Raoul’s face was grim. ‘He was a fool,’ he reiterated. ‘A man who knew of the dangers would never have brought his child with him.’
‘I am not a child!’ Angry colour flooded her cheeks. ‘I am eighteen and as able to face danger as any man!’
‘I can hardly imagine having to carry a man in my arms,’ Raoul said drily.
Harriet choked with impotent rage and did not deign to reply to him. She had been saved but the cost was great; enforced company with a man who did not even have the semblance of good manners. A man insolent, insulting and devastatingly handsome.
The last thought had come unbidden. She dug her nails deep into her palms, acutely conscious that the cantering of the horse obliged her to be in almost constant bodily contact with him.
‘Who do you know in Khartoum who will be able to escort you the fifteen-hundred miles back to Cairo?’ he asked, breaking the hostile silence that had fallen between them.
‘No one.’
His frown deepened. ‘ It will take months for word of your plight to reach England and your mother.’
She kept her back firmly turned against him, surveying the dunes with bleak eyes. ‘ I have no mother. She died when I was three.’
‘But you have family?’ A note of alarm had crept into his voice.
‘I have two maiden aunts. Both of them are over eighty. I have no intention of returning to them.’
‘You have no option.’
She swung round again and met his eyes defiantly. ‘I lived with them in Cheltenham after my mother’s death until the beginning of this year. I shall not live with them again. My parents were missionaries in Cairo. I was born in Africa. I shall remain in Africa.’
Tiny green sparks flashed in her eyes. Raoul clenched his jaw. Miss Harriet Latimer was going to be even more trouble than he had originally envisaged.
‘You can stay in Cairo and rot in Cairo for all I care,’ he said cruelly. ‘But Cairo is not Khartoum.’
‘In what way does it differ, Mr Beauvais?’ Harriet asked tartly.
Raoul thought of the slave traders and had an overpowering urge to shake her by the shoulders. ‘ Khartoum is the last refuge of the scum of Europe,’ he said brusquely. ‘It is a city outside the law, a city inhabited by murderers and worse.’
‘And is it a city that is your own destination?’ Harriet asked silkily.
Raoul fought down his rising anger. She was goading him on purpose and he would not give her the satisfaction of allowing her to see that the barb had struck home.
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly and dug his heels into the stallion’s side, urging it to a gallop.
Harriet gasped and fell back with her full weight against him as they streaked over the dunes. Dignity was impossible. She wound her fingers into the stallion’s mane and struggled to stay upright.
‘It would be easier if you rested your weight against my chest.’
‘Never!’
He shrugged indifferently. ‘If you fall you have no one to blame but yourself.’
‘I shall not fall, Mr Beauvais,’ she hissed, her body aching with the effort to remain upright.
‘I trust you are not going to be so maidenly when it comes to sharing the same tent, Miss Latimer.’
Harriet choked. ‘I may be forced to travel in this undignified manner with you, Mr Beauvais, but nothing on God’s earth would persuade me to share a tent with you!’
‘That is a relief, Miss Latimer. The tent is small and I would have been greatly inconvenienced.’
‘Then rest easy,’ she spat through clenched teeth. ‘I shall not be inconveniencing you. Now or ever!’
The morning sun was rising high in the sky. The heat was stunning. Sand stretched undulatingly as far as the eye could see. Sand and a searing blue sky and occasionally a cluster of sun-bleached rocks.
Against her will her eyes began to close and there was a suspicion of a smile on Raoul’s hard mouth as she gradually leant with increasing ease and unconsciousness against his chest.
When she awoke it was midday and the light was blinding. She blinked, momentarily disorientated, expecting to see the familiarity of a little rosewood dressing table and the water colours that hung on her bedroom wall. Instead there was a handful of palms and endless sand and she was leaning with undue familiarity against a Frenchman in flowing Arab robes. She removed herself from the comfort of the crook of his arm and said,
‘I had fallen asleep. It will not happen again.’
He slipped from the saddle and said with lazy insolence, ‘It is of no moment. I have carried sick natives thus on far longer journeys.’
