Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "Are you good with a shotgun?" he asked suddenly.

  "I can shoot straight, if that's what you mean."

  "You're not likely to faint and fall off the elephant when the tiger appears?"

  She regarded him coolly, put out by his patronization. "I doubt it. I have hunted before, if not tigers then animals equally savage."

  He chuckled under his breath. "I forget sometimes that you are American with hackles that rise like those of a prairie wolf when he senses an attack." The hard lines of his face seemed to thaw and, without warning, he reached out to touch her cheek. "From which parent did you inherit those deceptively ingenuous, disconcertingly lovely eyes?"

  Olivia recoiled; his fingers were icy. "My mother. She . . ." Her voice died in her throat.

  His hand did not retract. Instead it lingered to lightly trace the line of her jaw. Carefully he brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and looped it behind an ear. "You delude yourself, Olivia. You have no idea in how vulnerable a position you stand." He spoke in a flat monotone, his mood more indecipherable than ever. "I see you as I would the wing of a butterfly, fragile and trembling on the point of dissolution at a touch. You play with toys that are not toys." He sighed and let his hand drop. "It is this that disturbs me most about you. Good night."

  And with that she was left alone.

  For a long while Olivia stood motionless, staring into the dark. Her body was numb; even her mind seemed static. The only sensation she felt was on her cheek where the imprint of his finger-tips burned as raw as if branded into her skin. An instinct then stirred in some far-away recess of her brain, ominous and gathering strength. She knew that with that touch, subtly but irrevocably, Jai Raventhorne had succeeded in altering the course of her life. Something insidious had ruffled the placid surface of her existence; given a chance, it had the power to blow a storm and divert her into spaces unknown and uncharted. Like a deadly undertow in the ocean, it threatened to drag her down into depths she would not know how to negotiate. That Raventhorne with his feral instincts knew it was only too obvious.

  Olivia was frightened. Force, power, affinity . . . call it what they might, something also told her that however loud the alarm bells ringing around her, however dire the warnings she received, she would not heed them.

  She knew it was already too late for that.

  Heavily timbered and built on stilts, the royal hunting lodge was set deep in the jungle. Over its red tiled roof sal branches interlocked, filtering shafts of early sunlight that dappled the clearing. The air was heavy with sound and smell; rustling leaves, chirping birds, tunelessly croaking frogs, muted human voices and swirls of wood smoke announcing imminent breakfast combined to make it a lively scene. From a distance came muffled drum beats, rhythmic and steady, like the pulsing of some primeval heart. It was in the bowels of this dank, dense underworld that the tiger prowled, unaware that with those drum beats were also ticking away the last hours of its life.

  An armed cavalry unit had escorted Olivia and the Maharani and their attendants in carriages, whereas the men had ridden out earlier on horseback. In the verandah of the lodge the Maharaja and Raventhorne were already at work checking guns and ammunition, working out strategy and assigning jobs. In the clearing were the four caparisoned elephants, now being fed rice balls and molasses, who would bear them into the jungle. The mahouts stood by waiting to mount the foreheads of their massive charges. Early breakfast was being served to the retinue of hunters and attendants who squatted on the grass and ate out of banana leaves while hundreds of villagers watched in barely suppressed excitement, secure in the ability of their ruler to make their lives again safe from danger.

  On the verandah a light meal was on offer—glasses of hot milk and savoury triangles of pastry stuffed with vegetables. Sitting next to Kinjal, Olivia spent all her time trying to avoid meeting Raventhorne's eyes, not that they sought hers anyway; for all intents and purposes, he seemed barely aware of her presence. The Maharaja, on the other hand, greeted her effusively.

  "I trust your ride was comfortable and has given you a fair appetite, Miss O'Rourke. We will eat more fully on our return."

  "Most comfortable, thank you, although I would have preferred to make the journey on horseback," Olivia answered with frankness.

  He spread his hands ruefully. "Forgive me, Miss O'Rourke, for not allowing you that. My people are conservative and the sight of a lady, even European, riding a horse is one with which they are not yet familiar."

  "Of course I understand," Olivia said quickly, ignoring the pointed, tacit comment contained in Raventhorne's smile. "I was merely expressing a regret, not a complaint."

