by Alyssa Deane
“And that being?"
He smiled, slowly. “By your reaction,” he said, leaning forward over her where she sat, “I have found proof that you care."
“About you?"
“About me."
He witnessed the squaring of Roxane's shoulders as she met his eyes only inches from her own. There was such beauty in them, and such depth of emotion, that his breath caught. He watched her drop her head, tugging at the knot of the handkerchief across her palm. A moment passed, and he sat down beside her, straddling the bench. He lowered his hand to her lap, closing his fingers over hers, stilling their restless motion.
“Jealousy,” she said, quietly, staring down at his hand, “is not an elegant emotion. It denotes insecurity, possessiveness, narrow-mindedness, any number of characteristics which are not mine. Or which I did not believe were mine. I am confused by you, Collier Harrison. I do not understand..."
“Hush, dear,” he said, brushing the tendrils of hair from her brow with his left hand. Lifting his foot, he settled the sole of his shoe onto the bench behind her, so that his knee pressed lightly just between her shoulder blades. “Hush,” he said again, moving closer as she relaxed against him. The moonlight touched her high, smooth brow, the long line of her nose, the moist curve of her lips. Upon her cheekbones, the slivered shadows of her lashes fell. And, “hush,” once more, as he raised her bandaged hand, kissing the back of it lightly.
Roxane closed her eyes. When his mouth came down over hers, she did not seem surprised or alarmed. His kiss was leisurely, without haste or demand. He moved his mouth against her parted lips, tasting the salt of her dried tears. She lifted her hands, curling her fingers about his arm, about the taut line of muscle beneath his sleeve, testament to his exercise of governed restraint. Suddenly, the tension in him broke, loosed like water from a dam. His arms tightened, his mouth grew more insistent, his kiss, slow and passionate before, now quested for fulfillment. The sound of her name vibrated from his throat.
“Roxane..."
“No!"
Jerking herself free of his embrace, Roxane shot up from the bench and spun to glare down at him through eyes amber with fire. “How dare you?” she whispered.
“I'm sorry, Roxane,” he said.
“And well you should be!” she cried. “Ruled by your loins, as any other man. I should have known. I—I thought I could trust you.” She dashed a hand across her eyes, stemming an unexpected flow of tears.
“Roxane—"
“Don't call me that!"
“And what should I call you, my dear?"
“Don't call me that, either."
He laughed, softly. “To call you Miss Sheffield at this juncture would be a bit incongruous, do you not think?” He rose and took a step nearer, his hands at his sides, studying her in perplexity. “Would ‘darling’ do?"
“No."
He lifted his hands, placing them gently upon her shoulders. She eyed him warily, but did not pull away.
“Sweetheart?” he suggested, more softly.
“Never,” she said.
He smiled. “My love?"
“Don't be ridiculous,” she retorted. “We hardly know one another. To claim love is to be absurd."
“You may be right,” he answered, dropping his hands, “but I do not think so."
Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he took a turn away from her and stood with his dark head tipped back on his shoulders, staring at the starry sky. He could hear voices from the verandah, coming distant and peaceful to him through the night, without words. Behind him Roxane moved, skirt rustling. He felt a light, passing touch on his sleeve, and then heard her slippered feet on the pathway as she walked away from him toward the house.
Chapter Five
Leaning with his shoulder angled into the window frame, Collier drew deeply on the cigarette cupped in his hand, testing in his throat, his nostrils, the dark, heady flavor of Turkish tobacco. Rolled cigarettes were a by-product of the Crimea, he mused, staring down at the glowing tip; a harsh and daily reminder of bumbling fools and vast tragedy. Frowning, he tamped the head against the stone casement, at a point level with his eyes, until he had extinguished it; then he pinched the paper between his fingers and flicked the cigarette out into the darkness beyond the colonnade.
