Burning Embers Page 2

  Coral was overcome by emotion, remembering the last time she had seen this landscape. She thought of her father, who today would not be waiting for her. How empty her childhood home would seem without him. A lump formed in her throat, and she bit her lower lip while fighting to control the tears quivering on the edge of her eyelashes. Unable to restrain them for long, they spilled over and down her cheeks. She had forgotten her companion’s presence while engrossed in her sadness, so she gave a faint start when he spoke.

  “Please don’t…” he whispered softly.

  She did not answer; she did not even move. She simply stood there, limp and weary, tears continuing to mar her lovely features. He brushed her chin lightly with the tip of his forefinger and gently turned her drawn face toward him. With a white handkerchief he produced from his pocket, he carefully wiped away her tears.

  “An African proverb says that sorrow is like rice in the pantry: it diminishes day by day.” Despite his solemn tone, he looked at her with laughing eyes that the morning light had turned golden brown but remained almost as hypnotic as they had been in the moonlight.

  “Forgive me,” Coral murmured, smiling through her tears. “I didn’t intend to make a spectacle of myself. It was rather childish, I suppose.”

  He gave a vague motion of his head and winked at her. “Even big boys cry sometimes, you know.” There was a slightly hard edge to his words, and once again she caught herself thinking how appealing she found his husky voice.

  In the light of this splendid dawn, the ship entered the port of Kilindini. All was still. The sea was smooth and glossy, the water so transparent that Coral could see where rainbow-colored fish dozed lazily among waving coral branches.

  “We won’t be disembarking before midday. You have time to rest for a while,” the stranger said. “Come, I’ll take you back to your cabin.” Without being bossy, he came across as a self-assured man who was in the habit of making decisions and was unaccustomed to anybody resisting his will.

  Coral acquiesced and gave him back his jacket. “My cabin is downstairs,” she told him. As he took her elbow, she tried to ignore the tiny shockwave that pulsed through her body. She steadied herself and let him guide her to the floor below. “Just here,” she whispered when they reached the door.

  Coral stared up at him, meeting the brooding dark eyes that engaged her thoughtfully. He placed his large hands on her shoulders. Coral was petite, and he towered over her willowy figure. She became aware of how dangerously close she was to his hard, muscled body. His head was bent toward hers, his gaze fixed upon her parted lips. For a few seconds, she thought he would actually draw her to him and kiss her. Her pulse raced as she held her breath, but his jaw stiffened, his eyes clouded, and his grip tightened just a little on her bare shoulders.

  “Now, young lady, you must force yourself to sleep.” His tone was light, but his voice seemed deeper. “You’ll feel much better for it.” He relaxed his fingers, let his palms linger for a moment longer on her skin, then let his arms fall to his side. “Come now…sleep tight,” he said before turning abruptly on his heels and striding away.

  Confusion suddenly sprang up in Coral’s mind. Was she disappointed or relieved that he had released her? She could not say; she was only conscious of the furious beat of her heart and the chaos of her thoughts. Never before had she felt such an immediate attraction. It was only when the cabin door closed behind her that she realized she did not even know the name of her kind Samaritan.

  She lay on the bunk and closed her eyes, hoping to sweep away all thoughts of him, but it was to no avail — he had moved in there, large as life. Images of him crept into her mind: his powerful, tanned hands running over her body, those strong arms pressing her against him, his full mouth kissing her passionately. Was she going mad? She knew nothing of the man, neither his name nor where he came from. Nevertheless, a shiver ran up her spine as she recalled how he had touched her for a moment and she had felt the warmth of his palms against her skin. Her female senses told her that this would be a lover whose caresses, once experienced, would never be forgotten. Instinct urged her to run and hide, while logic told her she was acting like a silly teenager; he was probably married with half a dozen children, and their paths would never cross again.

  * * *

  Coral woke up with a start. Someone was knocking on the door — short, sharp, repeated raps. She must have dozed off, she realized as she wobbled to the door and opened it.

