An hour ago, as he was hiking a barely discernible jungle trail no wider than his shoulders, a cloud of heavy gray mist had taken him by surprise. Fog settled in, camouflaging the landscape. Thick as rain, it rendered the trail dangerously slick.
Around midday he had stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and shoved it into the top of his pack, and so when he fell, his skin was scraped by the rough stones embedded in the mountainside. Now his bare chest, scratched and bleeding, stung.
Sweat mingled with dampness from the fog trickled down his spine. His knee-high leather gaiters were covered with trail mud, their crossed laces caked with it. His khaki pants were filthy and torn, the toes of his leather shoes scratched from kicking the mountainside.
In the heavy mist, looming palms and acacia trees around him became hulking dark shapes. Their leaves swayed with the rhythm of the trade wind. Green parrots dived and squawked, taunting him. Howler monkeys screamed with the shrill sound of demented laughter.
Again, Death whispered in his ear, “Just let go.”
A coarse sound burst from Trevor’s throat, one that might have sounded like a laugh, but was really a shout of defiance. It echoed against the face of the mountain and carried to the treetops.
Failure was not an option. The jungles of the world were already littered with the bones of hapless Englishmen who had lost their lives for their orchid-crazed patrons. Hunters had drowned, been lost or murdered, or fallen to their deaths—men who loved to gamble, men of adventure willing to die while searching for beautiful flowers in terrible places, to discover rare, exotic plants that would grace some wealthy aristocrat’s home.
Sweat slipped into his eyes and made him blink. He tightened his grip. Hand over hand, Trevor heaved himself upward, using the rough, twisted root to bring him even with the raw, broken edge of the trail. Gritting his teeth, he swung side to side like a pendulum until he dared to let go and grab for a place to land.
He hit the edge and clung. Before he started to slip again, he quickly scooted his upper body along with his elbows and forearms, grunting with effort as he dragged himself along, kicking with his legs. Soon he propelled himself to a secure patch of smooth, level ground.
Not until he drew his legs up and crawled a few feet away from the precipice did he allow himself to breathe. His heartbeat was ragged and wild.
A pair of noisy red-beaked parrots swooped down for a closer look. Beneath him, the earth trembled again, but gently this time, as if settling into place.
His hands shook. He took off his sun helmet, wiped his brow with his forearm, replaced the headgear, and then adjusted the rifle strap. Unfastening the canteen at his waist, he took a long pull of water. As his breath settled into an even cadence, Trevor scanned the sky and tried to see the sun through the tangle of branches and leaves that canopied the trail.
There was no indication it might burn through the fog before nightfall. If he did not start walking again soon, darkness would catch him on the side of the mountain and he would be forced to either bed down there or crawl along the narrow path on hands and knees, feeling his way out.
Pushing himself to his feet, he ignored the swell of weakness in his legs. Resettling his rifle strap, he took note of the superficial scratches on his chest and arms. His right cheek stung. He touched it and his fingers came away smeared with blood.
Starting out again, he concentrated on the trail, searching for any sign of weakness in the earth. Around the bend, where the mountainside was less eroded, he came upon crude steps set into the downhill slope. Flat rocks had been buried in the earth to form stepping-stones. He experienced a surge of relief when hiking became easier.
Every few yards, he could make out an outline of a boot print amid scattered prints of bare feet in the thick mud along the side of the trail. Trevor smiled with satisfaction. The shock of his close call slowly ebbed, soothed by the promise of success. Months of relentless work could finally yield the desired result. By nightfall, he could actually come face to face with Dustin Penn, the world’s most elusive and most renowned orchid hunter.
For years Penn had been shipping notable quantities of rare and unusual finds to London from different ports in Africa, while somehow keeping his whereabouts a secret. Over the last twenty years, Penn’s reputation as well as the mystery surrounding him had grown.
