‘Mr Linton?’

‘You didn’t recognise me?’ I took a step forward. ‘Well, I suppose I do look a bit different from before.’

He tried to take a step back. But taking a step back is difficult with a stream behind you. ‘You could say that!’

‘It’s the hair, isn’t it? It’s the hair that makes me look so different.’

‘Not particularly. I’d have said it was the fact that you are covered from head to toe in mud!’

‘Ah. Yes, that, too.’

‘What in God’s name happened to you? You look like an Indian coming back from a ten-day hunt in the jungle!’

‘Funny you should mention that, because, you know, that’s actually where I got the idea from.’

‘What idea?’

I shrugged. ‘It’s those bloody mosquitos. I was pretty desperate for a way to make them a little less bloody - at least as long as my veins were their favourite diet. I could have put on more clothes, of course, as a protection - but it’s already more than hot enough in this green pot of hellstew. Then Amana mentioned this trick the Indians have: they don’t wear any clothes either, of course, so they roll around in the mud until they’re covered by a nice, thick, protective crust. That not only keeps the mosquitos away, but also has a nice cooling effect as it hardens. Then it just falls off.’

I smiled, proudly, hoping for a compliment on my acclimatisation skills or something like that. But Mr Ambrose, like always, had right away picked up the essential part of the conversation.

‘They don’t wear any clothes either?’ His voice was as cold as midnight in the middle of an arctic winter. ‘Mr Linton, do you mean to tell me that underneath that layer of mud, you are…you are…?’

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. His eyes did all the talking for him. They swept over me, taking me in this time not just as the friendly neighbourhood mud-monster, but as the woman beneath. The moment he realised what he was seeing, his gaze whipped away, and a muscle tightened in his jaw. Desperately, he rolled his eyes from left to right, trying to find anything for them to land on that wasn’t me.

‘You are naked!’

‘Yep,’ I confirmed cheerily. ‘It’s really comfy. You should try it.’

‘Comfy? Comfy?’

‘Why do you think the Indians do it?’

‘I wouldn’t know! I, Mr Linton, am not an Indian! I am an English gentleman of good breeding.’

‘What a shame.’

‘Put something on immediately! That is an order!’

I put a finger to my arm. It came away sticky, covered with a nice, brownish extra layer. ‘I have plenty on.’

‘I meant clothing, not half-dried mud!’

‘Doesn’t that count?’

‘No!’

I smiled at him innocently. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry, I’m a bit behind on Brazilian fashion.’

‘I’m serious, Mr Linton!’

‘So am I.’ I took a step forward, still smiling. ‘You had better get used to seeing me like this. After all, we still have a long way ahead of us.’

‘What?’ He tried to glare at me without looking at me, which even for a glarer as experienced as Rikkard Ambrose is something of an impossible feat. ‘You are not travelling the rest of the way like a…like…like this!’

‘I most certainly am.’ I took another step forward, my smile slowly morphing from amused to flirtatious. ‘Don’t you like me like this, Sir?’

‘No!’

‘Liar.’

He said nothing in answer. Silence reigned in the jungle, loud and clear. I saw his throat move as he swallowed hard.

‘Why won’t you look at me, Sir?’

‘You know perfectly well why!’ Was it just my imagination, or was his voice the slightest bit hoarse? ‘Put some clothes on, right now!’

‘Actually, I don’t think I will.’ I took another step forward.

‘Don’t come any closer! I’m warning you!’

‘Why?’

He took a quick step back, right into the stream. Water splashed around his black shoes that, somehow, even here in the jungle were still shiny. ‘Because…because…’

‘No need to be afraid.’ I placed a hand on my chest, right over my heart. When I pulled it away, it left a very strategically placed bare patch. ‘It’s just me.’

‘Yes. Just you. Nothing else. That’s the problem!’ He took another step back into the stream, his eyes focused firmly on the treetops above my head. ‘And I am not afraid of a girl!’

‘Indeed?’ Another step forward. ‘Then why don’t you stop?’

‘Because…because…’

His teeth ground together in the fruitless search for an answer. He shifted, torn between the instinct to run, the instinct to fight, and the instinct to peek. I took another step forward, quite curious to see which instinct would win.

He took another step back, but only a small one. He was knee-deep in water now, and I was only a few yards away from him. It was becoming quite difficult for him to not look at me. Tension sparked through the air.

‘Mr Ambrose?’

My voice was soft. Breathy. I had come here with the intention of having a bit of fun at his expense - but now that didn’t seem so important anymore. I suddenly realised that we were alone, far away from the others, and the protective covering of mud on my skin wasn’t at all as thick as I had thought. When I had been with the others, it had almost felt like clothing. But in the presence of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, it felt like nothing more than the shell of an egg - easily shattered.

