by Lane, Nina
“Can’t we at least have a cup of tea?” she asked as she descended the steps.
“Not if you intend to visit Agra and return this evening,” Rohan replied. He held open the back door.
“I don’t want to sit in the back,” Devora said. “I’ll sit in the front with you.”
“You know that is not-”
“Oh, stop it,” Devora groaned. She climbed into the front seat, hearing Rohan mutter something to himself in Hindi as he went to lock the bungalow door.
“Here. It appears as if you need this.” Rohan got behind the wheel and handed Devora a small, silver flask.
Devora’s eyes widened. “Rohan, I hope you’re not in the habit of drinking at the crack of dawn.”
Amusement flashed in his eyes as he started the engine. “Nothing sinful, if that is your concern.”
Devora twisted the cap off the flask and sniffed cautiously at the contents. “Tea?”
“It should still be warm.” He gestured to a small bag at Devora’s feet. “There are cups and a box of biscuits in the bag.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Devora poured them both cups of tea. “You always surprise me, Rohan.”
“For the better or worse?”
“Both,” Devora admitted. She settled against the seat, appreciating the fact that for once she could ride in the car and look at his handsome profile rather than the back of his head. “You know, I didn’t like you one bit when I first arrived.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I thought you were arrogant and extremely pompous, not to mention just plain strange.”
“Do go on,” Rohan said dryly.
“Oh, I’ve changed my mind about you.” Devora gave him a sly smile and reached out to rest her hand on his thigh. “Even Mrs. Thompson would change her mind about Indians if she knew you the way I do.”
“Please. It is too early for lascivious thoughts about Mrs. Thompson.” Rohan eased the car onto the main road and headed north toward Agra. “Come to think of it, there is never a right time for lascivious thoughts about Mrs. Thompson.”
Devora grinned. “So tell me something, Rohan.”
“Yes?”
“Am I the first white woman you’ve ever had an affair with?”
He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “And you ask me this for what reason?”
Devora shrugged and began opening the box of biscuits. “Curiosity. If you’ve been working for the British since you were fifteen, it seems to me that you’d have plenty of opportunities with British women.”
“And you think I make a habit of seducing them?”
“Hardly. If I remember correctly, I was the one who came to you.” Devora held out a biscuit, aware that he was avoiding the question. She had little doubt that any number of women would be attracted to Rohan’s tall, dark masculinity, not to mention the aura of mystery that appeared to surround him.
“I believe ours was a mutual decision,” Rohan said.
“So, what about the other women? Was it mutual with them, too?”
Rohan crunched into the biscuit and gave her another glance. “You appear to be very certain there were others.”
“And you appear to be avoiding the question,” Devora retorted. She turned away from him and looked out the window at the blossoming dawn.
“One,” Rohan said.
Devora looked at him. “One?”
“I have been with one British woman.”
“Really? Who was she?”
“You.”
“Me? You mean I’m the only one?” Devora couldn’t prevent the swell of relief that rose in her.
“Yes. As you can expect, I did not feel particularly magnanimous towards the British after the trial.”
“Why did you keep working for them?”
“I didn’t for several years. I taught English and worked at a restaurant, but I had less freedom.”
Devora’s eyebrows rose. “You have freedom working for the British?”
“More than one would think,” Rohan replied. “And I soon realized by thinking all British are alike, I was doing exactly what so many of them do to Indians.”
“Have you ever been friends with a British person?”
“Yes, I consider several to have been my friends.”
“And me?”
He gave her a slight smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. And you.”
“And what about Indian women? They’ve been your lovers, I assume.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Were you ever in love with one of them?” Devora asked.
“You ask many questions, memsahib.”
“I’m just curious about you, that’s all. Lota told me that Indians marry for convenience and not for love.”
“That is often true. However, we are as deeply capable of love as anyone else.”
“I suspect you wouldn’t have such passionate gods if that wasn’t true,” Devora murmured.
Rohan smiled. “An excellent point.”
“The maharaja explained a great deal of Indian philosophies to me,” Devora said. “It’s a pity that the rest of the world doesn’t know the reason for such explicit sculptures.”
“Did he take you to see them?” Rohan’s voice was guarded.
Devora shot him a quick look. “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“For the same reason you ask me so many questions. Curiosity.”
“He took me to Khajuraho,” Devora admitted. “But don’t worry. I told you that I was wrong about him. That’s the one time I should have actually heeded Mrs. Thompson’s words. She warned me there were rumors about his…appetites.”
Rohan’s entire body tensed. “He hurt you, did he? The bastard. I will—”
“Wait, Rohan.” Devora put her hand on his arm. She couldn’t help being warmed by his sudden display of protectiveness. “He scared me, but he didn’t hurt me. I promise.”
“There are indeed rumors about him,” Rohan said. “That is why I was concerned for your safety.”
“What are the rumors?” Devora asked.
