Pulling that blasted granite block of a man to the shore took me nearly half an hour - partly because he weighed about a ton, partly because I was so busy cursing every atom of water in the pond and the waterfall. But the most difficult problem was the man himself. No matter that he was only half-conscious and bleeding from the head, he was apparently quite well enough to know he did not wish to be saved from drowning by a girl. I pointed out that while I worked for him, I technically was no girl, correct? He had said so himself, after all.

For some strange reason, this didn’t seem to soothe him.

‘L-let g…of m…me.’

‘Shut up!’

I tugged on his collar, hard. Reluctantly, he slid a few more inches out of the water.

‘Th-that is an ordl…ordo…order!’

‘And this is a better one: shut up right now!’

Amazingly, he did. Though, to judge by the way he sagged and his head lolled to the side, I guessed it wasn’t one hundred per cent voluntarily.

‘Help!’ I yelled, though there was little chance of anybody up the cliff hearing me over the roar of the waterfall. ‘Help! Socorro! Socorro!’

It turned out I needn’t have worried about nobody hearing me up on the cliff. I had hardly dragged Mr Ambrose onto the bank when, from behind a bush a little up the path, a familiar head of grey hair appeared.

‘Ah!’ The old Indian lady looked from me to the prone figure of Mr Ambrose, impressed. ‘You wear him out? Good girl!’

‘No. The piece of wood did that for me.’

‘Wood?’ The old lady grinned. ‘You use piece of wood? What you up to, you naughty girl, eh?’

‘Will you help me to get him up to the village? Or call for help, please?’

‘No worry! He no have stamina? He fine in morning.’

For the first time I was profoundly grateful that Mr Ambrose was unconscious. I shuddered to think what he might have said - or done! - if he had been awake for that particular part of the conversation.

‘His, um, stamina is fine. He got a knock on the head.’

‘Oh?’ Stepping forward, the old lady bent over to examine Mr Ambrose’s head wound - and then shrugged. ‘No worry! I did same with my first husband sometimes. Three good knocks on head, and he be good husband.’

Deciding that it probably wouldn’t be very fruitful to continue this conversation, I took a tighter hold on Mr Ambrose’s arm and tugged. Slowly, he began to slide farther up the bank. The old Indian lady, after a few minutes, sighed and grabbed the other arm, helping me to pull him through the downpour, away from the muddy waterfall. We didn’t make it very far, though. We had only got to the start of the cliff path when Mr Ambrose slipped out of our exhausted arms and slumped to the ground. We promptly followed, panting like race horses after the Derby.

‘He…heavy!’ the old lady grunted. ‘Lot of muscle! Make good children, will he!’

I did not venture an opinion on the matter.

‘Just you wait and see.’ Reaching over, the old lady affectionately patted my stomach. ‘A few months, and you see what I mean.’

Groaning, I covered my eyes with my hand.

*~*~**~*~*

It took a while for me to digest what had almost happened.

Congress.

And not the kind they had in America, either, with the delegates and the boring speeches. No, this was far worse. Amorous congress. With Mr Rikkard Ambrose!

What kind of demon had taken temporary possession of my mind?

I didn’t know. But I knew it had to have been a damn devious one! There was simply no other way to explain what had happened. I mean, me? Me playing the blanket hornpipe? Basket making? Getting my bread and butter? With Mr Rikkard Ambrose?

And it wasn’t even as if he had wrestled me to the ground and overwhelmed me with the overwhelming force of his dark, ice-cold eyes and delicious body. That I could have understood. Instead, it had been me who had attacked him, and practically ordered him to dance the fandango de pokum with me. In the middle of the jungle! Under a waterfall!

Not for a moment had any of the repercussions crossed my mind. And to be honest, if I thought of Mr Ambrose’s hot mouth on mine, devouring me in the sweetest way possible - they still didn’t seem all that important to me. Which was, of course, completely ridiculous. If we really and truly did it, I could end up pregnant - or worse - married! I mean, if there was a way to live in sin for the rest of my life without blowing up like a balloon…now, that would be interesting. But marriage? Ugh!

Really? Are you sure that’s how you feel, Lilly?

Yes! Marriage was an instrument of the patriarchy designed to oppress womanhood!

Is it? Is it really?

Yes! I had only to think back on that Times article on ‘quarrelsome wives’, and the idea of marriage made me want to get a bucket to puke in. I would die before I ever became a slave to a man!

But spending the rest of my life side-by-side with one…

Strange how the idea didn’t seem quite as abhorrent as it had a while ago. Especially if we were talking about one particular man.

