For the first time since she'd fled England, she felt guilt for having broken with him and never contacting him again. She also felt a need to go to him, learn from him the reason behind her mother's sudden disappearance from her life so many years ago. But she had no idea where in England her father lived. Nor did she have money for ship’s passage.
Damon rested his head against the tree and said, musingly, "I sometimes wonder if he ever found her. He's never mentioned it in his letters, so I assume he hasn't."
Swallowing hard, Eliza said, "Then... you still... correspond with him?"
Damon nodded. "Sporadically, over the years. More often lately, since he holds land along the river that I planned to buy. But recently I changed my mind, and I expect to return to England instead." He studied her closely. Although a cooling breeze sifted through the trees, sweat glistened on her brow, and her eyelids fluttered nervously. She was skittish as a cat. She was also asking too many questions. Did she know who he was? Had she been sent by authorities to verify what they'd only suspected? After all, she'd been the one to suggest she work for him.
He fixed his gaze on her."Who are you?"
She looked up. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're clearly Eurasian. Who are you?"
"I'm half Hindu, half British," she replied.
"Where are your parents?" he asked.
"My mother's dead. I don't know where my father is," she replied.
"But you've obviously had a British education," he said. "How did you come by it?"
"After my mother died I lived with a British family," she replied.
Her answer came so readily, Damon found himself believing her, believing she wasn't a spy sent to ferret out the truth about him. But he suspected the reason she didn't know the whereabouts of her father was because he was a seaman and she was his bastard daughter. That touched a soft spot in him. Covering her hand, he lifted it to his lips and placed a kiss against her palm, then returned it to his chest, and said, "Why do you roam with gypsies when you could find a man who could make a proper home for you?"
As he said the words, her face became wistful, which surprised him. He'd thought her far too independent for such sentiment. "Do I see melancholy in your eyes?" he asked. "Is it a wife you wish to be instead of a gypsy hoyden?"
The wistfulness faded, and sparks of challenge flared in her eyes. "Haven't you heard the old adage that one never knows what's behind a gypsy's eyes?"
Damon studied her closely. Perhaps it was so. She'd collected herself quickly, and now her eyes were unreadable. "I give little credence to old adages—" he curved a finger beneath her chin, lifting "—only new facts."
"What kind of facts?" The look on her face was eager, hopeful, and she made no move to stop him when he brushed her lips with his. Rather, she kissed him back, her lips yielding. But after a moment, she braced both hands on his chest, and said, "I only allowed you to do that so I could try it again. I was curious."
"Have I satisfied your curiosity?" Damon asked, fighting the urge to lay her back against the warm earth and strip off her clothes and...
"Yes and no," she said. "It didn't tickle this time, but now I feel warm all over, my cheeks, my neck... other places.” She fanned her face with her hand. “It's...odd."
"Not odd. Natural," Damon said, noting the sensual fullness of her parted lips. He brushed her bottom lip with his thumb. "Perhaps it's true, one never knows what's behind a gypsy's eyes," he said, "but I'll wager from the fire burning in yours that I see passion."
"Passions,' she replied. "It's said the fire in the eye of the gypsy is kindled with many passions. Passion part hate, passion part love, passion for wandering."
Damon gave her a wry smile, and said, "Perhaps I should remain in my bedchamber tomorrow morning so I will be available to satisfy your many passions."
Her laugh was like the melodious rippling of a guitar. "You have much wit, my lord, but very little sense. If Mrs. Throckmorton were to find us there I would lose my job. And my debt to you is not yet paid."
Damon gazed at her high clever forehead, her beautifully-arched brows, the straight line of her nose. You're weaving a spell around me, gypsy girl, he thought, fighting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her again. But his plan wasn't to drive her away. It was to install her in the bungalow as his mistress. "So, is my tattoo finished?" he asked. "May I look at it?"
"Not yet." She dipped the needle into a vial, and after making a series of pricks that trailed down his breast in an arc and back up again, she lifted the lantern, cast a critical eye on her work, and announced, "I think you will be pleased."
