A Kiss of Adventure (25 page)

“Maybe you should be,” he said. “I’m after your heart.”

He turned his back on her and edged down into the hole. For a moment he was swallowed up in the darkness, but the lamplight flickered again. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the hole.

“Easy.” He took her hand and guided her into the mine. “Your eyes will adjust in a minute.”

The walls of the mine shaft were steep and rutted with scars made by the axes and picks of miners centuries before. The original opening had been enlarged to permit the traffic of gold-bearing dirt. Tillie tried to calm her thudding heart as she followed Graeme down the sloping floor toward a bend in the tunnel.

“What do you think the journal will look like?” she asked. “Should we start searching for it now?”

“I imagine it’s hidden farther in, but it can’t hurt to keep your eyes open. The other journals of Mungo Park are small. Leather bound. I’d look for a bag of some sort. Or a box. I imagine the guide Ahmadi Fatouma would have put it into somethi—”

Graeme caught his breath and stepped back, instinctively throwing out his arm to stop Tillie. A hideous monster slithered around the bend into the circle of lamplight. A mixture of lizard and crocodile, the five-foot-long reptile moved toward them on squat legs tipped in sharp, curved claws. Its tail swept from side to side across the stone floor, its long forked tongue flicked in and out. With a hiss like a steam locomotive, its jaws parted to reveal rows of sharp teeth.

“Graeme!” Tillie choked out as she backed up toward the stone wall. “What is that thing?”

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, handing her the lamp and drawing a knife from his boot. “It’s some kind of monitor lizard.”

“A waran,” she whispered. “An Egyptian monitor.”

“Whatever he is, he’s steaming mad. Back up.”

The creature stopped, assessing the intruders with eyes like amber beads. Tillie took a step backward. Graeme crouched, knife ready.

Claws skittered on the rock. Hissing filled the narrow chamber. The lizard charged and slammed into Graeme’s legs. Its whirling tail bashed the walls. Teeth snapped. Graeme’s arm swung in an arc toward its head.

Tillie shoved the lamp into a crevice. Hands clammy, she worked a heavy chunk of rock loose and raised it over her head with both hands. The reptile clamped onto Graeme’s shirt. Pulling, tearing, it struggled to knock him down. He bent over the lizard’s head and stabbed. Stabbed again. The knife glanced off the armorlike skin.

Tillie moved closer, looking for an opening. The monitor snapped at Graeme’s leg. He bellowed in pain and tried to jerk away. Lunging forward, Tillie slammed the rock down on the animal’s back.

The thud echoed down the chamber. Hissing rose to a fevered pitch. The monitor squirmed, flopped over, lay writhing on the stone floor. Graeme sprang on it, driving his knife into the creature to the hilt between his front legs.

The tunnel fell silent. Graeme slumped to the ground.

Tillie fell to her knees beside him. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

He pulled his knife out of the lizard and leaned back on his elbows. “My leg. He’s still got it.”

She moved across to Graeme’s twisted leg clenched in the dead lizard’s mouth. She placed the heel of her boot against its upper jaw and pushed as Graeme gingerly freed his torn limb.

“I think a hunk of it’s gone,” he said.

She pulled apart the shreds of trouser. “You’re bleeding a lot. He’s ripped part of your calf. You need a doctor, Graeme. Let’s get out of here.”

“Whoa! No way. We came here to find the journal.”

“You’re crazy. If we don’t get you back to Timbuktu soon, you’re going to be too weak to go anywhere.”

He leaned forward and studied his leg. “Mincemeat, but I don’t think anything major’s been severed. Here, help me out of this shirt, and we’ll make a bandage. If we wrap it tight enough, it’ll stop bleeding.”

As he struggled out of his shirt, she stared at the prehistoric-looking creature. The lizard’s purple tongue hung limp from its mouth. Its bloody teeth gleamed pink-red in the lamplight.

“It’s awful,” she whispered.

Graeme was tearing his shirt into strips. “Poor guy was just protecting his territory.” He paused and looked directly at Tillie. “If you hadn’t clobbered him, that could be me lying there.”

“Maybe he’s protecting the treasure. He is the grandfather of the Tuareg, remember?”

“And I’m Dumbo the elephant. Can you tie these ends into a knot, or are we going to sit here all night swapping ghost stories about the
amenoukal
and his reptilian ancestors?”

She tied the bandage around Graeme’s torn leg and tried to dismiss the chill that the incident had cast over her. As she tucked the ends of the fabric into the makeshift dressing, Graeme’s hand closed over hers.

“Are you okay to go on?”

Tillie nodded. “Sure. Can you walk?”