  A young man with a dazzling smile gazed straight into her sleepy eyes. “Miss Coral Sinclair?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” she said a little uncertainly.

  “Splendid! Robin Danvers at your service. I’m the manager of Mpingo, come to welcome you and drive you to your home.”

  “What time is it?” Coral ran her fingers through her rumpled hair.

  He grinned. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “I must have fallen asleep,” she mumbled. “Please forgive me; I’m not quite ready yet.”

  “There’s no hurry. If you’d care to give me your passport, I’ll see to your luggage.”

  The solicitor for her father’s estate had mentioned in his letter that Robin Danvers, the manager of Mpingo, would be meeting her at the ship. Somehow, she had imagined an older man. Dressed in a white, short-sleeved safari shirt and dark trousers, he looked very clean-cut and not unattractive.

  “Here you go,” she said as she retrieved her passport from her bag and handed it to the young man. “I’ll be ready when you come back.”

  “Are those your cases?” He pointed to two stacked trunks.

  She smiled, slightly embarrassed. “I’m afraid they’re rather large.”

  “Not to worry. I have brought the customs agent on board to clear your luggage. Then I will take them down with me and tend to any other formalities. Take your time. In Africa, we live at a slower pace,” he added cheerfully. “The challenges of everyday life here have taught the Kenyans to take every day as it comes and live for the moment. You’ll become accustomed to it in no time. It’s a very wise and infectious philosophy — we call it going pole-pole, slowly slowly.”

  He took leave of her, and Coral was alone again with a moment to gather her thoughts. After saying goodbye to her knight-errant, she had stretched out on the couch, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander. The last thing she remembered was trying to imagine an alternative sequence of events, had circumstances been different — had he kissed her instead of leaving her so hastily at her cabin door. It was probably at that moment she had drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. She actually felt much better for it: rested and enthusiastic. He had said she would, and the thought made her smile. Coral wondered whether she would see him again, deciding that she should be on the lookout for him, only to thank him for his kindness, of course.

  Thankful that her fresh looks needed no artificial makeup, Coral applied just a tinge of transparent gloss on her lips and pinched her cheeks to add some color to them. Her mirror reflected eyes that were cornflower bright and shiny. Needing some practical traveling clothes for the journey, she had changed into hip-hugging, white cotton flared trousers that accentuated her long, shapely legs. The blue and white striped man’s shirt, ends tied in a big knot at the waist, enhanced the golden tan she had acquired sunbathing on deck and set off the slenderness of her figure. She had just finished putting her hair in a French braid when Robin Danvers returned to fetch her.

  Coral stood on the deck at the top of gangplank, dazzled by the reflection of the blazing light. The late morning sun spread its fan of fire over the shimmering sea. The baking heat was suddenly very familiar, and she did not dislike it. Here and there flying fish erupted from the water in a show of sparkles. The air was heavy with redolent scents. It was all coming back to her now: the blend of tar, sea, ropes, moldy timber, spices, and dry fish that haunts every port but which Coral mentally associated with Kenya and her childhood.

  After the stillness of her cabin, the noisy clamor that filled the p
ort had a physical impact. Blaring sirens of cargo boats carrying exotic merchandise alternated with the shrill whistles of panting tugboats towing their timber rafts. From time to time they would be drowned out by the din of heavy billets crashing down into the holds. But it was the continuous creak of the harbor’s thick chain booms that grated on her already strained sensibilities.

  Down on the quay, the colorful, mixed crowd of African natives, foreigners, animals, and cars was creating its own kind of chaos. Kenyan men and women chatted away, laughing, shouting, and jostling each other. Some hoisted sacks and crates onto trucks bound for Mombasa and the capital, Nairobi; others clustered round stalls of food, noisily bartering with vendors. Children darted through a sea of legs as horns beeped, goats bleated, and chickens flew up in all directions.

