by Lynn Kerstan
A little frown. “No.”
He kept his gaze on her hands. “Will you turn them over?”
She did, exposing her palms.
“Do you find it troublesome to use them? Are you required to make a great many adjustments?”
“I—no. They’ve always been like this, so I grew up using them as they are. Most things are simple enough. I couldn’t play the harp, I suppose, or the pianoforte. But I used to play the lute, and . . . No. They give me little trouble.”
He held out his own hands, large, dark, monstrous hands with long fingers and a sword-wielder’s knuckles. And scars. A great many scars. “As you see, I’ll win no prizes for elegance with these. But they do the job they’re intended for, and yours do the same. So why are we having this demonstration?”
She withdrew her hands, color flagging her pale cheeks. “I thought you should know. The condition is inherited.”
“Which will not, as I understand things, affect me in the slightest.” Tension was making him more abrupt than usual, and his usual was bad enough. “What else, Miss Holcombe?”
She braced herself, the way a soldier does before advancing into enemy fire. For the barest moment, her small white teeth bit at her lower lip before disappearing again.
He held his breath. What would it be? “Go to hell”? “I need more time to consider”? Worst of all, “Varden”?
And then she drew closer still, her face a mask of concentration, her gaze focused on his left shoulder and arm as if she’d never seen anything like them before.
He knew better than to move. That was about all he did know. Small bare fingers moved to his arm where the too-small kurta fitted around his bicep. Her fingertips touched the hard surface, skated down it, then up to his shoulder. She explored the shape of him, the swell of muscle, the taut sinews. The muslin shirt felt like armor between his flesh and hers. There was pressure as she stroked him, but the intimacy of skin to skin was denied him, and just as well. He could not have borne it—
She was there. The tip of one finger crossing to his bare chest, tickling at the wiry hair before sliding up to his throat, and then the whole of her hand against the side of his neck. He held perfectly still, as he would have done for the stroke of the headsman’s ax.
She held still as well, for what seemed an endless time. She must feel his pulse beating in his veins, the air searing his throat when he drew it in as if through a reed, him underwater, hiding from an enemy.
His eyes had closed sometime along the way. He sensed nothing but what he felt where her hand touched him. The universe gathered there, starlight and moonlight and spinning planets. His head was spinning.
The hand left him. Then came the feather brush of her fingers over the stubble on his chin. He nearly broke. Nearly pushed her away before he lost all control and wrapped his arms around her and carried her to the floor.
He felt nothing. Heard the faint sound of her slippers on the carpet, sensed cool air where she had been. He opened his eyes.
She’d not gone far. Only a short way and beyond arm’s reach, where she was standing quietly, looking at him from intent blue eyes.
“I will cross the river with you,” she said.
Expecting something altogether different, he didn’t at first take her meaning. And then he understood, and his heart lurched, and the ground opened under him. Or his feet left it, he could not be sure. He’d slipped his anchor, that was certain. And she . . . ah, she had blessedly lost all her native caution and good sense.
“Very well,” he said, commendably restrained, as if she’d consented to no more than a stroll in the garden. “I’ll see to the arrangements. We should act quickly”—before she can change her mind—“and have the wedding here”—because he did not trust what she’d say or do beyond this prison. “Is that agreeable?”
“’Twere well it were done quickly,” she quoted with a humorless smile. “Have you instructions for me?”
Jagged teeth and claws now, to hold him at bay. Not all her good sense had gone missing. “A request, rather. Hospitality is embedded in the bones of Punjabis, and they will find, even in a marriage of convenience like ours, an excuse for a celebration. If you can bear to do so, I hope you will allow them the pleasure of it. But if you prefer, I will ask them to let this arrangement pass without notice.”
“I’ve no objection,” she said after an interval, “so long as we needn’t pretend to some sort of romantical feelings for each other.”
“Of course not. They would catch us out immediately. Have you any requests for yourself? Questions?”
“What should I call you? Tallant? Your Grace? What do you prefer?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Using his Christian name, he supposed, would imply more familiarity than she was ready to accept. “But I’m not accustomed to either of those, so don’t be surprised if I fail to respond.”
“You should call me Miranda,” she said, “or Mira. And while we are here, at least when we are in company, I’ll use the name your Punjabi friends use. How is it spelled?”
“S-Y-R.”
“I would not have guessed that. Well, if there is nothing more, Your Grace, I shall bid you good night.” Her curtsy sparkled with frost.
He understood she was reclaiming what territory she could, setting boundaries, advising him that acceptance did not mean surrender. And he knew that what he had intended to tell her, the words of reassurance he’d meant to give her, would be unwelcome now. The last decision belonged to her, and the last word as well.
He bowed, saying nothing, and watched her move with feminine grace to the door. Then she was gone, taking with her all his strength. Sinking cross-legged onto the white fur rug, he buried his face between trembling hands.
Chapter 25
Mira awoke, glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece, and sat bolt upright in bed. Past noon! She could not remember when she had slept so late. For a dozen years, her nights had been restless, wretched, plagued by nightmares. She invariably woke before dawn, exhausted and with a heavy sense of dread at what the day would bring. But not today.
