A Kiss of Adventure (11 page)

Careful not to disturb Hannah, she slipped out of bed and hobbled across the cool floor to the window. She parted the heavy cotton curtains and peered out into the African night. A wrought-iron balcony jutted from the window ledge. The hotel was probably a relic of French occupation, no doubt used only by a few tourists now. Below, the lights of the small town fanned out from the line of the river.

Somewhere out there Graeme slept. She whispered a prayer for his safety as she thought back on their strange days together. He was not at all the man she had taken him for at first. She remembered him throwing her into the Land Rover, slamming down the hood, grabbing the amulet from her hand.

She marveled again at the change in him as the days on the river drifted by. She had seen into his heart and had shared with him a part of hers. Where was he now? Was he safe? She pressed her palm against the chilled windowpane and leaned her head on her fingers.

“Darling, are you all right?” Arthur laid his hand on the back of her neck. “I heard you get up.”

Startled at his unexpected touch, she let out a breath. “I was . . . I’m worried about Graeme McLeod. Have you heard anything?”

His mouth hardened. “Nothing. Matilda, I realize the man helped you get to Segou, but how much do you really know about him? You must be careful of that sort of bloke out here in the bush country. People have all kinds of motives for what they do.”

“Graeme saved me from the
amenoukal
. He fed me and kept me safe. I owe him the courtesy of making sure he’s safe, too.”

“Forgive me for contradicting you, Matilda, but the man kidnapped you!” His voice was tight. “Darling, you must open your eyes. That man is no better than those camel-riders who were after you. He’s involved in . . . wrong-doing.”

Tillie stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“This McLeod fellow has been making a bother of himself around Bamako for several months. When I was frantically trying to find out who he was and what he might have done with you, I learned that he’s been poking around in the military and embassy libraries, asking strange questions at the museums, trying to get into Tuareg camps, and making a general nuisance of himself. Someone told me they’d seen him heading north in his Land Rover. Darling, I’ve been mad with worry.”

“Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry.”

“I’ve taken all this time away from my work when I should have been wrapping up my projects. Hannah insisted on searching for you, and I certainly couldn’t object to that. I booked us on the first flight to Timbuktu, though you know how I feel about those little planes. I spoke with the authorities there, but of course no one had heard a thing. Then the British embassy got word that McLeod’s Land Rover had been discovered broken down at the edge of the Niger, so we flew back to Bamako and drove up here searching the river all the way. We passed the Tuareg caravan, but they refused to speak to us. Finally, this morning in Segou, a bellman here at the hotel told me a white woman and man were floating in on a small boat.”

Dear Arthur,
Tillie thought. He’d been so worried. She took his hand and pressed her lips to it. “I’m sorry. I know it must have been awful for you.”

“Did he touch you, Matilda?”

“No, Arthur, not like you mean. He was good to me. We became friends.” She wondered why her well-meant words sounded so much like a lie. “Graeme is a writer. That’s why he was poking around the museums and libraries in Bamako. He’s doing some kind of an article.”

A look of irritation crossed Arthur’s face. “A writer? Is that what he told you? Look, you’d better give me all the details. I ought to know.”

But she suddenly felt too tired to talk. “I want to take a bath, Arthur. Please, just let me do that.”

She wandered wearily into the white-tiled room and bent over the tub. He followed her in and took over the running of the water. Tillie lifted her attention to the mirror.

Shock spread through her at the face in the glass. The washed and pressed and carefully braided Tillie had vanished. The days on the river had brought such changes she scarcely recognized herself. Her hair, bleached by hours in the sun, billowed around her face in untamed waves and curls that fell well past her shoulders. Her face had lost every girlish curve and become the lean, sunburned face of a woman. Her blue eyes swallowed up every other feature with their luminosity.

Arthur stood staring at her. “You’ve changed.”

“I know.” She smiled as she walked back to the tub. “I’ve been through a lot.”

The tub was nearly filled with clear, steaming water, and she ached physically for it. But as she bent to turn off the faucet, she felt Arthur’s hands slide around her waist. She held her breath, closing her eyes as he began to kiss her cheek.

“Arthur,” she whispered. “Please, Arthur. Not now.”

He stepped away from her. “For heaven’s sake, you’ve been sleeping with another man for days! I’d like some confirmation that you’re still mine.”

Stung by his harshness, she searched his eyes. “What’s happened to you?”

“Are you denying you slept with him?”

“I slept
beside
him. I had no choice, Arthur. We were in a tiny boat. What would you expect?”

“I would expect you to be faithful to me. You’re mine.”

She was too tired for patience. “I’m not yours, Arthur. I’m not anyone’s! I care about you. I thank God for you. But I’m not
yours
. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like some privacy.”

Hurt wrote itself across his pale blue eyes, and he backed away. They had never exchanged harsh words, but Tillie found she couldn’t make herself care. She wanted to be left alone.

“If that’s how you feel,” he snapped, shutting the door behind him.

Slowly she slipped the robe off her shoulders; she unbuttoned her tattered cotton skirt and let it drop from her hips. She pulled away the dirty blouse and ruined underwear. After unhooking the necklace, she lifted the amulet and turned it over in her hands. Still holding it, she stepped into the tub and sank to her chin in the steaming hot water.

She was angry with Arthur for the first time. Why had he been rude about Graeme? Why had he acted so possessive? Was that the nature of his love?

The amulet dangled from her fingers, its silver glinting in the light. She wondered if the document had survived the river. Gingerly she pulled it out and saw that it was dry. The locket had been lined with wax to protect it. Someone had intended the page to be preserved many years. Mungo Park?