  It had been too many years since Coral had been caught up in such a scene, and after the peaceful solitude of the ship, it was unexpectedly all too much. She hesitated a moment and looked behind her for Robin Danvers, hoping that he would lend her the courage to face this intimidating new world, but the young manager was nowhere to be seen. Struck by sudden panic, she was on the point of returning to the security of her cabin when a firm hand grasped her by the arm.

  “Your companion is not far behind,” said a deep, comforting voice she instantly recognized. “He’s been held up. We’re blocking the traffic. Come, let’s go down together. He will meet you on the pier, no doubt.” It was not a suggestion but an order. His grip was such that it gave her no option but to be marched down the wobbly gangplank and hustled through the crush toward a vaguely familiar looking dark-green Buick parked twenty yards away.

  They had almost reached the car when Robin Danvers joined them, quite out of breath. “Forgive me, Miss Sinclair, if I’ve kept you waiting,” he panted. “I was held up by some customs official.”

  “That’s all right, Robin,” she replied absentmindedly, still a little shaken up. “This gentleman very kindly looked after me. By the way,” Coral added, turning to address her rescuer, “I don’t even know — ” But he had already disappeared among the motley crowd. “He was here a moment ago,” she cried out, failing to conceal her irritation.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said the young manager sharply. “He must have been in a hurry to find his family.”

  Coral shrugged her shoulders dismissively but remained perplexed, feeling as if she was missing something. How did the stranger know where to guide her to go? They reached the car, and a Kenyan chauffeur smoothly appeared to hold the door open for her. “Karibu. Welcome, Miss Coral,” he said with a smile. His inquisitive, friendly eyes reminded her how instinctively warm the Kenyans were, how much they delighted in hospitality.

  “Moses is one of the drivers attached to Mpingo,” explained Robin. “He is loyal and has been working with us for eight years. He also speaks good English.”

  “Hello, Moses.” She returned the driver’s radiant smile.

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to wait another ten minutes,” apologized the manager. “There are some formalities that still need to be dealt with. The bureaucracy here is quite overwhelming. I hope you’ll be comfortable in the car. I suggest you pull down the blinds, which should make it a little cooler and protect you from prying eyes. Mr. Sinclair never got around to installing air-conditioning in this car. He didn’t much care for it.”

  “You forget I was born here; I don’t mind the heat,” she reassured him. “Besides, I will enjoy watching the crowd. I am as curious about them as they are about me.”

  He laughed. “Very well, but if you feel the need for some privacy, don’t hesitate to call Moses. He’ll take care of you.” Turning to the driver, he spoke to him in Kiswahili. It sounded somewhat familiar to Coral, even though she could not understand a word of it. Long ago, she had spoken Kiswahili, and now that her stay in Kenya could turn out to be a long one, she hoped that it would come back to her with practice.

  Coral climbed into the back of the Buick and watched out the window as the manager headed off toward the gray buildings at the far end of the quay, next to which stood long warehouses stacked high with sacks and bales. At the doorway to the buildings, tall, slim, African women were making ropes.

  Coral turned her attention to the gigantic cranes swiveling in the air. They reminded her of steel-fanged dragons on the lookout for their next victim as they lifted and lowered their strange cargoes bound for new shores. It was clear that the port was flourishing these days. Coral had kept up with the news in Kenya and knew that while the president, Jomo Kenyatta, was criticized by some for his increasingly autocratic governing of the country, Kenya was at least reaping the economic benefits of increased exports and aid from the West. A vision of a new Kenya seemed to be constructing itself in front of her eyes. And then, farther away to the right, where the marshy green belt of grassland sloped down gently toward the ocean, she saw an age-old scene. Magnificent, half-naked, ebony athletes went to and fro, some carrying on their shoulders and others on their heads, heavy loads brought in by rowing boats from larger vessels anchored off shore.

  Coral’s gaze wandered back to the stream of people bustling about frantically on the docks. She scrutinized this hodgepodge of form and color, searching for her stranger.

