The Black Orchid

by Sawyer Caine

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Duty bound to fulfill his dying father’s last wish, Lord Alfred Heathwood embarks on an adventure into the Amazon to return an artifact taken by his grandfather years before. Accompanying him on this journey is his dashing American lover, Frederick. Lord Heathwood, unprepared for the overwhelming desire he begins to feel for their exotic young native guide, Nekai, struggles to keep his love for Frederick intact while battling his own demons.

  The Black Orchid

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  The Black Orchid

  © 2014 By Sawyer Caine. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-348-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: July 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Jerry L. Wheeler

  Production Design: Bold Strokes Graphics

  Cover Design By Lee Ligon

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated in loving memory of Albert Clark Harberson II, October 27th 1963-April 8th 2005. “We followed love wherever it led.”

  Chapter One

  The journal entries of Lord Alfred Heathwood, discovered washed up on the shores of the Orinoco River, in the jungles of Venezuela on August 3, 1965.

  July 2, 1934

  My father was dead. On that dark and abysmal day, I stood by, as he was laid to rest in the family crypt. My only consolation being that his long suffering was finally at an end. I had been forced to watch it helplessly through those many years. His last words to me as he lay struggling for his final breaths had been heavy with his hopes for my future and his love for me.

  “Alfred, take it back. Take that damn thing back to the jungle where your grandfather found it and leave it there. Break this curse and end the plague on our house. Do this before it’s too late for you.”

  I’d traced his name on the stone, etching the plate with my fingers, “Lord William Heathwood.” How I missed him so, yet he had been gone only those three days. I drowned my grief in the bottle as best I could and took my only refuge in the arms of my lover, my secret lover, who masqueraded as my American friend and companion.

  Oh, had we not been so careful? But did my servants and the few surviving members of my extended family not suspect? Did they whisper about Frederick and me behind closed doors? It mattered not. He was my only solace against that ocean of pain, and I would not sink our ship.

  “Take it back,” my father had said. “Take the cursed thing back to the jungles.” I’d had no idea under heaven how I should ever undertake such a task. I was not an adventurer. That title had fallen to my grandfather. His exploits were legendary and still discussed in the small taverns and pubs round about. He’d brought back treasures so amazing that the King himself had come to view them on display at the London Museum. How could I, a simple man of books and music, ever hope to compete with a man of such robust passions?

  It was in that state of confused consternation that my lover found me, standing as I was often wont to do, looking out over the expanse of well-manicured rose gardens that had been laid in long before my mother came so to treasure them. The first cornerstone of my home, Heathwood Manor, was laid on October 7th, in the year of our Lord, 1104. King Henry the 1st was the ruling monarch of England at that time, and my ancestors, who commissioned the building of our home, were his cousins and noblemen of high military and public standing. Heathwood Manor had come to symbolize for us, our connection to the royal family and our status as high ranking men in our country. Yet it was often enough a place that seemed almost like a dungeon. Even so, it was still unfair of me to judge it so.

  To say that I didn’t love that house would be a complete lie. I was as attached to those ancient stone walls as I was to my very skin. That house was a part of me as it had been a part of my father and in some small way, my dubious grandfather, though he spent more of his life in far off places than within its sheltering walls. My father told me that my grandfather had often commented that Heathwood, with its many obligations, had become for him a prison. I thank the Lord above that it had never felt like such to me, but I was a country gentleman, and that was the life I wanted. My life was uncomplicated, a life of ease. I didn’t want that to change.

  But how could I tell my Frederick that I must now leave this sheltered existence and make a journey that may well mean the end of me? How many noblemen did I know who had gone off into the jungles of the Amazon or India and disappeared forever, victims of some wild animal, warlike native or parasitic disease? I was no hunter of antiquities. I was not a man of great passions, though Frederick might disagree with that sentiment. I could not drag my precious love with me on such a journey, yet I could not imagine being without him for even one day. I was divided by my desire to have him with me and the promise made to my father on his deathbed.

  *

  He came to me as I stood there, a young lord looking out over his small kingdom. My love, my heart, a rebel from rebellious America, the country lost to its motherland. Frederick, my beautiful and rambunctious boy; the fetching young man I’d first encountered within the walls of Oxford University where I was finishing my higher education. He’d come with his father on business to London and taken a tour of the campus. Frederick had fancied that he might like to finish his schooling in just such a place. I would become quite thankful that he had chosen to do just that.

  I was fascinated by this dapper American with his rich Yankee accent and his jade-green eyes. He seemed demure, almost, to me when he would lower his head and look up at me in a most coquettish way. It was as if he was trying to lure me into his bed, though he did not need to lure me. I’d given my heart to the handsome lad almost the moment I laid my eyes upon him. Though it had taken me a bit of persuasion to win him over, he’d given in at last. Every day of my life, I was thankful for it.