At least, he thought, Lord Canning was a reasonable man. The interview had gone well. The Governor General, unlike his own superiors, had been interested in what Collier had to tell him, gave credit to his warnings, and did not hold him accountable for the manner in which he received his information, which sometimes ran just barely within the rules. Yes, Lord Canning was a reasonable man, but he was so newly come to India.... Would the efforts of a sober, devout, energetic, uncorrupted man be of any consequence in a governing body rife with sloth, incompetency, and infamy?
Time, if it were granted those who sorely needed it, would tell.
Turning on his heel, Collier stepped back out into the hall, treading the marble floor between the ranks of scarlet-coated sepoy guards standing at attention along the wall. He returned their salute absently, his mind elsewhere. A soft breeze rippled along the corridor, bearing the scent of jasmine and lamp oil, and the soft sound of voices. Canning's daughter, Collier thought, and the accented tones of a servant.
At the base of the crimson-carpeted staircase, Collier paused, his hand on the newel post. Glancing up, his brow furrowed. Little more than a month earlier, he, among others, had witnessed Canning stumble, almost to his knees, at the top of these very stairs as he ascended to assume his office of Governor General. The servants who stood behind the ropes had shuddered collectively, with a nearly soundless moan, as at ill omen.
Allowing his hand to slide from the newel to slap, open-palmed, against his thigh, Collier walked away, through the front entrance, and into the night.
His main point, with Canning, had been the danger to women and children, should trouble arise. Unlike Lawrence, another man whom he greatly admired, he did not feel, in times of crisis, that women should cease to be a consideration. He understood full well the reasoning behind the statement, but he could not ascribe to a similar sentiment. His conscience would not permit him to do so.
Collier crossed the compound. His horse was there, tethered in the darkness. Not the roan carriage mare, but an Arabian cavalry horse, which he had won in a wager. The animal moved like a ghost beneath the shadow of a banyan tree, stamping a shod hoof upon the packed earth. The jangle of its bit carried clearly, musically, into the night. Striding forward, Collier stroked the soft muzzle, then curled his fingers fondly in the cream-colored mane. Untethering the horse, he vaulted into the saddle, bringing the stallion's head about toward the maidan. The night was dark and full of milk-white stars visible through the trees, scattered as if thrown over a blanket of blue-black velvet. Beneath, the road was pale and hard. In the distance, like a false sunrise, the torches on the maidan lit the horizon with a glaze of gold, as if on the surface of water through which the depths of black sky could still be seen, starless at that level, and shimmering with the smoke of pitch.
Usually, he had no inclination to attend large-scale entertainments. He avoided them, the way some men avoided responsibility. But with his interview with Canning successfully concluded, he had the leisure, and the inclination, to do as he pleased. He had a mind tonight to wish the Stantons a good evening as they took the air, and to exchange a word or two, perhaps, with their charge....
It occurred to him, as he rode, that Miss Roxane Sheffield was, in her way, possessed of a strange brand of courage, denying herself tears or weakness, and relying instead on an almost masculine stoicism—or surprisingly violent impulse. She would maintain a clear head, he supposed, should the crisis he feared arise. But in the meantime, he mused, breaking into a gallop, her self-reliance could make a man feel damned useless.
* * * *
Roxane spied Captain Harrison long before he was near enough to discern which of the many well-dressed ladies seated upon b
lankets and cushions spread over the ground was she. Briefly, she entertained the notion of standing up and walking swiftly in the opposite direction, but managed, with effort, to contain the urge. Beside her, Unity followed the line of her gaze and, with a sudden clapping of her hands, cried out in delight:
“Mother! Captain Harrison is coming! Perhaps he will be able to prod more than single-worded conversation from Roxane!"
“Unity!” chided Augusta.
“Unity!” cried Roxane, aghast. Then she turned her dark head, applying her palm-leaf fan to her heated countenance. “Such nonsense, Unity. Really!"
Acutely aware of the captain's approach, Roxane tilted her head, indicating by her demeanor that she was much more interested in the efforts of the German bandmaster to coax familiar English tunes from the regimental band than she was in the fact that at any moment Collier Harrison would be at her side. It was the first time she had seen him since the incident in the Stantons’ garden. She was uncertain of his reaction or, for that matter, her own.
