Her Master's Touch

by Patricia Watters

  "And I should thrash you for your impertinence," Damon said.

  Smiling ruefully, Eliza replied, "With due respect, my lord, I must remind you that I am merely a simple gypsy girl with a limited knowledge of decorum."

  "That's pure rubbish," Damon said. "You may be gypsy, but you're far from simple. And, I suspect you have a damned good knowledge of decorum, though for the life of me I can't figure out how you've come by it. Maybe you can fill me in."

  "I told you, I worked as a ladies maid."

  Damon saw her gaze falter. She was lying. She also possessed schooling and finesse beyond that of an ordinary Eurasian. He saw it in the graceful manner in which she held her hands when she gestured, and in the way she stood straight and held herself erect. Maybe she'd been trained as a courtesan. Maybe, as a man's mistress. But he knew damned well she hadn't spent many years roaming with gypsies. He was curious, though, as to why she'd taken up with them at all, and he intended to root it out of her, eventually.

  "As for your behavior," he said, "I suggest you give careful thought to your conduct when in the presence of Begum Mara."

  "Begum Mara?" Eliza looked at him in amusement. "She claims royalty?"

  Damon's jaw tightened. "That's no concern of yours. But you will address her as Begum Mara. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, my lord," she said, dutifully. "I will strive to be more decorous and to speak with respect and reverence to your precious little—" she stopped short.

  "My precious little what?" Damon asked. When she didn't reply he said, "Go ahead. I insist. My precious little what?"

  "Peagoose." Eliza patted a smile. "Forgive me, my lord, but I find it difficult to consider with respect someone who is—" she stopped short again.

  "Who is what?"

  "I don't believe you really want to know."

  "Oh, but I do. Someone who is what?"

  "Very well. Someone who is..." she paused.

  "Yes. Who is what?"

  "Nothing more than a commonplace courtesan."

  Damon couldn't argue her point. He'd given a valuable pigeon's blood ruby to a maharaja in return for releasing Mara from the zenana. "And you are an impudent chit."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way," Eliza said, "But you wanted to know what I was about to say and I told you. In the future I shall hold my tongue."

  "Fine. You do that."

  "Well, I'd best find my way to the sitting room. You did say it was just down the hallway, didn't you?" She stood looking up at him expectantly, waiting for his dismissal.

  "Yes... just down the hallway…" Damon caught the aroma of sandalwood and found the effect unsettling. His eyes rested on a pair of parted lips. Lips he intended to sample in the very near future. Stepping aside for her to pass, he said, "Keep in mind that my butler takes an accounting of all the silverware, every day."

  Green eyes flared. "I am not a thief," she said. "I am willing to make things right because I have done you an injustice, and I assure you, I am here in that capacity only."

  Her words had the distinct ring of a lie. Damon resolved to watch her closely, although he wasn't certain why he should even keep her on. She'd been nothing but trouble from the moment he'd set eyes on her. But he wasn't ready to let her go. At the horse fair she'd given him a glimpse of what she had to offer, and he intended to collect. "If you want to make things right," he said, "you’ll see to ridding my bedchamber of a family of mice who invade my quarters nightly."

  Her eyes widened. "Mice, my lord? But, surely you don't expect me to come into your bedchamber at night... for mice."

  Damon's mouth curved with an ironic smile. "If you come to my bedchamber at night, gypsy girl, I pray it will not be for mice.”

  “And I can assure you, I would not come for any other reason.”

  The image of an enticing gypsy wench, warm and naked and curled in his arms, filled his mind's eye. It would happen, though not tonight.“Then I'll expect you to prepare the room before I retire for the night and clean up the mouse remains in the morning after I leave. You do know the procedure for eliminating mice, don't you?"

  "No, my lord. I've never been given that duty."

  As Damon peered down at her, he resisted the urge to touch her face. Her skin looked as smooth as porcelain, as unblemished as a child's. He could only imagine how the rest of her would look laying naked against silk sheets. "You'll find corks in the kitchen," he said, redirecting his thoughts to the issue of the mice. "Slice the corks crosswise and as thin as a rupee, have Cook stew them in grease, and place them near the mouse hole, which you’ll locate when you clean my bedchamber. The mice will eat the corks and die. In the morning, you can dispose of them, clean up the bits of cork, and scrub the floors."

