African Enchantment (23 page)

She would think of Cheltenham; of her aunts; of sweet, rain-washed mornings and fragrant spring days.

She felt exposed to the whole world. Before her were the chiefs and their retinues, and Raoul. Behind her hundreds of others and somewhere, if they were still alive, Sebastian and Mark Lane.

Her body was touched as if she were a horse or a mare about to be sold. She remembered how the slaves in Khartoum had been made to walk and run for the benefit of their prospective masters. She remained motionless, her eyes closed, transporting herself mentally far from her tortured body as it was discussed, fingered, bartered for.

She remembered her father, his gentleness and kindness, his love for her. The drums had begun to pound again. Voices were raised in excitement and anger. Flies buzzed around her and the blazing sun beat down on her unprotected head so that it required all of her strength to remain upright. She had lost count of the hours she had been without water. Her mouth was parched, her lips cracked. She could hear Raoul's voice, deep and strong and totally self-assured. Her eyelids flickered open. She knew she was going to faint. That when she regained consciousness she would belong to one of the impassive-faced chiefs standing only feet away from her; that Raoul and Sebastian and Mark Lane would be safe and continuing with their expedition. That she would never see him again. He had abandoned her, had witnessed her humiliation and had not raised his voice in protest.

It was hard for her to focus. Colours and shapes shifted and slid. It seemed as if the grass-coloured platform was full of objects that had not been there previously. Objects that were familiar. She swayed and closed her eyes and opened them again. There were sextants and chronometers, telescopes and beads. The chief was rifling through crates that she had last seen in camp. Raoul was showing him how to use the telescope and the chief was crowing with delight.

Why did Raoul not look at her? Why did he not care? Was he there at all or had she entered a world of fantasy? She looked around dazedly. On the ground behind her the crowd had parted to allow Raoul's horse and Sebastian's and Mark Lane's to be paraded in front of Latika.

Around Latika the other chiefs clustered, whispering, eyeing Raoul malevolently.

Raoul strolled to the edge of the ceremonial platform and called Mark Lane's name. Through a haze she saw Mark's strained face and saw him pull the rifle from Raoul's saddle bag and throw it up to him. Raoul caught it easily and turned to the chief. Immediately there was silence. Every warrior gripped his spear, pointing it in Raoul's direction. Raoul shrugged and smiled and approached Latika.

Latika relaxed slightly as Raoul spoke to him, handing him the gleaming rifle.

Amidst the crowd, Mark Lane closed his eyes. He had forgotten the rifle. He knew that Raoul had forgotten it also until he had seen it still in his pack when the horses had been paraded. Mark had believed that in the instant he had thrown it up to Raoul he would have been a dead man. Throughout the night the pistols that had been taken from them had been used with childlike glee and now Raoul was giving Latika their only remaining weapon. Mark wondered if the events of the past twenty-four hours had unhinged his mind.

The chief grinned and kept hold of the rifle. Raoul continued to talk. The chief looked disbelieving. The warrior who proudly disported Sebastian's pistol was summoned from the crowd.

Raoul stood before him, legs apart, arms folded over his powerful chest. The warrior raised the pistol and pulled the trigger. Harriet screamed and fell to her knees. Mark Lane groaned and closed his eyes. Sebastian cried out for his Maker, knowing that with Raoul dead they were all doomed.

Raoul gave silent thanks that his maths had been correct and held out his hand for the pistol. Latika was on his feet, frowning. The two other pistols were brought. They would not make the terrible noise they made when they had first been seized.

Harriet lay limply on the grass and reeds. She had thought him dead but he was still before her, talking to Latika. The chief's eyes were narrow and sharp. He raised the rifle and at Raoul's direction aimed it in the air and fired. His warriors cheered wildly. Latika beamed. He raised the rifle and fired again. Nothing happened. Latika frowned. Then Raoul showed him how to reload it. The bullets would not fit the pistols. Only the chief's weapon could make a voice like thunder and shoot the birds from the air. Latika was buoyant. The chiefs and their offers of cattle and wives were dismissed.