  Suddenly she spotted him. He was striding energetically toward a luxurious, black Cadillac Fleetwood that had just glided into the port. For the first time, she took a good look at him from afar. A giant of a man, he was tall and elegant in his impeccably cut Yves Saint Laurent suit and dark glasses.

  His overt magnetism, even projecting from this distance, went straight to Coral’s stomach. The Cadillac pulled up to meet him, and the back door slid open before the uniformed chauffeur had time to step out. Intrigued, Coral strained her eyes so as not to miss any part of the goings-on, but her efforts were poorly rewarded. She only had time to glimpse the heavily bejeweled arm of a woman reaching out to draw him into the rolling palace, which immediately turned around to disappear into the dense traffic.

  Robin Danvers was taking his time, and she was tired of watching the scenery around her. She laid her head back, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her own thoughts. No matter how hard she struggled to control them, they seemed to catapult themselves right back to her elusive stranger. Who was this man? His bearing, his commanding voice, everything about him spelled out self-confidence, power, and success.

  “There, I’ve finished at last,” declared the manager, jerking Coral from her meditation. “I hope you haven’t found the wait too long.”

  “Actually, quite the reverse,” she told him. “The bustle in your port provided great entertainment. So many things seem to be happening here.”

  “The port of Kilindini has become the largest and the most modern port in East Africa,” he explained. “It serves the whole of Kenya and bordering countries. But the truly fascinating parts of Mombasa are the old harbor and the old Arab town that lie at the other end of the city near the Mombasa Shooting Club. We could have lunch there. On Saturdays they put on a special luncheon for ladies, who otherwise are not allowed in. After lunch, if you’re not too tired, you could browse around the shops before we start back to Mpingo.”

  Coral welcomed the suggestion enthusiastically. She had missed breakfast and hardly touched dinner the night before. The heat and the humidity were making her feel slightly faint, and lunch in civilized surroundings seemed a very sensible idea.

  They crossed the town, passing through the opulent district where the white settlers, the mzungus lived; here the roads were fringed with their colonial-style villas whose red-tiled roofs were buried under cascades of scarlet bougainvillea, purple wisteria, and yellow mimosa. Gray concrete office blocks and tourist shops occasionally interrupted this colorful sprawl, punctuated here and there by clumps of Arab-style houses, the last remnants of ancient harems. Soon the brooding bulk of Fort Jesus rose into view, guarding the old harbor. They drove past the pink walls before entering the port through high gates. By now, the
sun was scorching. Some hundred dhows — graceful, lateen sailboats built to an age-old pattern — dozed, lying apathetically on their sides on the beach.

  Moses parked the car in the square next to the Old Custom House, and emerging from the car, Coral felt as though she had entered a new world. Here the atmosphere was impregnated with an eastern ambience of magic, intrigue, and spice.

  They walked through a warren of twisting, narrow, unpaved streets. On either side were clusters of tiny houses welded together like honeycomb cells and dark smoky shops where the tangy scent of incense lingered.

  “This is where most of the trade takes place: the shopper’s heaven,” explained Robin as they passed vendors of exotic perfumes, dealers of second-hand Persian rugs, and merchants offering Zanzibar chests at discount prices. He led the way, carefully picking a path through the swarm of sly traffickers, smugglers, corrupt policemen, and provocative hookers who shared the space. “Hang on to your bag,” he recommended as he took Coral’s arm. “This neighborhood is pick pockets’ heaven.”

  She shrugged her shoulders dispassionately. “That’s all part of the atmosphere.” She loved the unhurried way the people moved, wrapped in happy languor. They stopped from time to time to talk, haggle, or simply admire the variety of merchandise spread out in front of them. “I could spend days rummaging in these dark Ali Baba caves. Who knows, I may just stumble upon an old treasure.”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of venturing around here alone. It would be very unwise,” Robin declared. “This district is run by dangerous gangs. From time to time, European women have been attacked. In some cases they have disappeared, never to be found.”

  His quick speech and emphatic tone irritated Coral. “The people seem to be harmless enough.”