LIONHEART

Kate Roman

www.loose-id.com

Lionheart
Copyright © March 2012 by Kate Roman
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eISBN 978-1-61118-778-6
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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