More pressingly, Bobbie needed to get into Cambodia. The land was so impenetrable that it was very likely Sean wouldn’t be able to reach her once she crossed the border, anyway. Not daring to leave her room, Bobbie ordered room service, tipped someone handsomely for finding and bringing some clothing and equipment to her room, and then spent the evening poring over maps of this part of the world, planning her route.
A big problem was that a lot of the mapping had been done by someone in an office somewhere, probably Paris, who had never seen the Orient in his life. It was disheartening that the country boundaries weren’t especially accurate, and Bobbie was convinced that none of the so-called cities would be anything bigger than a modest village. The area to the south, marked ‘volcanoes,’ where Bobbie knew there was only jungle, proved that the cartographer had perhaps missed his true calling in life: fantasy author.
Regardless of where the roads and towns were, it was clear that she would need some sort of beast of burden, but horses were quite rare in these parts; the heat disagreed with them. Donkeys were equally problematic, and the nearest camel was probably over a week’s journey away, in far-off Arabia. An elephant seemed ridiculously ostentatious, and probably rather slow, but Bobbie saw no way around it.
As she was trying to find a man with an elephant, she spotted something rather better. It was an eyesore, and it was completely out of place in the bustling streets, ripe with tradition. It looked like someone had attempted to carve a horse out of scraps of metal, without having ever seen a horse, and having no idea what a sculpture ought to look like. Bobbie had ridden motorbikes before and wasn’t enamoured of them. However, it would be rather faster and more nimble than an elephant.
Unfortunately, its owner couldn’t be located. Bobbie left a hastily scrawled apology note where the bike had been, along with her contact details in Britain, then she started the engine and got it moving through Bangkok’s busy streets, thankful that one of the chauffeurs at home had been persuaded to teach her how to ride a bike.
The roar of the engine reminded her of how she’d bravely strode up to the hapless chauffeur and coyly glanced up at him through her lashes, before running her fingers along the bulge in the front of his trousers. When he’d been about to explode in his underpants, she’d audaciously told him she would suck his cock and swallow every drop if only he would show her his motorbike. He’d readily agreed, and she’d kept up her end of the bargain an hour later. Motorcycles, it had transpired, were easy to ride, but chauffeurs were even easier.
It had been a sad day when Bobbie’s mother had finally noticed the amount of time Bobbie was spending being driven from one place to the next, and had promptly found the young man a new position as the driver of an elderly dowager duchess in Surrey. Bobbie had been told firmly that dalliances were strictly not allowed. She hadn’t intended for things with the chauffeur to turn into a longstanding arrangement, anyway, so the fervour and passion faded away with time. What hadn’t disappeared was the excitement of whooshing across bumpy country roads, swerving around potholes at full throttle, with her long hair streaming behind her and her open legs dangling either side of an engine. The ugly nature of motorbike design, regrettably, couldn’t be helped.
Chapter Five
A jungle, Cambodia, 1925
Bobbie had managed quite well on the unsightly motorcycle and two days ago, she had had left it safely parked in Siem Reap, where she planned to have it returned to its owner in Bangkok as soon as she was sure she didn’t need it any longer.
She was now trekking through the jungle, assisted by a couple of local men whose job was mostly to spot snakes, when her aides both stopped dead.
“What’s the matter?” she asked in French, which everyone locally spoke to varying degrees.
“We go no further,” one of the men told her.
She sighed. Clearly there was some sort of superstition or other nonsense, but Bobbie didn’t have time for it.
“Suit yourselves. I have a job to do.” She paid them then, as they hastily retreated, she pulled out her map and compass and was double-checking her route when she heard footsteps approaching.
“You’re doing a rather poor job of sneaking up on me, and there’s no need for the sword, either,” she said in exasperation. It was going to be one of those irritating times when someone wanted to speak with her, and instead of doing the decent thing and arranging an appointment, they had sent a lackey who had been hired for his size and brute force rather than his positive attitude or potential leadership skills. It was the sound of the blade being slid out of its sheath that had given it away, otherwise the footsteps might have been that dogged Scotsman trying to sneak up on her.
