The Lion's Embrace

by Marie Laval

  ‘You’re safe. From the lion, that is.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘I, on the other hand, might just want to throttle you for disregarding my orders. I knew taking you with us was a mistake. I knew you were stubborn. I didn’t realize just how reckless you were. You could have been mauled to death just then.’

  ‘I handled the lion perfectly well on my own.’ She tilted her chin. Her heart had almost stopped with fright, but there was no reason to tell him.

  He stood up, put his pistol in the holster on his hip, slid the knife in his boot, and walked towards the edge of the water. His face was so tense, his eyes so steely, that she recoiled. He was going to walk into the river, pull her out and…

  ‘Damn it, woman, you were told not to leave the camp alone. You were warned about lions roaming this area. There are all sorts of dangers here—wild animals, snakes, scorpions.’ He looked up towards the hillside. ‘Raiders.’

  She swallowed hard, followed his gaze towards the top of the hills.

  He shook his head.

  ‘If that lion hadn’t been so old and half-blind, you wouldn’t be talking to me now.’

  ‘It seemed pretty sprightly to me,’ she muttered.

  He snorted.

  ‘Get out. You’re freezing and your lips are blue,’ he said without a trace of sympathy in his voice.

  She shivered. ‘Only if you turn round.’

  ‘It’s a bit late to play the prude,’ he muttered, but he obliged and faced the other way.

  So he had seen her naked. Well, he wouldn’t see her now. She crossed her arms over her chest and walked to the shore. Throwing a nervous glance in his direction she stepped out of the water whilst he remained immobile with his back to her, as if he had been turned into rock.

  She gathered her clothes as fast as she could, stumbling on pebbles in her haste, and chose a large bush behind which to get dressed. Her fingers were too cold, too stiff to fasten her tunic’s tiny buttons. She would leave it open for now. She put her boots on and ventured out of the bushes. Saintclair took one look at her and snarled.

  ‘You can’t go back to camp half dressed.’

  She pulled her tunic across her chest to cover up, and shifted uncomfortably on her feet.

  ‘I can’t do the buttons up,’ she said, showing him her hands still red raw with cold.

  He tightened his lips but didn’t answer.

  The sun now peeped above the rugged hilltop, a huge orange ball setting the sky on fire. Dazzled, Harriet caught her breath.

  ‘This is…magnificent. We don’t have sunrises like that in England.’

  He gazed at her face, at her eyes filled with wonder.

  ‘No but you have rain and summer storms.’

  He stepped closer and looked down into her eyes. ‘I always wanted to stand outside in a thunderstorm.’ Her eyes were a rain cloud right now, cool and soothing.

  She smiled. ‘You might get hit by lightning.’

  ‘Maybe, but what a beautiful way to die.’ His breathing was a little faster, his gaze heavier.

  She parted her lips but didn’t answer. The colour of her cheeks deepened. In the opening of her tunic, the gold pendant gleamed against her milky white skin. His fingers itched to toy with it and bring it to his lips, still hot and fragrant from her body. He could breathe her scent, the Damascus rose soap she had lathered all over her round breasts, her smooth stomach, and into her hair. He hadn’t meant to watch, but once she had stepped out of her clothes he simply hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, hungry for her, throbbing with the need to enfold her into his arms, pin her under his weight and take her.

  If he didn’t move now, that’s exactly what he would do.

  He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and stepped back.

  There was something she wanted to say to him before they went back to the others.

  ‘Ahmoud told me last night, about your father,’ she started, hesitant. ‘I understand now why you have to go to Bou Saada, and I am sorry if I offended you.’

  The savage glint in his eyes stopped her, made her gasp.

  ‘I am not discussing my family with you, or anyone else,’ he snapped. And without waiting for her, he started in the direction of the camp.

  He never turned once to check if she was following him and she had to run to keep up. She had no idea he would react this way. She wanted to apologise for being insensitive, but it seemed she had made things worse.

  When they reached the camp, breakfast was over. There was only one piece of bread left and hardly enough coffee for two.

  Saintclair sat down near the fire, broke the warm bread into two and handed her the bigger piece.