She glared at him venomously but he seemed totally unconcerned at her fury and even had the temerity to circle her waist with his hands and lift her to the ground. She pushed away from him, her skirts swishing. Raoul slid his saddlebags over his shoulder and strode to the nearest palm, sitting in its shade. White rocks and scrub surrounded the meagre oasis and Harriet sat on a scorching boulder and fumed. One day’s travel had brought them to another oasis. It would have done so if she and her father had been able to continue. By now, if her father had been stronger, they would have been safely on their way to Khartoum. Instead she was forced to endure the company of a man who made free with her with presumptuous carelessness. The water bottle was at his side and he was eating a leisurely breakfast of biscuits and dates. The rock she was sitting on was unbearably hot. She was thirsty and tired and her limbs ached from the ceaseless movement of the horse.
Raoul sighed. She was stubborn enough to remain in the heat of the sun all day unless he coaxed her into a better temper. His fingertips had met as they circled her waist. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed such a pleasant experience. He said, with unaccustomed patience, ‘You will need to drink and eat. Otherwise you will have no strength to continue the journey.’
Harriet fought an inward battle. She wanted nothing to do with Mr Beauvais. Yet common sense told her she could not remain in the glare of the sun, sulking, without food and water for ever.
Reluctantly she moved forward, sitting a suitable distance away from him, accepting the biscuits and dates and the water bottle with chilling politeness. As she ate he erected the tent in what shade he could find. A Persian carpet was unrolled and laid inside. Harriet’s tired limbs ached for the comfort of lying on it. She watched him covertly as he tended to his horse. There was an unleashed power about his movements that reminded her of the grace and deadliness of a powerful animal. In the morning light his black hair had taken on a blue sheen and his lean face, with its firm jaw and finely chiselled mouth, looked more foreign than ever. She averted her head quickly as he turned towards her, saying, ‘Have you reconsidered your decision to rest in the open?’
‘There is as much shade here as I have enjoyed these last few weeks.’
Though she could not see it, there was grudging admiration in his eyes. ‘Maybe, but you had reservoirs of strength to draw on then. Now you have none. I suggest that you rest as comfortably as possible.’
Harriet eyed the cool opening to the tent longingly.
‘It will only be for a few hours. Rest in the desert is of necessity minimal.’
‘Then I will rest,’ she said stiffly, despising herself for the weakness of her body.
His mouth curved into a smile and for a brief moment he looked almost approachable as she crossed to the tent and entered the welcome shade. Gratefully she undid the high-necked fasteners of her blouse in order to breathe more freely and removed the high-buttoned boots which had seemed so sensible in Cheltenham and which had proved so uncomfortable in the desert. In utter weariness she stretched herself on the luxury of the Persian carpet and closed her eyes. They opened almost immediately as a dark shadow fell across her.
‘How dare you, Sir!’ She sat up instantly, oblivious that the buttons of her blouse were undone revealing the creamy whiteness of her breasts.
Raoul shrugged. ‘I told you that such a small tent would be inconveniencin
g.’
Harriet scrambled to her knees. ‘You didn’t tell me that you would be sharing it with me!’
‘An oversight. I thought the position was perfectly clear. I have ridden hard and require sleep. At great discomfort to myself I am prepared to share my sleeping quarters.’
‘I, Mr Beauvais, am not prepared to share them with you!’
He held back the flap of the tent and said smoothly, ‘Then leave, Miss Latimer. I wouldn’t dream of detaining you by force.’
Outside the sun seared the rocks and sand with merciless heat. Harriet felt tears of frustration and anger well in her eyes as she accepted defeat. Raoul Beauvais’ insufferable nearness was preferable to the discomfort that awaited her outside the shelter of the tent. Mutely she lay down once again, turning her back towards him, every line of her body signifying her outrage.
There came the sound of his dagger being unbuckled and laid aside. Her cheeks burned: surely he was not going to disrobe? Her heart beat shallow and fast. And then she heard him lying down and knew that if she moved by as much as an inch she would be in bodily contact with him. She closed her eyes, praying for sleep and an escape from her mortification. Not for a long time were her prayers answered.
