Shadow Play (24 page)

The moment her nipples made contact with his bare chest, she gasped. The instant his fingers fluttered on the soft white mound of her breast, she whimpered.

"Easy." He kissed her again, a languorous, burning slide of his tongue into her while his head moved round and round, the pressure of his mouth deepened, and her bloodstream turned to fire. When at last he moved his mouth away, his face was a combination of tenderness and pain, and when be caught her chin with his wet fingers and forced her to meet his eyes. his hunger for her was stunning.

"You didn't answer me, Sarah.
Are
you in love with Norman?"

She tried to turn her face away. Her mind was in no fit state to reason, not when her body was fractured into pulsating embers.

"Look at me." Her head snapped back as he shook her.

"Is this all you want from me, Sarah? Is it?"

"Please, not now. I can't think. I don't know-"

"The devil you don't. You ought to know when you love a man, Sarah. You sure as hell know when you desire one."

"Oh, Morgan ._ .. " She dragged her water-heavy arms up over his shoulders, wanting only to bury her face in his chest, to forget the leering obligations of her uncertain future and live, for once, in the present. She yearned to enjoy these wonderful new sensations he aroused inside her. Turning her face up to his, she pleaded, "Kiss me again. I want you to--"

“You what?" His voice was cold as he peeled her arms from around his neck, her legs from around his hips, then shoved her away so hard she spilled back in the water where she fought to right herself. She broke the surface, coughing and gasping, to find Morgan halfway back to shore. He turned on her one last time, and his face was savage.

"I won't be a substitute for your English sweetheart, Sarah. I won't have you opening your legs for me and imagining that it's Norman burying his body inside you. I've had a gut full of being a nobody—always a nobody who was good enough to fulfill a fantasy but not good enough to love." Fists clenched, he stumbled toward her before stopping himself. "I won't take it from you. I can't feel this way for somebody and know she wants me for only one thing. I'd rather die."

He left her there, her eyes riveted to the trees where he had disappeared, her knuckles pressed against her mouth. Shaking, she left the stream and did her best to pull her clothes on over her wet limbs, cursing as they clung to her skin. She gathered her belongings and hurried back to camp, where she found Henry and Kan arguing over the proper way to boil turtle eggs. Morgan was nowhere to be seen.

Henry, noting her dishevelment, hurried to her. "Is some- thing wrong?" he asked.

"Where's Morgan?"

"I thought he was with you."

She shook her head. "We had a misunderstanding and he..."

Morgan entered the camp, running, scattering all thoughts about their confrontation. "There are Yan out there. Get these men together and let's get out of here!"

The clearing was a mass of silent, hurried movement, each man securing bedding, utensils, heaving up the canoes, and scurrying toward the shore. Within minutes they were paddling up the river, and with a certain sadness Sarah watched the mission vanish in the trees as if it were a mirage.

They drifted through shadows, the rippling of oars in the water the only sound to break the silence. Behind her, Henry whispered, "Morgan, I don't like this. It's too quiet. Did the Yan see you, do you think?"

Morgan looked over his shoulder, his eyes avoiding Sarah as he said to Henry, "We'll know soon enough."

They traveled another hour before Morgan ordered them ashore, directing the Indians to hide their boats as best they could. While the natives hurried to the task, Morgan stood on the shoal with a compass in hand and spoke to Henry as he studied the forest. The men appeared to be debating an issue, and when Sarah approached, she heard Henry say, "I disagree. I feel we should travel one more hour before leaving the river."

"Too dangerous," Morgan replied. "We can be spotted on the river too easily." He stooped, picked up a stick, and proceeded to draw in the sand. "While the river may be a faster route now, it swings east another fifty miles or so north. Cutting diagonally through the floresta from here, we save a great deal of time—"

"How much time?" Sarah asked.

They looked around, their faces solemn.

"Well?" she said. "How long do you estimate before we reach Japura?"

"Ten days," Morgan replied. Henry looked at him. "You got a problem with that?" Morgan demanded.

"Three weeks," Henry supplied.

"Three—?"

"Three," Henry repeated. "If not longer. You must take into consideration that you don't know—"

Morgan frowned. Henry shut his mouth.