  Batting her eyes, Eliza said, "Tomorrow is Sunday. Surely I’m not expected to work seven days a week."

  "You have not yet worked an hour."

  "But, Mrs. Throckmorton insists I attend church."

  "And so you will... After you rid my bed chamber of mice. And so that I am out of the room in time for you to take care of things before church, I will rise with the six o'clock gong," he said, magnanimously.

  "Very well my lord," she replied. "Your wish is my command." Dipping a demure curtsy, she turned and walked away.

  Damon watched the graceful sway of her hips as she sashayed down the hallway. Perhaps he would send Mara back to her maharajah. Then he could install a certain gypsy miss in the bungalow. Yes. That idea pleased him.

  ***

  The sound of Mrs. Throckmorton's irksome voice thrummed in Eliza's head: ‘Not so much soda in your pail. Scrub harder, harder. Up and down. Not crosswise on the boards, you stupid girl. There are still spots. See here, and here, and here. Leave no spots!’ She'd hovered over Eliza until Eliza felt as if the walls were closing in. By seven, Eliza still had corks to prepare. But for that, she’d work outside where the air was fresh.

  From the kitchen scullions she procured a lantern, matches, several coals, lard, a long-handled spoon, a cutting board, and a copper kettle. Gathering her supplies, she set up behind the smokehouse. While grease heated in the kettle, a multitude of nocturnal vagabonds fluttered around the coals like multi-colored sparks. From every direction came the sounds of night: cicadas with their ceaseless whirring, frogs croaking in unison, the brain-fever bird screaming an ascending brain-fever, brain-fever, brain-fever.

  She inhaled the incense of night, the breath of the wind carrying with it a blend of verbena and mignonette and warm earth. Pressing her hand to the soil, she felt the heat of the day against her palm. Scooping up some dirt, she formed a round flat cake, as if making a dirt pie...

  ‘Humpti-tumpti gir giya phat...'

  "Ayah?" she said aloud, then wondered why she'd done so. When she was a child, at Shanti Bhavan, she knew she'd had an Indian ayah, but she had no recollection of the woman. But the string of words had come as if from Ayah's lips. Faceless, elusive Ayah. ‘Humpti-tumpti gir... Humpti-tum... Hum...’ She closed her eyes, grappling for the phrase, but it was slipping away. And moments later, all that captured her attention was the dirt cake she held in her hand. Eyeing it indifferently, she tossed away.

  Unlashing a small knife from a sheath strapped to her leg, she began slicing corks into thin wheels until a mound of round disks rose beside her cutting board. She tossed the corks into the grease and stirred, then allowed them to soak. She had just set the spoon aside when Lord Ravencroft appeared. Peering into the kettle, he said, "What's this?"

  "Corks for the mice, my lord," she replied.

  He crouched and sat back on his heels. Lifting her knife from the cutting board, he tipped it toward the lantern. The carved ivory handle shone, and the blade flashed bright. He studied it more closely. "The workmanship is good," he said. "Where did you get it?"

  "It belonged to my mother," Eliza replied.

  Damon touched the knife tip to his finger and a drop of blood emerged. "Wicked little devil," he said. "Is this what you use for—" he lifted a questioning
brow "—tattoos?"

  "No," Eliza replied, "I use this." She pulled a bamboo tube as thin as an artist's brush from her knot of hair, sending black tresses tumbling about her shoulder. Twisting off a cap on one end of the tube, she removed a bamboo needle. "And these are my dyes." She raised the gold chain around her neck. Vials hung from it like colorful glass baubles.

  He eyed her dubiously. "Who are your customers?"

  "Mostly Hindu girls," she said. "They decorate their arms with flowers and animals."

  Damon returned the knife. "Would you tattoo me?"

  Eliza slipped her knife into the sheath lashed to her leg. "Perhaps sometime."

  "How about now?"

  She looked at him with a start. She'd done many tattoos by lamplight, but never alone with a man in the seclusion of woods. "It's dark here."

  "I'll hold the lantern." Eyes, black as night, danced with fiery sparks. "I insist."

