African Enchantment (20 page)

The lovely line of her jaw tightened. ‘On that subject, Reverend Lane, I beg to differ.' She turned away from him, walking rapidly to a grove of lemon trees.

Wilfred and Sebastian had long been in conversation with one another and were now approaching Raoul. Mark Lane bowed his head and said a private prayer for the slaves aboard the barges and for the dead priests who had once inhabited the ruined church.

Occasionally Harriet raised her head from her task and saw that Narinda was standing once more like a shadow at Raoul's side. Her attention was caught as she heard Sebastian's voice rise in anger.

‘We none of us realised what the climate would be like before we set off! We shall none of us survive if we travel further!'

‘Then return,' Raoul was saying in a bored voice. ‘The boats can continue no more. There are cataracts in little over a mile. From now on our journey is overland.'

‘Miss Latimer would not survive such hardships!'

‘Miss Latimer was not invited.'

Slowly Harriet approached, baskets of lemons in either hand. ‘Invited or not, Miss Latimer is continuing,' she said, her face pale, her eyes determined.

Raoul quenched his surge of admiration and said to Sebastian, ‘If you wish to return the boats are at your disposal. I ask only that you send fresh vessels through to wait for us here.'

Sebastian struggled inwardly for several moments and then said with bad grace, ‘I'll continue,' adding defensively, ‘ but only for the sake of Miss Latimer.'

Later, when the stores from the vessels had all been landed and the horses and mules exercised, Raoul went in search of Harriet.

She was alone, her head raised, the long, lovely line of her throat clearly defined as she gazed up at the giant cross that hung above the mission church.

‘I think,' he said curtly, ‘that Crale is right. It would be better for you to return.'

She turned to face him, fighting to keep her voice steady. ‘But I have no wish to do so.'

There was a strange note in his voice. ‘And I have no wish to have your death on my hands.'

She was about to flash a quick retort but her anger had deserted her, leaving her defenceless. He stood before her, straight and tall, and she was overcome by the desire to reach out and touch him. She said hesitantly, her voice barely audible,

‘Would my death matter very greatly, Mr Beauvais?'

His eyes lingered on her lips. He longed to seize her, kissing her until he lost his breath in the sweetness of her mouth. Instead, he said, aware of the harsh edge to his voice,

‘It would be an inconvenience, Miss Latimer.'

Harriet clenched her hands at her side, her nails digging painfully into her palms. ‘I will do my best not to inconvenience you, Mr Beauvais,' she said stiffly, returning her gaze once again to the cross, blinking back the tears that threatened.

He hesitated. It would be so easy to reach out for her; feel the softness of her body; the sweet smell of her hair. He stepped forward and slowly lowered his hand to her shoulder. Harriet stifled an inarticulate cry. His touch seemed to flame through the lawn of her blouse, burning her body like fire. She felt shameless, her whole being crying out in a need that was primeval. Gently he turned her to face him and she could see the heat at the back of his dark eyes as he studied her face and then he was drawing her into the circle of his arms and she was going as unprotestingly as a dove into the cote.

‘Mr Frome is looking for you. His map of the stars has been lost.' Narinda's bell-like voice broke in on them, shattering the private world they had entered.

Momentarily his hands tightened their grasp on her and then released her. His anger at the untimely interruption was too violent to be given expression to. Eyes brilliant with suppressed fury, he swung on his heels and marched through the long grass to where Wilfred floundered amongst a maze of packing cases.

Harriet folded her arms across her breast in an effort to still the trembling that seized her body. One touch, one look of burning desire and all her anger had fled. She had been helpless. As ready to enter his arms as she had been before she had known of Narinda's existence. She pressed her hands to her throbbing temple. Where had all her resolutions gone? Her common sense?

Across the wilderness Narinda stood motionless, her gossamer-light robes falling in soft folds to her feet. Her hands were lowered and clasped in front of her in the manner she often adopted. To the gentlemen of the party, it was a pose that was modest and becoming and, when accompanied by a gentle lowering of her head, a pose that brought protective instincts to the fore. It did not do so in Harriet. So Narinda had stood after trying to drown her. So she stood now – to an onlooker quietly respectful in Harriet's presence. No onlooker saw the gleam of malevolent hate in the lustrous dark eyes as Harriet once more gained control of herself and became aware of Narinda's continuing presence.

