Every Whispered Word (31 page)

“If you would stop bolting up every two minutes and interrupting me, I would have been finished by now.”

“It doesn't really need to be stitched anyway,” Simon decided. “Now that you've cleaned it, all you need to do is put a bandage around it and I'll be on my way.” He started to get up from the cot.

Camelia rose from her chair to block him. “If you don't lie back down this instant, Simon Kent, I shall have to force you.”

He looked down at her, his eyes lit with amusement. “That's a very impressive threat, coming from a woman who barely reaches my chest. Just how, exactly, do you intend to force me?”

“Don't assume just because I am a woman that I can't,” Camelia warned.

“The fact that you are a woman has nothing whatsoever to do with my assumption,” Simon assured her. “It is more a question of our difference in size.”

“That's not a very scientific way for you to look at it,” Camelia argued. “After all, even a mighty elephant can be felled by a tiny bullet.”

“Are you planning to shoot me?”

“No—then I'd have two wounds to deal with instead of only one.”

“Quite sensible.”

“Lie back down, Simon.”

“Really, Camelia, as tempting as your offer is, I honestly believe my arm is looking much better now that you've washed it. A quick bandaging, and I'm sure it will heal splendidly.”

“I'm not bandaging it until it is stitched closed.”

“Fine, then, I'll do it myself.” He started to move around her.

“I'm terribly sorry, Simon.” She grabbed the little finger of his right hand and jerked it up hard.

“Sweet Jesus—” he swore, stumbling backward and falling onto the cot.

She released his finger and regarded him calmly. “Now are you ready to be stitched?”

He glowered at her. “Where did you learn that nasty little trick?”

“From Zareb,” she told him, rinsing out her washcloth. “He thought it would be handy for me to know a few defensive tactics, in case I ever found myself in a situation where I might need them.”

“Judging by the way you just did that, I'd say you've had a few opportunities to put it to the test.”

“Actually, you were my first time.” She began to gently sponge his wound clean once more. “I've only practiced on Zareb before now, so of course I never could do it very hard.” She tossed her cloth in the washbasin and smiled. “He'll be very pleased to hear about how well it worked.”

“I think I'd prefer it if you just kept this between us. I believe my manhood has suffered enough, without your announcing it to the entire camp.”

“As you wish.” She picked up her needle and thread once more. “Is there anything you'd like before I start?” she asked sweetly. “A shot of whiskey, perhaps—or maybe a bullet to bite on?”

“Actually, there is one thing.”

“Yes?”

He grabbed her, hauling her on top of him as he crushed his mouth against hers.

Camelia gasped and struggled against him, but Simon held her fast and kissed her deeply, his hands roaming possessively over her back as his legs tangled with hers.

He only wanted to assuage his wounded pride and even the score between them. Childish, perhaps, but in his mind completely understandable. But the feel of Camelia in his arms was overwhelming, unleashing the extraordinary passion he had tried to bury beneath the endless sleepless nights and hours of struggling with his work. He held her close and kissed her tenderly, his tongue exploring the sweet dark slickness of her mouth, coaxing, entreating, trying to get her to understand what he could not seem to put into words.

Camelia held still a moment, feeling the last vestiges of her restraint erode.

And then she moaned and pressed against Simon, her slender softness molding into his hard planes and curves, which seemed so wonderfully familiar and arousing. She threaded her fingers into the sun-washed tangle of his hair, feeling as if she had been starving for his touch, his kiss, his desire. If the fire that burned between them was wrong, then everything about her life was wrong. That was all she could think as she tore her lips away to press kisses against the elegantly chiseled line of his jaw, her fingers frantically unfastening the buttons of his wrinkled linen shirt.

She wanted him with a desperation that was absolute, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. And so she focused only on the feel of his powerful body shifting beneath her, the masculine scent of him flooding her senses, the salty-sweet taste of his beautiful bronzed skin tantalizing her tongue as she nibbled and licked and kissed her way down the corded column of his neck.

I want you,
she confessed silently, although she scarcely needed to say it aloud. She peeled his shirt open and pressed kisses along the hard ridge of muscles sculpting his chest.