Today she had nothing to do but what others wanted her to do. She cast around for some resentment at that and to her surprise, found none. But after the life-altering decision to cross the river with His Grace the Serpent of Tallant, she’d probably exhausted her capacity for making hard choices.
For now. He would not always have his way, nor would she always be so compliant.
Her wedding day. How had it come to this? And his friends, who were going to make a great fuss of it, must be wondering if she ever intended to come out of her room. She leaped from bed, dressed quickly in the dress she’d worn the previous night, and went in search of her father.
He was sitting in a square of sunshine by a window that looked out on the courtyard, one of his favorite spots because the children often played there. A young boy, perched on a chair beside him, was taking his turn reading aloud, as all the boys had been instructed to do on the excuse that they needed to practice their English. But it was done as a kindness to her father, she knew. All the people in this household had been extraordinarily kind, and today she would have a chance to repay them in small measure by playing the part of a not-unwilling bride.
When she came into the room, the boy closed the book, jumped to his feet, and gave a shy bow.
“Where is the duke?” she asked, horrified to hear the question come out of her mouth. She had resolved while brushing her teeth to pretend no interest in his whereabouts.
“Gone, memsahib, before sunrise. To find a . . . a guru, I think.”
Someone to marry them. Every time she thought about binding herself to Michael Keynes, the air around her grew thin.
“Thank you, Balvan.” His grin confirmed she’d got his name right. “Will you tell Nageena Kaur that when I have spent a l
ittle time with my father, I shall be glad to help make ready for the wedding?”
“I think it is they who will make you ready, memsahib. That is how it was for my sister, who was a bride only a short time ago. But perhaps it is different for English ladies. I will take your message, though.”
He put the book aside, respectfully, and scampered off. In the silence that followed, she became aware of female voices, like the chatter of birds, rising from every part of the house. Some of the women were preparing a feast, she could tell from the odors wafting into the room—cinnamon and ginger, cardamom and cloves, roasted meats and oils and the clarified butter they called ghee.
There was music too, of a sort. Instruments being tuned. Flutes and bells. Somewhere, a drum thumping. A group of children practicing a song.
Oh, dear. She turned to her father, who was regarding her with concerned eyes. Curtain up, she thought. Act One of “The Wedding Farce.” With a smile that probably didn’t fool him in the slightest, she put the alphabet card on his lap and set about to convince him that she was content to wed Michael Keynes and was certain that in time, she would come to love her husband.
Which was about as likely as her becoming prime minister.
Three hours later, Mira had been bathed, scrubbed with rough sponges, scoured with hard-bristled brushes, and manicured. An elderly woman called Yaya brushed her hair so hard she was surprised any of it remained attached to her scalp. Kohl was applied to her lashes, and then, to her profound dismay, rouge to her nipples. Even worse, the ladies anointed her with delicate perfumes in places where she didn’t like to admit she had places.
All of this, she understood, in preparation for her wedding night. All for the pleasure of her husband.
And that caused her to imagine him stroking her soft, clean hair. Uncovering her body to reveal her well-buffed skin and the pinker-than-usual tips of her breasts. Bringing his face close enough to detect subtle fragrances in out-of-the-way crevices and folds.
He had warned her that the time might come when he could not resist taking what he had every legal right to take. And these treasonous women were doing everything they could to make her irresistible.
By midafternoon she was standing on a knee-high wooden stool, surrounded by the seamstresses who had spent much of the day assembling her salwar kameez. The embroidered trousers and loose calf-length tunic were scarlet—an auspicious color—and topped with a mantle that she was supposed to drape over her head during the ceremony. Perched on an adjacent stool, one of the women was arranging an ornament in her hair so that a jeweled pendant hung over her forehead.
Chafing to escape all this kindhearted pampering, Mira welcomed the vibration that told her rescue was at hand. Not long after, her bridegroom was standing in the doorway, regarding her with candid appreciation.
“I am not,” she informed him, “wearing a nose ring.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” he said, grinning. “I had intended to lead you around by the chain.”
Nageena Kaur approached him then, and they spoke together quietly while the last of the pins were set in the hem of Mira’s kameez. A disappointed expression on her face, Nageena left the room.
Curious, Mira watched the unkempt duke come over to her and extend his hand.
“I ran into some difficulties,” he said, leading her into the passageway. “At the first two parishes, the cleric took one look at the name on the Special License and refused to perform the ceremony. They’d got word of my incarceration in the Tower, it seems, but not of my release, and figured I was on the run.”
“We are not to be married, then?”
“Don’t look so pleased. The third parish was the charm, and if Reverend Filbert doesn’t change his mind in the interim, he’ll be here after choir practice. I’m estimating eleven o’clock. He didn’t much care that I might be a murderer, but he declined to conduct a wedding in a pagan household until I agreed to repair the church roof, supply the rectory with new curtains and carpets, and endow the steeple with a brass tenor bell.”
“He strikes a hard bargain. What will he think to see me in this costume?”