  Eliza shifted nervously. The thought of pricking the skin of Lord Ravencroft made her chest feel tight... breathless, in fact. "Very well," she said, her voice shaky. "Where do you want the tattoo, and what kind of design would you like?"

  Damon shrugged out of his shirt. His eyes flickered with amusement as he placed a hand over his heart and said, "I want it here. And I want you to tattoo the name, Eliza."

  She stared at his broad muscular chest. The thought of her hands on his bare flesh brought flutters in her belly and a warm flush in her cheeks. "My lord, I could not do that," she said. "What would... Begum Mara think?"

  "Begum Mara and I have parted company."

  "You have?" His words made Eliza warm all over. It also made her feel uneasy. Lord Ravencroft was without a mistress. And his eyes shone far too bright. Obviously he'd planned this little parley. Perhaps had designs on her this evening. But what he requested was out of the question. "I still cannot tattoo my name over your heart," she said. "Tattoos are permanent. It could be awkward for you... at certain times."

  Damon's eyes held amusement. "Then, what do you suggest I have you place here?" he asked, his hand still over his heart.

  "I suggest a floral design, or perhaps an animal," she replied.

  "Fine. I put myself in your hands. I also leave the design to your discretion—" he gave her a wicked grin "—or indiscretion." He sat on the ground and leaned against a tree.

  "Very well. I'll do a tattoo of a—"

  "Let it be a surprise," he said.

  "As you wish."

  With a piece of sharpened graphite she began tracing a design.

  Damon glanced at the kettle. "Why are you preparing corks out here when Cook could do them in the kitchen?"

  "I needed to be out of the house," Eliza said. "The walls were closing in until I felt I might suffocate." She paused. "Gypsies are like wild birds, you see. We must have freedom or we die. Gypsies also believe that living in a house brings sickness and bad luck, but traveling in a wagon brings good fortune."

  She could feel his eyes on her as he said, "You say gypsies die when confined, yet your wagon is far more confining than my house."

  "Living in a wagon is not like being in a house," Eliza countered, while continuing her design. "In a wagon I can hear the rain on the roof and the wind in the trees. At night I can watch fireflies and see a copper moon rise. And in the morning, I know precisely when the birds awaken. Do you know when the birds start to sing? Do you even hear them when you first wake up?" She looked up to find him watching. "My lord, is something wrong?"

  His lips curved in a languid smile. "No, everything is quite right. Perfect, in fact."

  Blinking nervously, Eliza lifted the bamboo needle, and said to him, "This will cause a little pain, but it cannot be helped."

  Damon smiled a slow, sardonic smile, and said, "Not as much as when you kneed me at the horse fair, I trust. Do you always put up such a fight when a man tries to reason with you?”

  "I have learned to take care of myself if need be,” Eliza replied, her needle making a series of tiny pricks.

  “Would you turn on me again, gypsy girl, if I decided to take liberties with you?”

  “I’m not sure what I would do, my lord, but I suggest you not try to find out. The only reason I didn’t scratch your eyes out at the fair when you attacked me was—"

  “Attacked you! Bloody hell, woman, you were like a wild cat attacking me when all I was trying to do was stop you from running off.”

  “You were sitting on top of a defenseless woman. I was hardly attacking you.”

  “Defenseless woman! You’re about as defenseless as a mother lion."

  "Maybe you should keep that in mind.” Eliza began pricking the outline of a tiny ear. At first she tried to work without touching him, but her hand with the needle trembled, and she couldn't control the course of the point. Resting the heel of her hand against his chest, she continued pricking out the design, aware of the heavy beating of his heart.

  "Do you live alone when with your people?"he asked.

  "Of course," she said quickly.

  "Don't you want to be with someone, a man?"

  Eliza realized this was an overture, though she had little experience along those lines. Her solicitations at the fair had been a bold and necessary bit of acting. "If you mean, do I get lonely living by myself. No. When I'm alone I can indulge in outlandish fancies."

  "Like what?"

  "Like imagining spirits whirling in the flames of my campfire," she said, while concentrating on the tiny figure she was inscribing, "or envisioning whimsical nymphs in the sparks that flicker against the night sky. And in the billows of clouds and the swaying of river reeds I imagine sibyls dancing." A moth paused on her knuckle. She looked at it thoughtfully, then raised her hand and sent it away. "And amid the medley of crickets and frogs I fancy clever undines singing. Sometimes I dream up poetic fancies about them."

