Night of the Condor (11 page)

Wincing, Leigh lowered her throbbing foot into the water, and held it there. The river was icy, and if she managed to avoid blood poisoning from her blisters, she would probably die of frostbite.

She looked at the swollen, swirling waters with distaste. Last night's storm had had more than one effect, it seemed, but both of them equally dangerous. Judging by one of the few remarks Rourke had tossed her way on the journey, they were going to have to ford this flood somehow.

She bit her lip. Yesterday's aloofness, the hostility of their first meeting—anything would be better than the kind of loaded silence which existed between them now.

He had fairly forced the pace, too, she thought resentfully, making no allowance at all for her inexperience in this kind of terrain. It had, on top of her emotional turmoil, been sheer physical agony walking on her blistered sole, but she hadn't dared allow herself to limp in case Rourke thought she was looking for attention or sympathy. All she could do, she thought, was try to be as unobtrusive as possible for the remainder of the journey. And when at last they reached Atayahuanco, and other people, perhaps this terrible inner confusion would subside, and she would start to feel safe again.

With a grimace, she extracted her foot from the water and dried it gingerly on her handkerchief. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that the first intimation she had of his approach was when his shadow fell across her, and she looked up with a little cry. 'Oh, you startled me!

He disregarded that and squatted beside her, his brows drawn together in a thunderous frown. 'Would you like to explain what the hell you're doing? Or what the hell you've already done,' he added grimly, his fingers closing round her bare ankle before she could prevent him. 'Let me see.'

For a long moment he was silent, then he said a number of words in Spanish which Leigh was glad she couldn't translate.

'Are you completely crazy?' he bit at her. 'Why didn't you tell me you were in this kind of trouble?'

Because this is nothing, she thought, compared with the pain I feel inside.

She said quietly, 'I didn't want to bother you.'

'You'd rather risk your life?' he demanded derisively, and saw her flinch. 'Don't you realise you can't fool with your health in this wilderness? There's no convenient casualty department to take you to out here.'

Leigh reached for her sock, letting her hair swing forward to conceal her face. 'I'm sorry,' she said in a constricted voice.

'And don't put that on,' he ordered impatiently. 'I've some dressings in one of the packs, and an ointment the Quechua seem to use for everything from snakebite down. We'll see what that does, and tonight you'll get some proper medical attention.'

'At Atayahuanco?' In the flood of relief at the thought, there was a treacherous pang of a very different emotion, and she looked down, swiftly veiling her eyes with her lashes in case she gave anything away.

'No—that's still a day and a half's march away. A friend of mine runs a clinic of sorts from one of the villages. We'll have to gamble on him being there, and not off on one of his vaccination programmes.'

'I didn't mean to be such a nuisance.' Still, she didn't look at him, as awkwardly she tried to struggle to her feet.

'And don't put that foot to the floor,' Rourke said sharply.

Leigh stood one-legged like a stork, clutching her boot and sock. 'If you could find a stick…'

He said something under his breath, and sliding an arm under her knees, swung her up into his arms like a child, holding her as closely, she thought, her heart racing, as he had that night in Lima when he had carried her into the bedroom. And that, dear God, was the last thing she needed to remember…

The ointment was a greyish colour, and smelled foul, but it felt soothing, she had to admit, as Rourke applied the dressing to her foot. She looked at the dark down-bent head, longing to press her lips to his dishevelled hair, and wished there were an old Indian palliative for frustration too. Because that was what it all about—the inner trembling, the hunger to touch and be touched. She needed to see Evan again, she told herself. When she had the security of his love wrapped round her once again, this anguish of emotional confusion would vanish like morning mist. It would have to, she thought, digging her nails into the palms of her hands.

Rourke noticed, of course. 'Am I hurting you?'

Terminally, she thought. Aloud, she said, 'No— I'm just not very brave.

He gave her a dry look. 'If you say so.' He got to his feet. 'That will have to do for now. Tonight I'll get Greg to give you a shot of something. We don't want to take any chances.'

