African Enchantment

by Margaret Pemberton

  Raoul gave silent thanks that his maths had been correct and held out his hand for the pistol. Latika was on his feet, frowning. The two other pistols were brought. They would not make the terrible noise they made when they had first been seized.

  Harriet lay limply on the grass and reeds. She had thought him dead but he was still before her, talking to Latika. The chief’s eyes were narrow and sharp. He raised the rifle and at Raoul’s direction aimed it in the air and fired. His warriors cheered wildly. Latika beamed. He raised the rifle and fired again. Nothing happened. Latika frowned. Then Raoul showed him how to reload it. The bullets would not fit the pistols. Only the chief’s weapon could make a voice like thunder and shoot the birds from the air. Latika was buoyant. The chiefs and their offers of cattle and wives were dismissed.

  Raoul was striding towards her, his face grim. She tried to speak and could not. In one swift movement he swept her into his arms and then, in a semi-conscious haze, she knew they were descending the wooden steps. She saw Sebastian and Mark’s frightened faces, felt herself lifted into the saddle in front of Raoul, held in the crook of his arm as she had been on the journey to Khartoum. Past and present merged into one. Her eyes were open but she no longer saw. She spoke to her father, her aunts, Dr Walther. She was vaguely aware of being tended; of being lifted to the ground and being given water to drink. Of her brow being sponged.

  Raoul’s voice penetrated her consciousness but it was hard and demanding and she knew that he still did not love her and wondered who was treating her with such tenderness.

  He would allow no one to go near her. Holding her in his arms he tersely informed Frome what had happened and rallied Sebastian and Mark from their terrified stupor. The chief had been so elated with the rifle that fired only for him that they had been allowed to leave with their horses and most of their instruments, though not with Wilfred Frome’s telescope. Latika’s elation would not last longer than the ammunition that had been left with him. Their only hope of safety lay in removing themselves with all speed from the area inhabited by him and his fellow chiefs.

  Sebastian was in eager agreement but wished to retrace his steps, not go forward. Mark Lane, when asked bluntly by Raoul whether he wanted to continue or return, had said that he personally wished to continue but that Harriet was in no condition to do so and would need protection. Looking down at Harriet’s fevered brow, Raoul knew that his expedition was over and did not care. All that mattered was that Harriet was safe and would remain safe. He gave Mark Lane the double-barrelled Fletcher that he had once given to Harriet but that she had never carried, and asked him to take turns standing guard with Wilfred Frome. They would ride at dawn after Harriet had rested.

  Then, caring nothing for the proprieties, he ignored Sebastian’s suggestion that Narinda nurse her through the night hours, and carried her into her tent, kneeling at her side, tending her as gently as if she were a child.

  ‘Papa!’ she called out several times, clinging to him, relaxing as she felt the strength and safety of his arms. And then, as dawn flushed the sky blood red, she said wonderingly, ‘Raoul,’ and he breathed a shuddering sigh of relief and clasped her tightly to his chest.

  Tentatively she raised her hand, her fingers outlining the hard contours of his face. ‘Raoul,’ she breathed softly. ‘Raoul,’ and his dark eyes held hers and he was kissing her long and lingeringly and with increasing passion.

  Her arms slid up and around his neck. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the sweetness of his mouth, to yield utterly. To feel the warmth of his body against hers. Where were they? In Berber? In Khartoum? Her head whirled, besieged by faces and images.

  The slave market in Khartoum. Sebastian’s voice saying idly, as he sipped his wine, ‘Beauvais has only one mistress, the Circassian, Narinda.’

  Raoul’s hand clasping Narinda’s. Narinda kneeling at his feet, sewing his shirts, and then the floodgates of memory were opened and she was once again standing like a chattel before Latika and Raoul and she was being bought; bought as Narinda had been bought. Bought by Raoul Beauvais as his slave.

  Her forehead burned. She was consumed with a fire that was destroying her. His lips seared hers and she wrenched her head away, drumming her fists against his chest and shoulders, crying, ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me!’

  Raoul raised his head from hers, as sharply as if he had been shot. She twisted in his arms, calling out vainly ‘Sebastian!’

