A Kiss of Adventure Page 3

  He turned to her, and for the first time she looked into his eyes. Deep blue-green, they were the color of the desert sky. One corner of his mouth turned up, softening the harsh line. “I prefer to think I rescued you. I guess you haven’t thought about where you’d be if I hadn’t come along when I did.”

  “I can take care of myself, McLeod. That Targui never would have gotten away with me.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  Tillie pursed her lips and looked away. They were leaving the city, and she began to worry in earnest. The houses grew farther apart. Dusty fields took their place. A glint of sunlight on the river caught her eye, and she tried to remember what Arthur had told her the night they met.

  Explorers had come to find the direction in which the Niger flowed. Mungo Park was the one who discovered that the river was shaped like a huge question mark. It began far to the southwest of Bamako and wound north toward the Sahara. Then it turned southward and spilled out into the Bight of Benin.

  Of course! The Niger flowed north from Bamako. Tillie scrutinized the muddy waters and saw that the Land Rover was traveling with the current. Graeme McLeod was taking her north.

  Toward the desert.

  Oh, Lord. Panic rising in her throat, she realized Arthur would have no idea where she was by now. The Targui must be miles behind. Who was this man—and what could he possibly want with the amulet? Her mind quickly ran through possible ways to escape.

  “I need a rest stop,” she announced. “A bathroom.”

  “Sure you do.” His mouth tipped into a slight smile. “We’ll stop when the sun goes down.”

  “Sunset!” Tillie glowered at him. “Hey, I’m expected back at my house already. People are waiting for me, and I have to go to work tomorrow. Look, McLeod, I told you I need to stop now. I mean it.”

  “We’ve got to get to the rapids before the sun sets.”

  Rapids! Tillie looked down at her cotton skirt and sandals. How was she ever going to escape this demon in the darkness, near rapids, and in these useless clothes? She rested an elbow on the door handle and tried to moisten her lips. It was useless. Her nostrils burned with the acrid scent of the air. The sifting dust that covered her legs and skirt in a fine powder absorbed every droplet of moisture from her body.

  The sun dipped swiftly toward the flat, barren horizon, as it always did in Africa. As Tillie was beginning to abandon all hope of escape, Graeme swung the Land Rover off the track.

  She craned forward. “What are you . . . where are—”

  “Right here.” He pulled the Land Rover to a halt in the midst of a scrubby growth of banana trees.

  Sitting back, he let out a breath. “Okay, now let’s get you some relief and a bite to eat. You can get out of the Land Rover and take care of business in the bushes. But I wouldn’t advise trying to run. The moon won’t be up for hours, and you probably know there are some unpleasant critters in this part of Mali. Cheetahs, lions, leopards . . . jackals.”

  Giving the man a final glare, Tillie threw open the door and slid out of the Land Rover. The banana trees closed over her head, and the dry, scratchy grass crept up beneath her skirt to her thighs. One thing was for sure. She wasn’t about to go any farther without finding out what was inside the locket. Maybe it held the answers to what was going on.

  She crept behind a kapok tree and drew the amulet out of her blouse. Squinting in the twilight, she gingerly pried apart the silver clasp, opened the locket, and touched a tiny square of folded paper.

  “Okay, so there is something,” she muttered.

  Holding her breath, she lifted the message from its hiding place. Whatever had been written on it must explain why she’d been chosen by the ragged boy . . . why the Targui had come into Bamako on his camel . . . why Graeme McLeod had taken her out of the city—

  “I’ll take that,” he growled from behind, locking her wrist in one hand and jerking her against him as he tried to tug the paper away. “You lied to me, lady.”

  “I did not!” Tillie gasped through clenched teeth. “I didn’t know there was anything inside the amulet.”

  “Amulet?”

  “Yes, and anyway, the boy gave it to me.”

  The heat from his hand burned her stomach as they struggled over the paper, each wanting it but neither willing to risk tearing the fragile scrap. Suddenly he let go of her and she stumbled forward, the amulet’s contents still in hand. Surprised, she stood staring at him in the fading light.