When she awoke it was still light but she was alone. From outside came the sound of the horse moving listlessly and saddlebags being flung over its back. She rose hastily and emerged into the sunlight, blinking. Raoul turned to her.
‘I trust you slept well, Miss Latimer, despite the unwelcome company.’
She did not reply and his eyes gleamed in his sun-bronzed face.
‘Perhaps you would like the use of a hairbrush, Miss Latimer. You are beginning to look a little … dishevelled.’
His eyes slid with open admiration down to her breasts. With a gasp she clasped her blouse together and swung round, fastening her buttons with trembling fingers, her face scarlet. How long had she lain exposed to his gaze in the intimacy of the tent? How many more humiliations would she have to suffer before their journey was over?
‘I am ready to leave, Miss Latimer.’ The tent was speedily dismantled and rolled into a pack. He was already astride his horse. She had no way of mounting apart from accepting his proffered hand as he leant down and swung her up in front of him. Rested and refreshed she was more acutely aware than ever of his uncomfortable nearness – and her predicament. She knew no one in Khartoum. She was without family and without friends. Except, perhaps, for the British Consul.
‘Do you know Lord Crale, the British Consul in Khartoum?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘I believe my father informed him of our expected arrival.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Raoul said grimly. ‘At least there you will be given shelter.’
Her optimism, temporarily quenched, returned. ‘ Then I have no problem.’
‘You have every problem. You cannot stay in Khartoum. I have already told you what kind of a city it is. You will have to journey back across the Nubian Desert and then voyage once more down the Nile to Cairo. It is a journey that would make a man flinch.’
Her optimism had overcome her anger. Her eyes sparkled as she said spiritedly, ‘But I am not a man, Mr Beauvais.’
Raoul clenched his jaw. He was becoming more aware of that with every passing second.
‘You are as empty-headed as all your sex,’ he said through clenched teeth.
Harriet laughed, determined that nothing should destroy her good humour now that she had regained it. ‘Why, Mr Beauvais, I do believe you are a woman hater.’
Despite himself Raoul found the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. He had been labelled many things in his thirty-two years, but never that.
Thorn scrub and yellow rock began to break up the monotony of the blinding dunes. Harriet gestured towards them.
‘Does that mean we are nearing Khartoum?’
‘It means we are approaching the Nile again. The journey to Khartoum will still take several weeks but it will not be so arduous. We shall soon be able to travel by dhow.’
Harriet’s spirits soared. She had travelled the Nile by dhow with her father as far as Korosko and had enjoyed the experience immensely. At Korosko the Nile deviated from its course south in a gigantic, cataract-filled loop that could not be sailed. It was then that they had had to resort to camels to cross the desert to the point where the Nile once again flowed south towards Khartoum.
Raoul Beauvais’ eyes rested on her with disquieting frequency. He had never before been attracted to an English girl. Their manner was too stiff, their beauty too chill, more like that of marble statues than flesh-and-blood women. However, the one in his arms was a far cry from those he had met on the boring social rounds of Cairo and Alexandria. She had both spirit and courage. To have crossed the Nubian desert with no companion other than a sick father was no mean feat. He remembered the way she had faced him with a rifle and was grateful that she was unfamiliar with the weapon. The shot she had fired had come disconcertingly close. She shifted in her sleep and he slipped his arm more comfortably around her. Her hair, so neatly coiled throughout the day, was becoming dishevelled, the pins loosening. He wondered how long it was and touched it lightly. It was silky soft, the colour of early wheat. The long lashes that fanned her cheeks were golden tipped and lustrous. Miss Harriet Latimer was extraordinarily beautiful. He took comfort in the fact. Her presence was an inconvenience but one that was becoming increasingly pleasant.
The shrubs thickened and became greener. Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. Once they reached the banks of the Nile their journey would be relatively easy. Even for a traveller as experienced as himself, the desert was always full of unknown dangers.
