African Enchantment

by Margaret Pemberton

  She found oil and spices but no salt. The bearers had dropped their packs in wild disarray far from where Sebastian had erected the tents. As she stepped further from the flickering light of the campfire and into the impenetrable darkness her skirt caught on an acacia bush. She pulled it free and as she did so a shower of dead locusts scattered over her hand. She shook them off and stared at the black outline of the acacia bush. Scores of dead locusts were impaled on the vicious thorns. Free, they had flown directly on to the bush to a sudden and painful death, just as free she had flown into Raoul’s arms, and a lifetime of torment.

  The roar and the screams were simultaneous. For a second she could not move and then she was racing back to the campfire and the marauding lion. It stood over Narinda, its tail lashing viciously from side to side; the skin curled back over its dreadful teeth as it seized hold of its vainly struggling victim.

  On the far side of the fire Wilfred stared petrified.

  ‘Shoot it!’ Harriet screamed at him. ‘For God’s sake, shoot it!’

  Wilfred continued to stare, shaking like a man with the palsy.

  Frenziedly Harriet flew to his side and seized his pistol. In doing so she passed within feet of the great beast, attracting its attention. She was uncaring. Narinda was still alive, moaning piteously. The lion dropped her from its jaw and began to pace towards Harriet. Wilfred screamed and fled into the darkness, leaving Harriet to face death alone. She could smell Narinda’s blood; smell her own fear. Tawny eyes glowed in the darkness, powerful muscles crouched low, preparing to spring.

  Narinda cried out inarticulately, one hand raised supplicatingly in Harriet’s direction.

  With a great roar the lion sprang from its haunches and Harriet squeezed the trigger.

  The momentum of the animal sent her sprawling, its weight suffocating her. She fought against the hot flesh, screaming, gouging, kicking. There was blood on her face, her bodice, her skirt. She was lost in her screams, drowning in them and then Sebastian had hold of her.

  ‘It’s all right! It’s dead! Dead!’ He was shaking convulsively.

  ‘Narinda,’ she gasped and pushing him away she ran to the native girl’s side.

  Narinda barely whimpered as Sebastian carried her into the shelter of a tent. All through the long night Harriet tore up her underskirts, bedding: anything at all that could help staunch the flow of blood and all the time Narinda’s eyes were on hers and she murmured repeatedly,

  ‘I saw. He ran away but you stayed. I saw. I saw.’

  Neither Sebastian nor Harriet spoke to Wilfred when he returned. Unasked, he boiled water continually, burning blood-soaked bandages, assisting in searching for new ones.

  ‘Will she live?’ Sebastian asked as dawn tinged the sky with gold.

  Harriet shook her head, sponging Narinda’s fevered brow, holding her hand.

  ‘I saw.’ Narinda said again, her eyelids fluttering open. ‘I saw and I am sorry.’

  ‘Don’t talk,’ Harriet said gently. ‘ Save your strength.’

  Narinda shook her head. Her voice was a whisper but her eyes were urgent. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated with great difficulty. ‘ I hated you and I am sorry.’

  Harriet pressed a sponge of drinking water against her lips. ‘Please don’t talk any more, Narinda. Try and sleep.’

  ‘No!’ Her hold on Harriet’s hand tightened, her eyes wide. ‘You must go to him. He loves you and you must go to him.’

  ‘She is delirious,’ Sebastian said shortly.

  Harriet paid no heed to him. Her eyes were fixed on Narinda’s.

  ‘I knew what you believed,’ the native girl gasped, ‘that I was his mistress.’ Tears filled her lustrous eyes. ‘I have never been his mistress. My master cares for me and he is kind but he has never loved me. He never loved anyone.’ She faltered, rasping for breath.

  Harriet cooled her forehead, her hands trembling as she did so.

  Narinda’s voice was failing. Harriet had to lean close to hear each desperately summoned word.

  ‘He loves you,’ she whispered. ‘He told me so in Khartoum. He told Hashim so. He said …’ She panted harshly. ‘He said that he was going to marry you.’

  A long, deep breath escaped from Harriet’s lips.

  ‘I was glad when you refused him. When you thought that I … that I …’

  ‘Hush now, Narinda, there is no need to say any more.’

  ‘You will go to him?’

  ‘Yes, I will go to him.’

  A smile touched Narinda’s lips. ‘ I am sorry,’ she said again and died.

  There was a long silence. Harriet leaned back on her heels, Narinda’s hand still in hers. At last Sebastian said awkwardly,

  ‘She didn’t know what she was saying.’

  ‘She knew perfectly what she was saying. She made only one mistake. Raoul may have intended asking to marry me but he never did so. If he had I would never have refused him, Narinda or no Narinda.’ Slowly she rose to her feet and stepped out of the tent, into the morning sunlight.

  Sebastian followed her, standing at her side. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, his face troubled.

  ‘I am going to do as Narinda said. I am going to go to him.’

  Sebastian’s face, so attractive in Khartoum, had aged prematurely in the last few days. Fresh anxiety swept across it.

  ‘You can’t! It would be suicide for us to return to Latika’s lands.’