I need you,
she added, overwhelmed by the intensity of her desire. Her kisses moved down and down, across the taut flat of his belly. His hold upon her gentled slightly, his touch growing reverent and tender.

Whatever this force was between them, it was more compelling than anything she had ever known in her life. More powerful than her need for independence. More mysterious than the secrets of the Tomb of Kings. And more terrifying than the dark wind that had cast its shadows around her ever since her father died. It was a force she could not fight. A force that on some level she did not want to fight.

She inhaled a ragged breath and lay her cheek against the hard flatness of Simon's belly, searching for some way to tell him how she felt.

Loud snoring suddenly filled the tent.

She raised her gaze in confusion. Simon's expression was nearly boyish as he lay with his head pressed blissfully into her pillow, completely oblivious to both her emotional turmoil and her passionate kisses. He must have been utterly exhausted, she realized. Clearly he had spoken the truth when he said he had been working night and day to get his pump to work.

Moving slowly so as not to wake him, she eased herself off the cot, gently covered him with a blanket, then quickly stitched and bandaged his wound.

And then she sat at her desk and stared at her father's journal through tear-glazed eyes, wondering how she would find the strength to bear it when Simon finally left her.

W
ake up, lad,” Oliver urged.

Simon groaned and buried his head deeper into his pillow. “I don't want any maggots, Oliver. And no dung, either. Now go away.”

“We need to speak to you,” insisted Zareb.

“Speak to me when I'm awake.” Simon jerked the blanket over his head and flopped onto his side.

“I know ye're tired, lad,” Oliver acknowledged soberly, “but I really think ye'll want to hear this.”

“Just by the way you're saying it, I'm quite certain I don't want to hear it,” he drawled. “What's the problem? Have we run out of dung already?”

“'Tis worse than that, I'm afraid.”

“Wonderful. What is it?”

“Unfortunately, yer pump has had a wee bit o' an accident.”

Simon whipped the blanket off his head and regarded him in disbelief. “What do you mean, ‘an accident'?”

“It has fallen over,” Zareb explained. “And it suffered some damage—”

Simon leapt from Camelia's bed and raced out of the tent into the early morning light, not bothering to listen to whatever else Zareb was saying.

The native workers were crowded around the muddy banks of the excavation site, their expressions grave. As Simon got closer he realized they were watching Camelia, Badrani, Senwe, Lloyd, and Elliott wading in the muddy water, apparently searching for something. He shifted his gaze to the ground beside them.

And saw the mangled remains of his steam pump lying in pieces upon the ground.

He stared blankly at the ruined piece of machinery. It wasn't possible. He walked over to it, slowly. Surely he must be dreaming. He reached out and tentatively laid his hand upon it. Warm steel pressed against his palm.

Not a dream, then. Real.

Pure, hot fury surged through him, so intense it momentarily stripped him of the ability to speak.

“Can you fix it?”

He turned to look at Camelia. Her hair was a tangle of gold around her shoulders, her gown was soaked with muddy water, and her cheeks and forehead were heavily streaked with dirt.

“Here.” She opened her dripping wet hands to reveal a motley assortment of screws, nuts, bolts, and other small, broken pieces from the machine. “I found these in the water. The others have found a few pieces as well.” Her voice was taut. “We'll keep looking for more while you begin your repairs.”

Simon stared down at her in helpless silence. Her beautiful face was pale beneath the smudges of dirt, and lines of dread creased her elegant brow. Yet her sage-colored eyes remained wide and hopeful, lit by the magnitude of her own determination and perhaps even by the incredible faith she seemed to have in him. And as he looked down into the depths of those extraordinary eyes, he suddenly felt overwhelmed, both by the wonder of her belief that he could fix the disaster before him, and the absolute certainty that he could not.

“Camelia,” he began, his voice low and rough, “I cannot fix this.”

“I promise you we'll find all the missing pieces,” she told him fervently. “We'll search all day and all night, if we need to. Once you have everything, you'll be able to put it back together again.”

Simon shook his head. “Even if we find all the missing pieces, I cannot do it. The valve mechanisms are badly damaged. The boiler is cracked. The expansion blades are severely dented and the shaft is broken. I cannot repair it.”

