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For some strange reason, this didn’t seem to soothe him.
‘L-let g…of m…me.’
‘Shut up!’
I tugged on his collar, hard. Reluctantly, he slid a few more inches out of the water.
‘Th-that is an ordl…ordo…order!’
‘And this is a better one: shut up right now!’
Amazingly, he did. Though, to judge by the way he sagged and his head lolled to the side, I guessed it wasn’t one hundred per cent voluntarily.
‘Help!’ I yelled, though there was little chance of anybody up the cliff hearing me over the roar of the waterfall. ‘Help! Socorro! Socorro!’
It turned out I needn’t have worried about nobody hearing me up on the cliff. I had hardly dragged Mr Ambrose onto the bank when, from behind a bush a little up the path, a familiar head of grey hair appeared.
‘Ah!’ The old Indian lady looked from me to the prone figure of Mr Ambrose, impressed. ‘You wear him out? Good girl!’
‘No. The piece of wood did that for me.’
‘Wood?’ The old lady grinned. ‘You use piece of wood? What you up to, you naughty girl, eh?’
‘Will you help me to get him up to the village? Or call for help, please?’
‘No worry! He no have stamina? He fine in morning.’
For the first time I was profoundly grateful that Mr Ambrose was unconscious. I shuddered to think what he might have said - or done! - if he had been awake for that particular part of the conversation.
‘His, um, stamina is fine. He got a knock on the head.’
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‘Oh?’ Stepping forward, the old lady bent over to examine Mr Ambrose’s head wound - and then shrugged. ‘No worry! I did same with my first husband sometimes. Three good knocks on head, and he be good husband.’
Deciding that it probably wouldn’t be very fruitful to continue this conversation, I took a tighter hold on Mr Ambrose’s arm and tugged. Slowly, he began to slide farther up the bank. The old Indian lady, after a few minutes, sighed and grabbed the other arm, helping me to pull him through the downpour, away from the muddy waterfall. We didn’t make it very far, though. We had only got to the start of the cliff path when Mr Ambrose slipped out of our exhausted arms and slumped to the ground. We promptly followed, panting like race horses after the Derby.[26]
‘He…heavy!’ the old lady grunted. ‘Lot of muscle! Make good children, will he!’
I did not venture an opinion on the matter.
‘Just you wait and see.’ Reaching over, the old lady affectionately patted my stomach. ‘A few months, and you see what I mean.’
Groaning, I covered my eyes with my hand.
*~*~**~*~*
It took a while for me to digest what had almost happened.
Congress.
And not the kind they had in America, either, with the delegates and the boring speeches. No, this was far worse. Amorous congress. With Mr Rikkard Ambrose!
What kind of demon had taken temporary possession of my mind?
I didn’t know. But I knew it had to have been a damn devious one! There was simply no other way to explain what had happened. I mean, me? Me playing the blanket hornpipe? Basket making? Getting my bread and butter?[27] With Mr Rikkard Ambrose?
And it wasn’t even as if he had wrestled me to the ground and overwhelmed me with the overwhelming force of his dark, ice-cold eyes and delicious body. That I could have understood. Instead, it had been me who had attacked him, and practically ordered him to dance the fandango de pokum[28] with me. In the middle of the jungle! Under a waterfall!
