African Enchantment (4 page)

His mouth tightened. ‘Your virtue is quite safe, Miss Latimer.'

‘It did not seem so a minute ago!'

He shrugged. ‘A mere kiss. Surely you've been kissed before, Miss Latimer.'

His white shirt was open to the waist, revealing whipcord muscles and an indecent amount of dark, curly hair. She averted her gaze, saying stiffly, ‘I find your question as impertinent as your behaviour, Mr Beauvais.'

‘My apologies, Miss Latimer. I had not realised that you were scarce out of the schoolroom. Rest assured I will treat you … parentally … until we reach Khartoum.'

Harriet stamped her feet, her hair falling in wild disarray over her shoulders, ‘I am
not
a child, Mr Beauvais. Before I came to Egypt I had already turned down several proposals of marriage!'

‘Several?' Satanic brows flew upwards.

Harriet had not been brought up to lie. She struggled inwardly for a moment and then said defiantly, ‘One gentleman in particular was most desirous that I should become his wife.'

With difficulty Raoul kept the laughter from his voice. ‘And in what way did the gentleman prove lacking, Miss Latimer?'

Harriet thought of her suitor, the Reverend March-Allinson, of his wispy hair and his fumbling ineptness.

‘I have no desire for marriage, Mr Beauvais.'

‘Very commendable, Miss Latimer. Neither have I.'

Across the flames their eyes met. Harriet's furiously angry, Raoul Beauvais' strangely challenging.

‘Then I have your promise that there will be no repeat of … of …'

‘… my disgraceful behaviour?' he finished for her easily. ‘None at all. It was a mere whim, Miss Latimer. Nothing more.'

Her palm itched to slap his face and she felt an overwhelming desire to drum her booted feet into his shins with all the force she possessed. She could not even flounce away in anger for if she did so he would eat the pigeon alone and she ached with hunger. Instead she sat primly on the far side of the fire, her arms hugging her knees, her still-damp skirt and blouse clinging to her uncomfortably. She had not rebraided her hair and it hung in a shiny mass across her shoulders and down her back, the last golden curl reaching the base of her spine. Raoul removed the pigeon from the spit and skewered on another, doubting if any man before him had had the pleasure of seeing Miss Harriet Latimer so deliciously disarrayed. He had been glad of her delay at the river bank. It had given him time to get his own emotions well under control. He had been a fool to have kissed her, genteel young ladies were apt to read into such an embrace far more than it held. At thirty-two he was a free man and intended to stay that way. Accompanying her alone to Khartoum was going to cause raised eyebrows and no doubt some foolish busybody would put the idea into Miss Latimer's golden head that after having her reputation so seriously tarnished, the only recompense was marriage, especially when that marriage would be to the eldest son of one of the wealthiest families in France.

His fears had proved groundless. Harriet Latimer was not the husband-hunter that the majority of her sex were. The indignation had been real, as had her avowal that she had no desire for marriage, which was for some man, somewhere, a pity. Miss Harriet Latimer was definitely not destined to become an old maid. He remembered the pressure of her small, high breasts against his chest; the pleasurable smallness of her waist and the soft, vulnerability of her lips. There had been a brief moment when her clenched fists had ceased pounding his shoulders and her mouth had parted willingly. The prim and proper Miss Harriet Latimer had been on the verge of answering passion with passion. It was that knowledge that had brought him to his senses. He wanted no clinging female in his life – only freedom.

He handed her the roast meat and she took it in her fingers. He watched her with interest. Nothing in Harriet's background could have prepared her for the ordeal she was now undergoing. She was a missionary's daughter, brought up by maiden aunts; her whole eighteen years spent in sheltered, cloistered surroundings. Yet here she was, eating with her fingers, ignoring discomfort that would make hardened soldiers quail and looking almost paganly beautiful with her streaming, sun-gold hair.

She licked her fingers clean, drank deeply from the water bottle and then regarded the shadowed entrance of the tent with troubled eyes.

He knew what she was thinking and remained silent, watching her as he ate. Harriet took a deep breath and said with an underlying tremble in her voice, ‘After the unfortunate incident in the river, Mr Beauvais, I am sure you will agree that it is impossible for us to share the same sleeping accommodation.'