“We can order whatever parts you need from Cape Town.” She pressed her collection of screws and bolts into his hand, unwilling to accept what he was telling her. “Make a list, and Zareb and I will ride out to Kimberley this morning and see if there is anything we can get from there. Then we'll order the rest from Cape Town.”

“It isn't that simple, Camelia. Most of these parts I designed and had made especially for me by a steel welder in London. They are unique.”

“Then we'll send a letter to your welder and have him make us more.”

“That will take months, Camelia.”

She met his gaze evenly, struggling to appear strong and determined. But her bottom lip was trembling as she clutched at the filthy wet folds of her skirts. She was just as devastated as he was, Simon realized. Her workers were watching her in grave silence, waiting to see how she would handle this latest disaster. It was this that kept the slender thread of her emotions from snapping. She was a fighter, but at that moment, she was also a leader. She could not afford to let fear and disappointment overwhelm her, or her few remaining workers would believe she had finally been defeated.

And then they would leave.

“I am sorry, Mr. Kent.” Badrani slowly approached Simon and Camelia, his head bowed in shame. “It is my fault. I was on watch last night.” He knelt in misery before Camelia. “You must punish me as you see fit, my lady.”

“I'm not going to punish you, Badrani,” Camelia assured him. “Please get up. I just want to know what happened.”

“It was the dark spirits,” Badrani told her, rising to his feet. “They came late, after everyone in the camp was asleep. They cast a spell on me to make me sleep also. When I awoke, they had broken the pump into pieces and thrown them down into the water.”

Oliver regarded him incredulously. “Ye mean ye just fell asleep when ye were supposed to be on watch?”

“It was the dark spirits,” Senwe insisted, loyal to his friend. “They cast a spell on him.”

“More like drink cast a spell on him,” Oliver countered, frowning with disapproval. “What were ye drinkin' afore ye went on watch?”

“Only milk with honey,” Badrani told him.

“Now, lad, ye canna expect me to believe a great strappin' lad like ye is only nippin' on milk at night.”

“We Khoikhoi all drink milk from the time we are born,” Zareb interjected. “It keeps us strong.”

“If you do not believe me, look in my container—I haven't rinsed it out yet.” Badrani removed the ostrich eggshell container looped around his chest and handed it to Oliver. “It is not good for drinking now, but last night it was fresh.”

Oliver took the drinking vessel and glared into it, unconvinced. A subtle scent assailed his nostrils as he glanced at the white liquid inside. Frowning, he held the vessel closer and sniffed again.

“What is it?” asked Simon.

Oliver regarded him soberly. “Laudanum.”

“You're sure?”

“Aye.”

Badrani drew his black brows together in confusion. “What is laudanum?”

“Somethin' to make ye sleepy, lad. Someone put laudanum into yer milk to make ye sleep.”

“The honey probably countered its bitterness,” Simon added. “That's why you didn't notice it.”

“Did you fill your container yourself, Badrani?” asked Lloyd, who had climbed out of the water to join them.

Badrani nodded. “But then I left it in my tent, so it would stay cool until I was ready to begin my watch.”

“It would have been easy for someone to go into your tent and add a few drops of laudanum,” Camelia reflected.

“So it wasn't the dark spirits?”

“No,” Camelia assured him. “Not dark spirits.”

Relief spread across the handsome warrior's face.

“Whether we blame it on dark spirits or not, we have a big problem,” Sim mused grimly. “The pump is broken and the site is still flooded.”

“I'm thinkin' the problem is even bigger than that, lad,” Oliver added. “There's some spineless cur around tryin' to drive us away from here.”

“Oliver is right.” Muddy and dripping wet, Elliott climbed out of the excavation site and gave Simon another handful of screws and nuts from the pump. “The previous pumps Camelia leased were also damaged, but never on this scale. Whoever did this was determined to be extremely thorough.” He swept his gaze over the remaining workers. “Did any of you men see anyone going into Badrani's tent yesterday, before it was his time to go on watch?”

The natives eyed each other nervously, then vehemently shook their heads.

“I don't believe it was one of my men, Elliott,” Camelia objected. “They are all good men and hard workers, who respected my father. None of them would do such a thing.”