  But it was impossible to ignore the flesh and blood presence of a man who had spent the night haunting her fitful dreams. What had transpired between them last night had shaken her far more than she would have thought possible. The prospect now of spending more time in his company, even with the safeguards provided by the presence of the Maharaja and the Maharani, was nerve racking, for she needed time to assimilate what was happening within her. Whatever it was, she didn't like it. It had taken her by surprise, and Raventhorne wasn't the only one who didn't care much for surprises.

  As they ate and drank, Kinjal pointed out various things to her over the wooden balustrades about the flurry of preparations below. It was as the breakfast dishes were being cleared that she took Olivia into a room away from the others and said, "You must excuse me, Olivia, if I do not accompany you into the jungle. You know that I do not appear before men not of our household, and to enclose the howdah would be such a wasted exercise."

  Olivia was not only greatly disappointed but also perturbed. "Then I will stay back with you. It is so serene and pleasant right here."

  "My husband would not hear of that and neither would I," Kinjal said firmly. "We would not like you to miss an experience as colourful as a tiger shoot."

  It was churlish to argue further so Olivia did not pursue the subject, but her alarm persisted. "How many guns will there be?"

  "Eight. One on each elephant and four on foot."

  Would Jai Raventhorne ride with the Maharaja? Olivia prayed that he would. The howdahs were comfortable and well appointed but by no means spacious enough to ensure privacy for two people. But when the starting signal was given and the elephants lumbered up to the ground below the verandah to trumpet and then kneel in obeisance before their king, it was obvious to Olivia that her prayers would not be answered. The Maharaja's elephant stood apart with its royal pennant hoisted and the two other elephants already had their marksmen in place, which left only one more animal. Damn! She turned to see Kinjal watching her closely.

  "It is Jai who asked to ride with you, Olivia," she said, her eyes strangely unhappy. "Would you prefer it otherwise?"

  The facility with which Kinjal had read her thoughts brought a fierce blush to Olivia's cheeks. Yes! she wanted to shout, I would prefer it otherwise! But she shook her head quickly and ran down the stairs where everyone waited.

  The sensible hunting clothes she wore had been provided by her aunt, who had been in the jungle many times and knew exactly what was needed. Her skirt, divided for easy movement, was of hardy brown twill. The cotton blouse, high at the neck and long sleeved, was a protection against insects and the sturdy, knee-high leather boots were to guard against snakes and scorpions that might be lurking in the undergrowth. Beneath the skirt, as her aunt had insisted, she wore long johns. "If you fall off somewhere at least you won't make a spectacle of yourself in front of that uncivilised crowd."

  As Raventhorne helped her up the ladder onto the howdah, his expression showed approval of her gear. His own, of course, was as careless as ever, the only addition being a gun belt. To Olivia's enormous relief as she settled herself inside the howdah, he stepped across its low surround and perched on the elephant's head next to the mahout, his rifle across his knees and his arms folded. Warily, Olivia stretched out her legs in the opposite direction from him, wondering if by any c
hance he suspected the unkind thoughts that had crossed her mind.

  He did. "I told you I am not totally without social graces," he murmured, enjoying her discomfiture, "although I find it difficult to believe you have never been close to a man before. After all, you are twenty-two and not entirely ugly."

  "I have," she retorted with only a slight rise of colour, "but never to one as bumptious as you."

  He laughed and let the matter drop.

  The procession, ceremonial in its grandeur, moved lugubriously into the dense trees, followed by many on foot. Daylight was now bright although filtered through the dense canopy of branches above. Around them birds squabbled for choice worms, butterflies swooped and glided around spectacular wild flowers and squirrels darted up and down tree trunks, cluttering excitedly. From a wedge of lime green moss between banyan roots a family of fat toads watched with impassive expressions. The majesty of the jungle was impressive; it was a world of remarkable efficiency in which everything and everyone knew its place and kept it. In the far distance the drums still beckoned, hounding the tiger relentlessly into the final trap.

  Raventhorne sat in silence, occasionally lifting his rifle to squint through the sight, his hands brown and strong but his fingers surprisingly shapely, long and tapering. A picture flashed through Olivia's mind as she watched him out of the corner of an eye and she hated herself for it: It was of Sujata in his arms being whipped into passion by those very fingers that had branded her own cheek last night. Flushing, she looked away to concentrate on a band of black-faced monkeys showing off their skill at acrobatics in a display that she felt was meant solely for her benefit.