"Know what?" Sarah demanded.

"Nothing." Henry dusted dirt off his hands and gazed up the river.

Morgan removed his hat and mopped sweat from his brow. "What he means is, we don't know what sort of problems we might run up against."

"You must have an idea. You've been this way before. Isn't that so?"

Morgan glanced at the marmoset at his feet before looking at Henry, who refused to return his gaze. "Right," he responded.

"In that case, I agree with you. By all means, let's take the most direct route possible.''

Henry groaned and walked away. Morgan, hands on his hips, watched him go.

The strongest of the Indians were instructed to carry trunks and supplies, while the most wiry took up their machetes and prepared to hack their way through the under- growth. Morgan himself took up a long-bladed knife and, with grim determination, pitted himself against the forest with a vengeance. As the sweltering heat and humidity pressed down on him, the effects of the previous days' ordeal streaked through his body like lightning, until his muscles quivered and his lungs fought for air. Time and again he sagged against the trees as the green world tipped and swayed around him. Occasionally Henry's voice came to him, sounding troubled.

"Morgan, are you all right?"

He nodded, took a breath, and plunged on into the rain forest, swiping and thrashing with the machete, vaguely feeling the bite of thorns and insects that raised bloody welts on his exposed skin. Sometimes he would stop and reach for his whiskey, or a cigarette, finding that his hands were trembling too much to light it. Finally Henry, or Kan, or one of the other Indians would notice and help him, taking the match from his unsteady fingers and touching it to the tip of the cigarette while Morgan inhaled and closed his eyes, savoring

the lethargy it brought to his aching body. And always he searched out Sarah. Sarah, who loved another man. Sarah, who would give him her body but not her heart, her soul... her love...

They chose to camp long before nightfall. A clearing was hollowed out of the forest. Hammocks were suspended from the trees and covered with mosquito netting. Fires were built and the last of the rice ration was boiled. All was done as quietly as possible, for even Sarah realized the silence surrounding them wasn't right.

Sitting upon a neatly stacked pile of tree limbs, she tried her best to keep her attention on the boiling cauldron of rice and not on the intimidating wall of floresta around them. Her skin was hot and sweaty. After the grueling past hours she had little desire to eat. Cupping the bowl in her palms, she stared at the soupy mixture as tears rolled down her cheeks, dropping into her rice soup.

Morgan stooped before her, resting back on his heels as he watched her with concern. In his hands he held a plate of sliced fruit. "Sarah," he asked quietly, "what's wrong?"

She put down her bowl and, leaving her perch, wrapped her arms around his neck. She buried her face into his shoulder and let the tears fall in earnest.

"Chere,"
he whispered, the sound more like a pained breath in her ear as she wept. A moment passed before he asked in a steadier voice,' 'Are you ill? Has something bitten you?"

She wiped her nose on his shirt before turning her face into his throat. "It's the soup," she finally managed. "I hate rice soup." It wasn't the truth, of course, but she didn't want to admit that she was already tired of the damnable forest and the threat of Indians and the ungodly heat. She didn't want to admit that she regretted having coerced him into bringing her here. She no longer cared if Norman found her worthy enough to marry. There was a great deal she was loath to admit to Morgan Kane, especially the fact that her feelings were in a quandary over
him.

He placed the dish of fruit aside. She thought he chuckled. The idea of his finding amusement in her predicament piqued her, but she wouldn't show it. She felt bad enough over her earlier behavior. She hadn't meant to hurt him that morning at the stream. The realization that she had no doubt ruined any chance of his kissing her again brought fresh tears to her eyes.

His hands closed lightly on her arms and set her back on her log. The harsh lines of Morgan's face relaxed until his features showed not a trace of the anger that had frightened her earlier. The awareness, and acceptance, of her feelings for him washed through her in that instant like glowing sunshine. Unable to speak, Sarah threw herself against him again and held him fiercely, her face buried in the curve of his throat, which felt hot and moist and wonderful and real, so real that it made her dizzy. But she was engaged to marry Norman. Wealthy, tided, sophisticated Norman. Maybe if she ignored her feelings for Morgan they would eventually go away.