“They've made no secret of the fact that they believe this site is cursed,” Elliott argued. “If they actually believe the Tomb of Kings exists, they certainly don't want you to find it. They're happy just to waste your time, collecting money from you while they secretly go about sabotaging your efforts.”

“When we Africans fight, we fight openly, Lord Wickham.” Zareb's voice was deceptively mild. “It is not our way to lie and deceive as you have suggested.”

“I'm sorry, Zareb, but the simple fact is not all natives are like you,” Elliott countered evenly. “Clearly someone did this, and it wasn't any bloody dark spirits. It was someone who wants to stop this dig from progressing.”

“Whether the cur is here amongst us or off somewhere watchin' over us, he'll nae stop 'til he's won,” Oliver reflected. “That's plain enough, I think.”

“Which is why we have to catch him,” Elliott insisted.

“I can increase the number of men watching the camp at night, but not by much,” Lloyd said. “With every available man working from dawn to dusk, they are just too tired to then stay awake and guard the camp at night.”

“Then let's have six men stop and sleep in three different shifts during the afternoon, so they are able to stay awake for three different shifts during the night,” suggested Camelia. “If they are guarding the camp in pairs, one can always raise the alarm if something happens to the other.”

“That's a good idea.” Elliot turned to Simon. “So what do you think, Kent? Can you fix this pump of yours? If so, I'll climb back into the water and see what other pieces I can find.”

Simon regarded Elliott in surprise. He would have thought Wickham would be pleased that the pump was ruined. It was just one more failure for Camelia, and therefore one more argument in favor of abandoning her dig. But Elliott met Simon's gaze with determination, apparently eager to help in whatever way he could. It occurred to Simon that he was merely trying to demonstrate to Camelia that he wanted to be supportive of her. After all, he was far more likely to win her affection if he at least pretended to champion her dream. Or maybe Elliott secretly nurtured the hope that she would actually succeed in finding the Tomb of Kings. Despite his assertion that he no longer believed in its existence, it was possible that deep within he actually allowed that it might. Whatever the reason, instead of telling Camelia that she should just give up, he was trying to help, at a time when Camelia needed all the assistance she could get.

For that, Simon momentarily forgave him for being such a pompous idiot.

“I might be able to fix it.” He didn't want to raise Camelia's hopes too high, only to disappoint her. “I won't know until I've had a chance to really inspect it and see how severe the damage is. But even if I can, it's going to take weeks, Camelia—or even months. You have to understand that.”

Camelia nodded. Weeks. Months. Time in which she had to go on paying her workers, and using up what precious little money she had left. Lord Cadwell had reluctantly invested some money in her dig before she left London. She had also managed to convince her creditors in London to give her just a little more time, assuring them that she would be able to start making payments against her mounting loans shortly. She had hoped with Simon's help, she would be able to clear the site of water quickly and finally find the precious Tomb of Kings.

The destruction of his pump was a devastating setback.

“I understand.” Somehow she managed to feign calm, when inside she felt like screaming. “If you can provide me with a list of what you think you need, Simon, then Zareb and I will take the wagon to Kimberley this morning and order it. In the meantime, we will continue to clear the water from the site with buckets, as we did before.”

“All right, men,” Lloyd called out. “We need every bucket and container available in the camp brought back to the edge of the bank here. As we get the water level down, we'll search the bottom for more of the missing pieces from the pump. Let's look sharp—the morning is half gone already!”

“You go and get dry, Camelia,” Elliott urged gently. “I'll continue looking for more of the machine's pieces.”

“There's no reason for me to change until it's time to go to Kimberley, Elliott,” Camelia told him. “Until then, I'm staying here and searching.”

Simon watched as she climbed back down into the excavation and began groping around once again in the muddy water. Elliott sighed and climbed in after her.

“That lass has a braw heart,” Oliver mused, watching as she plunged her arms up to her shoulders into the murky pool. “I'm thinkin' she must be a wee bit Scottish.”

“Tisha has an African spirit,” Zareb informed him. “That is why I gave her that name. It means ‘strong-willed.' I knew it the moment I first saw her.”