Raoul was striding towards her, his face grim. She tried to speak and could not. In one swift movement he swept her into his arms and then, in a semi-conscious haze, she knew they were descending the wooden steps. She saw Sebastian and Mark's frightened faces, felt herself lifted into the saddle in front of Raoul, held in the crook of his arm as she had been on the journey to Khartoum. Past and present merged into one. Her eyes were open but she no longer saw. She spoke to her father, her aunts, Dr Walther. She was vaguely aware of being tended; of being lifted to the ground and being given water to drink. Of her brow being sponged.

Raoul's voice penetrated her consciousness but it was hard and demanding and she knew that he still did not love her and wondered who was treating her with such tenderness.

He would allow no one to go near her. Holding her in his arms he tersely informed Frome what had happened and rallied Sebastian and Mark from their terrified stupor. The chief had been so elated with the rifle that fired only for him that they had been allowed to leave with their horses and most of their instruments, though not with Wilfred Frome's telescope. Latika's elation would not last longer than the ammunition that had been left with him. Their only hope of safety lay in removing themselves with all speed from the area inhabited by him and his fellow chiefs.

Sebastian was in eager agreement but wished to retrace his steps, not go forward. Mark Lane, when asked bluntly by Raoul whether he wanted to continue or return, had said that he personally wished to continue but that Harriet was in no condition to do so and would need protection. Looking down at Harriet's fevered brow, Raoul knew that his expedition was over and did not care. All that mattered was that Harriet was safe and would remain safe. He gave Mark Lane the double-barrelled Fletcher that he had once given to Harriet but that she had never carried, and asked him to take turns standing guard with Wilfred Frome. They would ride at dawn after Harriet had rested.

Then, caring nothing for the proprieties, he ignored Sebastian's suggestion that Narinda nurse her through the night hours, and carried her into her tent, kneeling at her side, tending her as gently as if she were a child.

‘Papa!' she called out several times, clinging to him, relaxing as she felt the strength and safety of his arms. And then, as dawn flushed the sky blood red, she said wonderingly, ‘Raoul,' and he breathed a shuddering sigh of relief and clasped her tightly to his chest.

Tentatively she raised her hand, her fingers outlining the hard contours of his face. ‘Raoul,' she breathed softly. ‘Raoul,' and his dark eyes held hers and he was kissing her long and lingeringly and with increasing passion.

Her arms slid up and around his neck. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the sweetness of his mouth, to yield utterly. To feel the warmth of his body against hers. Where were they? In Berber? In Khartoum? Her head whirled, besieged by faces and images.

The slave market in Khartoum. Sebastian's voice saying idly, as he sipped his wine, ‘Beauvais has only one mistress, the Circassian, Narinda.'

Raoul's hand clasping Narinda's. Narinda kneeling at his feet, sewing his shirts, and then the floodgates of memory were opened and she was once again standing like a chattel before Latika and Raoul and she was being bought; bought as Narinda had been bought. Bought by Raoul Beauvais as his slave.

Her forehead burned. She was consumed with a fire that was destroying her. His lips seared hers and she wrenched her head away, drumming her fists against his chest and shoulders, crying, ‘Don't touch me! Don't touch me! Don't ever touch me!'

Raoul raised his head from hers, as sharply as if he had been shot. She twisted in his arms, calling out vainly ‘Sebastian!'

Raoul ground his teeth and tightened his hold on her so that her cry became one of pain.

‘Sebastian is it? What did your precious Sebastian do for you in Latika's village? Did he risk his life for you? Did he carry you to safety?'

She was no longer listening to him. She knew only that she must free herself from his hold; that she must regain her self-respect. Her nails dug into his cheeks, raking long scratchmarks.

‘I'm not Narinda!' she cried tormentedly. ‘I'm not a slave to be taken at your pleasure!'

The blood pounded in a red mist behind his eyes. He had ached for her body for months. He had risked his life for her and now that she was safe it was Crale's name she called out. His iron self-control snapped. His fingers twisted cruelly in her hair, pulling her head back so that his eyes blazed into hers.

‘You
are
a slave!' he yelled as she panted and struggled and tried to free herself. ‘Ask Chief Latika! Ask his hundreds of warriors! Ask Crale and Lane! You were auctioned as a slave and bought as a slave and by God I'll enjoy you as one!'