Again she wondered how she fit into the legend of the treasure. She scanned the page from the journal. Christmas Day . . . Graeme said that date meant Park had lived longer than everyone believed. His deep voice filtered into her heart as she tried to sift the words for any possible clue. Ailie was Mungo’s wife, and the journal had been written to her, almost like a letter.

The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin . . .

What could that mean? And who was this Ahmadi Fatouma? Mungo had written that this man had the treasure in safekeeping. Was he the one who had taken the page from the journal? Had he hidden it in the wax-lined amulet?

The treasure of Timbuktu.
Those words had to mean something, but what? Tillie tried to remember what she had read about the fabled city. Hadn’t it been a trading post for salt caravans hundreds of years ago? There had been libraries with wonderful books. Surely all kinds of gold and other riches had found their way into the city.

She looked at the paper again.
“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.”

What was it Graeme had told her? Mungo Park had informed the king of Segou that white traders would come to the area, ending Moorish domination. Was that the white man of whom he wrote in his journal? Then who was the white woman? Surely not her. He could have had no idea she would come. Yet the Tuareg had held the document for years, waiting for a tree-planting woman.

Shaking her head, she refolded the paper and wished for Graeme. Maybe in the security of the hotel room they could sort out what the journal meant. She set the amulet on the cushion of her clothes and slipped her head under the water. Where was Graeme now? Could Arthur have found out more information about him than she knew? Something unwholesome? She couldn’t deny that Graeme was in pursuit with as much determination as the
amenoukal
. And she had seen no proof that he was a writer.

She let the clean water lap over her face. She wanted to erase it all, erase Graeme, his kiss, his gentle touch, that look in his eyes. For that matter, she wanted to erase Arthur, too. Arthur with his rifle and his possessiveness and his certainty that she would spend the rest of her life with him in London.

Lord, what now? What’s the plan?
As she scrubbed the river from her body, she asked him for guidance.
Just tell me what to do. Make me love Arthur. Take Graeme out of my brain. Explain this treasure business to me. I have to know. I have to understand. How am I going to take the right path unless you show me?

She climbed out of the tub and toweled off.
Father, I don’t love Arthur. That’s all there is to it. I don’t love him, and I can’t marry him.
The story of the biblical Jacob popped into her head. Jacob hadn’t loved Leah. He was in love with her sister, Rachel. But when their father tricked him into marrying Leah, Jacob did what was right. He stayed with her, gave her children, cared for her. Love had nothing to do with it.

Standing in front of the mirror, she combed out her hair.
But I can’t. I just can’t marry Arthur, Lord. Not when I love Graeme.
She frowned at her reflection. Where had
that
come from? How could she love a man she’d known only five days? And she certainly couldn’t be thinking about spending the rest of her life with him.
Do not be bound together with unbelievers. . . . What has a believer in common with an unbeliever?

They shared a love for Africa. That had to be it. They both liked adventure; they’d both lost their mothers; their fathers had hurt them. She and Graeme were survivors. They could eat bananas for three days and float down the Niger and . . . and . . .

She turned from the mirror. And that wasn’t enough.

She slipped into a clean robe and tied it at her waist. Hands in her pockets, she stared down at the tile floor.
So, what am I supposed to do, Lord? Aren’t you going to tell me the plan?

“Trust me.”

With a sigh of frustration, she stepped back into the bedroom. Hannah lifted her head and patted the sheet beside her.
“Okahaha,”
she whispered, beckoning in Kikuyu, the language of her youth. Tillie curled onto the bed, and Hannah drew the blankets over her shoulders.

“‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,’” she whispered, reciting perhaps her favorite lines from the Proverbs of Solomon, “‘and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.’”

“But, Mama Hannah,” Tillie began. “The trouble is—”

“‘When you lie down, you will not be afraid.’” The older woman ran stiff fingers over pale gold hair. “‘When you lie down, your sleep will be sweet. Do not be afraid of sudden fear, nor of the onslaught of the wicked when it comes; for the Lord will be your confidence, and will keep your foot from being caught.’”

The words of comfort washed over Tillie, and she closed her eyes, resting once again in the arms of the one who loved her unceasingly.

The smells of crisp bacon, golden eggs, and hot buttered toast drifted around Tillie, tantalizing her, drawing her from her dreams. When she lifted her head, she saw a bamboo tray, white plates, a small pink rose in a silver vase, and what surely must be manna from heaven. And she saw Arthur’s loving smile.

“Good morning, my darling Matilda,” he said softly.

“Mornin’, glory,”
she heard someone else whisper.

“Arthur, this is incredible,” she said to drown out the voice. She elbowed herself up into a sitting position. “I’ve been living on bananas.”

“I’m here to take care of you now, and I don’t intend my fiancée to survive on bananas.” He drew out the white napkin and spread it across her lap. “There you are. First-class service.”

She lifted the silver fork and knife, cut the egg, and speared a triangle. “Where’s Hannah?”

“She’s gone down to the market to buy you some new clothes. You lost your sandals, didn’t you? I could hardly believe the condition of your things when I threw them into the dustbin this morning.”

Tillie lifted her head. “Dustbin?” His words registered. Her blood dropped to her knees. She set the tray aside, threw back the covers, and jumped out of bed. “Arthur, where are my clothes? What have you done with them?”

She raced into the bathroom and stared at the bare tile floor. Arthur dashed in behind her. “Matilda, what in heaven’s name are you ranting about? What’s the matter?”