The Lady's Guide to Escaping Cannibals

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

The familiar crease appeared between her brows. “A snake you mean?”

  “No, probably not a snake…” He sighed. “Just don’t lean so close. And don’t touch anything, either.”

  She gave him a definite scowl. “So I’m not to touch anything for the next two days? That’s not terribly practical is it.”

  Here it came. He’d seen Eloisa in this sort of mood. Sulky with him at first, refusing to speak, then her anger bubbling over when he made some innocuous remark.

  “I appreciate that you have more experience in this terrain, Captain de Silva, but I’m not helpless. I can manage perfectly well.”

  With a haughty lift of her chin, she adjusted the pack on her back, and sauntered forward. There was a path of sorts, rather muddy and no doubt used by animals, leading down through the foliage to the water below.

  “Go carefully.” He gritted his teeth. “It’s been raining, so it’ll be slippery.”

  She turned, eyes blazing, clearly about to give him another earful of her nonsense but, before she could speak, the expression on his face stilled her.

  His gaze was upon her shoulder. “Do as I say and don’t move.”

  “Whatever do you mean. What’s wrong?” Her eyes fell to the cutlass he was slowly raising, directing it to the left side of her neck. Until now, he’d hardly seemed able to bring himself to look at her.

  “Do you mean to slit my throat?” Her heart kicked inside her chest.

  Had he lured her to the island simply to kill her and hide her body? What of the money? Didn’t he need to keep her alive to collect that?

  And what of last night? Had it really meant so little to him? He’d made his feelings obvious—that he no longer desired her. She’d heard it was common among men—that once they’d bedded a woman they lost all interest. She’d been an adequate romp and nothing more—just like the trollops he probably bedded on a regular basis. She hadn’t even been intriguing enough for him to bother with a second go.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She could see a muscle twitching in his jaw. “There’s something on your shoulder, that probably climbed there from those flowers you were so intent on sniffing.”

  “What sort of something.” She swivelled her eyes, trying to see—all the time aware of the blade so close to her neck.

  “Something that I’m going to flick off with the tip of this cutlass. So, don’t move, or I might nick your skin.”

  Panic shot through her. Was it a ruse? Was this what had happened to Sebastian? Murdered by a guide supposedly helping him?

  She didn’t really know the captain. The intimacy they’d shared had been a sham. Perhaps that had been his ploy all along—to lull her into a false sense of trust.

  Oughtn’t she to run?

  If she made it to the pools, she could follow the water downstream. She could swim if necessary. It would lead back to the sea eventually, or likely to the islanders. Weren’t villages always located next to running water?

  She’d ask them for protection. No matter what the captain said about them, they wouldn’t hurt a woman on her own. He might even have made everything up—about them being unwelcoming; might have said it to keep her away from anyone who’d intervene in his plans.

  The cutlass touched her shoulder and she squeaked.

  Moving her head a fraction, she saw that there was something there.

  Something dark.

  With legs.

  Furry legs.

  That were moving.

  As the blade flashed, Bathsheba screamed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Seeing the creature on her shoulder fly headlong into the undergrowth, Bathsheba wrenched at her clothes. Dragging off her pack, she pulled open her shirt, baring her shoulder.

  “Did it bite me? I need you to look, quickly.”

  She hadn’t felt anything, but what if it had? How long would it take for her to turn purple? For her throat to close up until she couldn’t breathe, or for her heart to stop?

  Lowering the cutlass, he was at once before her, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above her collarbone.

  His expression was almost frightening in its intensity.

  His tongue touched his lips.

  “What is it?” She couldn’t disguise her panic. “Do you see something?”

  At once, he stilled and took a step back, his face closing once more. “No. Nothing. You’re fine.”

  Her breath left her body in a great, choking gasp of relief, but she felt tears brimming nonetheless. She pushed them back quickly, wiping at her cheeks and attempting a smile.

  “Well, thank you. I appreciate your help, Captain de Silva.” She pulled her shirt closed, her fingers trembling, making heavy work of the buttons.

  He didn’t move at all—not to offer her water nor to help her put on the pack again.

  The day before, when he’d yanked her back from the cliff edge, he’d hugged her tightly, as if she were precious to him. Now, he was behaving just as he had since early that morning—aloof and distant, as if he would rather be anywhere but here with her. It was true that he’d leapt to her aid, but it hadn’t changed his mood.

  There was nothing for it but to hold her head high and carry on as if it didn’t bother her.

  Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned and set off down the slope again. It wasn’t terribly steep but, as he’d warned her, it was slippery. She reached for the ferns, thinking to steady herself, then remembered what he’d said: don’t touch anything.

  All very well for him to say, but if she didn’t grab hold of something she was going to end up slithering down on her backside. She supposed he’d find that hilarious—or perhaps not. Perhaps he didn’t care what she did anymore, and would just watch as she made a fool of herself again.

  As carefully as she could, she took hold of a piece of trailing vine. It looked innocuous enough. No spiders for sure, nor ants, nor beetles, nor anything else with legs. It seemed to grow all along the sides of the chasm. She might use it like a rope.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that he was still watching her, his face inscrutable.

