A Kiss of Adventure (13 page)

She searched his eyes. Water had made damp spikes of his eyelashes. A tiny rivulet ran from his sideburn down his jaw and dripped off the end of his chin. Partners?
Do not be bound together with unbelievers. . . .
She cut off the voice in her heart as his lips found hers.

Just for a moment, Lord. . . .
Her plea dissolved as she drank him in, wanting only to be with him in spite of all she had been taught was right.

“Tillie,” he whispered, his ragged breath on her hair, “the things I’m feeling right now scare me more than all the crocodiles on the Niger River.”

For the remaining moments of their ascent, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the echo of his words and to soak in his warm presence. His chest was firm under her hands, and his arms encircled her like a vise. She couldn’t have fallen back into the river if she’d wanted to.

When they again bumped into the side of the old steamer, she looked up to find eager hands reaching down for her. Like a wayward piece of cargo, she was hoisted through the air and deposited on the deck.

“Bonjour, madame.”
A handsome African man spoke in polite, well-formed French. “On behalf of the Compagnie Malienne de Navigation, I welcome you aboard the
Soumar.
You arrived just in time.”

“En retard.”
Tillie turned to the ogling crowd and held out her hands to those who had rescued her.
“Mercí beaucoup.”

Graeme scrambled onto the steamer and in fluent French began arranging to book passage to Djenne. Tillie surveyed the old boat in wonder. Though it was dirty, rusty, and damp, it clearly hailed from a time of elegance. Everywhere she looked, signs of the ship’s glory days were evident. Like a grand wedding cake that had sat too long in the bakery, the steamer was frosted with pink iron garlands and baroque curlicues. Tall pillars were hung with metal ivy and faded roses. The banisters had been carved of cherry and polished to a high sheen by the innumerable hands that slid over them each day. Remnants of ruby velvet curtains hung in several cabin windows, and a few tatters of oriental carpeting still clung to the stairs.

Feeling as though she had walked into an old fairy tale book filled with faded lithographs and bound in shabby covers, Tillie leaned against the railing that circled the lower deck. This deck was taken up by two large cabins with bunk beds for the third- and fourth-class passengers. From the throng of curious passengers pressing for a closer look to the crystal chandelier hanging askew in the passageway ahead, it was a strange, dizzying fantasy.

She had to marvel at herself. One moment she had been running from the
amenoukal
—cornered, almost certain to be captured, half-paralyzed with fear—and now . . . now she felt almost exhilarated. If only she could be certain Hannah was safe.

Immanuel. God is with us.

The reassurance swept over her. One day at a time. One minute at a time. The Lord was not a security blanket, not a good-luck charm, but he was with her. Always with her. In the river, out of the river, in Land Rovers and boats, on scooters or steamships.

And he had sent Graeme. She looked at the man who had come for her. His eyes animated, he conversed comfortably in French with the African steward. His wet blue shirt clung to his chest as he coiled the long rope. In the few hours they were apart, Tillie had missed him more than she thought she could miss anyone.

He intrigued and fascinated her. He made her laugh, made her think, made her search. He was strong and honorable and kind and good.

Do not be bound together—

Enough! She cut off the thought again. Turning to the shore, she pictured Hannah in the little hotel room. Her old
ayah
would be searching the Scriptures, praying for Tillie. Her
toto.

Tillie closed her eyes, struggling with her confusion and a niggling guilt. Was she ignoring God? Relying on her emotions rather than the truth?
Oh, Mama Hannah,
she thought, wishing her
ayah
were there beside her, ready to offer wise cousel.
God wouldn’t have allowed Graeme into my life if he were going to hurt me. My Father wouldn’t let me stumble down a wrong path. What I feel for Graeme can’t be bad. God wouldn’t do that to me. Would he?

She could almost hear Hannah’s response:
“Do not seek your answers from me,
toto.
‘If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God.’ You know the source of truth, Tillie. Remember what Christ taught, and let his words enrich your life and make you wise.”

For once, the thought of the Scriptures and Christ’s words didn’t bring her a sense of comfort. Instead, the doubt and guilt she’d been trying to ignore went from niggling to irritating. With a sigh, she turned away from the rail—just in time to take in Graeme’s appreciative stare.

I can handle this,
she thought stubbornly.
I can enjoy him without getting tangled, and then I can go on with the rest of my life the way I always have.

“You are fortunate, sir,” the steward was saying to Graeme as she walked toward them. “The steamer is on its way now to Djenne. The boat usually cannot travel this part of the Niger except in the rainy season. You will find Djenne a safe harbor from the Tuareg. The city is only accessible by boat. A car, airplane, or camel cannot go into Djenne.”

“That’s a stroke of luck. Looks like our shadows will have to leave us alone for a few days.” Graeme winked at Tillie.

“On the upper deck are our luxury, first- and second-class cabins,” the steward said with a bow. “Shall I show you to a room?”

“Two rooms.” Tillie tugged a small silver ring from her finger and dropped it into the man’s hand. “It’s all I have to pay you with.”

He glanced at Graeme, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Monsieur?”

“Two rooms,” Graeme affirmed.

“
Honnête homme.
We do not often see such honor among Christians.”

Tillie followed the two men down the deck. She knew most Malians practiced Islam and thought of all white people as Christians. How many unmarried tourists had this man watched take a room together on his rusty steamer? Because of her white skin, every action would be attributed to Christians, every word and encounter would be a witness to those who watched with critical eyes.

She swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn’t simply give the Malians more reason to hold Christians in disdain.

As she followed Graeme and the steward, she noted how passengers gawked and elbowed each other, commenting in an array of dialects about the newcomers who had been lifted from the Niger. A little girl tried to sell Graeme a bunch of bananas. He glanced at Tillie, made a face, and shook his head. She laughed. An old woman pressed forward to display a handful of bracelets and a tray of rings. Graeme stopped, pulled a beaded ring from the tray, and handed the woman a few damp coins.

Taking Tillie’s left hand, he slipped the ring over her ring finger. “A promise from a man of honor.”

She lifted her head, startled, but the steward bustled away, Graeme beside him asking questions about Djenne and the path to Timbuktu.

Tillie looked down at the muddy Niger.
You strange and mysterious river,
she thought.
How many more changes will you bring into my life?

Tillie’s luxury cabin was a seven-by-eight-foot reflection of the ornate, slightly garish steamer. Though cramped, the room contained a small window, a sink, and a bidet. A bed with a straw-filled mattress, red blankets, and fluffy pillows stood beside a gilded dresser. Bleached white towels were stacked at the end of the bed. The ceiling, dripping with plaster roses and ivy, had been painted in shades of neon pink and green.

Wanting nothing more than a hot shower, Tillie had sent Graeme off to find his own room, clean up, and then buy her something to wear. The bathroom was shared by eight cabins, but it was cleaner than she had expected. Someone had left a bar of soap on the porcelain sink and a small bottle of shampoo in the shower. She slipped the amulet over her neck and set it on the sink. The water was warm and the soap fragrant as she lathered herself.

As she poured a palmful of shampoo and worked it through her hair, she heard someone walk past the bathroom door. “First-class delivery service,” Graeme called. “Package on your bed.”

“Thanks.”

“Meet you on deck.”

As she heard the door close, Tillie let herself dwell on that moment dangling over the river when Graeme had kissed her. That had been one perfect kiss. The ring on her finger twisted around as she rinsed the shampoo from her hair.
A promise from a man of honor.

Arthur would be outraged if he ever found out. She studied the beaded ring under the cascade of water. Tiny nuggets of raw glass—red, amber, cobalt, emerald—strung on a thin silver wire. It didn’t matter whether Arthur knew or not. She’d never agreed to marry him, and she had no intention of ever doing so. Not even if he followed her all the way to Timbuktu.

All her life she had been wanting the kind of magic she felt around Graeme McLeod. She had suspected there must be more to love and marriage than the tender feeling she had when Hannah patted her cheek or the warmth of her brother, Grant’s, quick hug or even the mildly pleasant intimacy of Arthur’s kisses. She had seen such passion in movies, read about it in books. A racing pulse, a flush of the cheeks, those longing glances. Now that she had tasted such things for herself, she wasn’t about to settle for a congenial, platonic life with Arthur Robinson.

She picked up her white dress from the bathroom floor and rinsed it out under the warm water. The image of Hannah’s knobby fingers washing dishes flashed into her mind. Hannah would like Graeme. There was no question about that. Hannah liked people with spunk, people who walked straight into the headwinds of life as she did. Hannah admired bravery and honesty. She would respect a man who put human beings ahead of schedules. She would like Graeme, respect him, admire him. But she wouldn’t want her
toto
to marry him.

“I’m not marrying him,” Tillie said out loud as she wrapped her wet burnous around her and tiptoed back across the hall to her cabin. “I’m just going to Timbuktu with him. That’s all.”

After toweling off, she lifted the twine-tied bundle and picked apart the knot. A pale pink dress tumbled onto the bed along with a plastic comb, a toothbrush, even some underwear. The tunic was simple, straight, and clean-cut, yet it was also delicate and feminine. Tiny rosebuds had been embroidered around its scooped neck and along the short sleeves. She wouldn’t have chosen it for herself, but when she tried it on, she realized it suited her. She felt beautiful. Truly, wildly, wonderfully beautiful—and it was his doing.

She slipped into her sandals as she ran the comb through her hair, then opened the cabin door and stepped out into the hall.

You’d better watch yourself, Graeme McLeod,
she thought with a smile.
Your rosebud is blossoming.

Lunch in the luxury dining room was a grandiose affair. Graeme decided it must be a custom left over from French colonialism. There were fresh tropical fruits, mango juice, papaya juice, a leg of lamb, slabs of goat cheese, and mountains of fresh-baked bread. It was enough to make a hungry man weep. But when Tillie walked down the stairs, resplendent in that pink dress, her golden hair floating all around her shoulders, he forgot all about food.

She thanked him for the dress, and he followed her to the buffet line, tagging behind her like a little wag-tailed puppy. Something about the way she smiled at him, her cheeks flushed and her blue eyes heavy-lidded, sent a weight to the pit of his stomach.
This
was the woman he’d thrown into his Land Rover? Had he really pushed this enchantress headlong into the Niger River? If she wanted to murder him, he wouldn’t blame her.

But she talked and laughed and ate her way through lunch, her eyes saying a lot more than her words. Somewhere between the oxtail soup and the vanilla custard, it occurred to him that she had climbed out of that hotel room and dropped right back into his arms, leaving her boyfriend behind. Now, there was an interesting thought, one he wanted to turn over and examine like that scrap of paper in the amulet around her neck.