The back-and-forth motion of her fan increased in rapidity, while beneath the white-and-pink gown, her breast rose and fell in swift, shallow respiration.
“Good evening, Captain Harrison."
“Good evening, Mrs. Stanton, Miss Stanton ... Miss Sheffield."
Roxane glanced back over her shoulder, feigning surprise at finding him there. “Good evening, Captain,” she said, with all the coolness she could muster. He smiled broadly and sat down between her and Unity, stretching his long legs into the grass.
“Are you ladies enjoying the evening?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” exclaimed Unity.
“I was,” said Roxane, with flat intonation.
He laughed, appreciatively, at her candor. His teeth showed, not overly large, very even, and very white against his sun-bronzed face. He did not wear the fashionable whiskers many young men sported, and his clean-shaven jaw looked oddly youthful, despite its strength.
“Miss Sheffield,” he said, “how is your hand?"
Roxane held her hand out to him for his brief inspection, then dropped her curled fingers to her lap. The cut, small as it had been, was nearly healed.
“Healing cleanly,” she murmured.
“No infection."
“None."
“Harry did not escape so easily,” commented Collier dryly.
“I daresay he did not,” countered Roxane, with an equal amount of dryness in her voice. She continued to gaze toward the bandstand, eyes fixed on the gleam of brass in the torchlight. The conversation had taken place in whispers, with, on the captain's part, a genuine concern that Roxane could not fail but perceive. She glanced back to the man's face, and saw there proof that the method and injury of her retaliation were not all he remembered of that night. His expression was tender, amused, wary. She looked away swiftly and felt her breath catch in her throat.
“What are you two whispering about?"
“The warmth of the night, Mrs. Stanton,” Collier lied, with such ease that Roxane's gaze snapped back in his direction. Her brow creased in an irritated frown.
“It is warm, for evening,” Augusta agreed, nodding her head. As if in afterthought, she applied her fan severely.
“How smooth is your tongue,” Roxane fiercely whispered, “when speaking less than the truth."
“At times,” he agreed, quite amiably, “that is so."
Roxane's jaw dropped a little, and was clamped shut with a snap that hurt her teeth. She turned the fan over in her hand, tapping the instrument against her gown.
“Do you lie often?"
“Not when I can reasonably help myself,” he said, with a smile.
“You are insufferable and impudent,” she retorted.
“You make it sound, Miss Sheffield,” he said, “as though the subject of my character has been a topic of discussion."
“Not,” she shot back, “when I can reasonably help myself."
For a moment, he made no response, and then he laughed good-naturedly. “Very well done,” he said. “I suppose, to a minor degree, that I deserve your ire."
“To a minor degree? How have you reached that misguided conclusion? You—you kissed me, sir. You attempted to make love to me. That is no minor offense."
“I attempted to make love to you?” he echoed, in astonishment. “My dear innocent, there is much more to making love than what passed between us. Much more."
He uttered the last words so softly that she very nearly missed them, but, like a chill breath of wind scarcely perceived, they caused a shiver to course along her spine.
“Then I suspect,” she said, “that I shall always remain an innocent concerning the extent of such an undertaking.” To her irritation, he laughed. Her grasp on the fan became so vicious that the grooves and ridges of the weaving were on their way to indelibly marking her skin. Deliberately, she set the fan down on her lap. The instrument sank away nearly from sight in the flounces and folds of her skirt.
Augusta chose that instant to lean forward, tapping Captain Harrison on the shoulder with her own fan. “What secrets are you two keeping, Captain?” she said, with a girlish smile. “We must not be rude."
Collier turned and opened his mouth, but Roxane spoke up before he could utter a word.
“The captain,” she said, glibly, “has mistaken the music for ‘The Last Rose of Summer.’ We were discussing the fact that he is mistaken."