“His harem is allegedly filled with young women he has taken from villages against their will. It is said that he prefers virgins, often very young girls. He employs a group of men solely for the purpose of finding women for the harem.”
Devora shuddered and hugged her arms around herself. “It’s disturbing that he seems so kind at first.”
“Most Indians in town know better. He has been known to dispose of women if he grows tired of them. And of course, he does whatever he wants to them when they are his captives.”
“Is it true that his wife committed suicide?”
“I do not know,” Rohan said. “She died under mysterious circumstances. Poison, I believe. Heaven only knows what actually happened to her.”
“Well, I think he’s a horribly manipulative man,” Devora muttered. “I’m just sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.”
“As I said to you, learning this before you were truly hurt is soon enough,” Rohan replied. “I suspect you’re not the first woman to have fallen under his spell.”
“I imagine the maharaja isn’t the only one with that sort of power,” Devora said. She was immensely grateful Rohan didn’t chastise her for her experience with the maharaja. “For example, I think Indian women are very beautiful. It seems as if men would have a very easy time falling in love with them. They have a great deal of grace.”
“As do you.”
Devora stared at him. “Did you just pay me a compliment?”
“Contrary to your perception of me, I do have occasional bouts of human warmth.” He glanced at her with a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Believe it or not.”
Devora laughed, unable to resist leaning over and kissing him. Then she stroked her fingertips gently over his lips. She’d never met a man with such a sensual mouth.
“I’m glad there was never another British woman,” she murmured.
He kissed her fingertips. “
I am as well.”
The red sandstone gate to the Taj Mahal grounds loomed at the end of the road like the tower of a medieval castle. Vendors selling everything from rugs to brass curio objects lined the front of the gate, along with a number of beggars. Several British tourists roamed about, but it was still early and the hoards hadn’t yet descended on the site.
Devora put on her hat as she and Rohan walked down the road to the gate. A glimmer of excitement and anticipation rose in her as she realized she was about to see one of the most famous sites in the world.
“Have you been here before?” she asked Rohan.
“Yes, many times. When I worked in Delhi, one of my duties was to accompany the family and their friends on outings. They often came here.”
“Then it must seem quite ordinary to you now.”
“No, the Taj Mahal never becomes ordinary.”
They went through the gate and into a square of exquisite gardens and fountains spread out like a patchwork quilt. A long, rectangular fountain stretched towards the mausoleum, whose reflection glimmered in the water. Made of pure, white marble, the surface glowed in the early morning light. A gentle, curving onion dome rested with precision upon the sturdy, square base, which was flanked by a surrounding terrace. The verticality of four, graceful minarets at the corners of the terrace provided a striking visual contrast to the dome. The grounds were a magnificent oasis amidst the heat and dust of India.
Devora drew in a breath as they started towards the building. “It’s incredible.”
“Yes, it is.” Rohan reached out as if to take her arm, then pulled back. “The gardens and the mausoleum itself are all in perfect proportion to each other.”
“It looks like something out of a fairy tale.”
“In a way, I suppose it is. Shah Jehan built it for the wife he loved very deeply. He was so grieved by her death that he wanted to create for her the most beautiful monument ever built.”
“I dare say he succeeded,” Devora murmured.
They walked up the steps to the mausoleum’s courtyard. The steps had been trod on for so many centuries that gentle curves were worn into the marble. A fine, lattice-work screen stood at the entrance. Devora paused and placed her hand on the side of the structure. Pink and green marble carved into flowers and leaves lay embedded delicately in the stone.
“Do you know how many people were used to build it?” she asked.
“I believe it was twenty thousand. Shah Jehan had also intended to built a black, marble mausoleum for himself and to link the two structures with a silver bridge. He died before the second one could be built.”
“How sad.”
“Yes, it makes a nice love story.”
Devora glanced at him, surprised by the cynical note in his voice. “You don’t think it was?”
“He loved his wife, yes. But to build such a monument at the cost of slavery and human lives.” Rohan shrugged. “One must wonder about the true reason.”
“What do you think it was?”
“He wanted immortality for himself.”
“Then it seems as if he succeeded again.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That is true.”
Devora continued walking around the mausoleum, enraptured by the craftsmanship and the incredible attention to detail. She and Rohan spent several hours wandering around the complex. The tombs lay in a dark vault beneath the building, and Devora was surprised by their simplicity in contrast to the grandeur of the exterior architecture. After they had thoroughly explored the mausoleum and the grounds, they sat on a marble bench near the fountain.
“Thank you so much for bringing me here,” Devora said. “I’ve been wanting to see this ever since Gerald and I talked about me joining him in India.”
She felt Rohan’s dark gaze on her, and she wondered what he saw.
“You love your husband,” he stated.
Startled at the sudden remark, Devora met his gaze. “Is that a question?”
“Perhaps.”