Getting Mr Ambrose up the cliff hadn’t been half as difficult as I had thought. He had woken up shortly after we had dragged him ashore, and after the old lady had called two of her people down, had managed to stagger up to the village with two strong natives supporting him. I had to admit, I enjoyed the sight. It was probably the first and last time I would see Mr Rikkard Ambrose staggered.

I wasn’t particularly worried about his head wound. That man had a skull as thick as a rock, and I was betting he would be up and about again in no time, ready to order me about and stare at people just as coldly as ever. Still…when the old lady asked if anyone would sit up with him during the night, for some reason I volunteered.

So now I was sitting next to Mr Ambrose in the dark silence of the hut, gazing into space, lost in thought. Mr Ambrose was a dark form against the wall, lying on a thin mat, as stiff in sleep as he was awake. He didn’t snore, didn’t move, gave no sign of life at all - but I still wasn’t worried. He would pull through. Of course he would. I definitely absolutely totally wasn’t worried.

Is that so?

Bloody inner voice of mine! Couldn’t it shut up for two minutes?

Swallowing hard, I shifted closer to Mr Ambrose. A strip of moonlight was falling into the hut through the door, illuminating his face. There was no trace of blood now. The tribe’s doctor, or medicine man, or whatever he was called, had washed it off, and applied a nasty-smelling poultice to the head wound. But in my mind’s eye, I could still see the line of blood trickling down the side of his face. His hard, cold, incredibly beautiful face…

Suddenly, my hand started to move. I had no idea why. I certainly didn’t tell it to sneakily creep out of my lap and across the floor. I most definitely didn’t tell it to skulk across the floor and sidle up to Mr Ambrose’s cheek like a thief in the night. This was outrageous! Who had taken control of my bodily parts?

My hand didn’t seem to share my outrage. In a manner that was altogether too self-satisfied for my taste, it settled down on Mr Ambrose’s cheek and - of all things! - began to stroke it! In a way that was suspiciously reminiscent of tenderness.

But things didn’t stop there. Oh no! My hand had the bloody cheek to slip away from his cheek (no pun intended) and slide down, over his chest and abdomen, until it reached his hands, lying folded on his taut belly. And what did it do then? It took his hand, and squeezed it, sweetly, almost lovingly.

‘Wake up, will you?’ I whispered. ‘There are plenty of people left in the world for you to fleece and terrorise.’

*~*~**~*~*

Mr Ambrose woke up the next morning, grouchy as an old bear who had just woken out of hibernation to find out he’d had a full-body shave. Luckily, by then my hand had started to behave itself again, and I was sitting in my corner of the hut, where I belonged. I greeted him with the brisk efficiency of a secretary who hadn’t spent the day before half-naked in a pool with her employer, and informed him straight up that, no, we couldn’t leave right away, not until he could stand up on his own two feet and walk in a straight line for more than three steps.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Linton,’ he snapped, and pushed away the blanket my traitorous hand had pulled over him during the night. ‘I feel perfectly fine.’

Bracing himself against the wall, he pushed himself up and started forward. ‘There, you see? Perfectly finnng…!’

There was a thud as his face collided with the floor. I had to admit, I felt a bit sorry for the poor floor. It didn’t deserve such a harsh beating.

‘Back to bed with you, or I’ll be calling Karim!’ I threatened. ‘He’ll tie you down if he has to.’

‘Unlike you,’ Mr Ambrose informed me, his voice muffled against the floor, ‘Karim is a loyal employee. He will follow my orders, not yours.’

‘Not if I threaten him with you-know-what. Back to bed, now!’

‘This is mutiny. If we were on a ship, you could be hanged for this.’

‘How fortunate for me that we are not on a ship, then, Sir.’

He continued to grumble a bit, and then contented himself with being icily silent at me. Nobody could be icily silent like Mr Rikkard Ambrose. I swear, he brought the temperature in the hut down to minus twenty degrees. Fortunately, after nearly a year in his employ, I was almost immune to frostbite, and was able to change his bandage without my fingers turning black and falling off. The old Indian lady came in after a while and told Mr Ambrose in no uncertain terms that he was not going to leave until he had fully recovered.

Of course, I should have expected him to make a record-time recovery out of sheer contrariness. After only a day, he was back on his feet, and after two days, he was ordering Karim about, gathering supplies and making other preparations for our departure. Our time in the Indian village was coming to an end. I had to admit, I was a bit sad about that. I had grown really fond of the old lady who was in charge here. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea we were leaving. I wasn’t completely sure Mr Ambrose would survive her next attempt at matchmaking.