  ‘I am returning,’ she repeated quietly. ‘I will join Raoul and if that means crossing Latika’s lands, then I will do so.’

  ‘I can’t … won’t …’ Sebastian floundered incoherently.

  She smiled up at him. ‘I don’t expect an escort, Sebastian. You and Wilfred return to Khartoum. I shall journey to Raoul alone. It is only a day since we parted. I shall find him and then I shall never leave him.’

  Hurriedly she packed a small supply of rations in her saddlebag.

  ‘But if you die …’ Sebastian protested weakly.

  Her smile widened, a radiant smile of pure happiness.

  ‘My life is my own, Sebastian. I shall do with it what I will.’

  He kissed her goodbye on the cheek and she shook a shame-faced Wilfred by the hand.

  He was a coward and she had been a fool. She had paid for her folly and no doubt Wilfred would pay for his cowardice. She preferred her own failing to his. It was one that would not assail her again.

  She felt as free as a caged bird that had suddenly been given the whole sky to fly in and, like a bird, her heart sang as she galloped away from the two watching men and into the great, vast wilderness that was Africa.

  Ahead of her lay a continent still unexplored, and a man she loved with all her heart. Despair had turned to hope and hope to certainty. There would be no more foolish pride. She was his and he was hers. She had only to tell him so.

  She rode hard and confidently and when she camped alone at night she did so without fear. Another day, two at the most, and she would be once more at his side. Her small campfire flickered bravely in the velvety blackness. She sat close to it, her arms hugging her knees. Her unhappiness had been of her own making. She had shown neither compassion nor understanding. Though Narinda had not been able to tell her, she knew now why Raoul had brought her and treated her with the same courtesy he would have a European. It was because, in his eyes, the natives and Europeans were equal and demanded equal respect. It was how he treated Hashim; how he treated all who came into contact with him unless they violated his own code of honour as the Pasha had done.

  Kindness had prompted him to buy Narinda and save her from a life of degradation. Kindness had prompted him to care for her. It had been a kindness totally misunderstood in Khartoum. She could imagine his contempt for those who thought his motives base. As she had done. Her cheeks flushed. She had not deserved his love in those far off days in Khartoum. She had been immature and naive. She was neither now.

  At dawn she rode again and at dusk she camped alone. She had food for ano
ther two days’ travel. She knew only that he was journeying south. She should have been in fear of her life and instead she was filled with the calm certainty that he was only a little way ahead of her.

  On the third day, as the sun sank in a blood-red haze, she climbed a hill and saw two distant figures below her on the ochre plain. They had resumed contact with the Nile. It flowed between grassy banks and dense foliage and as she watched, the two men entered a grove of trees and disappeared from her view.

  The way down to the plain was steep and treacherous and common sense told her to wait for daylight. Her heart was unable to do so. As darkness gathered she made her way carefully down the hillside, her mount moving with the same sureness that she herself felt. It was night by the time they reached the plain and she set her horse’s head in the direction of the river and the trees and urged it to one last gallant effort.

  The two men had hardly spoken since separating from the others. Raoul had retreated into a world of bitterness and pain that not even Mark Lane could penetrate. They sat as they had done each evening, Mark Lane reading his Bible, Raoul staring broodingly into the flames of the fire. The ground shook with hoofbeats. Branches rustled and cracked as they were pushed heedlessly aside.

  In unison the two men sprang to their feet, grabbing the wooden staves that were their only protection. There was no subtlety, no cunning, in the animal’s approach.

  ‘It must be wounded,’ Mark Lane hissed as, bodies tensed, they waited for the intruder to burst from the trees.

  ‘Faster, faster,’ Harriet gasped as she smelt the smoke from their fire and knew that only yards of darkness separated them. Leaves clung to her face. A snake whipped to safety. With a cry of joy she pushed the last branch aside and galloped into the clearing.

  Mark Lane’s stave left his hand and sent the terrified horse rearing.

  Raoul stood transfixed, unable to believe his eyes. She slithered from her horse’s back, laughing and sobbing with relief and happiness.

  ‘I’ve come back! I love you and I’ve come back!’ she cried, and like an arrow flying into the gold she flew into his outstretched arms.

  ‘Harriet! My sweet love! Ma chérie!’ His face was alight with naked joy as he pressed kisses on her eyes, her mouth, her throat.

  She clung to him as if she would never let him go and only Mark Lane’s discreet cough prevented Raoul from sinking to the ground and making violent love to her.

  ‘Your presence is unexpected, but very welcome, Harriet. What occasioned it?’ he asked as they remained fervently clasped in each other’s arms.

  Harriet’s breath steadied. She held Raoul’s eyes and said simply,

  ‘Narinda died. It was a lion. I’m sorry, Raoul. There was nothing we could do.’ She had long since forced to the back of her mind the vision of Wilfred standing motionless, the Fletcher in his hand.

  ‘As she was dying she told me what I should have known all along. That she was not your mistress. That you love me as I love you.’

  Raoul groaned and buried his head in her hair. ‘ Is that what you believed, sweet love?’

