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Ignoring my order, he flung himself head-first into the water. I lunged after him, but he was already darting away, swimming the crawl faster than I had ever seen anybody do in my life.
‘Come back! I promise to wash before we do it! Hey! Come back!’
He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued on until a few fast strokes had brought him to the opposite bank. Ducking down, he slid into a thicket of reeds and lianas, and was gone. All that remained was a whiff of his smell in the air and the sound of wet footsteps, fast receding into the distance.
I punched the water.
‘Damn!’
*~*~**~*~*
Needless to say, I wasn’t in a particularly good mood when I got back to the camp. After my little trip into the river, the lower half of my body had lost most of its mosquito protection and was now itching for an entirely different reason than I had originally hoped for. Quickly I returned to my little patch of mud and restored my protective package, taking care to punch the mud a few times, imagining that it was Mr Ambrose’s face.
And the worst thing was: I couldn’t even be officially miffed at him. Because, no matter how much he protested that it was all about his mint-condition suit, I knew what it was really about: he had been protecting my virtue.
The nerve of him! If my virtue needs protecting, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much!
Yes, but…right then and there, did I have the strength to do it myself? Did I even want it? All I knew was that I wanted him. Desperately. I wanted to get dirty with him and paint myself all over his body, mark him forever as mine.
Biting my lip, I punched the mud again. Damn him! Damn him for being so reasonable and controlled. Damn him for thinking of what I needed, instead of what I wanted!
I finished my insect protection measures, and, getting to my feet, started back towards the camp. I hadn’t got half the way when a dark figure stepped out from the trees, blocking my path. My hands instinctively rose in defence - when dark, deep, sea-coloured eyes met mine and I immediately recognised the figure on the shadowy pathway.
He stood there, silent as an empty grave. His eyes, though, weren’t empty. They were swirling with dark storm clouds, speaking their own secret language.
The silence was lengthening. I supposed I had better say something before it reached the length of Loch Ness.
‘Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
That was it. I didn’t really know what else to say. The look in his eyes was slightly disturbing.
‘Mr Linton.’
That was it. That was all he said. His voice was perfectly cool and controlled again. He stepped out of the shadow, and I saw that he had somehow managed to clean and dry his oh-so-precious mint-condition shirt and tailcoat.
Slowly, he took a step forward. My whole body tensed, prickling with the feeling of his proximity. What was he doing here? Not half an hour ago, he had run away from me. And now he was coming towards me, with a look in his eyes that made me shiver inside? What was his game?
Whatever it was - he intended to win.
He was only a few feet away from me now. His hand came up, and, mesmerised, I stood there as his fingers approached. They touched my cheek - my dirty, mud-stained, unladylike cheek - and stayed there for an immeasurably long second. When his fingers came away again, they were stained with dirt. He raised them to his own face and I watched, spell-bound as he drew a long, devilishly dirty, line of mud across his cheek. He began just under his eye, and drew downwards, until his path ended right next to his mouth.
Or so I thought.
His fingers moved on, until they rested against his lips, and he bestowed a gentle kiss on the finger that had grazed my cheek, leaving his lips mud stained and dirty. His eyes met mine, searing into me. Then, without saying a word, he turned and marched away back up the path.
With trembling fingers, I reached up to touch my cheek, where I could still feel his fingers burning into my skin with cold fire.
What the hell was that?
Caught in Cobwebs
If I had thought the little episode on the path meant that Mr Ambrose was now fine with my new apparel (or lack thereof), I had been vastly mistaken. I had hardly time to wake up the next morning before he pounced on me. He more or less arm-wrestled me into wearing my chemise over my mud-package. It was a bit wet and sticky, but on the whole I had to admit it felt nice having something to cover my girly bits. I guess I wasn’t completely cut out for life as an Amazon Indian.
That didn’t mean, however, that I wasn’t more than ready to forego cover in the presence of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Not at all. The longer we travelled together, the stronger became my desire to push him to the ground and rip his clothes off. Unfortunately, Mr Ambrose didn’t seem to share my desire, or at least had much better control of it than sweet little me. How could I possibly get this craving under control? How?
I tried logic. It had served me well in the past:
Men and women deserve equality. Men won’t give women equality. Ergo, men are bastards.
