Far In The Wilds Read online

“Your Highness,” he said cordially. He didn’t bother to bow.

  The prince gave him a thin smile. “I see like all Africans you are casual in your manners.” He attempted a chuckle to take the sting out of it, but Ryder knew he was piqued.

  Ryder shrugged. “I am Canadian by birth and African by choice, and in neither of those places did I learn to bow and scrape.”

  The woman put out her hand and with it the promise of a smile. “Monsieur.”

  Ryder took it and bowed, flicking the prince a mischievous look. “I make exceptions for nature’s aristocrats.”

  At this the woman laughed aloud, but the prince looked frankly astonished. “You think beauty matters more than lineage?”

  “Why not? They’re both accidents of birth.”

  Helen cleared her throat. “I’m afraid I am engaged for the next dance with Kit Parrymore. You must meet him, Your Highness. He’s a desperately talented artist.”

  “Later,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I find Mr. White’s conversation most diverting.”

  “As you wish,” Helen said, throwing out a bright smile. As she passed Ryder, she squeezed his arm. “Behave, pet. We don’t want an international incident on our hands.”

  She slid through the crowd and Ryder turned back to the pair. “What brings you to Africa?”

  Mademoiselle Gautier moved fractionally closer to her prince. “The press. They are ruthless in Europe and not very understanding of our friendship.”

  “I see.” Ryder’s voice was deliberately neutral, but the prince bristled.

  “My wife is unwell, and the press blame her poor health on my friendship with Mademoiselle. It is nonsense, of course.”

  Mademoiselle flicked Ryder a quick glance, conspiratorial, as if to confirm that they both saw through the prince’s desperate attempts to convince himself if no one else that his infidelity had no victims.

  She turned to her companion. “Freddie, I should like some properly chilled champagne. What the waiters are serving is far too warm. Is it possible to teach them how it ought to be done?”

  The prince inclined his head. “Yes, of course.” He gave Ryder an appraising look and hurried off on his mission.

  Ryder turned back to Mademoiselle. “I’m impressed. That was very neatly done.”

  She favored him with a modest smile. “Freddie is not difficult to manage. He likes to instruct. If I can set him a task where he is above others, teaching them, he is happy. And it leaves me free to pursue my own interests.”

  Ryder shook his head. “That’s my cue to ask ‘what interests?’ Not going to happen, Mademoiselle.”

  She moved an inch closer. “Why? Don’t you want to flirt with me?”

  “To what end?”

  She lifted one shapely shoulder in a shrug. “Why must there be an end? You think like all Anglo-Saxons, Mr. White. Sometimes it is simply good to flirt for its own sake. It is pleasant to talk to someone attractive, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “And I am attractive, am I not?”

  Ryder gave her a lopsided grin. “There you go again, tossing bait in my direction. I’m not biting.”

  “I am very naughty,” she admitted. “But I intrigue you, I think. No, do not answer. I do not wish to get you into trouble.” She tipped her head, running her gaze from his eyes to his earring. She put out one fingertip to touch it. “This must have hurt.”

  “Like pleasure, pain is relative.”

  Her eyes widened. “I was wrong about you, Mr. White. I think there may be something of the Frenchman about you after all.”

  They were still smiling at each other when the prince arrived followed closely by a waiter with a bucket of icy cold champagne. “I claim victory,” the prince announced. He handed a glass to Mademoiselle and another to Ryder. “Come, let us toast my triumph.”

  “Toujours,” Mademoiselle said. She sampled her champagne and praised him lavishly for his cleverness. The little prince preened.

  “Tell me, Mr. White, what does a hunter do with his time besides kill things?” Mademoiselle asked.

  Ryder, relaxing into the champagne, gave her a pointed look. “I have hobbies.”

  “I wager you do,” she murmured.

  The prince cut in sharply. “I do not think you are as successful as Mrs. Farraday says. I inquired about guides for our safari and your name did not arise in the conversation.”