  She shook her head. ‘No, keep it. It was my fault we missed breakfast.’ Her throat was too tight to eat anything.

  ‘Harriet, there you are!’ Archie came out of the tent. He grabbed her elbows, leaned down towards her, an angry look in his eyes. ‘Where on earth did you disappear to?’

  He looked at her, then Saintclair, and frowned. ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course, I went to the river for a swim and had a surprise encounter with a lion. I’ll start packing my things now.’

  ‘A lion?’ Archie gasped.

  ‘Yes, what about it? It was old, half-blind, and not in the least interested in eating me. Ask Monsieur Saintclair.’

  She freed herself from his grasp and walked into the tent. It didn’t take long to run a comb through her wet hair, plait it, and arrange her turban. Then she rolled her blankets, gathered her things into her saddle bag, and went out to saddle her horse. A tap on her shoulder made her jump.

  ‘Be careful!’ Saintclair grumbled when she swung round. ‘I almost spilled the last of the coffee.’

  He held out a tin cup of warm coffee and the piece of bread she had rejected earlier. ‘You must have something to eat. We won’t be stopping for a long time.’

  He shoved the bread and coffee in her hands and walked away.

  Half an hour later, they were on their way to Bou Saada. As promised, Saintclair led a relentless pace across the steppes. To the inexperienced eye, the landscape was bleak, parched and empty, with only tufts of coarse bushes sprouting between rocks and the occasional grooves and rocky outcrops on the flat landscape. But there were hidden valleys with fresh streams running through, acacia and pistachio trees, and pastures where Saintclair took them at regular intervals to feed and rest the horses.

  ‘Damn country,’ Archie complained during their mid-day stop.

  He took his hat off and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. The sun was beating hard on them now. It would be even hotter later in the afternoon.

  ‘It all looks the same to me,’ he carried on. ‘Rocks, coarse grass, a few bushes, more rocks. How does Saintclair find these valleys? I could ride past this place a hundred times and never even guess it was there.’ A note of admiration grudgingly pierced in his voice.

  Harriet cupped water in her hands and splashed her face, enjoying the cool droplets trickling on her throat and into her tunic.

  ‘That’s why he is a guide.’ She stole a glance towards Saintclair.

  If Saintclair was anxious about returning to Bou Saada after his five year self-imposed exile, he didn’t show it. He was talking to Hakim, the man who got hurt in the tavern brawl in Blida. Like all Tuaregs, Hakim’s face was veiled at all times. He seemed to have recovered from his injuries, even if his hand still bore traces of a burn.

  ‘I don’t understand this detour to Bou Saada. We are wasting time,’ Archie said.

  He put his hat back on, screwed the top of his gourd shut. ‘I asked the men about it, but no one’s talking. They are all too loyal to discuss Saintclair’s plans, even though I am the one paying for his services.’

  ‘Saintclair wants to visit his mother and sister,’ she said. ‘Lieutenant Mortemer is heading for Bou Saada and Saintclair is worried.’ She decided not to say anymore. It was, after all, not her story to tell.

 
‘Why should he be worried about Mortemer? Unless you were right and he is on the rebels’ side.’ He frowned, twisted the cap of the water gourd shut.

  She didn’t answer.

  Too soon it was time to leave the fresh, secluded valley and follow the dusty track across the steppes once again. The sun beat hard now. Sweat ran along Harriet’s face, into her neck, trickled down her back. Its white glare hurt her eyes. The hazy landscape wavered in the heat. She closed her eyes, slowed her horse down.

  She needed to drink and pour some water on her face, or she would collapse. Yet asking Saintclair to stop was out of the question.

  When she opened her eyes again, a vision of heaven stood in front of her. There was a lake, vast and clear and as blue as the sky.

  ‘Water, over there!’ She pointed to the far distance and licked her lips in anticipation. When they reached it, she would jump down from her horse and run into the lake fully clothed. She could almost feel the glorious sensations of the cool, fresh water on her body.

  Saintclair reined his horse in to bring it parallel to hers.