The eyes of the two girls met. Harriet's anguished and tormented at her inability to sustain her anger and contempt of Raoul Beauvais; Narinda's feral in their malignancy.

‘You shall not have him!' she spat. ‘You shall never have him!'

Harriet's heart began to beat fast and light. They were words she had heard before from Narinda. Words spoken before the unsuccessful attempt on her life.

‘I have no desire for him,' she lied through parched lips and walked with pounding heart towards the
dahabiah
and the litter of straw.

‘You should rest,' Sebastian said assiduously as he checked his rifle. ‘You look all in.'

Harriet did not reply. Outwardly composed, her inner emotions were in turmoil. Was this what she had descended to? Squabbling with Narinda over a man faithful to neither of them. When Raoul's powerful figure left Wilfred Frome's side and began to stride in her direction, she swung around so swiftly that the lemons she had been sorting tumbled to the ground. Blindly she hurried in the direction of Mark Lane. Behind her she heard Raoul call her name, and she broke into a run. She could not face him again. Her upbringing, her commonsense, were no protection against the power he exercised over her. Her only salvation lay in avoiding his presence and not allowing her eyes to meet his. Somehow she had to regain her anger. It was her only defence against her true feelings.

Mark Lane slipped a band around the papers he had been rolling and noted her discomposure. Swiftly he looked beyond her and saw the reason for it. Raoul Beauvais stood panting, arms akimbo, his white shirt gashed to the waist, his eyes fixed tormentedly on Harriet's firmly turned back.

He frowned. The hostility between Harriet and Raoul was occasioned by more than her uninvited presence. He wondered, not for the first time, what was its true source.

‘Is something disturbing you, Harriet?' he asked quietly, selecting books that could not be left behind.

‘Yes … no …' She hesitated. Mark Lane was a man of the cloth. A man accustomed to hearing and easing emotional burdens. Her cheeks warmed. She could not say that she was in love with a man who openly flaunted his mistress. A man who had taken disrespectful advantage of her. She said stiffly,

‘It is the heat. Nothing more.'

Mark Lane's frown deepened. Harriet Latimer was not a very accomplished liar. A dozen yards away Raoul's brows met satanically and then he pivoted on his heel, berating the natives for their inefficiency in unloading the stores.

Amidst much clamour and shouting from the Sudanese, the horses and mules were finally packed with all the provisions and equipment that they were to take with them. Harriet's heart faltered as she listened to Raoul checking aloud from the list he held in his hands.

‘Rifles, revolvers, Colts carbine, ammunition for two years, swords, chronometers …'

Ammunition to last two years! She felt giddy and faint. Was that how long their expedition would last? Was that how long they would have to live in each other's company, Narinda perpetually between them?

‘Prismatic compasses, thermometers, sundial, sextants …'

Hashim was returning to Khartoum on one of the barges. She could, if she wanted, return with him.

‘Telescope, boxes of mathematical instruments, tents, camp beds, mosquito nets …'

Raoul's voice continued as Sebastian chalked crosses on all the appropriate boxes.

‘Cooking utensils, camp chairs, blankets, fishing tackle, lanterns …'

Her fate lay in her own hands. She could continue into the unknown or she could board the barge.

‘Medicine supplies, brandy, tea, soaps …'

Her father's dream was within her reach. If she returned his death would have been in vain.

‘Spices, oil, sugar …'

At last the interminable list came to an end. Earlier she had said that she wished to continue. She was not going to go back on that decision. Hashim bade them goodbye with a face-splitting smile. The porters picked up their bundles and carried them on their heads. Narinda mounted her mule and Sebastian led Harriet to her horse.

‘Is your mind quite made up, Harriet? We could return to Khartoum. Marry …'

Raoul had wheeled his horse around and was engaged in deep conversation with Narinda. As they parted she saw his strong hand close over the delicately boned one. She fought an onrush of tears and said stiffly,

‘My mind is made up, Sebastian,' and then she set her hat on her hair, adjusting the veiling, and rode after Wilfred and Mark Lane.

