African Enchantment (7 page)

The voice was like a whiplash, the authority indisputable.

With shrugs and spits, the men began to disperse, the name Beauvais uttered contemptuously.

Harriet tried to run towards him but could not. The hand securing her breast merely tightened, pulling her hard against an unseen body. From being the centre of a circle, Harriet and her captor now stood alone, the previous participants watching from a safe distance.

Raoul did not even ask that Harriet be set free. From across the dust-filled square he raised the revolver once more, and took careful aim. Harriet's abductor laughed derisively at the gesture and then screamed in pain as his arm was blasted, bone shattering, blood spurting.

Harriet fell forward, sprawling full-length on the mud-beaten ground, her torn blouse seeping with the blood of her assailant.

Shaking convulsively she pushed her tangled hair away from her face and tried to rise to her feet. Through sweat and tears she saw the black boots in front of her, felt strong hands grasp hold of her and lift her in one swift and easy movement into his arms.

A grey-faced Hashim waited in fear as Raoul strode through the square, and, not releasing Harriet, mounted his horse. The men watched silently and sullenly as Raoul's victim rolled and screamed in pain. Hashim felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It would take only one move, one shout of initiative, and the whole pack would be on them. With superb arrogance Raoul rode his horse towards the line that blocked his exit, not pausing for a second as the soldiers showed no sign of giving way. Hashim's fingers tightened around his dagger, and then, as Raoul showed every intention of trampling them underfoot, the crowd parted.

Harriet saw nothing of the silent spectators who watched their progress. Her hair covered her face and breasts, her arms were wrapped around Raoul's lean waist, her head on his chest. When they reached the verdant green of the garden she was still trembling.

Holding her as easily as he would a child, Raoul slid from the saddle and strode through the hordes of excited, chattering servants.

‘Malindi!'

A plump woman, some years older than the braceleted girls, stepped forward from the shadows of the courtyard.

‘Take care of my cousin for me.'

‘Yes, Capitaine Beauvais.'

Her arms tightened around his neck. ‘Don't leave me!' Her lips were parted and trembling, her distress palpable.

His voice caught and deepened. ‘Have no fear, you will be safe from now on.'

With Malindi hurrying by his side, he carried her across the courtyard and into a suite of cool, high rooms beyond. Behind them Harriet could see the Pasha, flusteredly leading his retinue in an effort to gain pace with them. Raoul continued heedlessly, his indifference to the Pasha's queries and exclamations total. A booted foot kicked open a cane door. Inside was a giant-sized bed, marble figurines, a delicate china wash-bowl and jug, and lush velvet-covered chairs.

As the Pasha breathlessly reached the doorway, mopping his perspiring brow, Raoul laid Harriet down on to unbelievable softness. As he did so her hair fell backwards, the lace of her camisole merely skimming her nipples. Raoul froze, staring down at the purpling imprint of cruel fingers on the delicate flesh. With a swift movement he covered her with a silk sheet and his face terrible, strode from the room.

Harriet tried to rise, calling out his name. Malindi restrained her gently. ‘ You must sleep, Miss Latimer. You need rest.'

Harriet sank back against the pillows, dazedly aware that she was being addressed by a slave in near-perfect English. Malindi sponged her face and hands with cool water and applied salve to her breast.

‘The skin is not broken,' she said comfortingly. ‘There will be no infection.'

The strength that had sustained Harriet through her ordeal in the desert, now failed her. She could only murmur her thanks and close her eyes, aware that she was taking help from one of the very slaves she had determined such a little while ago to free.

When she awoke, it was to the light of early morning. Malindi was sitting in a chair, smiling.

‘You have slept long and deep.'

‘Yes.' She pushed herself up against the pillows.

‘I will bring you fresh bread and fruit and coffee.'

As Malindi left the room Harriet swung her legs to the floor. Her breasts throbbed and the purple bruise had deepened, but other than that she felt fit and rested. At the foot of the bed lay a high-necked, full-sleeved blouse. Hashim had been shopping again.

The jug was full of cool, rose-scented water and she washed with pleasure, rebraided her hair, exchanging the torn blouse with the replacement. On the far side of the cane door she saw a dark silhouette and opened it, expecting to see Malindi. Hashim stood there, legs apart and arms folded, his dagger gleaming at his waist. He turned, giving her his blinding, broken-tooth smile.