She turned and absolutely did not roll her eyes when the brute brandished his sword at her and said, in broken English, “You, captive.” Slightly put out by the sheer bloody nuisance of this whole thing, she gritted her teeth and allowed the man to take her prisoner. She would escape later, and anyway, it would be useful to know who else was involved and what they wanted.
* * *
The lackey with the sword had taken Bobbie to a makeshift encampment of animal-skin tents. It screamed local tribe, but Bobbie suspected that this was more than a simple village. For starters, animal skins weren’t generally used for tents in the humid jungles of this part of the world. Suspicions aroused, Bobbie was led at sword point to a big tent, where she was pushed inside.
At first, everything looked pitch black, as her eyes tried to adjust to the new lighting. Then, she saw that she was not alone.
“Why is a western woman wandering through the jungle alone?” The voice, against all probability, was speaking English. But it wasn’t Sean’s voice that cut through the darkness: the heavy accent said the man was local. Bobbie squinted then opened her eyes widely to try and pick out more detail on the man in the tent with her. He had a huge beard but otherwise she couldn’t make out a lot.
“Why did you kidnap me?” she countered.
“I asked first,” he said, and she felt her pulse quickening at the force beneath his words. If he chose, he could snap her in half.
“I’m looking for a snake cult.”
“There are better ways of achieving spiritual one-ness,” he remarked.
“I’m an antiquarian. An explorer of the past. I want to find the snake cult that was in these parts a thousand years ago and, possibly, still exists today.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean, ‘and then what’? And then I’ve found it. I can write about it. Put this place on a map.”
“That is all?”
“Is there anything else?” She felt a little nettled at the implication that her life’s work—exploration, and subsequently sharing her findings with the world—wasn’t purposeful enough to be a legitimate reason to find a snake cult.
“You’re in the way, little girl,” he said, speaking to a part of her that she didn’t want to know existed. “I’m going to have to put you somewhere safe, until current events are over.”
“What events?” Bobbie asked, still infuriated at being referred to as a little girl. She hated this man. All she wanted to do right now was to fight him, to prove that she wasn’t helpless just because she was a woman. Subtly, she tensed her right leg. The garter where she held her revolver was reassuringly tight. She was about to reach for it when the brute with the sword burst in and started speaking in an unfamiliar language.
The tone of the conversation was hurried and tense, and eventually, the huge man growled, “On your knees, woman, and stay in that corner. Be silent, or so help me, I’ll give you to the man who’s about to arrive.”
Despite her irritation and the general feeling that she was being dismissed, Bobbie was far too interested in finding out more about what was going on, because she sensed that there was a deeper mystery here than trying to stop an Englishwoman from finding an ancient snake cult. She decided to obey, for now. Anyway, it would be easier to escape if the redheaded chieftain wa
s talking to someone else.
Kneeling in a corner passively, Bobbie watched a fair-haired man with blotchy pink skin enter the tent. He was flanked by two men who looked similar, but were clearly lackeys.
“Gottag, hövding Chen,” the man said. Bobbie’s brain took a moment to register that he spoke in Swedish.
“Good day, Herr Gunnarsson. How is the arms trade?” Chen ran his fingers through his beard nonchalantly. Nothing about this entire setup made any sense, and Bobbie intended to figure it all out.
“Very good. I got your message. I’m here to make my latest acquisition.” The blond man’s voice was cold and suggested that he had hurt many people in the past. The other man was going out of his way to be respectful. Bobbie wondered how people like this ever met one another in the first place. It wasn’t like the souks or bars were filled with them in the corners of the world where they all seemed to be hiding out.
“Which item were you interested in?” Chen asked.
“The Naga-Seik.”
Bobbie had heard the name before, but struggled to place it.