He looked down but couldn't make out the tattoo. "What is it?" he asked.
"A rat, my lord."
"A rat!" Damon felt his gut twist. If she had tattooed a toad or a skunk he could have found humor in it. But a rat brought back childhood memories of lying in bed at night and hearing rats gnawing through the walls. And adult memories of returning home from abroad with enough money to lift his mother from the stink-hole she'd lived in, only to find her in a room alive with rats and reeking of vomit and diarrhea, while she lay in bed, dying of cholera. She'd looked more like a wizened monkey than a woman, eyes peering from sunken hollows, lips thin and blue. He eyed Eliza with vexation, and said, "Why did you do a rat?"
She shrugged. "I hadn’t intended to do a tattoo at all tonight," she said, "and when you insisted I do so, a rat was what came to mind. But I tried to make it an elegant rat."
Damon looked into eyes filed with mirth and found his anger fading. She had no way of knowing what she'd done, the irony of it. But he refused to let her see his dismay. He slipped on his shirt. "This has been an interesting night," he said, then left abruptly.
Eliza stared after him, uncertain what to make of his hasty departure. Something about a a rat cut deeply. At first she'd thought he'd been surprised with what she'd done. But afterward, she saw a profound grief creep across his face, reflecting as misery in his eyes. She felt a bizarre desire to go after him, tell him she was sorry, crawl into his arms and feel his lips on hers...
Which was precisely why she must find the opal and leave. Because, if she stayed, she feared she might suffer her mother's fate. Fall in love with a man too high above her to return her love. And she refused to burden herself with that misery.
CHAPTER THREE
Eliza unfastened several buttons of her uniform and fanned her chest. It was unbearably hot for so early in the day and she was thankful for the chance to complete the task before the sun was high. Dropping to her knees, she collected the last of the dead mice and deposited them in a tin. Grappling around for the bloated bodies repelled her, but it gave her a reason to be in Lord Ravencroft's bedchamber, and a chance to search for the opal. Stepping to the hallway, she looked both ways. Seeing no one, she began her search, starting with a curve-top trunk at the foot of the bed. Finding only men's clothing, she moved to the bed and checked beneath the mattress. Finding nothing there, she made up the bed and dropped the diaphanous mosquito netting...
...through a gossamer veil… the glint of gold on the wing of a nose… the sparkle of a tika on a forehead...
The image, though fleeting, immobilized Eliza. It was the face of her mother, but the features were vague. She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the image, but it was gone. Only a sense of foreboding lingered. Dismissing the disturbing reflection, she returned to her search. Before checking the wardrobe, however, she stepped to the hallway and listened for footsteps. Hearing none, she opened the wardrobe doors and ran her hand over the shelf above. Finding the crude beginning of a mouse nest, and deciding it could come in handy if she needed to justify her search, she stuffed it into the pocket of her apron. Next, she shoved the clothes on their hangars to one side and started searching pockets.
She had just tucked her hand into the pocket of a frock coat when a deep voice, coming from the direction of the hallway, startled her. "Are you looking for something?” Lord Ravencroft asked.
Eliza snatched her hand away. "I was looking for... mice."
Lord Ravencroft arched a dark brow. "In the pocket of my frock coat?"
Eliza retrieved the nest from her apron pocket, and said, "I found this, so I was checking your clothes for other signs of the little beggars. But, if you'd rather I not do such a thorough job I'll consider my task done and tend to my other duties."
"No, please. Carry on." His gaze fixed where the lapels of her dress lay open.
Eliza pinched the lapels together. "It's very hot in here," she said, cheeks growing warm, "which is why I unfastened my dress."
"Pity," he said. "I was hoping you'd unfastened it for my pleasure, like you did at the horse fair. When you held the horse for my inspection, you were eager to give me a view of what you have to offer. But you never delivered on your promise.”
"I was following the orders of my elders," Eliza said. "I’m rarely required to deal in horses. I either tattoo or dance, after which I pass my tin cup. But the elders gave me orders to sell the horse however I could, which is what I did."