Raoul broke off a piece of meat from a bone and said lazily, ‘Would you prefer me to place your blanket immediately outside the tent, or would that be too intimate? Perhaps it would be better some distance away. By the banks of the river, though of course there are the crocodiles to take into consideration.'

Harriet sprang to her feet, almost sobbing with frustration. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean, Mr Beauvais. It is
you
, not I, who must sleep elsewhere!'

‘But it is my tent,' he pointed out with infuriating politeness.

Harriet stamped her foot in the sand. ‘
You
are
supposed
to be a gentleman!'

He smiled, a slow, devastating smile that sent the colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘But we both know that that isn't so, don't we, Miss Latimer?'

His voice was caressing and there was a wicked gleam in his eyes as he rose to his feet.

Hastily she backed away. ‘You gave me your word that you would not lay a hand on me again!'

He paused and said regretfully, ‘So I did. A shame when there is so little else to divert us.'

‘Mr Beauvais,' Harriet said chokingly, ‘will you please stop making amusement of my predicament.'

The laughter faded from his eyes. He threw the last of the pigeon bones to one side and said formally, ‘My apologies. The tent is yours, Miss Latimer. We shall continue travelling at dusk.'

Swiftly he removed a blanket from the tent and strode to the nearest sand dune. There was no shade, no palms, no boulders. Hesitantly Harriet walked across to the tent. The Persian carpet was unrolled. Biscuits, dates and the water bottle thoughtfully provided. With a strange heaviness of spirit she removed her boots and lay down. The morning sun was rising rapidly, burning and scorching, unbearable in its intensity. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, and could not. He would not survive a day exposed without shade. He would die, if not immediately, then the next day or the day after, and she would be his murderer. She opened her eyes and tried to settle herself more comfortably.

Even in the shade of the tent the heat was overwhelming. She opened the buttons of her blouse and wiped the beads of sweat from her forehead. He had given his word that he would not touch her again. For the sake of propriety she was insisting that he suffer the tortures of the sun. If he was not a gentleman, he would not do so. His very action in removing himself showed that he had some moral sense. She crept to the entrance of the tent and peeped out. He appeared to be sleeping, the folds of the head-dress pulled across his face. She bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. If he promised not to take liberties with her person, then surely it would be only Christian to allow him to share the shade of the tent with her.

With her heart throbbing uncomfortably fast she stepped out into the glaring heat and ran lightly across to where he lay. Gently she touched him on the arm.

‘Mr Beauvais, Mr Beauvais?'

There was no movement. A small knot of apprehension began to form in the pit of her stomach. Surely he could not have fallen asleep so quickly. Perhaps already he was suffering from heat stroke.

‘Mr Beauvais,' she said urgently, shaking his shoulders.

Again there was no movement.

With a stifled sob she reached across him and felt for his wrist and pulse. Immediately her hand was seized and imprisoned, the robes falling from his face, his eyes so close to hers that she could see tiny flecks of gold near the pupils.

‘Let me go!' She wrenched her hand from his grasp and he let it go so suddenly that she fell backwards in the sand.

‘I thought you were a hostile Arab,' he said, white teeth flashing as she struggled to her feet, brushing the sand from her skirt and pushing her hair away from her eyes.

‘Liar! You knew very well it was me.'

‘True,' he agreed, rising easily to his feet. ‘Arabs do not smell so sweetly.'

‘Don't you wish to know my reason for disturbing you?' Harriet asked, feeling a ridiculous rush of pleasure at his observation.

‘No.' Already he was striding confidently towards the tent. ‘I know the reason.' He paused at the entrance and held the flap back for her. ‘Christian conscience. How could a missionary's daughter allow a man to die within yards of her, unaided and helpless?'

‘You're laughing at me!' Harriet said through clenched teeth.

His smile widened. ‘Against my will, I find you give me great pleasure, Miss Latimer.'

She stepped into the shade, seething, already regretting her decision. Instead of being grateful he was being impudent. It would have served him right if her Christian conscience had lain dormant.

