LIONHEART

Kate Roman

www.loose-id.com

Lionheart

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Chapter One

Rhodesia, 1922

Thornside was a rough, sprawling estate several miles outside Bulawayo,

completely unlike any home Ashcroft Haywood had ever seen in England and just
as unlike the stately mansions he’d glimpsed during his short stay in Capetown.
Squatting inside a fenced compound, the low, one-story main house was a marvel of
whitewashed wood and glass. Flowering bougainvillea shaded the grand portico
from the harsh afternoon sun, and a wide, perfectly maintained drive curved past
sawtooth lawns to the wide veranda leading to the front entrance. Two natives
stood in crisp white uniforms on either side of the imposing teak front doors.

Gerald Haywood, Thornside’s master, was a bluff, red-faced, mustachioed old

soldier. Twenty-one-year-old Ash had met his uncle as a child but remembered little
save a bullying manner and a habit of shouting. Ash was accustomed to that: his
father, Sir Roland Haywood, shared his brother’s traits. Gerald and Sir Roland
greeted each other with noises like cannon fire while Ash stayed quiet, standing up
straight and pasting on his best company smile.

Then the baronet turned to his son. “My boy’s grown, Gerald, and that’s all I

can say for him. Takes after his mother, no doubt.”

Ash blushed under the two men’s critical scrutiny. His mother had died when

he was a young child, and he hardly remembered her. His tentative inquiries to Sir
Roland on the subject were met with fierce cuffs and shouted imprecations, or
worse. Ash shivered. Even though he’d reached his majority, his father still dealt
with perceived imperfections with a heavy hand. Or a whip, if one was handy.

Gerald slapped Roland’s shoulder. “I admit, the boy’s a little weedy-looking.

Still, we’ve never bred a cur yet. Remember that bitch pup I had, the one our father
said would never make a hunting dog? I still remember the thrashings the old man
gave me over her. Yet in the end, Sally was the best hound I ever bred. Her line’s
still going strong—I’ve two of her great-grandsons in my kennel. Throw them in the
deep end, brother, that’s the ticket. A good thrashing, then face-to-face with a lion,
and they all learn fast enough it’s fight or die.”

Roland nodded sagely. “And that’s one thing England can’t give the boy. Still,

if anyone can scare up a lion for him, it’s you, dear brother.”

“Quite right. First thing in the morning we’ll see what this whelp of yours is

made of, what?”

Sir Roland snorted in response.

“Until then, let’s get out of the heat. Sun’s over the yardarm, man, so we can

retire to the study. I took a great she-beast of a leopard earlier this month, and she’s
just back from the man who puts them up for me. Black as pitch but a dab hand at

mounting. Come!”

The talk at dinner veered from the Haywood brothers’ successes during the

war to the gory recounting of successful hunts, both in England and in pursuit of
the larger game Africa had to offer.

Ash ate in silence, feeling nothing but discomfort at the way his father and

uncle treated Thornside’s staff and an inchoate nervousness whose root he couldn’t
quite identify. If pressed, he would’ve likened the sensation to standing too close to
the edge of the platform as the Midlands Mainline thundered toward him along the
rails, showing no sign of stopping.

“We’ll hunt tomorrow.” Gerald clapped his hands together, interrupting Ash’s

musings with a start. “There’s a big black-maned bastard I’ve had my eye on, and
the natives brought word this morning that he’s in the area. Rollie, can the boy
shoot?”

“He can,” Sir Roland answered, eyeing Ash with disfavor. “But he’s slow on

the mark.”

Gerald chuckled into his mustache. “You’ll sharpen up out here, lad. All very

well taking your time with a deer or a rabbit. Lady’s game. A lion, now, or a
rhino—if you don’t get him first, he’ll have you, d’you see?” Gerald drew his finger
slowly across his throat.

The sweet potatoes and venison soured in Ash’s mouth, and he swallowed

with difficulty. At the first opportunity, Ash excused himself from the table and
went to his room.

On the nightstand, he found a book on Rhodesia’s plentiful wildlife, the birds

and prey beasts who made their home on the savanna. At any other time, it would
have interested him greatly, but tonight it provided little distraction from the dread
Ash felt at the thought of tomorrow’s hunt. He touched a line drawing of a lion,
standing proud on the savanna. The thought of shooting one was as alien to him as
if his father and uncle had demanded he build a bridge to the moon or fly to the
Americas on wings of his own devising.

And yet, there was something about Africa.

Not Thornside, with its deliberately cultivated air of transplanted gentility,

but Africa itself, the dry and dusty land Ash had glimpsed out the windows of the
train that had borne him from Capetown to the heart of the veldt. Rugged and
dramatic, the veldt swept off in all directions as if fleeing the incursions of man, and
the rich golds, the vast panorama blessed by the warm sunshine, all of it captivated
Ash, called to him. Defying all reason, the whole landscape felt achingly, hauntingly
familiar.

Restless, Ash kicked off the bedsheet and rose. He dressed quietly and

padded through the sleeping house and slipped out into the night.

It was more beautiful than he’d ever dreamed possible. Lit by a full and

lambent moon, the vast night above was washed with pinprick stars and nebulous
swaths of dust, as if someone had spilled milk on a huge piece of dark blue velvet.
For a moment, it was all Ash could do to stand and stare, hoping for a way to fall
into the sky.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ash whirled, heart in his throat. A swarthy stranger stood leaning against

the veranda railing, arms folded across his chest. He was stocky and muscular, with
sun-darkened skin and black hair, and he stared into the heavens with a slight
smile.

Ash found his voice with difficulty. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Best thing to happen all day,” the stranger answered. He looked over at Ash,

finally. “At least so far.”

Ash grinned and ducked his head, feeling the first real stirrings of happiness

since he’d arrived at Thornside.

The stranger held out a hand. “Bennett. Roy Bennett.”

“Ash Haywood.” Ash felt a tingle when they shook hands, a thrill at the feel

of that rough, calloused palm. He could think of about a dozen other places he’d like
to feel it. For a start. But to his consternation, Bennett, Roy Bennett stepped back,
frowning.

“Ah. A Haywood. Please accept my apologies for disturbing your evening.”

“What? No, wait. Please, don’t go.” Ash flushed, knowing how he must sound.

But he was pleased Roy withdrew no farther. “Please. I… What are you doing
here?”

“Patching up one of the Karanga who fell afoul of Gerald Haywood’s lash.”

“My uncle? I thought it was just my father who…”

“Your father who what?”

Ash shifted nervously. The last thing he wanted to do was try to explain Sir

Roland’s vitriol to a perfect stranger. He’d learned to hide the bruises well. He knew
his place.

“The…Katanga, will he be all right? Can I help at all?”

“Karanga, not Katanga. They’re a tribe of natives round here. And yes, he’ll

be all right when his wounds heal. But not as well as if he’d steered clear of this
cursed place altogether.”

Ash trembled. Cursed summed up exactly how he felt about Thornside, his

father, and his uncle—a symbol of all that could look upon the veldt and see so
much land to be conquered, see the wild things as trophies to be taken. “I wish I had
steered clear of it,” he burst out.

Roy looked at him keenly. “I take it you had little choice.”

“Little to none.”

“You make no choices of your own?” Roy stepped forward, and a stray

moonbeam fell across his face. “I find that hard to believe.”

Ash caught his breath. In the full moonlight, he could see Roy had pale,

piercing eyes filled with intensity and promise. Eyes tinged with sorrow and
passion. “Choice is a luxury, not a necessity,” Ash said obliquely. “But to hunt
lions… They’re…they’re beautiful. I’d choose to watch them, not hunt them. They
should be the ones hunting.”

Roy’s gaze flickered, whether with understanding or withdrawal, Ash couldn’t

be sure. Then Roy spoke. “So tell me, Ash Haywood, if you were a hunter, what
would you be hunting for?”

A good man, Ash thought, eyeing Roy’s muscled frame. “A good…friend.” Roy

stepped forward, and Ash could smell his sweat and something deeper and more
feral. “Every man needs a good friend.”

The two of them looked around guiltily, but the only things stirring in the

night were the frogs and crickets, croaking and chirring under the sky. As for
Thornside, the windows of the main house remained dark and unseeing.

Ash grinned down at his feet. He knew he ought to feel foolish, but somehow,

in Roy’s presence, he didn’t.

A finger to his lips, Roy gestured for Ash to follow and led him along the

veranda to the edge of the house, then around the corner, where the veranda
continued along the house’s back side. In truth, Ash needed little urging. His heart
pounded, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling so alive.

Roy guided them to a dark crook of the house, the windowless join of two

walls sheltered by a riot of tangled vines, heavily peppered with fragrant blossoms
the size of a man’s fist. Roy ducked his head under the vines and vanished for a
second, then turned and held the vines back so Ash could join him. It was a small
and perfect nook, the vines blocking out all moonlight and providing a darkness
warm and complete. Ash fumbled for Roy, sight unseen, and his hands found Roy’s
warm body just as Roy grabbed him and pulled him into a rough embrace.

A thrill coursed through Ash, and he pressed needily against the other man,

running his palms over Roy’s chest and shoulders, biting back soft noises as his
mouth was commandingly plundered. Roy slid his arms around Ash, pulling him
close. Ash could feel Roy’s hard cock through his trousers. His own cock hardened in
response, already aching to be freed.

Roy pushed Ash up against the side of the house. He ground his cock roughly

against Ash’s hips. Ash threw his head back, gasping at the wonder of friction. Roy
was mouthing his way along Ash’s jaw, down his neck as he slipped his hands down
and cupped Ash’s bottom.

For a few moments, it was all Ash could do to buck and writhe under the

staunch attentions of his mysterious lover. It felt so right, even as he knew that,
should they be discovered, the repercussions would be devastating.

But he couldn’t think of stopping.

Ash fumbled with the front of Roy’s trousers, hands shaking, desperate to

uncover the treasure beneath. He could dimly feel the shape, the heft of Roy’s
member beneath his clothes, but that wasn’t enough, would never be enough in a
million years, and he nearly tore at the stiff fabric in his driving need for skin
contact.

Roy released Ash and, chuckling softly, took a step back, undoing his trousers

and shoving the garment down.

It was impossible to see, so Ash let his hands be his guide. They didn’t

disappoint.

He briefly squeezed the tops of Roy’s thighs, pleased by the thick crop of hair

under his palms, then quickly claimed his prize. Roy was thick and uncut, already
leaking at the tip, and Ash used both hands to work the thick shaft, moving the
delicate foreskin over the ridge and back, lubing Roy with his own precum.

Roy stifled a groan, then thrust into Ash’s hands with gusto.

Reaching down to cup Roy’s balls, Ash sank to his knees on the rough wooden

planking, and by touch alone guided Roy’s crown to his eager mouth. He was
rewarded by a salt-sour squirt that he lapped happily, alternately squeezing Roy’s
sac and working his thick shaft. It was heaven. Pure, sensual heaven. The heavy
tang of Roy’s musk emanating from the base of his belly, the quiet, masculine
grunts.

Ash released Roy’s balls and dropped a hand down to his own aching cock.

For a moment, it was all too much: the hot satin of Roy’s cock in his mouth,

leaking readily onto his eager tongue, combined with his hand on his exposed cock.
Ash had never done anything so wanton nor felt so free.

Roy grasped the back of Ash’s head firmly and set up a rhythm of rough

thrusts, fucking Ash’s willing mouth. Ash found the rhythm and stroked himself to
match, marveling at the twinned sensations setting him alight, burning eagerly
toward his core.

Roy’s grip tightened, and he shoved his cock deep into Ash’s throat, loosing

jets of seed with a muffled grunt. Waves of pleasure rushed through Ash, and his
own cock responded in kind; warm, slick juice slipped over his fingers as he spoke
his groans to Roy’s quivering member.

Then the moment passed.

Roy released his hold on Ash and, after tucking himself away, tugged Ash to

his feet. As Ash sought to set his dress to rights, Roy slipped a calloused palm along

Ash’s jaw and drew him into a kiss, tongue flickering over Ash’s, light and teasing.
For a moment, it was all Ash could do not to slide down the side of the house, this
new sensation driving him even farther over the edge. He was conscious of his cock
giving a weak spurt between them, then of Roy’s dry chuckle. The man leaned in
close, lips brushing Ash’s ear. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Ash closed his eyes, feeling as much as hearing the shape of those words next

to his ear, nearly more erotic than what had just transpired between them.

He opened his mouth to respond, but with a rustle of vines, Roy disappeared.

Ash listened to his footsteps recede along the veranda and tried to catch his

breath. He waited a seemly amount of time, then emerged from the makeshift
bower and made his way back through the silent house to his bedroom, as quietly as
he dared.

Ash crawled under the mosquito netting covering his bed and slid gratefully

between the cool sheets, conscious of how close loomed the morning and the dreaded
lion hunt. He wondered for a few moments about Roy, about who he was, who his
people were, and what he was doing at Thornside.

Of all the things Ash had expected from this trip to Rhodesia, a furtive and

phenomenal assignation with a mysterious stranger had not been one of them.
Grinning, Ash fell into a deep and satisfied slumber.

Chapter Two

Natives scurried about in the indigo predawn carrying sacks, baskets, and

stakes, making final preparations for the day’s hunt. Gerald Haywood strode
between them, barking orders and fingering a coiled bullwhip at his belt.

Sir Roland stood on the step, puffing on his morning pipe and surveying the

bustle with good-humored approval. “Quite a business, this, old man,” he called out.

“Certainly is, Rollie.” Gerald walked back toward the house. “These jolly

blacks can’t be left unsupervised or they leave things half done. I tell you, they’re
more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Discipline, that’s the ticket.” Sir Roland gesticulated with his pipe as Ash

tried to stand downwind of the smoke. “Does a man good to see discipline in action.
How long till we set off?”

“We’re nearly ready, old chap. Twenty minutes? Oh! I’ve assigned you a

native each to act as your loader and your personal bearer. Peter! Paul!” Gerald
called into the bustle, and two young, wiry black men bounded toward them. “Here
we are,” Gerald said, giving Ash a brief nod and turning back to Sir Roland. “Peter
and Paul will do everything you require today.”

“Their names are Peter and Paul?” Ash asked.

“I named ’em,” Gerald said crisply, tugging at his mustache. “Heathenish, the

names they’re born with, and I won’t use ’em. They soon learn to answer when I call
them.”

Ash stared at his uncle in disbelief, but at a look from his father, he said

nothing.

The hunting party set off just as the sun crept over the horizon, casting eerie

shadows on the vast expanse of veldt. Spirit-shapes flitted before and behind them,
changing before Ash’s eyes from rock to bird to nightmare beast and back again.

A rough scream split the dawn. Ash glanced up in alarm.

A huge black eagle circled the hunting party, great dark wings spread wide.

The native bearers mumbled low incantations, drawing signs in the rapidly
warming air. Gerald’s horsewhip lashed out mercilessly, and the bearer nearest him
sank to his knees on the sandy ground with a cry of pain.

“Stop that, stop that, the lot of you. Bloody heathens.” Gerald hung the whip

back on his belt. “Chapungu. Damned birds are sacred or some such rubbish, and
any time one comes about, you can’t get anyone to do a lick of work. Drop
everything they’re doing to cast spells at the bloody things, saying they’re
soul-stealers. I’ve been trying to get them to see the error of their ways, but
apparently I need to try harder.”

The stricken native was helped to his feet by the others, and Ash winced in

sympathy at the dark stripe of blood on the man’s torso where Gerald’s whip had
left its mark.

“Eyes front, boy.” Sir Roland’s voice was low and menacing, and Ash complied

at once. An overfondness for the lash was a trait the Haywood brothers shared, yet
Ash surreptitiously searched the wide violet sky for the great black eagle, barely
able to make out a pair of huge wings soaring silently away into the morning.

They marched three hours, letting the sun catch them at the horizon, before

Gerald’s upraised hand brought them to a silent halt among a small stand of trees.
Ash peered through a fringe of vegetation and froze, awestruck.

A pride of lions lounged in the sun, less than thirty yards away.

One of four females rolled in the dust, snarling softly. A large male lion with

a black mane lay stretched out like a dog, gnawing a bone held between his front
paws. Behind the drowsing adults, two youngsters leaped about, play-fighting with
excited squeaks, miniature, practice versions of their mother’s throaty growls. The
noises carried easily across the savanna to the hunting party.

“Good find, brother,” Sir Roland murmured. “Fine head on that big male. The

black-maned are better sport.”

Gerald gestured, and Peter, the native bearer, appeared at his elbow with a

rifle.

Ash looked from the weapon to the majestic harmony of the group of big cats.

“No!”

A heavy hand connected hard with the back of Ash’s neck. “Quiet,” Gerald

hissed. “Game startles easily. Now take your gun, nephew.”

Unhappily, Ash turned back to Peter and accepted the rifle.

The whispered “thank you” earned him another blow to the back of his neck.

“Don’t thank them,” Gerald said quietly. “It’s beneath you, and it’s bad for them.”

Ash crept miserably along as Gerald led them to a spot that would provide a

good shot at the lion he’d set his sights on. The idea of killing the noble beast under
any circumstances filled Ash with revulsion, but sneaking up on the animal as he
lay with his family struck Ash as particularly mean and cowardly.

Gerald waved his brother and his nephew into positions on a small rise, close

to the cats and downwind.

Ash clutched his rifle. If he could get a warning shot off, hopefully it would

scare the lions into running away, and perhaps his father and uncle would believe
he was simply overeager and had missed his shot. It would be worth it to save the
life of such a magnificent beast.

The big cat got to his feet and stretched, shaking the huge coal-dark mane.

As Ash watched, he clambered onto a rocky promontory and opened his mouth as

though to yawn, then let loose a mighty roar that echoed across the veldt.

With a yelp of surprise, Ash dropped his rifle. The crack as it went off was

followed by a roar of pain from Gerald.

“What the hell!” Sir Roland spun around, consternation and anger chasing

themselves across his face.

Gerald was clutching his buttock. “Dammit, Rollie! Your bloody boy’s gone

and spoiled everything.”

“Old man!” Roland rushed to his brother’s side. “What is it?”

“Just a flesh wound. Here, Thomas.” Gerald summoned another bearer.

“Bring the medical kit. Quick, understand?”

Ash sank slowly to the ground. He looked back out across the veldt and

noticed mechanically that the lions were gone. An image of the black-maned lion
filled his vision, so real Ash could almost smell the animal heat of it.

A native ran up bearing a leather-wrapped bundle, and between them,

Gerald and Roland treated the wound. Ash’s bullet had grazed Gerald, leaving a
long, bloody slash through his canvas shorts, stiff now with drying blood. Gerald
scrambled to his feet and took a couple of limping steps. “Good as new,” he
proclaimed, then bent and picked up Ash’s gun. “Here, Peter, put this away. Young
master won’t be needing it again.”

Ash looked up nervously at his father and Gerald, standing over him. “I’m

sorry,” he tried.

“Not good enough,” Sir Roland said, fury raising his voice. “Every time—every

time—I ask you to behave as befits a Haywood, you disappoint me. You’re a
namby-pamby, weak excuse for a man, and I’m ashamed to call you son.”

Sir Roland kicked Ash in the stomach, and he sprawled in the dirt with a cry,

air rushing out of his body. He gasped for breath, eyes watering.

“Steady on, old chap.” Ash’s heart sank as he saw Gerald unhooking the

heavy bullwhip from his belt.

“Not in front of the blacks, Rollie,” Gerald said warningly. He handed his

whip to his brother with a meaningful nod. “I’ll have the natives strike the luncheon
camp while you’re occupied with your son.”

“Damned white of you, Ger,” Sir Roland said grimly. “Damned white. This

pup of mine’s a sore trial to me, and I appreciate your understanding.”

Gerald sketched a salute and turned away, shouting for the bearers. Ash

turned frightened eyes to his father’s face.

“This time, boy, you have tried me too far,” Sir Roland said coldly. The heavy

whip uncoiled into the dirt. “One way or another, I’ll have an end of your failures.
Do you hear me?”

The lash snaked out, vicious and targeted, biting through Ash’s shirt to the

skin beneath. A stripe of fire burned from neck to waist, and Ash couldn’t help his
scream of pain.

“Be silent! Have I taught you nothing?” The whip bit across Ash’s shoulders.

Sir Roland’s eyes glittered with fury and triumph. “You will pay for this day’s

work,” he said menacingly, and as the third blow fell, Ash saw murder in his
father’s eyes.

He scrambled to his feet, stumbling under another stroke from the whip. He

was no stranger to his father’s blind, demanding rages, but this calculated coldness
was foreign and terrifying. Ash threw himself hard to the left, rolling in the dirt as
the lash came down again.

But to no avail. His father’s boot slammed into one knee; then the heavy whip

lashed across his back.

Ash tried to roll, tried to crawl, focusing only on one thing: he had to get

away. Out here on the veldt, Sir Roland’s veneer of civilization had fallen away. His
rage was unchecked.

The blows rained down, each whistling lash of the bullwhip laying Ash’s flesh

open. He scrambled forward until a heavy boot slammed into his side, tearing the
breath from his lungs. He fell again, trying to breathe past the pain, trying to cry
for help even as he knew no one would come to his aid.

Another blow sent him sprawling, the world spinning faster and faster. Pain’s

wide jaws opened, beckoning huge and hungry, consuming everything. Ash let them
swallow him whole.

* * * *

The first thing Ash was aware of was a terrible thirst. The second, as he tried

to move, was pain searing through every part of his body.

Ash cracked open one eye and saw only pale African dirt. Spots of dark, dried

blood clustered in the dust and for a confused moment, Ash wondered if he had shot
the lion after all.

He pushed himself to his knees and stars of pain pinwheeled behind his eyes.

“Young master followed the lions. He must be found. You hear?” The sound of

Sir Roland’s voice sent panic thrumming through Ash’s veins. Determinedly, he
made it to his feet. He’d wound up behind a low, wide bush with waxy, dark green
leaves, and it, along with the thick, waist-high golden grass, gave him ample cover
from which to hide from his father and uncle.

“Easy enough to lose a man out on the veldt, Rollie. The lions will find the

body first and after they’ve been at it—well, no one will ask awkward questions.”
There was a pause; then Gerald Haywood continued. “I suppose it had to be done?”

Ash did not wait to hear the answer. He had to get away, far away, and fast,

before his father discovered he was still alive. Arms pressed tight across his chest,
he turned his face to the veldt and ran.

Almost unconsciously, he followed the heading the huge black eagle had

taken earlier, away from the camp, away from the Thornside homestead. Into the
territory of the lions, the lonely, uncharted grasslands that were Rhodesia’s heart.

Despite the throbbing pain in his ribs and back, Ash ran until the searing

heat made drawing breath all but impossible and a red haze rolled across his vision.
Then there was a roaring in his ears like a thousand drums, and he felt himself
floating, as though the heat itself lifted him.

Dimly, he saw a brown, dead-looking tree, its stumpy, foreshortened

branches raised to the heavens like a beggar seeking alms. He crept into the meager
shade it cast, wondering if some African god would see its plea and come. Dropping
to the ground, he concentrated on breathing as slow and shallow as he could, the
hot air harsh in his parched throat.

Gradually, the pounding in his chest eased, and his vision cleared. Ash sat

up, looking around him at the vast and empty veldt. The golden grassland stretched
as far as he could see, intermittent browns and blacks marking patches of scrub or
possibly creatures too far distant to identify. Off in the distance sat a tree line
identical to the one he’d entered first thing that morning.

Ash swallowed down panic. He had no water, and thirst already clutched at

his throat. He had nowhere to go and no idea how to get there if he did. Uncertainly,
he looked back the way he’d come.

“I can’t go back,” he said aloud, the reality taking shape in his head as he

spoke. Looking up at the fierce sun blazing in the infinite sky, Ash felt his fear
replaced by calm. In truth, it would be better to die out here on the veldt like a
hunted lion than to slink back to his place as his father’s whipping boy.

Finding water was the most important thing, Ash knew, but his limbs felt

heavy, and the baking heat seemed to press him into the ground.

I’ll rest until it’s cooler. Then I’ll find some water. And the lions. I’ll find the

lions… Ash lay back down, letting his eyes drift closed.

A Bateleur eagle’s haunting scream echoed across the veldt, but the figure

under the baobab tree did not stir.

Chapter Three

Roy Bennett had slept uneasily, haunted by strange visions and

bloodcurdling screams. Not the reeking, gas-drenched screams of the battlefield, for
once, but something else. The veldt, his adopted home, was lashed by a storm unlike
any he’d experienced, where winds laid the tall grass flat and water mixed with the
red soil, running like blood across the savanna. The gray landscape had been empty
of all living things save a young lion who’d jumped down from the branches of an
ancient tree to land on human hands and feet.

Roy used the physical exertion that characterized life on the veldt to banish

the dream from his waking mind and turned his body to a hard trek across the land.
The sun was high in the sky by the time he reached the sparse stand of
butterfly-leaved mopane trees deep in the heart of the veldt. Mopane seeds, leaves,
and bark were a far cry from the medicines he’d studied in college, but, correctly
prepared, were just as efficacious.

Roy half filled his knapsack with the vital supplies; then a wild shriek made

him look skyward. A vast black Bateleur swooped down low, circling on the lazy
African wind. Bateleurs were a relatively common sight on the veldt, but this one
was truly magnificent, giant beyond proportion, with massive wings that nearly
blotted out the sun. And that cry…

As if he’d called her, Mambokadzi’s own familiar, Onai, shrieked again, her

voice sounding the length and breadth of the land. Roy raised his canteen in salute.
He’d never known a fiercer bird, nor one as smart. “Good day to you, too, Onai.”

But the haunting cry was repeated a third time, and Onai swept back down

over the tree lending Roy its shade. She settled in the highest branch, and as he
craned his neck up to keep her in view, Roy could swear an angry glint shone from
the startling green eyes.

She opened her mouth and gave another raucous cry.

Roy stoppered his canteen and restored it to his belt. “You have my full

attention, Onai. What’s got your feathers so nettled, hey?”

As if in answer, the great bird took to the sky, staying low over the savanna

but heading for the distant edge of the tree line.

Roy watched her go, puzzled. She seemed to be making a beeline for the

Finder’s Tree, an ancient and distinctive baobab that thrust its branches to the sky
like angry fingers.

Roy squinted against the bright afternoon light, keeping Onai in sight. He

was right; she’d headed straight there, alighting in a topmost branch. Roy followed
the twisted, odd-looking branches down to the thick trunk and froze.

A young white man with a shock of golden hair lay sprawled facedown at the

foot of the tree.

Roy cursed and ran.

He covered the distance between them as fast as he could, but still too

damned slow. He had no idea what the boy could be doing out here, but it didn’t
matter. Africa’s wilds took no prisoners.

As he reached the tree, Roy dropped to his knees in the dirt. He fumbled for

the canteen at his belt even as he cataloged the meager supplies he carried by
necessity: water, splint, bandage, gin, petroleum jelly. Revolver.

“Here, friend.” He shook the young man’s shoulder.

A weak moan was the only response.

“Come on,” Roy encouraged. “Come on, I’m here to help.”

The injured man was rolled into a fetal position. Roy got an arm around his

shoulders and half raised him, then froze. The youthful blond in his arms was Ash
Haywood.

Roy pulled himself together, grabbed the leather canteen from his belt, and

held it to Ash’s parched lips. “Water.”

Ash choked a little at first, then seemed to get the hang of swallowing, his

head supported by Roy’s shoulder. A little water trickled from his mouth and ran
down Roy’s arm.

Roy took the canteen away before his patient had drunk his fill, and Ash

whimpered, moving his head restlessly. “Take it easy. Not too much now. More
later. Take it easy.” Gently, he ran a hand down Ash’s limbs and over his body,
checking for injuries.

Ash yelped and jerked in his arms, and Roy looked more closely, surprised.

He’d been running his hands over his patient’s ribs, part of the army medical
examination that was still second nature to him. And these ribs were cracked,
possibly broken.

But what Roy found next made him see red. Lifting Ash gently, Roy

confirmed his suspicion. Ash had been beaten thoroughly and recently, with a
coarse and heavy whip.

“No! No, I won’t go!”

“Easy.” Roy held on. “Nothing’s going to hurt you now. It’s all right.”

Ash’s eyes opened slowly, turning up to Roy’s face, focusing with difficulty.

“You found me,” he whispered.

“Yes, I found you. It’s all right now.”

Then Ash passed out cold.

* * * *

Ash awoke slowly and lay still, eyes closed. He shifted his hand and realized

he was lying on something soft. Fingering it, he recognized it as a rough blanket,
nothing like the expensive bed linen he’d slept in at the Thornside estate.

“How are you feeling?”

Ash opened his eyes. “Roy,” he whispered, blinking at the man bending over

him. “You came. I was afraid…” He stopped, looking up at the intense blue eyes
locked on his. “You’re real? I’m not dead?”

“You’re not dead.” Roy pushed dark hair back from his tanned forehead and

perched on the edge of Ash’s cot. “I found you out on the veldt and brought you back
here to my compound. You were hurt…alone. Ash, what happened?”

Ash opened his mouth, then closed it again. There were no words to explain

the rage he had seen in his father’s eyes, his own certainty that Sir Roland had
meant to kill him. “An accident,” he said faintly. “We were, uh, hunting.”

“An accident.” Roy sounded grim. “I see. Gerald Haywood has a talent

for…accidents.”

Gerald and his father…coming for him… Ash curled in on himself, scrabbling

for purchase at the rough mud wall.

Roy had him in a firm grip in a second, voice low and soothing. “Easy, Ash,

easy. Easy. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Shh.” He held Ash close, and Ash let him.
Roy was little more than a stranger, but he felt so right, so comforting. Ash leaned
into Roy’s chest and luxuriated in the sensation of being held.

“I see I’ve said the wrong thing,” Roy murmured. “You get something of a

talent for it, living out here so far from anywhere. But I promise you, Ash, whatever
your demons are, I’m not one of them.”

Ash closed his eyes, breathing in Roy’s masculine scent, enjoying Roy’s body

against his own, no matter how odd the circumstances. “They made me hunt the
lions,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t want to. And then…” Ash stopped and
closed his eyes again, memories overwhelming him. The huge, black-maned lion
roaring on a rock, the cold fury in his father’s eyes, the lash singing its way through
the air.

“It’s all right,” Roy said. “Don’t try to talk about it yet. I have a feeling that

whatever you were supposed to be hunting, the tables got turned.”

More images flashed behind Ash’s eyes, and he burrowed his head against

Roy’s chest, uncaring of whether it seemed weak. Roy had already shown him more
kindness than anyone else in his whole life. There was something about Roy that
spoke of the kind of honor Ash’s father and uncle paid lip service to but could never,
ever achieve.

“If you’re feeling up to it, I’ll leave you for a minute. You need food.” Roy

lowered Ash back to the rude cot, and Ash watched as Roy ducked under the heavy
curtain at the room’s sole entrance, letting it fall back into place behind him.

Ash looked around the rest of the space, taking in the rough red walls and

the dirt floor. The room contained only the cot, a workmanlike washstand, and an
army trunk. Light came from a small, rectangular window covered by mosquito
netting, set high in the far wall. A small, functional space, so far a cry from
Thornside yet entirely in keeping with the spare, focused demeanor of Roy Bennett.
Beyond the curtain, Ash could hear Roy rustling about, stoking a fire, it sounded
like, whistling all the while under his breath, a song at once unknown and yet
hauntingly familiar.

And with those pleasant, domestic sounds washing over him, Ash found

himself drowsy and, despite the throbbing pain of his injuries, somehow content. He
lay back on the cot, giving in to a deep and dreamless slumber.

* * * *

Ash sat up slowly, wincing at a sharp pain in his side. He touched the place

delicately. Another cracked rib. Thank you, Father.

The skin over the rib was broken, and Ash’s fingers came away sticky, not

with blood but with some type of salve. His wounds had been thoroughly and
efficiently cared for, and the sensation was foreign but not unwelcome. His shirt
hung in bloodstained ribbons on the edge of the washstand, and between it and the
wide cuts across his back and ribs, Ash knew his intuition out on the veldt had been
right: his father had meant to kill him, heir or no. Not for the first time, Ash
wondered what secret grudge Sir Roland held against him. Surely his father’s anger
had some root cause.

The leather curtain was roughly thrust aside, and Roy strode into the room,

brow furrowed.

Ash panicked. The events of the morning and the strange surroundings

overwhelmed him. He jumped to his feet, heedless of the stabbing pain in his ribs
and knee, and cowered back against the wall. He knew better than to speak, to
cry—all he could do was wait for the expected blows to fall.

Roy slammed to a halt in the middle of the room as if running into a wall, his

expression softening instantly, sadness written across his face. “I’m so sorry.” He
reached out a hand. “You’re safe here; I promise.”

Ash was suddenly overcome by weakness and exhaustion. And shame. What

must his rescuer think of a grown man who cowered in corners? Every insult his
father had ever thrown at him came streaming back to him. Taking a deep, cautious
breath against the ache in his side, Ash reached for Roy’s hand.

“I’m sorry. For a minute there, I didn’t really know… I just thought…” Ash’s

voice cracked.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Roy said softly, guiding Ash back to the

cot. “You’ve had a rough day.”

Ash sank onto the bed gratefully, leaning away from his cracked rib. He was

too tired to pretend anymore. Roy sat behind him on the edge of the bed, and Ash
gave in to the touch of Roy’s hands on his skin. Roy’s palm slid gently up his back,
avoiding all the places Sir Roland’s whip had bit and stung.

“You didn’t do anything to deserve this.” Ash felt Roy’s breath on the bare

skin of his shoulder blades. “And no one’s ever going to do this to you again, you
hear me?”

Ash nodded, consumed more by the pain of his injuries than by the concern in

Roy’s voice. Now that the shock had worn off, he was party to the full extent of his
father’s rage. He made to get up off the cot, but the swell of agony knocked him back
down and forced his breath out in a hiss.