  Her tears were wet against his cheek. ‘Yes, but it should have made no difference to me. It would not now.’ She gave a tremulous smile and raised her face to his. ‘I was a child then, Raoul. I am a child no longer.’

  His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at the beauty of her upturned face. ‘I love you, ma chère petite,’ he said and when his lips met hers it was with the gentleness of absolute love.

  Mark Lane cleared his throat, the gravity of his voice belying the laughter in his eyes. ‘I’m afraid I can be no party to any irregular relationship.’

  Raoul raised his head from Harriet’s, his eyes darkening. ‘I would not want you to be. We shall marry at the earliest opportunity.’ His voice was decisive. ‘We shall break camp at dawn and begin our return to Khartoum.’

  Harriet’s eyes widened, ‘But why? There is no need.’

  ‘There is every need,’ he said, his dark eyes gleaming. ‘I am a man, not a saint. I cannot travel with you at my side and treat you as a sister.’

  Her cheeks flushed prettily. ‘There is no need,’ she said and pressed her lips against his.

  Mark Lane shook his head in mock sorrow at such immodesty and said, ‘Then if you are both ready, we will begin.’

  They turned to him, uncomprehendingly, arms still entwined.

  He smiled, his Bible in his hand. ‘I am an ordained minister. I believe that is the only necessity required by God in order to sanctify a marriage. That, and two people who love each other.’

  Raoul broke a lush-white blossom from the nearby foliage and standing by the nearby campfire, the single blossom in her hair, their only guests wild creatures of the night, Mark Lane married Harriet Latimer to Raoul Beauvais.

  They stood gazing at each other, two people in a world of their own.

  ‘You may now kiss the bride,’ Mark Lane prompted, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  Raoul’s arms circled her waist and he gazed down at the woman he loved and who was now his wife. ‘It will be a lonely life and a dangerous one, chérie.’

  Harriet smiled gently, dismissing the thought of danger. She had faced it many times and would no doubt face it many times again. Danger was becoming quite an old friend. Her eyes were radiant with love as she said softly,

  ‘Our life will never be lonely. Not for as long as we have each other.’

  Mark Lane quietly picked up his sleeping bag and moved off into the darkness. The night was theirs and the Lord would watch over his own, solitary sleep.

  The flames of the fire leapt and danced, their hiss and crackle the only sound as the dark head bent low to the gold and Raoul Beauvais kissed his bride.

  Chapter Eleven

  They had travelled for many months. Mark Lane’s beard had taken on patriarchal proportions. Harriet’s skin was no longer creamy white, but a glowing honey colour that emphasised the beauty of her hair and eyes. Raoul was no longer the brooding, solitary figure he had been for so many years. His laughter rang out loud and often and now, as they faced the hill before them, his eyes were alight with a sense of achievement.

  Beyond it lay Luta N’zige. Dead Locust Lake. The lake from which the Nile flowed.

  Mark reined in his horse. ‘I want to take our bearings. I’ll do that and make camp.’ His eyes held Raoul’s steadily. The friendship between the two men had deepened to such a point that words were no longer necessary between them. Mark was offering him the opportunity of standing at the fountains of the Nile with only Harriet at his side.

  With eyes suspiciously bright, Raoul left Mark setting up his chronometer and sextant and with Harriet’s horse cantering at his side, crossed the valley floor and climbed up the gently sloping hill that barred any view of the way ahead.

  Harriet’s heart beat fast and light. Were they at last to see their objective? Were her father’s dreams to be made a reality? Was the lake that had been only legend going to prove to be fact?

  A short distance from the summit Raoul reined in and dismounted. Feverishly, like two children, they ran the last few yards with clasped hands and crowned the hill. Below them the lake stretched like a sea of silver, crocodiles and hippopotami lying in its shallows, herds of topi and hartebeest grazing on the lush banks. Beyond, in the distance, was the blue haze of mountains.

  Harriet sank to her knees on fine, soft grass. ‘We’ve found the Garden of Eden,’ she whispered.

  Raoul knelt beside her, his arms circling her shoulders. ‘ We’ve found the source of the Nile,’ he said reverently.

  She looked up at him and her eyes were suddenly troubled. ‘Once it is known in Europe, hundreds will find their way here.’

  ‘Would that displease you, mon amour?’ he asked, her soft, sensuous body yielding against his own.

  She turned her head, looking once more on the peace and tranquillity that no European had ever before set eyes on.

  ‘Yes,’ she said si
mply, ‘it would.’

  ‘Then we shall leave Europe in ignorance until some other adventurer finds his way here and proclaims its presence to the world.’

  ‘But the honours you deserve … the fame,’ she protested.

  He silenced her protests with kisses. ‘Ashes in the wind,’ he said, and sweeping her up in his arms he began to run with her towards the creaming shallows.

  Copyright

  First published in 1982 by Mills and Boon

  This edition published 2013 by Bello

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

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  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  ISBN 978-1-4472-4477-6 EPUB

  ISBN 978-1-4472-4476-9 POD

  Copyright © Margaret Pemberton, 1982

  The right of Margaret Pemberton to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted in accordance

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