‘You slept well, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady?'

‘Very well, thank you, Hashim. Have you come for me?'

‘Come?' He raised scraggy eyebrows. ‘Not come. I have been here all night.' He tapped the dagger. ‘My master has insisted you be protected at all times.'

Harriet felt a surge of pleasure. ‘Where is your master now, Hashim?'

‘He is not back yet.'

Harriet's composure fled. ‘ Back from where?' she cried in alarm.

Hashim's grin was buoyant. ‘ From killing the son of a dog who so abused you.'

Harriet clutched weakly at the door. ‘But he left hours ago! Yesterday afternoon!'

‘The dog learned of my master's intentions and ran.'

The colour drained from her face. ‘ Do you mean that Raoul … your master … is hunting the man down to kill?'

Hashim nodded eagerly. ‘But of course. The son of a dog deserves to die. If Allah is good maybe my master will return with his head.'

Harriet pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. Hashim, misunderstanding her distress, said reassuringly, ‘Do not worry, my master has killed many such.'

‘But he is a
geographer!'
Harriet protested wildly. ‘Not a soldier! Not a murderer!'

‘He is a man,' Hashim said simply, and moved aside as Malindi approached with a breakfast tray.

Tremulously Harriet sat once more upon the bed as Malindi poured hot, fragrant coffee and offered her a plate of strange, nearly flat but sweet-smelling cakes. The coffee was reviving; the cakes as delicious as they smelled. She said, when she could trust her voice,

‘Has Mr Beauvais returned yet, Malindi?'

‘The Capitaine Beauvais arrived five minutes ago. He is bathing and will be ready to leave within the hour.'

The Capitaine. She had heard him addressed as such before. So he
was
more than just a geographer. She remembered the cold, frightening eyes as he had raised his revolver and shot her assailant. It had been the act of a brave, courageous man, for the odds had been overwhelming. Lying in the cool of the room with Malindi at her side, she had marvelled at the fearlessness, the daring, the insolence he displayed towards life. It both aroused and intrigued her. But courage was not hunting down a wounded man with intent to kill. Retribution had already been exacted; there was no need for more.

Hashim had said that Raoul Beauvais had already killed many such. Had she fallen in love with a murderer? A man who held life as cheaply as the slave traders? She shivered. Certainly he was a man held in deep respect. The Pasha's attitude to his guest had shown that quite clearly. Did the respect verge on fear? Why hadn't the soldiers attacked him? Why had they slunk so silently away? They had known who he was. The name Beauvais had been muttered and spat upon. Soldiers, officials, everyone knew of him and who and what he was. Everyone but herself.

There was a light tap at the door and Malindi, fine silk fluttering around her ample body, hastened to open it. It was Hashim.

‘My master is ready,' he said simply.

Harriet finished her coffee and rose to her feet, feeling suddenly nervous. At the door she turned and offered Malindi her hand. The older woman took it warmly.

‘Goodbye Malindi, and thank you for your care of me.'

‘It was a pleasure, Miss Latimer.'

‘Malindi …?'

‘Yes, Miss Latimer.'

‘Malindi, where did you learn to speak English so well? The other slaves do not do so.'

Dark grey eyes held hers kindly. ‘I am not a slave, Miss Latimer. I am the Pasha's wife.'

Harriet's cheeks flushed as she hastily apologised. Malindi's calm smile deepened. ‘It was an understandable mistake, Miss Latimer. One of many that I think you will make. Africa is not an easy land to understand.'

Imperturbably she watched as her husband's concubines descended like pretty butterflies and led Harriet to where Raoul waited.

He was dressed once more as an Arab, his robes shimmering in the morning sunlight, his face half-hidden by his head-dress, only his eyes showing, dark and flashing and unreadable. A scabbard hung at his waist, and the deadly curve of a scimitar gleamed threateningly. She knew that the jewelled dagger would also be on his person; his revolver within easy access in his saddle baggage. They were strange necessities for a man who declared himself to be a mere geographer.

The Pasha was looking most unhappy as he wished them a safe journey. Though early in the day, he was perspiring more freely than ever. Harriet took her leave of him with relief. Hashim laughed as they began to canter through the mud-baked streets.

‘It is good to see such a man so frightened.'

‘Why should the Pasha be frightened?'

Harriet asked curiously.