  "Why are you not married?"

  Olivia had by now ceased to be startled by his habit of asking questions no one else in the world would dream of. "You sound like my aunt," she said drily. "It is a question that troubles her greatly, too."

  "No doubt, but that does not answer it."

  "It is not necessary for you to have an answer!"

  "Oh, but it is." His expression as he turned to look at her was quite serious. "You owe me an answer."

  "Owe you an answer?" she echoed. "Why?"

  "Because I have rescued you from luncheon with Lady Birkhurst. Whatever your intentions towards her unfortunate son, I doubt if that prospect could have pleased you much."

  Olivia had to laugh. Odious insinuations apart, there was truth in what he said. "I was under the impression you believed both the Birkhursts were valuable to my scheme, in which case you have done me a very definite disfavour!"

  He rubbed his nose with a thoughtful frown. "I see that I am hoist with my own petard! Be that as it may, my question still remains unanswered."

  "I am not married because I have chosen not to be. Does that answer it?"

  "No." He shifted positions again and leaned back. "Young men in America are healthy, full blooded and unlikely to let pass an eligible woman who is not altogether ugly! Perhaps you are already reserved?" His narrowed eyes were full of cunning and scarcely likely to miss the flush that slowly crawled up Olivia's face.

  "You must decide which of my intentions satisfies you more—to trap Freddie Birkhurst or to return an 'empty' and spring my trap back home!" The conversation was again becoming impossibly personal! "Either way your concern is uncalled for." He merely laughed. Cross and anxious not to let the subject be revived, Olivia asked quickly, "Have you lived in America long?"

  "Yes."

  "What was it you did there?" She expected more stonewalling, but to her surprise he answered readily enough.

  "Many things. I worked, I learned, I earned."

  "What did you learn?"

  He smiled. "The white man's magic."

  "Such as?" His ready answers, she realised, were singularly lacking in information. "What actually did you do?"

  They had been talking in whispers, a prime rule on a jungle shoot. He shook his head and raised a finger to his lips. "It would be easier if you asked me what I did not do."

  "All right," she lowered her voice further, "what did you not do?"

  "I did not become president of the United States."

  Olivia stared uncertainly. "And why not?"

  "Because I never tried to. If I had, I would have." He grinned. "I told you, I believe in always winning, remember?"

  The arrogant angle of his head, the proudly perpendicular back, were characteristic, but the smile was uncommonly easy. Olivia tussled mentally with a question again in the forefront of her mind, then, throwing caution to the winds, asked it. "Even when it means pirating ships and burning warehouses?"

  "Why not," the admission came with surprising lack of hesitation, "if the ships carry opium and the warehouses stock it?" His manner was still relaxed; only a slight tightening of the jawline and the barely perceptible stiffening of his back indicated a reaction. "I do not believe in selling death," he said shortly.

  Olivia was as shocked by his offhanded confession as by the suggestion of moral scruples. But about the adulterated tea chests referred to by Arthur Ransome she had no opportunity to ask, as, in pursuit of her advantage, she had every intention of doing. For, suddenly, Raventhorne's air of casual amiability dropped and he became alert. Even his eyes stilled as he listened motionlessly. Between him and the mahout a look passed, and, minimally, Raventhorne nodded.

  Olivia became aware of the eerie hush that seemed to have settled over the jungle. Above their heads a band of noisy monkeys huddled together and buried their faces in each other's pelts; a herd of spotted deer, fleeing silently past through the trees, vanished into the opposite distance. Even a cloud of orange and lilac butterflies hovering over a wild hibiscus seemed to change its mind and collectively shoot away in agitated formation. The drums, so frantic and urgent just a while ago, had fallen silent. Not a leaf moved, not an insect stirred; the very air seemed to have come to a standstill. Then, beginning like a low, subterranean rumble from the very bowels of the jungle, came a sound that grew into a full-throated roar. It was unmistakably the tiger, obviously now trapped in the clearing that was to be its final resting place, although without its knowledge. The kill was imminent.

