Chapter Eight: No Turning Back
"Miller, the German sailor. What happened to him?" Samantha's frowning face was flushed and sheened with perspiration. She'd just fought free of Shane O'Neill's brawny arms and was standing in the middle of the trail with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. The hot sun added fuel to her frustration.
"The kid saw something," Shane roughly replied, picking up the empty canteen Samantha had dropped when the German sailor attacked her. "I told him he'd be safer staying in the village till we could transfer him to a prisoner of war camp. Now he's delirious, probably some sort of tropical fever. We'll take him back to the village. Maybe they can help him, but I doubt it." The Irish sailor shrugged his broad shoulders, like a man used to sudden death. Then he muttered a command in the guttural native language to a young boy who grinned and ran off with Samantha's canteen.
"Maybe he was delirious when he saw it . . . whatever it was." Samantha shuddered, remembering the senseless words the German had screamed while trying to choke the life out of her. A thousand eyes, he'd said. He has a thousand eyes.
Who had a thousand eyes?
"Here, drink this." O'Neill handed her canteen back to her. All around, the native warriors were picking up their spears and other gear, preparing to resume their long trek to the village.
"Thanks." Samantha drank deeply, wishing she could have questioned the German prisoner before he lost consciousness. The water in her canteen was much cooler than she expected, as though drawn from a deep well or an underground spring. There was also a slightly bitter taste, no doubt caused by mineral deposits in the underlying bedrock. Really it was not unpleasant.
"That's more like it," Shane said, watching her drink. "Better get that sun helmet back on as well. I can carry you if you faint, but we don't want you keeling over before we reach the village."
"I'm perfectly fine." Samantha scowled as she capped her canteen. Shane was only teasing, but the sun was very hot. Samantha saw herself fainting, falling into his arms. She raised her face to his. Their eyes met just as she adjusted her sun helmet, his big hands gently framing her slim shoulders.
"You gave me a real scare, beautiful. When you screamed, I . . ."
"Shane, I . . ." Samantha wanted to say that she trusted the Irish renegade. She was absolutely certain that whatever horror lurked in the jungle could be conquered by the two of them. But she found that the urge to kiss him was stronger than the urge to speak. Shane surely felt the same way, for his lips claimed hers just as distant drums began pounding in the village.
"Just a few miles." Shane smiled down at her. "We should be there in time for dinner. Hungry?"
Samantha nodded. "Actually, I'm starving." Her cheeks were flushed, but this time it wasn't from the heat. "Shane, whatever Miller saw, it must have been something the natives have dealt with for centuries. Can't they tell us what's going on?"
"They can't tell us," Shane informed her. "But they can show us. After the feast comes the ceremony. Come on, let's get going."
"The ceremony?" Samantha felt a thrill of fear, battling the innocent thrill of triumph after her first kiss. She really didn't know anything about Shane O'Neill, or about what awaited her at the village.
But she'd come too far, and now there was no turning back.