  "If you dream up poetic fancies," he said, "I assume you read and write."

  Eliza glanced up and found him watching her with burning eyes. Feeling drawn to him like a moth to flames, she quickly averted her gaze. "Well, yes," she said, hesitatingly.

  "Do you pen your poetic fancies?" he asked.

  "No," she said. "I don't want to imprison my fantasy world by putting it into words." She dipped her needle into the vial. "And you, my lord?" she asked, completing a Lilliputian eye. "Do you get lonely when you are alone?"

  "I'm rarely alone," he said. "My home is not lacking for human occupancy."

  Eliza's hand holding the bamboo needle paused, and she looked into eyes that flared with sparks of intent as he moved closer, until his breath tickled her face. "My lord... no..." Her heart beat wildly with the realization that he intended to kiss her. And when he did, her eyelids fluttered closed, her lips parted, and a ripple of pleasure rushed through her. But during the kiss, she started giggling. "I'm sorry, my lord," she said, patting her lips, "but it's the first time I've kissed a man and it made my mouth tingle."

  Damon gave a short, sardonic laugh, and said, "Let's dispense with the game, Eliza."

  He moved to kiss her again, but Eliza pressed against his chest and turned her cheek to him, and said, "Games, my lord?"

  "Yes, games," he replied. "You don't expect me to believe that a woman of your wandering nature has never been kissed?"

  "You may believe whatever you wish, my lord, but the fact is, gypsy girls are far more chaste than gorgio girls. The bride-price requires chastity."

  "There was nothing chaste about the way you dressed at the horse fair," he said.

  "It was a warm day," she replied. "I did not want to be overcome by the heat."

  Damon said with irony, "So, what did you think of your first kiss?"

  Eliza struggled to find the words to describe what she'd felt. It was as if she had been tickled all over. A warm, delightful tickle she'd like to experience just one more time. Was there something in the way Lord Ravencroft kissed that was different from other men? Or did all men kiss that way? The odd thing was, she felt no desir
e to try it with any other man. She also knew he did not believe that she'd never kissed a man before. But living on the fringes of the kumpania as she did, and carrying in her veins gorgio blood, she was not a prize. Old Zelda's words shortly before she died affirmed it. ‘You always be outcast, Eliza, but if you earn much money, you might find man who marry you...’

  "My kiss?" a deep voice interrupted her musing. "What did you think of it?"

  "It was... different than I expected."

  "Different good, or different bad?"

  "Just... different," Eliza said. Anxious to be done with this particular tattoo, she dipped the needle into a vial, braced her hand against his chest, and began pricking out short wisps of hair. In an attempt to dispel the unsettling effect of his nearness and her yearning for another kiss, she broached a subject that had hovered in her mind ever since she'd arrived. The whereabouts of her father. Not to sound eager, she said, while pricking out a diminutive foot, "How long have you lived here?"

  "About four years," he replied.

  "Did your family originally own Shanti Bhavan?" she asked.

  The muscle beneath her palm went rigid. "Why did you call my house that?" he asked.

  Eliza looked into sober eyes and realized her blunder. Shrugging with an air of indifference, she replied, "That's what the servants call it."

  He looked at her intently. "I only heard it called that once," he said, "and that was by Lord Sheffield, the man I bought it from."

  Eliza's hand holding the needle jerked, leaving a scratch. She hadn't heard her father's name in years. She hadn't wished to hear it. By now he'd probably have forgotten she existed. Still, he was her father, and she had a certain curiosity about him. She gave Damon a nervous smile. "This Lord Sheffield…" she asked, tentatively. "Was he a government official?"

  "No," Damon replied, "he was the second son of a Marques. He returned to England in search of his daughter, who'd been kidnapped from school. He gave me a good price for the place though, just to be rid of it. Claimed the memories were more than he could bear."

  Eliza felt her throat tighten. How could her father have felt that way? He'd rarely visited her when she was at Madam Chatworthy's. From his letters, he'd cared little for anything but Shanti Bhavan. Yet, to sell the place and return to England, he must have cared some.