“Let me take a look at that cut. I’m worried about infection.” Roy frowned at

the wound, his hands probing deftly. The throb crescendoed, and Ash took a sharp
breath. Roy looked up. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t sure how bad it was, earlier,
when you were out.” Roy stood and took a pot of ointment off the washstand,
uncapped it, and returned to the cot.

“I’ll try to be gentle,” Roy said, meeting Ash’s gaze, “but this is a pretty bad

cut.” He spread the salve thickly across the wound, sealing it up with gentle circles.
“It looks like it was made—” He paused, his fingers leaving Ash’s side for a second.
“Ash, do you want to tell me what happened?”

Ash looked away. He wasn’t sure how to explain Sir Roland’s anger. He’d

never had to before, had never tried. It was simply the way things were. “My
father…when I make a mistake…” Ash hesitated, then finished in a rush. “Roy, I
didn’t want to shoot the lions. But they made me take the gun. I was going to try
and scare them with a warning shot, but one roared, and I dropped the gun. It went
off…”

“And?”

Ash looked at him. There was a grim set to Roy’s mouth, but his eyes were all

gentleness. “The lions ran off. And my bullet hit Uncle Gerald. He gave my father
his bullwhip.” Ash stopped.

The grimness around Roy’s mouth was unmistakable now. “It wasn’t the first

time,” he said quietly.

Ash shook his head.

“So Gerald Haywood’s wounded. Do you know where you hit him?”

“He said it was a flesh wound. I think they were going to continue the hunt. I

hit him about…there.” Ash indicated his right buttock.

Roy stared for a minute, then gave a crack of laughter. “You shot him in the

ass? Ash, that’s a bag you can be proud of.”

Despite himself, Ash found laughter bubbling up in his chest. “You’re right,”

he said, grinning at Roy. “I hadn’t thought of that.” After a few moments, he
sobered. “The thing is, Roy, I don’t think…that is, I don’t want to go back. Even if it
would be safe.”

“I don’t think for a moment it would be safe. Gerald Haywood’s a vengeful

man, and it sounds as if his brother’s cut from the same cloth. You can’t go back
there, Ash.”

Ash glanced around the tiny room.

“No, no, I won’t keep you here in a hut,” Roy said. “As soon as you’re well

enough, I can take you up to Victoria Falls to the district commissioner. You can
settle out here, if you wish, or take passage back to England.”

Ash looked at Roy uncertainly. He wanted to be safe, free from Sir Roland’s

rage, his disappointment and violence, the whole stifling atmosphere of Thornside
and its way of life, so alien from Ash’s true nature. He wanted to be free. The last
thing he wanted was to be brought to anyone’s attention. Except possibly the
handsome doctor who’d rescued him.

“Sorry. I’m throwing way too much at you right now, hey? For now, all that

matters is you’re not going back to Thornside, and anyone who thinks differently
has to come through me. You got that?” For a moment, Roy looked as if he would
say more, his fierce blue eyes flashing with heat. Ash took a deep breath, wincing
against the pain in his side, but Roy looked away and rose, heading for the door.
“You’ve had a long day. Stay here and I’ll bring you some soup.”

With that, he was gone, back out to the fire.

Ash stared at the space where Roy had just been, lingering in the warmth.

He’d thought for an instant of protesting, but just drawing a breath reminded him
sharply of his injuries. He maneuvered himself to a sitting position, leaning back
against the wall, but even that simple movement was excruciating. Ash was
extremely glad of the rude comfort of the cot, the light blanket covering his legs.

Roy returned and squatted beside the cot. “How are you feeling?”

“A little dizzy.”

“Maybe a touch of sunstroke.” Roy placed a steaming tin mug in Ash’s hands.

“Here. Try a little soup.”

The mug gave off an enticing aroma, something like chicken combined with a

mouthwatering scent Ash couldn’t name. He hesitated, then took an experimental
sip.

It was good. Very good. Ash swallowed one mouthful, then another. He

finished the soup quickly, finding his appetite returning.

“Feeling better?”

Ash opened his mouth to reply and yawned instead. He blushed.

Roy grinned. “You won’t need your company manners on the veldt. But what

you do need is sleep. Take a nap. The soup’ll still be here when you wake.”

Hopefully, you will too. A little shaky and still aching from Sir Roland’s

beating, Ash stretched full length on the cot. As his eyes closed, he was aware of
Roy covering him with the blanket. A feeling of safety enveloped him, and he slid
over the edge of sleep.

Chapter Four

Roy went back outside to the fire ring and stirred the soup pot thoughtfully,

then took a mugful for himself. It was good, but he had little appetite.

Ash Haywood. A lost white man on the veldt in need of help and an abused,

frightened boy with nowhere to turn. Both those descriptions were true, and in good
conscience, Roy could have done no less than to take Ash in and help him. Even
without what had passed between them the previous night.

But Roy’s feelings for the young man went far beyond those of a simple

rescuer. He’d known it from the moment he’d looked into Ash’s eyes on the veranda
at Thornside. There was something about Ash that touched Roy’s heart.

Mechanically, Roy took the soup off the fire and set about his evening tasks.

He penned and fed his goats and the pig, then cleared away the medical supplies
he’d used to treat Ash’s injuries. He left the healing ointment close to hand and
hesitated before taking the bottle of fever-drink from his medicine chest. Ash’s
wounds seemed clean and infection-free, but it was better to be prepared.

All the while, he listened for sounds from the cot.

Roy lit the lantern and placed it on the floor near the hut door so the light

didn’t fall on the cot. Ash slept on peacefully. Roy went to check on him and stood
for a few moments, simply looking down at the slumbering boy.

Man, Roy corrected himself, staring hungrily at the planes of Ash’s face. In

the low light, he appeared younger than ever. But Roy wasn’t fooled. Ash was no
child; Roy guessed him to be in his early twenties, much the same age Roy had been
when he’d gone off to war.

“You may not be a soldier, but you know what it is to fight.” Roy touched

Ash’s shoulder lightly, feeling the truth of the words even as he spoke.

Ash murmured something and his eyelids fluttered.

Roy held his breath, waiting, and Ash resettled, drifting back to sleep. Roy

resolutely turned from his patient’s bedside and marched out of the hut. Ash needed
to sleep.

When Ash next woke, around midnight, Roy helped him up, marveling at how

much stronger he seemed already. Roy lifted the lantern to its accustomed hook,
then returned to the fire and fetched another full mug of soup. Ash drank it more
slowly than the first.

Roy watched Ash hungrily, unapologetically. The young man sat shirtless on

the cot, blanket pooled around his waist. His long, shapely torso was golden in the
lamplight, lean muscles curved and kissed by the shadows. A strong chin, generous
thin-lipped mouth, large, watchful blue eyes under a shock of tawny hair—not a

conventional description of beauty, but Roy couldn’t stop looking.

Ash was compelling, especially when he turned his half-shy, half-hopeful

smile on Roy. Especially when he leaned so trustingly against Roy’s shoulder, so
warm, so near, so real.

When at last Ash lay back down, Roy nearly ran from the hut.

“It’s over, finished,” he said out loud, pacing the compound. He wanted

nothing more than to leave its safe confines and run out across the veldt, but he
knew better than to give in to the compulsion. This was Africa, not Missouri, where
unnatural urges could be suppressed with long, solitary hikes in the woods.

In the end, even the long hikes had not been enough, and Roy had left

America for the battlefields of Europe. Until yesterday, he had believed he’d left his
strange, unwanted inclinations behind him as well.

But last night Ash had somehow awakened needs Roy had buried beneath

two years of war and four of solitude. Needs Roy had prayed were dead and gone.
And now Ash was here, in Roy’s home, everything Roy had ever wanted. A sweet
temptation Roy had no idea if he would be able to resist.

“Why?” Roy sank to his knees before the fire, bowing his head over his

clenched fists.

A Bateleur eagle’s screech sounded high above, echoing crazily in the vast

African night. Roy raised his head, staring upward, but there was no sign of the
bird. “Why?” he repeated, louder, and the eagle called again, as though in answer.

But the answer Roy wanted did not lie out on the veldt. Tell himself what he

may, what he wanted was Ash. Ash was flesh and blood, more real, more to Roy
than Roy had ever dared to dream. And this on a bare day’s acquaintance.

Unable to hold back any longer, Roy dropped his hand to his waist and, with

a few hurried movements, freed his cock. He was hard already; the thought of Ash
consumed him. Ash was beautiful, not just in looks but also in the quiet, confiding
way he had.

He’d come to Roy so willingly, so easily, that first night—his own needs

echoing Roy’s.

Roy’s calloused palm was a poor substitute for the heat and sweetness of

Ash’s mouth, but as he pictured Ash stretched on the cot, lithe and pale and
completely desirable, his cock jumped in his hand. Stifling his cries, Roy bucked into
his fist, all his senses filled with Ash.

As he came, he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying Ash’s name.

Roy stood, head low, drained yet unsated, then raised his gaze to the heavens again.
This time there was no need to ask why.

“Ash. If I could only believe you want me too.”

Roy returned to the hut no easier in his mind.

He laid his traveling bedroll across the threshold. It was less comfortable

than the cot, but Roy knew it was not the bed to blame for his restless, sleepless
night.

Ash stirred only once, muttering and tossing as though in the grip of a

nightmare, and Roy went to him. Ash soothed easily, responding at once to Roy’s
soft reassurances. Once Ash was still again, breathing deep and easy, Roy sank to
the ground beside the cot and leaned his back against the steamer trunk. One hand
resting on Ash’s arm, he fell at last into an uneasy doze.

* * * *

The insistent bleat of a goat outside the window woke them both.

Roy jolted back to awareness, staring around wildly, forcing back the

battlefield memories that stalked his sleep.

Africa, not France. Morning light brightening the small room, highlighting

his own untidy bedroll in the doorway and Ash, looking flushed, confused, and
sleepy, propping himself up on an elbow in the cot.

Roy took a couple of deep breaths, getting his racing heart under control. Ash

was no less beautiful this morning than he’d been by firelight. He was slender and
pale where his clothes had kept off the sun, with an innocent, almost ethereal
beauty, marred by mottled bruises and the livid welts left by his father’s bullwhip.
Roy’s anger rose in him, drowning out all other emotions. Anger at Sir Roland for
such cruelty to one so young and beautiful.

Stop it, Roy told himself firmly. No more of that. All the fantasies he’d

indulged in the previous night rushed at him full force, battering at his self-control.
He mastered his voice with difficulty. “How do you feel this morning?”

Ash sat up slowly, blond locks falling down over his forehead. “Stiff, but

better, I think.” He rolled his shoulders. “Except for taking your bed.”

“I’m glad of it. And besides, old soldiers can sleep anywhere.”

“Funny,” Ash said softly, “I don’t think of you as old.” His expression was

unreadable.

The goat bleated again, louder this time, and Roy realized he was late letting

the animals out of their pens to graze. He rose. “She wants her breakfast,” he said
apologetically. “When I come back, I’ll uh, attend to your wounds.”

Ash grinned, and Roy felt that grin all the way down to his toes, with a few

interesting stops in between. “Take all the time you need. I don’t want to upset your
day.”

Not my day, Ash. My whole life. Roy headed out before he said something he’d

regret.

Outside, he unfastened the gate of the nearest pen, letting a pair of goats trot

out to the open area in the middle of the compound. They followed on his heels to
the main gate, then filed out as soon as it was opened, headed for the pale, straggly
grass and attacked it with gusto. Roy hung over the gate for a moment, watching
them. They weren’t much, it was true, but they were something. His something. He
turned back in the direction of the hut, intending to draw fresh water from the well.

Ash was standing in the doorway, and as Roy stared, he limped outside,

bare-chested in the sun. “Can I be of any help?”

Roy swallowed hard, his earlier resolutions forgotten. “Sure,” he said thickly.

He cleared his throat and tried again. “I mean, if you feel well enough. Let the pig
out while I draw water.”

Ash went where Roy pointed and released the large bristly gray and black pig

from its pen. With a cheerful squeal, the animal cantered across the compound and
out through the gate, joining the goats on the veldt.

“Won’t the lions get them?” Ash asked.

“The big cats don’t hunt during the day, mostly,” Roy said, carrying a bucket

of water toward the hut. “Not unless it’s a time of famine. Dusk and dawn are the
dangers.”

“It’s so different here,” Ash said, falling in step with Roy. They stopped in

front of the hut, and Ash’s gaze shifted from the pointed wooden stakes of the
stockade fencing the compound to the mud-brick hut to rest on the veldt itself.

Roy’s heart sank. This young man was an aristocrat, born to a life of privilege

Roy knew only from stories, probably used to mansions and manicured parks and
tennis.

“It’s amazing. It’s beautiful. It’s so—so real.” Ash turned again, to face Roy

this time, eyes alight with happiness and wonder.

“It is, Ash. You’re right, it is.” Roy took a deep, relieved breath of the hard

African air and grinned. “Are you hungry?”

* * * *

After breakfast, Roy checked Ash’s wounds again. All looked to be healing

save a gash across Ash’s side, wider than the others. The lips of the wound were red
and a little puffy. “This one worries me a little,” Roy said, applying ointment
liberally to it. “Tell me at once if it hurts more, or if you start to feel very hot.”

“Of course.” Ash was sitting sideways on the edge of the cot, braced on his

arms while Roy examined the injuries on his back. “For now, it hardly hurts at all.”

All morning, Roy had watched the way Ash moved, seeing the lie. Ash was

hurting, all right, and no wonder: the cuts he’d sustained were mostly superficial,
but they were combined with deep bruising and at least two broken ribs.

“Rest.” Roy laid a restraining hand on Ash’s arm.

“I’d rather be a help than a burden. That is, if you’ll allow me to?” Ash looked

at Roy uncertainly. “I expect I’m in the way.”

“You’re not in the way at all, and later, when you’re well, I’ll be glad of your

help. For now, though, the most important thing for you is to heal.” Roy forced
himself to turn away, pulling his shirt over his head. “This morning, I have little to
do anyhow. The animals’ pens must be cleaned. I have maize to boil for tomorrow’s
porridge, and I’ll prepare more soup for our evening meal. I’ve formed the habit of
resting in the heat of the day. Nothing for you to do but sleep. Call out if you need
anything—I’ll hear you.” Roy risked a glance at the young man on the bed.

Ash was laid out across the cot, hands behind his head. His chest rose and

fell as he breathed, rippling the muscles in his abdomen. His gaze lingered on Roy’s
naked torso, and his expression was both appreciative and speculative.

Roy stared for a moment, then turned and swung out of the hut. Their first

meeting burned in his brain, but for now, Ash was injured, alone. In his care.

Ash slept through most of the day. Roy checked on him often, a little worried

so much sleeping might herald the onset of fever or worse, but Ash’s skin remained
cool to the touch. Each time the young man woke, he was lucid and if not pain-free,
then certainly no worse.

Roy brought the animals in from the veldt in the late afternoon and had

barely finished penning them when he heard voices. Many natives were shouting all
at once, their cries rising disjointedly in the afternoon heat.

Roy headed for the wired thornbush gate to his stockade.

It was possible natives were bringing a sick or wounded tribe member for

treatment, but Roy didn’t think so. Such visits had never been heralded by shouting
before.

A group of local tribesmen stood just outside the gate, and they quieted as

Roy appeared. Roy sensed an undercurrent of nervousness in the group, like heat
lightning, building in a storm cloud.

An old, wizened man stepped to the front of the group. “I am Watipa. We

have come from Thornside.”

Roy nodded. He’d met Watipa once before and cured his son of a fever.

“Haywood’s nephew, the son of his brother. Chapungu took him.” Watipa

nodded sagely, looking to the rest of the group for approval. There was a chorus of
assent. “Haywood won’t believe us. He has no rukudzo.”

Rukudzo…respect. Roy nodded again. Gerald Haywood had no damned

rukudzo for anyone or anything. “But why’ve you come here?”

“Come with us. Tell how chapungu took the brother’s son to the spirit world.

Haywood will believe you.” Watipa hesitated, and Roy understood. Gerald Haywood

would believe Roy for the sole fact that he was white.

Yet Roy knew Haywood wouldn’t believe anything he said, white or not. “It’s

not that simple.”

The natives all started talking at once, and Roy stopped listening, instead

searching the wide sky for an answer. He idly swatted at a mosquito on his neck.
Off in the far distance, nearly at the edge of hearing, a lion roared at the
shimmering twilight heat, and everyone fell silent.

After the growls died away, Roy said simply: “The boy was taken by a lion.”

Watipa cleared his throat. “Chapungu—”

Roy held up his hand, turned, and headed back to the hut. At the base of the

leather curtain lay Ash’s torn and bloody shirt. As Roy grabbed it, he said quietly,
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

There was no answer. Roy hesitated a moment, then turned and jogged back

to the gate. He held the shredded fabric out to the natives. “Lion.”

Two of the younger men took the shirt, and the group started shouting again.

Watipa held his hands up for silence. “Chapungu takes the spirit. What the lion
eats is just the husk.” Watipa used the Karanga word meaning “skin of the maize
cob.” Roy shuddered.

Watipa’s proclamation was greeted with shouts of agreement, and the party

headed off into the gathering dusk, bearing the shirt as their prize. Roy watched
them go for a moment, then turned back to the hut, and Ash.

But the hut was empty. The window was barely wide enough for a man to

crawl through; Roy should know, he’d designed it himself with that purpose in
mind, in case of ambush. But the mosquito netting was carefully fastened. No one
had gone that way. And no one had left by the door. Roy felt as if a giant hand held
his heart in its fist, squeezing.

Roy searched the compound three times to be sure, then turned his attention

to the veldt. Ash was a man, and men didn’t vanish into thin air.

Roy strode out the gate, staring around him, then threw his head back and

roared a challenge to the night. After a few seconds came a lion’s answering snarl,
far too close for comfort.

Roy breathed the night air, alert to danger but unafraid of it. He had long

since stopped fearing the veldt’s big cats; after what he’d done to get back from the
war alive, Roy figured he was the biggest predator out here. But if Ash was out here
with lions so close… Roy’s heart began to pound. Rifle slung across his shoulder, he
started out into the veldt.

Chapter Five

Ash limped across the wide plain, unmindful of the setting sun. The sky

gradually burned away above and all around him, but all he knew was what drove
him onward. Thornside. He’d heard the group at the gate, come to take him back.
His blood had run cold at hearing a reminder of the past he so desperately sought to
flee. The past that had nearly killed him.

Roy.

Ash’s thoughts were consumed by the memory of Roy’s hands on his skin,

Roy’s arms holding him close. The life Sir Roland wanted for him was unthinkable
now. He’d tried to be the son his father had demanded, but now he’d seen the truth.
And he had no intention of letting that life consume Roy too. He’d run, find
someplace to hide until the search party passed, leaving no sign that Roy had given
shelter to their quarry. If Ash could do nothing else right, he could at least keep Roy
safe from his family’s wrath.

For a moment, Ash imagined he heard the whistle of the horsewhip again,

but this time, he saw it strike Roy, carving a stripe across his rescuer’s tautly
muscled torso.

No! Ash caught his foot in the entrance to the burrow of some small mammal

and fell, crashing heavily to the hard, sandy ground. He lay stunned for a moment,
too tired and raw even to weep.

The orange sun-glow was quickly burning off, the sky falling as night rose up

around him. Ash pushed himself up on his arms then staggered to his feet, absently
brushing grit from the bare skin of his stomach and chest. His fingers came away
bloody; he’d reopened his wounds. It didn’t matter; he felt nothing but the urge to
run.

All that mattered now was being nowhere near Roy, leaving nothing that

could incriminate the good man who’d saved him.

Then close by, a lion’s roar tore through the night.

Ash froze.

The sound ripped through him, carrying him along with its force and

touching him somewhere deep inside.

Some small part of Ash’s brain registered the threat of predators, the danger

posed to him, one lone man in the middle of the African grasslands. I should be
afraid. He and fear were no strangers, certainly. And yet…

The longer he stood under the vast, dark firmament, the more sure he felt,

the more secure. He heard the lions and felt their voices resonate within him. Felt
them touch some hidden part of himself long dormant, and change it. Like the sharp

snick of a twig underfoot or a bone breaking, a moment of release.

The lions roared again, answered this time by a Greek chorus of cackling

hyenas, and yet the pain didn’t come. No attack, no terror, just a subtle, almost
sublime shifting of the world on its axis, a rippling of the fabric of the universe,
nature setting itself to rights. It was as if something that had been locked away was
suddenly freed. If nothing else, Ash could understand the need of all wild things for
freedom.

Ash sank to his knees in the dust. He could hear it all now, could feel the

complex panoply of the veldt rush through him, calling to him. And Ash knew with
every fiber of his being: something within him longed to call back, to roar both
challenge and acceptance to the wild African night.

The grass rustled near a stand of trees to his right as something big slid

through the evening toward him. Something very big.

Show yourself. Ash felt and heard the words in his chest, in a voice he

scarcely recognized. Emerge and be recognized.

The thing in the grasses bellowed, long and loud in an ugly vibrato, wild and

unreadable. The lions answered nearby, long purring growls, closer now than they’d
been earlier, and Ash’s pulse quickened. He felt in himself again the same wild urge
to return their calls.

A high-pitched scream erupted from one of the trees back near the compound,

and Ash opened his eyes again, straining to see the magnificent black eagle whose
voice he recognized. Bateleur. The collector of souls who flew the living to the land of
the dead. This time, though, Ash heard the eagle’s cry with fresh ears and knew the
message for what it truly was.

He fell to the packed earth and writhed, the dust of the veldt coating his skin

like fur. He struggled to his knees, feeling claws where his fingers should be, thin
and spiked like thorns. Ash welcomed the sensation, recognizing the truth it
carried. He dug his new claws into the cool dirt and raised his head.

Wherever Ash looked, he saw a world to be conquered.

He saw savannas that were his to roam, stands of grass he was sure felt finer

than the softest linen, and everywhere, in every direction, he heard the sounds of
the veldt’s night: the chirring of insects, the soft exhalations of a herd of wildebeest
to the southwest, the soft cooing of the pink-brown African doves high in the tallest
branches of the Panga Panga trees. He heard it all, felt it in his very marrow and
knew here, at least, he could be king.

The next instant, gunfire shattered the darkness.

A figure ran at him, rifle pointed at the sky. Ash heard a shout of anger, a

shout that could only be human, nothing else; then the figure in the twilight was
Roy, sprinting across the grasslands, gun across his chest. Ash held his breath, not
trusting the evidence of his eyes.

Panting, Roy reached Ash’s side. He crouched and dropped a hand on Ash’s

bare shoulder.

The mystic quality of the dark plains vanished in an instant, and Ash fell

heavily back into his body.

“Get up, Ash. Get up right now. We have to get back inside, fast.” Roy

scowled at the veldt as if daring it to come close. “Ash! Get up! Now!” Roy hauled
him roughly to his feet.

Ash staggered, confused and sick with adrenaline. “Roy,” he whispered. “I can

explain.”

Roy glared, eyes burning with fierce determination. One of his fingers was

digging into a whip mark on the back of Ash’s shoulder. Roy’s other hand still held
the gun, and as another bellow erupted from the stand of grass, he spun lightly on
his feet, cocking the weapon against his hip. “Come on! We have to go back!”

“It’s all right,” Ash began, then stopped. Because it wasn’t, not really, and for

him to insist otherwise would be to insult Roy’s intelligence and, worse yet, his
hard-won experience of surviving this wild land.

Roy’s grip tightened painfully on Ash’s shoulder. The gun was braced against

Roy’s hip, and he swung it in wide arcs even as he began pushing Ash back in the
direction of the compound.

Ash watched the vast expanse of veldt recede from his view and, despite the

warmth of Roy at his back, he felt an inexplicable pang, as if waking from a strange
and wonderful dream. Once they were both safely behind the thornbush gate,
however, Ash’s awakening was abrupt.

“What the hell were you thinking going out there?” Roy stored the rifle on a

rack just outside the door of the hut, then stalked inside.

“It wasn’t like that.”

Roy lit the lantern against the gloom inside the hut. Its light cast angry

shadows across his handsome features. “Oh yeah? What was it like, then?”

Ash’s cheeks burned. “I wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me? From what? The great big lion standing next to you? You got a

funny way of protecting people, kid.”

“What lion? No. No! Look, Roy, they weren’t next to me; they were off

somewhere, at least a couple hundred yards.” I was fine, Ash heard himself keep
saying. I was fine. Out on the veldt. In the dark. Completely unprotected and
surrounded by lions. I was fine.

“You’re telling me now you didn’t see the lion standing over you? That’s great,

Ash. Real great. Sure, you were fine. You were aces.”

“There was no lion. I heard them, several of them, but they were too far

away.”

“Don’t tell me what I saw!”

Ash closed his eyes. It was all going wrong. He’d failed in Leicestershire,

failed at Thornside, and now even failed at reality.

“You’ve been here, what, a week? Maybe two at the outside? You have no

idea. You don’t know what’s out there. But I do, and let me tell you, you keep acting
this way, you’ll get yourself killed.” Roy stopped, breathing hard, then turned to
adjust the lantern’s wick. Shadows scudded around the room.

Without a word, Ash turned and went outside, leaving Roy for the welcome

darkness of the open night sky.

His cheeks still burned as he took in Roy’s admonitions. For a moment, he

saw himself in Roy’s eyes: a foolish young man in a dangerous foreign land, a child
in need of rescue. Drawing a deep breath, Ash leaned his head back against the
adobe wall of the hut and stared up into the star-washed sky. Everything Ash knew
of Rhodesia and the veldt—of its lethal predators and the unseen scavengers of the
night—everything added up to one big misstep.

Even though Ash still couldn’t make sense of Roy’s words—none of the lions

had come remotely near him—he realized he’d made a huge mistake. He’d been
such a fool!

He’d stood out on the veldt at dusk, alone and unprotected, thinking he could

talk to the lions. It was madness.

Except… Ash returned to those wild and stolen moments when something

had stirred in him. Something so deeply buried Ash might never have found it until
he’d heard the lions call.

“Hey.”

Ash hadn’t heard Roy’s approach. Swallowing hard, he tried to will a

response to his lips.

“Look,” Roy continued, “I might’ve been a little harsh on you back there. I

apologize.”

Ash nodded. His voice had still not returned.

“Thing is, you have to understand I’ve seen things. Both during the…the war

and out here, I’ve seen things. It’s real easy to come out here and get caught up in
all the space, you know? All the space and the animals and the—”

“The wildness,” Ash finished for him. “It’s easy to get caught up in the

wildness of the place and forget that wild things can kill you. It’s their nature. Is
that what you’re saying?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s hard to remember when you’re

looking at so much beauty—the veldt and the savanna, the way it endures, just

laughing at all the men who come here thinking they can tame it, thinking they
know better than Africa. There’s nothing we know that the veldt hasn’t taught a
hundred men or more the hard way.”

“Thank you,” Ash said quietly. “You’ve rescued me twice now. I am

completely in your debt.”

“That’s not what I was getting at.”

“No, it wasn’t. You’re too good a man for that. But still the fact remains.” Ash

clapped a hand on Roy’s shoulder. “I’m grateful. And I’ll try to do better.” He
hesitated. “Roy, was there really a lion standing over me?”

Roy shrugged. “I saw it before I saw you, crouching. When I fired my gun, it

disappeared. They’re damn quick. I guess it must have been behind you.”

Ash nodded slowly, thinking back to that moment on the veldt. He knew,

deep down inside, no lion had been near him. “Behind me. That must be it. I’m
sorry.”

The moment stretched between them.

It would be so easy to give in, Ash thought. He still felt the wilderness

stirring in him, untamed and longing for release. He’d been so close out on the
veldt, hearing the lions near at hand, hearing them call to him. There was
something in him that longed to answer, and he was sure now it was the same part
of him that wanted Roy. Wanted him so badly.

Ash remembered that first night back at Thornside—the warm, fragrant air

on his skin like a caress, the tang of Roy’s musk, the heat of his full cock. The thrill
of the forbidden.

But so many things were happening now, all at once, that Ash knew he

should be afraid or overwhelmed; he’d never been very good at keeping his head.
But he knew with crystalline clarity that what had been freed in him by the lion’s
cry had always been there, waiting, and with equal certainty Ash knew Roy was
just as responsible for loosing it as anything on the veldt. If anything, Roy was the
wildest thing out here.

Ash stared into Roy’s eyes. For a moment, the night moved again, and a very

clear image formed in Ash’s mind: he saw Roy and himself, naked and joined in a
downpour. Roy lay on his back in the mud and grit, a torrential rain wetting his
skin; Ash sat astride him, riding his hard cock, face turned up to the thunderclouds,
roaring out his pleasure, his need, the rightness of their connection. Green lightning
roiled across ironstone tors, and Ash was unbowed, feeling Roy swell in him,
watching, pleased as Roy arched, eyes squeezed shut, rainwater like tears, like
sweat on his skin, fingers digging into the skin of Ash’s hips, allowing him no
quarter. In the vision, Ash’s cries of pleasure resounded off the boulders and joined
with the noise of the storm, trumped only by the beating of a pair of great, black
wings.

The vision was so real, Ash nearly stumbled; only Roy’s gaze held him

upright. Dizzy and confused, Ash brushed past Roy and ducked under the leather
door of the hut. He needed time to think, to reconcile his thoughts with his
emotions. Panting, he gripped his head in both hands, eyes squeezed shut. What in
heaven was happening to him?

“When I couldn’t find you, I didn’t know what had happened.” Roy had

followed so quietly Ash hadn’t heard him. “I thought you were lost or hurt. I don’t
know, dead out there somewhere.” Roy stepped closer, so close Ash could smell the
tang of his sweat. “Don’t run away again. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“It’s not that I’m afraid exactly,” Ash said slowly. He stared at Roy’s blue eyes

reflecting the firelight. Making him think of other, wilder things than lions. “It’s
just that I’m not very good at being brave.”

Roy held out a hand. “You must be exhausted. I’ll dress your wounds again,

and then I think you should sleep.”

On the veldt Ash had felt strong, carried by adrenaline, and even now the

pain of his injuries seemed somehow dulled, lessened. But that fever-zing, even
combined with the feelings he was now sure Roy conjured in him, could not
overwhelm the bone-deep heaviness that seeped through his limbs, and when Roy
put an arm around him, Ash sagged against him with relief.

Chapter Six

Roy perched on the steamer trunk, watching until Ash’s breathing slowed

and deepened. When he was sure Ash was asleep, he silently lifted the curtain and
made his way out to the fire ring.

He needed to think and breathe in the open air. Figure out what their next

move would be.

What his next move should be.

The soup Roy had prepared for their evening meal sat to one side in a covered

cooking pot. Roy banked the fire and slung the pot above the flames. He stretched,
cracking his back and rolling the tension out of his shoulders before settling down to
take stock of the upheaval that had come into his quiet, ordered existence.

But hell, if he had a choice, he’d choose Ash to do the upheaving, every single

time. The Haywood family scion was so far proving that the apple could indeed
sometimes fall quite far from the tree.

So far as you know, Roy cautioned himself. And so far, that’s one fantastically

dangerous encounter, a rescue mission and proof that, as far as the veldt is
concerned, youth knows no fear. What happens when he’s better? What happens
when he’s healed enough that he heads right back to Thornside and his family, the
life he left behind?

But even as the thoughts entered his mind, Roy dismissed them; instead, he

dropped to a crouch and savagely poked the glowing wood.

Ash didn’t whip himself, Roy mused. And judging by the healed scars, it

hadn’t been the first time, so what kind of man would return to a life of privilege
whose price was abuse?

“To hunt lions… They’re…they’re beautiful. I’d choose to watch them, not hunt

them. They should be the ones hunting.”

Roy couldn’t have said it better himself. He’d come out to Rhodesia after the

war because he knew of its wildness and wanted to experience it firsthand. Wanted
to give it free rein and let it break him, taking whatever battle had not, or let him
eke out an existence that held nature’s raw and feral beauty above anything man
could dish out. He had nothing but loathing for Gerald Haywood and his ilk, men
who saw the African wilderness as their birthright, something to shoot and mount
on the wall. But despite his upbringing, Ash had somehow escaped those notions.

Yet even Ash’s naive enthusiasm, however well placed, could not explain one

thing: how could he not have seen the great lion that had stalked at his heels?

A log in the fire fell through, settling with a great crash, sending up sparks.

There was a soft swirl of the leather curtain, and Ash stood in the doorway,

looking around sheepishly. “Something smells good,” he said softly.

Roy stared, openmouthed. Ash looked so much easier in his skin, even

half-naked and unsure of himself, the ointment on his cuts glistening by firelight.
The fear and confusion Roy had sensed earlier seemed to have burned away while
he slept. “Yeah. Come have some soup. Keep up your strength.”

Ash limped silently over. He took a seat next to Roy and, smiling shyly,

accepted soup in Roy’s battered tin mug, then drank it down in great gulps.

Roy put a hand on his knee. “Easy. Take it slow.”

Ash waved him away, the smile returning. “It’s good,” he said at last. “It’s

very good.”

They both noticed Roy’s hand on Ash’s knee simultaneously.

The two of them locked gazes in the firelight. A flood of feelings overwhelmed

Roy, fighting for dominance. Once again, he was frighteningly aware; this Ash was
no cub, but a strong young man.

Ash looked away first, but shifted subtly closer.

They sat companionably by the dying fire, listening to the crack and hiss of

the coals and the animals in their enclosures settling down for the night. Roy
watched Ash’s eyelids start to droop and broke the contact, setting his mug in the
dust by his feet. “Go to bed,” he said. “You’ve had a hard day.”

Ash looked up, meeting Roy’s gaze again. He wavered, seemingly on the verge

of saying something, then stopped.

