spectacular wild flowers
and squirrels darted up and down tree trunks, cluttering excitedly. From a
wedge of lime green moss between banyan roots a family of fat toads watched
with impassive expressions. The majesty of the jungle was impressive; it was a
world of remarkable efficiency in which everything and everyone knew its place
and kept it. In the far distance the drums still beckoned, hounding the tiger
relentlessly into the final trap.

Raventhorne
sat in silence, occasionally lifting his rifle to squint through the sight, his
hands brown and strong but his fingers surprisingly shapely, long and tapering.
A picture flashed through Olivia's mind as she watched him out of the corner of
an eye and she hated herself for it: It was of Sujata in his arms being whipped
into passion by those very fingers that had branded her own cheek last night.
Flushing, she looked away to concentrate on a band of black-faced monkeys
showing off their skill at acrobatics in a display that she felt was meant
solely for her benefit.

"Why
are you not married?"

Olivia
had by now ceased to be startled by his habit of asking questions no one else
in the world would dream of. "You sound like my aunt," she said
drily. "It is a question that troubles her greatly, too."

"No
doubt, but that does not answer it."

"It
is not necessary for you to have an answer!"

"Oh,
but it is." His expression as he turned to look at her was quite serious.
"You owe me an answer."

"Owe
you
an answer?" she echoed. "Why?"

"Because
I have rescued you from luncheon with Lady Birkhurst. Whatever your intentions
towards her unfortunate son, I doubt if that prospect could have pleased you
much."

Olivia
had to laugh. Odious insinuations apart, there was truth in what he said.
"I was under the impression you believed
both
the Birkhursts were
valuable to my scheme, in which case you have done me a very definite
disfavour!"

He
rubbed his nose with a thoughtful frown. "I see that I am hoist with my
own petard! Be that as it may, my question still remains unanswered."

"I
am not married because I have chosen not to be. Does that answer it?"

"No."
He shifted positions again and leaned back. "Young men in America are
healthy, full blooded and unlikely to let pass an eligible woman who is
not
altogether
ugly! Perhaps you are already reserved?" His narrowed eyes were full of
cunning and scarcely likely to miss the flush that slowly crawled up Olivia's
face.

"You
must decide which of my intentions satisfies you more—to trap Freddie Birkhurst
or to return an 'empty' and spring my trap back home!" The conversation
was again becoming impossibly personal! "Either way your concern is
uncalled for." He merely laughed. Cross and anxious not to let the subject
be revived, Olivia asked quickly, "Have you lived in America long?"

"Yes."

"What
was it you did there?" She expected more stonewalling, but to her surprise
he answered readily enough.

"Many
things. I worked, I learned, I earned."

"What
did you learn?"

He
smiled. "The white man's magic."

"Such
as?" His ready answers, she realised, were singularly lacking in
information. "What actually did you
do?"

They
had been talking in whispers, a prime rule on a jungle shoot. He shook his head
and raised a finger to his lips. "It would be easier if you asked me what
I did
not
do."

"All
right," she lowered her voice further, "what did you
not
do?"

"I
did not become president of the United States."

Olivia
stared uncertainly. "And why not?"

"Because
I never tried to. If I had, I would have." He grinned. "I told you, I
believe in always winning, remember?"

The
arrogant angle of his head, the proudly perpendicular back, were
characteristic, but the smile was uncommonly easy. Olivia tussled mentally with
a question again in the forefront of her mind, then, throwing caution to the
winds, asked it. "Even when it means pirating ships and burning
warehouses?"

"Why
not," the admission came with surprising lack of hesitation, "if the
ships carry opium and the warehouses stock it?" His manner was still
relaxed; only a slight tightening of the jawline and the barely perceptible
stiffening of his back indicated a reaction. "I do not believe in selling
death," he said shortly.

Olivia
was as shocked by his offhanded confession as by the suggestion of moral
scruples. But about the adulterated tea chests referred to by Arthur Ransome
she had no opportunity to ask, as,
in pursuit of her advantage, she had
every intention of doing. For, suddenly, Raventhorne's air of casual amiability
dropped and he became alert. Even his eyes stilled as he listened motionlessly.
Between him and the mahout a look passed, and, minimally, Raventhorne nodded.

Olivia
became aware of the eerie hush that seemed to have settled over the jungle.
Above their heads a band of noisy monkeys huddled together and buried their
faces in each other's pelts; a herd of spotted deer, fleeing silently past
through the trees, vanished into the opposite distance. Even a cloud of orange
and lilac butterflies hovering over a wild hibiscus seemed to change its mind
and collectively shoot away in agitated formation. The drums, so frantic and
urgent just a while ago, had fallen silent. Not a leaf moved, not an insect
stirred; the very air seemed to have come to a standstill. Then, beginning like
a low, subterranean rumble from the very bowels of the jungle, came a sound
that grew into a full-throated roar. It was unmistakably the tiger, obviously
now trapped in the clearing that was to be its final resting place, although
without its knowledge. The kill was imminent.

