Mark of the Lion by Suzanne Arruda Read Free Book Online Page B

an ambulance in France during the war.”
    “I say,” Neville called back to Jade. “That’s bloody exciting. Red Cross?”
    “No. Hackett-Lowther unit,” answered Jade. She held on to the car seat as the vehicle jolted over the remains of a termite mound. “Mostly British girls. I was at Winsor College for a year and joined up. We were attached to the French Third Army at the front lines.”
    “Bloody marvelous,” he exclaimed. “Madeline, she must stay with us for a while. You can be my wife’s latest pet, Miss del Cameron,” he added over his shoulder.
    Jade didn’t care to be anyone’s pet, but the opportunity seemed too good to pass up. Making personal inroads without having to use stuffy letters of introduction seemed nothing short of miraculous. Besides, these people were anything but pretentious, an affectation she hated. And if they’d been farming a long time, perhaps they knew about other pioneers, including Gil Worthy. Jade had decided not to openly announce her mission until she could glean more information. When she held at least of glimmer of knowledge of who the principal characters were in this melodrama, then she’d openly admit her underlying purpose.
    Madeline joined her husband’s cause with a wholehearted urgency. “Neville is quite right. I would love to have you stay at our farm. Of course, it’s nothing so nice as the Norfolk. The town people call the Norfolk the House of Lords. We’re more the House of Commons, but we do have a good cook and a spare room. Do say you’ll join us.” Mrs. Thompson nearly jiggled in her seat from excitement.
    “I’d be delighted,” Jade replied. “As long as you’re sure I won’t be any bother.”
    They both poohed the idea, exclaimed their own delight at her agreement, and pressed her for information about America.
    “Ah, here we are,” exclaimed Neville just as Jade began to tire of repeated inquiries concerning wild Indians and desperadoes.
    They’d driven about fifteen miles out of Nairobi to Ruiru, a small river crossing that boasted a hut or two. Papyrus waving plumed tufts in the air like a Persian cat’s tail announced the welcome presence of water.
    “There’s a dam here,” Madeline explained as she straightened her hat, “and a flume carries the water down to Nairobi’s generator.”
    Several Africans in rust brown robes and carrying spears stood next to the flume, staring down into it and shouting, “Kiboko.”
    “Kiboko,” echoed Jade. “Doesn’t that mean hippopotamus?”
    Neville hopped out and reached in back for a double rifle, the ever popular Enfield. “Correct, Miss del Cameron. Perhaps you and Maddy should stay here. Hippos are a nasty lot when they’re angry, and they always seem to be angry.”
    Mrs. Thompson frowned at her husband’s back and looked at Jade to see what she would do. Jade watched the growing number of people and decided, no matter how dangerous the hippo, the greater danger sat more with high-spirited and heavily armed hunters shooting each other in the cross fire. In that case, she’d be no safer from a stray bullet by sitting in the car than standing at the flume.
    “I’m going to take a look,” Jade said. The two women joined the growing ranks of spectators at flumeside. Out of that crowd, three men argued over resolving the situation.
    “Well, are we going to shoot it or not?” demanded an old man dressed in black-tie evening attire. He carried a Mauser rifle and looked as if he thought this was a formal safari. His drooping white walrus mustache jiggled as he spoke.
    “It’s not full grown,” answered a slender young man. He wore jodhpurs and riding boots, and his smooth baby-face features made him look more like a teenaged boy who should be under adult supervision than a hunter. Jade recognized him as the young man at the Norfolk who preferred the hyenas eat natives rather than his cattle, and felt her right fist tighten again.
    “What bloody difference does that make?”