The Golden Leopard

by Lynn Kerstan

  And soon she was riding atop him again, rocking to the motion of the coach, the power of his manhood throbbing inside her.

  He always had more endurance the second time, but she never did. The climax swept over her all too soon, while he remained hard as a standing stone inside her. As ever, he was patient when she rushed past him.

  After her breathing had steadied and the pulsing at her genitals had ceased, she looked into his appraising eyes and smiled. “I would like that drumming now, if you please.”

  With a purely male laugh of satisfaction, he laid her out on the lush padded bench, raised her knees and spread them apart, and looked down at where he intended to put himself. “Prepare yourself, Jessica. Stop me if you need me to stop, and I will. But unless you do, I want everything you have to give, and I mean to take it.”

  He did, plunging inside her and thrusting with a primal force that slid her up and up until her head bumped the panel of the coach. Then he took hold of her, tugged her down until her knees were bent nearly to her breasts, and began again. And again. His hand slid under her buttocks and lifted her to him. She lost count of how many times he brought her to the brink of climax, let her fall back, and drove her there again.

  The orgasm burst upon her with the force of an explosion. She was barely aware of his leaving her until the last twinge pushed at her nub and left. Then she opened her eyes and saw him sprawled along the bench across from her, his eyes half open, a smile on his face.

  “Come here, princess,” he said, opening his arms. “Sleep on top of me until we get wherever we’re going.”

  Her last thought, as she slid into dreams of remembered pleasure, was that she wished he hadn’t been so careful. She wished, inexplicably, profoundly, that he had given her his child.

  Chapter 22

  Jessica adjusted her clothing and pinned up her disordered hair, her body languid as seaweed drifting in a lagoon. The enclosed carriage had become a place of refuge, where for a few hours each day, nothing they said could be heard and nothing they did could be seen. Where for all too short a time, she had Duran all to herself.

  But as ever, it ended too soon. Already the outside world had begun to intrude. Her lover, slouched beside her, appeared relaxed, but she sensed the tension growing in him, and the anticipation. She felt it as well.

  Of course, with Duran, scarcely a day passed without a crisis of one sort or another. Within hours of meeting him, answering the primal call of a male to his mate, she had joyously surrendered her virginity. And within seconds of his return six years later, she’d swooped into orbit around him like a moon circling a volcanic planet.

  She was not sorry for it. She had thought herself incapable of love, and he had proved her wrong. For that lesson, she would willingly pay whatever price the universe exacted from her.

  Which wasn’t to say that an experienced woman of business could not find ways to cut her losses. If it was her burden to have fallen in love with a deceitful, unreliable scoundrel, it was also her pleasure to outwit him now and then. With Duran, one seized the gratification of the moment, whatever it might be.

  “You believe it is there, don’t you?” she said, startling him. “At the castle.”

  “The leopard? No. But there might be a way to use Philpot’s information to distract Shivaji. I just haven’t figured out how.”

  He was lying, she was sure. But with him, direct confrontation was generally ineffective. “You’re probably right. It does seem that Paign, pretending to be Bickford, stole the idol and got all the way to Madras with it. He might very well have meant to bring it to England, but it’s equally possible he sold it, or had it stolen from him. There is no reason to think he shipped it to his uncle.”

  “Precisely. For all we know, the nizam’s rival beat Shivaji to Madras, got his hands on the leopard, and waited for the right moment to launch his coup. He might be sitting on the throne of Alanabad as we speak.”

  “That would be Malik Rao? The cult leader?”

  Duran frowned. “I told you about him?”

  “Having trouble keeping track of your stories again?” she inquired kindly. “Don’t worry. You may always consult me. I remember every word you ever said.”

  “Lucky me,” he said with a grin meant to disarm her.