Hashim laughed again. ‘Because my master threatened him with his life.' Harriet's head whirled as she turned to look across at Raoul. ‘But why? He was your host. He gave you hospitality.'

They were travelling three-abreast. The broad-brimmed hat that had accompanied her from England had been supplied with fresh veiling that kept the sand and dust from her eyes and mouth. Genie-like, Hashim had procured a parasol and she carried it rolled and tucked down her saddle pack as Raoul and he carried their rifles. It would serve to shield her from the blistering heat later in the day. There was a cool edge to Raoul's voice as he said,

‘It was deserved, that is all you need to know.'

‘As deserved as your other killings?' Harriet asked, her voice unsteady.

His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you criticising my behaviour, Miss Latimer?'

The dam of Harriet's emotions broke. ‘Then you do not deny that you have killed men?'

His gaze was disturbingly intense. ‘No, Miss Latimer, I do not.'

Tiny green sparks flashed in her eyes. ‘Then you are contemptible! Hunting a wounded man down like a dog!'

‘Which one of the many men that I have killed are you referring to, Miss Latimer?' There was a hint of menace in his voice that she disregarded.

‘The soldier you hunted through the night!'

‘Ah. The one who was about to strip you naked and enjoy you publicly before the rest of his companions?'

At his forthrightness Harriet felt her cheeks sting with colour. ‘You do not know that …'

His hand shot out and grasped the reins of her horse, his voice dangerously quiet. ‘I do know that, Miss Latimer. And so do you. Would you have preferred it if I had left him well alone and continued with my bath?'

‘I … No … I was very grateful …' His hand had carelessly touched hers and at the heat of it she had started to tremble.

‘Then keep your ill-timed comments to yourself.'

She knew that he was conscious of the response of her body to his touch and was furiously angry with herself.

‘Your behaviour in wounding him was necessary; killing him was not!'

‘I judged that it was.'

She gasped, her eyes widening in horror. ‘Then you did kill him?'

He released her horse and stared at her, grim-faced. ‘ Yes. I killed him.'

‘Oh no!' Her eyes were anguished. ‘Then you are no better than he! You are a monster! A murderer!'

‘I am a bad judge of character,' he agreed tightly. ‘Put your missionary heart at rest, Miss Latimer. I did not kill him solely because of his treatment of you. Rather I killed him for a girl who would have been more grateful had she lived. She died three days ago at the same hands that had hold of you. She was twelve years old.'

His whip came down hard on the flanks of his horse and she was left far behind him, shocked and stunned.

Hashim regarded her with something akin to contempt.

‘But the Pasha …' she protested defensively.

Hashim cursed volubly in Arabic. ‘The Pasha had arranged for us to be waylaid and for you to be returned to him as a concubine. My master knows well the minds of such men. He bribed the negro boy to tell him his master's plans and then he threatened the Pasha with the blade of his dagger against his throat.' He shrugged. ‘There will be no such ambush now.'

Harriet felt as if she were in a world of nightmare.

‘But surely, after such treatment, the Pasha will order his men to kill him?'

Hashim's grin returned to his lined and leathery face. ‘My master cannot be taken by surprise now and there is no other way to take him. Besides,' he shrugged, ‘my master is man of much importance. Such an act would soon be known in Cairo and Alexandria and then what of the Pasha?' He drew a finger across his throat graphically.

Harriet shuddered. She had thought the worst over once the desert had been crossed. Now she realised for the first time that there were other, more menacing dangers than those of nature. There were men like the Pasha; men who were not satisfied with one wife, or even many wives. Men who bought, like cattle, girls to give them pleasure. Men who would kidnap and kill in order to satisfy their bodily lusts. She had seen the way his small, pig-like eyes had followed her every move. She knew only too well that what Hashim said was true. The Pasha
had
planned to have her kidnapped and returned to him and only Raoul had saved her: as he had from the hands of the man he knew to be a perverted killer. She was suffused with shame. She had called him a monster and a murderer, taking no regard of the lawlessness of the country through which they travelled. He alone had stood between her and ravishment. He had promised her protection and had given it, risking his own life in the process. The thanks he had received had been hysterical outpourings more befitting one of her aunts than herself. Miserably she spurred her horse after his, but the strong shoulders remained firmly set against her and when he spoke it was only to Hashim and always in Arabic.