  Raoul ground his teeth and tightened his hold on her so that her cry became one of pain.

  ‘Sebastian is it? What did your precious Sebastian do for you in Latika’s village? Did he risk his life for you? Did he carry you to safety?’

  She was no longer listening to him. She knew only that she must free herself from his hold; that she must regain her self-respect. Her nails dug into his cheeks, raking long scratchmarks.

  ‘I’m not Narinda!’ she cried tormentedly. ‘I’m not a slave to be taken at your pleasure!’

  The blood pounded in a red mist behind his eyes. He had ached for her body for months. He had risked his life for her and now that she was safe it was Crale’s name she called out. His iron self-control snapped. His fingers twisted cruelly in her hair, pulling her head back so that his eyes blazed into hers.

  ‘You are a slave!’ he yelled as she panted and struggled and tried to free herself. ‘Ask Chief Latika! Ask his hundreds of warriors! Ask Crale and Lane! You were auctioned as a slave and bought as a slave and by God I’ll enjoy you as one!’

  This time there was no tenderness in the mouth that bruised hers. His body pinned her to the ground, no longer a refuge but hard and threatening and terrifyingly arousing. She could feel the heavy thud of his heart against her breast, and the passion that she had fought for so long engulfed her. She was on fire, burning with a need that knew no bounds. His lips scalded hers, hurting, searching, demanding. From the depths of her soul she summoned up one last agonised protest and as the word ‘No’ was torn from her body the tent flaps were ripped apart and violent hands seized hold of Raoul.

  She rolled from beneath him, gasping and sobbing, overcome with shame at her weakness.

  Raoul had twisted like an eel, his fist coming into contact with the first face he saw. It was Sebastian’s and he went spinning backwards out of the tent and into the dust and dirt. Seconds later, Raoul and Wilfred and Mark Lane followed him.

  In two swift movements Raoul reduced Wilfred Frome to retching inertness and only a blow from Mark Lane, still wearing his clerical collar, brought him to his senses. They stood facing each other, panting, fists clenched.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Raoul. I don’t want to hit you,’ Mark gasped.

  Raoul laughed harshly. ‘If you do, I’ll knock you unconscious.’

  ‘If that’s what I have to suffer to have you come to your senses, then I will.’

  Raoul stared at him long and hard and then swore, swinging on his heel, half running in his haste to be free of the camp. Free of Mark Lane’s accusing eyes. Free of Harriet’s tormenting presence.

  Mark rasped for breath and wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth.

  ‘Is he sane?’ Wilfred asked, staggering to his feet. ‘Will he be back?’

  ‘He’s sane and he’ll be back,’ Mark Lane said and went to where Harriet stood, Sebastian’s arm comfortingly around her shoulders, her eyes huge in her whitened face.

  ‘You mustn’t think too badly of Raoul,’ Mark said, still fighting for breath. ‘He’s been through a hellish experience …’

  ‘We all have,’ Sebastian interrupted curtly.

  Mark’s voice was sharp. ‘ It was Raoul who bore the brunt of it.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise for him,’ Harriet said, choking back her tears. ‘He is beyond apology.’

  ‘Frome and I are returning to Gondokoro at dawn,’ Sebastian said tersely. ‘Miss Latimer will be accompanying us. For your information, her reputation will be untarnished. She has just don
e me the honour of accepting my proposal of marriage.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Mark stared at Harriet, deeply shocked.

  Harriet’s eyes met his bleakly. ‘Yes,’ she said with an underlying tremble in her voice. ‘ It’s quite true,’ and then she turned and stepped into her tent, letting the flaps fall behind her.

  Chapter Ten

  Narinda’s eyes were triumphant. Ignoring Wilfred’s half-hearted protests, she ran towards her mule and mounted, urging the animal in the direction Raoul had taken.

  Sebastian approached Harriet’s tent, standing awkwardly as he heard the distinct sound of weeping.

  ‘Strange behaviour for a happy bride-to-be,’ Wilfred Frome said nastily as he returned to his own tent.