No, thought Leigh, as she manoeuvred her sock over the dressing, we don't. She wondered if the unknown Greg could administer some kind of general anaesthetic to numb this strange inner pain she was experiencing—or even to stop her thinking altogether. She would be glad to be on the move again, and able to focus all her concentration on her physical discomforts.

Which were likely to be re-focused entirely, she realised as Rourke came over to her, leading the mule.

'Today you ride,' he said, making it clear it was more a command than a suggestion.

As she accustomed herself to the saddle, Leigh found herself thinking that this remote kindness was somehow worse than passion, or even the contempt he had shown her in their earliest encounters. The conflict between them in the past had been disturbing, even infuriating, but it had made her feel alive. Now, there was this barrier of silence and reserve between them, and it was all of her own making, she supposed wretchedly, although she couldn't have allowed him to go on making love to her as he had been doing. She had had to stop him somehow.

He must have loved this Isabella very much to have reacted as he had done to the mention of her name.

Perhaps he loves her still, she thought, sinking her teeth into the soft inner fullness of her lip, as pain lanced through her again.

She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. In spite of everything that had happened between them, Rourke Martinez was still virtually a stranger to her. If she counted up on her fingers the hours she had spent in his company, he would barely be an acquaintance, she supposed—and she was engaged to another man, and yet her own reaction to the idea of this other woman in his life was something akin to jealousy.

No, she thought desperately, it can't be that. It can't be. There's no reason…

She was ashamed of how she felt. Ashamed of how she had responded to his mouth, and the touch of his hands on her body. Ashamed of the means she had used to escape him, which had driven him into this tight-lipped introspection.

And in the mean time, she thought, there was the more practical problem of how they were going to get across this river. Rourke left her with the mule while he went scouting ahead downstream. When he returned, he was frowning.

'There is a spot,' he said curtly. 'But it won't be easy.'

Leigh swallowed. 'I'm sorry.'

His brows flicked upwards in surprise. 'Why should you be? You were hardly responsible for conjuring up last night's storm—or its aftermath,' he added, sending her an enigmatic glance.

She Felt involuntary colour warming her face. 'I— I meant I was sorry for inflicting myself on you—giving you extra responsibility. You'd be getting on much faster without me.'

He shrugged. His voice abrupt, he said, 'It's too late to concern ourselves with that now.'

When they reached the place he had found for them to cross, Leigh thought with dismay that he hadn't exaggerated. It was slightly narrower at this point, it was true, but the water looked deep, and fierce and unwelcoming.

'Wait here,' Rourke directed briefly. 'I'll take the mule across, and come back for you.'

Leigh sat down on a fallen tree trunk and watched as he cut himself a stick from a convenient branch, the colour rising helplessly in her cheeks as he stripped down to his briefs, wedging his clothes into one of the mule's packs.

The animal was reluctant at first, but he coaxed her down the bank, and into the water, testing the riverbed with his stick before taking each step.

Leigh was relieved to see that the water seemed to be hardly more than waist-deep. After a slight hesitation, she followed Rourke's example and took off her outer clothes, and footwear, rolling them into a bundle to carry across.

Rourke, she saw, had nearly reached the other side, still treading cautiously, and she decided to follow, rather than put him to the inconvenience of fetching her.

The chill of the water took her breath away for a moment, and she paused, gasping, aware at the same time of the deep drag of the current. She hadn't bargained for that, she thought ruefully, or for the fact that the riverbed was littered with round loose stones which made every step a hazard. And Rourke had made it look so easy!

She heard him shout angrily, telling her to go back, but she pretended she hadn't heard above the noise of the water, and soldiered on. The water was nearly up to her chest now, and keeping her bundle of clothing dry was beginning to make her arms ache, although she had reached less than halfway. The current seemed stronger here too, pulling at her with real force, so that every step was a battle.

She moved, realised she was slightly off balance, and tried to recover herself, felt her foot slip on a stone, and fell sideways, crying out in terror as the dark waters closed over her.