  Olivia's heartbeats galloped. It was impossible not to be infected by the piercing suspense of the moment. Raventhorne half rose from his perch to slide smoothly into the howdah, checked his rifle again and cast a swift glance at the gun rack on which other weapons were arranged as alternatives. In the holster at his hip was the remarkable new revolver designed only last year by Samuel Colt and, Olivia knew, was much talked about at home. She felt a quick stab of sympathy for the doomed animal; certainly he stood little chance of survival against such overwhelming odds. Slowly, purposefully, their ponderous procession crept into the clearing by the river on the banks of which had been tethered the six goats that were the tiger's bait. The beaters had all slunk away into the safety of the undergrowth away from the river. Now only the four elephants and a ring of poised spearsmen remained. Somewhere amidst the tall grasses, Raventhorne pointed out to Olivia silently, was their fearsome quarry.

  The elephants fanned out to form a semicircle. As they did so, Raventhorne touched Olivia's arm with a fingertip and nodded in the direction of a rock formation shielded by a stubbled bamboo grove. Framed by the greenery was a hazy blur of yellow ochre, crouching in wait. Olivia's breath caught; it was indeed the royal Bengal tiger, the most majestic, most feared predator of the Indian jungles. So cleverly had he concealed himself that only the practised eyes of a hunter could have detected his presence in that profusion of natural colour. He had already killed one of the goats, Olivia saw; now he waited to return for his easily earned meal. Raventhorne pointed a questioning glance at her and then looked meaningfully at his rifle. Alarmed, Olivia quickly shook her head. It was one thing to bring down a buck or a bison, but it was quite another to match wits with an animal she had never seen before, much less hunted. He shrugged and, smiling, turned away with an extravagant gesture of disappointment.

  For a while nobod
y moved in the tableau. With the target still partially obscured by the rocks, it would have been foolish to fire. After what seemed an eternity but could not have been more than ten minutes, the tiger finally risked movement. Cautiously, crouching on its stomach, it slithered forward in the direction of its kill. It couldn't avoid a break in the rocks and, all at once, there it was in full view, in all its formidable majesty. In the same instant a gun roared; it was the Maharaja's, the first shot his privilege. He missed; the tiger leapt into the air, its enraged screams reverberating through the forest in crashing waves of sound.

  "Damn!" The Maharaja's shouted curse came just as Raventhorne's gun spat fire and a second shot hit the beast's flailing hulk. "Good shot, sir!"

  "He's not dead yet!" Raventhorne shouted back, reloading rapidly to once more take careful aim, but the animal had again disappeared behind the rock. "I missed the neck, damn, damn, damn!"

  Badly wounded, the tiger continued to roar furiously and then, suddenly, maddened with pain, it flew out of its niche and charged. Muzzle-loaders fired and a dozen spears spun through the air, but, dodging in and out of the scrub, the tiger evaded them neatly. For a second it was lost to sight but then, like a mighty trajectile, it took a flying leap to land on the hind quarters of their elephant. Olivia gave a half scream but stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth to abort it. She was terrified. Only Raventhorne remained quite calm. Swiftly moving his rifle balance from one surround of the howdah to another, he pointed its muzzle towards the elephant's tail.

  "Hold on tightly," he warned Olivia over his shoulder. "The elephant is going to bolt any minute."

  Bucking and trumpeting, their massive mount went round and round in circles, kicking up its huge hind legs to try to shake off the tiger clinging for dear life, its claws dug deep into the tough hide and its roars still deafening in their fury. Customarily, during a hunt like this, a gun bearer was positioned on the back of an elephant, Olivia had been told, but Raventhorne had preferred to have a gun rack in the howdah instead. Just as well, Olivia thought in her terror; by now the poor man would have been crushed or clawed to death. Even with the tiger's enormous head just a few feet away from the muzzle of the gun, it was impossible to take aim with the elephant so completely out of control. The clamour around them was ear-splitting, but Olivia heard none of it. Hypnotised, she stared fixedly at the gaping, gnashing jaws, the unbelievably mammoth head and the baleful yellow eyes that stared back at her with such hate. Raventhorne got up with one hand clasped to a wooden pillar for support, and put a foot over the surround on the elephant's back. Within the howdah he firmed his other leg and, still holding on for support, transferred his rifle from one hand to the other. Just then, the elephant bolted. Screaming with fright, it careened off along the river bank at a tremendous speed, still not having shaken off the tiger. Chalk faced, Olivia cowered in her corner, not seeing anything except those snapping, snarling jaws not two feet away from Raventhorne's boot.