“You are a good man, Patrick. Those who know you love you.”
“They respect me. They know I am honest and fair, that I am good to my word and pose no threat to anybody. I know exactly what is expected of me, and I accept it,” he explained. “In other words, I know my place. And where I come from, that is more important than knowing one’s own name.”
“But why do you have to accept it?” she asked. “Why try to fit yourself into that same, tired mold when you could become something better?”
“Because it’s safe,” he said. “Don’t we all want to feel safe?”
Linley shrugged. “Not always. Sometimes I like to push the boundaries. I like seeing what I’m truly capable of.”
They both ducked down to miss a long, overhanging branch that skimmed across the jungle path.
“But you could get hurt,” Patrick said. “You could get yourself killed.”
“Isn’t death the one risk of really living? Think of yourself as a child, huddled in a corner with your books, praying for something to come along and break you out of your dull, boring life. But nothing ever came along, did it? And here you are now, still living the same life you’ve dreamed of escaping since you were a boy.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “No one is going to make you a hero, Patrick. You have to go out and do it yourself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Here looks as good a place as any to set up camp,” Sir Bedford said, stretching after almost twelve hours on an elephant’s back. “Archie, if you and Reginald would go for water, Linley and I will see to the tents.”
Both Archie and Reginald nodded, gathering the water buckets.
“Schoville,” Linley’s father continued, “You are in charge of collecting wood for the fire this evening.”
Without a word, Schoville dug a hatchet from their pile of tools and started off toward a large clump of trees at the jungle’s edge.
Patrick looked from face to face. “And what can I do?”
“You can stay out of the way.” Archie snorted, pushing past them. He and Reginald pulled a pair of machetes from their cases and hacked a path into the dense jungle.
Ignoring them, Patrick blinked down at Linley. “How can I help?”
“Do you know how to pitch a tent?”
“No,” he said. “But I’m a quick learner.”
She glanced around the small clearing that would serve as their campsite. “For now, why don’t you just stay where you are until Schoville comes back with the firewood. Papa and I can work much faster without you getting in the way.”
Patrick threw up his arms. “I do not understand why everyone here treats me as if I am incompetent.” With a huff, he stamped over to a fallen log and started to sit.
“Don’t do that,” Linley called. “There are ants.”
He jerked up from his seat. With the heel of his boot, he gave the log a strong kick, sending a legion of large red ants scurrying into action. He watched them rush about, and then looked up at Linley.
She smiled and shook her head, and if Patrick didn’t know better, might have even rolled her eyes.
An hour later, the campsite buzzed with activity. Six canvas bivouacs formed the perimeter around a crackling fire, and inside the circle, wooden tables and camp chairs sat angled toward the blaze. The mahouts preferred to sleep with their elephants, but hung around in the hopes of a decent meal.
Patrick sat in one of the stiff-backed chairs, arms crossed over his chest. He watched Linley stoop over the fire, brushing a loose strand of hair back as she bent to stir something boiling in an iron pot. Even she—a girl—was more helpful than he was! He felt ridiculous, and not at all manly. What was he thinking coming all the way to India? He belonged in Kyre, huddled in the library with a dog curled at his feet. At least there he could shoot or ride to hounds. In India, they hardly allowed him near the firewood, let alone within arms reach of a gun.
Patrick shifted in his seat, causing Linley to look up in his direction. She smiled, long and slow, sending her freckles scattering across her cheeks. Her glance stilled him.
That was what he was doing in India.
Her.
He smiled, not nearly as wide or as bright as hers, but with no less meaning behind it—perhaps with even more. They held each other’s gaze for a breath of a second. Whether from the heat of the fire or her own feelings, Linley’s skin grew flushed, and she looked away. She stared down at the boiling pot, stirring. She stirred and stirred, never once breaking her concentration or looking back up at him.