‘Mr Linton?’ His voice was cold and raw and sharp-edged, like the cliffs of a freshly calved iceberg.

‘Look at me!’

The strength of my voice took even me by surprise. Had I ever dared give Mr Rikkard Ambrose an order before? But if I was surprised at my own words, it was nothing compared to the surprise of seeing them obeyed.

Slowly, torturously slowly, his eyes came down from the roof of leaves above and settled on me. And all of a sudden it didn’t matter that, technically, there was a layer of protection between him and me. It didn’t matter that it was only his eyes caressing me, not his hands. I could feel him. Could feel his gaze slide over my tangled, mud-capped hair, down my throat, over my chest and farther down, until…

Under the mud, I felt my skin heat.

My legs moved, as if of their own account, carrying me forward.

‘Do you like what you see, Sir?’

‘No!’

But his eyes kept devouring me, as if I were the key to the vaults of the Bank of England.

I smiled, continuing to advance. My gait had somehow become lithe and predatory, like that of a jungle cat. ‘Liar!’

He took another step backwards. Soon, he’d almost be waist-deep in the water. ‘I’m not lying, Miss- I mean, Mr Linton! I find you repugnant!’

I took another step forward, still smiling.

‘Do you?’

‘Yes, indeed I do! I also find you grisly, grotesque, hideous, horrid, unsightly, appalling, and, and…’

Never before in my life had I seen Mr Rikkard Ambrose struggle for words. Usually, he didn’t need them - especially to insult. Just his icy glare was enough. But the look in his eyes right now was anything but insulting. Any woman who felt this gaze on her could only feel heat and need inside.

‘Beastly?’ I suggested. ‘Foul?’

‘Yes! Exactly!’

I took another step forward. He was almost in reach now. But instead of reaching out for him, I reached out for myself. I ran a hand down my throat and towards an area of my upper body that seemed to hold particular interest for him. His left little finger twitched.

‘And tell me, Sir…why is it that you find me so repugnant? Which part of me-,’ using my other hand, I traced the curve of my hips, ‘-repels you so?’

He cleared his throat.

‘You…you are dirty!’

From underneath, I smirked up at him. ‘I bet you like it dirty.’

‘Mr Linton!’

My hand slid away from my chest, pointing further down. ‘Miss,’ I corrected him. ‘The proof’s right there.’

‘Mr Linton!’

‘Miss. You really are a stubborn man.’

Another step forward brought me within reaching distance. I lifted my hand from where it had been resting and raised it towards Mr Ambrose. He twitched back as if it were an adder. ‘Stop! You, um…you can’t touch this suit! It’s still in mint condition. I won’t have it ruined.’

‘So take it off,’ I purred.

‘I, um…I…’

Bloody hell! Being the seductive siren was fun. Why didn’t more women do this? Seeing Mr Ambrose squirm was just about the most delicious sight of my life. Now, if he would only take off his shirt…

My hand reached for his top button, and he ducked out of the way, stumbling back farther into the stream.

‘No!’ he ground out between clenched teeth. ‘Impossible! What if somebody came…if somebody saw us…saw you, like this!’

‘Oh, yes, that would be a real tragedy.’ I followed him, my eyes sparkling. ‘Those poor natives have probably never seen anybody naked before. I bet it would scar them for life.’

‘What about Karim? If he came-’

‘He already saw me.’

‘What?’

For one moment, Mr Ambrose wasn’t flustered. For one moment, his eyes flashed with cold, ruthless fire.

‘Don’t worry. I packed the mud on thick.’ Stretching on my toes, I whispered in his ear: ‘But I’ll let you wash it off, if you want. Everywhere.’

The promise of vengeance vanished from his eyes, and instead, another cold fire started to burn there. One that lit me up inside, drawing me closer.

‘What do you want to start with?’ Reaching out, I took his unresisting hand. It was unnaturally still. I could feel the power in it, barely contained under a shell of cold stone. Slowly, I raised it until it hovered just over my belly.

‘Here?’

Softly brushing over his palm with my thumb, I raised his hand high until it hovered over a far more interesting area.

‘Here?’

He made a low noise in the back of his throat. I smiled. The first cracks were appearing in the stone.

‘Oh, no! I have a better idea. Here…’

Raising his rather unwilling hand up even farther, I brought it to my lips and with his wet fingertips, brushed off the specks of mud on my lips. The first touch was incredible. His fingers brushing across my mouth were like the tips of angels’ wings. They sent a blast of heavenly fire through me, making me crave more. Languidly, I parted my lips and slid one of his fingers inside, my tongue flicking against its pad.

