She handed it to him, and he read the label.
Patrick turned the tin over in his hands, and then grinned. “You are an angel.”
Linley grinned, too. “I know.” She bent down to pull off her boots. “When you spend enough time slopping around in the heat with nothing but men, you pick up a few tricks along the way.”
“Yes, I imagine you would,” Patrick said, waving the tin of powder in his hand. “And I promise I will make very good use of this.”
She crawled into her tent before he could catch her blushing. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
Left standing out in the balmy night, Patrick grinned, almost blushing himself. He looked across the campsite at Archie, who watched his every move. Raising the tin of talcum powder, he touched it to his temple in a mock salute and climbed into his own tent.
“Patrick?” Linley whispered through the canvas that separated them.
He stretched out as best he could, and situated his blanket around him. “Hmmm?”
There was a long pause. “Goodnight.”
Patrick smiled to himself. “Goodnight, Linley.”
Alone in her own tent, knowing he lay just on the other side of the canvas walls, Linley fished through one of her bags. She pulled out her stack of traveling papers, and untied the knot of twine holding them all together. From between the pages, she found what she searched for—Patrick’s photograph.
She dared not fold or crease the image. Linley clutched it to her chest as carefully as she could, treasuring it. She knew it was silly, but she held the picture of him just as she would if she really held him in her arms. Knowing he was just next door made her heart ache. Linley longed to go to him, to have him hold her in his arms again, and to feel for the briefest instant like she was…his.
Pressing her lips to the photograph, she kissed Patrick goodnight, and tucked him back into her papers. Linley didn’t want to risk falling asleep and crushing his image, but more importantly, she didn’t want to risk anyone stumbling into her tent and finding out her little secret. Especially not Patrick, whom she imagined would be more appalled than flattered to catch her worshipping at the altar of his person.
Linley curled herself into a tight ball, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders. She listened to the sounds of the jungle outside the thin sheet of canvas protecting her from the elements. Knowing that at any minute a man-eater could rip through the tent and kill her was not the most comforting of thoughts before drifting off to sleep, but Linley had grown so accustomed to living in danger that the notion hardly fazed her.
Patrick, however, lay wide-awake. Every sound in the jungle was new to him, and potentially dangerous. He had not yet learned to tell the difference between the rustling of tree branches and the sound of a tiger’s paws against the soft, wet grass. To him, the cry of a gibbon was no different the roar of a leopard. And, although he was unafraid, Patrick was not foolish enough to believe he was safe.
CHAPTER THIRTY
If not for the heat—which was intense—and if not for the great swarms of stinging, buzzing creatures—which were innumerable—Patrick would have been blissfully happy. With one arm, he swatted the gnats, and flies, and mosquitoes drawn by the sweet scent of human sweat. With the other, he held Linley close to him.
It was no picnic sharing a howdah with her. She was greedy, and took up twice as much space as she needed. But Patrick gladly crushed himself against the side of the basket to accommodate her.
He pulled his panama hat low on his head, shielding his face with its wide straw brim. Every piece of fabric on his body stuck to him. He was still chafed from yesterday’s journey, but the talcum powder helped with the discomfort.
He smelled horrendous. He hadn’t shaved in days. His legs were cramped and he couldn’t quite feel his toes. His arm rubbed raw where Linley’s bony shoulder pressed against him, and he needed to go to the toilet, but dared not ask Bedford for permission to stop. Patrick should have been miserable, but with Linley at his side, everything else seemed trivial.
She rested her head on his shoulder, listing back and forth as the elephant swayed through the forest. She’d fallen asleep, or else he would have never gotten this close to her in full daylight with her father watching. Or Archie. Or Reginald. Or even Schoville.
Patrick hadn’t seen a young woman so intensely chaperoned since he danced with Princess Maud at her come-out ball. Linley’s guard dogs might not like it, but packed so tightly into the howdah baskets, there was little they could do. So Patrick cuddled her close and gloated. He would worry about the consequences later.
Unfortunately, the elephant stumbled, and the basket lurched, jostling Linley awake. She shot up, embarrassed to find herself in so intimate a position.
“I was rather comfortable,” he said. “Put your head back.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Linley studied her hands in her lap, too mortified to look him in the eye. What if someone had seen them—her father, or perhaps Archie? She would never hear the end of it.
“Well, then,” Patrick said after some silence. “I’ll just put my head on your shoulder and try to finish the rest of our nap.”
When he tried to do just that, Linley shrugged him off. “Don’t!”
“What is wrong with you?”
“I don’t want you to lay on me,” she said. “Nor do I want to lay on you.”
He frowned. “You did not seem to mind a moment ago.”
“I—I’m hot,” she lied. “It’s too hot to sleep bunched up together like that.” The truth was that she was afraid to tell him just how much she enjoyed sleeping against his body. “And besides, someone might see us.”
“Too late,” Patrick said. “And so what if they did see us? We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
Linley shook her head. “Wrong or not, how do you expect me to explain to my father if he turns around and catches us laying all over each other?”
