Danger at Dahlkari by Jennifer Wilde Page B

hand, helping me dismount, and, bone-weary, I was grateful for the assistance. I noticed again how very tall he was, how strong and powerful that lean, muscular body was. He made me feel exceedingly vulnerable, exceedingly feminine, and I was horrified by the realization. The man was a native, a brutal rogue if not an out-and-out villain, and I suddenly realized that he looked exactly like one of those wildly unprincipled gypsy-vagabond-highwaymen who swaggered through the pages of the romantic novels I had consumed so avidly. Certainly not handsome, the man had a ruthless virility and a raw, primitive magnetism that was much more powerful than good looks could possibly have been. I was shocked at myself for even noticing it.
    â€œWhat now?” Sally said grumpily, still rubbing briskly.
    â€œI suppose we’ll make camp for the night,” I told her.
    â€œIn the jungle? With all those cobras and jackals?”
    â€œI—I imagine it’ll be safer. The Thugs might return, Sally. We mustn’t forget that.”
    â€œI haven’t,” she said, serious now. “All the time we were bouncing along I kept my eyes peeled. Truth to tell, I feel a bit safer with Laughing Boy here at our side. I fancy he could take on any number of Thugs with his bare hands. They wouldn’t send back more than two or three to—to tidy things up, and, if worse came to worse, I’d put my money on Chuckles. He is grim, isn’t he?”
    â€œRather,” I agreed.
    â€œRegular barrel of laughs. I’m still not convinced he isn’t planning something perfectly foul—he certainly looks the type. Sure, he wants the gold he’ll get for rescuing us, but his unbridled lust might be stronger than his greed.” There was a wistful note in her voice.
    â€œYou’re outrageous, Sally.”
    â€œI know men ,” she retorted.
    Taking the reins again, the tall native motioned for us to follow him and led the horse into the jungle. It was denser here than it had been near the campsite last night, and there was no visible pathway, but our guide moved briskly and with great confidence, obviously very familiar with this particular area. Sally and I trudged along behind him, frequently stumbling, thorny shrubs and low-hanging branches making it an obstacle course. Although it was rapidly fading, there was still plenty of light. Monkeys chattered noisily overhead, swinging from tree to tree, and the birds were shrill. Complaining vociferously, Sally freed a lock of hair from a branch, kicked a rock out of her way and made highly unflattering remarks about our leader.
    â€œSlow down, you rogue! What is this, a five-mile sprint? Watch that branch, Miss Lauren. I’m a game girl, but enough is enough! I might as well save my breath,” she groaned. “He’s a thoroughly heartless brute any way you look at it.”
    We finally stumbled into a tiny clearing in the middle of the jungle, not even as large as the one with the idol had been. Limbs stretching overhead formed a rustling ceiling, tree trunks and flowering vines closing in on every side. I could hear a pleasant gurgling noise in the distance, the sound of running water, and realized there must be a stream. The native motioned for us to remain here and then, pushing back a curtain of vines covered with scarlet flowers, led the horse out of the clearing and toward the sound of water. Sally and I crumpled to the ground. It was surprisingly soft and spongy, covered with a mossy grass. It was sheer paradise to be off our feet.
    Both of us were too weary to talk. Sally looked like a battered doll with brassy hair and nervous, exhausted features, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Her once bright yellow dress was in deplorable condition, covered with dirt and stains, the bodice ripped. My own white muslin was in an even worse state, the skirt torn in several places, one sleeve hanging down sadly. A few fading rays of sunlight streamed