  ‘There’s nothing there, it’s the heat playing a trick on you. A mirage,’ he said, riding alongside her.

  She peered in the distance again. The blue lake was still there.

  ‘But I can see it, so clearly.’ She bit her lip to stop it from quivering. A mirage, it was nothing more than a mirage. Tears stung her eyes.

  He frowned and gave her an odd look.

  ‘You’re about to pass out. You’re going to ride with me for a while.’

  It took all her strength to straighten in the saddle.

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ she said, blinking away the tears.

  ‘Then we’ll stop for a rest.’ He gave his horse a heel kick to spur it on and led them to a thicket of acacia trees.

  She saw more mirages that afternoon during the ride to Bou Saada—more lakes, as well as the towers of a fortified village in the distance.

  It was night when they reached Saintclair’s home town. ‘The City of Happiness’, as it was known, was one of the largest oases in this part of the country. They rode through plantations of palm, olive and fig trees, of orange and lemon groves and jujube and pistachio trees. Silver moonlight bathed the plantation in a ghostly, silver light. After the dryness of the steppes, the air was moist and fresh, thick with the heady scent of vegetation.

  Ahmoud left their group and rode ahead.

  ‘Where is he going?’ Archie asked.

  ‘Warning the guards we’re on our way, and then home to his family,’ Saintclair answered. ‘He hasn’t seen them for a while.’

  He took off his hat, hooked it on his saddle and raked his dark hair with his fingers before taking hold of the reins again. He sounded calm and composed but in the bright clear silver moonlight, Harriet saw how tightly he gripped his reins.

  There was a tugging at her heart. It must be so hard for him to face his mother, her anger and accusations maybe.

  The gates of the Ksar stood open for them. The guards waved and saluted Saintclair as he rode past. The streets were empty. The hooves of their horses echoed in the dusty alleyways meandering towards a central square and climbing up a small hill to a large house with whitewashed walls partly covered with mosaics and dark purple bougainvillea.

  Saintclair dismounted and walked to an imposing carved door lit by two large oil lamps.

  She was surprised when he turned round to look at her, as if seeking reassurance.

  Their eyes locked. Her lips stretched into a smile and she nodded.

  The door suddenly opened on a small, slender woman wearing a simple blue dress. Her thick, curly blonde hair was twisted into a loose bun on the nape of her neck. She stood in the doorway for a moment, her eyes wide open.

  ‘So it’s true,’ she said in English. ‘You are back.’

  She stepped forward, lifted a hand to Saintclair’s cheek in a caress.

  ‘Oh, my son, what took you so long?’

  Chapter Twelve

  He was home.

  After five years spent running across deserts, steppes, and mountains. After losing himself inside the deepest canyons, the seediest taverns, the most potent wines, and the most beautiful women, he had come home to Bou Saada.

  His mother hadn’t changed at all. She was as kind and forgiving as he remembered. As he enfolded her in his arms, he breathed in the subtle orange blossom scent of her hair—the one he remembered from his childhood.

  ‘I missed you so much, my love,’ she whispered.

  He pulled out of her embrace, his heart breaking.

  ‘How can you say that? How can you pretend I did nothing wrong?’ he said in a low, almost growling voice. ‘Mother, I was the one who—’

  He had committed the worst crime a son could commit. He had sent Mortemer to the cave where his father sheltered, along with dozens of innocent people. He caused the death of the man his mother had loved more than anyone on earth. Why didn’t she hate him for it? Why did she hold him so tightly in her arms?

  She caressed his cheek in the way she used to when he was a child, and smiled sadly.

  ‘You didn’t know your father was there, Lucas. You didn’t know what Lieutenant Mortemer planned to do. All these years I thought I had lost you, like I lost your father.’ Her voice broke. ‘All these years I wanted to tell you how much I love you, how much I hurt for you…’

  He squeezed his eyes shut a moment.

  ‘Why don’t you listen? You didn’t lose him, I killed him. I killed all those people who were hiding in the cave. I don’t deserve you to hurt for me. I deserve you to hate me.’

