Michael. I tried not to think of him, but it was unavoidable. He was dead now. When Gordon and his men had poured into the Thuggee camp, Michael had gone berserk, firing his pistol wildly, killing three English soldiers before he was himself shot down. I still found it hard to believe that he had been the rajah’s illegitimate son. His fierce native blood and savage heritage had been carefully concealed beneath a cool English façade, but he had let the façade drop that last day. I had seen the real Michael, and I would never be able to forget the chilling terror he had instilled. He had been insane, quite insane, yet I knew that he had genuinely loved me, had sincerely planned to take me away with him until my horrified rejection had turned him into a merciless, unfeeling savage.
I tried not to think about Michael, and I tried not to think about what would have happened if Gordon and his men hadn’t reached the camp when they did, if Gordon hadn’t seen my tan kidskin boots showing beneath the burka and fired immediately. I remembered the way he had held me, so very tightly, so protectively, while chaos reigned all around and the Thugs were rounded up, their hands tied behind their backs. I had been in a daze as we made our march to the English camp, prisoners in tow, and Gordon had stayed close beside me. Reggie and Major Albertson had sent out three different search parties after I had disappeared, and Dollie was frantic. She had clasped me to her, and then the medical officer had given me something that put me to sleep immediately.
When I awakened I was in my own room back at the house, Sally and Dollie both sitting beside the bed with worried expressions. I had slept for over twenty-four hours. Gordon had already left for Delhi with a detachment of men and the Thuggee prisoners. That had been five weeks ago, five weeks without a word from him. Dramatic, tempestuous, larger than life, Robert Gordon had entered my life with shattering force, changing it completely, and now he was gone. I would never be the same again, and I knew I would never be able to love another man, for he would always be there in memory, taunting me, making any other seem pale in comparison. I bitterly resented what he had done to me. I wished it were possible to hate him. If I could hate him life without him might somehow be endurable.
I couldn’t remain in India. That much was certain. In exactly one week Sally and Sergeant Norman were leaving for England. They were to be married day after tomorrow. It was to be a festive, formal military ceremony with crossed swords and all the trimmings. Dollie was having the time of her life making all the arrangements, snapping orders, bossing people about, carrying on as though it were her wedding. Sergeant Norman would be demobilized at the end of the week, and the newlyweds would begin the journey that would take them to the charming little house in Chelsea. I was going to make the trip with them. I had sufficient funds to live on my own until I could find some kind of teaching position. It would be a dull brown life, true, but I would welcome it. The very dullness would be a sedative, would help me forget what might have been.
I was walking along beside the parade ground now, tall trees concealing it from view. Leaves rustled. Sunlight and shadow danced at my feet. The sound of men marching was much closer, the sergeant’s husky voice bellowing commands. Seeing the gazebo where the military band played, I felt a sharp stab of pain, remembering that day when the storm had broken. It was flooded with sunlight now, shadows making moving patterns over the dazzling white floor. Unable to help myself, I moved up the wooden steps and stood there in the center of the gazebo, remembering. A bird warbled nearby. Through the limbs I could see the men marching on the other side of the parade ground, looking in the distance like toy soldiers in white breeches and vivid scarlet jackets.
My skirts fluttered. A lock of hair blew across my cheek. The sun was warm. I remembered the dark, dashing gypsy in his tight black trousers and white shirt, the red scarf tied around his neck, unruly raven locks tumbling over his forehead. I remembered that harsh face, lips twisting in a sardonic smile, the glowing, hypnotic eyes half concealed by drooping lids. Moving over to the railing, I gripped it tightly and closed my eyes, trying to exorcise the images, but his presence was so strong that I could actually feel it in the air. He might have been standing right behind me. I was torturing myself, I knew, but I couldn’t tear myself away. There would be time enough for forgetting in years to come. Now I remembered.
“I thought I might find you here,” he remarked.
I turned around, and at first I actually believed he was an apparition. He was dressed exactly as he had been the day of the garden party, the same shiny black boots and creamy white linen suit, the emerald green tie loosely knotted. The thick black locks were tousled in the wind, the deeply tanned face as cruel and ruthless and fascinating as ever. Sunlight flickered. I expected the image to disappear. It didn’t. Robert Gordon arched one dark brow and smiled, the black-brown eyes filled with that familiar wry amusement.
“I stopped by the house first thing,” he said casually. “Dollie said you’d gone riding. I went to the stables. The groom said you’d come back quite a while ago. Then I remembered the gazebo—thought you might be lingering about here.”
“You’re back,” I said. My voice was flat.
“I’m back. I’m a free agent now, no longer affiliated with Her Majesty’s Army. We’re going to be married first thing—I’ve already arranged it with Dollie. There’ll be two ceremonies day after tomorrow. It’ll take some doing, she confessed, but she’s more than up to the challenge.”
“It seems to me you’re taking an awful lot for granted!”
“We’ll leave for England immediately afterwards,” he continued, ignoring my comment. “I have to finish my book, but as soon as it’s done we’re going to Africa. The Royal Geographical Society is providing funds for the expedition. We’re going to locate the lost city of Azulah. We may encounter a few cannibals and a python or two, but—”
“I will not be taken for granted!”
“You angry about something?” he inquired.
“All—all these weeks! How dare you leave without—without a word. How dare you not write! If you think you can just—”
“I’ve been busy,” he interrupted. “There were any number of loose ends to tie up—Thugs to be tried, reports to be completed, forms to be signed, all sorts of things to do. I didn’t have time to write, didn’t feel it was necessary. I knew you’d be waiting.”
“For your information, Mr. Gordon, I—”
“You look magnificent like that—cheeks flushed, eyes flashing angrily. It’s going to be a joy fighting with you—an even greater joy making love to you. I’m going to make love to you, you know. I’m going to teach you what it’s all about. Unfortunately, your head is stuffed full of romantic nonsense, foolishness you’ve acquired from silly novels.”
“You think all you have to do is snap your fingers. You think—”
“You’re not going to need novels any longer,” he continued, ever so smoothly. “You’re going to have something far more exciting, far more satisfying. From this day forward you’re not going to have time for novels. You’re going to be too busy to read about rogues and highwaymen.”
“Am I?”
Robert Gordon nodded and pulled me into his arms.
“Much too busy,” he assured me.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1975 by Edwina Marlow
Cover design by Julianna Lee
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9833-8
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Danger at Dahlkari Page 25
