speaking to the little black girl who seemed more of a companion to her than a servant.
Still Carnacho leaned against the hole of one of the tall urnsivu trees and watched her with those black eyes gone velvet and swimming with desire. He was carefully weighing the consequences of what he had dreamed about every night since they had left Quelimane. He had imagined every detail, every expression, every word, each movement and each sigh or cry.
It was not as improbable as it seemed at first. She was an English woman, of course, daughter of a famous man of God, both facts should have been prohibitive to his intentions. However, Camacho had a canny instinct when it came to women, there was a sensuality about her eye and in the full soft lips, and she moved with animal awareness of her body. Carnacho stirred restlessly and thrust his hands into his pockets, kneading and tugging gently at himself.
He was fully aware that he was a magnificent specimen of masculinity, those thick tresses of black hair, the gypsy feyness of eyes, the blazing smile, and powerful and well-proportioned body. He was attractive, perhaps irresistibly so, for more than once he had intercepted a quizzical appraising look from the woman.
Often the admixture of his blood was attractive to white women, it was an exoticism, the attraction of the forbidden and dangerous, and he sensed in this woman a rebellious disregard for the rules of society. It was possible, no more than possible, Carnacho decided, and there was unlikely to be a better opportunity than now. The cold stiff English brother was out of camp, would be so f or another hour or more, and the woman had finished attending the little group of sick bearers. A servant had brought a kettle of boiling water to her tent, and she was closing the fly.
Cim-echo had watched this little ritual every evening.
Once the oil lamp had cast her shadow upon the canvas, and he had watched her silhouette lowering those tantalizing breeches, and then using the sponge to, he shuddered deliciously at the memory, and pushed himself away from the tree trunk.
Robyn mixed the hot water from the kettle into the enamel basin. It was still scalding hot, but she liked it so that it reddened the skin and left her feeling glowing with cleanliness. She began to unbutton the flannel shirt, sighing with pleasant weariness, when something scratched on the fly of the tent. Who is it? ' she called sharply, and felt a faint stir of alarm as she recognized the low voice. 'What do you want? ' I want talk you, missus. ' Camacho's tone was conspiratorial. Not now, I am busy. ' The man repelled her, and yet in a contrary manner, fascinated her as well. She had found herself staring at him more than once, as she would at a beautiful but poisonous insect. She was annoyed that he had noticed and was vaguely aware that it was unwise to show even the vaguest interest in a man like that. Come back tomorrow. ' It suddenly occurred to her that Zouga was not in the camp, and she had sent little Juba on an errand. I cannot wait. I am sick.'
That was one appeal she could not deny. Oh very well. Wait, she called, and buttoned her shirt, and then as an excuse perhaps to delay the moment turned her attention to her instruments still spread on the table that had been carried into the tent.
It reassured her to touch them, and rearrange the bottles and pots of medicines. Enter, ' she called at last, and faced the entrance of the tent.
Camacho stooped through the entrance, and for the first time she realized bow tall he was. His presence in the small tent was almost overpowering, and his smile seemed to light up the interior. His teeth were startlingly white and perfect, she found herself staring again, like a chicken at the dancing cobra perhaps. He was beautiful in a decadent, overblown way, he was bare-headed, all dark dancing hair and scalding eyes. What is the trouble? ' she asked, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. I show you.'
Very well, ' she nodded, and he unbuttoned his shirt.
His skin had the sheen of wet marble, but was deep olive in colour, and his body hair grew in crisply springing whorls. His belly was moulded like that of a greyhound and his waist narrow as a girl's. She ran her eyes down his body, quite certain that her gaze was level and professional, but there was no denying the fact that he was an extraordinary animal. Where is it? ' she asked, and with a single movement he had unclinched and lowered the light duck trousers that were all he wore on his lower body. Where? ' she asked, and realized that her voice croaked, and she could not go on with the question, for suddenly it dawned upon her that she had been the victim of a carefully planned ruse, and she was in a potentially dangerous position.
Is that where it hurts? ' she found her voice was still a husky whisper. Yes, his voice was A whisper also, and he made a slow stroking movement. 'You can fix, maybe. ' He took a step towards her. I can fix, certainly, she said softly, and her hand dropped on to the array of surgical instruments. She actually experienced a twinge of real regret, for it was a superior example of nature's art, and afterwards she was relieved that she had selected a needle probe, and not one of the razorlike scalpels that she had reached for.
The instant before she stabbed, he realized what was about to happen and an expression of utter terror blanched his swarthy, handsome face. He tried frantically to return it to whence it had come, but fear had slowed his hand.
He screamed like a teenage girl as the probe plunged into him, and kept on screaming as he spun around on the same spot as though one foot had been nailed to the ground. Now he was using both hands to hold himself, and once again, with cool professional interest, Robyn noticed the quite miraculous change that had taken place.
She advanced the probe once more into the ready position, and Camacho could no longer stand his ground.
He snatched up his trousers, and with a last terrified howl, launched himself head-first into the tent pole. The collision checked him only a moment, and then he was gone, and Robyn found herself trembling violently and yet she was strangely elated. It had been an unusual and instructive experience. However ' she would have to use her own personal code when describing it in her journal.
From that evening onwards the Portuguese kept well away from Robyn, and she was relieved not to have those hot dark eyes caressing her wherever she turned. She thought of telling Zouga of the incident, but decided that the embarrassment to both of them and the difficulty of finding the correct words was not worth it. Then there would be the extreme reaction which Zouga would almost certainly have, or that she expected he would have. She had learned never to expect the obvious reaction from her brother, behind the cool and reserved exterior she suspected there existed mysterious passions and dark emotions. After all, they were full-blooded brother and sister, and if she was so afflicted, why should he not be also?
On the other hand, she suspected that, like a cornered wild animal, the Portuguese could be a grave danger even to an experienced soldier and man of action like Zouga.
She had a horror of forcing her brother into a position which might lead, if not to his death. then at least to serious injury. Besides which, she had effectively taken care of the man herself. He would be no further trouble, she decided comfortably, and she dismissed Camacho from her mind, and concentrated instead on the pleasure of the