  “Look, I want you to cooperate with me,” he said, his voice softer. “If you’ll come back to the clearing, we can sit down and talk this over.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ve spent ten months in Mali tracking down that document. Longer than that in England. I’ve got to have it, okay? You’ll go along with me one way or another.”

  “Oh, really?” She refolded the paper and slid it back into the locket. Slipping the chain around her neck, she pushed past him toward the clearing. Finding the fallen branch of an old gray baobab tree, she sat on one end.

  “So explain,” she demanded when he hunkered down beside her.

  “Are you going to let me see the paper?” He took a small flashlight from his pocket. Flicking it on, he held it out. Its weak beam cast a gentle glow on the tall yellow grass and her leather sandals.

  “I want to read it first,” she declared. “The boy gave it to me. It’s meant to be mine.”

  He considered for a moment, then nodded. “You’re probably more right about that than you’re going to like.” He held the flashlight out to her.

  “Whatever that means.” She slipped the chain over her head and took the flashlight from him. “Just don’t grab me anymore, okay?”

  “No problem.”

  She gently opened the ancient silver locket and lifted out the paper. As she unfolded it, she heard the man beside her draw a deep breath. She thought she detected a quiver of anticipation in his hands.

  The paper was very old—yellowed and creased. A single paragraph in English had been written in a spidery hand. Tillie held up the flashlight and read silently:

  25 December, 1806—

  I believe it is Christmas Day somewhere, though not here. I know I will not live to see tomorrow. The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ailie when I get back will you let me rest? Will you keep the Moors away? The Bight of Benin the blight of Benin. Ahmadi Fatouma has the wealth in safekeeping for me. Ailie we will buy that house on Chester Street. Mine mine mine! I have the wealth. I possess the treasure of Timbuktu. One day, one day the white man will come here. One day, one day the white woman will come here. She will plant trees and make it a garden for tea parties. She will plant trees. She will find the treasure of Timbuktu. And the curse of the Bight of Benin will be ended.

  Mungo Park

  Graeme lifted his chin. “So what does it say?”

  “It’s weird. Sounds like he’s rambling.”

  “Who? Who’s rambling?”

  She looked at the document again. Mungo Park—he was the explorer Arthur had told her about. Had he really written this? And what about the tree planting? What was the significance of that?

  “Are you finished?” Graeme’s deep voice broke into her reverie. “May I see it now?”

  He reached out to take the paper, but Tillie whisked it away. “Wait a second!” she whispered. “First I want you to tell me something.”

  “What?”

  She could sense his eagerness, like a leopard stalking prey—muscles coiled and ready to spring. It seemed all he could do to resist overpowering her to have his way.

  “I want you to tell me who you are,” she said. “Why do you want this paper so badly?”

  “I told you. I’m Graeme McLeod, I’m an American, and I’ve been trying to find that paper for nearly two years.”

  “Why? What do you think it says?”

  “The more you know about it, the more danger you’ll be in. Just let me see it.”

  “First tell me why you wa
nt it.”

  He sighed and she could see his knotted biceps tighten further. “I believe that paper is a page from the diary of Mungo Park.” He searched her eyes as if seeking confirmation.

  “Mungo Park,” she murmured, keeping her focus trained steadily on him, betraying nothing. “The explorer.”

  “Yes, the explorer. Almost two years ago, I heard rumors that the page had come to light. There’s been a theory—a legend—that a secret message written by Mungo Park exists. It supposedly talks about some strange things. About a woman who plants trees, for example.”

  Tillie shivered and turned the paper over in her hands. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I hope I’m going to get to read it.”

  “I mean after that.”

  “I don’t know. I need to read it to find out what to do next.”

  She looked down at the sheet of paper, then took a deep breath and placed it on his thigh. He stared at her for a moment. When he gingerly picked up the paper, she leaned over and held the flashlight at his shoulder while he read.