In the highly competitive business of orchid hunting, hiding the locations of one’s finds was perfectly normal. An amateur orchidologist and part-time hunter himself, Trevor kept meticulous notes and maps that he shared with no one. But hiding from the world, as Penn had done, was not the norm.
Unconsciously, his hand smoothed the butt of his rifle as he wondered how Penn would react to discovery. Would the man resort to violence to keep his whereabouts secret? Had he become a deranged recluse? How would he react when surprised?
As for himself, Trevor hated surprises. He always took great pains to make certain his own life was well ordered, that he consistently stayed on schedule. Everything that he could control always went according to plan.
He had learned at his grandmother’s knee that strict routine was necessary to success and that discipline kept one’s life from falling into chaos. He was well prepared to face Penn and whatever challenges came with finding him. Hopefully, there would be no surprises.
Although he had never set foot on Matarenga before, Trevor had often trekked over similar ground. If he had learned one thing, it was that jungles were filthy, humid, primeval places where nothing was easy or predictable and a man was never entirely safe. Still, he never felt as fully alive as he did whenever he was on a hunt. Perhaps it was the challenge of the very unpredictability of the jungle that attracted him.
He often thought that if it were not for his responsibilities to Mandeville Imports, to his grandmother and his family name, he would choose to spend all his time hunting orchids in the far corners of the world.
Dusk had poured shadows between the trees by the time Trevor had reached the valley floor. The air was thick enough to drink, close and stagnant. Moss grew on the trees, as did many epiphytic vines and plants that eventually destroyed their hosts.
It was too dark to see the trail now, but the scent of wood smoke had begun to beckon him. He had slipped his shirt on and left it hanging open until he could clean his wounds. Beneath the cuts and bruises, his heart raced with excitement. He hacked away at the undergrowth with his machete until he could see firelight flickering through the trees.
Caution was of the utmost importance now, so he moved with stealth. As he edged closer to the light, he slipped his rifle off his shoulder. Primed and loaded, it would give him only one shot. Then, if attacked, he would be forced to fight hand to hand until the end.
He had never killed another human being before. He did not relish the prospect of doing so now, but he would fire in self-defense if he had to. After what had happened on the trail, he was determined Death would have to work very hard to claim him.
Shoving aside a thick vine that blocked his line of vision, Trevor recoiled when his fingers touched the cool, dry skin of a huge snake as thick as his biceps. Face to face with the reptile, he watched its tongue flicker and its eyes close down to slits. It seemed suspended in air as it hung inches from his face until, without a sound, it slithered down the trunk of the tree and away.
He crouched low and focused on the small, nearly circular clearing ahead of him. A low fire glowed in the center of the encampment. Two small tents had been pitched off to one side.
Three male natives hunkered by the fire while a few more worked together on the far edge of the fire’s light. Trevor let go a soft sigh of satisfaction when one of the men moved to reveal a tall packing crate. Further stirring in the group gave him a clear view of three large barrels. Piles of dried moss and coconut husk, packing material for orchid shipments, were heaped on the ground at their feet.
Trevor’s gaze shot around the camp. If not Penn, then someone else was hunting orchids here. Firelight shimmered on
slick, green leaves knitted into a backdrop. To the right he heard rushing water. Trevor wiped sweat from his brow as he studied the shadowed jungle landscape, recalling the topography of the last few yards so that he could commit them to paper when he logged his notes.
Suddenly his eyes picked up flashes of white against the dark foliage. It was a moment before he realized that what he was seeing was not reflected firelight, but thousands of stark white orchid blossoms scattered like countless stars against the dark backdrop of jungle growth.
His breath left him in a rush.
Not only did he hunt and import orchids, but he had inherited his father’s extensive collection. He knew the breathtaking beauty of one single bloom, but nothing he had ever seen before could compare to the sight of hundreds of orchid blossoms exploding across the hillside.
A deep, gravelly laugh diverted his attention. There was movement in the camp. One of the natives called to another, then all of them laughed, sharing some joke in their own language.
