by Merry Farmer
“I can’t,” she whimpered. “I can’t.”
“I know you can, with me helping you. Like this.” Turning her, he took both her hands and placed them flat, tucking her fingers around protrusions in the rock, with his own, warm, over hers.
“There is no chasm, only the solid rock. I’m right behind you, Bathsheba. When my hands move, so do yours.”
Only the rock, Bathsheba told herself. There’s nothing else—only the rock.
Slowly, she shuffled with him, letting him guide her hands to new positions and, with each new tremor, he pressed his body against hers, holding her flat against the cliff face, their fingers crooked to hold fast, though the sharp edges bit.
As they drew closer, the spray came thick, drenching them in a cool mist and Bathsheba faced about, looking back the way they’d come. Not far, really, but how far it had felt.
The sky was growing lighter.
From the dawning sun, or the volcano’s fury she couldn’t tell, but light enough that she saw them: three figures emerging from the jungle. Three tribesmen, their faces daubed white and their eyes wild, each armed with a bow.
“Jorge!”
At her shout, he turned.
And the first arrow let fly.
As Jorge pressed them both flat to the rock, she felt its feathers, so close that the air grazed her cheek. She saw the other tribesmen raise their bows, but an almighty roar filled the air and the rock seemed to shift. The cliff was breaking in two, a great split sending the ledge tumbling.
“There’s no time!” Jorge wrapped her in his arms and lifted her in one sweep, running headlong through the spray.
Chapter Fourteen
Jorge needed to believe there would be a second cavern—a place large enough for shelter behind the waterfall.
Not only the ledge behind them had gone but that on the far side of the falls. The world was falling around them, and he needed Sebastian’s map to be true. There had to be a second cave.
At first, he wondered if they were both dead, and this place of demi-light the hereafter—subdued and cool and silent. But Bathsheba was still in his arms, shivering with fear, and his own heart pounded.
He took them as deep into the rock as he was able before, exhausted, he lay her down, and lay down beside her. If these were their last moments, he wanted her close.
“Jorge.” She pressed her cheek to his chest.
“I’m here. We’re safe.” He needed to say it, whether it was true or not.
How long they lay in each others’ arms he could not say but, at last, he realized that the trembling around them had ceased. The only sound was the rushing of the waterfall beyond and the ever-present drip and run of rivulets of moisture.
“It’s stopped.” She raised herself onto her elbow, alert, listening, peering through the gloom.
Sitting up, he tried to adjust his eyes. The chamber was almost the same size as the other but there was something quite different about it.
Bathsheba stood, walking tentatively to the nearest wall, running her fingertips over the surface, moving them in all directions. “Jorge, come and see. It’s…smooth, but there are markings too—as if something’s engraved.”
She was right. Something about the walls was strange.
He was almost beside her when he let out a yelp, his toe finding the edge of something sharp upon the floor.
Cursing, he bent to rub his foot and felt forward. Whatever it was, he’d no wish to encounter it again.
His fingers alighted on metal and glass—a solid cylinder with a handle upon the top. A lantern?
“Are you alright?” Bathsheba’s voice echoed.
He felt for a door. Oil or candle?
He could only hope…
“More than alright.” His fingers closed around the candle stump and the box of matches inside. The question was whether they remained dry enough to light.
It took four strikes before the flame flared and he ignited the wick, but the effects were immediate.
“Good Heavens!” Bathsheba took a step back from the wall, then whirled about. “Jorge, have you ever seen anything like it?”
Taking the lantern from him, she proceeded to every surface, running her hand over the carvings within the walls. From ground to ceiling, the cave had been transformed, depicting not just the island in all its lush beauty and the native inhabitants, but the volcano itself, carved in intricate detail upon the centre of each wall.
“Such workmanship!” Bathsheba marvelled. “I wonder how long it’s been here. Centuries perhaps… A hidden treasure.”
Jorge came to stand behind her, placing his hands upon her shoulders, letting his eyes roam alongside hers.
Treasure.
Of course.
“Do you think…could it be…that this was what Sebastian came to find?” Bathsheba held up the light, looking into Jorge’s face. “That the lamp was his? That he saw all this, just as we’re seeing it now?”
“I think it’s very likely.” Jorge swallowed hard.
“I wish you could have met him.” Bathsheba clutched at the locket around her neck. “I know he’s no longer alive.” She paused, as if waiting for him to attempt a contradiction.
“It was the ring you see; the topaz ring.” She bit her lip. “The chieftain’s son was wearing it, and where else could he have come by it but from Sebastian.” Her face crumpled as the emotions came rushing. “Perhaps I knew all along, but I had to come. I had to.”
Wrapping her to him, Jorge rested his cheek upon the crown of her head.
He’d seen it—the ring. Their captors had rifled through his clothes, of course, but Bathsheba didn’t know he’d had the ring all along. Nor did she know of the map.