  “Probably because I don’t guide.” Ryder helped himself to another glass of the cold champagne. He glanced to where Jude was dancing with Anthony Wickenden. The band was playing something soft and coaxing and the veranda doors had been thrown open to the warm night, the perfume of it thick with flowers and spice and smoke and the red earth of Africa itself. Outside the stars were shedding their light on the club gardens, glittering like so much broken glass on the velvet of the night sky. It was a night for falling in love, and it looked to Ryder as if Anthony was halfway there.

  He realized the prince was speaking. “But how is it that you do not guide? All of the hunters do.”

  “I do what I like. And I don’t usually like to guide. I’d rather hunt for meat or to take out a maneater than kill for sport.”

  The prince made a noise of derision. “I thought you appreciated beauty for its own sake. Is preserving the beauty of an animal forever not reason enough?”

  Ryder sighed. The strange little man and his cryptic conversation were tiring. Mademoiselle was a lovely distraction but not quite enough compensation for putting up with him. “Trophies are not beautiful,” he said flatly. “Not to me.”

  To his surprise, Mademoiselle flushed deeply. The barb hadn’t been directed at her, but she had taken it to heart, and he saw a flash of pure anger that she worked hard to smother.

  The prince spoke again. “I think you exaggerate your talents, Mr. White. Like all colonials, you are a teller of tales, are you not? Come, confess to me that you are not all that you seem. What are you really?”

  Ryder was well and truly bored and knew the fastest way to get rid of the prince was to tell him the truth. “I’m a farmer and tradesman. I have a sisal plantation on the coast, and I have a string of small shops called dukas in the bush. I sell rice and fabric and motor oil, Your Highness. Now, if you will excuse me—” He didn’t wait for permission to leave. He flicked a brisk nod towards Mademoiselle and turned on his heel, the prince spluttering behind him.

  Out of the tail of his eye, Ryder saw a commotion at the door. Rex Farraday was in heated conversation with the club porter while Helen was clutching her necklace with one slim hand, her face drained of color. Suddenly, a small crowd of native Africans shoved into the doorway, eyes rolling in terror, the women sobbing and the men shouting. In their midst they carried an unconscious man, blood dripping red onto the polished floor. Rex did his best to calm them, but Ryder caught one word repeated over and over again. Simba.

  It wasn’t possible, Ryder thought. A lion in the middle of Nairobi? But the Africans were insistent, and the porter added his voice to the fray. Ryder slid through the crowd until he was at the man’s side. He was about to question the porter when he saw the injured man’s wounds. There was no mistaking a lion’s bite, and the rest of the party knew it. The word simba flowed over and through them, sparking excitement and in some cases outright hysteria. The band stopped playing and the crowd shoved its way to the windows, exclaiming loudly as they caught sight of the creature.

  “Oh, that poor little monkey,” Ryder heard Jude say. Wickenden had his arm firmly around Jude, and Ryder turned away, his one responsibility attended to. Helen had kept her feet, but two other women had already swooned, men were shouting about forming a hunting party, and Ryder saw that things were quickly spiraling out of control. Rex was attempting to bring order to the situation, but few were listening and most were just drunk enough to be dangerous. It was only a matter of minutes before someone did something stupid.

  As he had done earlier in the day, Ryder vaulted over the bar, this time to gr
ab the rifle that was hung on the back wall. He opened it and found it was empty.

  “Sahib,” the Indian barman called softly. Ryder looked down to find the man sitting comfortably on the floor tucked out of harm’s way. He handed up a box of ammunition. Ryder took up four rounds, loading two and slipping the others into his pocket before passing back the box.

  “Do you not want more, sahib?”

  Ryder shrugged. “I won’t have time to reload more than once.” He hefted himself over the bar again, landing lightly on his feet. At the door, Rex was still trying to restore calm. He caught sight of Ryder and waved him over with an air of relief. Helen shrieked when she saw the rifle in his hand.

  “Ryder—” She never finished the sentence, but there was no need.

  “Yes, Helen. I have to.” He gave her a lazy grin, and just then Jude appeared at his side.

  “Need a second gun?”

  “No, but you can hold my coat,” he told her, shrugging out of the tight evening coat.