A white man, illuminated by the firelight, stepped out of one of the tents. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a full head of long white hair, he looked about the right age to be Penn—somewhere between forty-five and fifty. He wore no sun helmet. His shirt was linen, stained down the front; his pants, muddied khaki, were tucked into worn gaiters. His fist was wrapped around the neck of a whiskey bottle. Three gold earrings dangled from his earlobe to flash in the firelight’s glow.
The orchid hunter was unarmed. He spoke to one of his men, then laughed boisterously again, secure in the false belief that they were alone.
Trevor reminded himself to be calm, clear, concise. He would show no threat. He straightened to full height. Every muscle protested. He slipped his rifle strap off, pointing the barrel down. He had traveled halfway round the world for this moment. He would introduce himself, then present his proposition to Penn.
He stepped out of the shadows into the shimmering ring of the campfire’s glow and watched as the man across the fire froze stock still and stared back at him in shock.
“Are you Dustin Penn?” Trevor called out.
The native bearers around the fire jumped to their feet. Those near the packing crate swung around. In their own tongue, they murmured among themselves. Their dark eyes shifted to the man .he assumed to be Dustin Penn, and then back to him. The Matarengi were tense, ready, awaiting Penn’s orders.
Trevor knew he was already a dead man if Penn wanted him dead. He tightened his grip on the rifle.
“Who wants to know?” the orchid hunter shouted back.
Penn, if it was Penn, had not moved a muscle, although he appeared less guarded than his men. His voice was rough as the rocky mountainside, his bulk more muscle than fat. In sharp contrast to his shoulder-length white hair, his skin was bronze, sun-damaged, and leathered. His eyes were light blue and piercing.
“I’m Trevor Mandeville. I’m from London.”
Everything seemed to be going according to plan until one of the bearers beside the crate shifted to his left. A young white woman stepped out from behind him into Trevor’s line of vision and walked into the clearing.
“And I’ve come to—” Trevor’s gaze touched upon the girl and he was arrested. He could not take his eyes off her. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard the orchid hunter demanding answers, but for the life of him, he could do nothing but stare at the young woman across the campsite.
Medium height. Round blue eyes, clear as a mountain lake. Bracketed by deep dimples was an evenly drawn, pouting mouth, the lower lip slightly fuller than the upper. Her long hair was blond, thick, tangled, and untamed. Her clear skin had seen much sun, but she was not as darkly suntanned as her father. Her cheeks were radiant.
He was shocked when he realized that not only was she wearing shin-length trousers, but her shirt was tied below her full breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her midriff was bare and trim, her navel exposed. She was not soft, but sleek and finely sculpted, her flesh golden tan.
“Who in the hell are you, sir?” The man was yelling at him now.
The girl quickly crossed the clearing and stood beside the man. Up close, her features were even more remarkable. Hers was a face Trevor knew as well as his own. Suddenly, he found his voice.
“Janelle?”
Chapter Three
A chill went through Joya as she stared at the white stranger who had materialized from between the trees without warning, like a jimbwa, a ghost. She knew that when the god Kibatante had stirred, shaking the mountain this afternoon, that something momentous was going to happen. Here, then, was proof.
The white man was young and very, very pleasing in appearance, with something hauntingly familiar about him, something in his serious dark eyes that made her think she had gazed into them before—and seen herself reflected there.
Impossible thought. Especially since she had never been beyond the protective reef surrounding Matarenga. Few white man had ever come here and definitely not one such as this. He was strong and tall. His hair was black as the night sky. His direct gaze warmed her to her bones. She would surely remember this man.
Had Kibatante answered her prayer? Had he sent this man to her?
“Janelle?”
He repeated the word he had said before, but louder this time as he watched her expectantly. Confused and curious, she smiled back, but did not move or respond. Without even looking over at her father, she could feel his simmering anger.