He’d made sure of that, hadn’t he, with one lie after another.
Why had he brought her here?
For the money—yes. But something else, too. That day in the Fairfax, when she’d shown what her brother meant to her, he’d wanted some proximity to that love. Not that he’d realized it at the time.
And what now?
He’d so long denied what he’d been longing for that he’d not recognized it when the chance of happiness was right before him. Of course, he had no expectations. How could he, when her world was so different to his.
He was proud of his heritage, and the duty he shouldered towards those he cared for, but there were things he was ashamed of, too. Things he’d been obliged to do. Things he wanted to leave behind him.
Could a woman like Bathsheba Asquith ever accept that part of his life?
And what of the lies he’d told her? Could she ever forgive him?
He might yet conceal the truth, and she would never know—but, if there was the possibility of a future for them, how could he live with himself. One thing he knew; love could never flourish on deceit.
Wiping tears from her cheeks, she held out the locket from around her neck and opened the catch, lifting it for him to see. Inside was the portrait of a young man with fair hair. There was the same look about the eyes, though his were blue.
Jorge knew that face. He’d seen it, hadn’t he—burnt and blistered from the sun, and the spark of life dimming in those eyes. He’d heard the man’s dying words—his sister’s name the last on his lips.
“Bathsheba.” Jorge’s throat was thick, an ache inside him so strong he didn’t know what to do, nor what to say.
He had to tell her.
Slowly, falteringly, he related the story—only omitting the details that would cause her unnecessary distress. Of the rest, he left out nothing: the map, the ring, his own concealment. With each admission, he saw her disbelief and shock grow.
At last, there was no more to tell and her eyes looked upon him accusingly, her face a mask of white. “You let me believe there was a chance…you brought me here…and all the time, you knew.”
She stepped back. “It was all for money then. Everything. You never felt…” Her lips pressed to a thin line. “Stupid of me.”
“N
o, you’re wrong.” He closed the distance between them, reaching out to her. “I made mistakes, it’s true, but the feeling between us is real.”
“Real?” She pushed away his hand and spat the word, and it was a dagger to his heart. “Nothing here is real.”
“Bathsheba.” His chest pulled so tight he could hardly breathe. He needed her to believe.
He reached for her again, but she leapt forward, beating upon his chest. “I hate you. Hate you. Hate you.” Her face contorted, her eyes blinded by tears. “I wish I’d never met you. Never seen or heard of you. Everything has been a lie!”
“Bathsheba, no…” He attempted first to catch her fists but then let her be. He deserved her anger. If hitting him alleviated her pain, he owed her that.
Finally, she lost her strength, collapsing against him again, sobbing her hurt and torment. She didn’t know what to do with the misery twisting inside her.
If Jorge had told her, that first day, that he believed Sebastian dead, would it have made any difference? Wouldn’t she still have demanded that he bring her here, to see with her own eyes what had drawn her brother to this place? Perhaps de Silva knew it too.
She wanted to hate him, and she did—but part of her admired him, too. However dubious his motives, he’d kept his word since they’d arrived on the island. He’d proven himself brave. He’d tried to keep her safe. In her heart, she knew he was honourable.
And, now, here they were—trapped in this cavern while the island tore itself apart, not knowing how long it would be until the volcano destroyed everything.
If they were to die, did she want to meet her end like this—telling him that she couldn’t forgive him, fighting him rather than letting him hold her close?
They’d only known each other a short time, but it was long enough for her to see that he was unlike any man she’d met before.
She was finally coming to know herself as well— after all those years of trying to be what other people expected. Without him, that would never have happened.
In the past few days, she’d climbed through subterranean tunnels and swum in crystal pools, faced her fear of heights, and survived a close encounter with a deadly spider—not to mention capture by cannibals. She’d confronted danger at every turn but, in spite of everything, she’d never felt more alive.
The Lady’s Guide had been right—the only way to happiness was through defying your fears.
And what was she afraid of now?
Of dying here—yes.
But also of dying when her life had just begun in earnest—a life of adventure and freedom, and of grand passion with a man who thrilled her to the core.
There were so many things she wanted.
“Bathsheba.” Jorge spoke her name softly. “No matter what you think of me, I don’t regret meeting you—or bringing you here. Even if it means the end, here and now, I’m glad you’re with me.”
She placed her hand flat upon his chest, where his heart was beating, and her own told her that he was speaking the truth.
But was this the end? It would be too cruel if so. Didn’t brave lovers deserve a happy-ever-after? Perhaps hers was yet in reach, if she searched hard enough.
“I don’t want this to be the end.” Bathsheba took Jorge’s hand in hers. “Remember Sebastian’s map. Two caverns side by side, and the first marked with a cross. If that meant not treasure, then what? The easiest route through the tunnels to reach the ledge, most likely—from where this second cave was reachable.”
Jorge nodded, letting her speak.