  It didn’t work. “Isn’t it strange, though? The same night you appeared at Christie’s, I was trying to escape you when Lord Philpot blocked my way, nattering about his urgent need for an Etruscan necklace to give his wife. Then you enticed me. Don’t scowl. You did entice me to join you on this search for a stolen idol, but along the way, we encountered a woman with an Etruscan necklace who just happened to know of Lady Philpot’s illness. At which point I insisted on rushing to deliver the necklace, and that led to the discovery of Bickford’s true identity and the first real clue you have to the whereabouts of your leopard. It is . . . Oh, I don’t know. Shivaji would have a word for it.”

  “So do I. The scientific term is coincidence.”

  “If you say so.” Did he really believe that, or merely want to believe it? For that matter, she could ask the same question of herself, except that she might not like the answer.

  The carriage slowed, made a turn, and picked up speed again. Not much speed—it had been moving cautiously for the past half hour—but enough to make her snap open the window shade and peer outside.

  The road, such as it was, had narrowed until it was barely wide enough to accommodate the coach. Shoulder-high hedgerows scratched against the side panels. Beyond the hedgerows, the rolling hills were studded with sheep and an occasional congregation of placid cows. But even as she watched, the terrain grew progressively more rocky and barren. Distorted trees clawed at the sky. It was as if they’d entered a country designed by a sorcerer, a land of uncertain magic and unhappy dreams.

  Then they rounded a curve, and she saw, atop a hill higher than all the others around it, the jagged outline of a castle wall.

  A chill nosed along her spine.

  As the coach clattered across the plank drawbridge, a pair of unfamiliar outriders drew alongside. Like the two who had traveled with them from the first, the newcomers wore crisp tunics and trousers, had knives at their belts, and carried rifles and sabers in scabbards attached to their saddles. There were eight guards now, counting Shivaji, Arjuna, and the men on the driver’s bench. Jessica let go her last thread of hope that Shivaji was no more than a swindler masquerading as a valet. Common criminals, she was sure, did not travel with their own private armies.

  Once inside the courtyard, she could see what had not been visible from the road. Nearly two-thirds of the castle wall had been reduced to piles of rubble, the best stones quarried by the locals to construct their own houses and barns. Most of the outbuildings were little more than roofless shells. But the tall limestone castle keep, its oriel windows reflecting the late-afternoon sun, had been lovingly restored.

  While Duran was handing her from the carriage, they were approached by a barrel-shaped man with a rifle cradled in his thick arms. He was missing one ear.

  “The castle ain’t open to visitors,” he snarled. “Take them foreigners and get out.”

  “I am Lord Duran,” came the smooth response, “and this is my wife, Lady Jessica, daughter of the Earl of Sothingdon. You are not, I take it, Mr. Holcombe.”

  “He don’t see nobody.”

  “He will see us. We have brought to him a letter from his neighbor, Lord Philpot, along with a gift, and Lady Jessica, a noted antiquarian who has long admired his talents, wishes to propose a profitable business arrangement. Your employer would not be pleased to learn you sent her away.”

  At profitable the man’s eyes lit up. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll arsk him.”

  There was another man with a rifle watching from the shadows of a doorway, but otherwise, the bailey appeared to be deserted. Beyond the walls, rooks cawed from the treetops and a few sheep grazed on the browning grass.

  Jessica glanced over at Shivaji, sile
nt and impassive on his disciplined chestnut, his hands folded on the pommel. He must be evaluating the likelihood his leopard was denned in that keep. Duran, beneath a veneer of lazy boredom, practically vibrated with impatience. In that mood, she mistrusted him entirely.

  Five minutes passed before the surly man returned and led them into the keep. Her first impression was of chaos. The entrance hall resembled an attic, with vases and statues and knickknacks littering every possible surface. All of them needed a good dusting. Her practiced eye spotted a decent Chinese vase next to a fake Japanese screen, a nice Lodovico plate propped against an ugly brass firedog. Holcombe seemed unable to distinguish between quality and junk, and had apparently lost interest in the pieces he had accumulated over the years. If a golden leopard was lurking in this jungle of odds and ends, she would be hard put to find it.