The world became a blur of colors and sound as she focused on Morgan's face—his exquisite face. She had not noticed before how truly wonderful it was, so dark and lean and hauntingly mysterious. She wanted to know the story behind each flaw, each scar, each tiny line etched into the skin between his eyebrows.

She pulled away and took up her rice soup. She refused to look at him again, and finally he stood, though he remained in front of her for several moments before moving away. Not until he joined the others did she allow herself to watch him, his existence filling her universe.

For the next hour she huddled on her chair of tree limbs, vaguely aware of the Indians taking up their rifles and positioning themselves around the camp as they prepared for nightfall. Gray light turned to black, and with her knees pulled up so she could rest her chin upon them, she gazed into the fire, watching the light and shadows dance upon the ground and trees like seductive nymphs.

Henry sat on a stump on the far side of the camp, talking to Morgan, who reclined in his hammock and peeled fruit for the voracious little marmoset. Kan perched on his heels by the fire, carving on a long thin reed he had plucked from the river days ago. Sarah watched his dark fingers smooth the dry stalk with a thick resin he had collected in a bowl. When the cane was sleek and shiny, he bored out several holes along its length. Finally he lifted the piece in his palm and studied it critically, turning it this way and that in the firelight. Then he placed one end in his mouth and blew gently into it.

The sound was sweet and fluid, filling up the night and silence with music that was stirring and hypnotic. Closing her eyes, Sarah recalled her childhood, when she would dance for her papa because she loved him so. Out of gratitude he would pick her up and hold her close and tell her over and over how much he loved her.

She moved to her feet like one in a trance and began her slow, sensual dance, sliding and swaying with the lyrical sounds, each rise and fall of the flute's music an echo of the rhythm she heard in her head. Rising on her toes and letting her head fall back, she moved her body forward and back, swaying from side to side like a willow in the wind, for that was what the music reminded her of, of gently blowing breezes and singing birds and crashing waves on rocky beaches.

"Sarah."

She opened her eyes and Morgan stood there, on the verge of the dancing shadows, his look watchful and concerned. Only then did she realize that she was crying.

He came to her and put his arms around her.

^“
Hold me,'' she whispered against his shirt. * 'Please hold me."

Chapter Twelve

He held Sarah throughout the night, watching as she slept and wept in her dreams. Exhaustion had darkened the skin beneath her eyes and hollowed her cheeks more than they had been when she stumbled into his hovel in Georgetown and demanded that he help her in this hellish venture. Lying beside her, her scent filling his nostrils, her warmth like a flame against his skin, he felt himself grow hard with desire. He groaned with it.

Dawn was but an hour away when he eased his arm from beneath her head and rolled off the hammock. He tucked the mosquito netting around her and waved away the insects that rose in a cloud. A flapping of wings brought his head around, and staring through the dark, he made out bats hanging from the trees. Something else moved there as well. Yellow eyes, reflecting the firelight, gazed back at him in the stillness.

Henry lay asleep in his hammock. Kan too, had dozed, the flute placed beside his outstretched legs. Morgan walked to the fire and stooped beside it. He hated the dawn. It was too damned lonely. It gave a man too much time to con- template his future and dwell on his past. As a child, he would lie in his cot at St. Mary's Charity Home and imagine that today his mother would arrive to take him home. He would forgive her for deserting him. He would forgive her for anything if she would love him again.

But the years had passed.

As a youth, he used to imagine that somewhere in New Orleans there were parents who needed a son, and that today they would venture to St. Mary's and choose him from all the others. Occasionally he would leave his cot and sneak to the church, where he knelt before the altar and the statues of Christ and the saints. He would stare at their lifeless profiles, their unblinking eyes, the white marble hands that were extended and offering salvation. The musty smell of the ancient pews would rise to his nostrils as he clasped his hands and bent his head in a prayer he had stopped believing in long ago. God had never answered
his
prayers. But he continued to come, sometimes hiding behind the side altar of the Virgin Mary,- eavesdropping on the men and women who slipped into the confessionals and spilled out their sins for the priests. And when they finally left and silence loomed among the wilting chrysanthemums and melting candles, he would pray for someone—anyone-^-to find him in this holy hell, and want him.