Raoul was at their head, Narinda at his side. Sebastian at the rear, the porters behind him. As they moved off into land from which no white man had ever returned, the porters began to chant rhythmically. It was a sound Harriet was to associate with Africa for the rest of her life.

Several times Raoul turned in his saddle, his eyes seeking Harriet's, but she always averted her head, staring steadfastly in any direction but his.

In the days that followed the terrain grew more treacherous. The ground was too rocky for the mules to traverse with their heavy baggage and time and time again it had to be manually unloaded and carried, the mules coerced down the sides of steep ravines and up again.

On every hilltop Harriet searched vainly for flat ground and found none. The ravine-filled country was relieved only by sharp spiked bushes and thorns.

It was Sebastian who first saw the village. It was dark and the sun was losing its heat.

‘Over there!' he shouted excitedly, galloping past Harriet and on to Raoul. ‘A village! Can you see?'

Raoul reined in, his eyes narrowing.

‘With a bit of luck they'll be able to tell us more about the Great Nyanzas!' Sebastian said, his fatigue momentarily forgotten.

‘And with bad luck they'll prove to be Nyam-Nyams,' Raoul replied drily.

‘What are Nyam-Nyams?' Harriet heard Wilfred Frome asking nervously.

Raoul gave one of his rare smiles. ‘Cannibals,' he said and urged his horse forward once more.

The village was a collection of conical-shaped cane-woven huts and as they neared it Raoul halted again. ‘ I think it best if only two of us enter it until we are certain of our welcome.'

‘I endorse that decision,' Wilfred Frome said overeagerly.

Raoul's eyes flickered across to him and their expression was contemptuous.

‘So do I,' Mark Lane said, cantering to Raoul's side. ‘The porters are most uneasy. I think it would be bad policy to enter with them. If they desert our expedition will be at an end.'

Raoul slipped from the saddle. ‘ Tomorrow will be soon enough for hospitality. I want to have my wits about me when I do enter.'

‘Who will be your companion?' Mark Lane asked, wiping a rivulet of sweat away from his clerical collar.

Raoul grinned. ‘Frome. He's the Royal Geographical Society's official representative. Detailed descriptions of a cannibal tribe should be just what they are after.'

Wilfred Frome paled and stuttered but Raoul ignored him.

‘Let's make camp quickly before we are seen. We don't want unexpected visitors during the night.'

Harriet dismounted and leaned weakly against her horse, closing her eyes. The heat and the flies had been almost unbearable, the rough terrain a constant hazard.

‘Are you all right?'

Her eyes flew open. He had not approached her since she had so pointedly turned her back on him at Gondokoro.

‘Perfectly,' she snapped and summoning all her strength strode away from him, her skirts swishing around her ankles.

The muscles of his jaw flexed and tightened and then he swore and marched in the direction of the porters, issuing orders tersely.

At first light Raoul and a reluctant Wilfred Frome set off on horseback for the village. Sebastian paced the camp nervously.

‘Whatever else the man is, he certainly isn't a coward.'

‘Nor kind,' Harriet said, trying to stifle her own anxiety. ‘He knew Wilfred had no desire to journey with him.'

‘What one risks, we should all be prepared to risk,' Mark Lane said quietly.

Harriet clenched her hands tightly at her side, the nails digging in her palms. What he was risking was his life. She curbed the overriding desire to saddle her horse and ride after him. To do so might only endanger him more. Her lovely face was pale and drawn as she stood tensely, watching the two mounted figures disappear into the distance.

Mark Lane surveyed her with a worried frown and suddenly knew the answer to the question that had been bothering him for so long. It was not hostility that Harriet Latimer felt for Raoul Beauvais. It was love. He smiled to himself. He had seen the expression in Raoul's eyes when they had rested on Harriet and he had thought no one was observing him. The torture in the dark depths was that of a man yearning after what he could not have. When Raoul returned from his expedition, he would speak to him. Whatever the barrier between himself and Harriet, it was not insurmountable. Not when both loved the other with such intensity.