damned pig, Simon and his boys could have easily made it back to their ship and re-outfitted. You might be anxious to run into them again, but I'm not."
"So we're striking out overland?"
He swung his machete with a hefty whack, and grunted. "There's a trail here. It should intersect with the main track just before the river."
India tipped back her head and stared up at a jungle canopy so thick that only a faint suggestion of daylight filtered through to bathe the air around them in an eerie greenish glow. "There used to be a trail," she said, unable to resist the urge to goad him. "I think either it has petered out or you've lost it."
He replied with a muttered oath and a savage swing of his machete that told her he'd been thinking the same thing. "Hell, if it hadn't been for that stupid stunt of yours, I'd be halfway to La Rochelle by now."
She stopped short. "If it weren't for me?"
"That's right." He turned to face her. He was drenched with sweat, his shirt open halfway down the front to show a bronzed chest that lifted with each breath. Swinging a machete was hard work. "If you hadn't got yourself nabbed by cannibals—"
Jerking her gaze away from that exposed, aggressively masculine chest, India stabbed the air in front of his nose with one pointed finger. "If you hadn't forced me to go with you, none of this would have happened."
"Bloody hell!" He swatted her accusing finger away as if it were an annoying gnat. "If it hadn't been for me, those cannibals would have grabbed you off the summit of Mount Futapu."
"Right." She rocked back on her heels, her hands on her hips. "So they grabbed me at the base of Mount Futapu instead!"
He leaned into her, his strong jaw clenched tight enough that she could see the muscles throbbing along the line of his lean cheeks. "If you'd just stayed with me instead of running off at the first chance you got, you'd have been fine."
"And that's supposed to make what happened to me all my own fault, is it?"
"A share of it. You know, you might try being just a tad grateful for what I did. You haven't even bloody said thank you."
India let out a low, derisive laugh. "Indeed, Mr. Ryder? Would you have me believe your rescue was motivated by chivalrous impulses?"
"What the hell else do you think motivated me?"
"Pure self-interest, of course."
He flung back his head. "Self-interest?"
"That's right. You believed possession of a hostage would facilitate your escape, and so you were—"
"Facilitate my escape?" Swearing foully, he swung away to take a series of vicious swipes with his machete at the tangled undergrowth before spinning back around to face her again. "Jesus, woman. Do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're delivering a bloody lecture to the local scientific society or something."
India held herself quite still. "You shock me, Mr. Ryder. Do you mean to imply that you have actually attended such lectures? Judging by your language, I had assumed your exposure to conversation must be limited to barrooms and seamen's quarters."
For a long, charged moment, he stared at her, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring with each indrawn breath, a faint, unexpected stain of color appearing to ride high on his cheekbones. "Sonofabitch," he said suddenly, and turned uphill again, his machete chopping savagely at every creeper in their path.
She followed him, the silence between them heavy, the steamy jungle hushed and oppressive around them. After a moment, he said, not slackening his pace, "You know what's wrong with you, don't you?"
"No," said India, pushing determinedly after him. "But I've no doubt you have every intention of telling me."
"It's the same thing that's wrong with every spinster I've ever met. It makes you all sour and cranky, and—"
"I am not sour and cranky—"
"—frustrated."
India stopped short. "And precisely what is that meant to imply?"
"You know what I'm saying." He didn't miss a beat with his machete.
Muttering softly to herself,
"So we're striking out overland?"
He swung his machete with a hefty whack, and grunted. "There's a trail here. It should intersect with the main track just before the river."
India tipped back her head and stared up at a jungle canopy so thick that only a faint suggestion of daylight filtered through to bathe the air around them in an eerie greenish glow. "There used to be a trail," she said, unable to resist the urge to goad him. "I think either it has petered out or you've lost it."
He replied with a muttered oath and a savage swing of his machete that told her he'd been thinking the same thing. "Hell, if it hadn't been for that stupid stunt of yours, I'd be halfway to La Rochelle by now."
She stopped short. "If it weren't for me?"
"That's right." He turned to face her. He was drenched with sweat, his shirt open halfway down the front to show a bronzed chest that lifted with each breath. Swinging a machete was hard work. "If you hadn't got yourself nabbed by cannibals—"
Jerking her gaze away from that exposed, aggressively masculine chest, India stabbed the air in front of his nose with one pointed finger. "If you hadn't forced me to go with you, none of this would have happened."
"Bloody hell!" He swatted her accusing finger away as if it were an annoying gnat. "If it hadn't been for me, those cannibals would have grabbed you off the summit of Mount Futapu."
"Right." She rocked back on her heels, her hands on her hips. "So they grabbed me at the base of Mount Futapu instead!"
He leaned into her, his strong jaw clenched tight enough that she could see the muscles throbbing along the line of his lean cheeks. "If you'd just stayed with me instead of running off at the first chance you got, you'd have been fine."
"And that's supposed to make what happened to me all my own fault, is it?"
"A share of it. You know, you might try being just a tad grateful for what I did. You haven't even bloody said thank you."
India let out a low, derisive laugh. "Indeed, Mr. Ryder? Would you have me believe your rescue was motivated by chivalrous impulses?"
"What the hell else do you think motivated me?"
"Pure self-interest, of course."
He flung back his head. "Self-interest?"
"That's right. You believed possession of a hostage would facilitate your escape, and so you were—"
"Facilitate my escape?" Swearing foully, he swung away to take a series of vicious swipes with his machete at the tangled undergrowth before spinning back around to face her again. "Jesus, woman. Do you always talk like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you're delivering a bloody lecture to the local scientific society or something."
India held herself quite still. "You shock me, Mr. Ryder. Do you mean to imply that you have actually attended such lectures? Judging by your language, I had assumed your exposure to conversation must be limited to barrooms and seamen's quarters."
For a long, charged moment, he stared at her, his chest heaving, his nostrils flaring with each indrawn breath, a faint, unexpected stain of color appearing to ride high on his cheekbones. "Sonofabitch," he said suddenly, and turned uphill again, his machete chopping savagely at every creeper in their path.
She followed him, the silence between them heavy, the steamy jungle hushed and oppressive around them. After a moment, he said, not slackening his pace, "You know what's wrong with you, don't you?"
"No," said India, pushing determinedly after him. "But I've no doubt you have every intention of telling me."
"It's the same thing that's wrong with every spinster I've ever met. It makes you all sour and cranky, and—"
"I am not sour and cranky—"
"—frustrated."
India stopped short. "And precisely what is that meant to imply?"
"You know what I'm saying." He didn't miss a beat with his machete.
Muttering softly to herself,
Similar Books