“I can do anything with the right motivation. Come on.” He struggled to his feet and leaned against the wall.

She stood and took the lamp from the crevice. “What if the waran had a mate?”

“I don’t think lizards are communal types, but we’ll have to take our chances.” He held out a hand. “Feel like being a crutch till I get my sea legs back?”

“Sure.”

She slipped one arm around his waist. He draped his arm over her shoulders, and they headed down the stony slope and around the bend. At the bottom of the shaft, the lamp revealed a narrow passageway filled with water.

“I guess we’re going in?” she asked.

“Guess so.”

As they edged down the ramp, they searched the pockets and ledges in the stone. Tillie felt the tepid water soak through her shoes, socks, pant legs. Its warmth meant that it flowed from a source near the desert surface. Strange to think of a stream running beneath the desert.

“‘Because,’” she whispered, “‘I have given waters in the wilderness and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people.’”

“Waters in the wilderness.” Graeme pulled her closer. “You’re the water in my wilderness, Tillie,” he whispered. “I love you.”

She paused, and he removed his arm from her shoulders. He cupped her face in his wet hands and tenderly kissed her lips. His mouth was warm and pliant, and in spite of her best intentions, she leaned longingly into the kiss.

Never mind about the waran and the
amenoukal
, about the gold and the journal. As wrong as she and Graeme surely were together, this love was the treasure she had been looking for all her life.

The treasure she would have to give up.

He drew back and looked into her eyes. “Ah, Tillie-girl.” Letting out a breath, he tilted his head back and let his eyes wander to the stone roof. “Tillie, I just want you to know . . . to know . . .” He paused, frowning.

This must be so hard for him,
she thought sadly.

“There it is.” His voice was hushed, filled with wonder.

“You want me to know what?”

“There it is.” His voice was tight with sudden excitement. “There it is! The journal!”

She looked up. Nearly hidden in a high niche in the rocky roof sat a small wooden box. It was studded with points of dull gray metal. Strange carvings covered its surface.

She held the lamp high. “Can you reach it?”

He limped through the water and raised his hand. Every muscle strained to its limit as he reached to touch the box with his fingertips. Slowly, very slowly, sand trickling into his upturned face, he eased the box from the ledge.

“I have it,” he whispered. He lowered the chest into his arms. “This is it.”

She brushed the sand from the carved lid. “Look,” she whispered. “Someone carved a message—”

Graeme’s hand clamped on her arm. She glanced at the water. A succession of ripples slapped the walls. Something had entered the water near them.

A shadow edged into the circle of light. A tall figure emerged.

“Attini,”
the
amenoukal
said. Broadsword unsheathed, eyes hidden in the shadows of his blue turban, he held out one hand. “
Attini
, Tree-Planting Woman. Give me treasure of Timbuktu.”

FIFTEEN

The
amenoukal
stood less than ten yards away. Graeme tucked the carved box under his arm and grabbed Tillie’s wrist. “Run!” he said, pushing her away. “Around that corner.”

Unwilling to let him try to make his own way with a bad leg, she wrapped her arm around his waist. “Let’s go!”

They slogged through the murky water of the tunnel, the angry shouts of the
amenoukal
driving them forward. Around the bend the water was deeper, the going slower. Another curve ahead led to a fork and two divergent tunnels.

“Go left,” Graeme growled. “We’ve got to buy time. If I can get the journal out, we can give him the chest and whatever else is in it.”

They pushed through the thigh-deep water. The lamplight revealed a small alcove. It wouldn’t hide them well, but it would have to do. Tillie clambered up onto a ledge, and she helped Graeme up beside her.

“Take the knife while I work on this clasp.” He shoved the hunting knife at Tillie. She held the lamp above her head as they examined the box. Its brass clasp, encrusted with sand and grit, wouldn’t budge. Graeme took the knife back and shoved it under the clasp’s nail-studded base.

“Attini.”
The
amenoukal
’s voice echoed down the tunnel. “Give treasure!”

Water splashed against the walls. Broadswords clanged on stone. The shouts grew closer as Graeme struggled to break the clasp.

“He’s getting close,” Tillie whispered. “He’s coming down our tunnel.”

“I’ve almost got it. Hold the light right there.” He grabbed her hand and moved the lamp directly over the brass clasp. “It’s locked. The nails in this thing—”

The clasp snapped and the ancient box popped open a crack. Graeme gingerly lifted the lid. Lamplight washed over an old hat sitting on a bed of dried, crumbling grass. The hat was not a pith helmet, as Tillie imagined Mungo Park must have worn. It was a gentleman’s felt hat. A dark green color, it had a dusty leather band stuck with bits of yellowing paper.