Olivia's
heartbeats galloped. It was impossible not to be infected by the piercing
suspense of the moment. Raventhorne half rose from his perch to slide smoothly
into the howdah, checked his rifle again and cast a swift glance at the gun
rack on which other weapons were arranged as alternatives. In the holster at
his hip was the remarkable new revolver designed only last year by Samuel Colt
and, Olivia knew, was much talked about at home. She felt a quick stab of
sympathy for the doomed animal; certainly he stood little chance of survival
against such overwhelming odds. Slowly, purposefully, their ponderous
procession crept into the clearing by the river on the banks of which had been
tethered the six goats that were the tiger's bait. The beaters had all slunk
away into the safety of the undergrowth away from the river. Now only the four
elephants and a ring of poised spearsmen remained. Somewhere amidst the tall
grasses, Raventhorne pointed out to Olivia silently, was their fearsome quarry.

The
elephants fanned out to form a semicircle. As they did so, Raventhorne touched
Olivia's arm with a fingertip and nodded in the direction of a rock formation
shielded by a stubbled bamboo grove. Framed by the greenery was a hazy blur of
yellow ochre, crouching in wait. Olivia's breath caught; it was indeed the
royal Bengal tiger, the most majestic, most feared predator of
the Indian
jungles. So cleverly had he concealed himself that only the practised eyes of a
hunter could have detected his presence in that profusion of natural colour. He
had already killed one of the goats, Olivia saw; now he waited to return for
his easily earned meal. Raventhorne pointed a questioning glance at her and
then looked meaningfully at his rifle. Alarmed, Olivia quickly shook her head.
It was one thing to bring down a buck or a bison, but it was quite another to match
wits with an animal she had never seen before, much less hunted. He shrugged
and, smiling, turned away with an extravagant gesture of disappointment.

For
a while nobody moved in the tableau. With the target still partially obscured
by the rocks, it would have been foolish to fire. After what seemed an eternity
but could not have been more than ten minutes, the tiger finally risked
movement. Cautiously, crouching on its stomach, it slithered forward in the
direction of its kill. It couldn't avoid a break in the rocks and, all at once,
there it was in full view, in all its formidable majesty. In the same instant a
gun roared; it was the Maharaja's, the first shot his privilege. He missed; the
tiger leapt into the air, its enraged screams reverberating through the forest
in crashing waves of sound.

"Damn!"
The
Maharaja's shouted curse came just as Raventhorne's gun spat fire and a second
shot hit the beast's flailing hulk. "Good shot, sir!"

"He's
not dead yet!" Raventhorne shouted back, reloading rapidly to once more
take careful aim, but the animal had again disappeared behind the rock. "I
missed the neck, damn, damn,
damn!"

Badly
wounded, the tiger continued to roar furiously and then, suddenly, maddened
with pain, it flew out of its niche and charged. Muzzle-loaders fired and a
dozen spears spun through the air, but, dodging in and out of the scrub, the
tiger evaded them neatly. For a second it was lost to sight but then, like a
mighty trajectile, it took a flying leap to land on the hind quarters of their
elephant. Olivia gave a half scream but stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth
to abort it. She was terrified. Only Raventhorne remained quite calm. Swiftly
moving his rifle balance from one surround of the howdah to another, he pointed
its muzzle towards the elephant's tail.

"Hold
on tightly," he warned Olivia over his shoulder. "The elephant is
going to bolt any minute."

Bucking
and trumpeting, their massive mount went round and round in circles, kicking up
its huge hind legs to try to shake
off the tiger clinging for dear life,
its claws dug deep into the tough hide and its roars still deafening in their
fury. Customarily, during a hunt like this, a gun bearer was positioned on the
back of an elephant, Olivia had been told, but Raventhorne had preferred to have
a gun rack in the howdah instead. Just as well, Olivia thought in her terror;
by now the poor man would have been crushed or clawed to death. Even with the
tiger's enormous head just a few feet away from the muzzle of the gun, it was
impossible to take aim with the elephant so completely out of control. The
clamour around them was ear-splitting, but Olivia heard none of it. Hypnotised,
she stared fixedly at the gaping, gnashing jaws, the unbelievably mammoth head
and the baleful yellow eyes that stared back at her with such hate. Raventhorne
got up with one hand clasped to a wooden pillar for support, and put a foot
over the surround on the elephant's back. Within the howdah he firmed his other
leg and, still holding on for support, transferred his rifle from one hand to
the other. Just then, the elephant bolted. Screaming with fright, it careened
off along the river bank at a tremendous speed, still not having shaken off the
tiger. Chalk faced, Olivia cowered in her corner, not seeing anything except those
snapping, snarling jaws not two feet away from Raventhorne's boot.

"All
right. Come over here." Still perfectly calm, he looked back at her and
beckoned with his head. "Let me see just how straight you can shoot."
Olivia stared at him in horror; had he gone
mad?
"Come
on,"
he repeated impatiently. "He's not going to wait for you all
day!"

Propelled
undoubtedly by divine power, since she had none of her own, Olivia moved.
Raventhorne clenched the barrel of his rifle briefly between his teeth and
extended his free arm to curl around her waist. With her back tight against his
chest, he made a lightning move and, suddenly, his Colt was in her hand.
"Aim for the forehead," he instructed, dropping his own weapon to
support her firmly. "He doesn't have much strength left so try to be
quick."

Olivia
hesitated but only for a frozen second more. Held securely by the waist, she
lifted the Colt, aimed and fired. For a horrible fraction of an instant, she
thought she had missed, for the tiger's head remained exactly where it had
been. Then a rush of blood spewed forth from a neat hole between its eyes. With
a final dying roar and one last virulent glare, the magnificent head dropped
entirely from view. Unaware that the drama was over, the elephant continued on
its flight down the river bank.