Roy licked his lips, glancing at Ash’s profile. He wished he understood this

Ash Haywood: on the surface, a privileged young man conditioned to harsh abuse,
broken by the expectations of the world of Thornside and a forgotten England. At
the same time, Ash reminded Roy of the tornadoes that used to sweep through his
native Missouri. It almost felt like right now, this evening, Roy was sitting in the
eye of the storm, seeing a false calmness, a sunny serenity that could pass at any
moment, loosing raw power.

Ash pushed himself to his feet, his hand going to his ribs. “Come on. Let’s go

to bed. Just let me have the bedroll this time.”

“No. I’m fine. Used to living rough. Besides, you need the cot.” Roy stared into

the fire ring. When he looked up again, Ash was still standing there.

After a moment, Roy climbed to his feet and followed Ash into the hut. Inside,

it was nearly too dark to see, but light from the fire seeped round the edges of the
curtain.

Ash crawled onto the cot at once and moved over to the far side. “Leave the

bedroll,” he said throatily. Roy froze in the act of pulling his shirt over his head.

“This cot has room enough for two. I won’t sleep knowing you are on the

ground while I have your bed. We can share.”

Roy lowered his arms, his hands still tangled in his shirt. To lie so close to

Ash, to come so close to temptation, was madness, he knew. Yet he did not have the
power to resist.

Gingerly, he lay down beside Ash, folding himself into the narrow space,

carefully giving Ash room. But Ash curled against him like a cub seeking warmth,
wriggling until he was comfortable.

Roy stared up at the ceiling of the hut. What had passed between them at

Thornside had been madness enough—anonymous, as Roy had thought then,
nothing more than the scratching of a soul-deep, undeniable itch. But now, Ash was
in his bed, in his life.

Roy fought back growing desire and thought of all the reasons this was a bad

idea. He’d gotten up to six when Ash moved his hand to the base of Roy’s stomach.
Every breath Ash took Roy felt against him, and as Ash began undoing Roy’s
trousers, both their breathing quickened.

Roy caught Ash’s hand up in his own. “Don’t. You’re not well. You need time

to rest. You need…”

Ash froze for a moment, then moved in the narrow cot until his lips were

right next to Roy’s ear. “I’ll tell you what I need.” His voice sounded different
somehow, so deep it was nearly a growl. “Better yet, let me show you.” He withdrew
his hand from Roy’s and undid Roy’s trousers with a near-feral passion. He slid a
thigh between Roy’s legs and climbed on top, effectively pinning Roy to the bunk.

Roy looked up at the outline of Ash, the shape of him barely visible in the

firelight that trickled under the curtain. Ash’s hair stuck out in every direction from
his head, and even in the low light, Roy was certain Ash was smiling.

Oh hell, Roy thought. Then he gave in.

He reached out a hand, cupped the back of Ash’s head, and pulled him down

into a long, searing kiss. Ash returned it with equal fervor. Plundering Ash’s mouth,
Roy let go; if Ash was offering, there was no way he could say no.

Ash moaned into Roy’s mouth, hands clawing at Roy’s trousers, freeing Roy’s

cock, which slipped and slid across Ash’s firm stomach, already slick with precum.
Roy rolled up on one hip and tore at Ash’s clothing, touching everything, indulging
in the sensation. The two of them were quickly naked, cocks rubbing against one
another, sending jolts of pleasure along Roy’s spine. They struggled with the
narrowness of the cot, but the confines of the space only served to inflame Roy’s
passion, and he found his ardor equaled by Ash. He thrust against Ash’s stomach,
all thought of control entirely fled, and Ash bucked in return, the movement sharp
and quick and feral. Ash slipped a hand down between them, capturing their cocks
in his grip and, gasping, set up a steady rhythm. Roy let him take the lead, savoring
the small, needy noises Ash made, the feel of Ash’s sweaty fingers gripping him,

keeping him close, demanding submission and release.

Roy lowered his head to the crook of Ash’s neck and breathed in deeply. He

licked and bit at the soft skin, and Ash responded with a ragged moan, his grip
faltering for a moment. Thrusting firmly into Ash’s palm, Roy bit a little harder and
was rewarded with a savage cry, Ash’s hips lifting off the cot entirely.

Roy pulled him close, demanding the intoxicating sensation of skin on skin.

He moved a hand down to Ash’s hips and gave himself over to the urgent, wild
thrusts he longed for, pinning Ash to the cot, savagely thrilled by the soft, pleased
whimpers Ash made as he continued to bite Ash’s neck. Their cocks slipped over
each other easily, and then Ash suddenly stiffened, pushing his whole body hard
against Roy’s, gasping high and sweet. Hot seed rushed at Roy’s belly, spurt after
spurt, and the feel of it sent him dizzyingly over the edge. He came hard and fast in
Ash’s hand, slicking their cocks further and releasing in him something he hadn’t
known could be wound so tightly.

The whole time, he hung on to Ash, holding him close as if relaxing his grip

even a hint would allow the young man to vanish. And whatever it was, this thing
they’d found between them, Roy suspected he would never be able to let it go. He
would never be free of Ash Haywood. That much was a certainty.

Ash bucked again, his cock kicking weakly against Roy’s hip.

Roy chuckled and kissed the bitten skin of Ash’s neck. A feeling of peace stole

over him as the waves of pleasure ebbed away and Ash remained in his arms. Roy
nuzzled needily at Ash, a small sigh escaping him. The adrenaline he’d been
running on since midday burned away like mist before the sun. His limbs grew
heavy and his mind numb, thoughts slipping away like shadows. He pulled Ash
close, safe from any dangers of the night, and allowed himself to surrender to sleep.

* * * *

Roy awoke slowly, awareness returning by degrees. That in itself was

unusual. He usually slept fitfully and woke early and suddenly, adrenaline
pounding, listening for the guns and the screams that haunted his sleep.

Today was different. He lay still, wondering at the feeling of contentment

that engulfed him, almost afraid to open his eyes in case the feeling went away.

He moved cautiously and felt the warmth of the body beside him in the bed.

Ash.

It hadn’t been a dream. Roy opened his eyes at last. The light in the hut was

the liquid cream of early dawn.

“Good morning,” Ash whispered, making it sound like a question.

“G’morning.” Before Roy could stop himself, he lifted a hand to gently trace

the young man’s jaw. “Did you get some sleep?”

“Mm. I slept very well, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You’ve had a tough couple of days.”

Ash harrumphed softly and rubbed his head against Roy’s shoulder. “It’s

early, isn’t it?”

“Sure is.”

Ash’s thumb came up and gently explored Roy’s lips.

Roy let his breath out in a long, slow hiss as Ash teased his lips apart. Ash’s

thumb was thick and firm against his tongue. Almost automatically, he pressed a
gentle kiss against the ball of Ash’s thumb.

Ash stiffened and then snuggled a little closer. “Roy,” he whispered

insistently, and Roy looked into the young man’s blue eyes.

Roy caught his breath at the longing and eagerness he saw there. He was still

trying to think of a response when Ash leaned forward and kissed him, hard and
brief, full on the mouth.

Ash’s lips were soft and electric, and Roy let himself fall into the feeling. Ash

moved in Roy’s arms, pressing himself more closely against Roy, and his lips parted,
slick tongue teasing at Roy’s, inviting him in. Roy gave in, allowing himself to be
drawn into the magic of Ash’s kiss.

Ash pressed close again, and Roy felt him, hot and hard against his belly, and

broke the kiss with a gasp. He held Ash close, fighting his own arousal.

Ash bucked in his arms, whimpering until Roy kissed him again, deeper and

deeper. Roy was drowning in Ash’s mouth, in the movement of the two of them
together, in the heat of Ash’s groin firing his own need.

Roy bucked against Ash’s weight, his own cock sliding between them, Ash

slick and hot against his skin. The friction was perfect; it was overwhelming. Roy
fought with all his strength to hold back.

With a harsh cry, Ash broke the kiss, fingers digging into Roy’s shoulders.

His seed spilled hot across Roy’s skin, and Roy gasped at the perfection of it, holding
Ash as tightly as he dared. Roy’s own tide rose, unstoppable, and with a cry of his
own, Roy let go.

Finally, Ash lay still, and Roy kissed his cheekbones gently with a soft,

pleased growl. Ash responded softly with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a
purr.

When Ash went to move, Roy held him still, not wanting anything to break

this moment between them.

* * * *

As Roy ate the coarse maize porridge that constituted breakfast on the veldt,

he considered Gerald Haywood. With luck, the man had taken Ash’s torn and bloody
shirt at face value, but that was no assurance they were safe. Carelessness could
lead to Ash being taken, at the mercy of Haywood’s sadistic punishments, and Roy
would be charged with kidnapping or worse, probably executed on the spot.

“I’ve been thinking,” Roy said, placing his bowl on the ground and stretching

his legs out in front of the log he perched on. “Your family might come hunting you.
I hope we put them off the scent last night, but just in case—”

“I won’t be taken.” On the other side of the fire, Ash put his bowl down. “That

gun you have—I’ll turn it on myself first.”

“It won’t come to that. I promise, all right? They won’t find you. I’m going to

make damn sure of that. But I don’t think we should stay here. It’s too obvious, and
if they came hunting, they could burn us out.”

“I bring you nothing but trouble,” Ash said grimly.

“Your uncle brings nothing but trouble for everyone on the veldt.”

“So where will we go? I hate that you must leave your home for me.”

“I leave my home all the time, for many reasons. That’s how things are on the

veldt. I go out hunting or gathering herbs and food. There are a number of places in
the foothills where we can make safe camp. I take it you won’t object to a little
sightseeing?”

“Masaramusi-man!” The shrill cry came from just outside the compound, and

Ash jumped to his feet, looking around wildly.

Roy stood and laid a hand on Ash’s arm. “That’s for me; someone likely is sick

or injured. Go inside; it’s better that no one sees you, yes?”

Ash hurried back toward the mud-walled hut. Roy watched him for a

moment, then walked to the gate of his compound, rubbing his neck. He knew that
voice well but was surprised to hear it so far from the Karanga village. The elderly
wisewoman rarely came to his compound, more usually sending one of the village
warriors to fetch him to her hut. “Mambokadzi?”

For a moment, Roy saw no one, and he wondered if he’d imagined her

imperious voice ringing out over the grasslands. Then a harsh scream rent the air,
and a huge black shadow swept over the dusty ground. Roy stepped back as the
enormous raptor swept overhead, tilting its wings as it rode unseen currents in a
lazy circle before alighting on a fencepost some distance away.

The bird tilted its head to one side, glittering green eyes regarding Roy with

something he refused to call amusement. “Good morning, Onai. I trust you had a
pleasant journey?”

Onai squawked as though in answer, ruffling her feathers and settling her

wings neatly at her sides. She and Roy regarded each other evenly for a long

minute; then an old black woman swathed in the colorful, practical garment favored
by Karanga women strode up to the gate. She held herself firmly erect, making
little use of the thick burlwood staff she carried. Roy often suspected Mambokadzi
carried it for show or simply because she liked swatting people with it when they
didn’t agree with her fast enough. “Good morning, Mambokadzi. Onai’s just been
telling me about the weather.”

“That bird talks too much,” the old woman answered. “But she’s right about a

storm coming. A powerful one too. Good to ride it out someplace stronger than this
collection of twigs you built.”

“Someplace like Thornside?” Roy hazarded. He ushered the aged wisewoman

through the gate into the compound and seated her by the fire.

Mambokadzi squawked angrily and spit just outside the fire ring. “Would you

wait out a brush fire with a host of devils?”

Roy held his tongue, set the pot to boil, and started preparing red bush tea

for the old woman.

Mambokadzi nodded approvingly at the tin mug. “You are learning some

manners, mm-hm. How to treat an old woman well. My bones ache, boy; all this
trouble come to the land.” She settled her garment around her as a dry wind picked
at the edges. “You do not feel the storm your young man’s bringing?”

Roy started, spilling tea leaves on the ground. “What young man?” he tried.

The old woman laughed long and loud. “I forget. You got so many coming in

and out it is hard to keep track.” Her eyes twinkled merrily as she settled her
colorful garment around her. “But this boy is different, hm? This boy was born in a
storm.”

Roy busied himself with the tea. “I don’t ask my guest’s origins.”

“This one you should. Pale like milk maybe, but much more than he seems.

He talks with lions, hm?”

“Tea?” Roy asked.

Mambokadzi simply grinned and indicated the hut with a jerk of her head.

Roy got to his feet. “Yes, Mother,” he said and headed inside.

Ash greeted him at the door, looking nervous and pleased to see him all at

once. Roy heaved a sigh of relief. At least this time, Ash hadn’t disappeared.

“Who is it?” Ash whispered.

“Mambokadzi. She’s a wisewoman, a healer, and a…a visionary…” Roy

hesitated, not sure how to describe the old woman’s powerful and often apparently
magical abilities. “She knows things,” he finished lamely.

“So what does she want?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet. But one thing she does want is to meet you.”

“You told her I’m here? Is that safe?”

“I didn’t tell her.” Roy shook his head wearily. “Like I said, she knows things.

But don’t worry; it’s certainly safe. Mambokadzi’s no friend to Thornside, and if
anyone can keep you safe upon the veldt, it’s her.”

Ash looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “If you say it’s all right, I

believe you.”

Roy picked up two enamel mugs off the top of the steamer trunk and led the

way back out to the fire. Ash followed half a step behind.

Mambokadzi inclined her head and peered inquisitively at Ash as he perched

on one of the logs that served as seats. Roy squatted beside the fire, ladling the
strong red tea into the mugs, then topping up the pot with water from the pitcher
that stood nearby. For a moment, no one said anything, and Roy could almost hear
Ash’s nervousness. He only prayed the boy wouldn’t bolt over the fence the first
time Mambokadzi—or Onai, who still sat viciously preening on a fencepost—opened
their mouths.

“Mambokadzi, this is Ash Haywood, lately of Thornside. Ash, this is

Mambokadzi.” Roy presented Mambokadzi with her tea, then gave a mug to Ash
and took the third to the other side of the fire.

“You have grown, Kashiye. That is good.” Mambokadzi bestowed an enigmatic

smile on Ash.

“It’s Ash,” Ash said, shooting a nervous glance at Roy.

“I know your name,” Mambokadzi answered. “I have seen you here before,

mm-hm.”

Ash opened his mouth, then closed it again and shot a look of mute appeal at

Roy. He looked down at his tea.

Roy cleared his throat. “Mambokadzi, I gave Haywood’s beaters Ash’s

bloodied shirt, told them it was from when the lion took him. But to be safe, we’ll go
up into the hills for a time. Once we know they’re not searching for him, we’ll
return.”

“Sometimes you are smart,” Mambokadzi said. “But you are dumb too, crazy

white man. They will not search for him. They search for the lion.”

Roy looked at her inquiringly.

“If they think a lion killed their firstborn son, their…” Mambokadzi frowned,

obviously struggling for the right word.

She made a noncommittal gesture. “The son who makes all the important

children, carries the family name on his back.”

“I don’t think I’m quite the heir my father hoped for,” Ash said quietly. “I

don’t think he’ll do too much looking.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Mambokadzi answered. “But masaramusi-man here tell

him and his brother that lion took their possession. They must have its head. That
is their way, their thinking.”

“And if they run through quite a few lions before they find the one they’re

looking for, it’s no skin off their noses—they consider the extra dead lions just part
of getting their way.” Roy glanced at Ash. It must be hard for him to hear us talk of
his family this way. But if anything, Ash looked scared, not offended.

Mambokadzi spit again and cursed in Karanga Roy couldn’t follow. Then she

leaned forward and took Ash’s hand. “There is one other thing you must do,
masaramusi-man. Before you hide, you need to go to Thornside, heal up Mwale. He
took a beating when he brought back that shirt and your lion tale.”

Ash started, but Mambokadzi held his hand fast. “Do not fear now, lion-boy.

That place is full of danger, but I got me some power here too, mm-hm. You listen to
me: your spirit is strong. This crazy masaramusi-man, he thinks he knows more
than an old woman, but I say, you go with him. You do, you will be safe.” She turned
to Roy. “Boy, I know what you want to say, but you trust me. He goes with you, you
will both be safe, mm-hm. Besides, what else would you do? Leave him here by
himself?”

“Lion-boy?” Ash asked.

“Surely there’s a third option,” Roy said coldly. “One that doesn’t involve

leaving an innocent man defenseless nor forcing him to go back to the very hell he
just escaped from.”

“I did not say he had to go back there.” The old woman cackled with laughter,

and Roy sneaked a glance at Ash, who shrugged.

“I simply said he has to go with you. You need to learn how to listen,

masaramusi-man. Otherwise, you never hear what you need to know. Take him
with you and get ready for the storm. It is coming again. These bones do not lie.”
She gave Roy a dour look, then turned back to Ash, squeezing his hand tightly.
“You, I know you are a listening one, and your journey is nearly done. Once, you
were a lion. Your mama knew that, sure as she knew the storm meant her days
were numbered. You went away and became a man, but there is another storm
coming, son. And you have to remember. You have to find your place.” Mambokadzi
tapped the tip of her nose with her forefinger. “What I see, I know. You listen to
me”—she shot a glance at Roy—“you will come to no harm.”

“I don’t understand,” Ash said slowly. “What about my mother?”

Roy reached over and put a hand on his knee.

Mambokadzi looked from one of them to the other and back. Over on her

fencepost, Onai cawed sharply, darting her head back and forth as if to clear it.

“You know what we say about the storms.”

“No,” Roy said carefully. “We don’t. What about the storms?”

“And what about my mother?” Ash asked again.

Mambokadzi shook her head and held her cup out for a refill. “You children

are all the same.” As Roy poured her more tea, she continued. “Out here, the land
takes care of its own. Every ant, every bird, every beast, all of them live off the land.
The land cares for them. But sometimes, the land gets angry. It sees all the
injustice, all the pain and suffering men bring, and it acts up a little. It seethes, and
it storms.” She sipped her tea. “I remember the last time, maybe twenty years ago.
The land was so angry, so very angry. It saw men who stomped across it, digging
their heels in, stealing lions and elephants, anything they could with their guns and
their tricks and their hate. So the land, it had enough, and it started building up a
powerful storm. The thing you do not know is that this land is powerful tricky too.
So one night, when the winds were rising and the clouds piling up, the land stole
one of the men’s children. It called him through a window. It sang him songs and
called his true name and tempted him out into the night.” She took a long drink of
tea.

Ash looked nervously at Roy. Roy shrugged, but he kept his hand on Ash’s

knee.

“It called that child far from his home, guiding him across the veldt, through

the long grasses. It raised a storm so fierce the hyenas dug in their dens, noses to
tails. A storm so fierce the elephants wrapped their ears around them and even the
flying ants went to ground, afraid to even bite.

“But not the lions, no. The land has never made a storm too fierce for them.

The land called the lions, and it gave them this child of men. It gave them the boy
nobody would miss. And when the child cried, the lioness soothed him with her
licks. When he was cut by the grasses, she made him whole again, and then finally
he went to sleep in a ball, just like all her other cubs.” Mambokadzi finished her cup
of tea. “’Course neither the land nor the lions counted on his mama coming looking
for him, but by that time it was too late: the storm had done its job, and given the
boy a lion’s soul. It had claimed him. Storms can do that, you know.” She set the tin
mug delicately in the dust at her feet.

For a long moment, no one said anything.

Finally, Roy narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”

Mambokadzi laughed long and loud, one arm clutching her ample belly. Onai

joined in, her high, twisted eagle cries blending with the old woman’s mirth before
she spread her wings and took to the sky.

Mambokadzi leaned over and slapped Roy’s thigh, shaking it. “Boy, you keep

me young. You stay out here, I will live forever.” She gathered her dress around her
and got heavily to her feet.

Ash cleared his throat. “You mentioned my mother,” he tried again. “I’m not

quite sure—”

“I know, Kashiye,” Mambokadzi said. Her eyes were soft and caring. “But you

will.” She accepted the staff Roy handed her. “Another storm is comin’, after all. The
land is angry again. It needs the boy with the lion-soul, mm-hm.” She turned and
made her way toward the gate. “Do not forget,” she called over her shoulder. “Mwale
needs your crazy magic over at Thornside.” As she said the word, she spit into the
dirt, then continued to the gate.

“All right, Mambokadzi,” Roy said, rising. “I’ll go. And while I’m there, I’ve

got a good mind to—”

“Mwale,” Mambokadzi said firmly. She waited at the gate but made no move

to open it. “You heal him; then you leave.” She shook her head. “You will know
when the time comes. Kashiye will know when it comes.”

Roy and Ash followed Mambokadzi to the gate, and Roy opened it, holding it

for her to pass through. Overhead, Onai flew in wide, lazy circles. As she left the
compound, Mambokadzi paused once and looked back. “It is good,” she said, then
turned and marched off into the veldt. Onai floated off after her, silent in the wake
of her mistress.

“What a strange old woman,” Ash said.

“She knows things,” Roy said again by way of explanation. “I cannot argue

with her.”

“No, and I would not have you try. Certainly not on my behalf. In a way, she

has a good point. If you are at Thornside tending a wounded man, my uncle will
hardly suspect you of hiding me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Still, how well do you feel? It’s a long trek to

Thornside, and you’re still lame.” Roy gestured.

“Today, my knee feels as good as new. It must have been only bruised.”

Roy raised his eyebrows, surprised. It was true; Ash was walking with barely

a limp. But when he’d first examined Ash’s knee, he’d thought it badly sprained, at
least, if not worse. “Okay. But we’ll take it slow, and I’ll strap it if it troubles you.
Come. Let’s get our things together. I’ll need my medical kit, it seems, and we’ll
spend some weeks in the bush.”

“Tell me one thing first.”

Roy looked at Ash questioningly.

“Kashiye. Why did she call me that?”

“All I can tell you is that it means cub. Lion cub.”

An enigmatic smile touched Ash’s lips fleetingly, then was gone. “Lion cub,”

he repeated softly. “Well, I’ve been called worse.”

Roy cleared his throat gently. “She also mentioned your mother. Do you

think—”

Ash shrugged in response.

Roy paused. Something about Mambokadzi’s story—the boy who became a

lion during a thunderstorm, his mother giving him to the lions to
change—something about it was nagging him, not least because he’d never heard
anything like it in Karanga mythology before. He wasn’t vain enough to think he’d
heard all the stories of a whole culture, but… He looked over at Ash, staring up at
the sky. Why had the old woman come all the way from her village to tell it to them?
If all Mambokadzi had needed was for Roy to treat one of her people at Thornside,
she had a whole squadron of volunteers who did her bidding.

“Ash.”

His companion looked over.

“That story, the lion-boy in the thunderstorm… Didn’t Mambokadzi mention

something else too? She mentioned your mother—”

Ash ducked his head, swallowing hard.

“Did something happen to her? Was she out here? In Africa?”

Ash didn’t respond.

“Ash.” Roy chose his words carefully. “Did something like it happen to your

mother? Out here?”

Ash shrugged.

“She knew the storm meant her days were numbered.” Roy cleared his throat

and tried again. “Your mother. Did she—”

“She died,” Ash said abruptly. “And it had nothing to do with any

thunderstorm.” He shook himself. “If we’re going, we should get started.” He turned
and headed for the hut without looking back.

Roy looked after him thoughtfully. Lion-boy, huh? So much of Ash was an

open book, but at the mention of his mother, he’d clouded over like a monsoon and
just as quickly gone to ground, making it clear no further discussion was welcome.
But in Mambokadzi’s tale, the mother had given her son to the lions.

Roy gave Ash his peace in the hut, poking indeterminately at the dirt with

the toe of one boot. Maybe he was overestimating Ash’s strength. He was still
recovering from a beating that would’ve killed a weaker man. Questions about his
missing mother would simply have to wait. Ash helped Roy pack a few clothes,
supplies, and the medical requirements into two knapsacks, gently foiling Roy’s
efforts to make his own pack heavy and Ash’s light. “I can do my share,” Ash said,
an amused light in his eyes. He watched as Roy laid out by the door a quantity of
dried fruit and a brown paper package. “What’s that?”

“When I’m away, Mambokadzi sends the children from the village to tend the

goats and the pig,” Roy explained. “I always leave them something. The package is
hair ribbons—the children love bright colors and pretty things.”

“I think,” Ash said slowly, hefting the two knapsacks, “that you are a very

kind man.”

Chapter Seven

Roy set an easy pace as they departed. Thornside was nearly a half-day’s hike

from the compound, and Roy hoped they would reach their destination before the
heat of the day. If Ash struggled, they could rest by a water hole Roy knew until the
heat passed and complete their journey in the cooler evening.

But as they went on, Roy realized that Ash was coping well with the trek,

both physically and emotionally. The young man was fit enough, hardly seeming to
notice his injuries and keeping up with ease, and out on the veldt he appeared even
more relaxed than he’d been earlier.

“Roy, what sort of tree is that?” Ash asked, pointing to a stark, leafless trunk.

“It’s the same kind I uh…I rested at yesterday, isn’t it?”

“A baobab,” Roy said, nodding. He slowed his pace, unclipped a canteen from

his belt, and passed it to Ash.

Ash took a short swallow of water and handed the canteen back, wiping his

mouth with the back of his hand. “It looks dead.”

“It’s not dead. It only has leaves and fruit when the rains come. But the

natives have another story for why it looks that way.”

Ash cocked an eyebrow, and Roy went on. “When the world was made, God

gave each of the animals a tree to plant. Hyena got the baobab. Hyenas aren’t
considered the best sort of animals, and as it happened, Hyena got it wrong and
planted his tree upside down.”

“Careless of him.” Ash’s eyes were alight with amusement. “I can definitely

see where that story came from.”

Roy grinned, a wave of pure happiness starting in his chest and spreading

throughout his body. He watched an answering grin spread over Ash’s face. The
young man was enthralled by the veldt and interested in everything. At the same
time he saw its power—Roy saw it in Ash’s eyes, in the way he followed carefully
where Roy went, in the respect he accorded even the smallest creatures they saw.

Roy remembered the first time he’d set eyes on the vast grassland. Left

broken and empty by the horrific aftermath of combat, accompanied by the ghosts of
maimed and dying soldiers, he’d returned from war to the barbaric civilization of
small-town Missouri and known he had to get out. He’d come to Rhodesia to escape,
and his first glimpse of the veldt had resonated with something in his soul.

As the two of them marched, the cool of the morning submitted to the blaze of

the African sun, conjuring up hordes of darting insects, humming around them in
thick clouds.

Ash brushed them away from his face, and Roy dropped a hand on his

shoulder. “They’ll stop soon. When the sun gets a little higher, and it gets hotter,
most of ’em’ll stop for a while.”

“Yes?” Ash was starting to sound tired, and Roy gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“We’re nearly there.” He passed Ash the canteen again. “Here.”

Ash sipped slowly, and Roy watched, smiling. He took in the young man’s

handsome, chiseled features, delicate lips on the mouth of the canteen… Roy
touched his own lips with his tongue.

The things they’d done, the way Ash had touched him had awakened feelings

Roy had thought he’d never experience again. Feelings he’d thought the horrors of
war had turned to dust. A tingle of anticipation made its way up his spine, and Roy
took a deep breath. The ball of tension he’d been carrying since the first shell had
landed in northern France loosened—just a fraction—and he felt a warm rush of
happiness.

Roy took the canteen back from his companion and had a shallow swig. He

restored it to his pack and pointed toward a stand of trees. “Come on. Thornside’s
only another mile on from here.”

As they walked, Ash asked more questions about the land they traveled

through, and Roy was only too happy to answer. He explained that the rules of the
native villages were tribal laws. Skirmishes between tribes were infrequent but not
unheard of, although Roy had learned that the majority of the tribes were united in
their anger at the British, especially the newly formed Ministry of Native Affairs.

“The way I see it,” Roy said, “the natives have done pretty well managing

their own affairs for thousands of years. I don’t know how foreigners think they
could do it better.”

Ash nodded but said nothing.

“Mambokadzi’s people are Karanga,” Roy went on, “and they were farming

this land when the dirt was still new. Mambokadzi’s the nganga, the village spirit
healer, so she takes care of whoever’s being attacked by evil spirits or ancestor
spirits, bad luck—things like that. Illness, fever, broken bones, well, that’s where I
come in. You know, I never thought I’d use any of my army training again…” Roy
stopped, his progress stilled by a flood of hard memories coming at him in a rush.
Images and sounds he’d hoped never to encounter again. He swallowed hard,
blinking rapidly and forcing himself to focus on the trees, the grass, the pale and
open blue sky above. But the thick, prickly thornbushes by the side of the path gave
way to a vision of a boy of nineteen, his skin blistered and peeling from mustard
gas, his scream choked off to a gurgle as the blood ran…and ran and ran…

“Roy, come back. Where’d you go?” Ash stepped into Roy’s vision, putting a

hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

Roy focused on Ash’s blue eyes, the sweat on his palm moist against Roy’s

arm. He took a deep breath, willing himself to stay here, on this path in the

heartland of the veldt.

Here with Ash.

Roy nodded, swallowing again, taking deep breaths of the hot, dry air around

them, his gaze darting from tree to grass to sky, unable to meet his companion’s
eyes. Ash reached for the canteen hanging at Roy’s hip. Roy flinched, then relaxed
as Ash unscrewed the top and held it out to him. Nodding gratefully, Roy took a few
sips, letting the water wash away the bile at the back of his throat, the sick taste of
adrenaline that always accompanied the flashbacks. He held the canteen out to
Ash, who took a few perfunctory sips, his gaze never leaving Roy’s. Roy lingered in
the young man’s gaze, drinking in the intensity of his concern, knowing he’d have to
try to explain, try to put words to the nightmare that had stalked him across three
continents.

But Ash only smiled around his last mouthful of water, screwing the cap back

on the bottle. He put a hand out, resting it on Roy’s shoulder, fingers firm and
reassuring. He tucked the canteen back into the clip at Roy’s belt and dropped his
hands.

With a cheerful grin, Ash stepped past Roy and headed down the track.

Roy turned his head, watching Ash trek onward. He spent a few moments

listening to the kingfisher trilling high in the surrounding mahogany-colored
mopane, but wherever he looked, the trees, the grass, the whole veldt remained just
that. The vision did not return.

Roy followed Ash along the trail.

Another half mile brought the long, low buildings of Thornside into view. Out

behind the house, the shapes of cattle were indistinct against the grassy savanna.
Roy felt Ash stiffen at his side and pulled him back behind the meager cover
afforded by a grove of thornbushes. “Come this way.” He led Ash away from the
track, toward the edge of the thornbushes where a large, split boulder made a
partial cave.

He unhooked his canteen and fetched one of the enamel mugs from his

backpack. “I’ll leave you here. You’ll be safe—no predators hunt at midday.” He
filled the mug with water, hung his canteen back on his belt, and passed the mug to
Ash. “Someone might notice if I was without my canteen,” he explained.

“Makes sense.” Ash took the pack without the medical equipment and stowed

it in the cave, placing the water carefully beside it. “How long do you think you’ll
be?”

“Quick as possible.” Roy placed his hands on Ash’s shoulders, looking deep

into the blue eyes. “I hate to leave you.”

“I’ll be all right.” Ash smiled so well that Roy nearly believed him.

“I’ll be back before nightfall. I promise you that.” Roy squeezed Ash’s

shoulders. “Wait for me.”

“I promise.” Ash smiled again, then leaned forward suddenly and kissed Roy,

long and sweet.

Roy closed his eyes, drowning in the sweetness of Ash’s mouth, the magic of

the lithe body against his own. He drew Ash closer, just for a moment, then
summoned all his willpower and stepped back. Ash looked at him for a long
moment, then sat down carefully next to the knapsack. “Go well, Roy.”

With a quick nod, Roy turned and headed for Thornside and his enemy.

* * * *

Roy closed the remaining distance to Gerald Haywood’s compound, forcing all

thoughts of Ash from his mind. Haywood’s property was large, and his stockade was
reinforced by a ditch. Roy walked over the narrow wooden bridge that spanned it
and into the compound.

The native quarters were a long, low mud-walled building at the back of the

compound, next to the sheds and pens for the stock. The construction stood in stark
contrast to the neat bungalow which housed Haywood and his family. Roy set his
teeth, walking past the palatial home and ostentatious English rose garden, which,
Roy guessed, used as much water as twenty Africans. Maybe more.

“Bennett!” The commanding tones of Gerald Haywood himself rang out

behind him, and Roy stopped, composing himself with difficulty.

He turned slowly, arranging his features into the semblance of a smile. “Mr.

Haywood, sir.”

Haywood strode haltingly across the compound toward him, face red,

bullwhip in its customary place on his belt. Roy eyed it, swallowing anger, and
forced himself to look away.

“What brings you here, Bennett? Have you news?”

Roy drew his brows together. “News? I come to tend to your man, Mwale, who

was injured on the hunt, as I was told?”

“Oh.” Haywood stopped, fingering his mustache. “Of course. A man was hurt;

you’re right. Perhaps you have not heard of our troubles?”

“Ah. The man you lost?”

“Yes, my nephew, Ashcroft—my brother’s son. Tragic.” Haywood shook his

head. “You’ve seen nothing?”

“No, sir. Some of your men came to me, and I went out on the veldt with

them. We found…a shirt.” Roy looked straight into Haywood’s eyes as he lied.

“They brought it back.” Haywood fingered his whip, and Roy pressed his lips

together in a thin line. The messengers had, of course, been beaten. “I expected
them to bring back the body.”

“I’ve seen nothing more, I fear. But I heard the cats two days ago during the

heat of the day, and I wondered at the time what had disturbed their rest. I suppose
now I know.” Roy fought to keep his eyes on Haywood’s. “How about you, sir? You’re
limping; are you injured?”

“Oh, a trifle, nothing more. I fell and cut myself, but it’s healing nicely—I

shan’t trouble you.” Haywood waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Get on and
do your work, man, and if you come to the kitchen after, Cook will let you have a
meal.”