  Tillie tried to reread the yellowed scrap with him, but she found her attention drawn away by the nearness of his shoulder and the thick mane of black hair that brushed her hand. How strange that she should be tempted to rest her head against such a man’s shoulder.

  Well, she was tired and disoriented. She wished Hannah were here. Hannah would know exactly what to do. Pray. That’s what she would recommend. But Tillie felt she hardly had time to think, let alone formulate a prayer.

  “He wants you to walk in him one day at a time.” One day at a time. How about one minute at a time? Tillie flushed at the memory of Hannah’s gentle reprimand. Her big plans were worth less than nothing at this moment. “He’s the vine and you’re only a branch. If you remain in him and he remains in you, you will bear fruit. . . . But apart from Christ, Tillie, you cannot do a thing.”

  Apart from him, nothing. Walk in him. One minute at a time.

  Oh, Lord, help me.

  Tillie opened her eyes and looked down at the paper. Graeme obviously had read and reread it by now.

  “This is just great,” he snarled suddenly. He leaned back, knocking the flashlight from her hand and extinguishing its beam. They both bent to grope for it. As Tillie found it, his hand closed around hers.

  “Look . . . what’s your name?” he whispered, taking the flashlight from her. “That guy in the market—did he call you Matilda?”

  “No, please. I’m Tillie. Tillie Thornton.”

  “Look, Tillie. I think you’d better listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. You’re in for some rough days.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the journal. I’m talking about Mungo Park and the legend and the curse. I’m talking about you, Tillie Thornton. You’re the tree-planting woman. So now, whether you like it or not, you’re going to have to go in search of the treasure of Timbuktu.”

  Graeme explained that he didn’t understand the meaning of Mungo Park’s wording on the ancient document any more than Tillie did. Nor did he know the significance of the legend that had become so important to the Tuareg. But he did know one thing. For some reason the Tuareg believed the document was cursed—and so was the treasure.

  “No one can handle it but the tree-planting woman,” he said. He refolded the paper and slipped it into the locket. Then he opened Tillie’s palm and placed the necklace in it.

  She felt the hair rise on the nape of her neck. “Me. I’m the tree-planting woman in the legend.”

  “At least the Tuareg think you are.”

  “Great.”

  “So, are you hungry? I’ve got a few bananas in my bag.”

  “Hungry! Who can think about food? What about the curse and that Targui who’s after me? What does all that mean? And the message in the amulet? Mungo Park couldn’t possibly have known about me. He wrote this almost two hundred years ago.”

  Graeme tapped the flashlight against the fallen log. “My guess is that our friend on the camel—he’s an amenoukal, by the way, the chieftain of a federation of Tuareg drum groups—brought the document to light because of you, the first tree-planting woman the Tuareg ever heard about.”

  Tillie felt sick. In the past three weeks, she’d sent a flurry of letters to various agencies in the Sahel asking if any of the tribes living there would be willing to donate a large plot of arid land for her first tree-planting experiment outside the capital. The Tuareg were nomadic, but no doubt the officials had spoken to them about her project.

  “The Tuareg probably think they can get to the treasure through you,” Graeme said. “I imagine the amenoukal’s looking for us—you—right now.”

  “But I don’t know where it is!”

  “He thinks you do. And now that you have the document, you’ll find him the treasure. At least, that’s how he sees it.”

  Tillie looked out toward the Land Rover. A half-moon was rising over the banana grove. Tillie frowned. Graeme had told her it wouldn’t come up for hours. He had lied to her. Maybe he was lying about this, too. Maybe he wanted the treasure for himself. Or, more likely, maybe he was involved in some kind of illegal business and was trying to use this fantastic story about Mungo Park as a cover.

  She studied the amulet in her hand. Brilliant in the silver moonlight, it fascinated her in spite of herself. What would Hannah be thinking? and Arthur? They needed her. Even her neem trees needed her. She couldn’t go off on some wild treasure hunt. It didn’t fit with her plans.

  Your plans? She heard the echo of Hannah’s voice. Maybe she did put too much faith in her own plans, but surely God had no purpose in sending her into the desert . . . with a black-haired stranger who couldn’t be trusted. . . .