Sometimes she frustrated Patrick so badly he wanted to pull his hair out. “You pout, and hum and haw, and try to wriggle your way out of things instead of handling them like an adult. If your father treats you like such a grown-up, why do you behave like a scared little girl?”
“Because sometimes I feel like a scared little girl.” It took every ounce of self-control not to scream at him. “If you want to talk about Phoenician iconography, I can talk about that. If you want to talk about Scott’s expedition to the South Pole, I can talk about that, too. But if you want me to explain how it makes me feel when my body presses up against yours, I have not the slightest idea where to start.”
“Of course. That’s perfectly understandable,” Patrick said. “I should have seen it from the start…You said your first kiss was the one we shared at the museum, correct?” When she nodded, he continued, “A girl as pretty as you could have been kissed any time she wanted to. So—stop me if I’m being presumptuous—you never wanted to kiss anyone before you kissed me.”
Linley blushed, but said nothing.
“And you don’t understand why you chose me out of all the men in the world.” He leaned toward her. “You’re wondering what makes me so special.”
She gave him a half-smile. “It’s confounding, to say the least.”
“Then I dare say it will come to confound you more, because there is no true answer to the question,” Patrick explained. “It could simply be timing. Or luck—on my part. Or perhaps there is something monumental afoot. Either way, I cannot say. It isn’t for me to decide.”
“Who gets to decide, then?” Linley asked.
“I should think the Good Lord has the ultimate say in such matters,” he said with a shrug. “But it is your heart, and I think he leaves a great deal of the decision up to you.”
She laughed. “Then he must be awfully frustrated with me. Half the time, I can’t even decide which shoes to wear, much less tackle such important matters as my heart.”
“For our dinner at Claridge’s, you chose red shoes,” Patrick
said, “when most girls would have taken the safer route and picked black. I think that says a great deal about the type of woman you are.”
“But I also choose sturdy, sensible boots,” Linley said, wiggling her dirty, booted feet. “And yet I’m fond of white buckskin oxfords. And even more fond of no shoes at all when I can get away with it.” She sighed, shrugged, and then shook her head. “Using your theory, you could look at me one day and think I’m a certain type of girl, but then the very next day I could give the completely opposite impression.”
“I know,” he said, smiling. “The very first time I saw you, you were dressed much the same as you are today—boy’s jodhpurs, boots, and an old linen shirt. But then you showed up in London in your smart frocks and little French heels, and turned my whole idea of you on its head. I’ve come to believe that your charm lies in your versatility. You can go anywhere, and do anything, and become anyone. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
Linley was stunned. “You like that I am confounding, and contradictory, and unpredictable?”
“Most of the time, yes.”
“How odd,” she said. “What I like most about you is your steadfast, constant nature. You are the same man I met in Morocco, and you are the same man that I danced with in London. I have every reason to believe that you will be the exact same person in twenty years as you are right now in this very moment.”
“And that comes as a comfort to you?”
She nodded. “We are completely different from one another in every way.”
“They do say opposites attract.”
“Opposites may attract, but they rarely thrive together,” Linley argued.
“And yet I find that I cannot thrive without you,” Patrick said. “I left London in the height of the season to search you out when every bit of common sense told me to stay put. But every girl I danced with I compared to you, and every one of them was found wanting. Instead of delicate complexions, I suddenly preferred freckled. Instead of tall, graceful swans, I wanted plucky little fawns.”
Patrick reached over and took her hand, holding it tight. “I’m not making much sense, but what I mean is this—Linley, you have quickly become my dearest friend in all the world. Please don’t be ashamed of what you feel for me, and please don’t be ashamed that you don’t understand it,” he said. “Life will deal you a great many surprises. I’m sure you will rise to the challenge of each and every one of them. But for now, let’s enjoy our special friendship without worrying about what it is or isn’t, or what it can or cannot become.”
Linley studied her fingers intertwined with his. Her hand was so small, and his was so large, yet hers was scarred and calloused, while his was soft and manicured. They were direct opposites of each other even down to their basic composition, yet some strange common thread held them together.
***
“You seem to be settling in nicely,” Linley said, kneeling over a pot of hot, soapy water.
Patrick hovered over her shoulder, watching her scrub that night’s dishes. She dipped her hands into the hot water and pulled out a bowl, giving it a thorough washing.
“I like it here,” he said. Taking the clean dish from her hand, he wiped it down with a towel. “But I’ll admit it’s different than anything I’ve ever known before.”
Linley laughed, passing him another bowl. “I doubt you have ever lifted a finger to cook your own meal or wash your own dishes.” She reached back into the water, and pulled out a handful of spoons. “You probably have someone to trim your toenails if you don’t feel like doing it yourself.”
“I do, actually,” he said, grinning. Patrick took the spoons and dried them with the towel.
With the dishes put away, Linley poured out the pot of dirty water onto the ground. “It seems strange to me that someone would actually enjoy serving another person, that some poor man would willingly clip your nails and rub your dirty feet.”
“I don’t look at it that way,” Patrick said. “You see, I am terribly fond of my valet. Over the years, he’s been more like a friend to me than a servant.”
He watched as Linley poured another pot full of water and placed it over the campfire.