Roy fought the urge to punch the man in the face. “Thank you,” he said

through clenched teeth and turned on his heel.

Inside the native quarters, Roy found Mwale lying on a rough pallet.

Haywood did not believe in pampering his servants: the crude hut had no
furnishings, and the natives slept on spartan bedrolls on the dirt floor. Roy felt
another surge of anger as he crossed to Mwale’s side.

He was feverish and barely lucid, and a quick examination showed Roy that

the man was a victim of Haywood’s bullwhip. Several deep cuts, encrusted with
dried blood and crawling with flies, marred his back and ribs.

Roy worked as quickly as he could, dosing Mwale with a preparation to

combat the fever, then bathing the wounds clean. He dressed them with a mix of
barks and herbs ground into a powder to stem the bleeding and provide protection
from the African insect life.

By the time he’d finished bandaging, Mwale’s fever had eased, and he lay

quietly, watching Roy work.

“You’ll be well soon,” Roy said reassuringly, pouring a measure of the fever

medicine into a bark bottle. He placed it beside the bed. “Drink this when the sun
comes up.”

“Thank you,” Mwale said. His voice was thready and weak.

As Roy rose, Mwale’s hand closed over his wrist. “The lion… He ate the young

master?” Mwale’s eyes were both sorrowful and frightened.

Roy looked at Mwale in surprise, then said, “I saw no lion.” He didn’t want to

lie, but at the same time, he knew Haywood’s methods and dared not trust Mwale
with the truth.

Mwale stared at Roy, black eyes boring into his. Then his grip on Roy’s wrist

relaxed. Roy repacked his supplies, then set the bark bottle a little farther back
from the pallet. By the time he was done, Mwale was asleep.

Roy left the hut. At the edge of the stockade, a team of natives worked hard,

manhandling logs and boulders despite the heat of the day.

Roy headed over in search of the foreman. Gondai, or “Brown” as Haywood

called him, could send word to Mambokadzi if Roy was needed again.

“Bennett! Masaramusi!” Gondai came out to meet him. “You’ve seen Mwale?”

“I’ve left a bottle of murimo-juice. He must drink it when the sun rises.”

“That will make him well?”

“I hope so.” Roy sighed. “I’m heading into the bush for a few days, but

Mambokadzi can find me if you need me.”

At a cry from one of the workers, Gondai turned and called out something

Roy didn’t catch. Immediately, most of the team of natives ran from the fence and
stood pointing and shouting.

And well they might: at the gate of the stockade stood a young male lion.

Roy stood stock-still and stared. The animal was a distinctive pale gold in

color, and Roy estimated him to be about three years of age. His deep golden mane
was plentiful but had not yet attained the thick magnificence of a mature animal.
As everyone stood staring, the lion opened his mouth, showing a selection of white,
gleaming teeth as he let loose with a roar that Roy felt thunder in the soles of his
feet.

Gondai ran back to his men, shouting and gesticulating as several of them

fell to their knees. They all began signing to ward off evil, and one voice quavered
above the rest, leading a chant. One by one, the others joined in.

Pounding feet signaled the arrival of Gerald Haywood, bullwhip in his hand.

“What the devil is going on here? Don’t stand about dawdling! Kill it!”

The lion roared again, louder, and Haywood dropped his whip. His face went

white. “Kill it! Brown! Paul! Get the guns! The beast must die!”

His voice galvanized the natives to action. Gondai and another man ran for

the house. The lion watched with apparent interest; then, with a flick of its tail, it
turned and bolted, puffs of dust raised by each heavy paw as it disappeared behind
the main house. Moments later, there was the terrified bellowing of cattle from
behind the compound.

Gondai returned, panting, two rifles over his shoulder, and Haywood grabbed

one. “About time! Bennett, take the other—have to get the beast—must be the
animal that killed my nephew!” The other man panted after Gondai, loaded down
with stakes and nets.

Roy took the rifle Gondai held out mechanically. Ash…

Haywood ran out of the compound, leading the charge, six of the natives

armed with stakes and nets at his heels. Roy followed, head spinning. Ash mustn’t
be found, whatever happened.

But he needn’t have worried. They followed the lion’s tracks to the pasture

where the cattle grazed. The frightened beasts were huddled together in their
thorny corral, but there was no sign of injury to the herd.

“Bloody thing! It’s gone for the best stud bull!” Haywood hurried on, heading

west toward the next pasture in the opposite direction from where Roy had left Ash.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Roy unobtrusively dropped behind the group and

ran for Thornside’s main buildings. He placed the rifle carefully on Haywood’s
veranda, then picked up his knapsack and, with a brief look around to make sure he
was unobserved, set off for the trail and Ash.

Roy covered the short distance quickly, going faster than the heat dictated,

terrified of what he might find if either the lion—or Haywood’s party—found Ash
before he arrived. He only prayed that Ash had not decided to go out exploring.

When he first entered the cave, the dim light tricked his eyes, and he thought

for a few anxious moments that the cave was empty. Then, heart pounding, he
spotted Ash’s knapsack near the rear of the cave.

What Roy had taken for a jumble of rocks beside the knapsack moved and

became Ash raising himself unsteadily on one elbow, looking sweaty and disheveled.
His chest heaved as if he’d run a great distance. “Roy?”

Roy rushed to his side and grabbed his shoulders, looking him over. “You’re

okay!”

“Of course I…” Ash blinked rapidly and shook his head, as if clearing it from

a blow.

Roy held him close, one hand snaking through the sweat-soaked curls at

Ash’s nape. He breathed deeply, smelling Ash’s sweat against the damp, cool air of
the shallow enclosure. Ash panted, a hand at Roy’s hip, as if scrabbling for support.
There was a smear of blood across his arm.

Roy pulled back sharply. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I…don’t know. I think… I don’t know.” Ash stared at the blood on his skin as

if unsure how it had gotten there.

Frightened, Roy took Ash’s arm and gently examined it. There was no wound

that he could see. He explored the slashes on Ash’s back, but the ointment was
doing its work. None were bleeding. “Ash, where did this blood come from?”

“I don’t know.” Ash shivered, looking miserable. “I… Roy, it’s the strangest

thing, but…”

Could he be running a fever? Thrashed in delirium and cut his arm on a

sharp rock? Roy pressed a palm to Ash’s forehead.

Ash brushed it away. “Mwale. Is he… Did you see him?”

“He’ll recover. I left some medicine for him, changed his dressings. But

Haywood has a bee in his bonnet about lions. I know he’s a vindictive bast—sorry,

Ash. I forgot he’s your uncle.”

Ash started. “Lions? You saw one?”

“A big male, a young one. He came right up to the estate, then headed for the

livestock pens.” Roy snorted. “I think he went after Haywood’s prize bull. And good
luck to him. Haywood has a party out, armed to the teeth.”

“He does?”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t affect us. They’re tracking him west, past the bull’s

paddock. We’re southeast of the compound, and if he knows what’s good for him,
that lion’s long gone. He could’ve easily outrun your uncle’s party and be hiding out
in the long grass. Haywood won’t find you.”

“He wouldn’t think to look for us here,” Ash said slowly. “Right?”

“That’s right.” Roy pulled his shirt over his head, then tipped a little water

from his canteen onto a sleeve. “Here.” He carefully bathed the blood off Ash’s arm,
reassuring himself as he did so that there was no wound. “Perhaps you had a bloody
nose.”

Ash was watching him with a faraway expression. He nodded slowly.

Roy frowned, putting his shirt back on. “Your uncle’s obsessed with lions.

You’ve seen his estate, that house—it’s a mausoleum for any animal that’s ever
thought of running the veldt. But you should’ve seen him when he saw that lion
today. It’s like nothing else mattered. He lost it.”

A flash of anger darkened Ash’s handsome features. “That sounds like my

uncle all right.” He shoved himself to his feet and grabbed Roy’s elbow, tugging him
up. “Once he saw that lion, you were lucky he didn’t shoot you for not bagging it for
him on the spot.”

“Exactly.” As Ash made to leave the shelter, Roy stopped him, a hand on his

chest. “Are you sure you’re okay? That blood…and when I first got here, you
seemed…” You seemed surprised to be here, Roy thought. You looked amazed to see
me.

“I had a dream, I think, but…” Ash’s eyes were clouded by an emotion Roy

couldn’t read. “Just a dream. I was more tired than I’d imagined, I think.” Ash
grinned, and the warmth of his smile went straight to Roy’s cock. “Where to next?”

A dream, huh? A smile like that, Roy could only imagine what the dream had

been like. He only hoped he figured in it somehow.

In answer to Ash’s question, Roy indicated his canteen. “We’ll need more

water soon. I meant to refill at Thornside but forgot in all the excitement. There’s a
spring a few miles on, toward the hills. We’ll stop there, then keep going, head for
my bolt-hole.”

The two men set off with Ash’s long legs eating up the dusty savanna,

keeping pace with Roy as he led them farther into the heart of the veldt.

Roy backtracked a little to get well away from Thornside, then turned north

toward the foothills shimmering in the distance. He stopped from time to time,
checking the earth for lion tracks, and Ash went a little ahead, looking about him
with interest.

It was in the dust directly beneath a baobab tree that Roy saw the lion’s

footprint. There was only one, and it pointed due north.

Roy stared at it for a moment, long and hard, but Ash seemed not to notice,

and blithely kept hiking. Not for the first time, Roy wondered what exactly his new
companion had dreamed of while he’d visited Thornside.

Chapter Eight

Traveling in the heat of the day was not without its own risks, and they went

much more slowly than they had in the morning. Roy watched Ash carefully for
signs that the heat or the strong African sun was affecting him, but the younger
man moved easily across the veldt with no trace now of a limp.

They saw little in the way of wildlife. Beasts knew better than to roam in the

heat of the sun—that was part of what made the lion’s behavior at Thornside so
strange. Roy bit his lip, trying once again to force the lion out of his mind.

He scanned the horizon carefully. They were still a good three hours’ march

from the foothills that were their destination, much too far to cover in the steadily
increasing heat. But they were less than a mile from a spring where Roy planned to
wait out the sun.

The spring wasn’t large, a mere trickle between rocks. Two thorn trees grew

side by side, taller than most on the veldt, nourished by the precious water. Their
intertwined canopies cast a generous shade. As Roy and Ash approached, a small
group of impala leaped from the shadows and bounded away.

Ash watched them run. “I’m sorry to have disturbed their rest.”

“Right now, our need is greater.” Roy knelt beside the spring, pulled off his

shirt, and soaked it in the cool water. He rubbed it over his face and arms, removing
the soft red African dust that clung everywhere, then rinsed it out and passed it to
Ash.

With a shy smile, Ash dropped beside Roy and removed his own shirt. He

followed Roy’s example, cleaning the dust from his slim, lithe body. Roy watched
avidly, the feel of Ash in his arms heady and consuming in his memory.

Then Ash twisted around, and the red welts across his shoulders came into

view.

Cursing himself for a scoundrel, Roy reached for his medical kit. “Ash, let me

dress your wounds again.”

Ash glanced at him. “I feel fine. But you’re the doctor.” He leaned forward,

bracing his arms against a rock, and looked back over his shoulder at Roy.

Roy almost groaned aloud. He splashed cold water over his face and

rummaged in the pack for his medications, forcing his mind away from the youth’s
innocent beauty. Ash was under his protection, defenseless out here.

Finally, ointment in hand, he turned back to the young man.

Ash grinned at him, a joyful, knowing grin with nothing of the innocent about

it. “Come on. I’m getting lonely over here.”

Roy crossed to Ash and dropped to his knees…and frowned in confusion. Last

night the welts had been angry furrows, burning with heat and inflammation. Even
this morning they’d been swollen and weeping. But now, scant hours later, they
were little more than raised red lines, cool to the touch and almost entirely healed
over.

“Does this hurt?” Roy asked. He traced one of the marks lightly with the tips

of his fingers.

“No, it’s a little sensitive. But not painful.”

Wondering, Roy slid his hand down Ash’s side, feeling for the broken rib. He’d

seen strange things in this country, but he had never before encountered wounds
that healed virtually before his eyes.

Ash winced slightly as Roy pressed at the sixth rib, but the bone felt solid.

Roy probed gently, realizing as he did so that there was no break, merely bruising
and at most a crack. No wonder Ash had managed the trek so well. Roy checked
Ash’s other side, wondering if he’d been mistaken in his earlier examinations.
Wounds might heal faster than he could credit, but nature did not heal bones
overnight.

“You’ve healed remarkably,” he said at last, sitting back on his heels. “I can

hardly fathom it, in fact.” He smoothed another measure of ointment over Ash’s
back. He did not believe for a moment that the ointment alone was responsible for
Ash’s recovery, but it would certainly do no harm.

Ash sat back and smiled, raising his arms above his head and stretching. “I

feel stronger than I ever have, here. I feel…alive. Between that and your skill, I am
not surprised that I am well.”

Roy laid out a blanket from one of the bedrolls, and they sat beneath the

trees in silence, sharing the jerky. Ash was staring into nothingness, his expression
inscrutable, and Roy watched him, wondering. This dark continent held secrets
beyond the realms of science. Beyond the grasp of men at all. Roy had seen enough
to know that. But wounds that healed overnight, lions who came and went with the
wind…

Roy recalled Mambokadzi’s story, her insistence that a storm was coming.

“The land called the lions, and it gave them this child of men. It gave them the

boy nobody would miss. And when the child cried, the lioness soothed him with her
licks. When he was cut by the grasses, she made him whole again…”

Lion-boy. He looked at Ash, staring placidly into the bush.

Roy let go a long breath and whispered, “Kashiye.”

Ash looked up suddenly and grinned. “I was miles away.” His blue eyes were

cheerful, no longer frightened, and as Roy looked closer, he saw flecks of gold in
their depths. “How is it that you’re here? In Africa, I mean?”

Roy hesitated. “I came after the war,” he said slowly.

Ash laid a hand on Roy’s knee. “For a medic, that must have been beyond

imagining.”

“I was in a bad way, but here, the people needed me. And I didn’t have to be

anyone, answer to anyone. I could just…go away, when I needed to. That’s been my
life for five years. It’s the only life I’m fit for anymore. I’ll never go back. This is who
I am now.” Roy stopped, breathing hard. He’d never said that out loud
before—never even really admitted it to himself—but he knew it was the truth.

“I’m glad,” Ash said in a low voice. “Because I very much like who you are.

And I would like to spend a long time learning more about you and your world here.
If you’ll let me, of course.”

Roy leaned forward. He looked deep into those strange, beautiful blue eyes,

and then his lips met Ash’s. Ash leaned into Roy’s arms, soft and pliant, lips
parting, inviting Roy in. He slid down, sprawling on the blanket, and Roy half fell
on top of him.

Roy’s body burned with want for Ash. He fought to hold himself back, to keep

his weight off Ash’s injured ribs, but Ash grabbed his shoulders, pulling him down,
kissing him with sudden fierceness. Ash’s mouth was hot and hungry, fingers
urgent on Roy’s back, raking at the skin. He bucked beneath Roy, hips grinding
against Roy’s crotch, and Roy shuddered, control finally deserting him.

“Ash,” he growled, struggling with Ash’s borrowed pants. Ash fumbled with

Roy’s waistband, and Roy sat back, panting.

Ash stared at him, eyes wide, looking slightly abashed.

Roy leaned down and kissed him again, soft and gentle this time, and

unbuckled his belt. In a moment, he had Ash naked on the blanket, then quickly
stripped off his own pants and lay back down.

With a soft, approving noise, Ash reached for Roy. Roy took Ash in his arms,

holding him close, moaning as Ash’s hand slid down his body and found his cock.
Whimpering his pleasure, he slid his own hand between Ash’s legs.

Ash was already hard, and at Roy’s touch, he cried out softly, bucking into

Roy’s palm. Roy fingered his leaking slit, lubing him with his own juice, and slowly
starting to stroke his shaft. Ash sobbed and bucked, taking up the same rhythm on
Roy’s cock, and Roy groaned, thrusting his hips in time.

Moments later, Ash lost the rhythm, crying out, and Roy clasped him against

his chest, holding on tight as Ash’s juice spurted hot across his belly. Ash shuddered
and clung, then went limp in Roy’s arms.

Roy kissed him softly. Ash’s fingers were still wrapped around his cock, and

Roy covered Ash’s hand with his own, starting to stroke. Ash gasped and moved
with him, leaning into Roy’s shoulder, and Roy felt his orgasm growing deep within
him, coiling like a spring.

He dropped to the blanket, head whirling as waves of pleasure crashed over

and through him. He locked his arms around Ash, breathing him in, holding on
until at last he felt the solid veldt beneath him. Slowly, he relaxed.

Ash raised his head from Roy’s shoulder and smiled shyly into his eyes. He

didn’t say anything, just leaned up and kissed him, long and sweet.

They dozed away the remainder of the afternoon. Roy napped lightly, every

sense alert for danger, while Ash slept peacefully at his side.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky, Roy came properly awake. The veldt

was beginning to come alive after the heat of the day. He heard the bellow of a bull
buffalo above the hum of insects and birdsong, and then the distinctive screech of a
Bateleur.

He smiled wryly, scanning the skies. He wouldn’t put it past Mambokadzi to

send Onai to check up on them. But the only things visible were a pair of go-away
birds playing catch-as-catch-can, and high above, little more than a speck in the
sky, a hawk of some kind, waiting.

Roy touched Ash’s shoulder gently, and the young man came awake

instantly, rolling over and sitting up in one fluid movement. He stared for a
moment, orienting himself, then relaxed and smiled. “Is it time?”

“Yes.” Roy grinned at Ash, his heart lifting. “Are you ready?”

They dressed again, packed away the blanket and supplies, and set off

toward the foothills. They’d only been going a few minutes when Roy, scanning the
veldt, saw a strange, telltale movement and pulled Ash down beside a nearby
thornbush. “Look,” he said softly, close to Ash’s ear. Arm around Ash’s shoulders, he
gently indicated. “Keep still.”

Ash watched, holding his breath, then exclaimed softly as the small herd of

giraffes broke cover and crossed the grassland in their awkward lope. He watched,
frozen, long after the animals had disappeared from view, and started when Roy got
up.

“Oh! I’d never seen them before! Giraffe, aren’t they?”

“That’s right.” Roy grinned back and started onward. “You don’t see them

very often in this area. Those were probably chased from their usual grazing by a
predator.”

“The whole country is amazing. I cannot understand men like my father and

my uncle who see such things and think only of trophies for their walls.”

“Haywood has no idea of the land,” Roy said. “No respect. And that can be a

dangerous thing out here.”

Ash looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

As they began climbing a rocky path into the foothills, the sinking sun was

overtaken by gray clouds, boiling up from the south. The air remained still and

warm, uncomfortable now, overwhelming the temperature drop that usually
accompanied any change of altitude in the high tableland.

Roy stopped Ash with a hand on his arm. Looking around at the stony

boulders and then the sky, he said, “There’s a storm coming up. Coming fast.”

Off in the distance, heat lightning crawled along the belly of the steel gray

clouds, a brilliant white net cast across a portion of the sky. Roy nudged Ash. “Come
on. We’ll have to hurry.”

Adjusting the straps on his pack, Ash nodded. “Lead the way. I’ll keep up, I

promise.”

Roy met his gaze with a smile. “I know you will.”

The two men broke into a trot, moving quickly up the rocky path between the

ironstone tors, leaping easily from boulder to boulder when the path disappeared
entirely. Roy could hear the thunder now, rolling across the veldt from the direction
of the spring they’d left several hours ago. It reverberated from every rock and
hillside, the echoes of each peal seeming to last an eternity.

Roy was exhilarated. He’d never seen thunderstorms as wild as those in

Africa. Not in Missouri, not in any of his travels, not in all the time he huddled in a
damp Belgian trench, listening terrified as tanks and cannons split the world
around him. Out here, he lived for each storm. They were so much more powerful,
so much more destructive and uncontrolled than any invention man had created,
that they almost gave him back his faith in the world.

And this one promised more violence than most.

With a wild yell, Roy leaped onto an ironstone boulder standing sentry

against the storm. They had almost reached his cave, his hideaway. There, while
men like the Haywood brothers quailed before nature’s power unleashed, he and
Ash would be safe.

Roy turned and continued upward, scrambling onto a flat, muddy plateau

halfway up an intimidating cliff face. Just then, the sky opened and torrential rain
began. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin.

Ash followed Roy’s lead, hoisting himself easily over the rock face and

crawling onto the plateau next to Roy. He too was soaked from the downpour, and
his sodden clothes clung to his athletic frame. Roy tore his gaze away as a crash of
lightning descended from the clouds, striking close by their perch. Ash took a step
back, behind Roy.

Roy turned his face to the sky and roared.

The thunder answered back, shaking the rocks Roy stood on. Lashed with

rain, soaked and shaking with repressed emotion, Roy at last gave full vent to his
feelings, letting his own cries and the noise of the storm drown out the constant
stream of nightmares the war had left him with. His rage at Ash’s family, his

frustration at their treatment of Ash, their lack of respect for the land he loved. Roy
finally sank to his knees on the wet, sandy rock as his yells died away, swallowed by
the storm. Roy wondered if he should feel ashamed at losing control in front of Ash.
He hazarded a glance over his shoulder.

Ash’s eyes were on the storm, watching it thunder its way across the veldt

toward them.

Roy wiped streams of rainwater from his face with the back of a hand, then

flinched at an unexpected crack of lightning, this time perilously nearby.

Ash turned his gaze on Roy, then walked over and offered him a hand up.

Roy looked into Ash’s eyes, vibrant and pure. He wanted so badly to believe

that he could be worthy of Ash, even if he’d been sullied and broken by the war. If
he still knew how to pray, he’d have prayed for forgiveness for wanting Ash so damn
much.

Ash smiled softly. “We all have our demons, Roy. Are you ready to go on?”

Roy let Ash pull him to his feet. “We’re nearly there,” he said hoarsely. “Come

on.”

* * * *

The cave was well-hidden, set back in the cliff, its entrance partially obscured

by a man-size tooth of rock. Inside, it was huge and dry at the front, but at the rear,
a chimney in the rock let in both light and rain. The water dripped down the wall,
collecting in a pool at the back of the cave—a pool also fed by an underground
spring.

Ash walked around the cave in awe while Roy rummaged in the packs, laying

wet things out to dry. The canvas packs, while waterproofed, couldn’t withstand
such a storm. But the well-packed bedrolls had barely suffered from the rain. Roy
stripped the outer blankets away and laid them out to dry, then carried the
remaining bedding to a raised flat rock in a corner away from the entrance.

“Ash.” Roy reclaimed the young man’s attention, and Ash turned from his

inspection of the spring. “Get out of your wet clothes. I know it feels warm, but
Africa can be deceiving. If you become chilled, you’ll catch the fever.” He could feel
the temperature dropping almost by the minute as the sun sank lower over the
horizon. “Use the blankets. I’ll start a fire.”

Ash nodded, unbuttoning his shirt as Roy knelt by the small fire pit, which

was carefully positioned so that the draft from the cave’s entrance took smoke up
the natural chimney. As was Roy’s habit, he’d left a fire ready-laid against his next
visit, and it was the work of a moment to strike flint and set it burning.

The firelight cast a warm glow over the cave, and Roy stood up slowly, going

back to the rock and Ash. Ash had stripped naked and laid his soaked clothing on a

boulder to dry. Roy tried his hardest to avert his gaze from the gleaming, firelit
muscles, then gave in to the overwhelming urge he was coming to associate with
Ash’s very presence.

Beautiful. Head to toe.

Roy picked up a blanket and held it out to Ash. “Wrap yourself in this. Our

other clothes are”—Roy took a deep breath and turned away, beginning to
strip—“also wet.”

Huddled in a blanket of his own, Roy returned to the fire and squatted before

its growing warmth.

Ash joined him, and together they stared into the climbing orange flames.

* * * *

Once the fire’s initial exuberance had died down to red heating coals, Roy

returned to the damp packs and extracted his well-blackened cooking pot. Inside
he’d packed the meat remaining from an antelope he’d killed the week before, along
with a couple of native sweet potatoes.

Ash watched with interest as Roy pulled out his hunting knife and used it to

slice the chunks of meat. He chopped the potato roughly and added it to the pot,
then topped the stew off with a dipper of spring water.

A lattice of hardwood twigs—slow, hot burners—made a rack to hold the pot

above the coals. Roy gave the stew a stir, then added one of his few concessions to
his previous life: a generous pinch of salt.

Ash grinned as Roy closed the leather bag containing the precious seasoning.

“Do you hunt that on the veldt also?”

Roy chuckled. “There are natural salt licks, but the flavor isn’t the same. Salt

and coffee, that’s what I trade for, when I can.”

The rain was still falling heavily, interspersed with violent flashes of

lightning and rumbles of thunder like the roar of the mountains themselves. Ash
gathered the blanket tightly around his shoulders and went to the mouth of the
cave. “I thought I had seen storms in England,” he said, drawing back as lightning
cracked seemingly just outside. “But this… I never imagined a power like this.”

“Life’s raw here,” Roy said, getting up from the fire. He stared out at the

tumultuous rain. “The world was born here on the Dark Continent. The gods are
very near, and every day I see things that I cannot explain nor comprehend. I’m
learning not to try.”

Ash looked up at him quizzically.

“In Africa, the wise man does not ask for explanations,” Roy said quietly, “he

merely believes.”

“I’ll remember that.” Ash grinned. “Are you a wise man?”

“According to Mambokadzi, I’m a babe in arms. But I am trying, and that

counts for something, I believe. Come on. Our supper’s ready.”

Ash ate hungrily. Roy knew the fare must be strange, but Ash accepted the

stew and the accompanying flatbread as readily as he’d eaten the porridge and the
jerky earlier in the day. But when Roy made thick black coffee after the meal, Ash
sniffed the potent brew and hesitated. “I think I’ll stick to water. I’m afraid I’m
more used to tea.”

“I fear that’s something I don’t possess. But I admit the coffee here is an

acquired taste. I mix it with velvet beans to make it last, and it gives a stronger
flavor.”

“Velvet beans?” Ash sat back, picking up his canteen.

“I’ll show you the plant tomorrow. They grow not far from here.” Roy sipped

his coffee. “If the rain stops, that is.”

“One thinks of Africa as being sunny all the time. But obviously that’s not the

case.”

“It’s always hot—hotter than Britain and hotter than Missouri, even. But

when Africa does something, it goes whole hog. It might rain for two or three days
like this, and then the sun will return, just as fierce. It’s not a gentle place.”

Ash sighed. “I like it,” he said softly, gaze on Roy. “Africa does things with its

whole heart.”

“You’re right there.” Roy drained his coffee cup, looking at Ash. The young

man was watching him with hungry, yearning eyes, and Roy felt his blood heat. He
stared at the lust on Ash’s face, desire churning inside him. He hadn’t wanted
someone like this in forever, had thought the war had killed that part of him, but
Ash… He’d happily give Ash his whole heart, and more.

Or perhaps his heart had been Ash’s all along. Kashiye…

Ash stood and went to the blankets laid out on the flat rock. He dropped his

own blanket and unselfconsciously bent to the bed, smoothing and folding.

Roy watched Ash’s tight round ass and the long sweet legs propelling it,

breathless. The flicker of firelight on Ash’s pale skin, his limber body stretching and
moving, the muscles rippling. With a groan, Roy followed, helpless to resist.

Ash looked over his shoulder with a grin, then straightened up slowly. He

grasped Roy’s blanket and tugged it off and away, tossing it to the bed before
pressing his naked body against Roy’s.

With a sound between a groan and a sob, Roy fell back into their rude bed,

pulling Ash with him. He held Ash tight, kissing him hungrily, reaching for Ash’s
swollen, leaking cock.

Ash bucked into Roy’s hand, panting urgently. Roy pressed him down against

the blankets and kissed him again, then slid down his body, licking and biting as he
went. Ash writhed beneath him, growling low in his throat, a soft, feral sound that
set Roy’s loins on fire.

Panting, Roy slid his hands between Ash’s thighs and palmed the warm flesh,

squeezing with his thumbs. Ash mewled, drawing his knees up, and with a grunt of
satisfaction, Roy pushed his thighs apart.

Ash’s cock gleamed in the firelight, rising proudly from its nest of blond curls.

Roy lowered his head and lapped lightly at the blood-dark head, tasting the slick
salt on his tongue.

Ash groaned and bucked and Roy took him deeper, savoring every whimper,

every jerk of the young man’s body beneath his own. He held Ash open with his
hands and took full advantage, sucking Ash down as deep as he could, reveling in
the thick meat against the back of his throat.

Ash was crying out now, high and sweet, voice breaking on Roy’s name as he

thrashed on the blankets. Roy sped up his stroke, working Ash’s head with his
tongue, and Ash arched up off the bed with a short, guttural cry.

His juice exploded over Roy’s tongue, and Roy lapped at every drop, before

pulling back slowly, releasing Ash’s still-twitching cock. He stretched out next to
Ash, still panting and boneless on the blankets, and Ash rolled close to him,
burrowing in.

Roy kissed him gently, then took hold of his own aching cock, starting up a

slow rhythm—the one he’d grown accustomed to through long and lonely practice.
But Ash pushed himself up, then reached down to cover Roy’s hand with his,
moving with him.

“Let me,” Ash whispered. Roy’s eyes flew open. Ash was staring at him, those

sweet and mysterious gold-flecked eyes huge and feral with desire. Predator’s eyes,
filled with knowledge and meaning; eyes that could not possibly belong to a shy,
innocent English boy.

“Ash?” Roy whispered, raising a hand to his lover’s face. Ash moved his head,

nipping playfully at Roy’s fingers; then the moment was gone.

Roy dropped back to the bed, shuddering as Ash palmed his cock. Then Ash

was sliding down his body, soft, skilled lips touching him just right, and in
moments, Roy was bowing off the bed, shouting as he came, hard and long.

Roy fell asleep clutching Ash to his chest and wondering about the depths of

passion—and the secrets—that lay beneath his lover’s youthful exterior.

Chapter Nine

Roy stood at the entrance to the cave with Ash at his shoulder, looking down

over the veldt. The morning had dawned clear and bright, and the only traces of the
storm remained in the crushed and broken thornbushes flattened by the torrential
rain. Chuckling waterfalls ran down the surrounding hills, flush and misty, and far
below their perch herds of beasts moved like so many ants, grazing their fill before
the heat of the day.

“Duiker,” Roy said, pointing, “and over there are buffalo. Both good eating.

And look, over there, those are impala. They’re beautiful. One day I’ll take you out
there and we’ll watch them run. There’s nothing quite like that, Ash, nothing at
all.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ash said simply, taking the bowl of maize porridge Roy

handed him. “Back in England, I used to think I would do anything for a different
life—to be someone else, you understand.” He shook his head. “I’d live it again,
every minute of it, and like it too, knowing I had this to look forward to.” He raised
his head, met Roy’s gaze, and smiled.

Warmth flooded through Roy, and he looked to his own bowl in confusion.

He’d seen firsthand the results of the abuse Ash had suffered in Rhodesia. He was
certain Ash had been similarly mistreated in England. And the thought that Ash
considered his suffering a fair price for a cave on the veldt and the company of a
broken-down medical man gone native was humbling indeed.

“Today I’ll take you higher into the hills. We’ll see some monkeys, probably

baboons too. There’s an old she-leopard with a range up there too, and we might see
her if we’re careful.”

Ash watched Roy with bright, interested eyes. “Only one leopard?”

“They’re solitary, not like lions. And territorial.”

“I have a lot to learn.” Ash scraped his bowl clean.

“So do I. In this country, it is safest to forget everything you think you know

and start over.”

Ash seemed on the verge of saying something further, then simply nodded

and took his bowl to the spring to wash.

For the next two days, the two men made forays into the hills, returning to

the cave each night to eat and sleep. The hills harbored a number of plants Roy
used in his medicines, and he showed Ash how to gather each one, filling the
knapsacks full. Then each evening they laid the gathered herbs out to dry, or
ground the fresh leaves or flowers for pulp or sap.

Ash was a willing pupil, both of the medicines and of the veldt itself. He

learned quickly to step as Roy did, silent and cautious. He began to master the
steady native jog that covered the miles so effortlessly. And above all else, he
respected the land and the beasts within it.

Roy rarely hunted with guns; powder and shot were too hard to come by for

wasteful use. He’d never become adept with the native spear and instead used a
slingshot to bring down small game. They dined on roast guinea fowl and wild
pumpkin, and by the third night in the cave, Ash was barely recognizable as the
frightened, beaten English boy Roy had found under the baobab tree. His skin had
already browned under the African sun, a warm, golden sheen banishing the pasty
whiteness. His eyes looked deeper every day, crinkling at the edges as he learned to
look farther than he ever had before, the gold flecks more pronounced every time
Roy looked at him. He moved more smoothly, becoming surer in his own skin. And
most of all, he was no longer afraid.

* * * *

On the morning of the third day they set off for the hills again, and Ash’s

heart lifted with every footstep. Roy was searching for a type of ground ivy, which
he made into a salve to repel Africa’s prolific mosquitoes. “Their bites cause fever,”
he explained to Ash, showing him how to apply the salve sparingly but thoroughly
to his exposed skin. “It got me before I’d been here a month. That’s how I met
Mambokadzi, in fact. I was still building my compound. A couple of the natives were
helping me out from time to time, and they found me completely out of it. I had
quinine in my supplies, but the fever came too fast.” Roy shook his head. “Anyhow,
they took me to the village, and Mambokadzi pulled me through it.”

“I’m glad about that.” Ash carefully stowed the pot of salve in his knapsack.

“But you’re all right now, aren’t you?”

“I am, but”—Roy swung his own knapsack to his shoulders—“the trouble is,

the fever never leaves your blood. From time to time, it takes me again—never so
bad as the first time, or so it seems. I take a couple of doses of quinine and sweat it
out. But that’s why I want you to be careful and use that ointment. I don’t want you
taking the fever at all.”

