African Enchantment (3 page)

Harriet eyed the cool opening to the tent longingly.

‘It will only be for a few hours. Rest in the desert is of necessity minimal.'

‘Then I will rest,' she said stiffly, despising herself for the weakness of her body.

His mouth curved into a smile and for a brief moment he looked almost approachable as she crossed to the tent and entered the welcome shade. Gratefully she undid the high-necked fasteners of her blouse in order to breathe more freely and removed the high-buttoned boots which had seemed so sensible in Cheltenham and which had proved so uncomfortable in the desert. In utter weariness she stretched herself on the luxury of the Persian carpet and closed her eyes. They opened almost immediately as a dark shadow fell across her.

‘How dare you, Sir!' She sat up instantly, oblivious that the buttons of her blouse were undone revealing the creamy whiteness of her breasts.

Raoul shrugged. ‘I told you that such a small tent would be inconveniencing.'

Harriet scrambled to her knees. ‘You didn't tell me that you would be sharing it with me!'

‘An oversight. I thought the position was perfectly clear. I have ridden hard and require sleep. At great discomfort to myself I am prepared to share my sleeping quarters.'

‘I, Mr Beauvais, am not prepared to share them with you!'

He held back the flap of the tent and said smoothly, ‘Then leave, Miss Latimer. I wouldn't dream of detaining you by force.'

Outside the sun seared the rocks and sand with merciless heat. Harriet felt tears of frustration and anger well in her eyes as she accepted defeat. Raoul Beauvais' insufferable nearness was preferable to the discomfort that awaited her outside the shelter of the tent. Mutely she lay down once again, turning her back towards him, every line of her body signifying her outrage.

There came the sound of his dagger being unbuckled and laid aside. Her cheeks burned: surely he was not going to disrobe? Her heart beat shallow and fast. And then she heard him lying down and knew that if she moved by as much as an inch she would be in bodily contact with him. She closed her eyes, praying for sleep and an escape from her mortification. Not for a long time were her prayers answered.

When she awoke it was still light but she was alone. From outside came the sound of the horse moving listlessly and saddlebags being flung over its back. She rose hastily and emerged into the sunlight, blinking. Raoul turned to her.

‘I trust you slept well, Miss Latimer, despite the unwelcome company.'

She did not reply and his eyes gleamed in his sun-bronzed face.

‘Perhaps you would like the use of a hairbrush, Miss Latimer. You are beginning to look a little … dishevelled.'

His eyes slid with open admiration down to her breasts. With a gasp she clasped her blouse together and swung round, fastening her buttons with trembling fingers, her face scarlet. How long had she lain exposed to his gaze in the intimacy of the tent? How many more humiliations would she have to suffer before their journey was over?

‘I am ready to leave, Miss Latimer.' The tent was speedily dismantled and rolled into a pack. He was already astride his horse. She had no way of mounting apart from accepting his proffered hand as he leant down and swung her up in front of him. Rested and refreshed she was more acutely aware than ever of his uncomfortable nearness – and her predicament. She knew no one in Khartoum. She was without family and without friends. Except, perhaps, for the British Consul.

‘Do you know Lord Crale, the British Consul in Khartoum?' she asked hesitantly. ‘I believe my father informed him of our expected arrival.'

‘Let's hope so,' Raoul said grimly. ‘At least there you will be given shelter.'

Her optimism, temporarily quenched, returned. ‘ Then I have no problem.'

‘You have every problem. You cannot stay in Khartoum. I have already told you what kind of a city it is. You will have to journey back across the Nubian Desert and then voyage once more down the Nile to Cairo. It is a journey that would make a man flinch.'

Her optimism had overcome her anger. Her eyes sparkled as she said spiritedly, ‘But I am not a man, Mr Beauvais.'

Raoul clenched his jaw. He was becoming more aware of that with every passing second.

‘You are as empty-headed as all your sex,' he said through clenched teeth.

Harriet laughed, determined that nothing should destroy her good humour now that she had regained it. ‘Why, Mr Beauvais, I do believe you are a woman hater.'

Despite himself Raoul found the corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. He had been labelled many things in his thirty-two years, but never that.