  I can work things out for myself.

  I’ll show him.

  He was frowning slightly—no doubt, about to tell her what she was doing wrong.

  Hand over hand, she managed four steps, keeping her boot heels dug in.

  Once more, she darted him a look. “Are you leaving me to show you the best route down?”

  He folded his arms. “Just giving you space. The vine should hold, but if I end up slipping, I’ll take us both to the bottom. I don’t imagine you want me falling on you from several feet above.”

  She scowled in answer.

  He could go to hell.

  She’d gotten almost half-way down when a parrot came squawking out of the undergrowth. With a shriek, she let go of the vine, bumping straight onto her bottom. The impact knocked the wind out of her and, before she had a chance to grab hold of anything else, she was sliding downward. Arms flailing, she reached the bottom with enough force that it sent her rolling through a large expanse of mud.

  “Bathsheba!”

  She twisted onto her side, spluttering—in time to see him drop to his own rear and purposefully slide down, though he landed neatly, managing to stand straight to his feet.

  Throwing down his pack and cutlass, he waded out to her then crouched, lifting her gently into a sitting position.

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me that you told me so.” She tried rubbing her face on her sleeve but it was a futile exercise, since she was now filthy all over.

  “I’m just checking you’re unhurt. You are, aren’t you?” Carefully, he eased the mud-soaked pack from her shoulders.

  “Everything’s ruined.” She found that her lip was trembling.

  “It’s only a bit of food. We’ll eat fruit instead. Plenty of it about.”

  “But…the lantern.” She swallowed hard. “The glass—I heard it break.”

  He really would be cross with h
er now, wouldn’t he? How would they manage without the lamp? There was almost no moon at all. It would be utterly dark, and they’d be able to see nothing. What if a spider came again, or a snake? She wouldn’t know until it was too late. Nor would he.

  “I can make a small fire—something that won’t create too much smoke.” With a grin, he cupped her face with his own muddy hands. “You really do need that wash now, Senhora Menace.”

  Bathsheba sniffed.

  She hated him.

  Didn’t she?

  It felt wonderful to be clean again.

  Not just from the mud but from perspiration. Never had she experienced heat like this. The humidity soaked one through.

  She’d wrung out her breeches, shirt and socks, then placed them over a flat rock alongside a sunbathing lizard; they’d soon be dry.

  But her camisole and drawers she’d put back on, once she’d rinsed them through. When de Silva returned, she didn’t want him to find her naked—to think she was flaunting herself.

  He’d forfeited her favours when he’d repudiated her that morning. If his baser lusts changed his mind, deciding she was worth another poke after all, she’d be giving him a poke in the eye.

  Fortunately, the pools were separated one from the next by rocks, the water tumbling in successive cascades, and the captain had taken himself to the uppermost.

  Bathsheba squeezed out the moisture from her hair and combed it through with her fingers. She’d braid it again when it had dried off a little.

  She’d landed with quite a bump and was sure her behind was bruised, but the cool water was taking out some of the sting—vigorous enough to make her skin tingle but not moving so fast that she was in danger of being swept away.

  At least her necklace hadn’t broken. The thick rope of silver links had kept her locket safe.

  Closing her eyes, Bathsheba listened to the sounds of the jungle.

  A nearby tree was filled with brightly-hued parrots, like the one that had startled her. They were having a fine old time, mating by the sound of it, or finding their mates—whichever was noisiest. And there was some other creature nearby, she was sure—some sort of wild pig, perhaps—for she could hear grunting.

  Bathsheba’s eyes flew open.

  Not just grunting, but a loud moan.

  The very sound that de Silva had made when he’d been making love to her.

  No—not making love. She knew better than that.

  He’d been rutting. It had meant no more than it did to the sheep and cows on her late husband’s estate.

  Another moan carried to her, almost anguished.

  Bathsheba bit her lip.

  What if he was in pain? He’d slithered down the slope much faster than she. He might have injured himself and not told her.

  Or, could he have slipped in the water and hit his head? That would be far more serious. He’d need her help.

  She couldn’t just ignore him.

  Pushing up onto the flat rock, the water steaming from the second skin of her underthings, she crept forward and peered over the large boulder that divided her pool from his.

  He had his back to her, standing with legs apart, thigh-deep in the water, his head thrown back, and his long curls slicked wet.

  “Dear Heavens!” He was certainly something to behold.

  She hadn’t realized the extent of the markings on his skin, having only glimpsed them partially, on his forearms. Now, she saw that blue-black ink covered his upper body entirely—an intricate pattern of squares and arrows and lines.

  Nor had she perceived quite how broad his shoulders were, and his back—tight with muscles which bunched and flexed. His buttocks too were taut and firm, flexing as he moved his arm.

  She’d touched him everywhere, but she hadn’t seen—not fully.

  She wanted to touch him now.

  As for being hurt, he didn’t seem so, although he continued to make the groaning, grunting sound.

  The rushing water pushed him off balance for a moment, obliging him to turn, and she suppressed a moan of her own.