Ash nodded, lifted his own pack, and followed Roy up the trail.

He watched the ground, looking for the spoors of animals as Roy had taught

him. When Roy dropped to his knees, pointing out the smudge in the earth that
showed where a jackal had passed, Ash stared for a long time. His eye was
untrained, and it was still hard for him to see patterns in the soft depressions in the
sandy soil. Roy’s ability to tell the type of animal and how long since it had passed
seemed like magic to him.

He stepped to the side to avoid a column of the fierce red ants and caught

Roy’s approving smile. Flushing with pleasure, Ash hurried to catch up. He loved
this land, and he loved being with Roy. He wanted nothing more than to learn to fit

in, to learn to do things well, because the feelings for Roy taking hold in his heart
were nothing he could ever imagine putting behind him. And the way Roy smiled at
him, the way Roy kissed him… Ash dared to hope that Roy was starting to feel the
same.

They found the ivy when the sun was high in the sky, and Roy led them back

under some trees to rest. “We’ll cut it this afternoon, when the heat is less,” he said,
stretching out and pillowing his head on his knapsack. “You hungry?”

Ash was, but for something other than food. He made a low, appreciative

noise in his throat, watching as Roy arranged his lean limbs comfortably.

Roy grinned at him lazily. “Is that a no?”

Ash dropped to his knees at Roy’s side, fumbling with his own belt.

Despite his lazy demeanor, Roy wasted no time in following suit. He shoved

his pants down to mid-thigh and licked his lips, staring in open appreciation at Ash.

Ash shuddered under the scrutiny, finally managing to free his aching cock

from his confining garments. It throbbed in his hand, damp with his sweat, but the
heat in the shaft owed nothing to the heat of the day. He groaned aloud and
pumped his fist.

“Wait,” Roy said breathlessly, propping himself up on his elbow and gripping

his own cock. Ash held himself still with a superhuman effort, staring mesmerized
at the purple head of Roy’s dick protruding, fat and obscene, beneath Roy’s thumb.

“Now!”

The word barely penetrated Ash’s consciousness, but Roy’s hand sliding over

the tantalizing flesh, the soft white bead that formed at Roy’s tip—that spoke to
something deep in Ash.

With a helpless cry he started to stroke, unconsciously following Roy’s

rhythm. The feelings grew within him, roiling up from his loins, filling him with the
rightness of this place, the two of them together. His strokes drove him higher,
closer, but it was the sight of Roy jacking his own swollen dick, head thrown back,
beads of sweat standing out on his throat, that brought him to the precipice.

Ash hung there, gasping, caught in his need for Roy. Then Roy shouted, and

the sound jerked Ash back into himself.

“Come for me, Ash! Come for me!” Roy’s voice broke as his juice spurted

across his hand, splashing onto Ash’s cock and balls.

It seared Ash like fire, contracting his balls tight and fast. He fell forward

against Roy, keening softly as his own cum pulsed out, on and on until he was
wrung out and empty.

Roy shuddered beneath him, in the throes of his own orgasm. Ash pressed

close against him, riding Roy’s wave as well as his own. At last Roy’s arms went
around him, and Ash raised his head, reaching up to claim a kiss.

“Sure you’re not hungry?” Roy murmured.

“Maybe later,” Ash whispered and rested his head on Roy’s chest.

Roy’s heartbeat slowed, and his breathing deepened, and in moments, Ash

knew he was asleep. But for Ash, sleep remained elusive.

The hum of the insects sang in his head, rhythmic and mystical. Too loud to

allow for sleep, so deep it seemed to take over his heartbeat. Ash slid out of Roy’s
arms and prowled slowly to the edge of the clearing where a rocky outcrop looked
out over the wide savanna.

The tree-covered hills stretched below him down to the endless grasslands.

He stared for a moment; then his senses swam, his focus going haywire: suddenly
he could see miles across the plains, see herds of deer and zebra, smell their musk,
taste their blood. He fell to his knees, shaking, staring into the glittering red dust.

Staring at two heavy, golden paws where his hands should be.

With a yelp of fear, Ash leaped to his feet. A thorn scratched his arm, and he

yelped again, inspecting the wound. A tiny tear, a slight kiss of blood—on his own
pale British skin. Ash raised his hands to his face, trembling, staring at the five
ordinary fingers. Am I going mad?

Ash closed his eyes, drinking in the heat of the sun. He could smell water

lower down the hill, and the flock of tiny birds that drank there. He could hear their
song, joyful and high, light as the sun itself. Ash growled softly to himself. They
were pretty, but they were not prey.

He opened his eyes again, blinking in the sun, then leaped lightly down from

the tor. He moved easily in his skin, sliding through the sun and shadows, striding
over the unfamiliar terrain. Running came easy, and the sun’s heat slid over him
soft and warm. He bounded through the undergrowth, disturbing a bird here and
there, avoiding the ever-present insect life.

There was nothing large on this hill save himself; his ears and his nose told

him surely. There was no prey, but hungry though he was, Ash ran for the sheer joy
of running, delighting in his strength. And at last, he returned to his lookout rock
and roared his joy for all of Africa to hear.

Shaking himself, Ash stepped cautiously down from the outcrop. Adrenaline

pounded through his veins and he looked around him, blinking slowly. He had been
a lion. He was a lion. Unless Roy’s salve was too late, and he was already in the grip
of a fever.

He climbed slowly back toward the place where Roy lay napping. Kashiye.

Lion cub. It was magic. It was perfect. It was terrifying.

Most terrifying of all, Ash knew he dared not tell Roy. Not yet. Not until he

understood, himself, exactly who—or what—he was.

He found a wild plum tree and ate a few, then gathered sufficient for their

breakfast. With every passing moment, the lion incident seemed farther away, less
real, until Ash could almost have believed he had dreamed it after all. If it weren’t
for the fact that every time he closed his eyes, he felt the wild blood in his veins and
heard the song of the veldt.

* * * *

Roy looked across the fire at Ash, sitting with his head down and his

shoulders slumped. He sighed softly. Ash had seemed different since they’d awoken
from their naps, somehow preoccupied.

Roy ladled out a plate of stew for Ash, then one for himself, and sat down.

“Listen,” he said, planning on the spur of the moment. “I’ve got most of the herbs I
need from up here. What say tomorrow we set off for the Zambezi River?”

Ash looked up, waiting.

Encouraged, Roy continued. “There’s hippos down there, and rhinos, and a

whole lot of birds. Quite different from the land around here. It’s about three days’
hike.”

“The Zambezi,” Ash said quietly and looked down at his plate. “Do you mean

the district commissioner, Roy? At Victoria Falls?”

Roy’s heart clenched. He’d thought nothing more of the district commissioner

and the plan for getting Ash back to England, not since the first night the young
man had come so trustingly to his bed. He’d assumed—stupidly, perhaps—that Ash
had forgotten it too. Somehow Roy had allowed himself to imagine that Ash had
feelings for him, feelings strong enough to make Ash throw away the life he’d been
born to.

Forcing his gaze down to his plate, Roy struggled to find his voice. “Of

course,” he said, as casually as he could manage. “It’s time we got your situation
settled; you’re right.”

Ash picked at his stew and didn’t answer.

After dinner was eaten and the remains packed away, Roy left Ash washing

in the spring and slipped out of the cave. Ash was still with him, but already his
heart ached with loss. He’d imagined so much more, imagined a life with Ash at his
side…let himself feel so much. Roy climbed until the thinning air burned his lungs,
careless for once of snakes and anything else that roamed by night. A jackal barked
nearby, and Roy barked back, then dropped, breathless, on a nearby boulder.

Ash didn’t want him. When it came right down to it, it was no more than Roy

expected. His feelings for Ash rose inside him, nearly choking him, but he fought
them back, slamming them deep into the pit where he locked all the memories he
couldn’t bear.

Three more days. He would take the boy to Victoria Falls, do whatever it took

to keep him safe. Roy gave a decisive nod. And after that… He forced his mind away
from contemplating the future, so bleak and empty after his dreams of the last few
days. The future would take care of itself. For now, Roy would take care of Ash.

He got to his feet and started back down the hill.

Roy came back to the cave to find Ash sleeping, curled up on the flat rock

with the blankets tossed away. Roy caught his breath at the young man’s naked
beauty. With trembling fingers, he gathered the blankets around Ash’s body, then
stood back, breathing hard.

He could not go to Ash’s bed with the knowledge that Ash was leaving fresh

in his heart. Pleasure was pleasure, but Ash held his heart, and Roy knew he
couldn’t go back. Shivering, Roy returned to the entrance to the cave. He would
keep watch.

He took a blanket from his pack and wrapped it around his shoulders, then

sat down against the rough rock wall. Carefully clearing his mind, Roy allowed
himself to doze.

He was awakened by a chill breeze and the growl of thunder in the distance,

roiling clouds scudding across the moon. Rhodesia was entering the monsoon
season, and the rains would come often now, encouraging the new growth.

Roy clambered to his feet, walking a few steps inside the cave to check on

Ash. But the young man was curled deep in the blankets, sleeping heavily. Roy
stared for a moment, then dropped his blanket and went outside to meet the storm.

The first fat drops of rain fell from the night sky, wetting the thirsty rocks,

and Roy tore off his shirt, standing before the elements, buffeted by the wind. Roy
turned his face to the heavens, letting the rain soak him. The water felt amazing,
and this storm engendered none of the rage the earlier one had pulled from him.

Roy let the water run down his skin and puddle at his feet. He couldn’t stop

thinking about Ash: the feel of him in his arms, the heat of his body. His strength
and perfection. Ash was everything Roy had ever wanted.

Roy’s cock was growing harder by the minute. Finally, he struggled out of his

trousers and flung them back into the cave. Shaking, he ran a hand over his length,
his mind going back to how damn good it felt to kiss Ash, hard and true. How
hungrily Ash had kissed him back.

He returned to the sight of Ash overwhelmed by orgasm, openmouthed with

desire, as if pleasure itself was a surprise. Roy moved his hand along his cock,
stroking himself slowly.

It felt too good, the rain on his skin, the thought of Ash in his bed, Ash’s lips

on his cock, soft and wet, tongue flickering against the tip… Biting his lip hard,
holding in the sounds he longed to make, Roy looked down and stroked more firmly,
running a thumb over his cockhead, feeling a sticky smear of precum there, mixing
with the slick rainwater.

Throwing his head back, Roy gave rein to the visions that assailed him. Roy

pictured Ash’s body joined with his own; he imagined how sweet it would feel to
ignite pleasure deep in Ash, taking him hard and slow, feeling his ass clench around
Roy’s cock, his beautiful hands on Roy’s shoulders, drawing furrows in Roy’s back.

Roy felt his balls draw up, his cock swelling in his hand as he imagined the

sounds Ash would make…and then blinding-hot seed spilled over Roy’s fingers onto
the wet rock at his feet. He bucked, letting the vision linger through the aftershocks
that pulsed through his fingers, until, as his orgasm died away, Roy forced the
thought from his mind.

He wanted Ash too much. It was just that simple.

The thunder and lightning faded as Roy opened his eyes. The storm had

vented its power over the valley and dissipated, leaving only rain and the rise of a
sharp, hard wind. And the rain showed no sign of stopping. If anything, it had
grown in intensity, on its way to becoming an epic downpour.

Turning back to the mouth of the cave, Roy froze. Ash shuffled sleepily

toward him, rubbing his eyes.

“Roy,” he mumbled indistinctly, “you’re back… Everything all right?” He

pushed past Roy and darted outside, and Roy heard him relieve himself against the
rock face.

Roy shook the water off his skin as he made his way back inside. He banked

the fire against the gray day even though he was perfectly warm, just to give
himself something to focus on, something to do with his hands while he thought,
How long had Ash been standing there?

Roy looked around wildly for his clothes, but Ash was already padding softly

back into the cave, shivering with the sheen of water on his skin. He climbed back
into the blankets without a look in Roy’s direction, turning to face the wall. Roy’s
heart sank; then he heard Ash call to him. “Come to bed, Roy. It’s cold.”

Roy rose and did as he was bidden.

He lay down gingerly next to Ash, his shoulder against Ash’s back, feeling

awkward and unwell. He doesn’t want me. I can’t—

Ash rolled over and draped himself over Roy again, snuggling close. Roy

caught his breath as Ash’s hand crept over his chest; then Ash murmured sleepily,
“You’re wet.”

“Sorry,” Roy said softly, slowly sliding his arms back around Ash. His

breathing steadied as Ash nuzzled against his chest. Perhaps there was still
something to be saved between them.

With a happy sigh, Ash burrowed in against Roy’s shoulder. “Go back to

sleep,” Ash whispered, and Roy reflected that those words were sound advice
indeed. He tightened his arms around Ash and closed his eyes, letting his rogue

thoughts drift away, carried to sleep on the soft, rhythmic thrum of Ash’s breath on
his skin.

Chapter Ten

Ash awoke with a feeling of trepidation it took him a few seconds to place. He

was in the warm nest of blankets, Roy curled up, snoring softly, at his back: what
he’d come to know meant safety. Then he recalled the conversation of the previous
day—Victoria Falls, the district commissioner, a return to England—and
instinctively, he pulled away from Roy. “No,” he whispered under his breath. “I
don’t want to go.”

Beside him, Roy moved restlessly, muttering in his sleep. Ash sat up slowly.

Roy had come back in the night, he remembered, wet.

Wet.

Ash jumped to his feet and ran naked to the mouth of the cave. Outside, the

sky was thick and gray, and rain fell steadily, splashing over the rocks. He couldn’t
see the veldt below them, couldn’t see anything except the thick, lowering clouds.

His heart lifted. They couldn’t travel in this weather. The idea of leaving Roy

was bad enough, but with his new knowledge of himself, returning to England was
no longer a possibility. Ash belonged to the veldt. And to Roy, if Roy would have
him.

He came slowly back inside, knelt beside the fire, and laid the kindling on top

of the embers, then slowly donned his clothes. “I won’t go back,” he said aloud.

A blanket and Roy’s shirt and pants lay near the mouth of the cave, and Ash

picked them up, wondering. He folded them slowly, then went back to the bed. Roy
still wasn’t awake, which was unusual.

“Roy,” Ash said softly, perching beside him. “Would you like some breakfast?”

He laid a hand on Roy’s shoulder.

Roy moved restlessly under his touch, opening his eyes but staring at Ash

without seeming to see him. “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely, moving his head
from side to side.

“It’s me. It’s Ash.” Ash leaned forward, worried. “Roy, what’s wrong?”

“Amy,” Roy muttered. “Can’t get out. Get word, man. Get word. We need help

here…dying…” His voice faded away.

Ash sat frozen for a moment. Remembering Roy’s words about fever, he

touched Roy’s brow, frightened at how hot he found it. “Oh Roy, I don’t know
enough. I don’t even know how to find Mambokadzi.”

Ash rose and filled a bowl at the spring and returned. He knelt and bathed

Roy’s face, neck, and shoulders in an attempt to cool him down. Roy seemed to
breathe more easily, and once he even opened his eyes and gave Ash a weak smile.
But as the morning wore on he sank back into fever, moaning and crying out for

help.

“Troops and supplies…Amy,” Roy whispered over and over, turning too-bright

eyes to Ash’s face. “Get help, man. Tell them,” he said, clutching Ash’s arm so hard
it was painful.

Ash promised he would, hoping his words carried some comfort to Roy’s

fevered brain.

As the morning progressed, Ash remembered the quinine, and he raided

Roy’s medical supplies until he found a small bottle with a hand-printed label.

He measured the dose into a cup and mixed it with water. It smelled bitter

and unpleasant, but he lifted Roy’s head and, without giving Roy time to protest,
tipped it down his throat. Roy spluttered and sobbed, but Ash held him fast, and
after a few long moments, Roy relaxed.

Ash lowered him back to the bed, stroking his forehead gently. “Help is

coming, Roy. Help is coming.”

Roy moved his head restlessly, then stared straight into Ash’s eyes. “There is

no help for Amy.” Then his eyes drifted closed, and he seemed to fall asleep.

Ash sat at Roy’s bedside for two days while the rain fell unrelentingly

outside.

They had food—pumpkin and wild spinach gathered in the hills, and two

guinea fowl Roy had gotten with the slingshot before being taken ill. Initially Roy
refused everything except water, but each dose of quinine seemed to bring him ease,
and Ash was finally able to coax Roy to swallow some broth he made from a
guinea-fowl carcass.

Ash napped only fitfully, waking every time Roy called, speaking low and

reassuringly until Roy’s anxiety subsided. When Roy shivered with the cold, Ash
wrapped him in blankets and held him tight. When Roy tossed and turned, fighting
the blankets, Ash bathed him with cool water from the spring. It was all he knew to
do, and he could only hope his treatment was having the required effect. His initial
thoughts of going for help were quickly quelled: Roy was too ill to be left alone.

The rain stopped at last on the evening of the second day of Roy’s illness, and

Ash went outside the cave mouth, watching the clouds roll back from the night sky.
He thought Roy seemed a little better today, and he wondered if he could somehow
catch another guinea fowl. The broth was nearly gone.

“Ash!” Roy’s voice cut through his thoughts of storms and guinea fowl, and he

hurried back into the cave. “Ash!” Roy was raised up on one elbow, his blankets
kicked away. He was making a weak but determined effort to get up.

“Roy! No! Lie down—” Ash ran to his side and grabbed his shoulders.

“Ash!” Roy took Ash’s arm, shaking with the effort. “Ash…thought you’d

gone…back to England.” His blue eyes filled with tears. “Don’t…don’t…please.”

“Shh,” Ash said softly, fighting back tears of his own. He eased his arm

around Roy, and this time, Roy allowed himself to be lowered back to the bed. He
kept hold of Ash’s arm, eyes never leaving Ash’s face.

“I’m here, Roy. I’m not leaving you. I’m not going back to England.” He

choked back a sob, steadying himself as he realized he would do whatever it took to
make the words true. “You need to sleep, all right? You have the fever.”

Roy nodded slowly. He didn’t release his grip on Ash’s arm. “Sleep,” he agreed

muzzily. “Don’t go…” His eyes drifted closed, and Ash had to lean close to hear the
last whispered word. “Kashiye…”

Ash pressed a kiss to Roy’s forehead.

In another hour, he’d have to wake him again for more medicine, but for now,

Roy was sleeping cool and fever-free. Ash breathed a sigh of relief and gently
disengaged Roy’s hand from his arm. He couldn’t catch a guinea fowl in an hour, but
he could roast a pumpkin, and a gruel made of the vegetable’s flesh would surely be
nourishing.

Mambokadzi’s words echoed in Ash’s ears.

“Once, you were a lion. Your mama knew that, sure as she knew the storm

meant her days were numbered. You went away and became a man, but there’s
another storm coming, son. And you’ve got to remember. You’ve got to find your
place.

“Take him with you and get ready for the storm. It’s coming again.”

Ash hurried to the fire.

* * * *

He had little enough experience as a sick-nurse, but even inexperienced as

Ash was, he knew the pumpkin gruel, while nourishing, was not enough. Somehow,
he would have to hunt; Roy needed a thick, sustaining meat broth to help him
regain his strength.

Roy was still weak and lethargic, but his fever had not returned. He slept

most of the time, although if Ash left his side, he became fretful.

On the third day, Roy fell asleep shortly after lunch, and Ash, knowing Roy

was likely to sleep for several hours, took the slingshot from the pack and went
hunting.

A short hike down the hill brought Ash to a grassy plateau. He stared around

him, wary of snakes, aware of the insect song rising and falling in his ears.
Suddenly, the golden grassland seemed to undulate under his feet, making him
dizzy, and he sank to a rock slab, breathing hard.

The sun was warm and soothing, and after a moment, Ash stretched out on

the rock, enjoying the heat against his skin as he scanned the plateau. Over on the
far side, a stand of bushes with dry, golden foliage bore a crop of open
seedpods—dry, black, and twisted. Their fruit lay scattered on the earth below.

Ash’s blood quickened in his veins. Where the seeds fell, birds would come.

He hummed to himself softly, then started for the bushes.

A part of him realized his knowledge of the birds’ habits was not his own.

That same part rejoiced at his strength, his size and power as he walked across the
grassland like a king.

His predator eyes took in the colony of small, spotted birds scratching and

pecking around the bushes, and he growled to himself in satisfaction. Fat fowl
meant broth for Roy and meat for himself. He crept closer on his toes, ghosting
through the long grass.

The birds could fly but preferred not to. Once again, Ash did not question this

knowledge but instead sought to use it to his advantage. If he came upon the birds
unaware, his chance of success was high.

Several yards from his quarry, downwind, Ash crouched in the grass. He

stared at the birds, adrenaline pumping through his veins. So close, his courage was
ready to desert him—until he looked down and saw a pair of huge, golden paws.

Ash caught his breath and refocused on the guinea fowl. The two biggest,

fattest birds stood in the center of the flock, and Ash decided to try for those. He
crooned in excitement, then sprang, long and low, right into the middle of the birds.

Pain like fire shot through his hand, and he fell back, gasping. The scolding

cries of the guinea fowl grew higher and shriller, and Ash scrambled away from the
thornbushes and his erstwhile prey.

He retreated across the grass to his sunny rock, turned his back on the

bushes and applied himself to removing the huge, thorny splinter from his left
palm.

* * * *

Late in the afternoon, Ash returned to the cave in triumph, bearing two

guinea fowl. Roy stirred and made to get out of bed. “I thought you were gone,” he
said muzzily.

Ash set the birds down by the fire ring, darted to the bed, and pulled Roy into

his arms. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you, remember?” he said softly, kissing Roy’s
hair. “But we must eat! And this meat will give you back your strength.”

Roy raised his head from Ash’s shoulder. “So many dreams. When the fever

comes, it’s hard to know what’s real. Even where I am.”

“I know.” Ash held Roy a little longer, then clambered off the rock, returned

to his catch, and set about plucking and cleaning them. “Why don’t you rest while I

make supper?”

Roy stayed in bed but sat up against the rock wall and watched in silence

while Ash built up the fire and set the birds to cook.

“How did you get them?” Roy asked when Ash finally brought him a bowl of

broth. “Did you use the slingshot?”

“I tried, but I confess I’m no good with it.” Ash grinned. “I sneaked up on

them and just, well, dived on them. I guess the impact broke their necks.”

Roy looked from the soup to Ash in obvious surprise. “Dived on them?

Unconventional. I’m looking forward to seeing your technique.”

Ash laughed. “I’m not sure it’s repeatable.”

Roy kept eating but nodded at Ash’s left wrist. “You’re favoring that hand.

What happened? Did you hurt it?”

“My hand?” Ash turned his wrist. They both stared at the long scratch that

ran across his palm. “It was just a thorn. It’s nothing.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.” Ash tucked his hand across his ribs defensively. “It’s only a

scratch.”

“This afternoon? Can’t be. That looks three, four days old at least.”

Frowning, Ash pulled away and went back to the fire. “Please don’t worry

about it. You’ll bring on the fever again.”

“You’re right. But it can’t be fresh. Let me see your hand again.”

“When you’re well, then you may look all you like.” Ash busied himself

getting his own bowl of broth. “Drink your soup. I sustained this wound while
hunting your dinner, after all.”

Roy gave a short laugh. “You have to watch those guinea fowl. When they

attack, it’s every man for himself.”

Ash carried his bowl over to the flat rock and perched on the edge. “You’re

better today.”

“Yes. The fever’s gone off again. It’s left me weak—it always does—but I’ll be

as good as new in a few days.” Roy ate some more soup in silence, then put his bowl
aside. “You found the quinine.”

“Yes. I wanted to go for help, but I realized I couldn’t leave you.” Ash laid a

tentative hand on Roy’s leg.

Roy looked at it for a moment, then laid his own hand over Ash’s, squeezing

gently. “Thank you. I hope… Ash, when I’m sick, I don’t know where I am. If I said
anything…” He stopped. “What I’m trying to say is that if I said anything, if I
shouted at you, I’m sorry. It’s not—that is, it wasn’t you.”

Ash put his bowl of soup aside. “I knew, Roy. I knew. I’m just sorry you had to

go through that. It sounded hard.”

With a harsh crack of laughter, Roy sat back, dropping his head into his

hands. “Hard.” He sat like that for a moment, then raised his head. “But you stayed.
I dreamed you left. I dreamed…”

“I think you went back to the war,” Ash said softly, watching him. “You kept

asking me to get help. Help for Amy.”

Roy paled, looking away. “Amy. Amiens, Ash. The filthiest battle of the whole

war. So much death and nothing—nothing—we could do save watch them die. As
you’ve found out, it haunts me yet.”

“I’m sorry,” Ash said, feeling inadequate.

Roy shrugged. He sat, silent and drawn, while Ash cleaned up after dinner,

and didn’t move until Ash returned to his side with the medicine bottle. He took the
dose in silence, then lay down, but when Ash would have turned away, Roy reached
out suddenly, grabbing his wrist.

Ash looked at him in surprise, suddenly realizing that Roy’s cheeks were wet

with tears. He touched Roy’s shoulder gently, not sure exactly what Roy wanted
from him.

“Help,” Roy said in a hoarse whisper. “Help, Ash. Not for Amiens. For me.”

Ash’s heart melted. He stripped quickly, then climbed into bed with Roy,

pulled him close, and covered him with his body. Skin on skin, he held Roy with
everything he had.

Roy clung to him, rigid at first; then it was as though a dam inside him had

burst. He went limp, burrowing hard into Ash’s shoulder, his whole body wracked
with sobs. Ash held him hard all night long, and somewhere just before the dawn,
Roy slept at last.

* * * *

The next morning, Roy was up and had prepared breakfast before Ash awoke,

and as Ash ate, he noticed that Roy had been through the supplies, arranging
everything with military precision.

“I’m sorry,” Ash said quietly.

“What?” Roy came over and squatted beside him.

Ash indicated the neat piles of supplies stacked near the spring. “I didn’t

keep them properly. I’m sorry.”

“That? You’ve done so much for me. That’s my habit. I was a soldier too long,

I guess. I do that without even thinking about it. So far this morning, I stacked the
supplies, I repacked all the herbs, and I washed our spare clothes and all the

blankets except those you slept in.” There was a note of apology in Roy’s voice. “It’s
what I do when there’s something on my mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know I said I’d get you back to England. And I will, I’ll keep my word, if

you—if that’s what you want. But before I do…I can’t let you go without trying, all
right? Please don’t hate me for that.” Abruptly, Roy got to his feet and walked
swiftly to the mouth of the cave.

Ash stared after him in confusion, then leaped to his feet and followed. “Roy!”

Roy was standing just outside the cave, staring out over the veldt. He turned

at Ash’s approach.

Ash stared at Roy hungrily. “I won’t hate you. I couldn’t ever hate you. Just

tell me what you mean.”

“Don’t go back,” Roy said simply. “Don’t go to England. I have no right to ask

it of you—and God knows, I’ve nothing to offer you instead—but I’m asking anyhow.
You’re the only good thing left in this whole world, and…I want you. So I’m asking.
Stay, Ash. Stay with me.”

Ash’s heart filled.

“Just think about it.” Roy’s voice cracked. “Please, think about it before

you—”

Ash took a deep breath, fighting down his own emotions. “I don’t want to go

back. I thought you didn’t want me to stay. I want to be with you so much.”

Roy caught Ash into a crushing hug, kissing him roughly. Ash returned the

kiss, tearing frantically at Roy’s shirt.

Roy fell back against the rock at the cave’s entrance, breathing hard. “You’re

sure? You’re really sure?”

Ash stared at Roy hungrily. Roy was gaunt from the fever, and there was a

new vulnerability in his eyes. Something rose in Ash, something raw and possessive
and wild. Mine.

With a guttural growl, Ash moved in. He tore Roy’s shirt off, unmindful of the

rending fabric, then tugged his pants down. He looked for a long moment; Roy,
splayed back against rock, head back, blue eyes wild.

His.

Ash kissed Roy once, openmouthed and possessive, then dropped to his knees.

Roy was hard, his full, fat cock inches from Ash’s face. Ash slid one hand between
Roy’s legs. He cupped the heavy balls and licked delicately at the underside of Roy’s
swollen dick.

Roy shouted, scrabbling at the rock for support. Ash growled back, his own

cock straining in his pants, and took Roy in his mouth.

Roy pumped his hips once, and Ash welcomed the movement. He could feel

Roy holding back, but this was no time for gentleness. Ash looked up into Roy’s eyes
and felt the passion, untamed and true, arc between them.

With a strangled cry, Roy buried his fingers in Ash’s hair, and Ash started to

suck in earnest. Roy’s hips moved in response, slow and shallow, but as Ash sped
up, Roy thrust deeper, faster.

Slick precum filled Ash’s mouth, and he shifted his grip to Roy’s hips, driving

Roy faster. His own need was growing, and suddenly he could stand it no more.

Ash pulled back with a feral snarl and frantically got his pants open. Roy

made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and Ash went back to work.

Roy’s rod slid in his mouth as his own cock slid in his hand. Ash matched

stroke for stroke, pushing them both faster, muffling his whimpers around Roy’s
member.

Roy thrust back, panting desperately, arching back against the wall. He was

close, so close—Ash could feel his own seed rising. Then Roy grabbed him by the
shoulder, pulling him upright.

Ash would have protested, but Roy claimed his mouth, rough and hungry but

somehow tender. Ash fell into the kiss as Roy took his own cock in hand. “Wanted to
see you,” Roy said hoarsely and started to stroke.

Ash matched him, breathing ragged and uneven. He wanted to hold back, but

it was too much—Roy so close, so ready, the connection between them too strong. It
filled his mind, and just as Ash knew he couldn’t hold it any longer, Roy came with
a roar.

Ash roared back, feeling his own orgasm through every fiber of his being.

Chapter Eleven

“I meant what I said about taking you to the Zambezi, you know,” Roy said

softly. They’d spent the morning in bed, and now the sun was high, and it was too
hot to do more than lie around.

They were both naked, sprawled on their bed on the flat rock. Despite the

heat, Ash had his head pillowed on Roy’s shoulder, unwilling to give up the
closeness he’d so nearly lost.

“Anywhere except Victoria Falls,” Ash said sleepily.

“Well, the Falls themselves are pretty.” Roy’s lips brushed Ash’s, soft and full

of promise. “But I for one will make sure you never see that DC.”

“I’m in favor of that.” Ash kissed him back.

“Lots of places to take you. So much to show you.” Roy kissed Ash again,

sliding a hand down his spine.

Ash leaned forward, kissing Roy and pushing him onto his back. Roy

chuckled softly, then groaned as Ash licked his way down between the dark curls on
Roy’s chest.

A tremor went through Roy as Ash nipped lightly at Roy’s nipple, biting

gently, then soothing with his tongue.

Roy groaned, arching, and Ash slid farther down his body, determined to

taste every ridge of muscle, every inch of Roy’s uncovered skin. Roy was hard
already, and Ash surveyed his fat cock with hungry anticipation, then bent his
head.

Slowly, Ash mouthed his way along the shaft, licking and kissing, savoring

every moan and every squirm of his lover beneath him. And then at last he found
Roy’s crown, tongue caressing the velvet skin, seeking the sensitive slit and the
taste he longed for.

Roy cried out, his hands grasping at Ash, pulling him closer, and Ash moved

willingly, swinging around so that Roy could touch Ash’s aching cock and balls
while his mouth still slowly explored Roy’s member. Roy’s hands rubbed over Ash’s
thighs, over his ass, then slid between his legs, and Ash gasped as Roy took hold of
his cock with a firm, commanding grip.

Ash struggled to maintain his concentration as Roy stroked him. His body

tingled with the dual pleasure of Roy’s hand sending electric currents up his spine
and the delicious throb of Roy’s cock in his mouth. He moaned softly, trying to use
his tongue the way Roy had done earlier on him, teasing at his lover’s slit before
taking him as deep as he could.

The flex of Roy’s hips and his deep, feral groans told Ash he was achieving his

aim, and he renewed his efforts. He swirled his tongue around Roy’s crown and was
rewarded with a surge of slick and salty precum, a sweet and welcome explosion on
his tongue. Ash moaned again, thrusting his cock into Roy’s hand, feeling an
exquisite tickle as his lover’s fingers ran up and down the crack of his ass.

He took Roy as deep as he could, lips stretching around the thick shaft, the

spongy tip pushing against his tongue then sliding deeper. Roy was flexing, crying
out, and Ash thought nothing had ever been better than this: Roy’s cock and Roy’s
hands, the fingers wetly teasing against his asshole.

A moment later, Ash realized how mistaken he was.

The touch on his pucker changed from tickling, teasing circles to a gentle

pressure, and Ash released Roy’s cock to groan in wondering, needing ecstasy. Roy’s
finger pushed past his rim, circling slowly, and Ash was helpless, waves of desire
rolling over and through him, his body aching in a way it never had before. Aching
for Roy.

Ash dropped his head onto Roy’s thigh and spread his legs wider. As the new

sensation built and built, he pushed his ass back against Roy’s hand, wanting more.

Roy pushed in deeper, and Ash cried out, an explosion of pleasure shaking his

whole body. He whimpered as Roy pulled back, then did it again, finding Ash’s
pleasure spot over and over. Ash clawed helplessly at Roy’s leg.

Gradually Roy’s movements slowed, and he withdrew his seeking finger. Ash

raised his head, trembling, and looked over his shoulder at Roy. “Why did you stop?”
he whispered, voice shaking.

Without answering, Roy shifted position, moving to kneel next to Ash. One

hand still rested, warm and flat, on Ash’s ass cheek, thumb rubbing softly at Ash’s
pucker. With his other hand, Roy grasped his own cock, running it slowly up and
down his length.

Quivering at the thrilling stimulation of his hole, Ash watched Roy stroke

himself for a moment. His eyes widened as he understood the feelings that were
rushing through his body. The longing he felt was for Roy inside him; the ache in
his passage was his body’s request for Roy to take him, fill him up. Make him his.

