Cry Wolf - Smith Wilbur - Страница 61

• Предыдущая
• 61/116
• Следующая

aware of a feeling of complete acceptance, an Arabic kismet of the

spirit, as though fate had arranged this moment and the effort of

avoiding it was too great.

They were alone, and that was how it was meant to be.

The deep physical arousal and feeling of utter commitment that she had

experienced earlier, on their escape from the threatening horde of

Gallas, still lingered still filled her body and her conscious mind

with an ethereal glow.

She ate a little of the grilled meat, hardly tasting it, not looking at

the man beside her, but staring dreamily at the brilliant diamond-white

sparkle of the stars above the dark peaks, yet fully and electrically

aware of him of the nearness of him, so close that although they were

still not touching she could feel the warmth emanating from his body

upon her arm like the caress of a desert wind.

She could almost feel his eyes as he watched her quietly. His gaze was

so compelling that at last she could no longer pretend not to be aware

of it, and she turned her head and met his eyes steadily.

The ruddy glow of the coals enhanced the clean regular lanes of his

face, and gilded the red gold of his hair. In that moment, she

believed he was the most beautiful human being she had ever seen and it

required an effort to tear her eyes away from him.

As she stood up and walked away she felt her heart hammering within her

chest, like a wild -animal trying to escape its cage, and she heard the

roar of blood in her own ears.

The interior of her tent was lit softly by the firelight through the

canvas, and she did not light the lamp, but undressed slowly in the

semi-darkness and dropped her clothing carelessly across the folding

chair beside the entrance. Then she lay down upon the narrow cot, and

the woollen blanket was rough against the naked skin of her buttocks

and back. Each breath was an effort now, and she lay rigidly with her

hands clenched at her sides almost afraid, almost exultant, her head

propped on the single pillow and staring down at her body, aware of it

as never before. Watching, with a sense of wonder, how each breath

changed the shape of her heavily rounded breasts and how the nipples

firmed slowly and thrust out, darkening perceptibly until they were so

tight and hard that they pained her exquisitely.

She heard the crunch of his footsteps approach the tent, and her

breathing jammed, and she thought with a small shock that she might

suffocate and die. Then the flap of the tent swung open, and he

stooped through and stood tall, letting the flap fall closed behind

him.

Instinctively she covered herself, one arm folding across her chest and

the other hand spreading protective fingers over the mound of fine

fluff at the base of her belly.

He stood silently, outlined against the fire glow on the canvas,

and she began to breathe again, quick and shallow.

It seemed that he stood there for ever, silent and watchful, and she

felt the skin of her arms and thighs prickle with goose-flesh at the

slow steady scrutiny. Then he unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide to

the earth. The fire glow flickered on his finely muscled arms, they

rippled with a red gold sheen, like wet marble, as he moved.

He came at last to her bed and stood over her, and she wondered that

the body of a man could be so slim and supple, with such lovely line

and balance then she remembered how she had once stood before the

statue of Michelangelo's David with just the same depth of awe.

She lifted the hands that covered her own body, reached up like a

supplicant, and drew him down upon herself.

She woke once during the night, and the fire had died away outside the

tent, but a bright white moon had sailed up over the mountains and it

glowed now with a silvery light through the canvas above them,

striking down directly upon them.

The strange white light divested Gareth's sleeping face of all colour.

It was pale now, like that of a statue or of a corpse and

Vicky experienced a sudden revulsion of feeling. There was a small

dull weight at the back of her mind. When she examined it closely, she

found that it was guilt and she experienced a mild anger at a society

that had burdened her with that guilt. That she could not enjoy a man,

that her body could not be used as nature had intended without this

backlash of emotion.

She raised herself on one elbow, careful not to disturb the man beside

her, and she studied his face pondering this new sense of guilt, and

exploring her feelings for him.

Slowly she realized that the two were bound inextricably together.

There was no real depth to her feelings for Gareth Swales, she had been

carried along on a treacherous tide of fatigue and reaction from fear

and horror. The guilt she had experienced was a consequence of this

lack of substance, and she felt suddenly confused and sad.

She lay back beside the long fine length of his body, but now she had

moved slightly, so that they no longer touched.

She knew that after love, all animals are sad, but she thought that

there was more to her feelings than that.

Suddenly, without really knowing why, she thought of Jake Barton and

the depth and cold of her sadness deepened. It was long before she

slept again, but then she slept late and the morning sunlight was

striking through the canvas and outside there was the sound of engines

and many voices.

She sat up hurriedly, still half asleep, clutching the rough blanket to

her breast, confused and owl-eyed, to discover that she was alone upon

the cot and all that remained of the night was the indentation and

warmth of Gareth's body upon the blanket beside her,

and the swollen aching feeling deep within her where he had been.

Then Vicky threw on her clothes hurriedly and, still tying her hair,

went out into the sunlight, she was just in time to witness the arrival

of a sorry procession.

In the lead was Jake's car, Priscilla the Pig. No longer glossy white

and blazoned with the insignia of the International Red Cross,

it was painted instead a sandy tan colour with patches of darker

camouflage in an earthy brown to break up the outline of the big

angular hull and turret.

The thick barrel of -a Vickers machine gun protruded belligerently from

the mounting.

Above the turret fluttered the tri coloured green, yellow and red

pennant of Ethiopia and below that the dark blue field and golden lion

of the Ras's household standard and everything was covered with a thick

coating of fine red dust.

Close behind the Pig, and attached to her by a stout towline, came

Tenastelin - Gregorius's car similarly daubed with dull camouflage

paint and flying the standards of Ethiopia and Ras, and with her gun

ports filled with lethal hardware. However, despite the warlike

trappings, the machine had an air of dejection as it was dragged

ignobly into the camp and from its rear end came a frightful grinding

clatter that brought Gareth Swales hurrying half-dressed from his tent,

with an angry question to shout as Jake's head appeared in the driver's

hatch.

"What the hell happened?" and Jake's face was red and scowling with

outrage.

"That old,--and at a loss for a suitable expletive, he indicated with a

jerk of his thumb the Ras, who sat proudly in the turret of the

crippled car, showing no remorse whatsoever, but beaming fondly and

toothlessly on Gareth.

• Предыдущая
• 61/116
• Следующая