Dark Ransom (12 page)

reminded herself forcefully.

Relations between Riago and herself had changed diametrically

since his revelation about his lost love, she realised. A distance had

developed between them, and when they were alone together at

mealtimes, or during the endless evenings, there were long silences.

Riago, she thought, was clearly regretting his frankness.

Charlie told herself she should be glad of this. The last thing she

wanted, after all, was any further exchange of confidences or,

indeed, any kind of intimate companionship between them.

And, of course, there had been no more attempts to kiss her, which

was an added bonus.

Charlie had to admit, however, that she had been startled, and even

shocked, to discover.

whenever she was alone with Riago, the depth of her physical

awareness of him. She found herself covertly watching him, her

pulses racing, as he moved round the room or lounged in the chair

opposite, his fingers restlessly drumming on its arm, while he

smoked his cheroots, or drank seemingly endless supplies of strong

black coffee. Often she caught a brooding expression on his face,

and found the brilliant eyes hooded and shadowed. But he was

rarely completely still, as if his suppressed energies were constantly

demanding an outlet.

It occurred to her that the only time she had known him completely

relaxed was the night when he'd slept beside her, but that was

altogether too disturbing an image to contemplate, she told herself,

hurriedly erasing it from her consciousness.

In his way he was just as beautiful and as dangerous as any of the

animals who hunted and mated in the heart of the forest. Sometimes

Charlie woke when the night was at its darkest, and heard their

fierce, unearthly cries away in the far distance. It was a sobering

reminder of what an outpost of civilisation the
fazenda
really was,

she thought, shivering, and how closely the jungle stalked its

perimeters.

And, just as it was an ongoing battle to keep the rain forest at bay,

so she had to be similarly on her guard with Riago and this complex

unwilling attraction for him that she could no longer deny.

It was ridiculous—senseless—and she knew it. He was a stranger to

her, a complete enigma in many ways, and she had every reason to

hate him. So it should be easy to keep him at arm's length physically

and mentally—to co-exist with him in a kind of cold neutrality until

she could make a run for it.

Only, for some inexplicable reason, it wasn't that simple. Charlie

told herself it was because for the first time in her life she'd

encountered a dynamically attractive man, whose manner, when he

chose, could be quite devastatingly charming and seductive.

A more experienced girl would know how to deal with it—or even

turn it to her advantage, she thought. But I can't. I feel like... like a

twig, caught in the current of that damned river out there, and being

whirled downstream to my own destruction.

But that was negative thinking, she scolded herself. She wasn't

going to be destroyed. She was going to survive.

It had been established that the sick newcomer in their midst had

malaria—and not, Riago had said, one of the more virulent strains

either. There had been more to fear from the wound on the stranger's

head, he'd added laconically, but would offer no further explanation.

Try as she might, Charlie had been unable to regain access to the

sick-room, which Rosita guarded with all the zeal of a prison

wardress. Charlie's suggestion, made through Agenor, that she

should take turns in sitting with the sick man, or feeding him, had

been met with a shocked negative, just as Riago had predicted.

Riago had said that the stranger would have some questions to

answer when the fever subsided, Charlie remembered. Somehow

she had to ensure that he answered her questions first.

'My aunt is good nurse,' Agenor announced one morning. 'That man

not sick now—want food... want shave.'

Charlie's heart thumped in sudden excitement. Riago had already

left for the day, and this could be her best opportunity for a private

word with the stranger. If she could dislodge Rosita...

She yawned. 'Well, that's marvellous news, especially if it means

she can get back to her other work.' She paused, thinking rapidly.

'Manoel was here earlier,' she went on. 'I think his wife may be

starting to have her baby, and he wants Rosita to help. Maybe you

should tell her.'

It wasn't altogether a lie, she thought, crossing her fingers in the

folds of her skirt. Manoel, the plantation foreman, did have a

heavily pregnant young wife with a history of miscarriages behind

her, and he had indeed called at the
fazenda
that morning, although

on an entirely different errand.

Agenor leapt to his feet. 'I go now,
senhorita.'

A few minutes later Charlie heard Rosita departing towards the

kitchen quarters, questioning Agenor shrilly as she did so.

Now's my chance, she thought.

The patient was sitting up in bed, eating soup, when she let herself

into the room. He put the spoon down and stared at her in total

surprise.

'Who are you?' he asked in Portuguese.

'That's what I want to ask you,' Charlie returned in English. She

went to the side of the bed and took a long, hard look at him. Now

she was able to recognise the Philip Hughes of his aunt's

photographs. His skin had lost that sickly yellow tinge, although he

was gaunt and his eyes were still bloodshot. He had been shaved and

his hair was clean, the dressing on the side of his head firmly in

place. The wound must be hurting him because he winced

perceptibly as he turned his head slightly to return her scrutiny.

She said, 'You're Philip Hughes, aren't you?'

There was a pause, then his lips twisted into an apologetic smile.

'You tell me,' he said ruefully. 'Apparently I've taken some kind of

knock, which means I can't remember a damned thing. I haven't a

clue who I am or what's been happening to me.'

'Oh, no,' Charlie wailed. 'You don't—you can't mean it.'

'I'm afraid I do.' He frowned. 'And, although it's important to me, I

can't quite understand why it should matter to you so much.'

'Do you know where you are?'

'I've been told. Apparently this place is the homestead of a rubber

plantation, belonging to the guy who's been mopping me up and

giving me injections over the past few days.' He paused. 'Only I

gather he's Brazilian, and you're obviously English.'

