Beyond Sunrise by Candice Proctor Read Free Book Online Page B

he could run for miles and miles without giving it a thought.
    At the junction of the two paths he paused, his head down, his hands braced on his thighs, his eyes closed as he gulped in air. Swiping an arm across his dripping forehead, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at footprints. Not the even, artificially rounded prints he'd seen left by Miss McKnight's sensible lace-up shoes in the muddy stretches of the path from the beach, but big, splayed-toed, natural footprints, the kind left by bare feet. Lots and lots of bare feet. They'd come through here before Miss McKnight, but not long before.
    "Bloody hell," Jack whispered, his gaze following the footprints—one set shod, the others not—up the trail that led toward the summit. Straightening, he stood at the juncture of the two paths, torn between the driving urge to keep going north—deep into the safety of the jungle and far, far away from Simon Granger and the jolly boat full of armed British sailors who were doubtless at this very minute swarming over the Sea Hawk —and another compulsion, a compulsion that was unwelcome and crazy to the point of being suicidal.
    He told himself he could be wrong, that the natives who'd left these footprints might not be cannibals—or even if they were cannibals, they might not be hungry. He told himself Miss India McKnight had known all about the danger of cannibals when she'd made up her stubborn, opinionated mind to come here and study the Faces of Futapu. He told himself she'd be down the mountain soon enough, anyway. Jack knew her type, always double-checking everything and arriving early for any appointment. And if she did run into trouble with the natives, she had the bloody British navy sitting right offshore, to rescue her.
    Except, of course, that Simon Granger might not believe Patu. What if the British thought Patu was lying about the existence of a Scotswoman in a split tartan skirt and pith helmet? What if the Barracuda forced Patu to up anchor and sail away before the three hours Jack had given her were up?
    What would happen to Miss India Bloody McKnight then?
    For a dangerously long moment, Jack stood at the crossroads, wavering, turning first one way, then the other. He even took three decisive steps on the trail north, away from Simon Granger and India McKnight and the men who'd left those ominously numerous footprints. Then, swearing, he swung around to start the steady climb up to the smoking summit of Mount Futapu.

    Her sketches of the so-called Faces of Futapu complete, India glanced at her watch and decided she still had enough time left for a closer inspection of the rim of the volcano.
    Futapu's crater was a good three-quarters of a mile wide and about half as deep, a poisoned-looking area of bare stained rock and gray ash half obscured by hissing steam. Venturing as close as she dared, India stared down into a fiery cauldron of red and orange molten rock, and knew a moment of humbling awe. Here were the very bowels of the earth, she thought, laid bare to the eyes of man. As she watched, a fountain of orange lava shot out of one of the crater's holes with an explosion that was like the firing of a cannon. Flaring and spitting, the fiery eruption climbed higher and higher, then suddenly plopped back to earth, blackened and spent.
    It was then that India noticed what looked like a stone platform, some three or four hundred feet away, near the gurgling, glowing hole. She couldn't be certain from this distance—if only she weren't cursed with this blasted eyesight!—but it looked very much as if the platform might not be entirely natural. Her curiosity piqued, she glanced at her watch, and pursed her lips in indecision. By rights, she should be getting ready to head back toward the beach. If she went to investigate the platform, she'd be cutting things tighter than she'd like. But she had been planning to leave sooner than she really needed to, and it wasn't that tar to the platform. If it took