“The hat,” Graeme exclaimed, his voice hushed. “It’s the hat.”

“What hat? You never told me about a hat.”

“I didn’t think it was important.”

The sound of splashing grew louder. She shook his arm. “What’ll we do? Is this the treasure? We’ve got to tell the
amenoukal
something. Graeme, he’ll kill us.”

“This is Mungo Park’s hat.” Graeme might have been giving a university lecture. “Park talks about it in one of the journals we have in England. The people were scared to death of this hat because he used to tuck scraps of paper with notes on them into the band. They thought the hat was bewitched.”

“What did he write on the notes?”

“Thoughts, observations. Things he later transcribed into his journals.” He lifted the hat and handed it to Tillie. In the bottom of the chest lay two pens, a bottle of dried ink, a folded shirt, and three thin books.

“His journal!” she cried.

“No, these are his personal library. Look, no water stains. The guide was definitely lying about how he died. These are invaluable, Tillie.”

“Graeme, for crying out loud, the
amenoukal
’s almost here!”

“This isn’t the treasure. And the journal’s not here. Ahmadi Fatouma hid them somewhere else, Tillie. The journal’s with the treasure.”

“But where? In the mine?”

“The hat. The papers in the hat tell where the guide hid the treasure and the journal.”

“Are you sure? Maybe this is all there is. Maybe we can just give these things to the—”

A clang of steel reverberated down the wall, and the blue-veiled Tuareg chieftain surged into view. Spotting them, he gave a cry of victory. More veiled warriors filled the tiny tunnel, closing in on Tillie and Graeme.

“The hat. Give it to me!” Graeme shouted.

She shoved the hat into his hand. He set it in the box and slammed the lid shut.

“Graeme, give him the chest.”

“Never.” He raised the knife and brandished the blade.

Silent now, the
amenoukal
waded toward them.
“Attini.”

“Ahodu Ag Amastane.” Tillie took a step forward. “We have found the box. There is no treasure. Show him, Graeme. Show him the hat and the books.”

The
amenoukal
jabbed the butt end of his spear into the water and stopped. His retinue fell into place behind him. His dark eyes flicked from Graeme to the chest and back to Tillie. Graeme opened the lid and took out the green felt hat.

“You see,” Tillie said. “No treasure. Graeme, show him the books.”

The
amenoukal
scowled. “Give treasure of Timbuktu.”

“I don’t have treasure. There is no treasure.”

“Legend say Tree-Planting Woman find treasure. You find.”

“No, I can’t. There is no treasure.”

The
amenoukal
’s eyes turned from deep purple to black. Without a word, he raised his spear. The Tuareg swarmed through the water. The cavern erupted into a sea of writhing, howling bodies.

Someone rammed into Tillie. Her feet went out from under her. The lamp splashed into the water and went out.

“Graeme!” she screamed. She couldn’t find him.

Her head went under the murky water. A crushing weight on her chest drove the air from her lungs, and she sucked in a gulp of fetid liquid.

Before she could cough, iron hands lifted her from the water and hurled her into the air. The tunnel’s dry roof flashed overhead. Fingers dug into her flesh. She fell over the shoulder of a Tuareg warrior. The musky smell of old cloth and sweaty male skin flooded her nostrils. Bright pinpoints of light swam before her eyes.

“Graeme!” she spluttered.

In the dim light, she spotted a circle of Tuareg men. Graeme crouched among them, his knife hand empty and the old chest gone. Above him, suspended in the dank air, the
amenoukal
’s broadsword poised for the downstroke.

She screamed. Writhed. Slithered off the man’s shoulder. “Graeme!” The sword began its deadly arc. Tillie’s Tuareg captor slammed her against the wall; her head exploded, and she slumped.

A strange smell, oddly familiar, brought Tillie’s eyes open. She tried to think where she had smelled it before. It was a sweet, cloying scent that worked its way down through her subconscious and into her conscious mind. Then it filled the arid crevices of her mouth and slipped into the hollows of her lungs. When it curled into her stomach, she gagged, rolled onto her side, and retched.

When she opened her eyes again, she saw a stretch of wine-and-blue carpeting. She could make out each hand-knotted tuft of silk, each golden twirl and sapphire curlicue that ran over the deep background. Her vision clearing, she traced a path across the carpet to a pair of embroidered leather slippers. Their geometric shapes wound from the heel to the pointed toe.

Her eyes drooped in tiredness, but when one of the slippers moved, she snapped awake.

“Tree-Planting Woman.”

She craned her swollen neck. Her focus wandered up billowing blue trousers and a thick indigo burnous to the wide shoulders and veil of the
amenoukal
.