Charlie nodded. 'This is why I needed to talk to you—to make sure.

You see, I'm being held here against my will.'

Philip Hughes shifted against his banked-up pillows, his frown

deepening. 'You're putting me on.'

'I'm not, I swear it.' Charlie beat a clenched fist into the palm of her

other hand. 'You have to believe me. I ended up here completely by

accident, and now the owner, Riago da Santana, won't let me leave.'

'Why not?'

'I'd really rather not go into that.' Charlie bit her lip. 'You'll just have

to take my word for it— and also for the fact that you really are

Philip Hughes.'

He ate another spoonful of soup. 'What makes you think so?'

'I know—knew your aunt. She talked about you—showed me

photographs.'

There was a silence, then he said, 'I notice you use the past tense.'

'Yes, I'm afraid so.' Charlie hesitated. 'I—I'm terribly sorry.'

'How did you know her?'

'I worked for this domestic agency in England. She was one of my

clients.' Charlie felt sudden tears prickling at the back of her eyes.

'She was a lovely lady, and very kind to me.'

'I don't doubt it,' he said, after another silence. 'But I'm afraid, even

if she is—was—my aunt, she's just another gap in my memory. It—

it doesn't seem to mean a great deal at all. Nothing does.'

'And yet you can remember Portuguese.'

He looked at her sharply. 'What do you mean?'

'When I came in you asked me who I was,' she pointed out.

'Did I?' He looked thoughtful. 'Well, maybe that's the first chink of

light in the darkness, because I haven't understood one word that big

woman's been gabbling at me. Luckily, the boss man speaks perfect

English, or I'd be totally floundering.'

'Yes, I suppose so.' Disappointment was almost choking her.

'Apparently there's a medical mission at a place called Laragosa,'

Philip Hughes went on. 'This Santana guy says they'll bring in a

doctor to have a look at me as soon as the river falls sufficiently.'

Charlie winced. 'Did he say how soon that might be?'

Philip Hughes reflected. 'I believe he said
amanha
—whatever that

means.'

'It's the Brazilian word for tomorrow—or any day over the next year

or two,' Charlie said bitterly. 'I used to hear it a lot on the journey

upriver.' She paused. 'I thought, you see, that you'd be leaving as

soon as you were well enough.'

'That's exactly what I want to do, naturally, but they're hardly going

to let me wander off, suffering from amnesia.' His smile was boyish

and charming. 'Are you that keen to be rid of me?'

'I want to go with you,' she said baldly.

He gave her a startled look. 'Well, I'm flattered, of course, Miss... ?'

'Graham,' she supplied. 'Charlotte Graham.'

'OK, so we're introduced, but that doesn't mean we should elope.'

'I don't mean that either,' Charlie said impatiently. 'But I have to get

away from here, and you could help me.'

'In ordinary circumstances, perhaps, but as things are...' He spread

his hands deprecatingly, then paused, his glance going past Charlie

towards the door.

Charlie knew by his expression what she would see when she

turned.

Riago was standing in the doorway, hands on hips. He was smiling,

but Charlie could see the glitter of anger in his eyes, and her heart

lurched unsteadily. How much had he heard? she asked herself.

'Bom dia, senhor,'
he said, strolling forward. 'I am glad to know that

you clearly feel so much better.' He paused. 'I see also that my
noiva

has introduced herself.'

'Noiva?'
Philip Hughes enquired plaintively. 'I don't quite

understand...'

'My future wife.' Riago drew Charlie's rigid arm through his. 'Or did

she not tell you that?'

'I think she was just getting round to it.' The other man gave them

both an uneasy look. 'I— I wish you both every happiness, of

course.'

'And I wish you,' Riago said, smiling, 'a full and speedy recovery—

and total recall. Unless, of course, the past is unimportant to you,' he

added silkily.

'It might be.' Philip Hughes gave a slight laugh. 'But, unfortunately,

I have no way of knowing.

It's a damnable position to be in, as I was explaining to Miss

Graham.'

'I do not believe she would be in sympathy with you. Carlotta would

prefer to blot out the immediate past, I think.' Riago leaned down

and removed the lunch tray, placing it on the bedside table. 'And

now we will leave you to rest.'

Outside in the hallway he pulled her round to face him. 'Do I speak

your language so badly?'

Charlie tried to free herself. 'What do you mean?'

'I told you to keep away from him,' he said harshly. 'And yet I find

you in his room. Why?'

'Why didn't you tell me you'd found out he was English?' she

countered.

'Because I did not think it mattered.' His mouth was hard. 'Or does

sharing a nationality bestow some sacred kinship in your eyes?'

'Naturally I'm interested. And I've never met anyone suffering from

amnesia before. I'm sure if I were to talk to him—about home, for

instance—I could jog his memory.'

'This is your home now,' Riago said icily. 'And I am equally sure

your fellow countryman's memory will return in its own good

time— without any intervention from you. This is your final

warning, Carlotta. Keep away from him, or I shall be angry with

you.'

'I'm shivering in my shoes,' she said defiantly.

Riago muttered something under his breath, and jerked her into his

arms. 'There is only one way to deal with you,' he flung at her.

'Let me go.' Her voice emerged as a croak.

'Never.' The bronze face seemed to have been hewn from teak as he

bent to her. Charlie closed her eyes. If she could blot him out of her

vision she might also be able to erase what he was going to do to

her, she thought crazily.