India pushed after him up the steep, overgrown mountainside, swatting angrily at every stray branch and hanging liana in her way. So he thought she was sexually frustrated, did he? He thought all she needed was to allow her body to be frequently used to sate some man's revolting lust, and she would turn into the kind of gentle, docile imbecile men seemed to prefer? "Indeed, Mr. Ryder?" She glared at that broad, hateful back ahead of her. "Judging from the evidence I've seen, you could hardly be said to be suffering from any such frustration, yet you are still as cranky and sour as they come."
"Judging from what evidence?"
"Your numerous half-native offspring!" she snapped before she could stop herself.
She expected him to laugh at her, maybe even make fun of her for her shock. Instead, he went very still, his arm arrested in midswing. Then he let the machete fall in a smooth, carefully controlled arc, and his voice, when it came, was cold and hard and more precisely modulated than she had ever heard it. "I have but one half-native offspring, Miss McKnight, and as I haven't seen her myself for almost ten years, I wonder how you came to be aware of her existence."
India knew a swift stab of some emotion she could not name. There was no doubt in her mind that he spoke the truth, which meant that neither the bare-bottomed baby she'd seen on his veranda nor the boy, Patu, who had helped sail them here, were his. And she knew, too, that while she had struck out at him blindly in furious and embarrassed self-defense, she had hit a nerve far more painful and raw than she had ever intended.
The silence between them returned, and this time, neither one broke it.
It was some three-quarters of an hour later, when they were working their way down a high, windswept slope sparsely covered with gorse and tree ferns and tall stands of kunai grass, that Jack Ryder's hand suddenly closed around India's arm to pull her back behind the wide buttressing roots of a big lone mountain pandanus.
"Sonofabitch," he swore softly beneath his breath, his gaze fixed on some point far to their right.
"What is it?" she whispered, her heart beginning to beat in quick, painful lurches as she squinted hopelessly into the distance.
He shifted, his gaze flicking over her in a quick, assessing glance. "Can't you see?"
"No, of course I can't see," she said impatiently. "What is it?"
He leaned forward until his lips were only inches from her ear. "Cannibals."
"Oh my God." She couldn't go through that again, she thought in quiet despair. She simply couldn't. "I thought you said you and the cannibals were business partners. That they wouldn't attack you. That as long as I was with you, I'd be safe."
Unbelievably, the edges of his mouth quirked up in amusement. "They're not exactly predictable, cannibals." The smile faded as he gazed into the distance again. "Try to keep as low as you can, but hurry. With any luck, they won't see us until we're near enough to the gorge to make a run for it."
She'd heard it for a while now, the growing roar of a mountain torrent, somewhere up ahead. She turned to fix him with a steady, suspicious stare. "Gorge? There's a gorge?"
"Wairopa Gorge." He propelled her on with a gentle but insistent pressure in the small of her back.
India didn't know much Pidgin, but she knew enough to make her stomach twist with an old, shameful fear. "Why is it called Wairopa Gorge?"
"Because a Scandinavian expedition that came through here some years back erected a bridge of fencing wire and braided vines over it."
"Fencing wire and—" Her voice broke, so that she had to swallow hard before she could continue. "How many years ago?"
"I don't know. Four. Maybe five."
"Five years?" She stumbled over a half-buried stone and would have pitched head forward down the slope if he hadn't still been holding her arm. " You want me to use a wire and vine bridge that's five years old? How deep is the gorge?"
"Six hundred feet. Maybe a little
"Judging from what evidence?"
"Your numerous half-native offspring!" she snapped before she could stop herself.
She expected him to laugh at her, maybe even make fun of her for her shock. Instead, he went very still, his arm arrested in midswing. Then he let the machete fall in a smooth, carefully controlled arc, and his voice, when it came, was cold and hard and more precisely modulated than she had ever heard it. "I have but one half-native offspring, Miss McKnight, and as I haven't seen her myself for almost ten years, I wonder how you came to be aware of her existence."
India knew a swift stab of some emotion she could not name. There was no doubt in her mind that he spoke the truth, which meant that neither the bare-bottomed baby she'd seen on his veranda nor the boy, Patu, who had helped sail them here, were his. And she knew, too, that while she had struck out at him blindly in furious and embarrassed self-defense, she had hit a nerve far more painful and raw than she had ever intended.
The silence between them returned, and this time, neither one broke it.
It was some three-quarters of an hour later, when they were working their way down a high, windswept slope sparsely covered with gorse and tree ferns and tall stands of kunai grass, that Jack Ryder's hand suddenly closed around India's arm to pull her back behind the wide buttressing roots of a big lone mountain pandanus.
"Sonofabitch," he swore softly beneath his breath, his gaze fixed on some point far to their right.
"What is it?" she whispered, her heart beginning to beat in quick, painful lurches as she squinted hopelessly into the distance.
He shifted, his gaze flicking over her in a quick, assessing glance. "Can't you see?"
"No, of course I can't see," she said impatiently. "What is it?"
He leaned forward until his lips were only inches from her ear. "Cannibals."
"Oh my God." She couldn't go through that again, she thought in quiet despair. She simply couldn't. "I thought you said you and the cannibals were business partners. That they wouldn't attack you. That as long as I was with you, I'd be safe."
Unbelievably, the edges of his mouth quirked up in amusement. "They're not exactly predictable, cannibals." The smile faded as he gazed into the distance again. "Try to keep as low as you can, but hurry. With any luck, they won't see us until we're near enough to the gorge to make a run for it."
She'd heard it for a while now, the growing roar of a mountain torrent, somewhere up ahead. She turned to fix him with a steady, suspicious stare. "Gorge? There's a gorge?"
"Wairopa Gorge." He propelled her on with a gentle but insistent pressure in the small of her back.
India didn't know much Pidgin, but she knew enough to make her stomach twist with an old, shameful fear. "Why is it called Wairopa Gorge?"
"Because a Scandinavian expedition that came through here some years back erected a bridge of fencing wire and braided vines over it."
"Fencing wire and—" Her voice broke, so that she had to swallow hard before she could continue. "How many years ago?"
"I don't know. Four. Maybe five."
"Five years?" She stumbled over a half-buried stone and would have pitched head forward down the slope if he hadn't still been holding her arm. " You want me to use a wire and vine bridge that's five years old? How deep is the gorge?"
"Six hundred feet. Maybe a little
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