“He won’t. I just explained to Nageena Kaur that the ceremony must be private—you, me, your father, and Hari—and that we’ll be wearing proper British attire. That’s the other reason I was gone so long. I had to find a tailor, who is stitching something together for me. Hari will bring it back, along with a carriage and a driver. Immediately after the wedding, we’ll set out for London.”
“I see. Do you ever intend to consult me, Your Grace, about where I am to be taken, or when?”
He cast her a puzzled look. “I’m consulting you right now. I made the arrangements because they had to be made, but you are free to object, or to propose an alternate plan.”
“To which you will pay absolutely no attention.”
“You’ll have my full attention, Miranda. You always do. Nonetheless, we have to be in London tomorrow. I’ve directed announcements to the newspapers, but the chief magistrate will demand to see the marriage lines before calling off his hounds. And I have a lot to do there. Jermyn requires to be buried. Norah’s younger girl, Catherine, is at Longview, alone except for a few servants and the Runner I hired to watch out for her. I want to bring her to stay with us until her mother and sister arrive, which could be at any time. And—”
“Very well, sir. I accept London. But must we reside at Berkeley Square?”
“The Palazzo, I think. You’ll need to stay with me, to keep up appearances, so Hari will relocate to your cottage. Until we’re settled, your father will remain here. We don’t want to move him more often than is necessary, which is why we’re not marrying in the church. Is there anything I have failed to cover?”
She repressed a snarl. “There is only one thing worse than you arbitrarily making all the decisions, and that is me not finding any reason to quarrel with you about them. It’s maddening.”
“I know. Hari used to do the same to me, except his rulings came attached to a sermon.”
They were nearly at the quarter of the house where she and her father had their rooms. “There is one ritual,” he said, “that usually takes place among the women the night before the wedding. I have asked Nageena Kaur to give it over to me. Will you come, in an hour’s time, to the room where we spoke last night?”
A female ritual, and this primal specimen of masculinity wished to take it on himself? Just when she imagined she’d deciphered his character, Michael Keynes did something altogether unexpected. “Of course,” she said, deplorably curious. “Shall I change first into . . . into Christian clothing?”
He laughed. “The Reverend Filbert would be pleased to hear that. But no. We’ll honor our hosts by wearing traditional clothing until time for the ceremony. Agreed?”
“A turban for you, then?”
“I am not of the blood or of the faith,” he said, dismissing her with a gesture. “But they’ll deck me out in garish colors, and put a knife in my sash and a sword in my hand. If you laugh at me, I’ll have you fitted with that nose ring.”
When Mira set off an hour later for her rendezvous, all the silks and ornaments had been put aside. For this appointment, she had chosen a spinsterish dove-gray dress and matching gloves, and taken the precaution of scraping her treacherous hair into a tight knot at the back of her head.
There was nothing seductive about her now. Nothing to draw the heated look he’d cast on her when she stood before him in crimson silk and filigree silver. She’d made sure of it in front of her mirror. The only visible remnant of her adorning, the kohl on her lashes, gave her the appearance of a startled doe, but otherwise, she looked exactly like what she was—a tense, angry, fearful woman.
In the large parlor where she had sealed her fate last night, Michael Keynes waited for her, looking ominously relaxed and confident. He was sitting back o
n his heels, the plush white fur rug beneath him, his hands loose on his knees. All the light in the room was there—a score of short, fat candles scattered across the large table, a pair of tall candle holders at each corner, burning logs in the hearth behind him. At her entrance he rose in a fluid motion, templed his hands beneath his chin, and bowed.
The women must have been sewing for him as well. The loose trousers and straight-cut tunic were silky, lamb-white, and fit his lean, muscled body exactly. For color, a wide, sleeveless, hip-length waistcoat, scarlet to match her salwar kameez, was embroidered with silver thread and trimmed with sequins. He looked exotic. Alien. Magnificent.
Also like a Keynes—strong willed and savage.
She approached him with all the confidence she did not feel. Within a few hours, she would be his wife. In his power. And the worst of it was, she was growing used to the idea.
Avoiding his potent gaze, she looked down at the large table. Square and little more than a foot high, it was laid out with basins and a water pitcher, towels and napkins, metal devices and glass bowls, and small ceramic dishes containing . . . well, she’d no idea what, except for the lemon.
His knife was there as well, the one she’d returned to him, and a block of wood. He’d been whittling, but had produced only a number of wands no larger than stickpins except for one end, which was wider and flatter than the other.
“This is the Mehndi ki Raat,” he said. “The Night of Mehndi, in which the women gather to sing traditional songs, adorn the hands of the bride, and enlighten her about the mysteries of the wedding night and how to please her bridegroom. I thought, given our circumstances, that you might wish to be spared the lesson, not to mention the teasing that goes along with it.”
“Yes. But why do any of this? For Nageena Kaur?”
“The feasting and music and dancing are for the family. But this, Miranda, is to honor you.” His voice carried a note she had not heard in it before, a resonance of uncertainty. “Will you permit me to perform the service?”