  Beneath the planes of his dark-skinned chest, patterned in the same way as his back, beneath the corrugation of his stomach, and the dark trail of hair that ended in a thicker crop, his hand gripped his member.

  And it stood fully aroused from his body—heavy and full.

  Transfixed, she watched him, stroking fast and hard—almost violently.

  And then he saw her.

  She gasped, suddenly unable to move; unable even to breathe. The jungle around her—the hum of insects and call of birds—faded away.

  Dark eyes met golden, filled with need.

  And he waded toward her.

  No matter how angry she was, no matter how hurt, she knew she wanted him.

  She’d moved closer, sitting upon the very edge of the rock. If she but slipped into the water, she would be giving her consent.

  He’d push down the underthings separating her body from his, and wrap her around him. He’d hold her tight, with the water rushing past them, his hardness pressed firm to the place where their bodies would join.

  Was it inevitable that she’d give herself to him again?

  That she’d let him do with her what he wished, knowing it was for this moment only?

  He reached her before she had a chance to decide.

  Placing his hands upon her knees, he looked up at her, his face anguished. “Bathsheba, forgive me.”

  When she failed to reply, he buried his face in her lap and murmured entreaties as her fingers twined in his hair.

  “You don’t need to say these things.” But her heart leapt, nonetheless, that he was moved to say them. “You don’t owe me promises or explanations.”

  When he raised his head, she saw that whatever he’d been fighting, he was as helpless as she.

  “I don’t want to hurt you” His voice was raw.

  “You can’t. You won’t.”

  In answer, he lifted her down and held her close, pulling her into the protection of his chest.

  When he dipped his face to hers, she took the melting warmth of his mouth, knowing that she wanted to remember every part of him but his lips most of all.

  Did it matter what was to come, in all the months and years and decades ahead?

  At least, she would have this—the knowledge of what it was to be physically worshipped by a man.

  Not love—she knew, for love was not born from the whim of attraction, but something akin to it—a feeling that twisted her heart in a way she didn’t understand.

  He kissed her long and hard, until her head swam with that feeling.

  Why had she never known this before? That a man could make her feel this way from a kiss alone.

  Desiring to see him, she opened her eyes.

  But what she saw, standing behind Jorge, turned her heated blood to ice.

  Two tribesmen were upon the bank, each carrying a bow. Dressed in nothing but cloth about their waists, their chests and arms were heavily scarified, and their faces daubed white.

  Another three had waded out, blades of bone raised.

  One held a cudgel.

  As the club came down on the back of Jorge’s head, his attacker smiled.

  And his teeth, filed sharp, were stained deepest red.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Wake up, Jorge!”

  Bathsheba shook him again but he remained curled on his side, unresponsive.

  She pressed her hands to his face and to his forehead.

  He wasn’t fevered. Nor was there blood. He clearly had a thick skull in more ways than one.

  Why couldn’t she rouse him?

  Several hours had passed since he’d been knocked unconscious. At the waterfall, she’d thought they’d killed him, and planned the same for her too. Terrible imaginings had passed through her mind—that they might ravish her first, or hurt her in some other way, before disposing of her body and Jorge’s with it.

  She’d struggled, wept and screamed; had tried swimmin
g away, only to be pulled back by strong hands. The situation had been hopeless—but she hadn’t been hurt.

  Not yet.

  The tribesmen had rifled through their clothes and packs before tossing everything aside. For whatever reason, they hadn’t left Jorge behind but had brought him back to the village, as he was, naked, suspended from a pole carried upon two men’s shoulders, his ankles and wrists tied.

  Bathsheba had been made to walk, and had given silent thanks that she was partially clothed, at least—especially as they’d been paraded around the village before being shut away.

  So many people had clustered about them—the men looking upon her with enlivened eyes. Some of the women had touched her as she passed, hands reaching out to stroke her skin—a pale foil to theirs, so beautifully smooth and brown. It seemed only the men marked their bodies by cutting.

  There had been a gibberish of talk she couldn’t understand, except that they seemed in awe of her appearance—the younger children most especially, peering at her from behind their mothers’ legs.

  The chieftain—dressed more elaborately than those who’d captured her, wearing a headdress of shells and feathers—had wrapped her hair about his fist and then brought it to his nose and his lips, almost reverentially.

  Dropping to her knees, she’d spoken Sebastian’s name, asking if they knew of him—but no-one had seemed to understand, nor care.

  She and Jorge were curiosities, nothing more.

  It was all a horrible dream, except that she was awake, and now consigned to a hut without windows and no means of escape. She’d made the mistake of opening the door a crack, only to be greeted by the leering smiles of two of her captors. Quickly, she’d closed it again, not wanting to give them any idea of becoming better acquainted with her.

  She’d been considering untying Jorge’s bonds, but she’d realized it would be unwise. If they thought her troublesome, they might bind her, too—and then all chance of escape truly would be gone.

  Since then, she’d been sitting in the dark, listening and waiting, preparing for what she would do if they came to seize her. Unlike Jorge, she wasn’t bound. She might still kick and punch.