This time there was no tenderness in the mouth that bruised hers. His body pinned her to the ground, no longer a refuge but hard and threatening and terrifyingly arousing. She could feel the heavy thud of his heart against her breast, and the passion that she had fought for so long engulfed her. She was on fire, burning with a need that knew no bounds. His lips scalded hers, hurting, searching, demanding. From the depths of her soul she summoned up one last agonised protest and as the word ‘No' was torn from her body the tent flaps were ripped apart and violent hands seized hold of Raoul.

She rolled from beneath him, gasping and sobbing, overcome with shame at her weakness.

Raoul had twisted like an eel, his fist coming into contact with the first face he saw. It was Sebastian's and he went spinning backwards out of the tent and into the dust and dirt. Seconds later, Raoul and Wilfred and Mark Lane followed him.

In two swift movements Raoul reduced Wilfred Frome to retching inertness and only a blow from Mark Lane, still wearing his clerical collar, brought him to his senses. They stood facing each other, panting, fists clenched.

‘Don't be a fool, Raoul. I don't want to hit you,' Mark gasped.

Raoul laughed harshly. ‘If you do, I'll knock you unconscious.'

‘If that's what I have to suffer to have you come to your senses, then I will.'

Raoul stared at him long and hard and then swore, swinging on his heel, half running in his haste to be free of the camp. Free of Mark Lane's accusing eyes. Free of Harriet's tormenting presence.

Mark rasped for breath and wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth.

‘Is he sane?' Wilfred asked, staggering to his feet. ‘Will he be back?'

‘He's sane and he'll be back,' Mark Lane said and went to where Harriet stood, Sebastian's arm comfortingly around her shoulders, her eyes huge in her whitened face.

‘You mustn't think too badly of Raoul,' Mark said, still fighting for breath. ‘He's been through a hellish experience …'

‘We all have,' Sebastian interrupted curtly.

Mark's voice was sharp. ‘ It was Raoul who bore the brunt of it.'

‘Please don't apologise for him,' Harriet said, choking back her tears. ‘He is beyond apology.'

‘Frome and I are returning to Gondokoro at dawn,' Sebastian said tersely. ‘Miss Latimer will be accompanying us. For your information, her reputation will be untarnished. She has just done me the honour of accepting my proposal of marriage.'

‘Is that true?' Mark stared at Harriet, deeply shocked.

Harriet's eyes met his bleakly. ‘Yes,' she said with an underlying tremble in her voice. ‘ It's quite true,' and then she turned and stepped into her tent, letting the flaps fall behind her.

Narinda's eyes were triumphant. Ignoring Wilfred's half-hearted protests, she ran towards her mule and mounted, urging the animal in the direction Raoul had taken.

Sebastian approached Harriet's tent, standing awkwardly as he heard the distinct sound of weeping.

‘Strange behaviour for a happy bride-to-be,' Wilfred Frome said nastily as he returned to his own tent.

Sebastian stepped towards him threateningly. ‘I find my fiancee's behaviour perfectly understandable in the given circumstances. I intend leaving this camp before she has to see that fiend again.'

‘If and when we part company, it will be in an orderly manner,' Mark Lane said quietly.

‘It will be when I choose!' Sebastian snapped, turning on his heel, unable to summon enough courage to comfort his betrothed.

Harriet wept until she could weep no more. In the long hours of captivity in the native hut she had been forced to face an agonising truth. No matter what he did, no matter how despicable his behaviour, she would always love Raoul Beauvais. She could do nothing else. He had only to touch her for her blood to leap. Even when he had hurt her, wrenching her head back, kissing her with a savagery that had left her lips bleeding, she had responded. Her last protest in his arms had been a vain one. Only Sebastian and his companions had saved her from utter shamelessness. She moaned softly, covering her eyes with her arm. What had she done that she should suffer such torments? She had discouraged him, ignored him, refused to be beguiled by his charm as Mark Lane and even Chief Latika had been. And to what avail? She was still enslaved by him. Nothing she could do would free her from the folly of her own heart.

Desolation swept over her. How would she live without the pleasure of seeing him? Without hearing his deep, rich voice? Without being the recipient of his rare smiles, his murderous rages? How would she live without the man she loved most in the world?