His Runaway Royal Bride
Page 7
Questions he thought he had solved clamoured in his mind. But he refused to sink in the morass of confusion. Answers would follow soon.
As he looked at her sleeping, his mind was filled with memories of their wedding night. From the very first kiss, their chemistry had been instant and sizzling but he had held back, subduing his gnawing hunger and controlling the desperate craving for her till he had his ring on her finger.
Though wanting her was like a fever in his blood, in deference to her innocence he had leashed his hunger, determined to make the experience unforgettable for her. He had made her weep with ecstasy and only when she had been reduced to a breathless, quivering mass of nerve-endings begging for release had he taken her. It had been the most explosive experience of his life.
Later, as she had lain snuggled into him, having fallen into an exhausted sleep, he had stroked her petal-soft cheek, traced her lush bottom lip, delicate shell-like ears and chiselled cheekbones, unable to believe that their physical union had been so amazing and intense, something he had never experienced. Despite her inexperience, she had matched his passion with equal fervour.
Even now, lying next to her sleeping form, he was caught in the grip of a tight coil of desire. He wanted to pull her back to him, crush her lips beneath his and lose himself in the passion she inspired just by being near. But he desisted, though it required a gargantuan effort to get up, leaving her untouched and sleeping.
Tucking the quilt securely around her, he lay down on the chaise longue. He would sleep here.
A muffled noise woke him. It was Meethi and she was walking towards him, slowly, stealthily. Keeping still, he watched from under lowered lids as she came towards him and lightly draped a coverlet over him. He couldn’t help the start he gave. After all that had happened, she was concerned about him being cold.
Meethi had woken up suddenly and had spied Veer, fast asleep on the chaise longue. Knowing he would be stiff and cold in the morning, she had picked up a coverlet, intending to cover him.
Having draped it softly over him, she turned to go when Veer pulled her wrist and tumbled her down upon him. He was awake.
Her colour looked better and her scent engulfed him, her hair falling in a silky curtain over his chest, her mouth inches away from his. Her nearness immediately fired his libido and a powerful awareness flared between them, jagged darts of heat spearing him. He wanted her. Her absence had honed his craving for her, and he couldn’t resist her when she was so close. The banked down fire of his ardour flared up suddenly, uncontrollably and he was lost.
Meethi looked at him, her eyes darting nervously, and her tongue snaked out to wet her lips. Sliding his fingers in her hair and cupping her head, Veer slanted his mouth over hers and took it in a deep, passionate kiss.
Meethi was aghast at his sudden onslaught but was helpless to stem her body’s answering response. Her lips softened and clung to his, and she lost herself in the passionate kiss. Physical pleasure assailed her senses and filled her with an aching sweetness, and she had no thought of protesting when he undid the buttons of her blouse and slipped off her bra.
Cool air caressed her breasts and then he was crushing her against his hair-roughened chest, nipping the tender spot just below her earlobe and laving it with his tongue.
Meethi was incoherent with passion and barely noticed when Veer got up, lifting her as if she weighed nothing and tumbled her on to the bed.
Her head was spinning and she lay there, breathless with need, shivering helplessly, her body breaking out in goose bumps as he shrugged off his clothes and removed her petticoat and panties. His hot, intense gaze kept her immobile and she lay supine, unable to move even a muscle, her body trembling with desire.
Slowly, excruciatingly, he lowered his hard masculine body over hers, and Meethi closed her eyes, unable to withstand his smouldering gaze.
Her body remembered his masterful touch and the pleasure he had given her and a deep longing rose inside her, engulfing her till she stiffened in a torment of need.
Her lips parted on a sigh and her breasts thrust themselves at him provocatively. She gave a moan when he cupped them reverently, his mouth capturing the pouting nipple. His gentle sucking besieged her, making her writhe against his hard and huge erection that pressed against her insistently. His muscular leg brushed against her thigh, and he gently rubbed his knee against her moist heat. Meethi felt seismic waves swelling and spreading throughout her body, and heat glazed her eyes.
