Patrick studied her movements behind the curtain until he realized what Linley planned to do—bathe. Neither Archie, nor Reginald, nor anyone else seemed the least bit interested in Patrick’s discovery. They sat, oblivious to it all, smoking one last cigarette before bed and discussing plans for the next day.
He wished he’d had the foresight to bring along a bottle of whiskey. He even wished he had a cigarette—something to occupy his hands and his mind, the latter of which he could not seem get control over, and he was very much afraid that his hands would follow.
That was why Patrick insisted on staying by the campfire—self-preservation.
The last thing he needed was to find himself alone in his tent with nothing on his mind but Linley Talbot-Martin.
Patrick stared into the fire, watching the yellows and reds dance against the glowing logs. Somewhere in the trees above, an animal called out, and in the distance, its call was returned. He leaned back, craning his neck up to the canopy above. It was so dense and lush that he could not even see the moon. He would not have even known it existed had he not seen it rise and sink every night for twenty-seven years.
The conversation around the campfire grew quiet. Sir Bedford retired to his tent, and Archie and Schoville shuffled towards their own. Only Reginald remained.
“Cigarette?” he asked, flipping open his case.
Patrick shook his head. “No, thank you. I believe I ought to turn in.”
Reginald folded the case shut and stuffed it into his pocket. “You think you’re clever. You think you’re very clever, but we both know you are not.” He leaned forward, addressing Patrick from across the fire. “I don’t understand why you can’t leave her alone. You could have your pick of any girl in London. What do you want with that one?” Reginald pointed at Linley’s tent. “She knows nothing of your games. Your tricks. She is completely ignorant of men,” he explained. “I could understand if it were a matter of sport, I really could. But she is no challenge. No chase. You could break her heart without even trying.”
“Then she is lucky I’m not in the business of breaking hearts.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
On the third day of their journey, the rains came. The storm arrived without warning—no thunder or lightning to precede it, just a dull mist that swirled around the elephants’ feet. As the rain began to fall harder, Linley dug through her bag of supplies for a canvas sheet. She pulled it out and handed it to Patrick, who helped her drape it over their howdah.
“It will be like this from now on,” she told him, huddled beneath their makeshift shelter, water dripping off the end of her nose.
Patrick shifted, trying to pull more of the canvas over her. She was soaked, and her thin white blouse clung to her chest. Despite the chemise she wore underneath, he could see her pink skin showing through the fabric. “Then I suggest you learn to wear more clothes.”
Linley looked down at her chest, realizing that very little was left to the imagination. She tugged at her blouse, trying to pull the limp cotton away from her flesh. “I’m sorry. Usually, I have on my rain slicker.”
“Where is it?” Patrick asked. “I will get it for you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late now.”
“You will catch your death dressed like that. You’re soaked to the bone.” He, too, was soaked, but that mattered very little to him at the moment. Patrick could see her shivering.
How much longer would they have to go in this weather? Eight hours? Ten?
Ten more hours in a torrential downpour, drenched in sopping wet clothes, and they would all have pneumonia.
“My father would turn in his grave knowing I was caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella,” Patrick said. “He considered it a gentleman’s cardinal sin to ever leave home without one.”
“He sounds like a wise man.”
Patrick smiled, sending drops of rainwater spilling off his chin. Although the canvas sheet did not keep out all the rain, it formed a very cozy bubble between he and Linley and the rest of the outside world. At that moment, he could not think of anywhere he would rather be.
The elephants slopped through the jungle, impervious to the rain that pelted their tough hide. The mahouts on their backs sat ramrod straight, their black hair plastered to their foreheads. They urged the elephants on, whispering encouragement when their feet slipped in the muddy ground.
The howdahs lurched and swayed. Linley huddled further down into the basket, closer to Patrick and the warmth of his body. “I’m cold.”
He put his arm around her, wishing it were a warm coat or a blanket instead. She crushed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Patrick could feel the heat of their bodies seeping between the thin barrier of their wet clothing, could feel her tremble as she clung to him. He rubbed his palms up and down her back, building friction to warm her, to comfort her in the only way he knew how.
His own discomfort was nothing. Patrick clenched his jaw against the cold, stinging rain. If he could have peeled away his own skin and wrapped it around her shivering shoulders, he would have done so without question. The important thing—the only thing—was to keep her warm and safe.
***