  Holcombe himself, a gaunt man with sparse curly hair and a bad cough, received them in a library overflowing with ill-preserved books. The room smelled of damp leather, ink and moldy paper. His skin, Jessica saw as Duran presented her, had an unhealthy yellow-gray tinge.

  Arjuna had accompanied them, carrying a large wooden box. Holcombe eyed him suspiciously.

  “. . . and Lord Philpot has sent you this letter and his regards,” Duran was saying, “along with a selection of wines from his excellent cellar.”

  Arjuna deposited the gift on a cluttered table and quietly departed.

  “Well, well, then,” said Holcombe, smiling at the box. “And what am I expected to do in return for this largesse?”

  Duran slanted her a look that said she was to take up the baton.

  “Why, nothing at all, sir.” Her voice, from nerves, had pitched itself too high. Duran looked pained. “Your reputation among collectors of art and antiquities is sterling, and since I entered the profession, I have heard nothing but praise for you and astonishment that your achievements have gone unrecognized by the Royal Society of Antiquarians. Naturally, the incongruity caused me to want to make your acquaintance.”

  Holcombe’s expression of pleasure was quickly replaced by a scowl. “I was told you had a business proposition to offer. You needn’t bother. I don’t do business with females.”

  “I am sorry to hear it, sir. But if you have no need of the money, then I hope you will accept my compliments on your fascinating collection. I have seen only the fringes of it as we were escorted here, but there were a number of pieces that would fetch a good price at auction, and others that private collectors would wish to purchase directly.”

  “And you, of course, would slice off a hefty commission.”

  “In general the seller allots me ten percent. But for the opportunity to represent the collection of a legendary antiquarian, I would happily reduce that figure.”

  Holcombe began to cough and seemed unable to control it. He pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, and when he took it away, the linen was flecked with blood.

  Jessica felt suddenly guilty. This man was seriously ill, and she had set herself to exploit him.

  A moment later Duran was at her side, one arm wrapped around her, his fingers digging into her waist. He must have sensed that she was wavering. She thought, sometimes, that he knew her better than she knew herself.

  “Under ordinary circumstances, Lady Jessica would have written for an appointment,” he said. “But we chanced to be passing by and decided to ask if you would permit me to examine what you have acquired from the subcontinent, particularly India. My own expertise is from that part of the world, but since I rarely travel with my wife, this might be the only opportunity for you to have, free of charge or obligation, an evaluation of that portion of your collection.”

  “Hmpf. Well, nothing much here.” Holcombe appeared reluctant to turn down anything free. “No profit to be had importing from India. Everyone and his brother has gone out there hoping to make himself a nabob, only to cart home a passel of trinkets. You can buy everything there is to be had at any village market. But I’ve no objection to you having a look.”

  Another spate of coughing. Holcombe lurched toward the door. “My niece will show you around. Wait here. You can send word if you find anything of value.”

  “He’s not got long,” Duran said when the door had closed. “If he hadn’t insulted you, I’d ask Shivaji to see what he could do for that cough.”

  “Don’t let concern for me stop you. I’ve spent the past six years letting insults wash down my back.”

  He pressed a kiss on her temple, a silent reassurance that meant more than words. No one in her life had ever known so intuitively what it was she needed. How would she bear it when he was gone?

  The door opened, and they turned to see a frail man in a Bath chair being wheeled in by a strikingly beautiful young woman. Her ice-blue eyes were direct and intelligent, and her hair, held back with ebony clasps, was the color of a full moon on a clear night. When she spoke, her whispery voice floated to them like smoke.

  “I am Miranda Holcombe, and this is my father, Edgar Holcombe, Roger Holcombe’s younger brother. He is a scholar and a teacher, but a seizure two years ago deprived him of speech and all but a little motion. Nonetheless, his mind is unimpaired, and he sees and hears as well as we do. You are most welcome here.”

  Duran bowed to the man in the wheeled chair. “I am honored to meet you, sir, as is my wife, Lady Jessica. We are hoping your daughter will be so kind as to show us the portion of your brother’s collection that originated in India. He has asked us to evaluate it.”