Veer nuzzled her belly, planting kisses across her navel, and Meethi went out of control. She cried out in desperation and her hands moved over his corded shoulders, clutching them tight, her nails scoring them, and Veer felt a roaring inferno engulf him at her fervent responsiveness.
With a pained groan, unable to hold back any longer, he lifted her hips; his velvety shaft nudged at her entrance, and he found her wet, warm and ready. His hunger for this woman—his wife—rose like a deluge, smashing all coherent thought and, raising himself, he drove fiercely into her, feeling her legs wrap themselves around his hips. He paused for a moment, feeling incredibly fused, the primal connection that had always been between them rearing its head potently.
His hot, hard strength moved in powerful thrusts, branding her his, obliterating the years of separation. Meethi couldn’t bear the cataclysm of sensation that rose in her and she cried out; her hands moved down his shoulders desperately, urging him on, clamouring for release.
Submerged by the scorching fire of their passion, Veer thrust long and deep, breathing wildly, his pulse soaring and his muscles bunched up in tension.
Veer felt Meethi contract against him and intense waves of desire burgeoned into a firestorm of passion. His buttocks clenched as he sought to regain control and go slow but the rising tide of passion wouldn’t be stopped, and they both flew higher and higher, the urgency inside growing intolerably until, with a final thrust, all sensation convulsed and shattered into splinters of pleasure.
Meethi lay numb and boneless, eyes closed, feeling his throbbing heat which remained inside. She was filled with mortification, unable to move even a muscle. Unprotesting, she let Veer gather her close and slid into slumber.
Sleep didn’t come easy to Veer. Their intense lovemaking had quietened the hot blood pounding at his insides and calmed the raw ache that had been inside him since she had fled. As he held her close in his arms, he was overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. He felt energised and refreshed.
Why did Meethi always engender an insatiable hunger in him? His title and wealth had always attracted women, and he had never been short of girlfriends, but no woman had evoked the kind of response that Meethi stirred up. Ever since Meethi had appeared in his radius he had frequently felt helpless, held in the thrall of an urgent, intoxicating desire that she ignited.
From the beginning, Meethi, with her irreverent attitude and her laughing defiance, had bewitched him and elicited such strong feelings that he had rushed headlong into marriage.
He had thought they would be happy even though there were glaring differences between them. And their life together had been good. After some initial problems she had gradually adjusted. She had seemed happy and content. Or so he had thought. But, as later events proved, she had only been pretending.
Ugly questions reared their head malevolently. Why had she broken her vows so heartlessly? Why had she done what she had? His head buzzed, but he knew he would have his answers soon.
Towards dawn, he got up, leaving Meethi still asleep, and went for an early ride, hoping to clear the cobwebs in his mind.
When he returned he found a serious-looking Harshvardhan waiting for him in the library.
‘Bhaiya Maharaj, I should have spoken to you about something before Bhabhi Saheba disappeared. The elders of the family and many of our relatives all gang up and subject Bhabhi Saheba to cruel taunts. I’ve heard them so many times,’ he said, a tone of urgency in his voice.
‘What do you mean?’ Veer asked, puzzled.
‘I’ve never noticed them say a wrong word,’ Veer said, stunned. How could such a thing have escaped his notice?
‘They are very clever. They do it only when you are not there. They put her down, scorn her family background, accuse her of lacking in pedigree and tear her to shreds,’ Harsh said with visible distress.
Veer was filled with molten fury. He could never have thought that his uncles and aunts could stoop so low. Why had Meethi endured such cruelty?
The image of her ashen face, dark and bruised eyes, trembling hands and laboured breathing rose to torment him. Was this why she had looked fragile, breakable? The memory of how small and defenceless she had looked yesterday rose, and he felt fury clamp him. Enough. He would ensure such a thing never ever happened again.