Ash raised his gaze to his lover’s face. “Yes. Yes.” His limbs shook with

desire, his body on fire with need.

Roy bent close and kissed Ash’s mouth. He moved again, positioning himself

between Ash’s spread legs.

Then Roy was exploring Ash’s entrance again, fingers slick with saliva, and

Ash was opening, pushing back against Roy’s hand, desperate for the feeling of Roy
deep inside him, touching him again.

Roy’s fingers probed their way into his passage, stoking his desire. Ash

spread his legs farther, moaning, trying to open himself wider and pull Roy deeper,

faster. His body throbbed with this new ache, this new need that went so deep he
shook with the urgency of having it filled. “Please. Take me. Take me, Roy.”

Roy growled and slid his fingers out. Ash’s groan of loss quickly became a

whine of need as he felt Roy’s cock against his entrance. The cockhead thrust
against his ring, sliding across the tight muscle. Roy pushed harder, and Ash
groaned as Roy’s cock stretched his hole.

Roy was inside him.

The thought was nearly overwhelming, and Ash sobbed. Roy stayed still,

giving Ash time, his hands on Ash’s ass, gently squeezing.

Ash dropped his shoulders to the blankets as his shaking arms gave way; the

movement rolled his hips, opening his passage wider. Roy’s cock slid in a little
farther, and Ash felt the desperate, beautiful ache starting again, deep inside him.
He moaned.

Roy’s grip on his hips tightened, and slowly he pushed forward, all the way

in. Ash bucked against the hands that held him steady, in the grip of feelings he’d
never before experienced. Then Roy’s hips were hard against his ass, and Roy was
leaning forward, covering him with his body, wrapping his arms around his chest.

Ash moaned again. The thrill of Roy’s skin against his, Roy’s hands roaming

his body, Roy’s cock sending pulses of pure ecstasy to his brain… His body quivered
uncontrollably as electrifying waves rolled over and through him. And then Roy was
moving inside him, each thrust an explosion of sensation, and Ash cried out in
wordless, exquisite delight as rushes of pleasure stronger than anything he’d ever
experienced ripped through his body.

Roy shouted in completion, and Ash let himself float on the waves of

sensation, safely anchored by Roy’s body around him, over him.

“Ash,” Roy whispered in his ear, and Ash managed a breathy whimper in

response. Then Roy was moving, his cock sliding out of Ash, cool air flowing over
Ash’s skin where Roy’s warmth had been.

Aftershocks still rocked Ash’s body, and the thought of lying alone, separate

from Roy after what had gone before, was almost terrifying. But before he could
summon his voice to call Roy’s name, Roy was against him again, gathering him
into his arms and pulling him close.

Ash felt the blanket pulled over his back, held firmly in place by Roy’s strong

arms. Ash burrowed his head against Roy’s chest and closed his eyes. “Don’t go,” he
muttered, very low.

Roy’s lips were soft on his hair. “Not going anywhere. Never leaving you.

Never.”

Ash relaxed into Roy’s arms. He slid one arm around his lover, holding on

tight, and gave in to sleep.

* * * *

Roy was loath to admit it, but even though the fever was gone, the weakness

remained. He had sufficient experience of malaria in himself and in others to know
there was nothing to do now but wait for his strength to return. Overdoing it would
simply lead to another, more severe bout of fever, and that was the last thing he
was prepared to put himself or Ash through.

They stayed close to camp, hunting when the opportunity arose. Most of the

game had become wary and avoided the ridge that housed their cave, but there was
a small colony of dassies, something like short-eared, tailless rabbits, that lived on
the slopes not far away.

They were shy creatures, but by waiting motionless until they were out on

the rocks foraging in the sparse vegetation, Roy had gotten a couple with the
slingshot. Walking slowly over to retrieve the carcasses, he reflected it was about all
he was fit for.

Ash had trekked to the higher ridges for more pumpkin, assuring Roy he’d be

fine. Roy couldn’t help but fear for his safety, but he had to admit Ash had so far
proved himself both smart and capable out here on the veldt. Still, Roy reflected, too
much of that thinking could get a man killed.

Roy slung the two dassies over his shoulder and started the slow walk back to

camp.

There was no sign of Ash at the cave, but then he’d hardly be back before the

sun was high, Roy figured. Even later, if he chose to wait out the heat.

Roy sat down to skin out his kill, keeping his hands busy as he dressed the

smaller of the two beasts to roast and cut away the meat from the other to stew.
They were running low on supplies, and Roy wondered how soon they could risk
returning to the compound in the lowlands. He needed a decent kill, like a buffalo or
one of the bigger antelope, as well as the time and tools to smoke and dry the meat.
But Ash’s father and uncle remained a threat. The veldt could be a very small place
indeed. Gerald Haywood was a vindictive, vengeful man, and Roy had every reason
to suppose Ash’s father was the same. If Ash’s whereabouts were suspected, the
consequences would be dire.

Mambokadzi’s village was a day’s journey, Roy calculated, allowing for the

frequent rest stops he’d still need. If anyone knew what was happening upon the
veldt, it was the old Karanga wisewoman. Whatever Haywood was up to, she’d
know.

The thought had barely taken shape in Roy’s mind when a harsh screech rent

the sky. A heavy black shape swooped and dived at something on the trail. Roy
stood up for a closer look, shading his eyes with his hand.

The Bateleur screamed again then floated on the downdraft, coming to rest

on the rock that guarded the cave door. She tipped her head to one side, regarding
Roy with intelligent green eyes and uttered a raucous cry.

“Onai! What were you doing up there?”

Roy glanced up the trail, just in time to see Ash’s head appear cautiously

from behind a boulder, followed by the rest of him. He dusted himself off, then
started down, glancing upward from time to time.

Roy looked at the bird reproachfully. “Onai!”

Onai stared a moment then glided down from her perch, lifted a large chunk

of dassie meat from the stew pot and took off. She shot high into the air, shrieking
with what Roy could have sworn was laughter.

“We get the message!” Roy shouted after the bird. “Tell Mambokadzi we’ll

come tomorrow!”

Ash arrived back at the cave a few minutes later. “Do you think she came to

get us?” he asked without preamble, scanning the clear and empty skies.

“I imagine so.” Roy shrugged. “It was definitely Onai. No other Bateleur I’ve

ever seen has green eyes.”

“Really? What does that mean?”

“The natives say she has the devil in her. My college professor would have

called it a species anomaly due to inbreeding or out-crossing or some such.” Roy
stared back up at the sky. “I say Mambokadzi knows things she cannot know and
sees things she cannot see. And that bird’s the same. I don’t believe in witchcraft or
magic, but there are things I’ve seen that defy science.”

“Like a storm so fierce it made a lion from a boy,” Ash said musingly. “And a

mother who went looking for him.”

Roy looked over at Ash and watched him stare up at the sky. “Ash. Tell me

about your mother.”

“Leave it.” Ash ducked his head, swallowing hard.

But Roy couldn’t. Too many strange things had happened since Ash Haywood

had entered his life, and deep inside, he knew Mambokadzi’s story was the key. The
storm had done its job and given the boy a lion’s soul. “Did Mambokadzi know your
mother? How… Has your family been to Africa before?”

“Leave it alone. It was just a story.”

“Mambokadzi’s stories have a way of coming true. Come on, Ash, tell me

what you know about your mother.”

“My mother wasn’t African!” Ash leaped to his feet, eyes blazing. “There is no

way she knew Mambokadzi! And she never saw a lion, do you hear me?”

“Ash—”

“No, Roy, perhaps my father, for once in his miserable life, has been right:

there was bad blood in my mother. And I must constantly fight to keep what she
gave me hidden away! But I have no more to do with lions or a thunderstorm than I
do with King George himself!”

Roy rocked back on his heels, staring at Ash in shock. Since his arrival, Ash

had been courteous and polite, almost to the point of stiffness at times. Roy had
tasted the passion beneath the surface, but now he saw his lover aroused in anger
for the first time.

As much as Roy hated to see Ash upset, the part of him that had been to war

knew Ash needed this release. He stood up, meeting the challenge in Ash’s fiery
gaze. “However that may be, it seems Mambokadzi knows of your mother. I don’t
know what that means, Ash. But I know that denying it won’t help.”

Ash’s shoulders slumped, and all the fight went out of him in a rush. He

looked, for a moment, both haunted and afraid; then he spun on his heel and went
into the cave. It took all Roy’s self-control to sit down on a nearby rock instead of
following.

Several minutes later, Ash emerged again, pale but composed. “I shall have

to ask you to excuse my outburst,” he said without preamble. “I believe I must have
been tired from my trek today.”

Roy stood and went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Tired or not, it’s

okay to hurt. It’s okay to let go.”

Ash nodded shakily. “My mother died when I was very young. I really don’t

know anything else. I certainly never saw or heard of Mambokadzi while my mother
was alive.” He took a deep breath. “I only wish that were still true.”

“She’s a strange old woman, but you don’t need to fear her.” Roy pulled Ash

into his arms. “I find that however cryptic her utterances, in the end, things she
takes an interest in work out.”

“Then I shall counsel myself to be glad that she takes an interest in me,” Ash

said wryly.

“Ask her about your mother tomorrow.”

Ash ran a hand over his face then pulled back a little. “I don’t know what it

all means,” he admitted in a low voice. “I’m scared of what the answer might be.”

“Scared? What do you mean?”

Ash shrugged, then leaned in for a kiss. “The witch, the lions…even you. This

land is so strange, Roy.”

Roy’s heart skipped a beat. He kissed Ash lightly, then laid a hand on Ash’s

jawline. “Do you want to leave?”

Ash shook his head. “Not that. Never that. Tell me, are you sure you’re strong

enough to travel tomorrow?”

“Provided we rest often, the journey should be simple.” Weak though he

might still be, Roy had plenty of ideas about what kind of rest would refresh him for
the coming journey. He leaned in and took another, deeper kiss.

* * * *

This time when the knapsacks were packed for travel, it was Roy’s turn to

insist the load was shared equally. “I’m better every day,” he reminded Ash gently
as he took a bundle of meat and stowed it in his own bag.

“I know, and I’m glad of it,” Ash agreed, wrapping the remaining pumpkin in

a cloth and packing it. “But you can’t blame me for worrying about you, you know.”

Roy supposed that was the truth.

They made the journey in stages, stopping every hour. Roy tried to set his

normal pace, but Ash obstinately refused to keep up with him, and in the end, Roy
submitted to the slower speed. By the third hour, he was glad of it.

The day was hot and sweat ran freely down his brow. He was trying to drink

sparingly but was uncomfortably aware that he needed more water than usual. But
his canteen was nearly empty, and they were a good mile from the nearest spring.

Ash led them into the shade of some thornbushes, looking worried. “We’re not

resting enough,” he said firmly, reaching for Roy’s canteen. “And we’re short of
water. The village is too far, my friend. You’re not ready to travel.”

Roy ran a hand over his face, wiping off the sweat. He was afraid Ash might

be right. When Ash pushed him down onto the cool, shaded earth, he sat without
complaint, lowering his head and breathing deeply.

Ash walked a little distance away, raising his head and looking this way and

that, as if listening to sounds Roy couldn’t hear. “Where’s the nearest water?”

“There’s a spring…a mile downhill, set back from the path. There’s a rock

with creeper…something with flowers. Anyway, there are always bees there.”

“That way?” Ash pointed.

Roy nodded, then sat up with a sudden burst of strength as he realized what

Ash intended. “You can’t go alone. You’ll get lost, or hurt, or—”

“Roy.” Ash knelt and put a hand on Roy’s chest, keeping him still. “There’s no

choice. You can’t go a mile with no water, not without bringing on the fever again.
Rest, and trust me.”

“I do trust you. But you don’t know the veldt.”

“I’m learning.” With a quick grin Ash poured the remnants of the canteen

into a tin mug and placed it at Roy’s side, then opened his pack and pulled out half
a dozen wild plums. “These will slake your thirst also, and the sugar in them may
help.” He hesitated a moment, then kissed Roy softly. “I’ll be back before you know

it.”

Before Roy could protest, he was gone.

Roy fought back fear. He knew Ash was right, but that didn’t mean he liked

the idea of Ash alone on the trail. He slowly ate a plum, then closed his eyes.
“Mambokadzi, if you have magic indeed, watch over him. Don’t let him come to
harm.”

As Roy fell into a doze, a shadow passed over his resting place, and a

Bateleur’s jarring screech sounded as if from a great distance. Then Roy let the
shade and fatigue carry him away.

The snarl of a lion summoned Roy back. His limbs felt heavy and

uncooperative, and he lay on the warm earth, aware he should be frightened but
unable to summon the strength, or the will, to move.

The clearing was empty, and according to the position of the sun, little time

had passed since Ash had set off.

The sound came again from just past a pair of ironstone tors guarding the

trail. Roy could hear something large and heavy coming slowly toward him. Roy
stared, mesmerized. The trilling cicadas sounded loud in his ears, rising and falling,
thrumming in time with his heartbeat, taking up a counterpoint to the heavy pad of
paws coming up the trail.

With a snarl, a male lion bounded into view. Roy’s heart pounded. He was in

terrible danger.

But the lion spared him barely a glance, then mounted one of the tors,

climbing up and perching precariously on the summit.

Then, with a mighty roar, it leaped to the ground and vanished into the trees.

Ash, Roy thought. He summoned all his strength, but hard as he tried, he

could make no sound. There was a flash of gold from the edge of the clearing, and
Roy held his breath, staring. The lion was near, prowling through the vegetation.
He had never heard of a big cat behaving so strangely, especially not in the heat of
the day.

The lion wove in and out between the trees, heading back toward the tors.

Then it disappeared behind a tree, and Roy lost sight of it. He stared desperately
around, frightened—then saw Ash. He was mere feet from where Roy had seen the
lion, and he was walking in an unconcerned manner toward the trail.

All at once, Roy’s stupor left him and he scrambled to his feet. “Ash! Ash!”

Ash’s head snapped up and he started to run.

“Roy! Is everything all right?”

“There was…a lion, roaring on the trail…”

Ash arrived at Roy’s side and took his arm, steadying him. He held out the

canteen. “Drink.”

Roy took the canteen, staring into the trees. There was no sign of the lion. He

sipped the water greedily, then dropped back to the shade beneath the thornbushes.
“Did you see the lion?”

Ash shook his head. “No. I didn’t see it or hear it. Are you sure?”

Roy hesitated. In the grip of fever, his imagination could produce many worse

things than lions. “I don’t know.” He sipped more water. “You found the spring, I
see. And you’re back very fast.”

“Yes, the way was easy.” Ash put his arm around Roy. “And when I reached

the spring, Onai was there. When you feel well enough, we should go on after all.”

Roy recapped the canteen and handed it back. “Agreed. Never wise to argue

with Mambokadzi.”

They made their way slowly along the trail, and Roy stayed alert, looking for

traces of the lion. He found nothing until they were nearly at the spring. He stepped
off the trail to relieve himself and froze, staring. Fresh lion dung, less than an hour
old. He studied the ground further, and found a place where the beast had leaped to
a rocky outcrop. There was a tuft of golden hair, as though the animal had rolled in
the sun…then nothing more. Hard as Roy searched, he could find no tracks to show
which way the cat had gone.

“It worries me,” Roy said, returning to the trail where Ash waited patiently.

“I saw nothing.” Ash looked contrite. “I don’t know how to read sign yet or to

notice things well enough. But it seems it doesn’t want to attack us.”

“Most things don’t. You hear a lot of garbage about man-eaters and the

like—and even more garbage about the power of man over the beasts and how they
won’t attack a white man. The truth is, animals are shy. They stay away from what
they don’t understand. And that’s why they stay away from men, unless you go out
hunting them. An animal will attack if it’s hungry, if it’s frightened, or if you get
between it and its young. This lion has no reason to attack us. But I’d sure feel
better if I knew where it was.”

They heard the spring before they saw it. The recent rains had over-filled it,

and a tiny waterfall trickled down the rocks, splashing into a rock basin below. A
number of birds cavorted on the rocks, and on a branch of the heavy creeper that
covered the small cliff perched a black eagle with piercing green eyes, surveying the
goings-on.

Roy grinned. Onai looked like nothing so much as a policeman watching the

antics of a group of yahoos, wondering which one to arrest first. Roy moved forward,
surveying the soft ground at the edge of the water for lion prints, and a puff of tiny
white butterflies exploded from the clump of grass under his feet.

Ash exclaimed softly. “I thought I frightened them off earlier! They’re

beautiful.”

“They stay near water.” Still smiling, Roy watched their spiraling flight.

“When we go to the river, you’ll see colored ones.”

“What are those?” Ash came up beside him, pointing at a flock of

red-and-brown birds using the spring as a paddling pool.

“Mambokadzi calls them husvu,” Roy replied absently. “I think they’re a type

of starling, myself. I can’t see any lion tracks here, Ash.”

“You look for shumba everywhere he’s not, crazy white man.”

Roy jumped, looking around. “Mambokadzi?”

There was no sign of the shaman woman anywhere. Roy glanced at Ash, who

shook his head minutely.

Mambokadzi cackled with laughter. “If you’re too blind to see me, you’re too

blind to see shumba. But go to the Finder’s Tree, wait, watch; even you will see
what comes.”

“The Finder’s Tree? What’s coming?”

“Go. Watch with your eyes, ears, and nose. Then you know,” Mambokadzi

said cryptically. Onai screamed once, then launched herself into the air, and, as one,
the small birds followed suit.

Ash watched the birds depart, the same strange half-smile Roy had seen

earlier on his face. When he met Roy’s gaze, the smile deepened. “I think that’s our
cue.”

Chapter Twelve

“You heard her too, right?” Roy took the canteen from his belt. He unscrewed

the top and took a sip.

Ash, walking a couple of strides ahead, stopped, and turned back.

“Mambokadzi? Yes.”

“You see her?”

Ash shook his head.

“Good. Makes me feel better when it’s not just me.” Roy returned the canteen

to his belt. “You’re taking this remarkably well, you know.”

“What, you mean the mysterious old woman we can hear but not see, despite

the fact she’s likely miles from here?”

“Yes. That. A lot of people would find that…problematic, at least.”

Ash looked out across the savanna with eyes that seemed too old for his face

by far. “A lot of people,” he said finally, “aren’t me. Ever since I arrived in Rhodesia,
I’ve felt as though it’s been trying to teach me something.”

“And what’s that? What’s Rhodesia trying to teach you?”

Ash smiled slyly. “Let’s just say Mambokadzi talking through her bird isn’t

the strangest thing that’s happened so far. Anyway, what do you think she meant?”

Roy regarded Ash thoughtfully. “About what’s coming? I don’t know. As for

the rest…she said I was looking for the lion everywhere he wasn’t. Said I was too
blind to see him.”

“The lion. Shumba?”

“You catch on fast. Look, there’s the tree.” Roy pointed. The Finder’s Tree

was nearly directly below them, its bare branches stretching up to the sky in silent
supplication.

The sun was high, and both men were sweating profusely. A half-hour’s

scramble down the steep slope brought them out onto the veldt less than a mile
from the baobab.

“There.” Roy pointed to a small stand of mopane trees a hundred yards

distant. “We’ll rest in their shadow.”

Ash nodded and set off. They arrived gratefully into the shade between the

straggly trees, and Ash pulled off his shirt, toweling his body roughly with the cloth.

Roy followed suit, then sipped from his canteen and handed it to Ash.

Ash hefted the canteen and raised his eyebrows. “Still nearly full. How are

you feeling?”

“Better than ever. Since we left the spring…” Roy shrugged. “I don’t feel the

fever anymore.”

“Mambokadzi,” Ash said, watching him.

“It can’t be. She wasn’t there.” Roy ran his hand roughly through his hair.

“Hell, what am I saying. Of course it’s her.”

“Whatever it is, you’re well. That’s what matters.”

Roy nodded. He felt well. So well, in fact, that the sight of Ash, shirtless, his

body streaked with the red African dust, sent tendrils of desire snaking right
through him. He tried to ignore his filling cock and tossed his shirt to the ground.
“Nap if you want,” he said, his voice coming out hoarse to his own ears. “I’ll keep
watch.”

Ash sank down onto a boulder. “I’m not sleepy.”

Roy grinned at the predatory look in Ash’s eyes.

“Nothing will come in the heat,” Ash said roughly. “We have nothing to do but

wait.”

Wordlessly Ash held out both hands. Roy came willingly, crossing the

distance between them to stand between Ash’s parted knees.

Ash looked up at him hungrily, then slid his hands back, squeezing Roy’s ass.

“Come on,” he said breathlessly.

With hands that trembled, Roy unfastened his belt. Conscious of Ash’s gaze,

he undid his pants. Ash released his butt and pulled Roy’s trousers down to pool
around his knees.

Ash growled appreciatively. Roy groaned as Ash leaned in, breath hot on the

sensitive skin of his cock. Ash took his balls in one hand, lightly stroking them, as
the other hand slid up his leg, finally stopping again on his hip.

Slowly, Ash pulled Roy forward.

The wet heat of Ash’s mouth nearly undid Roy right away. He struggled for

control, wavering on his feet as Ash took him deep. Then Ash had him by both hips
in a tight grip, drawing him forward, deeper than Roy could ever have imagined.

He snatched a glimpse of Ash’s wide eyes, focused and satisfied, Ash’s mouth

stretched around his swollen shaft; then he let his eyes close. His head fell back as
he gave himself over to sensation.

Roy came with a roar that would have done a lion proud, filling Ash’s throat

with spurt after spurt of sticky seed. Ash sucked at Roy a little longer, until with a
hoarse cry Roy toppled to his knees against the boulder. Ash pursued, leaning down
to claim Roy’s mouth.

Roy tasted his own cum, bitter on Ash’s tongue as Ash kissed him deep and

hard. Finally Ash pulled away, breathing hard. The look in his eyes was feral,

urgent, holding nothing of the soft, young English gentleman. Roy’s heart thrilled as
he stared into the gaze of a lion; then Ash tore feverishly at his own pants, releasing
his engorged cock.

Letting his head loll on Ash’s thigh, Roy licked at the shaft as Ash stroked

himself slowly. Ash hummed his pleasure, speeding up the rhythm.

Roy whimpered needily, inhaling the musk of sweat and sex. As though

driven by Roy’s urgency, Ash gave a hoarse cry, then pumped his hips, dislodging
them both onto the ground as his seed spilled across his hand and over Roy’s chest.

Roy landed on his back with Ash poised above him. With a hungry whine,

Ash leaned down and took another kiss, then slowly traced his hand across Roy’s
chest.

Where Ash touched, Roy’s skin tingled. Looking down, Roy saw that Ash was

rubbing the white smears of cum into his skin. He licked his lips, staring. The
expression on Ash’s face was one of profound concentration, as though the task was
vital.

Thinking of the lion, Roy wondered if perhaps it was. He closed his eyes as

Ash kissed him again, softer this time. “Ash,” he whispered.

There was no answer for a moment; then Ash sat up slowly. “That was

intense,” Ash said unsteadily.

Roy opened his eyes and sat up, sliding an arm around his lover. “With you, it

has been from the beginning.”

Ash grinned at that, looking down. Roy found himself thinking about the lion

from his dream, and Ash’s sudden appearance a moment later; the lion at Thornside
and Ash’s confused and bloodstained daze when Roy reached the cave.
Mambokadzi’s story.

Men weren’t lions. Roy shifted a little, getting comfortable in the dust. Roy

looked over at Ash, his gold, tousled hair and too-old eyes. It was madness, surely; a
hangover from his malarial fever. Except, Roy’s treacherous mind whispered, that
the lion came to Thornside before your malaria returned.

Ash caught Roy’s gaze and looked at him questioningly.

The words were on the tip of Roy’s tongue. But really, how would it sound?

Are you now, or have you ever been, a lion?

Roy shook his head.

But as they took turns dozing and keeping watch through the rest of the day,

Roy thought of Ash’s unexpected strength, his ability to manage in the wilderness
alone. That and the fact that Ash’s arrival on the veldt had coincided with the
appearance of the young gold lion who acted so strangely.

And then, of course, there was the question of Thornside. The Haywood

brothers were out for blood. Lion blood. If Roy’s suspicions were correct, like as not

they’d unknowingly take their blood relative’s head as a trophy. Roy shivered
despite the day’s heat.

Even if Ash didn’t prove to be a lion—and let’s face facts, the little voice said,

what are the odds?—Roy’s own dealings with Gerald Haywood led him to believe
that should Ash prove to be no more than a beautiful, confused young man, he faced
at least as much danger from his family as from anything out on the veldt. Probably
more.

Roy looked over at Ash. He thought hard about all the things that had

happened since the war, since he’d come to Rhodesia and given his fortune over to
the veldt. He thought about that and the way Ash felt in his arms, skin against
skin, his breath hot and gentle in Roy’s ear; the soft, urgent sounds Ash made when
Roy was moving inside him.

Roy thought about all these things and more, and told the little voice in his

head to go to the devil. Even without any explanation at all, if Ash was a lion, Roy
would have him just the same and hang the consequences!

* * * *

At last the sun sank lower, the heat of the afternoon giving way to evening.

When Roy woke, Ash sat watching the baobab, his back against the scrawny trunk
of a mopane.

“Should we go closer?”

Roy scrubbed sleep from his eyes, taking in the inadequate shelter cast by the

mopanes. “There’s no cover out there. We should stay here.”

Ash nodded. “Can we make camp here?”

“We could, but I don’t like it. We’re only an hour from my compound. I think

we spend the night there. It’s safer, and it’s defensible.” Roy stood up, shading his
eyes against the sun and staring across the veldt.

“What is it?”

“There’s something out there,” Roy said tightly. “And whatever it is, it’s

coming this way.”

Ash scrambled to his feet and looked out across the veldt. “Lions?”

Roy shook his head. “Bigger than that. It could be buffalo, but I don’t think

so.” He hesitated. “It looks like men.” Roy swore again, louder. “Looks like a party
from Thornside.”

“My uncle!” Ash froze. “Hunting us?”

“It’s possible. They’re coming from the direction of my compound. Or maybe

they’ve just been out decimating the wildlife in the name of sport. Must be at least
one rhino left on the veldt with a horn Big White Mas’a wants for his collection.”

Roy struggled to keep the fear from his voice. His fears were real. Ash’s family was
coming for him, whatever his form.

Ash winced. “He makes me ashamed to be English.”

“He makes me ashamed to be human,” Roy answered.

Approaching across the veldt came a procession of six or eight natives, many

of them carrying bundles on their heads. With them marched Gerald Haywood and
another white man.

“My father,” Ash said in a low voice.

Roy laid a reassuring hand on his arm. Ash’s eyes were huge, showing every

bit of the fear Roy had seen in him the first day he’d brought him home. Roy’s heart
ached.

“He can’t hurt you now. Neither of them can.” Roy put every ounce of

conviction he had into the words. “I promised to keep you safe.”

Ash nodded, swallowing hard.

A few yards past the baobab tree, Haywood called a halt. Under Roy’s

scornful eye, the natives put their bundles down and erected from them a
pole-and-canvas shelter. One of them set to making a fire while the Haywood
brothers seated themselves beneath the shade.

“His Highness takes tea,” Roy spat. “Ash, wait here and stay hidden. I’m

going to get closer and listen, all right? If necessary, I’ll go in and ask what they’re
doing.”

Ash grabbed Roy’s arm, squeezing. “Be careful.”

“I will, but I don’t really have to be. As long as they don’t see you, they have

no reason to make trouble for us.”

Ash nodded again and stepped back into the mopanes. “They won’t see me.

Count on that.”

Roy followed, guiding Ash to the back of the thicket where there was no

chance of observation. He pulled Ash into his arms, holding him close and looking
deep into the young man’s blue eyes. “I will keep you safe.”

“I know.” Ash breathed deep and managed a smile. “You must think I’m a

terrible coward.”

“No,” Roy said simply and kissed Ash hard. “I don’t think that at all.” I think

hanging’s too good for those two sick bastards, but I don’t think you’re a coward. Roy
forced the thoughts away. As he headed out across the veldt he felt Ash’s gaze on
his back, watching.

It was simple to approach the makeshift camp unobserved. No one was on

watch. Haywood and his guest had canvas at their backs, and the natives were
gathered around the small fire, only interested in whatever refreshments they could

imbibe before Haywood started barking orders—and cracking his infernal
bullwhip—again.

Roy stopped in the long grass a couple of yards away, listening.

“That Bennett fellow’s terribly unreliable, Rollie. Never where one wants him

to be. But I shouldn’t think it matters.”

Roy froze, staring at the canvas wall. It was Gerald Haywood speaking, but

he couldn’t imagine what interest Gerald Haywood would have in him.

Rollie—Ash’s father, Roy realized—answered in a bass rumble, his voice too

low for Roy to make out the words.

“Bennett’s not much of a tracker.” Haywood spoke again. His deep,

commanding voice carried easily. “It was only chance that he’d seen the beast. No
stone unturned, old boy. But not to worry. We’ll have that lion before the rains, or
my name’s not Gerald Haywood!”

Roy sat back on his heels. Better a dead lion than Ash in the hands of those

self-proclaimed gentlemen, he thought grimly.

“I suppose there’s no chance he’s still alive?” This time, Ash’s father’s voice

carried clearly.

“Not after all this time.” Gerald Haywood’s answer was swift and decisive.

“No, it’s just bad luck the lions dragged the body away where it couldn’t be found.
You needn’t worry, Rollie. He’s dead all right.”

Cold anger curled in Roy’s gut as he remembered the whip marks on Ash’s

skin, the broken ribs, and his own suspicion that Ash was lucky to have survived.

“That is what you wanted, I suppose?” For the first time, Gerald sounded

unsure.

“…a poltroon all his life, Ger.” Roy missed the first part of the reply. “A cur

I’d have best put down when I had the chance. Weak as milk, like the bitch that
bore him. I’d have sooner had no heir than one so paltry.”

Roy frowned in confusion.

“Dear brother…” Gerald hesitated, and Roy listened intently. “I have been

meaning to ask: was it perhaps the wisest course of action, bringing the boy back
here? After what happened last time, I mean.”

“You’ve seen him, Ger. Did he look like anything the Haywood line would

produce? He’s weedy and thin and has an uncommon, queer way about him. This
refusal to ride to hounds. It had to be stopped, Gerald, that’s what. That’s the whole
reason I brought him out here. If Africa put the madness in him, it can jolly well
take it back out again!”

What madness?

“I’m not sure I follow, old chap,” Gerald Haywood answered. “Ash wandered

off; his mother followed and managed to find him, brought him back. This whole
idea you have that somewhere along the way he was changed, that he became some
sort of—”

“Damn and blast!” Sir Roland roared. “Too long have we Haywoods borne the

curse of that woman’s wretched, impure wickedness, and as far as I’m concerned,
once we’ve taken the bloody lion that took Ashcroft, that’s an end of it. Do you hear
me, Gerald? An end of it. I’ll be off on the next boat home, and you and the rest of
this godforsaken place can do what you like!”

Roy reeled, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I quite think,” Gerald Haywood said slowly, “that perhaps I should

accompany you back to Southampton, Rollie. I think you might be in need of more
assistance than you realize.”

There was the sound of something heavy being dashed to the ground. “Blast

you and blast your bloody assistance! Where were you when I needed assistance
with Elizabeth? Answer that! Where were you? Off on one of your bloody safaris!
Out in the middle of nowhere, miles from civilization, completely unreachable,
leaving me to deal with the whole situation with nary a lick of support.”

“You know,” Gerald said quietly, “I never quite bought the story of the riding

accident. Elizabeth was one hell of a horsewoman.” He paused for a moment. “You
killed her, didn’t you, Rollie?”

Roy’s blood ran cold.

“Rollie, I think perhaps it’s time we went home.”

“I’ll not set foot in Thornside till I have that blasted lion’s head to take back

with me! I will have something to show for my troubles, Ger, or my name’s not
Roland Atworth Haywood!”

“Dear brother, please. Calm yourself. The sun out here, sometimes it has

this—”

Roy heard a bellow like a bull elephant; then Sir Roland launched himself at

his brother, and the two men tumbled to the dirt, a mass of rolling, spluttering
imperial dysfunction.

Roy took two steps toward the embattled Haywoods, then froze, hearing a

low, bloodcurdling snarl. He turned slowly.

Mere yards away stood a lion. And not just any lion.

Roy stared. The animal was pale gold, its mane luxurious and shaggy but

neither dark nor long. It was a young beast, and Roy was certain it was the same
lion he had seen so recently in the clearing. And now, with the taste of his lover’s
skin still on his tongue, Roy was willing to bet his life on the lion being his beloved
Ash. It’s true, Roy thought, staring at the lion. It’s all true. The storm, Ash’s
mother, Mambokadzi’s story. The land claims its own.

He had no idea how it was possible, but the lion in front of him was Ash

Haywood.

It stood its ground, staring at Roy, then lifted its lip and snarled again. Roy

stood frozen to the spot.

The lion abruptly swung away. With a ferocious growl, it bounded past the

tent and into the middle of the natives the Haywoods had brought with them. It
overturned the pot on the fire, sending them all scuttling backward, shouting and
yelling.

Gerald Haywood swore loudly, and Ash’s father shouted something

incomprehensible. A rifle barked, but the big cat didn’t flinch. It stopped, facing the
tent, and roared loud and long, then bounded into the long veldt grass, disappearing
entirely.

The camp was in an uproar.

Gerald’s bullwhip cracked, and natives screamed, running about pell-mell

while his brother shouted angrily. Roy drew back slowly, putting more distance
between himself and the camp.

It was the strangest encounter of Roy’s life. The lion had snarled at him as if

to get his attention, then leaped into the camp…almost as though it was taunting
Haywood and his brother. Roy took a deep breath. And this time, he’d noticed
something else. The young lion had brilliant blue eyes.