  Tillie stiffened. What had she been telling Hannah that very afternoon in the marketplace? She wanted desperately to go into the desert. She longed to be with the Africans and learn their languages. She ached to touch lives for Christ. But . . . but not like this! It wasn’t sensible.

  My ways are not your ways. Neither are my paths your paths. She had learned the verse at Hannah’s feet many years before. Now it echoed in her mind and heart. What if God intended to accomplish through her exactly what she’d always expected—but in a far different way than she’d ever imagined? Remain in him . . . and you will bear much fruit.

  She shook her head in confusion. Much fruit? How, when she was being chased by the Tuareg and forced to travel with a renegade like Graeme McLeod?

  Trust in the Lord your God.

  She drew a deep, steadying breath.

  Trust me.

  She nodded. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “I said okay.” She lifted her focus to Graeme’s eyes. “So now what happens?”

  “Unless you’d prefer to travel to Timbuktu by dromedary, you can hitch a ride with me.”

  “You realize I’m supposed to be in Bamako. If I don’t go back, everyone will be looking for me.”

  “I thought you just said you’d go!” Frustration filled his deep voice. “Look, suit yourself. I’m going on to Timbuktu, and to tell you the truth, I’d rather go it alone.”

  “Something wrong with my company?”

  He shot her a glance, his eyes traveling over her, taking in her dress, her mutinous expression. “You’re a scientist, right? Trees and all that. Well, the desert is no laboratory, and the Tuareg won’t care about your college education or your test tubes. You can’t walk very well in a skirt and sandals. You won’t eat three squares a day or drink soda pop, you know?”

  She knew. She also knew she felt more at home in the wilderness than she ever had in a laboratory.

  “I can drive you back to Bamako,” he went on, “but the Tuareg will grab you in a second. Remind me to tell you about the Tuareg sometime. They have fascinating ways of dealing with those who disappoint them. Either way—it’s your choice.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of
a choice to me, McLeod.” She stood up and strolled to the Land Rover. Her hands brushed the tips of the elephant grass. She picked one and chewed its sweet end. She didn’t want to have to trust this guy, to put her life in his hands, but what else could she do?

  Arthur would be frantic, of course. She thought of the man who wanted to make her his wife. With his blue eyes, light brown hair, and square shoulders, Arthur always drew attention. And his circumspect behavior and air of sophistication always commanded respect. He had told her he cared for her, and she believed him. He was a gentle, quiet person—nothing like this character who claimed to have “rescued” her. Tillie closed her eyes and tried to let the cool night breeze drifting across from the river calm her.

  All right, Lord, I’ll go toward Timbuktu. She would go with Graeme McLeod—at least until Arthur caught up with them, as she was sure he would. She would pray for safety, and she’d use whatever opportunity God brought her to do his work.

  A rustle in the grass startled her, and she turned to find Graeme beckoning her to join him. He held a bunch of bananas aloft like a prize and shook it lightly, a silly grin softening his face. His expression reminded her of an excited, endearing boy. Shaking her head at the transformation in him, she walked back to the fallen log and curled her legs beneath her on the grass.

  “Care for some dinner, mademoiselle?” He held out a banana to her in both hands, as if displaying a bottle of rare wine for her inspection. When she made a face and snatched it from him, he laughed aloud and began peeling his own fruit. Taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I won’t risk a fire tonight,” he said. “Maybe I’ll be far enough by tomorrow to chance it.”

  “So, how far is Timbuktu?”

  Graeme let out a breath. “You’re coming with me, then?”

  “As long as you keep your distance. I don’t fraternize with kidnappers.”

  He mused for a moment. “Well, you might be useful in the long run.”

  “Useful?”

  “Crocodile bait.” He gave her a quick wink. “In the Land Rover we can make it to Timbuktu in a couple of days. It’s rough going, but I think she’ll hold up. By steamer it would take longer, and the river’s not always passable.”