‘How dare you insult my wife?’ he thundered at his uncles and aunts. He had ordered them to meet him at the younger Chacha Saheb’s mahal.
The four of them stood cowering, their terror palpable as they encountered Veer, his face like carved granite, eyes blazing, every muscle and sinew rigid with barely leashed control.
‘Veer beta, I was just…’ Chachi Saheb’s voice trailed off at the fury on Veer’s face.
The Chachi Sahebs looked away shiftily and the elder Chacha Saheb, clearing his throat, said in a placating voice, ‘I was just trying to tell Meethi to be more careful next time.’
‘I know what you said! How dare you point a finger at my wife?’ he said, livid.
He lashed at them furiously. ‘What pedigree are you flaunting? Our tainted and decayed family tree! Have you forgotten our dubious reputation and rotten history? Your lack of breeding is apparent in the way you have been stooping so low and breaking all standards of decency and kindness. Your so-called lineage is just an accident of birth. Meethi doesn’t lack pedigree or breeding—unlike you! She has never been mean and nasty. On the contrary, she has always respected you, even when you were being cruel and malicious. She has more breeding in her little finger than you have in your entire body!’
Looking at them, he said in a low deadly voice, ‘I don’t want to see any of you near my wife. And in future if I hear even a word out of place about her from you or any of our numerous relatives you will have to deal with me!’
They all said pleadingly, ‘No, no, we’re sorry if Meethi felt bad. We will never say anything in future.’ Everyone was afraid of Veer and the repercussions of being in his bad books.
Veer looked at them with blistering contempt and left. He had much to do.
Chapter Six
MEETHI WOKE UP feeling refreshed. For a moment, she remained still and then memory returned and she curled up and buried her head in the pillow, her face flushed with dark colour. Memories of Veer’s gentle touch and his tenderness as he had soothed her to sleep crept in unbidden.
It was an unfamiliar facet of Veer. In private, he had been a passionate and demanding lover but otherwise he’d not been given to physical gestures. Decorum and propriety were deeply ingrained in him and outside the bedroom he had always been unapproachable, cold and aloof.
In fact, whenever Meethi had hugged or kissed him spontaneously he would extricate himself carefully with a strange look on his face. In the beginning she hadn’t minded, but as the distance between them grew and it was brought home to her that Veer was probably embarrassed by her childish behaviour, her reserve had grown and she had got used to biting her tongue, keeping her feelings to herself and bottling up her emotions.
But now she was feeling rested. She hadn’t slept so well in ages and she was thankful that Veer was nowhere in sight.
She went to the bathroom to brush her teeth and came out to see Simran hovering with a tray in her hands.
‘Maharani Saheba, this juice is for you. Please have it.’ She held out a tall glass.
Meethi began to shake her head but Simran said, ‘Maharaj Saheb has insisted that you finish everything.’
Meethi knew that Veer’s commands were blindly followed; everyone was so much in awe of him. She gulped down the juice. Simran heaped some upma on a dainty plate and offered it to her.
Meethi began eating slowly and when she had finished she went for a shower. After this, she chose to wear the least heavy sari she could find. She stepped out of the room and found Simran standing at the door with a puja thali.
Meethi felt a strong sense of déjà vu envelop her. It had always been thus. Immediately after the morning bath it was customary to go to the puja room.
Meethi had always felt uncomfortable with the endless rituals and ceremonies that were followed in Veer’s family. The old mahal had an enormous puja room and two ever-present priests who were continuously engaged in various ceremonies.
Custom dictated that the daughter-in-law of the family would do the daily puja, and Maaji Saheb had immediately thrust the responsibility upon Meethi and ensured that she was kept busy participating in endless rituals. Nineteen-year-old Meethi had been too nervous and unsure to protest and she would get up at the crack of dawn and carry out her duties.
She took the thali and followed Simran. To her amazement, she found a completely transformed puja room.