Choking and gasping, she fought her way to the surface, trying to regain her footing, but it was impossible. The current had her, like a leaf caught in a millrace, and was sweeping her away. She struck out wildly. She had always thought of herself as a good swimmer, but these waters were too strong and angry for her, and she submerged again. Somehow she struggled back to the surface, eyes streaming, lungs bursting, half deafened.

A man's voice, hoarse and unrecognisable, was shouting, 'The tree—grab the tree!'

Dimly, Leigh was aware of a tangle of branches ahead of her, above her, and she reached up with a desperate strength she hadn't known she possessed, and caught at them with a force which threatened to wrench her arm out of its socket. Crying out with pain, she hung there one-handed, feeling the water tear at her, trying to drag her away.

She moaned, trying to draw air into her lungs, and heard Rourke's voice, impossibly near, say, 'I have you. Let go the tree!'

She obeyed, her bruised shoulder wincing at the movement. He held her against him, until she had regained her footing, then, very slowly, holding her clamped to his side, he began the journey to the other bank.

It seemed to take forever. Leigh kept her eyes tight shut, terrified that they would both be swept away, but somehow, agonisingly, they made it.

The roar of the water was muted now, she realised dazedly, and there was grass under her clutching hands. She collapsed, feeling weak tears squeeze out from under her eyelids, retching a little from the water she had swallowed. After a while the world stopped spinning sickeningly round her, and she sat up gingerly. Her body felt sore. There was a deep graze on her leg, and numerous scratches and abrasions on her arms and shoulders. She looked round for Rourke.

He was sitting a few feet away, his knees drawn up to his chin, his forehead resting on his folded arms, as he struggled to control his laboured breathing.

She thought, We could have been drowned—and it's all my fault, and a little sob rose in her throat, compounded partly of fear, partly remorse.

Rourke must have heard the little sound she made, because his head came up sharply, and he stared at her, almost as if he had never seen her before.

The sun was hot, but she was suddenly shivering violently. She said in a small half-strangled whisper, 'I'm so sorry—oh God, I'm so sorry…'

He got to his feet, and stood over her, the topaz eyes blazing.

'Sorry?' he repeated softly. 'Are you quite insane? You disobey me—you risk your life—both our lives, and you say you're sorry?'

'I know—I know.' The weak, shaming tears were back, pouring down her face.

He said something under his breath, and came down on one knee beside her. '
Diets
, Leigh, I should not have spoken as I did. Don't cry,
querida
.' Gently his fingers brushed her face. 'There's no need. By some mercy, we are both safe.'

Her hand went up and clasped his, pulling it down to her lips. He stiffened, trying to snatch it away, then paused, his eyes almost torturedly searching her face. His own hand reached out, reluctantly, to tangle in her damp hair, and then they were kissing, their mouths locked frantically together in a giving and a taking sharpened by the danger they had been in as well as desire.

Leigh was pliant in his arms, willing to follow wherever he might lead. There was no mockery in Rourke's kisses, no seductive beguilement, only a driving need which she recognised because she shared it.

She was aware in some strange way of every blade of grass touching her back, of every drop of moisture from her body mingling with his, as if until that moment she had only been half conscious of her physical being.

Now she was awake, and free, her hands restlessly shaping his broad shoulders, the long muscular curve of has naked back, her tongue moving against his with the same wild abandon. Her skin felt on fire, clamouring for his caresses, her breasts aching to be touched.

The heated pressure of his body against hers told her that he was deeply and passionately aroused, but in spite of her inexperience, she was neither afraid nor embarrassed. She wanted to know and be known totally—completely, she thought feverishly, as her hands slid down his body, seeking and welcoming.

For a moment he tensed at her first, shy overtures, then with a little groan of encouragement he lowered his mouth to her breasts, tugging the wetly clinging fabric of her bra aside with his teeth before encircling one taut pink nipple with his lips.

The pleasure of it was shocking, scorching along her veins. The sun dazzled against her languidly closed eyelids, and the delight he was teaching her dazzled her senses. Her breath escaped between her parted lips on a little sigh, as his hand stroked the curve of her hip, then moved downwards, slowly, searchingly, intimately. His fingers on her body were like the whisper of silk, but, at the same time, wickedly, devastatingly sure.