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I stared at him. ‘In our situation?’
His cold, sea-coloured gaze met mine. ‘For some reason, she seems to be labouring under the misapprehension that you are my…intended.’
‘Intended?’ My eyes almost bugged out of my sockets. ‘Intended as in engaged?’
‘I do not think they take things quite so formal here - but yes, in essence that is what she meant.’
I felt heat rush up to my face, and not for the first time was profoundly glad that my tanned skin didn’t blush easily. Instinctively, my eyes flitted away from his, hiding under my lashes. ‘What did you say?’
‘Well, I put her straight, of course. And do you know what she did then?’
‘No. What?’
A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘She patted me on the head, turned, and walked away!’
‘Dear me.’ I did my very, very best not to laugh as I visualised Mr Rikkard Ambrose being patted on the head. I didn’t think I was entirely successful, though. ‘That must have been…upsetting for you.’
Arctic eyes met mine, making it clear that I had better be quiet if I wanted to live to see the next day. Clearing my throat, I quickly changed the subject.
‘So…this is why we are still here?’
‘Yes.’ His voice was less than pleased. ‘She flatly refuses to help us before you are properly rested. She has threatened to instruct me in the proper way for a man to treat his…woman.’
An image flashed in front of my mind, of Mr Rikkard Ambrose sitting at a table, me beside him, being taught how to properly eat mousse au banana and roasted monkey bottoms by a little old Indian lady in a governess’s outfit. I disguised my laughter as a cough as best I could.
Then I realised that the image didn’t just make me want to laugh. It also made my stomach growl.
‘Come on,’ sliding out of my hammock, I stretched, yawning. ‘I’m hungry. Time to find something to eat.’
However, apparently roasted monkey bottoms weren’t exactly the main staple of the local tribe. Instead, the menu consisted mainly of roots, some big kind of fruit that grew on dark, gnarled trees and something that looked a bit like a potato, but tasted a lot sweeter. These were supplemented with various small birds and other animals, brought in every day by the hunters and roasted over an open fire.
The old Indian lady sat next to me during the whole meal, chattering away in Portuguese and force-feeding me choice morsels. Every now and again she would pat me comfortingly and glare at Mr Ambrose. I had to say, I hadn’t enjoyed a meal like this in a very, very long time.
It turned out that the old lady had meant what she said. We were staying in the village for now, no matter how many frosty glares Mr Ambrose shot at the old lady. I was a bit worried about that, myself - after all, we did have half a battalion on our trail - but here we were probably as safe as we possibly could be. The Indian village was high up in the hills, up on a rocky cliff, where we would see any pursuers coming from miles away. Plus, our native friends had done their best to conceal our tracks on their way in. And, to judge by the way they slithered silently through the jungle, their best was probably the best there was.
So I decided, as long as we were here, I might as well put the time to good use. Every day I went to shooting practice with Mr Ambrose, and with my ultimate threat - emulating the native dress code - I got Karim to start teaching me Portuguese. And I wasn’t just talking about curse words! It wasn’t that I felt a deep-seated need to expand my language skills - it just pissed me off that I was the only one who could only communicate with hand gestures! The old Indian lady spent most of her time talking to me, and yet I didn’t understand a single word she said! And…I would have liked to. Unlike many of my fellow females at home, who frittered away their lives on balls and buffoonery, I had a suspicion she was someone I could really talk to.
And what do you know? After a while it paid off. It only took me a few days, and I started to catch a word here and there in her conversations with Mr Ambrose. A few more days, and I spoke my first word in Portuguese. It was ‘Bastard!’ Oh, what a proud moment! If my mother still been alive, I’m sure she would have cried.
Mr Ambrose didn’t appreciate the special moment fully, however.
I started helping out around the village, making a few really awful pots and bowls, and helping to weave a few cloths that were only fit for scarecrows. The other women found my attempts amusing enough not to mind. It turned out that a few of them also spoke broken bits of Portuguese, and with their help, I slowly started to be able to communicate. As long as the sentences were short and to the point, I could manage.
Communication had its dangers, however, as I learned a few days later. The men were just returning from the hunt. Mr Ambrose had gone with them, since, as he put it ‘if I have to spend another minute in unproductive idleness, I will murder someone, just to have something to do!’ The other men had been quite amenable, interested, I supposed, in seeing how one of the palefaces hunted with their exploding sticks. And, apparently, the hunt had been quite successful.
‘Ay! Ay!’
The excited cries of a child were the first signal announcing the return of the hunters. Putting aside the pot I had been able to form, and which looked more or less like a pelican trying to commit suicide by tying itself into a knot, I stood up and, shielding my eyes against the sunlight, looked over to the distant entrance of the village, where an excited gaggle of naked children was already gathering.
His head - tall, dark and proud - was the first to appear out of the jungle. Then followed the long staff that was resting on his shoulder, and only then came the other men, helping to carry the staff. And then…
My mouth fell open, and I gaped at the shape of the enormous wildcat hanging limp from the stake that had to be carried by at least half a dozen men. The beast’s face was twisted into a snarl in death, its fangs visible even from where I stood. The children were gaping in awe - but just for a moment. Then they started screeching in excitement and rushed forward, wanting to touch the enormous beast. Unlike them, I didn’t stare at the leopard. I only had eyes for Mr Ambrose.
Light, slow footsteps approached from behind me. I didn’t have to look around to know
who it was. The old Indian lady hobbled to a halt next to me, supporting herself on a gnarled old stick. She regarded me with shrewd eyes.
‘He.’ The old woman nodded at the tall, dark figure striding at the head of the hunters. ‘Strong. Quick. A good hunter.’