  Speaking first to the father, Jessica saw with reluctant admiration, was precisely the way to win the daughter’s approval. She saw Miranda’s gaze drop to the limp right hand resting on a bony knee. A finger stirred, lifted, made an up-and-down motion, and lowered again.

  “I shall be pleased to do so,” she acknowledged in the husky voice they had to strain to hear. “Allow me to settle my father in the solar and retrieve the keys.”

  Jessica noticed, as Miranda left, that she was wearing—in summer—mittens.

  “I can’t imagine that a solid gold statue would have gone unnoticed by someone,” she said to Duran, “even in all this jumble. But Miranda may know where else Paign might have sent it.”

  “Perhaps. But don’t let on what we’re looking for, or why we came here in particular.”

  “Thank you for advising me. I had planned to be indiscreet.”

  He looked chastened, but not very. Like a runner at the starting line, he was keen for the race to begin.

  Jessica was examining a tattered First Folio of Shakespeare’s plays when Miranda returned twenty minutes later. She was wearing a dust smock and carrying two others. “You’ll want to put these on. If there are India artifacts of any value here, they will have been sent by my cousin, addressed to himself in care of my uncle. By Uncle’s account, he opened the first two or three, found the contents unimpressive, and later arrivals were sent directly to the dungeon.”

  After lighting a candle, she led them to the lower reaches of the keep by a circuitous route that included a concealed door and a short zigzag along a hidden passageway. “No one is permitted to come here,” she said when they stopped in what must have once been the guard room. Torches were stored in an umbrella stand. She ignited one for each of them and they proceeded past several heavy barred doors to the end of the stone-walled passage, where she applied the key, as large as her hand, to the lock. “Uncle believes the entire world is plotting to steal from him. When you are finished, it will be necessary to smuggle you from the house.”

  “But everyone knows we’re here,” Jessica said. “Our carriage and servants are in the courtyard.”

  “Not any longer. They were ordered to take themselves out of sight and wait for you at the foot of the hill.” She glanced at them over her shoulder, smiling. “I’m the one sent them away. Uncle is already well into his first bottle of wine, and I have provided a special treat for the servants to have with their supper. By the time you are ready to go, they will
have forgot your existence.”

  “Allow me,” Duran said, taking the key and wrestling with the lock. “Why all the machinations?”

  “Family history. It’s complicated. I’m not at all sure what to do if you find anything worth a great deal of money. Uncle will want you to sell it so he can continue with the restoration of the castle, but he is too ill for that. And the goods rightly belong to my cousin Robert, except that he is in debt. If his chiefest creditor discovers they exist, he’ll lay claim to them.”

  “But you wish us to evaluate them anyway?” Jessica said. “To what purpose?”

  “So I’ll know whether or not they are worth hiding. When Uncle dies, a great jackal will leap in to seize whatever he finds. I mean to deny him as much as I can.”

  The great jackal was, Jessica expected, the Duke of Tallant. Miranda’s cousin was probably dead, her uncle nearly so, and her father a prisoner within his immobile body. So very much for this young woman to deal with alone. Jessica longed to help her, but how could she, overwhelmed with problems of her own?

  With a screech of metal against metal and a gratifying click, the lock finally gave way.

  “It’s a duplicate key I made for myself,” Miranda said as the door swung open. “I’m not much of a metalworker. And in all my hurry, I failed to bring a crowbar. Is there something else I should fetch while I’m at it?”

  “Nails and a hammer,” said Duran, examining a stack of large wooden crates. “We’ll need to put these back together again.”

  “Oh, I’ll see to that later. And there are a few tools in that box over there. You can start with the smaller parcels while I’m gone.”

  Duran was all for ripping into them straightaway, one after the other, but Jessica pointed out that some were too light to contain the leopard, and others too small. Moreover, there were shipping dates inscribed on most of the boxes, and those in the back, covered with more than a year’s worth of dust, had been stored here long before the leopard was stolen. With a bit of sorting to start with, they could save themselves a good deal of time and effort.