“The snake summoner.” Chen’s jaw clenched, and Bobbie watched him carefully arrange his countenance, but Herr Gunnarsson didn’t seem to notice.
“Indeed. There’s rumours of a snake cult around here,” the creepy Norseman remarked.
Bobbie’s heart paused for a moment as she listened intently. This sounded like the sort of thing that always seemed to find her eventually. Nine times out of ten, the legends surrounding any given artefact were poppycock, but Bobbie was fascinated that cultures grew up around even the craziest stories.
“They’ve had a revival lately.” Chen summed up everything Bobbie knew about the snake cult. She sat in silence, hoping he might give away their location.
“Indeed. According to my research, once every thousand years, a seven-headed giant snake can be summoned with the right ritual. It can be controlled by a special artefact.” Herr Gunnarsson sounded so serious that Bobbie had to try very hard not to snort with derision when she was supposed to remain unseen. She wasn’t sure why Chen was protecting her from Gunnarsson, but she had no wish to try her luck.
“And you think the Naga-Seik is that artefact,” Chen said. Gunnarsson nodded.
Bobbie silently looked heavenwards. She would be highly interested to know what had gone wrong inside the Scandinavian’s brain that he had made a leap in logic from here are some rumours of a snake cult all the way to this artefact must work exactly as the stories say, and it will be mine. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d come across people with these sorts of ideas, but it never ceased to astound her.
“So… let’s talk price. I could probably get a lot for selling it to the snake cult. Or a lot more if I put it on the open market.” Chen was shrewd and seemed to know his business.
“Indeed. But then, if you don’t sell it to them, I’m certain they won’t pay you a night time visit and burn down your entire encampment, along with everyone in it. Name your price.” The menace in the man’s voice was obvious, and despite her usual bravery, Bobbie shuddered.
“One hundred pounds.” Chen spoke a little too quickly and Bobbie thought he was eager to get rid of the Norseman.
“Good. Let’s trade.” Some words were exchanged with henchmen, then the Swedish ones brought money and Chen’s lackey brought the artefact. It was a little statue of a seven-headed snake. Bobbie thought she must be mistaken, but the eyes seemed to glow. When the Norseman touched it, the look on his face was disturbingly maniacal. “Perfect.” He pulled a gun on Chen. Bobbie pressed her lips together as fear gripped her.
“Time to go, young lady,” a voice whispered into her ear, then a hand clamped over Bobbie’s mouth and she was very firmly pulled under the bottom of the animal-skin tent, where she was released.
“You!” she whispered furiously, more from shock than anything else. Sean simply didn’t know when to quit. From the tent, there was no sound. Bobbie wondered what was happening, whether Gunnarsson was going to take the snake artefact or not, but she didn’t have the opportunity to find out. Grudgingly, she conceded that Sean had just saved her from a sticky situation, although she was sure she would have thought of something.
“Just in time by the looks of it. C’mon, lass.” Keeping low to the ground, he led the way out of the encampment. When they were almost at its edge, a shot rang out, then another. Birds flew up into the sky and Sean began to run, holding Bobbie’s hand so she had to follow. They were about a quarter of a mile away, ensconced in jungle once again, when they finally stopped running.
“We can’t just leave,” she said, trying very hard not to think about Chen, or what might have happened to him.
“Yes, we can. My motorbike is waiting for us in Siem Reap—thank you for the touching note you left for the owner—and I’m looking forward to riding it out of here. Those gunshots… it’s too dangerous.”
She groaned. “That was your motorcycle? Of course it was. How on Earth did you get it around the world?”
“It went in the baggage car of the various trains I’d taken, and I rode it in the places where there were no railways. When you left me on that platform in Rangoon, then hopped back on the train at the last minute, it went without me, but I got the next train instead, and I sent a telegram ahead telling them to keep the bike until I could claim it. You’ve caused me no end of bother, lass.”
