Shadow Play (18 page)

netting and eased out of the tent, taking a precautionary glance about the camp. Those on guard were off in the darkness, she supposed, and though she searched for Morgan and Henry, she could not find them.

The campfire had dwindled, and as she hurried into the dark she rushed to unbutton her blouse. By the time she reached the water's edge she had removed it. She fell to her knees and immersed the garment in the tepid water, not bothering to wring it out as she dragged its saturated folds across her face, neck, and shoulders, closing her eyes in pleasure at the cleansing, cooling assuagement it brought to her aggravated skin. She dipped it in again, pressing it to her chest, allowing the water to run beneath her chemise, at last letting her head fall low so the moisture spilled freely from the makeshift sponge, onto the back of her neck. She almost sighed, but the sudden sense that she was being watched from the darkness brought a wave of panic shivering up her spine. She forced herself not to scream, and slowly turned around.

Morgan stood behind her.

She nearly collapsed. Only the surge of fury racing like an intoxicant through her blood kept her from it. Stumbling to her feet, she glared up at his grinning face, her brain flaring between outrage at the apparent pleasure he took in scaring her, and a driving need to throw herself against his chest where his shirt fell open to the low-slung waist of his breeches.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"That wasn't funny," she declared.

"What?"

"Your sneaking up behind me like that."

"Did I sneak? I don't think so. You were so engrossed in your bath you didn't hear me."

"You sneaked," she snapped.

He dug a cigarette out of his pocket. "What if I did? It wasn't very wise of you to slink out of camp without telling me."

"I was hot."

"Yeah?" As he touched a match to his cigarette, the flame illuminated his sharp features. His lashes were lowered in concentration, then they raised to regard her as he passed the fire downward, revealing her soaked chemise where
it
clung to her breasts. "How hot?" he asked, then gave the match a quick shake and tossed it toward the water.

Sarah surmised that this might not be the best time to try his patience; he had gone from humor to... what? There was an unspoken threat hanging between them that crackled the air, and it was as if the fire of his match had taken light in his eyes. Suddenly her knees

felt watery and her heart was jumping in her chest. Her flesh burned one minute, the next she shivered as a gust of wind found its way beneath her sopping chemise. The memory of his kisses scuttled through her mind, and with a betraying blush rushing to her face, she thought,
Oh, God, oh, God, let him kiss me again.

But he didn't. He just stood there like an indolent statue in the darkness, his towering, broad-shouldered form a black silhouette against the backdrop of the distant fire. She could no longer see his eyes, which was just as well. They were no doubt laughing at her, or scorning her—he was too damned inconsistent for her to tell which.

"I think," he said, "that you should get dressed and get back to your tent."

"And what if I don't?"

"Do you really want to find out,
chere?"

"Perhaps I do."

The challenge hung in the air.

Finally he said again, "I think you should go."

"Will you torture me if I refuse?" she persisted. "Will you feed me to the piranhas? Cast me to the jaguars? Bind me by my wrists to a mound of man-eating ants? Tell me, Mr. Kane, what will you do if I defy you?"

He said nothing. Nor did he move. At last, in complete exasperation, she attempted to walk around him and return to her tent. She was brought up short as his hand shot out and grabbed her arm, hauling her back so forcefully she stumbled against him and her mostly exposed breasts, gleaming white in the darkness, were pressed to his sweat- moistened chest. His touch shocked her, overwhelmed her. Her earlier bravura evaporated as she blinked up into his face.

"If you weren't a lady," he replied in a voice as smooth and ominous as the river was deep, "I would gladly tell you what I would do to you for defying me."

"Indeed," she replied recklessly, her good sense dissipating as the scent of his skin filled her nostrils and the feel of his hard fingers biting into her arm made her grow weak. All she could do was sink slightly against him as she taunted, * 'Do you know what I think, Mr. Kane? You enjoy bullying me because you think I am some spineless child. I saved our necks this afternoon and you don't like it, do you?"

Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he lowered his head and whispered in her ear, "I really couldn't give a damn,
there,
but what I do give a damn about is this. If the men we've hired see a woman continually challenging my authority, it won't be long before they do the same. I'm gonna need complete cooperation from everyone during the next days, and if you usurp my control, someone will wind up getting killed—and it might be you. Now, be a good girl and get back to bed and stay there until daylight,

unless you want me to post a guard outside your tent to make certain you do." He released her and turned her around, then gave her a shove. "Good night, Miss St. James."

Sarah walked to her tent, her anger replaced by chagrin. She crawled into her bedding and stared at the roof of her tent, holding her hands to her face, inhaling his pungent scent that permeated her own flesh and made her grow restive with hunger. What, exactly, was happening to her?

Damn him for what he is,
she thought.

They glided upstream and around the still bends in the river where blankets of fragrant flowers collected within the shallows. Occasionally they would cease their paddling and allow their vessels to drift along the natural eddies and back currents near the shore. Through the wooden hull of the canoe Sarah could detect the coolness of the water, feel the rush of bubbles vibrating against it as the men accelerated over the surface. The forest had a hypnotic effect on Sarah that left her lethargic and unwilling to talk. Reclining in the bottom of the boat, she studied the green ceiling above, noting the horizontal shafts of sunlight streaming through the upper branches, casting a yellowish haze into the depths of the jungle. She often dozed, and when she awoke she would sit up and write her thoughts in the diary.

Day after day they traveled, the air becoming hotter and damper, until their clothes and hair were continuously soaked with humidity and sweat. Night after night they bedded down on some sandy shoal, Sarah occasionally too drained of strength to stay awake long enough to eat her ration of monkey meat, fish, or, in one case, an anteater that had ventured too close to their camp at dinnertime.

Sarah had once read Charles Waterton's account of his journey up the Amazon. He'd stated that resilience and enthusiasm were more important than professional skill to survive such a trip. Yet remaining enthusiastic was becoming more difficult every day. She was already so drained of energy that the very idea of leaving the relative ease of the river to trudge through the jungle was enough to make her question her own sanity. The mosquitoes, which had come in a black swarm to infest them on their second day out of Santarem, had forced her to hide beneath layers of clothes and hats and veils that touched her elbows. Their constant buzzing made her want to scream.

But even the insects' presence eventually ceased to bother her. At night she no longer noticed the noisiness of the jungle. Lying in the darkness, doing her best to breathe through the smoke from the wet brushfire that smoldered inside her tent to force out the mosquitoes, she mulled over the years she had spent in London and her desperate attempts to fit in with the society her mother thought so important.

How silly those aspirations seemed now. One didn't die if the part in one's hair was crooked. The world didn't stop rotating if a man caught a glimpse of a lady's knee. And what did it matter if tea was at two or six o'clock, instead of four? Now she found it hard to imagine a life outside the floresta. Clean clothes and bathwater scented with Rock Dew Water of the Sahara or Royal Arabian Toilet of Beauty seemed a vague

memory. Polite conversation between hospitable people might never have existed.

Since they'd met by the dark river on their first night out, the American had kept his distance, always watching but rarely speaking. She was torn between the need to scream in his face and the urge to fall on her knees and thank God he had chosen to ignore her the past days.

More and more, his presence had a disquieting effect on her mind and senses. She found herself searching him out in the hours between setting up camp and turning into bed. Always he would be sitting alone in the dark, a smoldering cigarette between his lips and his bottle of whiskey in one hand. Only twice had she approached him, and both times he had grunted a reply and dismissed her. At first she had attributed his attitude to his belligerent personality. How- ever, she soon discovered that he appeared congenial enough with the Indians, Kan, and Henry.

She wasn't accustomed to dealing with hostility. The ability to make friends had always been one of her greatest assets. Her father had told her that had she been born a man, she might have been destined for a political office.