Damon peered down at her, and said, "If I fill your cup with rupees will you dance for me, gypsy girl?"
Eliza looked at him sharply, and replied, "Why? So you can look down your noble nose at me and tell her what a fool I am to degrade myself by being what I am?"
Damon's face sobered. "No, so you can share a little of the life you lead so I can try to understand what's holding you to it."
"I doubt, my lord, you could," Eliza said. "Most gorgios cannot."
"And after you leave my employ? What then?" he asked.
Eliza gave him a droll smile. "I'll carry on as before. Begging, stealing, swindling. All the things gypsies do best."
As she turned to go, Damon took her arm and pulled her around. "I don't suppose I have a hope in hell convincing you that I'm sorry if I offended you," he said, his eyes holding hers.
The way he was looking at her brought a surge of desire coursing through Eliza. Whatever concerned him about the tattoo the night before had vanished, along with her resolve to keep her distance. But it was the look in his eyes that captivated her now. No man ever looked at her that way, as if she mattered. Did he feel something for her? Could he feel something for a half-Hindu woman, maybe take her into his heart and make her his wife? As Lady Ravencroft, she’d shed her gypsy ways and be the wife he'd want her to be. She focused on his mouth. How could a man’s lips look so inviting? And why did she want to taste them one more time? He was, after all, just a man with an ordinary mouth.
No, not ordinary. No man she’d ever met had a mouth like that.
Strong... firm... soft... inviting...
On impulse, she raised on tiptoe and kissed him squarely on the lips. Before she could explore the reason for her impetuous move, he pulled her into his arms and returned the kiss in a way she’d never expected. The tip of his tongue teased her lips apart, touching and tasting and darting in and out of her mouth like a game of tongue tag, reminding her of a bevy of gypsy urchins running and tagging and darting here and there. But it was the sweet, smoky taste of him that near took her breath away. With that came the realization that she was exploring his mouth, yet she had no idea when she’d been the one to touch and tag. It was so pleasantly warm, so deliciously refreshing, so wildly exciting. She’d never dreamed kissing a man could be like this. But oh, how she didn’t want it to stop...
And it didn’t. He seemed as excited with their oral sparring as she, their tongues touching and thrusting and lunging like two fencers in a duel, then twisting and curling together like playful pups, until her nerves were humming and satisfied purrs reverberated in her throat. It was beyond reason to analyze why she was kissing Lord Ravencroft like her life depended on it, when she should be keeping her distance and searching his house for the opal. But all her best intentions seemed to have abandoned her, along with her rationale for keeping her distance from the man whose arms felt so comfortable around her. But she’d never felt a man’s arms around her before. Not like this...
She had no idea when she'd clamped her legs around his hips and tightened her arms around his neck, clinging to him like a monkey, or when he'd carried her behind the bamboo screen and pressed her back up against the wall. All she knew was it felt good to be crushed against him, not like at the horse fair when she’d felt the full length of him on top of the full length of her, but a different kind of closeness, the kind that made her want to strip off her clothes, and his, if only to find out what happened next.
While she pondered that, he cupped her buttocks and she felt something hard moving slowly and rhythmically against her privates. It was some moments before she realizes exactly what it was. But the sensation his slow, direct actions brought was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, gradually building to something just out of reach, something evasive that she desperately wanted. Tightening her legs around him, she met his rhythmic thrusts until her body gave a shudder, and wave after wave of glorious sensation rippled through her. For a few moments she stayed wrapped around him while trying to process what happened. Then her eyes popped open, and she saw him smiling.
"You have to admit, this arrangement leaves something to be desired," he said.
Abruptly, she pushed out of his arms and dropped her feet to the floor. "I don’t know what you're talking about," she said, backing away. Embarrassed and humiliated at what she'd allowed him to do, and stunned by her bizarre response, she darted from behind the screen. And froze.
Mrs. Throckmorton stood in the hallway, eyes a pair of baneful slits.