Roy turned to look at the mopane trees behind him. There was no sign of Ash,

but then he hadn’t really expected there to be.

Haywood’s party headed off in the direction the lion had taken. Less than a

hundred yards away the group came to a halt, milling about like lost sheep.

Roy narrowed his eyes against the lowering sun, watching. It seemed the

natives had lost the lion’s tracks, something that seemed incomprehensible.
Although he couldn’t help remembering the traces of the lion he had found on the
trail and the absence of any tracks at all.

But trackless or not, the lion was Ash, and Haywood was too close. Squaring

his shoulders, Roy walked out onto the veldt, headed for the Thornside party.

He caught up with them just as Haywood was unhooking his bullwhip from

his belt. “What do you mean he disappeared? Full-grown lions don’t disappear, you
savvy?” he roared.

Roy hastily moved forward. “Have you struck trouble, Haywood? Anything I

can help with?”

“What the—” Gerald Haywood turned, lash twitching in his hand. “Oh.

Bennett.” He took a deep breath, visibly taking command of himself. “We’re hunting
a lion. Very bad job, you know—the boy that was taken—this lion’s a man-eater.
And it’s taken to pillaging my compound whenever it feels like it. The day you were

there, it killed my best stud bull, and just a few days ago it came right inside the
stockade and made off with my game bag! I’d only been out for an hour and shot a
couple of guinea fowl for the pot. I went inside to put my gun away, and the next
thing I see it, large as life, charging through the gate with my bag in its mouth. And
now here’s my boys”—he swung on the natives—“telling me they can’t track the
damn thing.”

Roy stared. All he could think of was Ash’s unlikely story of jumping on the

two guinea fowl and breaking their necks. But if Ash was the lion, he thought in
confusion, he could jump on them and break their necks.

Haywood seemed to realize he’d neglected his duty as a host. “Rollie! A

thousand apologies. This is Bennett, the feller I was telling you about. Bennett, my
brother, Sir Roland Haywood. It was his son that the lion—ah, well. A bad business
all-round.”

Roy forced his mouth into an approximation of a smile and mumbled

something incomprehensible. He might be forced to shake Ash’s father’s hand, but
nothing would make him say it was a pleasure.

“I’ve notified the DO and we’ll have a team of crack hunters out here

sharpish,” Gerald said, puffing out his cheeks. “But I’d like to get it ourselves, you
know. What, Rollie?” He slapped his brother’s shoulder.

“Quite right, old boy.” Sir Roland nodded vigorously.

“Where was your last sighting of the lion?” Roy asked innocently.

“Why, here!” Gerald Haywood’s mustache bristled. “Not half an hour ago. The

damned thing jumped into the middle of our camp, bold as you like. Scared my boys
into fits, then ran off.”

“Unusual,” Roy said coolly. “And they can’t track it, you say?”

“No!” Haywood threw his hands up in annoyance. “Now the damn thing’s a

juju. Heathen carry-on. Still, once I get it in my sights, we’ll see what its juju’s
really worth then!”

Roy made a brief examination of the ground and saw exactly what the

trackers meant. The prints where the lion had bounded away from camp were
clear—and then there was nothing. It was as though the lion had disappeared into
thin air. Roy rubbed his face with his hands. From what he knew about the lion, it
had probably done just that.

He took his leave from the Haywood brothers, promising to send word if he

sighted the lion, then headed off in the direction of his compound so as not to give
the men cause for suspicion. Once the grass had swallowed him up, Roy doubled
back and made it to the mopane grove before the Thornside party was out of sight.

The knapsacks were hidden by the base of one of the trees, but there was no

sign of Ash. Roy gave a low whistle and waited, but no answer came. Roy started to

worry.

Whatever Ash was, Roy just wished he wouldn’t disappear. Especially not

when Haywood was about.

As though in answer, a low whistle sounded nearby. Roy jumped up,

answering anxiously, and the sound came again.

Moments later, Ash appeared at a quick jog-trot, coming from the direction

Haywood’s party had taken. He carried Gerald Haywood’s heavy bullwhip, and his
eyes sparkled with triumph.

Roy stared at Ash in disbelief. “You were out there—you’re a lion,” he said

stupidly.

Ash stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”

“You were out there with the lion.” Roy gulped, staring into his lover’s eyes.

Is he really a lion? Perhaps I’m going mad. “And if you were seen—”

“No one saw me. Not even the lion.” Smirking, Ash held the bullwhip out. “He

dropped it. There was some kind of commotion. I don’t know if the natives saw Onai
or maybe the lion was in the grass ahead, but they all stopped and milled around. I
went over to see what was going on, and when they moved off, this was lying in the
grass. So I took it. If it saves even one man a beating…”

Roy privately thought Haywood probably had a spare. Ash went to the

knapsacks, picking one up and slinging it over his shoulders. “Do we sleep at your
compound tonight?”

Roy considered. With Haywood prowling the veldt, he felt happier with Ash

hidden in the highlands. But they needed meat, and he couldn’t deny a slight
yearning for the comforts of home. “Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Thirteen

They arrived as dusk was falling, heralded by the plaintive bleating of the

goats and the pig’s hopeful oinking—the livestock asking for a second supper. But
their round bellies and full water pots showed that the native children had done
their work well, and Roy only scratched the animals’ heads in greeting before going
inside.

The hut was as he had left it, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as they

entered. This small sanctuary on the vast savanna had come to mean a great deal to
him, and it was all the more important now that Ash had joined him.

He stowed their packs, watching approvingly as Ash went out and started a

fire in the fire ring, then built a careful hardwood grate above the flames. Ash had
come so far already in such a short time.

Roy took pumpkin, wild rice, and the remaining stew meat from the dassie

out to the fire, then sat on his heels and watched as Ash consigned the ingredients
to the pot. “You’re becoming an expert at camp cooking,” he said.

Ash looked up. “It’s the only kind of cooking I know.”

The firelight played across Ash’s face, highlighting his features. Roy stared,

thinking of what he had overheard. Ash had survived so much, so many experiences
that would have killed or broken most men.

Roy’s heart clenched. Ash had done more than survive. The beautiful young

man before him seemed so innocent, so in need of protection, and yet carried a core
of strength greater than anything Roy had ever known, even in the fires of war.

Lion strength.

Roy moved to the log, gaze still on Ash. “I overheard Haywood and your

father talking today.”

Ash looked up, immediately watchful. “Do they suspect something?” Roy saw

his Adam’s apple work as he swallowed. “If only I have not brought trouble down on
your head.”

“No. They suspect nothing. Haywood said there was no chance you could still

be alive. He’s on a blood quest for the lion that took you.”

“And thus the veldt pays for my safety,” Ash said bitterly.

“He hunts lions anyway. He also said…” Roy hesitated. “He said you’d been

here before, as a child. Did you know that?”

Something kindled in Ash’s eyes. “I didn’t know. When my father referred to

my origins, it was to point out that I was not worthy to be a son of his. What else did
you hear?”

Roy hesitated.

“Out with it,” Ash said softly. “I can already see it written on your face.”

Roy related the conversation he’d overheard between the Haywood brothers.

The look on Ash’s face at the end nearly destroyed him.

“My mother,” Ash said thickly. “She and my father…”

Roy caught him as his knees buckled, taking his weight. No matter how

strong Ash thought himself, there were some things too hard for a man to bear
alone. Ash knelt in the dust, and Roy could feel the sobs the young man held
captive.

“You’ve known all along, haven’t you?” Roy asked softly.

Ash looked up, wiping his hand roughly across his cheeks, creating tracks in

the dust. “I knew…I knew something wasn’t right. I just…”

Roy sank down in the dust next to his lover. “Tell me.”

“Sometimes,” Ash said slowly, “I think I remember her—my mother. And

other times, it’s hard to know if I just want to remember her so much.” He leaned
into Roy’s chest. “I remember eyes like mine, and blonde hair. I remember her
smile. I remember I’m sleepy and warm and comfortable, but I can hear my
mother’s voice, clear as a bell. I can see her running. I can…” He shook his head. “I
can remember her hands outstretched, and then she’s carrying me.”

He fell silent, and Roy let him alone with his memories for a few minutes.

Eventually, Roy asked, “How long has your father been ill?”

Ash snorted. “You mean how long has he hated anyone who can’t trace their

lineage on a shield? I never understood, you know, when I was older. I never
understood how they met and fell in love. I mean, you’ve seen my father. But more
than that…” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I had a nanny when I was
small, and I overheard her one day talking with Cook, about how Miss Elizabeth
was crying again and was anyone ever safe when the master went down into the
village. At the time I thought they were talking about my father’s collection of
firearms, but as I grew older, I began to realize… When…when it happened,” Ash
continued, “when my mother—when she was…”

Roy squeezed Ash’s shoulder and just held on.

“They said it was an accident. She and my father had gone out riding alone.

That in itself was odd. I don’t remember them ever riding together except at the
hunts. Mother was an excellent horsewoman. She used to take me with her, sit me
in front of her, and we’d hold the reins together. She loved her horse, and we’d go for
miles—or maybe it just seemed like it. I must’ve been five or six. But that day…”
Ash took a deep breath. “They went out riding alone, and Father returned to the
house near sundown, said there’d been an accident. He sent for the doctor from the
village, and then the next thing I knew, everyone was telling me what a brave boy I

was.”

Roy winced.

“But that evening, I crept down the back stairs, couldn’t sleep, and there was

music coming from the study. I recognized the tune. I didn’t know the name of it
then, but I knew it was the music Father listened to whenever he returned from a
successful hunt. He only ever played it then. And of course, that night.

“I went back upstairs, but I knew,” Ash said. “I knew what he’d done. All this

time, I’ve just been wondering whether he knew I knew.”

Roy could only too vividly picture the scene, and his heart ached at the vision.

Whatever Gerald Haywood was, his brother was a thousand times worse.

“He’s right,” Roy said, not bothering to hide his anger. “You’re not worthy of

him. Not at all. God, when I think—”

“Don’t,” Ash said quietly. “He’s not worth it. All that’s over now.” He breathed

deeply, raising his face to the African night. “This changes nothing. I’m not going
back. I’m staying. Here on the veldt with you.” He stopped, then looked at Roy with
a smile. “Where I belong.”

“Where we belong,” Roy said thickly, tightening his embrace. “Where we

belong.”

Regardless of whether Ash was a lion, Roy knew, feeling Ash’s warm tears

against his neck, the sobs finally working their way free, that he’d defend Ash to the
death. And if Sir Roland had his way, it was looking more and more likely that that
was the only option.

* * * *

Roy led Ash into the hut, pausing only to light the storm lantern. It cast a

warm yellow light, dim but sufficient. Roy hung it on the hook on the wall, then
pulled Ash to him.

Ash came willingly, groaning softly as Roy’s hands slid beneath his shirt. In

moments, they were both naked, and Roy guided Ash to the narrow cot.

Ash gasped in surprise as he sank into the straw mattress.

“Soft compared to the rock,” Roy agreed, lying down beside him. The cot was

small but sturdy. “I built it myself.” He nuzzled Ash’s neck. “Soon as we’re settled,
I’ll build a bigger one.”

Ash moved even closer, eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “This one’s

perfect.”

But it wasn’t really. Strong though it was, the lightweight construction

caused the cot to echo the movement of its occupants, bucking and swaying beneath
them like a boat adrift. Roy stilled, holding Ash close against his body.

Ash moved against him needily. “Put the mattress on the floor.”

Roy raised Ash’s chin gently and kissed him. “No need.” He shifted cautiously

so that he lay on his back in the center of the bed. The movement left Ash lying half
on top of him.

“Now what?” Ash grinned, then gasped as Roy’s hands slid down his back,

cupping his ass.

Firm yet gentle, Roy moved his hands lower, between his lover’s thighs. Ash

pressed back against him, moaning happily, and Roy guided Ash’s legs until the
younger man was straddling him.

Ash caught on in an instant, bracing his knees against the cot’s sides and

raising his ass slightly. Just enough for Roy’s fingers to find his hole, stroking and
teasing. Promising.

Eyes on Roy, Ash raised his hand to his mouth and spit on his fingers. Roy’s

eyes widened as the sight went straight to his cock, and moments later, he realized
what Ash was going to do. Roy’s cock twitched heavily as Ash reached down, sliding
a hand between his own legs.

His spit-slick fingers entered his cleft, gently pushing Roy’s hands aside, and

Roy groaned. Roy’s grip shifted to Ash’s cheeks, holding him open while Ash slicked
his own hole, readying himself for penetration.

Roy watched, breathless. Head thrown back, beautiful eyes half-closed, a

light sheen of sweat on his skin, Ash was breathtaking. His hand was buried
between his legs, and with every movement his swollen cock bobbed and bounced,
leaking pale precum onto Roy’s skin.

Ash straightened up, but this time he turned his attention to Roy’s cock. Roy

shuddered as Ash’s wet fingers grasped his shaft, sliding over and around him with
a touch that was already becoming expert. Roy moaned, dropping his head back and
sliding his hands up to grip Ash’s hips.

Suddenly Ash leaned down and kissed Roy, harder and hungrier than Roy

had felt from him before. Roy’s eyes flew open. He found Ash staring back with pure
feral lust in his eyes. Roy’s balls tightened, and he swallowed a groan.

“I’m ready for you,” Ash growled softly. “Are you ready for me?”

“Always.” Roy firmed his grip on Ash’s hips, raising him slightly. Ash’s hold

on Roy’s shaft firmed, holding steady, and Roy braced his hips against the narrow
bed, moaning as Ash eased downward until Roy could feel his crown pressing
against the muscle of Ash’s entrance.

Ash increased the pressure, gasping suddenly as his rim gave way to the

intruder. Roy gripped hard, nearly overwhelmed by the sensation of Ash’s hole
squeezing his tip. Ash held still a moment, then pushed down farther, and Roy
groaned long and loud.

“I want it, Roy. I want you.” Ash was breathless but imperious. He shifted his

hands to Roy’s chest, softly raking Roy’s thick black body hair, and Roy arched
underneath him. It seemed to be what Ash was waiting for. With a harsh cry, he
drove down until his ass was flush with Roy’s hips.

Roy yelled with him, the sensation amazing. Ash was so tight, so perfect, and

to have him taking charge in this way was both liberating and exciting. Waves of
pleasure rolled through Roy as Ash started to move in earnest, fucking himself on
Roy’s cock, driving them both closer and closer to orgasm.

Roy spread his thighs wider, bracing himself harder. The narrow cot jounced

a little but held firm, and Ash increased the pace. He leaned forward, and the new
angle nearly made Roy scream, it felt so good.

Ash grunted, a low, animal sound from somewhere deep within him, and his

passage clenched around Roy’s cock. Roy felt the tide rising, impossible to hold back.
As Ash threw back his head and roared, Roy let go.

* * * *

In the hour before dawn, Ash was running. All around him, the veldt was

awake as it only was in the time that was neither day nor night—alive with
creatures of all sizes, from the tiniest of the grubs to the oldest of the elephants. The
land hummed its song of life to Ash as he ran, the whisper of the wind in the grass
telling stories of this ancient and magical place.

Where Ash ran, beasts fell back to let him pass and nothing followed.

Light-footed on the earth, he left no sign of his passing save when he paused at a
spring, lowering his head to lap briefly at the cool sweet water. Deliberately, he
pressed one foot into the mud of the bank.

When he stepped back, the imprint was that of a giant cat’s paw.

With a laugh that was something like a roar, Ash bounded away again. Here

there were no whips and no pursuit. No need to hunt as men did, with iron arms
and shot. Here none would say him nay, save the one he sought.

The sun was just cresting the mountaintops when Ash reached the knoll that

overlooked the sprawling bungalow and too-grasping grounds of Thornside. Pacing
back and forth, Ash sang the song of the veldt to himself, watching as the pinkish
rays of dawn lit first the sky and then the mud-walled hut at the end of the
compound.

But it was not the hut that interested him the most. Dropping to his

haunches, Ash waited until the soft new sunlight warmed the large building in the
middle of the compound. Until the natives rose and went about their errands. And
when at last the thornbush was rolled back from the gate, Ash stood and stretched.

Regally, for here he knew he had nothing to fear, Ash walked to the gate of

the compound and stared dispassionately at the space where a terrified boy had set
off on a lion hunt so long ago now. He threw back his head and roared, then roared
again: a challenge like no other.

A gun barked in answer, and Ash shook his head angrily. His instinct was to

fight. He roared his fury, and then, from just above him, came a harsh shriek.

Ash fell back, slightly cowed, and the great black eagle screamed again. Ash

looked once more at the villa then turned and, without a backward glance, loped
away across the veldt. He did not need to look up to know that the Bateleur soared
above him.

Chapter Fourteen

“It’s a menace, I tell you!” Gerald Haywood paced his trophy room, hands

behind his back. “A man-eater with no respect—no fear, even!—for men, be they
white or black. Three times now, it has violated this very compound!”

“Steady on, old man.” The district officer, a slight, swarthy man who looked

far too fragile to survive Africa, leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“Obviously we have a beast here that has to be stopped, but the best way to go
about it is with a cool head on our shoulders. Now you and your brother here have
seen this animal. Has anyone else?”

Roy looked uneasily about the room. It was bad enough sharing the same air

as a murderer, but the cold dead eyes of thirty or more beasts stared back at him
from the walls, forcing his gaze to the floor. At his side came a negative murmur
from the other man present, Thornside’s nearest neighbor, an expatriate Briton
whose name Roy had already forgotten.

A native had appeared at Roy’s compound an hour after breakfast, bidding

Roy to an urgent meeting at Thornside that same afternoon. On arrival, Roy
discovered that the Thornside compound had, that very morning, once again been
threatened by the mysterious gold lion.

Roy had woken alone, finding Ash just re-entering the compound with a tale

of hearing a Bateleur and going out to check.

As soon as Roy returned, he thought, the two of them were going to have to

have a long talk. Until then, however, Roy vowed to do everything in his power to
throw the Haywood brothers off the scent. “I’ve seen the lion,” he said, feeling
Haywood’s eyes upon him. The man gave an approving nod, and the district officer
perked up, looking interested.

Gerald Haywood ignored Roy, puffing out his cheeks self-importantly. “It’s

quite a young animal, in my estimation. And already a man-killer! There’s no time
to be lost.”

Roy held up his hand, stilling whatever the district officer had been about to

say. “Sir, my deepest sympathies are with you, and I don’t mean to minimize your
loss in any way.” He inclined his head toward Roland Haywood, who simply stared,
mindlessly. Roy refused to look directly into his eyes. It was a force of effort to be in
the same room with him without violence.

“Well, Bennett, out with it,” Gerald Haywood snapped.

“We’re calling this lion a man-eater,” Roy said, “but that’s an assumption. No

one saw it take the boy, as I understand it?”

“What’s this?” The district officer sat forward like a terrier. “I understood the

boy to have been killed by a lion?”

“I don’t think there’s any doubt of that,” Roy lied calmly. “The question, if

there is one, is which lion. You were hunting, Haywood, and your nephew became
separated from the party. Have I that right?”

“Yes, yes,” said the baronet. “Stupid young cur missed his shot at a

lion—scared the pride right off. We stopped for lunch, and when we went to start
again, no sign of him. Went after the lions, I expect, trying to save face.”

Roy looked at the man, his face a carefully impassive mask. There was no

regret in Haywood’s tone, no sorrow, and certainly no guilt. Nothing but anger. Roy
had never asked Ash exactly what had happened that day, but the whip marks on
his flesh, combined with this story, made everything very clear.

Asked to shoot a lion, Ash had misfired and alerted the pride. His

punishment had been terrible, and Roy was certain that Ash had been lucky to
escape it with his life. It was possible Gerald Haywood had administered the
beating without Sir Roland’s knowledge, but Roy didn’t believe that. Sooner or later,
Roland Haywood would be called to account.

“I see what you mean.” The district officer was nodding carefully. “We have a

man-eater out there somewhere, but as to whether it’s the same lion threatening
the compound—”

“Of course it’s the same lion!” Gerald said impatiently. “Why else would the

thing have come here? It smelled the lad and followed his trail, looking for more!”

“Steady on, old chap!” The district officer looked revolted.

Roy cleared his throat. “Was the lion with the pride you were hunting?”

“No,” Sir Roland said. “No, the male with that pride was a fine beast—huge,

with a beautiful black mane. A top specimen I’d be proud to take as a trophy. But
this animal is smaller, lighter colored and with a poor mane. A lion I’d pass by in
the normal way of things.”

Sighing, the young district officer got to his feet. “Gerald, I wish I could assist

you, but I fear it’s clear I can’t. You’re clearly being plagued by a lion, but I’m afraid
I can’t call it a man-eater. The boy—your nephew—was a tragic accident, but a man
alone on the veldt cannot expect to be safe.” He shook his head sadly. “Sir Roland,
my condolences upon your loss. I’ll show myself out.”

“But”—Gerald Haywood rushed after him—“the hunters from the Cape.”

The district officer turned and shook his head. “Sorry, old man,” he said with

what sounded like genuine regret. “I can’t call them out for a bull and two dead
guinea fowl. You’ll simply have to deal with this lion yourself. A poisoned goat
carcass ought to do it, and I’m surprised you haven’t thought of it yourself. Good
day.”

* * * *

Roy made his way home as the afternoon cooled, mulling over the events of

the past twenty-four hours. Haywood had been furious at the district officer’s
response, and had done his level best to bring Roy and the neighbor around to his
view. But the neighbor hadn’t been bothered by the lion, and Roy thought he was
inclined to dismiss Haywood’s complaints as overdramatic.

Roy privately thought that overdramatic exploits were the least of his worries

when it came to the lion. But he refused to be drawn in, declining to join Haywood’s
proposed hunting party and taking his leave at the earliest possible moment, giving
only a spurious promise to send word if he sighted the animal.

He took the long way home, making the rounds of the two largest watering

holes and looking for tracks. Zebra and wildebeest had been at the first in numbers,
indicating few predators around, but near the second water he smelled the
distinctive musk of big cats.

Approaching quietly, he found a small pride—a huge black-maned adult

male, three lionesses, one of whom had cubs, and a couple of adolescents not yet
ready to leave and find, or form, prides of their own.

The adults were drowsing before the evening’s hunt, and the cubs and

youngsters were playing among themselves. Roy watched them for a moment, then
moved on. Their tracks were clearly all over the nearby watering hole, crossed and
crisscrossed with those of the duiker, the tiniest antelope of the veldt. Evidently the
little animals were in the habit of waiting for the predators to leave, then partaking
of the water each creature so desperately needed.

Roy filled his canteen and moved on, conscious of the lowering sun. He was

still an hour from the compound and dared not risk sunset catching him still upon
the veldt. But he went without haste, watching his back trail and the grassland
around him, and turning from the trail now and then to check likely den spots.

But despite his careful search, he arrived back at the compound without

seeing one single trace of the pale gold lion who roamed the veldt alone.

It was all the confirmation he needed.

Ash had brought the livestock into their pens, fed and watered them, and had

a meal cooking over the fire when Roy came through the gate. He stopped for a
moment just inside, staring around the compound, taking it in. The scene was
pleasantly domestic: the contented munching of the animals and the crackling of
the fire made perfect night music. Ash, clad only in a pair of shorts, knelt over the
cooking pot, blond bangs falling forward into his eyes, his naked skin tawny in the
firelight.

Roy’s heart swelled. He’d arrived here fresh from a war that had robbed him

of everything, convinced he was unworthy of love, a life, a home. He’d built the
compound as protection, but somehow, he realized, it had become more than that. It
was sanctuary, and now it held and housed the greatest treasure of all.

Ash looked up. “Is everything all right, Roy?”

“Sorry. I didn’t think you heard me.” Roy pulled the high gates closed behind

him, tied them off with the strong plaited rope made of a native creeper, then came
to the fire. Ash’s gaze stayed on him.

Roy searched for words. “This, this place…it was never my home. I didn’t

think I’d ever have a home again. I didn’t think I deserved one.”

As Roy hesitated, Ash came off the ground in a single lithe, catlike

movement. He gripped Roy’s shoulders, staring into his eyes for a long moment.
Then he kissed Roy, deep and true. Roy’s body responded instantly, the tiredness
from the trek wiped away in an instant.

Kissing Ash was revitalizing, as though the essence of the young man filled

Roy’s reservoirs, replenished his strength. He felt the blood racing through his
veins, senses heightened, the whole world more real than it had been a moment ago.

Roy’s arousal was sweet fire across his nerve endings. Ash’s hunger was just

as strong. Roy could taste it in his mouth, feel it in the controlled urgency of Ash’s
body against his. Unable to hold back any longer, Roy dragged at Ash’s waistband
until he was able to tear Ash’s pants down and off.

Ash shoved Roy’s trousers to his knees then pushed him to sit on one of the

logs beside the fire. Roy gasped as the rough wood met the underside of his thighs,
then forgot the momentary discomfort as Ash straddled his lap.

Ash made a guttural noise in his throat, then leaned forward. The head of his

cock—hot and wet—bumped against Roy’s shaft. With a groan, Roy braced his chest
against Ash’s shoulder, then ran his hands down Ash’s back to cup the tight, round
muscular buttocks.

Breathing hard, Ash reached between them, sliding his palms around both

their cocks. Roy gave a needy, urgent cry as his meat pressed against Ash’s, then
was encircled in a strong hand. With a grunt, Ash slid lower, his ass cheeks
pressing into Roy’s hands.

Roy dropped his head against Ash’s neck, growling his need, rocking his groin

into Ash’s clever hands. Ash smelled of sweat and man and something deeper,
something wild. Roy couldn’t contain himself; he inhaled Ash’s musk deeply, then
set his teeth in the muscle of Ash’s shoulder.

Ash threw back his head and yelled. His hands stroked faster, harder,

sandwiching Roy’s cock against his own, and he started to thrust his hips in time.

Gripping Ash’s ass cheeks as they moved in his hand, Roy’s fingers skated

over Ash’s pucker. Roy released Ash’s neck with a grunt, then pressed his index
finger against Ash’s hole.

Ash froze for an instant, then, as the bare tip of Roy’s finger breached him,

began to move again. Slower this time, his breathing deep and heavy, his entrance

quivering around the intruder.

For Roy, it was too much. The heat of Ash against him, the insistent hand on

his cock, the incredible tight grip of Ash’s ass all combined with the heady, perfect
scent of Ash. He shouted as his load tore free, bracing himself against Ash.

Ash held him, pumping his own cock with his other hand. His juice spurted

across Roy’s stomach and thighs, and he roared his release to the night.

It was sometime later that they remembered dinner.

The food was good, and Roy ate hungrily. “I thought we had no stores of meat

remaining?”

“We didn’t. I think this is what you called impala. I got the beast an hour

after you left this morning.”

“You got it? How?”

“I saw the impala just a few hundred yards away. There was a rifle in the

hut, and I knew we needed the meat.”

There was indeed an old rifle in the hut, Roy reflected, and it was even

loaded. But the thing kicked like a mule and threw to the left when fired. “You must
be a good shot,” Roy said pensively.

Ash looked down. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Just for a moment, Roy saw a golden lion crouched to spring. He knew

without going to look that he would find the rifle clean and his ammunition
undisturbed. But he nodded without comment and took a second helping.

“I’m glad you like it,” Ash said, sinking to the ground at Roy’s feet and

leaning back against Roy’s legs.

Roy twined his fingers in the soft gold curls at the nape of Ash’s neck. Ash’s

hair was getting longer by the day, turning from the close-cropped cut of an
Englishman to a shaggy golden mane. Roy loved it and said so.

Ash looked up, amusement glinting in his eyes. “I was talking about the

food.”

Roy grinned back. “Oh.”

Ash settled himself more comfortably against Roy’s legs, staring into the fire.

He was silent for a long time, then, just as Roy was about to propose butchering the
antelope carcass before it got any later, he spoke. “I’m very glad that you said what
you did about your home. That you feel that way.” He lifted his gaze to Roy’s face. “I
never thought of Leicestershire as home. I was a fish out of water there. And now,
here…” Ash stopped, hesitating.

With a wry smile, Roy gently tugged one of the golden curls. “Here, you are a

lion on the veldt,” he said softly, only half teasing.

Ash stared, then smiled. “I feel like I belong.”

Roy pulled Ash onto his lap and enfolded him in a tight hug. “You do,” he said

huskily. “You belong to me, Ash, and don’t you forget it.” He kissed Ash hard,
rocking him against his body.

Ash wrapped his arms around Roy’s shoulders, holding on.

In the end, they sat that way until the cool evening made the hovering

mosquitoes fierce enough to brave the smoke from the fire. They hurried inside as
the insects’ whines crescendoed, and both applied Roy’s ointment to their exposed
skin.

Roy opened the army trunk that stood under the mosquito-netted bedroom

window and brought out two pairs of tropical linens. “I’ve never worn these in polite
society,” he said, grinning as he handed one pair of the cream trousers to Ash, “but
mosquitoes can’t bite through them.”

Clad in the linen pants and with their arms protected by long-sleeved shirts,

they took the storm lantern outside to where the impala carcass lay behind the hut.
It was a good-sized doe, Roy noted with approval: the meat on the stags was
inclined to be tough and gamey.

There was a chunk missing from the rump, more than would have been

needed for the stew. The flesh was torn, rather than cut. Roy stared at it for a
moment, well aware he was looking at the work of a predator’s jaws.

Then, conscious of Ash’s gaze on him, Roy cut around it without comment. He

sliced the meat cleanly, directing Ash to wrap the good steaks in fresh leaves and
setting aside the rest of the meat to be smoked and dried the following day.

Finally he was done. The hide, as well as a portion of the meat, was set aside

as a present to Mambokadzi. The native hunters kept her and the village well
supplied with meat, but for Roy, it was more than just politeness. The old woman
and her people had taken him in as a stranger and cared for him as though he was
one of their own. They’d probably saved his life and certainly saved his soul, and it
was a debt Roy knew he could never repay.

Once the meat was wrapped and stacked away from marauding insects, Roy

stood, rolling his shoulders back. His linen pants were gray with dirt and streaked
with blood, as was his shirt, and Ash, who’d been carrying the meat to store, was
covered in gore.

“Put the big pot on the fire to boil,” Roy directed. “I’ll fling the carcass

outside. Otherwise the black ants might come in the night.”

Ash raised an eyebrow, and Roy indicated himself, then Ash. “Bath,” he said

succinctly. Ash nodded with a wry smile and went to obey.

Roy gathered the unfortunate impala’s remains into a length of canvas and

let himself out onto the veldt. It was a quiet night and clear, with no sign yet of the

rains that would soak the land over the next few weeks. Roy listened carefully,
poised by the gate in case any large predator had smelled the blood and was nearby.
But there was nothing. It was a time of plenty on the veldt, and all the beasts were
evidently busy with their own hunting and uninterested in the leavings of man.

He dragged the bundle a couple of yards from the gate—after dark it was too

dangerous to take it farther, but when the sun rose, he’d take it a half-mile away.
Roy usually did his butchering at the kill site to save the blood and mess in his
camp attracting predators. But providing they cleaned up carefully, the deviation
from his habit wouldn’t cause them concern.

Back inside, Ash had the large water pan slung over the fire. For once, water

wasn’t in short supply. The water-butt was full after the recent rains, and there was
plenty more to come in the next weeks.

Roy went back behind the hut and, using his butcher blade, scraped clean

earth over the bloodstained dirt where the carcass had lain. He covered it several
inches thick, then tamped it down well. In the African heat, any other course of
action would have them overrun with insects by morning.

He finished the job by scattering the dried leaves of a native flowering plant

that Mambokadzi called umckaloabo over the place. The plant was considered a
native cure-all, and Roy had found that the leaves, when dried with lavender,
repelled a wide cross-section of insects.

When he returned to the fire, the water was pleasantly warm. Roy nodded

approval. “Let’s take it inside.”

“Inside?” Ash raised his eyebrows. “I thought we would wash out here.”

Roy grinned at the young man’s naïveté. “Mosquito nets,” he said, and Ash’s

eyes widened. Without further comment, he followed Roy into the hut and carefully
ensured the mosquito netting over the door was securely in place behind them.

The large water pot was a little over a foot deep and wider at the mouth than

the base—big enough for a man to stand in. It wasn’t the most comfortable of baths,
but by standing in the warm water and sluicing and scrubbing with the aid of the
ladle and a cloth, it was certainly effective.

Roy stripped, gesturing for Ash to follow suit, and then took two thick

hessian sacks from a trunk. He laid them on the packed-dirt floor before the water
pot, and held a cloth out to his lover. “You first.”

Ash climbed hesitantly into the pot. “Like this?”

Roy nodded, picked up the ladle and sluiced a scoop of water over Ash’s

shoulders. “Wet yourself down, then scrub.” He squatted and dunked his own arms
in the bucket, then slid his hands up the backs of Ash’s calves.

Ash yelped, then giggled and took the ladle himself. He tapped Roy gently on

the shoulder with it. “We’re washing!”

“Uh-huh.” Roy looked up, grinning, then took the soap and lathered his own

arms. “I am, see?”

With a snort, Ash ladled more water over himself, then took the soap from

Roy. He started lathering, the bar of soap gliding over the swell of his bicep and
across the planes of his chest.

Roy watched appreciatively. Ash seemed absorbed in his task, but the small

smile that played around the corners of his mouth showed he knew Roy was
watching. He took the soap lower, moving his feet as far apart as the cramped bath
would let him, and a small moan escaped Roy as he watched Ash harden.

Licking his lips hungrily, Roy reached forward. He slowly slid his hands up

Ash’s inner thighs, feeling the muscles trembling under his hands, and grinned. He
dipped his own arms in the water again, sluicing soap and grime away, then
returned to Ash’s legs.

Wordlessly, Ash held the soap out to him. Roy took it with a smile, dunked it

in the water, and applied it to good effect. The lather was slick on Ash’s skin, the
white suds contrasting with the golden hue the sun had turned him. Roy rejoiced in
the feel of Ash’s developing muscles under his hands, the firm calves, the hard
thighs.