She bridled at the accusation. “It’s not one-sided! You’ve caused me rather a bloody nuisance, too.”
“Little madam, you have a serious bottom-blistering due. D’you really want to make it worse by acting like none of this was your fault?”
“It wasn’t. I never asked you to be here.”
“Right, we’ll have less of that, Roberta.” She bristled as he used her full name. He quickly had her pinned face down on the jungle’s soft ground, and he flipped her skirt back. The next sound she heard was his belt being unbuckled.
“You can’t be serious. You’re a complete and utter oaf.” She tried to kick free but he paid her no mind.
“Aye, I’m dead serious. The last one didnae seem tae do the trick so I’m taking my belt to ye harder, this time.” His brogue had become less refined, and Bobbie guessed it was because he was too annoyed to speak correctly.
The belt landed over her thin underwear and she gasped. This was much worse than before, and it had taken her by surprise. He must have put a lot more force into it, and perhaps the fact she was lying flat rather than bent over something also made a difference, because it burned furiously in a wide line. His belt was made of a heavy leather, which didn’t help.
When it landed again, she stopped being so patient with him, and began struggling to get free. She wriggled her hips and kicked her legs backwards in the hope of catching him unawares and getting him off her. The third lick was harder, and she growled as she flailed her arms, still fighting him like an angry lioness. Unmoved by her struggles, he merely pinned her wrists to the small of her back and continued punishing her.
Her bottom was seared with angry welts, and a furious burn underscored it, with the separate welts aching on top of the overall heat that emanated from her cheeks.
“You’re deplorable!” she shot at him.
“I’ll have less of the insults, lassie. I can keep belting you for as long as it takes.”
“This isn’t fair,” she retorted, her face growing hot. How did he have this effect on her, when she usually managed to face down all sorts of sticky situations with dignity and tact? Breathing carefully, she tried to temper herself, but inside she was in turmoil. There was no way out of this, and she had never been forced to submit to someone before the Scotsman had appeared in her life. It was almost too humiliating for words. The stinging swats of the belt kept coming, but the pain seemed to die down a little as she accepted that this was inescapable. He stopped, and she remained where she was, gasping for air and trying her damnedest not to cry.
“Are you going to be more amenable, now?
” he prompted.
“All things considered, I feel that I have been a veritable paragon of good behaviour.” She spoke into the leaves, too exhausted to raise her head. He had thoroughly taken her in hand.
Another sensation broiled beneath the lingering burn: she hardly dared put a name to it. Normally, when it came to men, she was very forthright about what she did or didn’t want, but how could she possibly admit that she was aroused by the severe rump-roasting he’d just delivered? It hardly bore thinking about, even as her sex throbbed and ached for some relief. With a start, she remembered that the same thing had happened on the train, too. What was wrong with her? Ashamed, she sheepishly looked up at Sean and for some reason her gaze lingered on a bulge in his trousers. She gasped, then caught his gaze.
“Do you feel it, too?” she asked, struggling to form coherent words.
“Yes. It’s a perfectly natural phenomenon.”
“Spanked a lot of women, have you?” she retorted, her desire suddenly overshadowed by a fit of jealousy. It didn’t make any sense. She didn’t even like him… did she?
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.”
She snorted derisively. “And you’re a gentleman?”
“Aye.”
There was a long pause, as Bobbie digested the easy cheek of him calling himself a gentleman. He’d clearly grown up middle class, probably gone to a good school, but he could hardly be called landed gentry.
“I would have gotten along just fine without you,” she said at length, although the fire from her earlier words was dampened by the sting in her derriere.
“Where would you be, right now, if it weren’t for me?”
“In that tent, planning my escape.”
“Wrong. You’d be in Bangkok looking for a tuk-tuk driver or elephant wrangler willing to get you into Cambodia. Don’t forget the motorcycle.”
Protected by the Scotsman (Stern Scotsmen Book 2) Page 5