Thorn scrub and yellow rock began to break up the monotony of the blinding dunes. Harriet gestured towards them.

‘Does that mean we are nearing Khartoum?'

‘It means we are approaching the Nile again. The journey to Khartoum will still take several weeks but it will not be so arduous. We shall soon be able to travel by dhow.'

Harriet's spirits soared. She had travelled the Nile by dhow with her father as far as Korosko and had enjoyed the experience immensely. At Korosko the Nile deviated from its course south in a gigantic, cataract-filled loop that could not be sailed. It was then that they had had to resort to camels to cross the desert to the point where the Nile once again flowed south towards Khartoum.

Raoul Beauvais' eyes rested on her with disquieting frequency. He had never before been attracted to an English girl. Their manner was too stiff, their beauty too chill, more like that of marble statues than flesh-and-blood women. However, the one in his arms was a far cry from those he had met on the boring social rounds of Cairo and Alexandria. She had both spirit and courage. To have crossed the Nubian desert with no companion other than a sick father was no mean feat. He remembered the way she had faced him with a rifle and was grateful that she was unfamiliar with the weapon. The shot she had fired had come disconcertingly close. She shifted in her sleep and he slipped his arm more comfortably around her. Her hair, so neatly coiled throughout the day, was becoming dishevelled, the pins loosening. He wondered how long it was and touched it lightly. It was silky soft, the colour of early wheat. The long lashes that fanned her cheeks were golden tipped and lustrous. Miss Harriet Latimer was extraordinarily beautiful. He took comfort in the fact. Her presence was an inconvenience but one that was becoming increasingly pleasant.

The shrubs thickened and became greener. Raoul breathed a sigh of relief. Once they reached the banks of the Nile their journey would be relatively easy. Even for a traveller as experienced as himself, the desert was always full of unknown dangers.

When Harriet opened her eyes again darkness had fallen. She was held securely in Raoul Beauvais' arms. She wondered how he managed to hold her for so long without being overcome by tiredness, and then her eyes closed and she fell once more into exhausted sleep. The movement of the horse and the cold woke her intermittently. Once or twice she looked up at the face only inches from her own and studied the abrasive masculine lines of nose and mouth. Drowsy with slumber, she remained close to him, the warmth from his body spreading through her.

‘The Nile,' Raoul announced, hours later, rousing her.

It was dawn and the scrub had merged into verdant green bushes and shrubs. The river flowed murky and milky coloured; a broad, mile-wide expanse that cried out to be bathed in.

‘Thank goodness!' she cried, her face elated as he swung her to the ground. Unhesitatingly she ran to its banks and bent down, letting the water trickle through her fingers, saying in mock annoyance, ‘Why can't it flow in a straight line and make life easier for people, instead of meandering for hundreds of miles in a loop that is of no use to anyone?'

‘Nature is extremely unbiddable,' Raoul said drily.

Harriet laughed. ‘And uncomfortable. I shall probably stay in Khartoum for the rest of my life rather than face that hateful desert again.'

Raoul did not reply. With the swift, spare movements that she was becoming accustomed to, he erected the tent and unrolled the Persian carpet. She sat down on it thankfully. Every bone in her body ached with the discomfort of the journey.

‘Here are the dates and biscuits,' he said, handing her the saddlebags. ‘I'm going to try and shoot some pigeon or quail. We both of us need a hot meal. I have had a surfeit of dates!'

Harriet hadn't. She ate them gratefully while he removed a rifle from his pack.

Their previous rest had been short, only a few hours at the most. She wondered how he managed on so little sleep and watched him as he strode away, the rifle over his shoulder. She was alone in the hot silence. Her blouse was clinging to her. Her skirt was encrusted with dust and sand. If she washed them in the river they would soon dry and she could bathe herself, removing the grime of countless days. With unspeakable relief she removed her buttoned boots and wiggled her toes freely. She could sleep in her camisole and underskirt, modestly covered by Raoul Beauvais' blanket, while her garments dried. The sand was excruciatingly hot beneath her bare feet. Picking up her skirts, she ran down to the bank and shivered with delight as she stepped into the cool water. She looked around but there was no sign of Raoul Beauvais.