The last few days I spent taking long walks, building up my muscles, gathering supplies and using every free minute to expand my Portuguese vocabulary. I had a feeling I was going to need it before this journey was over.

Finally, the day of departure arrived. The old lady would not be coming with us. She had - with considerable regret - explained that her bones were too old and creaky for adventure. But she had hand-picked those of her people who would be accompanying us, among them the big fellow with whom Mr Ambrose had had a staring contest on the first day, and a girl called Amana, for whose company I was profoundly glad, since she was one of the few women who hadn’t smiled condescendingly at my failed pottery attempts. Her name meant ‘rain’ in their language - but to judge from her temperament, ‘gentle, nice little shower’ would have been more appropriate. Except for being stark-naked and brown as chocolate from head to toe, she reminded me of my little sister Ella.

We were all gathered in front of the old lady’s hut, our weapons ready, our packhorses laden with provisions. I felt a little tug in my heart as I looked around at all these people, many of whom had somehow become my friends, although we only spoke a word or two of the same language. It was strange. I didn’t make friends easily, back in London. But here…

The curtain covering the hut’s door was swept aside and the old lady stepped out, using a rifle as a walking stick. The sight of her brought my meandering thoughts to an abrupt halt. She flashed me a brief, warm smile, then shot one at Mr Ambrose which wasn’t quite so warm.

‘We gather,’ she began in her throaty voice, ‘to say goodbye to friends. They have been good friends. Some good hunters-’

She nodded at Mr Ambrose and Karim.

‘-and some good company.’

She nodded at me. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

‘We will welcome them back at any time - if they bring me such nice presents again.’

Her fingers flexed around the rifle. Mr Ambrose’s left little finger twitched.

‘They have asked to be guided to the city in the mountains, far away to the west. What do you say, my people? Do we grant their request?’

Unanimous shouts of agreement went off from all around. Shots rang out as bullets pierced the sky.

‘Then it is decided! They will set off immediately, guided by the very best of our people. Chandresh, step forward!’

The big Indian we had met on our first day in the village stepped towards the old lady, his chest proudly puffed out.

‘Chandresh, my grandson, you will guide our friends on their journey. Do not lead them astray. Their lives are in your hands.’

I had expected him to bow, or clap his fist to his heart, or do something equally dramatic. But all he did was nod and gesture to his men. Immediately, five Indians ran off into the jungle, scouting ahead.

‘As for you,’ the old lady continued, turning back to Mr Ambrose, ‘I leave you in good hands. You will reach your goal safely. Whether or not you find everything there that you are looking for - that is your business. However, before we part, I have one more thing to say to you.’

Standing up on her tiptoes, she leaned towards Mr Ambrose and whispered something to him in Portuguese, too fast and low for me to understand. Whatever it was - it made his eyes flicker to me, just for a split second. He said something back to her, sharply, and the old lady shook her bony finger under his nose.

Bloody hell! What on earth was that about?

I didn’t get a chance to wonder about it for long. Mr Ambrose nodded to Chandresh, the big Indian barked a command and we were off, marching between the village huts towards the jungle. The remaining tribe cleared a path for us, waving their bows and guns in the air and shouting encouragement. We passed the last hut. The line of trees loomed ahead, beckoning to us. Slowly, the shouts of encouragement from behind us grew dimmer and dimmer, until finally, they faded into the distance. The first trees began to rise up on either side of us, their tops towering above our heads. Following Chandresh’s lead, we marched deeper into the shadow, until mist and hot, green shadows surrounded us.

The jungle had swallowed us again.

*~*~**~*~*

In a lot of ways, our journey through the jungle was a good bit nicer than it had been before. For instance, I was by no means so worried about the Brazilians finding us, with dozens of Indian guards around us, leading us by safe paths and obscuring our tracks. Then, there was the fact that my days as a tree-climbing monkey were over. The Indians were perfectly able to find their way through the jungle without clambering up trees. And when it did prove necessary once in a while, Amana pushed me aside with a gentle smile. She was the fastest tree-climber and best jungle-sneaker in the whole tribe. A spider monkey couldn’t hold a candle to her (even if spider monkey were in the habit of using candles).

But there were still some aspects of the journey that were as bad as ever. In fact, they grew worse. Foremost among those were the heat and the mosquitos. We had to be getting closer and closer to the equator. With every step, it seemed, the jungle seemed to be more determined to cook me alive and suck my blood. I even briefly wondered whether these mosquitos here in the Amazonian jungle were distantly related to the vampires that had become so popular in penny dreadfuls back home recently. They definitely seemed pretty determined to suck an innocent, helpless virgin dry!