“Perhaps it wasn’t the only path.” As the idea came to her, Bathsheba could barely contain her hope. “We stood at a fork with a steep incline worn smooth by the drip of water, and I was too scared to climb.” She led Jorge further, to where the cavern narrowed and the ceiling dipped.
“Mightn’t that lead directly to this place?” Holding the lantern to illuminate the shadows, she bent over.
Where would the water try and flow?
An opening near the ground, most likely.
Sure enough, there was such a hole, and of a size large enough for even Jorge to squeeze through. They would just have to hope that it didn’t narrow further down, or they’d be stuck forever within the rock—for as long as “forever” lasted.
“Are you sure about this?” Jorge peered into the blackness.
“That I don’t want this to be the end?” Bathsheba brought his hand to her cheek. “Quite sure.”
“Then lead the way Senhora Menace. The rock’s smooth enough that the water should help us slide.”
It was a leap into the unknown, but she was ready.
It had been too long since she’d eaten. Bathsheba’s body and head ached, and her legs were leaden, but there was a new lightness in her heart as they left the tunnels, emerging to the late afternoon sun, to a breeze, warm and soft, and the sea sapphire blue.
Scrabbling over the shingle, they retrieved the boat, Bathsheba helping Jorge push it down to the water’s edge. Only as the prow hit the water did the quaking begin again, sending ripples from the shore to meet the oncoming waves.
“Quickly.” Jorge directed her to jump in and took the oars. “We’ll keep rowing, as far as we can.”
As they left the bay, the summit of the island came into view, the volcano wearing a burning halo, belching plume of smoke. The lava was moving fast, engulfing everything in its path--a force of nature shaking the foundations of all that the island had been.
“We aren’t the only ones leaving.” He nodded aft, and Bathsheba saw a fleet of canoes moving steadily through the water.
The islanders had attempted only what they thought necessary to protect those they loved. It had almost cost Jorge’s life, and her own, but she couldn’t find it in her to be angry. Now, with the volcano erupting, they had no choice but to leave behind all they'd known, pushing into unchartered waters.
“I hope they find what they need.” Bathsheba watched Jorge pulling on the oars, his wrists bruised purple, and they sat in silence for a while.
What would the Asquiths say if they could see her now, sitting in only a grass skirt and shell necklace, opposite a man naked but for the loincloth at his waist?
Sweat glistened on his muscles as he rowed—a fine sheen across the patterns marking his skin.
He watched her, watching him. “I’ll get a new tattoo in your honour, on the back of my neck.”
She cocked her head to one side. “What will you choose? A spider?”
He gave a throaty laugh. “Only if you come to see; learn how we do it.”
“Come to your island, you mean—and meet your aunts?” She was teasing him, but the idea appealed to her more than she could say. She might write her own tome: The Lady’s Guide to Escaping Cannibals, or perhaps something less dramatic—A Guide to the South Sea Islands.
How many might they visit? There were years ahead. She'd have to return to Moresby first, of course, to arrange things with Hattie.
“Perhaps I will, but only if they don’t have pointed incisors. Those really were rather frightening.”
“Stained red from chewing betel nuts.” Jorge grinned, showing her his own teeth, pearly white against dark skin.
She laughed at that. “You aren’t the man I met in the Fairfax Hotel; different altogether.”
“I suppose I am. I met you, after all and...” For a moment, there was only the sound of the dipping paddles between them. “And I fell in love.”
“You love me?” Bathsheba found her cheeks growing hot. Was it really the first time she’d ever asked that question? Certainly, the first time she’d cared about the answer.
“I’ve been a fool about it, trying to convince myself it was a mistake. The life I’ve led…” He frowned. “I can’t ask you to be part of that.”
“You don’t have to.” She had a vision of blazing days of sunshine, and hot, sultry nights, stretching on and on—Jorge in her arms, telling her all the ways in which he wanted to love her. “We can invent a
new life. Something else.”
She had enough money to do whatever she wished--to hire The Marguerite and its crew indefinitely--but this wouldn't be her adventure alone. Whatever came next, they'd be partners. There was time enough for her to tell him how wealthy she really was.
Bathsheba pushed back her hair and reclined in the bow of the little boat, stretching out her calf to nudge him with her toes.
He set the oars in their cups, and pulled her foot into his lap, kissing his way up her leg. “Distracting the helmsman, Senhora Menace? There’s a price to pay for that.”
From the look in his eye, she knew he had no regrets--that he was as ready as she to leap into the unknown. It was what they'd been doing ever since they'd met--and no fear was too great not to be overcome; not when love burned this strongly.
With dawn’s light, they spotted the sails of The Marguerite and, this time, Bathsheba took an oar for herself.
How else might she steer her path in the right direction?
About Emmanuelle de Maupassant
Emmanuelle lives with her husband (maker of tea and fruit cake) and is a fan of hairy pudding terriers (connoisseurs of squeaky toys and bacon treats).
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Falcon
by Ashe Barker