Quickly she divested herself of her blouse and skirt and stepped further from the bank and rushes, letting the water slide up and over her legs until it reached her waist. Then she plunged her blouse and skirt into the water and began to rub vigorously. From somewhere amongst the reeds a bird sang and she hummed along with it. The sight of the Nile had restored her spirits. It was a sight she had thought she would never live to see again. She wrung her garments out and threw them on to the bank and then she shook the remaining pins from her hair. It hung, waist-length, rippling down over her lace-trimmed camisole and trailing in the water. With a little gasp of pleasure she moved deeper, luxuriating in the feel of the water against her sweat-soaked skin. A volley of rifle shots rang out and she wondered if Raoul had been successful in his venture. She let the water take her weight, her hair fanning out in the current. Never before had she realised the unspeakable luxury of bathing.

‘I would ask you to return to the bank before you are joined by hungry crocodiles,' a familiar voice said lazily.

Harriet gasped and forgot her efforts to float. He was sitting on a rock, two birds slung over his shoulder, his rifle in his hand.

‘Crocodiles!' Eyes wide with horror she clumsily waded to the bank and so great was her distress that not until she had clambered out amongst the reeds and rushes, did she realise that she was minus her blouse and skirt.

‘Perhaps next time you wish to bathe, you will tell me and I will stand guard.' He was eying her with unconcealed admiration, his eyes bold and black and frankly appraising.

‘You are impertinent, Mr Beauvais!' It was difficult to climb through the reeds with any semblance of dignity. Her lawn camisole and underskirt clung to her as if they were invisible.

‘You are ravishing, Miss Latimer,' he said sincerely.

With a final effort she freed herself from the last of the reeds and slapped him across the face with all the strength she possessed. He caught her easily, holding her fast, his mouth coming down on hers in swift, unfumbled contact. She struggled but to no avail. It was her first kiss and one that was given with expert thoroughness. Not until she had stopped struggling did Raoul release her. When he did, his robe was damp where her breasts had been pressed close to his chest and there was an unreadable expression in the back of his eyes.

‘There are birds to cook,' he said tersely, and leaving her gasping for breath and composure, he pivoted on his heels and strode away towards the camp.

Harriet pushed wet tendrils of hair away from her face with a trembling hand, her whole body shaking with rage and indignation. He had taken advantage of her. He had … Vainly she sought for a suitable word. He had
violated
her. He was no gentleman; no suitable companion to travel alone with across miles of uncharted desert. She pressed her hands against her burning cheeks, still feeling the hot imprint of his lips on hers. His behaviour had been unspeakable. Half falling, she sank on to a sun-scorched rock. He had kissed her until her senses had reeled and had not cared if she had been willing or not. Her cheeks burned more hotly than ever. Had she been totally unwilling? In those last, final moments when his mouth had seared hers with his strong arms holding her fast, had she not submitted, her lips parting helplessly beneath his?

Shame engulfed her. Had he known? Had he been triumphant as he strode away? She remembered the taut lines of his body, the enigmatic expression in the near-black of his eyes. No, there had been no triumph there. Anger seeped through her, overcoming shame. He had been indifferent, thinking only of the birds he had shot that needed roasting. The kiss he had forced from her had been meaningless to him. Her eyes sparkled with fury. The rock was uncomfortably hot, the sand unbearable beneath her naked feet. She could not remain at the river bank for ever. Behind her she could hear the sound of fire crackling and despite herself her mouth watered. It had been weeks since she had eaten anything but meagre rations. Sooner or later the insufferable Mr Beauvais would have to be faced. Her blouse and skirt were still wet. She had nothing with which to cover herself. Despairingly she pulled on the wet clothes and, tossing her hair over her shoulders, walked defiantly towards the tent and the small campfire. He was squatting Indian fashion on his heels, turning a makeshift spit above the fire, the smell of roast meat filling the air. At her appearance he raised his head, his eyebrows raising fractionally at the sight of her in the dripping garments.

‘The sun would have dried them within minutes.'

‘I have no desire to remain unclothed for even a short space of time,' Harriet snapped.