Instead of a phalanx of idols, cluttered offerings of flowers and prasad and numerous incense sticks emitting smoke, there was just a single idol of Krishna with a bansuri on his lips right at the centre. It was a simple and serene sight. And there was no hovering priest.
She looked around and felt a sense of peace steal upon her. Having completed the rituals, she squatted down on the floor in front of the idol. She closed her eyes and felt awash with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes and her throat closed up.
What did the future hold for her? What trials and tribulations did she have to further undergo? Her baba had once told her that, according to the law of karma, one’s misery as well as happiness was the outcome of one’s own previous deeds. So she couldn’t really blame anyone for her predicament. She had been the designer of her own catastrophe.
As she looked back, she cringed at the naive girl that she had been. She felt disgusted when she recalled her immature behaviour. She had loved Veer and hadn’t cared if the whole world knew it. She would fawn over him; surprise him with emotional outpourings and physical demonstrations of affection. And when she felt that he hadn’t reciprocated appropriately, she would indulge in childish comebacks and temper tantrums. No wonder he had treated her like a young child who was to be humoured.
Veer came to the puja room and stood at the door, unseen. Meethi sat cross-legged on the floor, her hands folded reverently. Her wet hair hung down to her waist, leaving damp patches on the orange sari she was wearing. Sensing his presence, she turned, her glance colliding with his, hot colour pouring into her cheeks, and he felt his heart skip a beat.
She seemed the epitome of purity. A tiny red bindi adorned her beautiful face and black kaajal enhanced her almond-shaped eyes. Delicate bangles adorned her slender arms and the ghungroos of her pajeb clinked when she got up and moved towards him to offer the prasad.
Unbidden, scenes from their wedding crept in. His breath had caught when she had first appeared as he had stood waiting at his ancestral temple. Dressed in an orange lehenga, her head demurely covered by a long veil, her father’s arm around her, she had walked hesitantly towards him.
He hadn’t liked the concealing veil and had lifted it, revealing his beautiful, radiant bride who had blushed hotly.
The details of that day were etched in his memory. He remembered vividly the quiver in her lips when he had put sindoor in the parting of her hair, the start she gave when he gently put the mangalsutra around her swanlike neck and the
slight trembling of her delicate hands as they were placed in his larger ones.
As they had taken the saat phere by walking around the holy fire seven times, vowing to love and take care of each other, he had felt emotion flooding the dry, arid landscape of his inner being.
He remembered that as he had gazed at the shining face of his young wife he had silently vowed to always protect and treasure her. But he had failed his duty. A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had failed to protect his wife from the cruel, vitriolic comments.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asked gruffly.
Meethi lowered her eyes and replied stiffly, ‘I’m fine.’
‘I had no inkling about the family’s cruel behaviour,’ he said, his jaw taut with tension.
Meethi stared at him in mute surprise. How did he know? Suddenly she remembered that last night Harsh had begged her to tell Veer when she had remained silent. Had Harsh spoken to Veer? Had Veer believed him?
‘How long have they been behaving like this? Why did you never tell me about their nasty comments?’ he whispered softly.
He knew that his marriage to Meethi had been a shock for everyone, including his mother, who for years had been lining up suitable girls whom Veer had been persistently refusing. It had also raised eyebrows in their community, though no one had dared to say anything to him. But only now did it dawn on him that Meethi had borne the brunt of their vicious comments.
Meethi said forlornly, ‘They have never liked me. I tried to tell you once or twice but you told me that I was thinking too much and was being oversensitive.’
He had known that Meethi had found life at the mahal strange and, being young, impulsive and headstrong, had found it difficult to observe the customary protocol and decorum. She had committed several social faux pas that for the most part he had ignored, just as he had ignored the veiled censure of people like his uncles and aunts. And a couple of times when Meethi had seemed upset, he had arrogantly told her to ignore their reactions. He hadn’t realised that they were being so sadistic and brutal. Could this be the main reason for her running away?