His black eyes flashed. “Tree-Planting Woman. You find treasure.”

Bile welled up in her throat. She swallowed. Overhead, a hanging brass lantern swayed as the cloying incense she had smelled wafted from it. She was in the
amenoukal
’s tent. Khatty’s tent.

Dear God! The last thing she remembered, she and Graeme were in the tunnel together. They had the chest. And the hat. And then . . . “Graeme?” The word was a croak. Struggling to her elbows, she searched the tent. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

The
amenoukal
’s gaze was impassive.
“Attini.”

“Attini yourself, you creep.” With supreme effort, she hauled herself to her feet. “Where’s Graeme McLeod? What have you done with him? Bring Khatty to me. She’ll understand. Where’s Khatty?”

The
amenoukal
crossed his arms and turned his head regally to one side. “Khatty die.”

A cold wave of disbelief washed down Tillie’s back. “She died? How? What happened?”

“Khatty die.”

She grabbed a tent pole for support. “You did it, didn’t you? You killed her, just like you killed—”

“Khatty disobey. Let Tree-Planting Woman go.”

Tillie closed her eyes. Her head throbbed, and she felt her knees start to buckle. It was impossible. Khatty had loved this man, loved him deeply.

“Khatty was your wife! How could you—”

“Tree-Planting Woman, give treasure.”

“I don’t have your stupid treasure! I don’t know where it is. The box in the mine is all there was.”

“You know. Legend say.”

“Tell me what you did to Graeme. Tell me or you’ll never see your treasure.”

The
amenoukal
’s eyes deepened, and he clapped his hands twice. A young boy scampered into the room, bearing the
amenoukal
’s spear. Tillie recognized him as the child who had first placed the amulet around her neck in Bamako. She realized he must be the Targui’s son.

“Tree-Planting Woman.” The tattered strip of her skirt still hung from the spearhead. And now something else hung with it. A bloodstained khaki shirt. Graeme’s shirt.

“O dear Lord!” She sank onto the floor in a crouch and buried her face in her hands. Graeme was gone. Tears ran between her fingers and down her cheeks. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as sobs wracked her.

Graeme, Graeme . . . O God, let it not be true. Please, please, Father.
She tipped forward onto her knees and covered her head with her arms. Her shoulders heaved.

“No!” she shrieked as rage poured over the pain. Every ounce of her being longed to spring on the
amenoukal,
sink her teeth into his arm, claw his blue veil away, rake her nails across his cheeks, slash his thin lips, and yank at his long black hair. She clenched her fists, struggling to submit her will, forcing down her hunger for revenge.

“God!” she screamed, the plea for his help torn from her heart. “God, please! Please!”

“Matilda, is that you?” someone called out . . . a tall, thin man in the tent opening. A Targui stood guard at either side of him.

“Arthur?”

“Matilda!” Hands bound behind him, he squirmed as his guards shoved him forward and held him by his hair.

“Arthur, what are you doing here?” Tillie wiped a hand across her wet cheek.

“They captured me in Timbuktu.”

“Where’s Hannah?”

“At the rest house. She’s fine. Darling, what’s happened to you?”

“No talk!” The
amenoukal
crossed his arms over his chest. “Tree-Planting Woman find treasure.”

He gestured to his men. They hauled Arthur to their chief and threw him to the ground. The
amenoukal
lifted his spear and buried it in the tent floor an inch from Arthur’s neck. “Tree-Planting Woman find treasure.”

He turned on his heel and strode out of the tent. After he left, the Tuareg moved into action, grabbing Tillie’s arms and legs and tying them tightly together with heavy cords. They carried Arthur to a tent pole, dropped him, and tied him to it. A few feet away, another pole became Tillie’s prison. Then, as quickly as the tent had filled, it emptied, leaving Arthur and Tillie alone.

She closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. Her head throbbed. A blinding pain seared behind her eyes. Her mouth felt as dry as the sun-baked desert air, and she licked a drop of blood from her lip.

“Are you all right, darling?” Arthur whispered. “You look as if you’ve been through hell.”

“Yes.”

She sank into herself. Graeme was gone. Dead. Khatty, too. Her heart felt torn in two, emptied of all life and joy and hope.

“Darling, please talk to me.” Arthur’s pale blue eyes had sunk into his face and were rimmed with dark circles of exhaustion. A shock of thin brown hair hung over his forehead. His clothes were splattered with blood.

“What happened to you, Arthur?”

“I was staying at the government rest house in Timbuktu and waiting for you to arrive. The Tuareg found me one morning when I went into town to search for you.”