His high, round ass.

Roy didn’t even try to suppress a groan, and Ash moaned an answer as Roy’s

soap-slick fingers slid between his cheeks. Roy pressed gently at Ash’s hole, circling
on the soft flesh. Ash cried out softly as Roy teased him, finger sliding in and out,
barely breaching his rim each time.

Ash’s cock was pointing proudly upward now, thick and swollen, the

blood-dark crown capped with a drool of pale precum. His musk hung heavy in the
air, tantalizing, and Roy knew he couldn’t wait a minute longer. He fumbled for the
washcloth and soaked it quickly, then cupped Ash’s balls with the warm, damp
cloth. Ash gave a strangled cry and Roy continued, rinsing the soap away.

Then he leaned in and delicately lapped at the tight, round sac. Ash quivered

and Roy licked again. He knew Ash was burning with need, knew how close Ash
was, and it was arousing him beyond reason. He pulled back for a moment, staring
up at the sight of his young lover. Head thrown back, Ash’s eyes were closed, face
contorted with the perfect agony of need. His lithe, wet body gleamed in the pale
light from the lantern.

As Roy watched, Ash opened his eyes. He stared down at Roy, feral, hungry,

then closed a hand on Roy’s shoulder in a strong grip. “Please,” he growled.

Roy stared for an instant into the blue-and-gold eyes and felt his senses start

to spin. He grabbed the base of his cock, forcing the tide back, and tore his gaze
away, breathing hard. Ash did things to him he’d never believed possible.

Getting himself back under control, he took Ash in his hand, steadying the

hot flesh. Slowly he guided the thick crown between his lips, savoring each moment.
Tasting Ash, feeling him. Breathing him.

Ash’s hand tightened convulsively on his shoulder, and Roy took him deep,

sucking hungrily. He could taste Ash on his tongue, bittersweet and perfect, and
Roy felt his tide rising again.

He stroked his own cock in the same rhythm he was setting with his mouth.

Ash howled completion in the same moment juice exploded on Roy’s tongue, and
Roy drank him down, lapping softly as he teased out Ash’s last drop. As Ash sagged
against his shoulder, Roy leaned into him and stroked himself faster, panting with
his need. A few quick pumps was all it took before his own cum striped the side of
the bath and Ash’s knees.

* * * *

Roy lay awake late into the night. Ash, clean and soapy-smelling, hair still

damp from the bath, was pressed against him with Roy’s arm wrapped tight across
his chest. Roy had tried once to shift his arm, and Ash had awoken in an instant,
snuggling in closer with sleepy, wordless grumbles. Roy had soothed Ash back to
sleep by stroking his neck and hair, and Ash lay peaceful now.

Roy wished he too could be so unworried. The more he thought about the

meeting at Thornside, the more uneasy he felt. Gerald Haywood was a vindictive
man and Roland a cruel one, and if there was one thing they loved above all else, it
was killing. Every male lion in a fifty-mile radius was liable to be another trophy on
the Thornside study wall inside of a month, and Roy couldn’t help but be afraid.

They wanted the pale gold young lion most of all. Roy’s rational mind shied

away from stories of shape-shifters and spirit animals, but he knew in his heart
that the lion was no ordinary great cat. And whatever happened, the Haywood
brothers could not be allowed to harm it.

Even hunting it brought peril. A Thornside party prowling the veldt meant a

greater risk of Ash being discovered, and there was no way to explain away Ash’s
choice to forsake his family and live with Roy: no way that would satisfy the white
population, anyway.

Roy had no illusions about what would happen if they were discovered. His

own eccentric living style was tolerated because of his medical expertise, but if the
district officer chose to make trouble, he’d have the colonial government—and
probably Haywood’s hunters from the Cape—down on him like a ton of bricks. He’d
be arrested on some trumped-up charge, accused of “going native,” and he and Ash
would be separated.

Roy would die before he let that happen. Instinctively, he tightened his arm

around his lover.

Ash rolled over and nuzzled Roy’s neck sleepily. “Go to sleep,” he murmured.

Roy kissed Ash’s forehead softly and rolled on his side, holding Ash loosely

against his body. If necessary, he’d take Ash across the Zambezi and into the wilder
country to the north. But before that, he resolved, they’d consult with Mambokadzi.

Maybe she could turn them both into eagles. The thought wasn’t exactly

comforting, and Roy pushed it away, resolutely closing his eyes. If flight was their
only option, he’d do it on two feet with a pack on his back and Ash at his side.

One way or another, they’d make it.

Chapter Fifteen

A column of men marched in the shadows of the moonlit foothills. Two

natives led the procession, each carrying spears; behind them, side by side, marched
two white men in the garb of the English hunter. Then came a solemn procession of
native bearers, each with a bundle on his head.

Following them, two natives carried the carcass of a lion. Limp in death, the

magnificent head hung down, the eyes seeing no more.

The men who went first checked the ground with every step, stopping now

and then as though to scent the wind in the darkness. Though they looked left and
right, they never looked up.

They never saw the golden lion standing motionless on the moonlit ridge

above, watching their passing intently.

Roy saw everything from a point high above. He was dizzy with the height,

floating, his body burning and weightless as though in the grip of fever. He reached
out for the living golden lion, yearning, yet the lion ignored his presence.

In the valley below, the men walked on, straggling away from the hills,

marching toward a lone baobab tree standing silent on the veldt. Still the golden
lion watched. These men meant harm. They smelled of blood and iron; they carried
the body of his brother, and yet he appeared unconcerned.

A huge black bird appeared in the sky, gathering speed as it approached the

column of men before suddenly diving, passing mere feet above their heads. Its
angry scream echoed across the veldt, and as one, the natives dropped their burdens
and turned and ran.

The bird soared up, leveling off beside the ridge where the lion watched. It

hung motionless for a moment; then, at last, the lion moved. Seemingly paying no
attention to the bird, he picked his way cautiously down off the ridge and paced
slowly toward the men on the veldt.

The two natives with spears had returned and stood looking about them

nervously. One of the white men was shouting, and both brandished rifles. Of the
rest of the bearers, only two had returned, and the fury of the white men seemed
directed at them.

The dead lion lay at the foot of the baobab, paws trussed, dark mane stirred

briefly by a current of air.

In the moonlit grassland, the golden lion was nearly invisible. He moved

slowly through the vegetation, mouth slightly open, gaze fixed on the men. None of
them noticed his approach, so intent were they on their woes.

A hundred yards from his quarry, the lion accelerated. From a silent shadow

in the grass, he was suddenly a live wire, approaching at lightning speed. As he ran,
he roared, and the sound seemed to come from every direction at once.

With shrieks of terror, the men fell back before his approach. The natives

dropped to the ground, cowering, but the two whites raised their guns.

Roy tried to scream a warning, tried to run, but his body was inert; he was a

powerless watcher. The rifles barked in quick succession, but the running lion never
turned from its course.

The lion ran, each bound greater than the last, until he arrived beside the

beast who lay so still. The golden lion stopped his charge, turning aside from the
men and lowering his head to sniff the nose of the great, black-maned beast.

Seeing the lions so close together, it was clear that the golden one had not yet

attained maturity. The black-maned adult carried bulk in his shoulders and his
thick, muscled neck. The heavy black mane framed a large face, wise even in death.

The golden lion’s limbs retained the gangliness of adolescence, and his mane

was short and shaggy where the other’s was luxurious. He raised his great head
from the dead lion and turned to face the men again. He stared for a moment, then
opened his mouth and roared.

“Take your shot! Quick, now!”

Roy thought that such shouting would startle the lion or even provoke him,

but he showed no such emotion. As the rifles thundered, the beast leaped forward so
quickly that Roy could not follow his movement. With a savage growl, the lion ran
behind the white men, slashing this way and that with his huge, powerful claws.

One of the natives raised a spear as though to attack, but the lion felled him

with a mighty blow of his shoulder. With screams of terror, the natives abandoned
their posts, supporting their fellows and running for their lives.

With this, the great cat seemed content. He turned, growling soft and low in

his throat, pulling his lips back to expose giant white fangs. Snarling, he paced
toward the two white men. Both struggled with the guns they held.

“Gerald, old chap, what’s the beast doing?”

“I said it was a man-eater. That damned district officer won’t bloody listen to

men who know better than him, and now look—”

The lion dropped on his haunches and growled menacingly.

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

Both men raised their guns. Roy watched, helpless.

The lion stood still, an expression akin to amusement on its face. Then as the

guns spoke, it bounded to the left.

The men followed, one recklessly letting off another shot, and the lion snarled

and kicked as the dust of its passing stung his flank.

“You got him, Rollie! You got him!”

“He’s still running! Finish him off, Ger!”

It was as though the lion taunted them. He stayed beyond their reach,

evading their bullets even when the shot was clear and there was no time for him to
dodge. The white men followed, panting, until, as dawn lightened the sky, they
looked where the lion had been and saw only empty veldt. Search though they
might, they found not a single track, and as the sun rose, realization sank in.

They were alone, miles from home and safety, without water and with only

the rounds in their rifles remaining.

Roy understood their fear but could not pity them. They had no more than

they deserved.

Miles away, a pale gold lion trotted purposefully beneath the shadow of the

foothills. To Roy, it seemed as if he glowed, as though he carried the sun within his
coat. His destination was a lone baobab tree, its branches reaching to the dawn sky
like so many fingers, clutching.

Some distance away, the golden lion paused. He dropped to his haunches

and, head raised, gave voice to a soft, trilling purr. In answer, a huge black bird
took wing from the branches of the baobab tree.

It cried once, then soared high into the sky, higher and higher until it was

lost beneath the fading stars.

Below on the veldt, the golden lion threw his head back and roared, long and

loud, until it seemed as if he drew breath from the very earth itself. All around,
creatures stopped in their tracks, frozen by the depth of pain and anger in that cry.
The two white hunters, lost so far from home, looked uneasily at each other and
hurried even faster.

And beneath the baobab tree, the huge black-maned lion stirred, as if waking

from a long slumber. He lifted his head and pulled himself slowly to his feet,
seemingly unharmed. His questioning growl carried far in the African dawn, and
the young gold male roared again in triumphant answer.

* * * *

Roy awoke alone in the cot with the lion’s voice ringing in his ears and

adrenaline pumping through his veins. He bolted upright, struggling to reconcile
the memory of the dream with his familiar surroundings.

“Roy? Are you all right?” Ash came into the room and perched on the cot at

Roy’s side.

Roy blinked, struggling to form words as Ash laid a hand gently on his

forehead. “You’re cool,” Ash said softly. “The fever hasn’t returned. When you slept
so late, I feared the worst.”

“I—” Roy’s voice quavered, and he covered it with a cough, then cleared his

throat. “I was dreaming, I think.” He looked deep into Ash’s blue-gold eyes.

“The war?”

“No.” Roy cleared his throat again, watching Ash. “Lions.”

Something flickered in the depths of Ash’s eyes and then was gone. “Lions,”

he repeated. “I think about them a lot, you know.”

Roy swung his feet to the floor, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Have you been

up long?”

“I heard lions out on the veldt,” Ash said in a low voice. “I am not surprised

you dreamed of them.”

“You went to look?”

“I didn’t do anything to endanger us. I promise.” Ash smiled suddenly. “Quite

the opposite, in fact. Come. Are you hungry? I made breakfast.”

All through the simple meal, Roy watched Ash. The lithe young man had

tanned gold, and the sun had bleached his hair into a multi-hued golden mane. It
was easy to imagine him as a lion.

“Those bastards and their hunting worry me,” Roy said at last, setting down

his bowl. “We’ve been lucky so far, but it’s only a matter of time before you’re seen
and possibly recognized.”

Ash nodded gravely. “I have thought of that too. Do we go to the Zambezi, as

you suggested?”

“Perhaps. But first, we’ll need meat. And we should take counsel with

Mambokadzi.”

They set off an hour later, carrying the hide of the impala and several cuts of

meat as gifts for the wisewoman. They each carried rifles, and Roy also carried his
service revolver, along with ammunition. A good kill would provide meat to smoke
and dry against the heat, food to carry with them if they journeyed north.

They saw several species of bird and the tracks of duiker, but no game. An

hour short of noon, they passed the Finder’s Tree and began the steep climb into the
foothills. “The game’s wary,” Roy said in frustration, pausing and looking back
across the vast grassland rolling out below. “Haywood’s lion hunts will starve us
all.”

“There’s always pumpkin. And guinea fowl. Surely no one hunts lions in the

highlands?”

“With Haywood, anything is possible.” Roy shrugged. “And last time we came

this way, we saw—or heard, I should say—a lion.”

“Indeed we did.” Ash grinned and started up the trail. “Shall we stop at the

spring for lunch?”

The rocky spring held as many varieties of birds as before, including a tall,

long-billed black-and-white bird with a long tail. “Is that a crane?” Ash asked,
scrambling over the rock for a closer look.

“I think so. They usually live down on the grassland.” Roy squinted against

the sun. “I forget what Mambokadzi calls them—Hori? Umhori? Something like
that.”

The bird opened its wings, sailed up the small cliff, and alighted on the rocks

at the top.

“I must have scared it.” Ash shrugged and laid down his pack. “Perhaps it

will come back while we eat.”

Roy laid his own pack down, looking at Ash speculatively. “Are you hungry?”

he asked, striving for a casual tone.

Ash turned from watching the birds, and the knowing, anticipatory smile he

wore told Roy that his lover’s mind was in tune with his own.

He stepped forward, hands going to Ash’s hips. A thrilling, magical jolt of

pleasure and need rolled up Roy’s spine, a feeling he was fast becoming familiar
with. He stared hungrily into Ash’s eyes, seeing his own lust echoed and welcome.

“Very hungry.” Ash leaned in, eyes closing as his lips met Roy’s. His kiss was

soft and sweet but with an undercurrent of raw passion that set Roy’s body on fire.

Roy pulled Ash to him, holding on tight. Ash groaned, eyes flying open.

Urgently he tore at Roy’s belt, grunting with satisfaction as he freed Roy’s already
hard cock.

Roy took another kiss, plundering Ash’s mouth with his tongue, taking

everything. Ash fought back, clawing at Roy’s shoulders, thrusting his hips against
Roy’s naked cock. Roy broke the kiss, gasping.

Panting, eyes glowing, Ash stepped back and undid his own trousers. He

stepped out of them and stroked his cock once, gaze on Roy. He licked his lips.

“Take your shirt off,” Roy said. His voice didn’t sound like his own.

Ash obeyed, his erection swaying as he moved. Slowly, he dropped to his

knees and, as Roy watched, braced his arms against one of the boulders at the edge
of the spring.

Roy groaned out loud as Ash raised his ass, leaning more heavily on the rock

and spreading his knees. The position displayed his high, round ass to perfection.
Roy stared at the full cheeks, the shadowed clench of Ash’s pucker, the soft pink of
his balls, tight against his body.

Ash looked back over his shoulder. The expression in his eyes held so much

heat that Roy grabbed the base of his own cock, forcing the tide back. With a
strangled growl, he stumbled forward and dropped down between Ash’s knees,
laying his palms on Ash’s back.

Ash thrust his ass back against Roy, and Roy reached beneath him, capturing

his swollen cock. It pulsed in his hand, slick already with precum.

Roy stroked him, panting, his own need building. He spit on his fingers and

tentatively stroked Ash’s entrance.

Ash pressed back into the touch, squirming. Encouraged, Roy probed the

willing flesh, moaning as his finger passed Ash’s rim. Ash moaned right back,
bucking. His hole gripped Roy’s finger, pulling him deeper.

Roy shuddered, releasing Ash’s cock. He spit on his hand and used the saliva

to slick his own dick. Slowly, he withdrew his finger from Ash’s passage, then
rubbed his slippery cock up and down Ash’s crack.

With a whimper, Ash arched his back, raising his ass higher. His pucker

flexed, displaying the pink inner flesh, slick and ready from Roy’s ministrations.

It was all Roy could do to hold back. Shaking with anticipation, he licked his

fingers, then pressed back inside with two fingers this time. He worked Ash’s
entrance, quick and urgent, urged on by Ash’s harsh panting. Then, when he
thought he could stand it no more, he pulled out and took his cock in his hand.

There was a humming in his ears, and the world seemed to sway around him.

Roy closed his eyes against the sensation and pushed the head of his cock against
Ash’s entrance, giving himself over to the agonizing perfection of Ash’s tight hole.

He pressed forward slowly, nearly overwhelmed, lost in Ash. He thought he

should wait, give Ash time, but when he tried, Ash snarled a protest and pushed
back, driving himself onto Roy’s member.

Then at last they were joined. Time froze; there was no sound, no sensation,

save for the heat of Ash’s passage, the sweet, lithe perfection of Ash’s body under
Roy’s. Roy couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, until beneath him, Ash started to move.

Roy rocked with him, the air rushing back into his lungs as he stroked. Ash

was incredible. Roy drove into him, harder and harder, riding the rhythm Ash set
with his own thrusts. With every stroke, Ash got tighter, his ass clamping down,
drawing everything from Roy.

Roy was on the edge, teetering, every stroke exquisite torture. He gripped

Ash’s hips, feeling how close Ash was in his shudders, in the feral moan torn from
his lips. Roy held Ash back against him for an instant, tight, deep, then he took a
final thrust.

Ash arched up against him, crying out as his orgasm took him and Roy let go,

collapsing on Ash’s back as he spent himself deep in Ash’s ass.

* * * *

Roy was dozing, a sated smile on his face, but Ash found sleep elusive. His

body still sang with the adrenaline rush of the previous night, and deep inside, with
every step, every breath, he felt his wild nature come more alive.

He’d never felt so strong, or so free.

Or so afraid.

Somehow, he had to find a way to share this new part of himself with Roy.

The idea was thrilling, exciting—and terrifying. Ash had no idea what words to use,
how to explain what he barely understood himself. And if Roy would not or could
not accept what Ash had become, Ash had no idea how he’d go on.

Roy had dreamed of lions. Ash wasn’t sure exactly what that meant or how

much Roy might already suspect.

Ash quietly got up and made his way farther up the trail, until he could climb

across a rocky scree to the top of the little cliff. The water bubbled from under a
rock, and flocks of tiny, colorful finches chittered and splashed. There was no sign of
the crane.

Ash dropped to his knees and trailed his fingers in the water. Africa was his

birthplace. He was a lion. And he was Roy’s. Before coming to Rhodesia, he’d known
none of those things; now, they were the most central part of him.

He closed his eyes, and the song of the veldt swelled inside him, burgeoning,

growing.

“Ashcroft! Ashcroft! I say!”

Ash jerked to his feet, gaping. Mere feet away, on the far side of the spring,

stood his father.

Sir Roland Haywood was as white as a sheet. He stared at Ash, mouth

working soundlessly. “You’re dead! You filthy little bastard, I’m not having it!
You’re dead, and this time you’ll damn well stay dead! Just like your bitch mother.
Both of you and this filthy place!”

Ash trembled at the loathing in his father’s voice, all pretense of civility gone.

Flecks of spittle stood out white at one corner of Sir Roland’s mouth.

“As soon as she brought you back, I knew you’d been sullied. The gash on

your leg, some ridiculous story about lions. I knew it. As like as not you picked up
some disease crawling around in the dust. Elizabeth should’ve left you there to rot
and given me the son I truly deserved. Bah! No more. I’ll be free of you both if it’s
the last thing I do!”

“Rollie! Rollie, what is it, old chap?” Gerald Haywood’s voice came faintly

from above.

Ash glanced up. Thick vegetation lay between himself and his uncle. There

was little chance he would be seen. He turned and ran, scrambling across the scree,
then sprinting down the trail at breakneck speed, back to Roy.

Roy was on his feet, rifle at the ready, staring wildly. Looking up, Ash could

hear signs of pursuit, but the rocky overhang sheltered them from view. “My
father,” he panted, grabbing Roy’s arm. “They’re coming.” He sucked in a deep
breath. “Roy, my father saw me.”

“Get the other rifle,” Roy growled. “We’ll head for the cave.”

“No time. I’ll hide. Act like you don’t know what they’re talking about.” Ash

let go of Roy’s arm and was gone, over the rocks and into the trees.

The blood pounded in Ash’s veins. As though from a great distance, he heard

a sound like thunder, followed by chanting. The voices rose and fell, thrumming and
insistent. Like the song of the insects, like the song of the veldt; strong and true.
Calling him.

A harsh cry rent the air, and Ash knew without looking that the Bateleur had

come. Falling to his knees, Ash put his hands flat on the dusty earth and swayed.
He felt power flow through him, through his fingers and his wrists, surging through
him, untrammeled, raw…angry.

With a single bound, Ash was on his feet. As a man, he had felt the heat

oppressive, but now the air tasted sweet and fresh. Insects zithered nearby, their
tiny sounds magnified into a riot of music. In the tree above, Onai cocked her head,
and Ash heard the scrape of feather on feather, the soft creak as the branch she
perched on shifted beneath her great weight.

He scented the air and wavered for a moment. He tasted the smell of the old

woman, she who was everywhere and nowhere all at once, but with it was that
other odor, one that lived in Ash’s heart. He was struck by the sudden urge to turn
tail and seek out the owner of that scent, to run to his side.

For a moment, Ash was a weakling cub, lying in strong arms. A fractured,

beaten boy, clinging desperately to a dream of clear blue eyes that knew his soul,
hands and a voice that came from nowhere and took his pain away. And then he
heard the chant again, faint but true, the message clear.

Ash shook himself and snarled, then bounded away. He was a hunter born,

and he was called to the hunt.

* * * *

Roy stared for an instant at the place where Ash had disappeared, then

turned for the trail. His one thought was to put distance between himself and Ash
and lead the pursuers away.

Whatever happened, Gerald Haywood must not find Ash.

He started up the trail, listening intently. From above, he heard a confusion

of voices. There was no sound from the trees or the spring to show where Ash had
gone. Roy clutched his rifle and redoubled his pace.

From somewhere behind and below, Roy heard the scream of the Bateleur.

All the hairs on the back of his neck rose at the sound. The dream returned to him
clearly: Onai and the golden lion, wild upon the veldt, hunting the hunters.

Onai was no ordinary bird, and Ash was no ordinary man. Of those two

things he was certain.

Roy met Gerald Haywood above the head of the spring. Accompanied by two

natives, the man carried his rifle, but the customary bullwhip was missing.

“Bennett!” Haywood hurried forward. To Roy’s surprise, he looked relieved.

“Have you met anyone on the trail?”

Roy eased the butt of his rifle to the ground. “No one. Have you mislaid

another man?”

“It’s my brother. We struck a luncheon camp on the hill.” Haywood gestured

behind him. “Rollie went down to the spring, and I heard him shouting—I ran
down, and he swore he’d seen his son.”

Roy worked at keeping his face impassive. “The boy has been missing two

weeks or more. It’s hard to believe he’d still be alive out here.”

Haywood rubbed a hand across his face and lowered his voice. “I sent the

natives to look, but they found nothing. There were marks—a man may have
passed, but there was no way to be sure. It might have been an antelope or even
that damned lion.” He puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “My brother has
been most upset—you can hardly blame him, of course. His only son.”

Roy nodded, fist clenching on the rifle barrel. His only son. “Of course. You’re

still hunting the lion, I take it?”

“Oh, yes. And I’d have had it last night, I tell you, if it weren’t that my boys

are a pack of lily-livered savages, fit only for the laundry and the scullery.” His
hand went to his belt, and he turned sharply, then stopped as though realizing his
bullwhip was missing.

Roy closed his eyes briefly. “What happened?”

“We’d made a good kill—a great big male with a beautiful head—and were

heading home when one of those damnable Bateleurs flew overhead. You’d have
thought it was mustard gas, the way my boys behaved. Ran screaming as though
the devil himself was on their heels. Left us alone out there! Then that damned
young lion appeared out of nowhere and started chasing us. I had a couple of good
shots at it too, and I did my best, but with no loader and no beaters—well, it got
away.”

Roy thought of his dream, and his heart beat faster. “And your trophy?”

“Gone. When the boys came sniveling back this morning we went out after

it—it was just below the ridge here—and there’s nary a sign.” Haywood snorted. “I
knew how it would be. A pack of hyenas makes short work of a carcass!”

Roy opened his mouth and closed it again. Hyenas were the ultimate

scavengers, but to completely dispose of a carcass, bones and all, in a single night…
It was barely believable, but no less believable than a dead lion returning to life.

“Poor Rollie took fright last night, and I fear he’s not quite himself. I’d better

get on and find him. Good day, Bennett!”

Roy stared at Gerald Haywood’s retreating back, head spinning. He had to

find Ash and then get them both into hiding. There was no time to hunt or to
consult with Mambokadzi. With Haywood prowling the veldt, the only safety lay in
the cave.

Then, Roy vowed to himself, he would have the truth. The truth about Ash, so

golden, so beautiful, with his unexpected strength and magical gold-flecked eyes,
and the truth about the lion.

“Bennett, you cur!”

A shot rang out and Roy hit the ground rolling. Rocks slid under him, and he

pulled himself to a flat piece of ground in the trees at the side of the trail, staring all
around him for the source of the threat. He was dimly aware of a fiery throb in one
shoulder.

“You hid him! My filthy bitch-whelp son. I killed him, I tell you. I killed him,

and I won’t have it. This time, he’ll stay dead! And so will you!”

Sir Roland Haywood, rifle held to his shoulder, advanced slowly up the trail.

Roy saw madness glittering in the man’s eyes.

Roy struggled to his feet, taking what cover he could behind the narrow trunk

of a tree as he fumbled for his own gun.

“You can’t trick me, Bennett! You’ll pay, you and Ashcroft, just like the filthy

little slut that bore him! He should never have been born! Now get out here and die
like the dog you are!”

Roy thumbed the hammer off his service revolver. It seemed Gerald Haywood

hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said his brother wasn’t himself. Unless this is who
Ash’s father has been all along. Roy held the gun close to his chest. Memories of the
war tugged at the edge of his brain, but he resolutely pushed them away. Out here
it was just one-on-one—him and a madman.

And Ash.

A low, thrumming growl filled the air, a sound that seemed to come from the

very earth itself. The brush beside Roy parted and something huge and golden flew
through the air, directly at Ash’s father. Sir Roland fired, but the lion did not falter
in its charge. With a mighty roar, it sprang, knocking the baronet clear of the trail.

Roy could see the lion clearly now, and he was not in the least surprised to

recognize the young gold beast he had seen so recently in his dream. “Ash,” he
whispered, staring. “Kashiye. Shumba.”

“No! No!” Sir Roland’s terrified shrieks were nearly drowned out by the lion’s

bloodcurdling snarls as it attacked. Then, as quickly as it had begun, it fell back,
standing foursquare in the middle of the trail, staring upward.

Roy whirled, distracted by a shout of rage. Farther up the trail, Haywood fell

to his knees, bringing the huge barrel of his elephant rifle to bear. “This time,
man-eater!” he boomed.

“Ash,” Roy cried out, leaping forward. “Ash, they’ll kill you!” He ran out,

hands outstretched, with no clear intention past saving the lion—saving Ash.

His feet went out from under him and he fell to his knees. For a long moment,

his eyes locked with the golden lion’s; then the boom of Gerald’s elephant gun
shattered the stillness.

As Roy fought for breath, the lion bounded away into the undergrowth.

With an agonized scream, Sir Roland staggered across the trail, clutching his

chest. Blood poured from beneath his hands, and he toppled slowly forward, sliding
a little down the trail before he lay still.

Shoulder throbbing, Roy stared at the motionless body.

High above, a huge black eagle screamed and screamed again, then soared

away toward the sun.

* * * *

Hours later, Roy returned to the spring and gathered up their supplies. He

had done what he could, but for Sir Roland Haywood, there had been no help. The
baronet had taken the full blast of his brother’s rifle squarely in the heart and had
been dead before he hit the ground.

“I was shooting at the lion,” Gerald Haywood said, over and over. “You saw,

Bennett. You were there. You’ll vouch for me, old man? It was the lion.”

Roy had agreed. Little as he liked the man, it was nothing but the truth. Sir

Roland had been attacked by the lion; Haywood had tried to shoot the beast, and by
some tragic quirk of fate, Sir Roland had come between his brother’s gun and the
lion.

As the native bearers had set off for Thornside with their tragic burden,

Gerald Haywood had followed, a broken man, and Roy reflected that at last the
veldt could be at peace.

Roy buckled the two packs securely closed. They were lighter now, and not

just because of the meal he and Ash had eaten. The impala skin was missing, as

was the meat they had brought as a gift for Mambokadzi.

It was possible a predator had taken the food. But a predator small enough to

raid the packs without damage would have been hard-pressed to carry the tanned
impala hide. Roy had brought the things for Mambokadzi, and something told him
the wisewoman had claimed them. Roy wouldn’t have put it past Onai to have
snatched everything up and carried it away in her own two talons.

Roy raised his eyes to the sky, wincing a little as he felt his wound. Sir

Roland’s bullet had only grazed him, little more than a burn, but it would make
shouldering his pack difficult. Especially without Ash’s help.

Ash. The lion. Roy no longer doubted that they were one and the same.

A sudden silence fell over the veldt. The humming of insects fell still; the

birds ceased trilling. Even the gentle breeze had disappeared. Something thrilled
inside Roy, and he straightened up, turning toward the spring.

Standing at the edge of the water was a golden lion. As Roy stared,

mesmerized, the lion shook its mane and made a soft, chirruping purr that sounded
like a question.

“Ash,” Roy said softly. “Ash!” He started to run. The lion leaped too, and as it

landed, all legs and golden hair, it no longer looked like a lion at all.

Roy caught Ash in his arms and swung him off his feet, then kissed him with

everything he had.

“You knew me,” Ash gasped, reaching up for Roy. “Out there—you called

me—you knew me.”

“I’ve always known you,” Roy said, his voice breaking. “I was so afraid. I

thought they’d shoot you. I thought Haywood killed you.”

“I thought my father killed you. That’s why…I meant just to hide, but

then—” Ash broke off. “I wanted to tell you. I didn’t know how to explain.” He
hesitated. “I still don’t.”

Roy stared into Ash’s beautiful blue eyes, lit with gold, filled with hope and

fear. “Out here,” he said softly, “it’s usually best not to try.”

Roy released his lover, expression sobering. “Ash, your father is dead.”

“I know. By my hand? Or was it the gun?”

“The gun. Haywood’s gun. He shot at you, but somehow your father got in

between.”

“I’m glad,” Ash said painfully. “He was a bad man, Roy. He killed for

pleasure. He killed my mother, and he would have killed both you and I, if he could
have. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“I’m glad he’s dead too.” Roy put a hand on Ash’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

“There’s no need for us to go to the Zambezi now. Haywood will be busy enough with

the district officer. He might even return to England.” Roy picked up his pack. “We
will go to the cave. Whatever happens, we’ll be safe there.”

Ash helped Roy seat his pack, avoiding the wound in his shoulder, then

picked up the second bundle. “And what of Mambokadzi?”

Roy scanned the sky. Of Onai, there was no sign. Clouds were massing at the

horizon, climbing higher across the clear blue. Within a day, the rains would be
upon them with a vengeance, bringing with them a new season.

“Mambokadzi has taken her meat. And if one thing is sure, it is that she will

know where to find us,” Roy said with certainty. “Come on, Ash. It’s time for us to
go.”

Epilogue

The old woman and the older bird sat together in the rough mud hut, waiting

for the rains to fall.

In her village, the air was heavy with the promise of thunder, sharp and

tangy with ozone. Mambokadzi sniffed. The storm was only a few miles away now,
she knew, moving fast, picking up speed and power.

She smiled and hummed quietly as she sat on the reeds, watching the big

black bird stalk around its post. Onai felt the storm coming too. Mambokadzi could
see it in the set of her neck, the way she folded and refolded her wings as if trying to
find a position that pleased her. Mambokadzi reached for the pestle, still half-filled
with corn needing to become meal. “Onai, you think them boys know the storm’s on
its way, mm?”

But the chapungu didn’t answer, instead fixing her beady green eyes on the

corn. Mambokadzi began grinding it with measured, powerful strokes, rock against
rock. The day grew green and dark in the tiny hut, until the clouds had stolen
everything except the glowing firelight. The huge black eagle settled on her perch
with an angry chuff, head tucked in, shoulders bowed.

Mambokadzi cocked her head to one side, eyes unfocused. “You just might be

right, bird,” she said. “Those boys might be that storm itself.”

Many miles away in the foothills, the storm was in full swing.

The rain didn’t fall so much as it was thrown at the earth, huge gouts of it

striking the dirt and bouncing up to splash down a second time, trajectories
unknown. Wherever it finally landed, it pooled and ran across the hard-packed dirt,
seeping into cracks, lapped up by a land thirsty for relief.

Atop an ironstone boulder nestled in the tors, Roy lay naked in the warm,

gritty mud, rain pouring down all round. Ash sat astride him, rocking his hips hard
against Roy’s, their skin slick and dripping with rainwater. Roy gripped Ash’s
buttocks tightly, stomach taut, anchoring him. Ash’s head was thrown back to the
sky, and as he rode Roy’s cock to completion, he roared with pleasure.

Thunder boomed overhead, shaking the ground, and lightning followed soon

after, with a crack like the sky had torn open, as if the very land itself roared back.

Loose Id Titles by Kate Roman

Firebug

Lionheart

Man and Wolf

Kate Roman

Currently based in Northern California, Kate divides her time between

dreaming of beautiful, heartbroken men and the men who love them, and working
in IT support. She’s ably assisted by one cat, an assortment of dogs and several
rabbits, and doesn’t want to talk about the shameful state of her garden. She also
reads more books than can possibly be healthy.

Find out more about Kate at http://www.kateroman.com

Document Outline

Lionheart
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue

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