  Sebastian stepped towards him threateningly. ‘I find my fiancee’s behaviour perfectly understandable in the given circumstances. I intend leaving this camp before she has to see that fiend again.’

  ‘If and when we part company, it will be in an orderly manner,’ Mark Lane said quietly.

  ‘It will be when I choose!’ Sebastian snapped, turning on his heel, unable to summon enough courage to comfort his betrothed.

  Harriet wept until she could weep no more. In the long hours of captivity in the native hut she had been forced to face an agonising truth. No matter what he did, no matter how despicable his behaviour, she would always love Raoul Beauvais. She could do nothing else. He had only to touch her for her blood to leap. Even when he had hurt her, wrenching her head back, kissing her with a savagery that had left her lips bleeding, she had responded. Her last protest in his arms had been a vain one. Only Sebastian and his companions had saved her from utter shamelessness. She moaned softly, covering her eyes with her arm. What had she done that she should suffer such torments? She had discouraged him, ignored him, refused to be beguiled by his charm as Mark Lane and even Chief Latika had been. And to what avail? She was still enslaved by him. Nothing she could do would free her from the folly of her own heart.

  Desolation swept over her. How would she live without the pleasure of seeing him? Without hearing his deep, rich voice? Without being the recipient of his rare smiles, his murderous rages? How would she live without the man she loved most in the world?

  She raised herself and pulled back the flap of the tent. Outside the moon burned amongst a cloud of stars. She could see the dark silhouette of Mark Lane as he kept vigilant watch, her Fletcher in his hands. She wondered if Raoul had returned and knew that he had not.

  She let the flap fall and lay down once again. Tomorrow their ways would diverge. She would return to Khartoum with Wilfred and Sebastian and the Africa she had loved would be lost to her. Without Raoul it would be meaningless.

  In the early hours of dawn she heard the thud of the mule’s hooves and Narinda’s soft laugh as Raoul spoke tersely to Mark Lane. She began to braid her hair with trembling hands. The night had not been lonely for him. She doubted if he had spent one moment of it thinking of her. He would say goodbye to her as easily as he would to Sebastian or Wilfred. She paused for a few moments before emerging from the tent, steeling herself so that her outward appearance was composed. She took a deep, shuddering breath, clasped her hands close together and stepped out into the beauty of the dawn.

  The lines around his mouth were white and strained, his eyes disbelieving as he listened to Mark Lane. He swung in her direction his barely-controlled fury rooting her to the spot.

  ‘Are you to marry Crale?’ The question was like a lash.

  She flinched visibly and saw Mark Lane rest a restraining hand on his arm.

  ‘Yes.’ Her eyes held his bravely, but her voice was barely audible.

  ‘Leave my fiancée alone, Beauvais,’ Sebastian said threateningly, walking towards them, Wilfred Frome’s pistol at his hip, his hand resting on the stock.

  Raoul’s eyes burned into hers, dark pits in which she could read nothing.

  ‘We are packed and ready to leave,’ Sebastian continued tightly. ‘Frome is travelling with us and so are most of the bearers.’

  At last, when she felt unable to bear it for another second, he tore his eyes from hers and said tersely to Mark Lane, ‘I am continuing. The choice is yours.’

  ‘I travel with you.’

  Raoul nodded briefly and ignored both Sebastian and Harriet, speaking to Wilfred.

  ‘Narinda will travel back with you. The dangers ahead are too great.’

  ‘No!’ Narinda’s protest was a shriek. She threw herself at Raoul, flinging her arms around his neck, tears pouring down her face.

  Harriet turned away. For the first time she felt a measure of compassion for the lovely native girl. Her use had come to an end and so she was being discarded – as she herself had been.

  The shrieks and sobs continued until the horses had been packed and no trace of their campsite remained.

  There were no handshakes on parting. Sebastian merely nodded curtly in Raoul and Mark’s direction, and Wilfred muttered an awkward farewell. Narinda, her pleas and tears to no avail, continued to weep, her face ravaged with grief.

  Harriet felt as if the breath were being squeezed from her body. She sat on her horse, her hands clasped so tightly together that the nail marks indented her skin. Every fibre of her being yearned to do as Narinda had done; to hurl herself from the saddle and race across to him, throwing herself at his feet and begging to be taken with him. Her eyes were tortured. She could well imagine his contempt if she did so.