Maybe you should just do something about that virgin thing, then…

That method of insect protection was very tempting, admittedly. But there were a few too many people around to implement it speedily. Besides, there were still those pesky little issues attached to losing your virginity - like pregnancy or becoming a social pariah. So I marched on and bore the mosquitos as patiently as a martyr. Except for the complaining. Lots and lots of complaining.

‘Damn blasted blood-sucking beasts! Blast, blast, blast you all the way to hell!’

‘Um…Lillian.’ Amana glanced at me nervously, not sure what my one-hundred-per-cent English cursing was all about. She was marching beside me, appearing miraculously serene, although mosquitos were crawling all over her. ‘Is something the matter?’

‘You bet something is the matter!’ I repeated my curses in Portuguese forthwith, and did a pretty good job of translating, if I do say so myself. Boy, I was turning into a bloody good linguist! ‘I’m being eaten alive!’

‘The mosquitos? They are bothering you?’

‘They are sucking me dry!’

‘Why don’t you keep them away?’

‘Keep them away? Ha! That’s easier said than done. How am I supposed to keep a whole swarm of those blood-thirsty little suckers at a distance?’

‘There is a way.’

Amana’s voice was so quiet and matter-of-fact that it took a moment or two for the meaning of her words to sink in. When it did, I froze in my tracks. The man behind me bumped into me, cursing in the Indian’s native language, and I hurried forward to catch up with Amana.

‘Are you serious? Please tell me you’re not joking!’

She smiled at me shyly. ‘No, no. I’m not joking. Haven’t you wondered why the mosquitos don’t bother me?’

I hadn’t, actually. I was far too busy cursing and aching all over. But now that she mentioned it, I did wonder. I wondered a hell of a lot!

‘What?’ I demanded ‘What is your secret? Please! Please, tell me! I’ll do anything! I’ll pay you a million pounds! I’ll kill somebody for you! I’ll give you my firstborn! Just please, please tell me! How do you do it?’

‘It’s not difficult. You just have to…’

Sidling closer, she whispered into my ear.

My jaw dropped open.

‘You’re serious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh my holy…! And that works?’

‘Yes.’

My eyes flickered to Mr Ambrose. Slowly, a smile started to spread over my face. This method had…possibilities.

*~*~**~*~*

The next morning, I rose before anybody else and made my way into the jungle until I found a nice bit of ground, moist enough for my purposes, but not swampy enough to sink in. Following Amana’s advice, it only took a couple of minutes to complete my business.

And you know what?

She had been right!

It was an instant relief. Sighing at the pleasurable feeling of peace all around me, I gathered up my things and started back towards the campsite. Karim and a few of the Indians were sitting around a map, their backs to me, talking in low murmurs. My dear employer was nowhere in sight.

‘Where is Mr Ambrose?’ I asked.

Karim jabbed his thumb westwards. ‘Gone to the stream to take a drink.’ He half turned to look at me. ‘Why, what do you want from hi-’

His voice died in his throat. His eyes, almost hidden under his huge eyebrows a moment before, turned as wide as saucers.

‘Is something the matter, Karim?’ I asked, sweetly.

‘Grk. Ng. Err…um…’

The Indians turned to look at me too, to see what all the fuss was about. None of them seemed to be particularly shocked by what they saw. A few nodded at me. One smiled. Amana winked. I winked back, then turned another beaming smile on Karim.

‘Well, if there’s nothing else, I’ll be going now, all right? I have a sudden inexplicable desire to see Mr Ambrose.’

‘Ng!’

‘Toodle-pip!’

I slipped away, off into the jungle, before Karim could blow the alarm, or do something else to derail my devious plans. Sneakily, like a slithery snake, I made my way down to the little stream that wound through the jungle not far away from our camp. Mr Ambrose was kneeling at the bank, refilling his water bottle.

Stepping out of the underbrush, I cleared my throat.

‘I’m busy!’ he snapped, not bothering to turn around to see who it was.

I cleared my throat again.

‘Yes?’ This time he did turn. ‘What is the ma-’

His voice died on a strangled choke in mid-sentence. His eyes didn’t turn as big as saucers - that would have required too much facial movement - but they did widen at least 0.00451 inches. For Mr Ambrose, that was quite something.

I smiled at him.

‘Good God!’ Springing to his feet, he stumbled back, almost falling into the stream. ‘Who…what…?’

My smile grew wider. This was going better than I had expected.

‘Good morning, Sir.’