His breath hitched - and I pounced! He was so dazed, he didn’t have a hope of evading me. My arms locked around his neck before he’d had time to blink, and then my lips were on his, taking him, devouring him, in the most wanton kiss we had ever shared. He fought. Not to get to me this time, but to get away. Trying to protect his precious mint-condition shirt, I guessed. Or he just couldn’t deal with a woman going for what she wanted.

Ha! He would just have to! I was not going to let his rock-hard stubbornness get in the way of this. This was too good to end.

‘Mr Linton…Lilly…no, I…’

‘You what?’ Freeing his lips, my mouth raced down his throat, scattering kisses all the way. My arms came down from around his neck, and the first button of his shirt popped open in a moment. ‘You want more? Coming right up!’

‘No!’ he growled. ‘We can’t do this!’

‘Can’t we?’ I softly bit him on the neck and felt him quiver against me. Oh boy, this was fun! ‘Why? It’s not as if we haven’t done a bit of this before.’

‘That was different,’ he groaned.

‘Why?’

‘You weren’t covered in mud!’

I smirked against his granite skin. ‘What? You can’t engage in amorous congress while you’re dirty?’

‘Not if you’re English, no!’

‘I must say,’ I whispered, my lips moving slowly further down to the hollow at the base of his throat, ‘I disagree.’

I started forward, and was just about to mash my dirt-covered body against him, when he - damn him! - slipped from my grasp like an eel, ducking down into the water and coming up with a splash a few yards away.

‘Hey! Don’t you move!’

Ignoring my order, he flung himself head-first into the water. I lunged after him, but he was already darting away, swimming the crawl faster than I had ever seen anybody do in my life.

‘Come back! I promise to wash before we do it! Hey! Come back!’

He didn’t respond. Instead, he continued on until a few fast strokes had brought him to the opposite bank. Ducking down, he slid into a thicket of reeds and lianas, and was gone. All that remained was a whiff of his smell in the air and the sound of wet footsteps, fast receding into the distance.

I punched the water.

‘Damn!’

*~*~**~*~*

Needless to say, I wasn’t in a particularly good mood when I got back to the camp. After my little trip into the river, the lower half of my body had lost most of its mosquito protection and was now itching for an entirely different reason than I had originally hoped for. Quickly I returned to my little patch of mud and restored my protective package, taking care to punch the mud a few times, imagining that it was Mr Ambrose’s face.

And the worst thing was: I couldn’t even be officially miffed at him. Because, no matter how much he protested that it was all about his mint-condition suit, I knew what it was really about: he had been protecting my virtue.

The nerve of him! If my virtue needs protecting, I’ll do it myself, thank you very much!

Yes, but…right then and there, did I have the strength to do it myself? Did I even want it? All I knew was that I wanted him. Desperately. I wanted to get dirty with him and paint myself all over his body, mark him forever as mine.

Biting my lip, I punched the mud again. Damn him! Damn him for being so reasonable and controlled. Damn him for thinking of what I needed, instead of what I wanted!

I finished my insect protection measures, and, getting to my feet, started back towards the camp. I hadn’t got half the way when a dark figure stepped out from the trees, blocking my path. My hands instinctively rose in defence - when dark, deep, sea-coloured eyes met mine and I immediately recognised the figure on the shadowy pathway.

He stood there, silent as an empty grave. His eyes, though, weren’t empty. They were swirling with dark storm clouds, speaking their own secret language.

The silence was lengthening. I supposed I had better say something before it reached the length of Loch Ness.

‘Mr Ambrose, Sir.’

That was it. I didn’t really know what else to say. The look in his eyes was slightly disturbing.

‘Mr Linton.’

That was it. That was all he said. His voice was perfectly cool and controlled again. He stepped out of the shadow, and I saw that he had somehow managed to clean and dry his oh-so-precious mint-condition shirt and tailcoat.

Slowly, he took a step forward. My whole body tensed, prickling with the feeling of his proximity. What was he doing here? Not half an hour ago, he had run away from me. And now he was coming towards me, with a look in his eyes that made me shiver inside? What was his game?

Whatever it was - he intended to win.

He was only a few feet away from me now. His hand came up, and, mesmerised, I stood there as his fingers approached. They touched my cheek - my dirty, mud-stained, unladylike cheek - and stayed there for an immeasurably long second. When his fingers came away again, they were stained with dirt. He raised them to his own face and I watched, spell-bound as he drew a long, devilishly dirty, line of mud across his cheek. He began just under his eye, and drew downwards, until his path ended right next to his mouth.

Or so I thought.

His fingers moved on, until they rested against his lips, and he bestowed a gentle kiss on the finger that had grazed my cheek, leaving his lips mud stained and dirty. His eyes met mine, searing into me. Then, without saying a word, he turned and marched away back up the path.

With trembling fingers, I reached up to touch my cheek, where I could still feel his fingers burning into my skin with cold fire.

What the hell was that?