When Harriet opened her eyes again darkness had fallen. She was held securely in Raoul Beauvais’ arms. She wondered how he managed to hold her for so long without being overcome by tiredness, and then her eyes closed and she fell once more into exhausted sleep. The movement of the horse and the cold woke her intermittently. Once or twice she looked up at the face only inches from her own and studied the abrasive masculine lines of nose and mouth. Drowsy with slumber, she remained close to him, the warmth from his body spreading through her.
‘The Nile,’ Raoul announced, hours later, rousing her.
It was dawn and the scrub had merged into verdant green bushes and shrubs. The river flowed murky and milky coloured; a broad, mile-wide expanse that cried out to be bathed in.
‘Thank goodness!’ she cried, her face elated as he swung her to the ground. Unhesitatingly she ran to its banks and bent down, letting the water trickle through her fingers, saying in mock annoyance, ‘Why can’t it flow in a straight line and make life easier for people, instead of meandering for hundreds of miles in a loop that is of no use to anyone?’
‘Nature is extremely unbiddable,’ Raoul said drily.
Harriet laughed. ‘And uncomfortable. I shall probably stay in Khartoum for the rest of my life rather than face that hateful desert again.’
Raoul did not reply. With the swift, spare movements that she was becoming accustomed to, he erected the tent and unrolled the Persian carpet. She sat down on it thankfully. Every bone in her body ached with the discomfort of the journey.
‘Here are the dates and biscuits,’ he said, handing her the saddlebags. ‘I’m going to try and shoot some pigeon or quail. We both of us need a hot meal. I have had a surfeit of dates!’
Harriet hadn’t. She ate them gratefully while he removed a rifle from his pack.
Their previous rest had been short, only a few hours at the most. She wondered how he managed on so little sleep and watched him as he strode away, the rifle over his shoulder. She was alone in the hot silence. Her blouse was clinging to her. Her skirt was encrusted with dust and sand. If she washed them in the river they would soon dry and she could bathe herself, removing the grime of countless days. With unspeakable relief she removed her buttoned boots and wiggled her toes freely. She could sleep in her camisole and underskirt, modestly covered by Raoul Beauvais’ bl
anket, while her garments dried. The sand was excruciatingly hot beneath her bare feet. Picking up her skirts, she ran down to the bank and shivered with delight as she stepped into the cool water. She looked around but there was no sign of Raoul Beauvais.
Quickly she divested herself of her blouse and skirt and stepped further from the bank and rushes, letting the water slide up and over her legs until it reached her waist. Then she plunged her blouse and skirt into the water and began to rub vigorously. From somewhere amongst the reeds a bird sang and she hummed along with it. The sight of the Nile had restored her spirits. It was a sight she had thought she would never live to see again. She wrung her garments out and threw them on to the bank and then she shook the remaining pins from her hair. It hung, waist-length, rippling down over her lace-trimmed camisole and trailing in the water. With a little gasp of pleasure she moved deeper, luxuriating in the feel of the water against her sweat-soaked skin. A volley of rifle shots rang out and she wondered if Raoul had been successful in his venture. She let the water take her weight, her hair fanning out in the current. Never before had she realised the unspeakable luxury of bathing.
‘I would ask you to return to the bank before you are joined by hungry crocodiles,’ a familiar voice said lazily.
Harriet gasped and forgot her efforts to float. He was sitting on a rock, two birds slung over his shoulder, his rifle in his hand.
‘Crocodiles!’ Eyes wide with horror she clumsily waded to the bank and so great was her distress that not until she had clambered out amongst the reeds and rushes, did she realise that she was minus her blouse and skirt.
‘Perhaps next time you wish to bathe, you will tell me and I will stand guard.’ He was eying her with unconcealed admiration, his eyes bold and black and frankly appraising.
‘You are impertinent, Mr Beauvais!’ It was difficult to climb through the reeds with any semblance of dignity. Her lawn camisole and underskirt clung to her as if they were invisible.
African Enchantment Page 2