  He was angry, as angry as five years before when he learned what Mortemer had done—what he had done. Nobody should love him, least of all his mother, who had lost so much because of him. Hell, he hated himself, and would hate himself until the day he died.

  ‘I’m so happy you’re here,’ she said as if she hadn’t heard a word of what he had said. She looked over his shoulder. ‘Who are your travelling companions? You must tell them to come in.’

  As he turned round, he was met by Harriet Montague’s gentle smile again. For some strange reason it warmed him, soothed him and gave him strength for what was to come. There was someone else he had to face, someone who might not be as forgiving as his mother.

  He took a long, deep breath to steady himself.

  ‘They’re clients—English people I’m taking to Tamanrasset.’ He gestured for Harriet and Drake to dismount so he could introduce them.

  ‘This is Harriet Montague and Archibald Drake.’ For some reason he was reluctant to mention the fact that they were engaged. ‘Miss Montague’s father is being held to ransom by a Tuareg tribe.’

  Pointing to the rest of the party, he added, ‘And these are my men who will escort us all the way down there.’

  While her mother welcomed her guests and asked Harriet about her father, he walked ahead into the house he had left five years before. Nothing had changed. The large courtyard with elegant arches on three sides, the fountain that whispered its pure, crystalline song in the night, the palm trees which provided much-needed shade during the day, and the abundance of flowers—zinnias, bignones, and geraniums, splashes of colour in the sunlight, bathed in shadows for now.

  ‘Lucas!’ A shriek pierced the night.

  He braced himself.

  A young woman ran into the courtyard, threw herself against him like a sandstorm djinn.

  ‘And who can this be?’ He held her at arms’ length.

  ‘Don’t you dare say you don’t remember me!’

  His sister, Rose—Ourida, or little Rose in Arabic, as their father used to call her—stamped her foot on the tiled courtyard. He swallowed hard. She had grown into a beauty. With her mass of curly blonde hair, her dark blue eyes and rosebud lips, she was just like their mother. She even smelled of the same orange blossom cologne. How old was she now—nineteen, twenty?

  ‘Let me look at you,’ he said. ‘You have become so
pretty.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t!’ she retorted.’ And you stink of horse.’ She hugged him again.

  Yes, he was home. As he looked around the courtyard and entered the house, he couldn’t help listening for another voice—a deep, warm voice he would never hear again.

  They were shown into a large room decorated with colourful rugs and furniture made of dark wood with intricate mother of pearl inlays. Gilded mirrors and watercolours hung on the whitewashed walls. On one of the walls, a tawny lioness’ hide hung sideways. Harriet stared in awe at the beast’s glassy eyes, at the growl frozen on its open mouth, the sharp protruding yellow teeth.

  ‘That would be the lioness he told us about last night,’ Archie remarked.

  Servants brought trays of drinks, hot spicy tea, coffee, and cool sherbets, dishes of mutton and semolina, plates of candied dates, apricots and figs. It was a banquet fit for a prince in a fairy tale palace.

  Archie and the men ate with appetite, but Harriet was too tired to try anything other than an orange sherbet and a few candied fruit. She stole a curious glance towards the head of the table where Saintclair sat with his mother and sister. The contrast between his serious, almost sombre, look and their ecstatic smiles was striking. The women talked and laughed whereas he remained mostly silent and toyed with his food or his glass of wine.

  ‘Not quite what I expected, this house,’ Archie said, looking around the room. ‘Saintclair’s family is far wealthier than we thought.’

  He gave her a knowing smile. ‘Like me, you had him down as a lowly-born ruffian, an adventurer, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s the impression he gives of himself, most of the time—’

  A cry from Saintclair’s sister interrupted her.

  ‘That man isn’t setting one foot in Bou Saada. I forbid it!’ The girl’s face was livid.

  ‘Calm down, Rose.’ Saintclair squeezed his sister’s hand. ‘We can’t deny him access to the town. He said he is here to set up some French outpost.’

  ‘That’s right, the soldiers took over the old military bordj to the south of the oasis,’ his mother concurred. She twisted a handkerchief in her hands. ‘Is there really nothing you can do to stop him from coming here, Lucas?’