  She sat proudly, her back straight and her head erect. Her world had come to an end but none would know it had done so.

  Sebastian flicked his horse into movement. Behind her, Wilfred’s horse nudged hers impatiently. Her horse began to move. She was leaving him. She would never see him again.

  ‘Harriet!’ Her name was torn from his throat.

  The horses broke into a canter; he called again, running with panther-like speed, seizing hold of her reins.

  ‘Harriet!’

  She closed her eyes, her face bloodless. For one brief moment his hand rested on hers. ‘Goodbye, ma chérie,’ he said, and then Sebastian was slapping the flank of her horse and goading it to a gallop and she could not reply for the unshed tears that choked her throat.

  ‘Damned insolence,’ Sebastian said viciously as Raoul was left standing in the wake of their galloping horses.

  When she turned in the saddle she could no longer see him. Perhaps one day she would read of his return or of his death. She was oblivious of the heat; oblivious of the conversation taking place between Wilfred and Sebastian; oblivious of Narinda’s tears.

  She was lost in a world of such unhappiness that it seemed impossible that she could survive it. His touch still burned on the back of her hand. She raised it to her cheek and pressed it there, travelling mile after mile and seeing nothing but his face and the dark, unreadable depths of his eyes.

  Several of the native bearers who had elected to return had eyed Sebastian and Wilfred uneasily and had melted away so that when they made camp they found that they had only half the number they had started out with.

  ‘Treacherous dogs,’ Sebastian said, his voice edged with fear. He had never been in the position of leader before and it was not one he was relishing.

  ‘Raoul and Mark will be grateful for them,’ Harriet said quietly.

  ‘What the devil is it to you whether Beauvais is grateful for them or not?’ Sebastian snapped, the back of his neck prickling as a distant beast roared with hunger.

  ‘I want his expedition to succeed,’ she replied simply.

  Wilfred Frome laughed. ‘How can it succeed? They are without a weapon between them.’

  ‘They will succeed,’ Harriet insisted with quiet conviction, building a campfire as Sebastian, Wilfred and Narinda watched without offering assistance.

  ‘They’ll never be heard of again,’ Sebastian said with satisfaction. ‘Wilfred will inform the Geographical Society of Beauvais’infamous conduct and lack of leadership and Wilfred and I wi
ll lead another expedition; better equipped and better informed. After we are married,’ he added as an afterthought.

  The flames of the fire took hold and Harriet rose to her feet and faced him. ‘I am sorry, Sebastian. I should never have accepted your proposal of marriage. I did so in the same way it was offered – in a moment of extreme stress. I would be grateful if we did not discuss the subject again.’

  Sebastian’s mouth tightened. He was about to argue with her but the roving beast roared again and this time there was no mistaking the sound.

  ‘Lion,’ Wilfred said, paling.

  The two men looked at each other. ‘The fire will keep it away,’ Sebastian said nervously.

  ‘One of us should go after him.’

  ‘You have the pistol.’

  ‘You are the hunter.’

  Sweat broke out on Sebastian’s brow and Wilfred shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

  ‘You may take my Fletcher,’ Harriet said to Sebastian and was rewarded with a look of such venom that it startled her.

  Wilfred went for the Fletcher eagerly and handed it to an ungrateful Sebastian.

  Sebastian snatched it from his grasp and said savagely, ‘You go east of the camp, I’ll go north. He’s in that vicinity somewhere.’

  Unhappily Wilfred did as he was bid and Harriet busied herself searching through their provisions for anything with which to cook an adequate meal.

  Without Raoul, the native bearers were uneasy and unhelpful. Narinda sat motionless by the fire, staring into the flames with anguished eyes. Harriet sighed. Without salt she could cook nothing and the salt was in one of the bundles the bearers had carried through the heat of the day on their heads.

  She left the crackling fire and the group of natives and began searching for the salt herself. The eerie silence of the African night pressed in on her. The lion no longer roared. There was no sound of hoofbeats.