“Are you Dustin Penn, the orchid hunter?” the stranger asked her papa.
“I am. How in the hell did you find me? Who are you and what do you want?” The way her papa was rudely demanding answers, Joya hoped the white stranger did not end up dead.
“Who is she?” The stranger pointed at her. “Where did she come from?”
The stranger’s voice was stronger, surer now, as if his initial shock had faded.
She started to reply, but her father cut her off when he said, “That’s none of your damn business! For the last time, who in the hell are you?”
Her papa shoved the half-full whiskey bottle at one of the Matarengi and stepped around the fire, bearing down on the stranger. Joya quickly followed, reaching up and clutching the small amulet bag in her hand.
“I’m Trevor Mandeville. I’ve come all the way from London with a proposition for you.” As he spoke to her father, the stranger barely took his eyes off of her. Then the man appealed directly to her, “Please, tell me your name.”
Was he foolhardy or oblivious of her father’s anger?
“I am Joya…Joya Penn.” She was tempted to reach out and touch his face just to see if he was real. Dried blood smeared his cheek, a dark crimson crescent upon golden skin. She tried to look away, tried to break the hold of the man’s intense stare, but she failed.
“She’s my daughter.” Not until her father grabbed the white hunter by the shirt collar and forcibly turned the man around did the stranger’s eyes leave her.
“Your daughter?” The man sounded baffled.
Joya gently touched her father’s arm. “Papa, he’s bleeding. He needs help.”
The man’s shirt hung open, revealing raw cuts and scrapes all down his muscular chest and abdomen. His face and arms were streaked with blood and dirt and sweat.
She calmly appealed to her father again. “Papa, please.”
Penn walked him to a low, flat rock. “Sit down.”
Glancing around, the man’s gaze touched each of the Matarengi in turn. The natives remained solemn, silently watching the exchange. Joya turned to the bearers and spoke in Matarengi, sending some to continue packing the crates and barrels and others to finish preparing the evening meal.
Her father stood beside Trevor Mandeville with his fists planted on his hips. His blue eyes burned with fury. Mandeville slipped his rifle strap and pack off and set them aside. Then he slowly lowered himself to the rock as if his entire body pained him. He glanced at Joya again before he turned back to her father.
Trevor Mandeville.
She committed his name to memory, let her mind tumble it over and around like a child playing with a pretty seashell.
Her father turned to the Matarengi holding the whiskey bottle and snapped his fingers. The bearer handed it to her father, who passed it on to Mandeville.
She saw the Englishman’s hand shake slightly as he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long swill. He wiped his mouth and then handed the whiskey back to her father.
“I’m sorry. Seeing your daughter has given me quite a shock.”
“Why?” Joya stepped closer, heart pounding.
Her father ignored her. “What are you doing here, Mandeville?”
“I am an orchid hunter—”
Her papa snorted. “How did you find me?”
“It took me almost two years. I own Mandeville Imports, of London. We’ve an auction house, too.” He glanced at Joya, frowned. “I’ve come to make you a business offer, Mr. Penn.”
Her father threw back his head and laughed.
“You would like to make me an offer? Look around, Mr. Mandeville.” He swept his arm in a grand sweeping gesture. “You are on my island. At my mercy. And you think you can offer me anything I need or even want? My only desire is to see you walk out of here.”
Joya frowned. She had never seen her father as angry before. He had often been stubborn, but never, ever had she seen him behave this way, in such a rage.
“Papa, he is wounded. He needs our help.”
Almost as if he had forgotten she was there, her father suddenly turned to her. It was then that she noticed that there was something lurking in his eyes besides anger. Something she had never seen in them before.
What could her father possibly have to fear from this man?
“Go and see to the men, Joya. Get those last plants packed. We’ll head back at first light.” He issued the order in Matarengi and quickly dismissed her. Joya did not move, for Mandeville was speaking again.
The Orchid Hunter Page 2