  “Ass,” she said, but her usual easy tone was brittle. She was afraid for him, and he felt a quick chill brush his spine. Jude wasn’t afraid of anything. But life turned on a dime in Africa. A man could be hale and hearty at breakfast and dead by lunch, taken out by a bullet or an animal bite or a fever so savage it could turn a man’s organs to liquid. It didn’t matter how often you said your prayers or how many good luck charms filled your pockets. Dead was dead, and Africa could get you there quicker than anyplace else.

  He held her gaze a moment as he handed over his coat. He looked over her head to Wickenden whose eyes were round with fear and excitement. He gave Wickenden a brisk nod. He didn’t dare tell the fellow to take care of Jude, but they both knew what Ryder expected of him. Wickenden’s hands tightened on her shoulders and Ryder turned sharply on his heel.

  He strode through the crowd and it parted before him like the Red Sea, falling away as he walked. He knew there was a buzz of conversation and even a few muted shouts or sobs, he couldn’t quite tell which. The rifle felt good in his hand, solid and heavy, a large-bore with a bullet capable of shattering bone at a hundred yards. It was security, but security was an illusion. A cat was unpredictable as the wind and twice as changeable. In their own environment they fell into patterns, and if you watched one long enough, you might get to know him, might even get lulled into believing you understood him. But you never did. Like most everything else in Africa, lions kept their secrets. They could often be spotted near Nairobi, but it was rare to see one in the centre of town, and the fact that this one had ventured in meant that it was starving or ill or mean as hell, none of which inspired any confidence in Ryder.

  He moved out onto the veranda of the club, conscious of the crowd pressing in behind him. But Rex had regained control and they came no further than the doorway. Dozens more huddled at the windows, and as he stepped into the street, he realized it wasn’t just the club members watching. Every window on the street had been thrown open, the occupants hanging halfway out to see the fun. Ryder ignored them all. He stood in the center of the street, feeling the weight of the wide dark sky pressing down on him. The fragrance of Africa clung to his skin, cooking fires and ripe fruits mingling with the red dirt under his feet, with the odour of spices and green leaves and the peculiar sharp smell of the lion itself. The moon was dark, but the starlight was softly silver, and Ryder decided it would be as good a night as any to die.

  He cocked the rifle and began to walk. The lion was some distance ahead in the shadows. He caught the smell of it again, rising on the breeze. He remembered a disastrous term at school in England when he was twelve. His father, bowing to family pressures, had sent him home to be educated as a gentleman. But there was no civilizing Ryder. He had fought and scrapped his way into being sent down, and no one had been happier than he at being forced to leave. But he remembered one of the boys, a thin weedy child who later became a leading barrister in London. He had asked Ryder what lions smelled like, and Ryder had barely thought before blurting out, “Cat piss.” The other boy was disappointed, but it had been the truth. Big cats, like domestic tabbies, smelled strongly of urine. They marked as they walked, kings of creation, claiming whatever they saw for themselves, and this lion was no different. It had sprayed the fruit cart and the curb stone and the side of the Norfolk Hotel as it walked, the scent rising pungently behind him. Under it all, Ryder caught the sharply metallic smell of the monkey’s blood. The little carcass had been tossed aside, bones crushed in the massive jaws of the cat. He hadn’t been intended for dinner, Ryder realized. The lion had been making a point that the monkeys were to stay out of his way. He had seen such things occasionally in the bush. A lion might kill a cheetah cub or a hyena, not to eat, but as a warning. The monkeys had certainly taken it to heart. They had scrambled up the nearest acacia tree and were shrieking and shaking as Ryder passed underneath.

  The lion moved slowly through the shadows, padding on huge, silent feet he made his unconcerned way down the street. Ryder planted himself firmly, turning his body slightly to cradle the butt of the rifle in his shoulder. A gun that big kicked like a mule, and he could break his own jaw if he wasn’t careful. But he seated it securely and was just about to check the sight when the lion turned. Ryder hadn’t made a sound. Perhaps it was the monkeys, perhaps it was a shift in the wind that carried the scent of a man down to the lion. And perhaps it simply knew, as some animals do, that it was being watched.