‘I find you insufferable, Mr Beauvais,' she said tightly as she lay down, rolling herself as far as possible away from him. He unclasped the jewelled dagger at his waist and stretched himself comfortably at her side.

‘I find you enchanting, Miss Latimer,' he said, and within minutes his breathing was the deep, rhythmical sound of sleep.

Sleep did not come so easily to Harriet. Her emotions were in tumult. She looked across at him; at the winged eyebrows and long, dark lashes. At the strong, aquiline nose and high cheekbones that gave his face such a compelling appearance; at the sensual mouth. A heat that did not come from the sun suffused her body at the memories his mouth evoked. That incident was best forgotten.

He had removed his head-dress to sleep and black curls tumbled low over his brow. It was hair a woman would envy; thick and glossy, springy as heather. She resisted the urge to touch it and as the sun reached its midday crescendo, wondered who this man was who slept at her side. He knew all about her, yet she knew only that his name was Raoul Beauvais and that he was a geographer. What had brought him to Africa in the first place? What kept him here? From the deep olive tones of his skin he had lived and worked in the country for many years. Surely a geographer would be part of an organised expedition – one that would last several months, one year or two at the most. Why was he travelling alone? Where were his companions? And then there was his fluent English. He spoke it colloquially and with only the merest hint of an accent. Had he lived in England, and if so, when and where? What were his plans when he had reached Khartoum? Where next would he map and chart?

She sighed and hugged her knees. Wherever it was, she would not be with him. She would be in Khartoum and then once again she would have to face the arduous journey back to Cairo and the long boat trip home. She sighed again and lay down. All her father's dreams had been in vain. Silent tears of grief slid down her face as she closed her eyes and slept.

Her sleep was disturbed and uneasy. In the late afternoon Raoul rose and gazed at her with a deep frown as she tossed and turned, calling out inarticulately. Her hair was a tumbled mass, her breasts heaving beneath their light covering, the opened buttons exposing more than was respectable to his gaze.

He crossed to her, kneeling at her side, shaking her shoulders gently to rouse her.

Her eyes flew open, wide and unseeing. ‘Papa! Papa!' she cried tormentedly.

She was cradled against a strange chest, a deep rich voice said soothingly, ‘Hush now, you have had a bad dream.' He was rocking her gently against him as once, many years ago, her father had rocked her when she was a child. The dream fled and reality overwhelmed her. She clung to him, sobbing violently.

‘It was not a bad dream!' she gasped at last. ‘It was the truth! Papa is dead!'

‘Cry,' he said with unaccustomed gentleness. ‘ Cry until you can cry no more,' and as the sky slowly reddened he held her in his arms and she gave vent to her grief unrestrainedly.

It was dark by the time her harsh sobs had subsided. She lay, spent and exhausted. He stroked her hair, letting it slide through his fingers, marvelling at its silky texture.

He was wearing the shirt and breeches he wore beneath his flowing robes. The heat of his body was comforting. She felt curiously safe and secure. When at last she could speak she said awkwardly,

‘I am afraid I have ruined your shirt, Mr Beauvais.'

Raoul gazed down at the lace-edged linen that had been used as a handkerchief and said, ‘It is of no matter. You needed to cry. Grief cannot be carried inwardly.'

She moved away from him stiffly, aware that his shirt was undone and that her tear-wet cheeks had been pressed close against the nakedness of his chest.

‘You must think me very weak for crying so.'

‘On the contrary, I think you very brave.'

At the tone of his voice she raised startled eyes to his. The hard lines of his mouth had softened. There was an expression in his eyes she had never seen before.

‘Mr Beauvais …' she began hesitatingly, and then she was silenced as he lowered his head and his mouth claimed hers, warm and demanding. This time she did not struggle. She could not. She yielded utterly, her arms circling his neck, her body melting shamelessly against his.

It was her passionate response that brought him to his senses. Miss Harriet Latimer was not a lady of dubious reputation. She was young and innocent and would expect lovemaking to be accompanied by avowals of lifelong devotion and a wedding ring. He released her abruptly. He had no intention of allowing himself to be compromised in such a way. Marriage was for fools.