  “Do not be sad, my love. He doesn’t suffer. He is now with your mother, and that is as it should be. You are lord of the manor, Alfred. What will you do with it?” he asked me as he placed his
lean arms around my waist and pressed his warm, comforting body against me from behind.

  “What will I do with it?” I wondered aloud.

  Frederick rested his chin upon my shoulder and sighed. “I suppose you were planning on stealing away and leaving me when you go off to the jungle?”

  I drew in a deep breath, shocked at his question. I’d tried to be so careful that he wouldn’t learn of that promise I’d made to my father. I moved out of his arms and faced him.

  “Frederick, I can’t ask you to come with me…”

  “Hush that kind of talk. You would have to chain me in the dungeon to keep me from coming with you. Why a trip to the Amazon would be like a dream come true for me. What man studying botany wouldn’t jump at the chance to make such a journey?” he asked with conviction.

  “Frederick, I’m going into a dangerous part of the world to try and find a lost pyramid deep within the jungle. I have, to guide me, only a hastily and poorly drawn map. I go to take back a little ivory idol that my grandfather foolishly removed, under duress, from the natives. I would imagine that they won’t be any too pleased with me when they discover the meaning of my journey.”

  “But Alfred, I could document the plant life along the way. I could take my ledgers and draw and photograph new species of orchids. I have always found them so fascinating. Imagine it, my love. Perhaps I could find the elusive Sobralia Orchid itself. What if I brought back a sample of it to England? Oh, Alfred, you couldn’t really go and leave me behind, could you, my love?” he asked .

  “No, Frederick, I wouldn’t leave you. Not when you are so passionate to accompany me. I wouldn’t deny you your opportunity to find that which you seek. Perhaps you were meant to go. In truth, I’ve been torn over leaving you and I must admit, I’m pleased to have that weight off my shoulders.”

  We stepped inside the French doors, closing them behind us and draping them with the fine silk curtains. I took my love’s hand and led him over to the fireplace. I bade him stand by while I reached up and moved aside the painting of my grandfather, the adventurer. Secured behind the painting was a vault and now that my father was no more, only I knew the combination. I worked the numbers and opened the little compartment. Secreted inside, wrapped in many layers of soft white leather, was the small ivory idol.

  I reached inside and removed the thing, loathe as I was to touch it. I uncovered it with disdain and sat it upon the mahogany desk for Frederick to see. It was a little statue, carved exquisitely of fine ivory, of a man with his arms upraised, holding a menacing-looking machete as if to bring it down upon the head of some poor, unsuspecting victim. The little man was naked and his phallus was raised. I had been told that such statues were often used in fertility rites or to bring rain for the crops. I didn’t pretend to understand what the symbolism meant but Frederick, in seeing this damn thing for the first time, was taken by its vulgarity.

  “Why, it was made for us, my love!” he jested.

  “Frederick, do not make jokes. This has brought the death of the lord of this manor ever since it was placed here by my grandfather,” I said, as I quickly covered it with the leather.

  I was happy to have the idol safely within the vault and covered with the portrait of the man who had stolen it from its resting place so many years ago. As I replaced the painting and turned to face my love, I saw in his eyes the longing for me that always melted my resolve. He reached up and placed his hands on either side of my face, brushing my lips softly with his. Frederick had spoken no words to me, but the expression on his handsome face had been all the encouragement I needed. He would help me forget my grief for my father, if only for a bit. He would remove my trepidation over the journey ahead. For this one, stolen moment in time, this golden afternoon alone in my rooms, he would destroy my imaginary boundaries and tear down the walls I’d built to protect myself. Frederick was the water that quenched my thirst in a desert of painful memories.

  We lay down together in my huge canopied bed of mahogany and drew the curtains around us to hide our shameful act. Shameful to the rest of the world, perhaps, but to me he was my life, my soul, my reason for rising in the morning, and the one pleasure I had when the lights were extinguished. If I’d died that day, I would have been a blessed man for the knowing of him and for the fact that he so freely gave of himself to me. After it was done, we lay there together, his head resting against my shoulder, my fingers playing with his golden curls. I found that our loving had filled me with an unspoken bravado. Perhaps something of the wayward journey-man in me came down from my legendary grandfather. Perhaps I would discover that I did enjoy trekking through the foreign jungles with my lover at my side. I’d begun to look forward to it with a zest that surprised me. Yes, I would do as my father had asked of me. I would return that artifact to its rightful place. I would end the curse against my beloved Heathwood, and I would not do it alone.