“I would think a man as nice as you wouldn’t have to pay someone to be his friend,” she said.
Patrick frowned. “I have friends. It’s just that these days they are all starting families or busy in their occupations,” he explained. “And since I have none of those things, there seems to be less and less to talk about whenever I see them.”
Linley picked the pot from the fire. “Then I suggest you find yourself some new friends.”
“I thought that’s what I’ve been doing.”
She carried the water to the edge of the campsite. Patrick took a seat by the fire, and watched her as she strung a rope from one tree to another. Once it was secure, she took a sheet of canvas and slung it over the line, using clothespins to hold it in place. The canvas formed a partition between her and the camp, completely blocking her from view.
Patrick studied her movements behind the curtain until he realized what Linley planned to do—bathe. Neither Archie, nor Reginald, nor anyone else seemed the least bit interested in Patrick’s discovery. They sat, oblivious to it all, smoking one last cigarette before bed and discussing plans for the next day.
He wished he’d had the foresight to bring along a bottle of whiskey. He even wished he had a cigarette—something to occupy his hands and his mind, the latter of which he could not seem get control over, and he was very much afraid that his hands would follow.
That was why Patrick insisted on staying by the campfire—self-preservation.
The last thing he needed was to find himself alone in his tent with nothing on his mind but Linley Talbot-Martin.
Patrick stared into the fire, watching the yellows and reds dance against the glowing logs. Somewhere in the trees above, an animal called out, and in the distance, its call was returned. He leaned back, craning his neck up to the canopy above. It was so dense and lush that he could not even see the moon. He would not have even known it existed had he not seen it rise and sink every night for twenty-seven years.
The conversation around the campfire grew quiet. Sir Bedford retired to his tent, and Archie and Schoville shuffled towards their own. Only Reginald remained.
“Cigarette?” he asked, flipping open his case.
Patrick shook his head. “No, thank you. I believe I ought to turn in.”
Reginald folded the case shut and stuffed it into his pocket. “You think you’re clever. You think you’re very clever, but we both know you are not.” He leaned forward, addressing Patrick from across the fire. “I don’t understand why you can’t leave her alone. You could have your pick of any girl in London. What do you want with that one?” Reginald pointed at Linley’s tent. “She knows nothing of your games. Your tricks. She is completely ignorant of men,” he explained. “I could understand if it were a matter of sport, I really could. But she is no challenge. No chase. You could break her heart without even trying.”
“Then she is lucky I’m not in the business of breaking hearts.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On the third day of their journey, the rains came. The storm arrived without warning—no thunder or lightning to precede it, just a dull mist that swirled around the elephants’ feet. As the rain began to fall harder, Linley dug through her bag of supplies for a canvas sheet. She pulled it out and handed it to Patrick, who helped her drape it over their howdah.
“It will be like this from now on,” she told him, huddled beneath their makeshift shelter, water dripping off the end of her nose.
Patrick shifted, trying to pull more of the canvas over her. She was soaked, and her thin white blouse clung to her chest. Despite the chemise she wore underneath, he could see her pink skin showing through the fabric. “Then I suggest you learn to wear more clothes.”
Linley looked down at her chest, realizing that very little was left to the imagi
nation. She tugged at her blouse, trying to pull the limp cotton away from her flesh. “I’m sorry. Usually I have on my rain slicker.”
“Where is it?” Patrick asked. “I will get it for you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late now.”
“You will catch your death dressed like that. You’re soaked to the bone.” He, too, was soaked, but that mattered very little to him at the moment. Patrick could see her shivering. How much longer would they have to go in this weather? Eight hours? Ten?
Ten more hours in a torrential downpour, drenched in sopping wet clothes, and they would all have pneumonia.
“My father would turn in his grave knowing I was caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella,” Patrick said. “He considered it a gentleman’s cardinal sin to ever leave home without one.”
“He sounds like a wise man.”
Patrick smiled, sending drops of rainwater spilling off his chin. Although the canvas sheet did not keep out all the rain, it formed a very cozy bubble between he and Linley and the rest of the outside world. At that moment, he could not think of anywhere he would rather be.
The elephants slopped through the jungle, impervious to the rain that pelted their tough hide. The mahouts on their backs sat ramrod straight, their black hair plastered to their foreheads. Wet, brown branches slapped against their thighs. They urged the elephants on, whispering encouragement when their feet slipped in the muddy ground.
The howdahs lurched and swayed. Linley huddled further down into the basket, closer to Patrick and the warmth of his body. “I’m cold.”
He put his arm around her, wishing it were a warm coat or a blanket instead. She crushed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Patrick could feel the heat of their bodies seeping between the thin barrier of their wet clothing, could feel her tremble as she clung to him. He rubbed his palms up and down her back, building friction to warm her, to comfort her in the only way he knew how.
His own discomfort was nothing. Patrick clenched his jaw against the cold, stinging rain. If he could have peeled away his own skin and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders, he would have done so without question. The important thing—the only thing—was to keep her warm and safe.
A Love That Never Tires (Linley & Patrick Book 1) Page 19