  Whatever the cause, the lion turned and with a spring from his massive hind legs launched himself towards Ryder from a dozen yards away. There was no time to sight him. Ryder fired once, blindly, then a second time, pulling the gun lower as he knew momentum would have carried the lion closer even if it had been thrown off its feet. He heard the roar and felt the tremendous thud as the creature fell to the ground. Before the lion’s roar had even faded away, he had the two fresh rounds chambered and the lion sighted, his finger sitting loosely on the trigger.

  But there was no need to fire. The lion was stretched in the road, head toward Ryder, blood pooling in the gutter. The first shot had torn through his heart, stopping him cold, and the second had finished the job. Ryder counted it rather poor shooting compared to what he might have done in full sun with a chance to sight him properly, but the crowds were already pouring out of the club, cheering raucously. The men and the Africans gathered around the lion while the women made straight for Ryder. Jude reached him first.

  “Two shots for a lion? You’re losing your touch,” she said lightly. But her hand trembled as she handed over his coat. Ryder opened his mouth to apologize for scaring her, but she shook her head and gave him a smile. It was over now. There was no need to speak of it. And if he understood better what he meant to her, how frightened she was of losing him, well, that could not be such a bad thing.

  Helen helped him on with his coat. “Quite impressive, Ryder. There’s a reporter here from the East African Standard. He was taking photographs of the party for the newspaper, but he must photograph this,” she said firmly.

  She organised the crowd into some semblance of order and with help from a dozen Africans, the lion was carried in triumph into the nearest building, the Norfolk Hotel. The bloody carcass was stretched out on the bar, the lion’s mouth pulled back into the tight rictus of a grin. The crowd gathered around, including the hotel manager—delighted to be included since the hotel had been hosting a much more modest affair than the club Christmas party. Now the Norfolk would go down in history as the site of one of the most legendary things ever to happen in Nairobi. Giddy with delight, he ordered champagne for everyone and when the photograph was taken, every person there lifted a glass towards the camera—every person except Ryder. In the commotion he had slipped out of the hotel. He walked to the spot where the lion had died, touching the still warm blood with a finger. It had had to be done, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it. The lion had been enormous and handsome, good breeding stock. He ought to have been out there on the
savannah, fathering cubs and protecting his pride. Not getting himself shot like a common burglar in the middle of town.

  Ryder rose and began to walk away when someone called his name, sharply. He turned and a flashbulb went off, blinding him in its glare. “What the f—”

  He didn’t have a chance to finish the question before the bulb went off again. “That’s enough, Ned.” Ryder heard Helen coaxing the photographer away, and he strode off, making straight for the club bar.

  “Whisky. Single malt, and forget the glass,” he told the barman. “Just give me the whole damn bottle.”

  The barman obliged, and Ryder had just sunk a third of it when the crowd found him. He swore again, and turned to move away only to find the prince and his companion blocking his retreat.

  “Mr. White, you have persuaded me I was wrong. I was wrong about you indeed. May I offer you my heartiest congratulations on an excellent kill?”

  He extended his hand which Ryder took with reluctance. The prince went on. “I will confess to you my problem. Twice I have been on safari, collecting trophies. Always the leopard eludes me. The most beautiful of animals, and I have been thwarted! I have collected a lion and a zebra, both very fine, but I have no leopard, and this is something I must have. I wonder if you might be the man to show me.”

  Mademoiselle cut in smoothly. “Freddie, Mr. White told you earlier he does not guide.”

  The prince waved his hand. “This is nothing to me! Mr. White, I must have my leopard, and you will assist me, I am convinced of it.”

  Ryder opened his mouth to argue then snapped it shut. Like all private safari clients, the prince was clearly wealthy and even more clearly accustomed to getting his own way. A regular client would be bad enough; a royal would be a nightmare. But the prince would get his way in the bush because money and status always did. If Ryder didn’t take him after the leopard, someone else would, and no doubt he would kill a breeding specimen, something fine and strong that deserved to live out its life instead of ending it hanging on a wall in Copenhagen.