Deciding to confront the American one evening after dinner, she ventured from her tent to find the campfire roaring as usual, its smoke rising far above the camp to hang suspended along the tree limbs overhead. The acrid cloud, necessary to rid the camp of mosquitoes and sand flies, burned her eyes and made her sneeze, but she'd decided that the discomfort was preferable to the painful, and dangerous, bite of the insects.

Morgan and Henry were stooped in the light of the fire, their heads together as Morgan, stick in hand, proceeded to draw in the sand. Sarah moved up behind them.

"This is the river," came Morgan's voice as he dragged his pointer along a winding groove in the dirt. "We're here."

"I beg to differ," Henry replied. "My estimation is that we're here, and Manaos should be these." He nudged a rock into place with his foot, then made a line in the soft silt with his toe. "This is the Rio Negro, and the Barcelos mission is approximately there. King's plantation should be in that vicinity."

Morgan shook his head. "Not likely. My guess would be here." He poked the ground.

"Let's hope not. It would take us months to hack our way that distance. Our supplies would not hold out that long."

"Three weeks," Morgan said. "From here to here."

' 'Not through
that
forest, my good man. My guess is ..."

Henry looked over his shoulder at Sarah. So did Morgan. They glanced at each other before standing and facing her. They resembled two boys caught filching apples from an orchard.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

They shook their heads.

"Why were you whispering?"

"Were we whispering?" Morgan asked Henry.

"We didn't want to disturb you," Henry explained.

Sarah regarded the drawing in the sand, and Henry leapt forward, took her arm, and directed her to a seat on a piece of driftwood nearer the fire. "You're up late," he commented.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Is something troubling you?" Henry frowned in con- corn.

She didn't look at Morgan as he stretched out on the ground at the edge of the firelight. Instead, she stared at the toes of her boots—she'd grudgingly begun to wear the heavy things in the hope of saving her legs from mosquitoes and sand flies—and wondered with frustration why she could never look the American in the eye and say what she felt.

Could it be that she didn't know what she felt exactly? Irritation, aggravation, anger—they were all confused in- side her with another emotion that was becoming more and more prevalent every day that she found herself in Morgan's presence. She shrugged. "I was feeling a little lonely, I suppose, and started thinking of my parents."

"Ah." Henry nodded understandingly as he prepared her a cup of tea he had been brewing for himself. Morgan, his long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles, proceeded to whittle on a piece of wood with his knife, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Sarah found herself willing him to look up just so she could see those eyes, no matter how briefly. But he didn't. He rarely even glanced her way these days.

"Did you have a large family?" she asked Henry as he handed her a china cup and saucer. "You've never really gone into detail about how you ended up in England. You said a botanist took you?"

Henry sat down beside her. He appeared thoughtful for a moment. "Yes. I was ten when I happened upon him. He had managed to get himself separated from his colleagues in the floresta. I led him back to the village. He offered to pay me to act as his guide and interpreter for the remainder of his stay. I did so for eight months. In that time he grew fond of me. When he decided to return to London, he invited me to go along. Once there, and with the coaxing of a number of his colleagues, he set upon the course to educate and refine me. The blue bloods were quite amusing, actually. Very entertaining. They thought me curious and I thought them idiots, but that is beside the point. I went on to graduate from Oxford—high honors. When I returned to Brazil, I discovered my family had all... died."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Henry sipped his tea and gazed into the dark.

At last Sarah worked up the courage to address Morgan. "And what about you, Mr. Kane?"

The fire snapped as his long fingers turned the carving this way and that; tiny slivers of wood sprinkled his lap.

"What about
your
family?" Sarah prompted.

"What about it?" he replied in a level voice.

"Who were your parents?
Do
you have any brothers or sisters?"

He pressed his lips together, his concentration fixed on his hands. He still did not look at her as he replied, "My father was an officer in the American Navy. My mother was French."

"Are they still living?"

"No."

"I suppose we all have something in common, then," she said.