“I love Gerald. He’s a good man.” Devora was painfully aware that her words sounded feeble. She looked back at the Taj Mahal and thought of the intensity of love required for a man to build such a monument to his wife.
“Is that all?” Rohan asked. “The reason you love him is because he is a good man?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“For some women, maybe it is. For you, I think not.”
Devora didn’t answer. His perceptiveness cut her to the quick, bringing to light all the doubts and confusions she had about Gerald and their marriage. Doubts that had become even more sharp-edged since succumbing to her attraction to Rohan.
“You never answered my question about being in love,” she said. “Were you ever deeply in love?”
“Yes. I loved the daughter of the man who owned the restaurant where I worked.”
“Why didn’t you marry her?”
“Her parents sold the restaurant and returned to their village. They brought her with them. At the time, I had little money and could not afford to marry her.”
Devora looked at him for a long time. He had thick eyelashes that made shadows on his cheekbones when he blinked.
“Didn’t it hurt you?” she murmured.
“Of course. But we do not always get what we desire in life.”
A sudden irritation swept through Devora. She picked up her pocketbook and stood. “I think you’re too complacent, Rohan. Sometimes it’s worth it to fight for what you want.”
She turned and headed towards the exit of the grounds, not glancing back to see if he was following her. He fell into step beside her as they went through the front gate.
“What makes you think I didn’t?” he asked.
Devora stopped. For some reason, her heart was beating with increasing rapidity. “You mean you did?”
“As I said, memsahib, I am not the statue you think I am.”
“I know that. I just don’t understand you sometimes.” She eyed him curiously. “So what did you do?”
“I went to her village and tried to convince her to return to Calipore with me. She almost did, but her father stopped us both and threatened to disown her.”
“Why did he dislike you so much?”
“He didn’t dislike me at all. He just knew I couldn’t provide for his daughter in the way he wanted. In the end, I had to respect that.”
“I think that’s terrible. If two people love each other, then they should be together.”
“It is never that simple,” Rohan said gently.
“Well, it should be.” Devora took off her hat and patted her damp forehead. She suddenly felt mildly overwhelmed by all this talk of deep love and sacrifice. Her own marriage seemed decidedly boring by comparison.
“If you are hungry, I can leave you at a teahouse that is close by,” Rohan said. “They serve British tourists frequently. Then this afternoon we will have time to visit the Red Fort before returning home.”
“I don’t want to eat at a teahouse,” Devora said. “Why don’t we go on a picnic?”
“A picnic?”
“Yes. Perhaps near the river.” Devora climbed into the car next to him and settled against the seat. “And don’t tell me it’s not proper. There’s no one here to see us anyway.”
She soon realized the naiveté of her statement when she and Rohan went into a grocery to pick up some things for lunch. The road in front of the shop was covered with dust and stones, and Devora’s shoe caught on the edge of a large rock. With a gasp, she tripped and felt herself start to pitch forward before Rohan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her upright.
“You are all right, memsahib?” he asked.
Devora grasped his arm to steady herself. “Yes, thank you. Just a bit startled, that’s all.”
“Miss! Miss, are you all right?”
Devora and Rohan looked up at the sound of the British, male voice. A group of tourists stood near a carriage across the street, and two young men broke away
and began running towards Devora.
Devora sensed Rohan stiffen as he released her immediately and stepped back.
“Miss, we saw the coolie grab you.” Panting, the man stopped in front of them. His face was reddened from sunburn, his eyes flashing with dislike as he looked from Devora to Rohan. “Is he bothering you?”
“No, of course not,” Devora said. “I tripped on a stone, that’s all. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”
“We’re not so sure of that.” The other man glowered at Rohan, adopting what he seemed to think was a belligerent stance. “These coolies will take every opportunity to grope a white woman.”
“You don’t have to be frightened of him, miss,” the first man said. “We can take care of him for you.”
“I’m not frightened of him,” Devora replied sharply. “He’s my servant. As I said, there’s nothing to be concerned about. Thank you for your interest, but we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
“You shouldn’t be out alone with an Indian,” the man continued. “They can’t control themselves, you know.”
“I’ve heard the same about the British. Good day to you both.”
The men looked at Rohan again with their eyes narrowed in suspicion, but began backing slowly away. Devora spun on heel and stalked into the shop, her entire body trembling with irritation. She turned to look at Rohan, but he wasn’t behind her.
“Rohan?” Devora stepped back outside and saw that he hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed warily on the two men. Only after the two men turned away did he approach Devora.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I hate men like that.”
“I’m used to them. I will wait here while you make some purchases.”
Worried that the unpleasant men would come back, Devora quickly bought some fruit and mutton pies before she and Rohan returned to the car.
“I guess it’s not possible to really escape, is it?” she asked.
Rohan shrugged and pulled onto the road. “It depends entirely on your definition of escape.”