Saying nothing, Eliza scurried past her and down the hallway as fast as her feet could carry her. But when she reached the stairway leading to her bed chamber, Mrs. Throckmorton caught up with her. Grabbing her arm, Mrs. Throckmorton yanked Eliza around, and said, "Filthy girl! Whoring with his lordship! And on Sunday no less!"
Eliza's hand came up to gather the lapels of her dress. "I was not doing what you said,' she explained. "I was disposing of mice remains. It's what Lord Ravencroft asked me to do."
"Lies!" Mrs. Throckmorton slapped Eliza's face. "I heard the moans and cries coming from behind that screen. And look at you with your dress unfastened to tempt his lordship. You are a filthy, despicable girl. At least Alice didn't try to rise above her station. She did her whoring with a stable boy. But you covet whoring with his lordship. Well, you'll not be tarrying in his bedchamber again. From now on you'll work in the wash house. Perhaps then you'll shed your high-flown ways and no longer have lustful designs on his lordship."
Eliza had no one to blame but herself. If she'd had any sense, she would have left Lord Ravencroft's bedchamber the instant he entered. But because of her folly, she’d no longer have access to the house during the day, which meant prowling about at night.
Unless she could placate Mrs. Throckmorton. "I am ashamed," she said in a plaintive voice, "but I assure you, it will not happen again. Besides, I’ve never worked in a wash house. I don't know what to do."
"Then you shall learn." Sucking in a long breath, Mrs. Throckmorton said, "On Mondays you sort clothes, examine them for stains and soak them in a tub of water and slaked lime. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays you rise before the gong and start the fires under the coppers and boilers, then you boil the garments, remove them from the coppers, rinse, rub and wring them. You then refill the coppers and boilers and wash the clothes with lye soap. The table linens are boiled in soda water, rinsed in hot water, and hung to bleach in the sun. Thursdays and Fridays you spend mangling, starching and ironing. Then you bring the newly-washed laundry to me, where I will inspect it. Is everything clear?"
Eliza hung her head. "Yes, Mrs. Throckmorton." She ascended the stairs quickly, anxious to be away from the loathsome woman.
In her room, she found her chamber mate, Lekha, wrapping herself in a yellow sari. Lekha took one look at her, and said, "I think you just get tongue lashing from Mrs. Throckmorton."
Eliza explained what happened, lea
ving out the kiss, but saying that she'd been caught with Lord Ravencroft in his bedchamber. Lekha's eyes grew wide. "He jungli pagal sahib—wild crazy man. Is talk he kill a man. He keep matched guns, and he shoot canna lilies off stem. Bang, bang, bang, one after another. If he in duel, he kill other man."
"Just because he owns dueling pistols does not mean he killed someone," Eliza said, surprised to be defending the man. "Many men own dueling pistols."
Lekha blinked several times. "Something terrible happen here a long time ago," she said, "but no one know what. Only hear talk that house hold terrible evil. That his lord evil too."
Although Eliza vowed not to be drawn into the servants’ prattle, the fact was, she knew something terrible had happened at Shanti Bhavan when she was a child, something so horrifying that her mind erased all memory of it from her mind. Perhaps those memories were best left buried. As for Lord Ravencroft... Few aristocrats moved to India without good reason. India was for those without title or land, those who had to make their own living. Those who had to flee the country. Still, she was absolutely certain he was not capable of killing a man.
Fairly certain, that is. Wasn't she?
***
During her first week in the sweltering confines of the wash house, Eliza thought she’d never suffered such misery. Air redolent of slaked lime and hot wood ashes stung her nostrils, brought tears to her eyes, and made her throat scratchy. Her hands were raw from the caustic gray water, muscles in her back ached from bending over the wash tubs, and her hair was a mass of limp curls. After each day in the oppressive heat she was so lethargic that while she lay in bed waiting for Lekha to fall asleep so she could search for the opal, she too would fall asleep and not awaken until the six o'clock gong announced another day of drudgery. By week's end, she feared she might not accomplish her goal. But she wasn't ready to abandon her mission yet.
Her Master's Touch Page 5