  Chapter Two

  I was impatient to be off. It was simply too wet, cold and dreary a day to be standing idly on the wharf, waiting for our boat. Frederick and I were taking a skiff across the channel to France where we would travel overland to the city of Biscarrosse. Once there, we would be boarding a Latecoere 521 seaplane that would be flying us on the 4,360 mile journey across the Atlantic to Tucupita, Venezuela. Frederick had brought with him all his camera equipment and a goodly supply of books on botany and the Amazon. Practical chap that he was, Frederick believed all of the answers to life’s questions could be discovered within the pages of books. I, on the other hand, was skeptical. I’d seen too many coincidences to believe that there wasn’t some outside influence acting upon our lives at times.

  I stood watching as the blokes working the docks loaded our steamer trunks aboard the little boat and then motioned for us to get on deck. Chafing as I was to get the trip underway, I turned to look back one last time at the shores of my beloved England. Standing on the docks were the caretaker of Heathwood, Charles O’Brien and his lovely young daughter, Rosemarie. They would have Heathwood in their keeping while we were away. Charles raised his hand in farewell and saluted me as our little craft drifted into the heavy mists obscuring the channel that morning. I would not see his face again for a very long time. Frederick sighed and gripped the railing. He was as anxious as I to be starting off, but he would miss Heathwood too.

  “Alfred, do you think we will be bored on the plane?” he asked, glancing slyly over at me.

  “I would very much doubt that possibility, my love,” I whispered, leaning toward him and winking my eye.

  He turned back to the water, smiling to himself. Frederick, my Frederick, love of my nights and light of my days. I prayed that nothing would ever take me from him. I drew forth from my coat pocket a flask of strong brandy and took a healthy draught of it. I had chosen a drink that I knew would keep my innards warm that chilly morning. I passed the flask to Frederick who also imbibed. The crossing of the channel took nearly two hours in that dratted fog but soon we saw the shores of France. Though it was good to know that first part of the trip was finished, we had still before us a nine hour motorcar journey to Biscarrosse and the twelve hour flight to Tucupita.

  *

  Our hired driver was waiting for us, and he helped load our luggage into the trunk of his car. Frederick and I climbed into the back seat and made ourselves comfortable. Ordinarily, I would have enjoyed travelling the coast of France in a motorcar, but in this dreadful weather, the scenery was dull and lifeless. Frederick buried his nose in a book, and I stared listlessly out the rain-streaked windows. It was nearly six p.m. when we arrived in Biscarrosse. Frederick and I holed up in a fine hotel near the coast. We took a suite on the top floor of the hotel so that we would awaken to the sight of the lovely bay. Our driver was just across the hall. Frederick and I had the night together with no interruptions. I had already laid out my plans for him.

  After taking our fill of the pub across the street, we returned to our suite. I wasn’t ready for bed just yet, and Frederick didn’t see
m inclined for it either. He slipped into the privy to have a hot bath, and I turned on the radio, dialing up some soft jazz music to set the tempo. The smoky beat of the music always calmed me down, but it seemed to have the opposite effect tonight. When my love emerged from the bath wrapped in a plush white robe, his golden curls damp and hanging in his lovely green eyes, I found the site simply too alluring to resist and grabbed him from behind.

  “Alas!” he cried. “I have been conquered by a greater man. I surrender.”

  “Yes, my love, you will surrender.” I growled against the back of his head as I pulled him to the bed and threw him recklessly upon it, tearing the robe from him as I did so.

  I drank in the sight of him lying upon the down comforter, his lean, taut flesh laid out so temptingly for me. His breath was rapid, his cheeks flushed, and his skin still damp from the bath. He was more than anyone could have resisted, but I had no intention of resisting. He was mine to conquer, mine to own and possess. I was jealous of him, my American lover. I would have taken a knife to the throat of any man who tried to touch him. I was a Heathwood and, by God, the Heathwoods guarded what was theirs. He was most definitely mine.

  “Why do you hesitate, love?” he asked coquettishly. “Do I not appeal to your finer tastes?”

  I stood smiling down at him, my growing arousal pressing impatiently against the crotch of my tweed plus-fours. I yanked my hat off and threw it across the room, then pushed my suspenders from my shoulders and tore at the buttons on my shirt as I jerked it from the band of my breeches. Frederick watched me with an amused expression while I went about the job of disrobing myself. When I had accomplished my mission, I eased down next to him in the big comfortable bed and reached out to take him into my arms. We had all the night before us to love, and I intended to use every minute of it. We could easily sleep on the plane the next day. In fact, I meant to do just that.