With a small sound in his throat, Collier arched the wing of a dark brow in Roxane's direction. She pointedly ignored him, looking first to Mrs. Stanton, and then Unity, as the latter spoke.
“It is ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ Roxane. Captain Harrison is not mistaken."
“Of course I am not,” said Collier, with a grin.
Roxane drew in her breath, raggedly. She sent the captain a look that was meant to be withering, but which he, in his turn, ignored as well, smiling with utter politeness at Unity.
He turned back to Roxane. “Perhaps you would care to take a stroll with me, Miss Sheffield?” He stressed her name with a twinkle of amusement evident in his slate-colored eyes.
“Why? Was there something in particular you had in mind, Captain Harrison?” drawled Roxane.
He leaned back onto his elbows, glancing at Unity. Satisfied that her attention was elsewhere, he whispered, “I must have a moment alone with you."
“To what purpose?” she asked, staring fixedly into the night at nothing in particular.
“Need I say? Someone might overhear,” answered Collier. He moved his tanned hand to the edge of her skirt and began to toy with one of the satin rosettes, pulling gently on the soft, puckered material with his fingertips. Glancing about, Roxane reached down and pushed his hand away.
“Stop that,” she said.
He grinned. “I only wish to speak with you."
“Bah,” said Roxane.
“It's true. I need to speak with you—"
“I doubt that,” she shot back in an undertone.
Collier rolled slightly onto the elbow nearest her. Plucking a piece of grass, he placed it between his teeth. “What is it, then,” he said, his breath fluttering the blade, “that you think I expect from you?"
Under the intensity of his gaze, Roxane colored, her cheek and breast mantling with confusion. She tossed her dark head. “I am certain I do not know,” she said.
“You risk nothing in walking with me,” he said, softly.
“I will not go."
Flinging down the broken blade of grass, Collier sat up, effectively shielding Roxane from any casual glances. He brought his knee up, resting his arm across it.
“What are you afraid of, Roxane?"
“I—” Her tongue slipped out to touch her dry lips. In the torchlight, his bronzed skin was gilded, as was his black hair, highlighted by flame. In his eyes, she could see the fire reflected, tongues of flame over stone. His nearness was intoxicating, recalling a rebellion of sensations that she had been trying to quell since first they
had risen, in his arms, in his very company. She took a deep breath. “I fear nothing,” she said.
She was lying, and he knew it. That much was evident in his fleeting expression of doubt.
“Come with me,” he said, gently. “We won't go far, and we won't be long.” He extended his hand to her, in preparation for assisting her to her feet. She hesitated a moment longer, frowning, before settling her fingers into his own. He rose, taking her other hand, and helped her upright. The hooped circle of her skirt swept earthward with a sound like a sigh.
“With your permission, Mrs. Stanton,” said the captain to Roxane's hostess as he turned on his heel, “I should like to take your charge for a stroll."
Augusta sat up in her chair, looking somewhat alarmed. “Oh, dear,” said she, “it is the colonel whose permission you should seek, and he is not here at the moment."
“For goodness’ sake, Mother, Captain Harrison is not asking leave to marry Roxane,” said Unity, with a laugh. “He merely wants to take her for a walk. Grant him permission, and let them be on their way!"
Roxane saw the look of amused gratitude Collier directed at the girl, followed by the rather perplexed expression on Augusta's face.
“Very well,” the older woman acquiesced, her pale complexion creasing in uncertainty. “But don't go far, my dears,” she admonished, obviously feeling her responsibility better met for having added that proviso. Roxane inclined her head.
Smiling charmingly, Collier tucked Roxane's hand into his elbow, neatly folding his fingers over her own. He led her away from the party on the grass, nodding his head in greeting at others they passed whom he knew. The arena about the bandstand was well lit by lamps on posts and flaring torches. The flames of the latter flattened along the breeze, with the sound and shiny look of shredded satin ribbon bucking in the wind. All about on the ground, blankets had been spread, and cushions, with here and there a chair or two in between. Younger women sat upon the blankets, crinolines flattening pale skirts into voluminous circles of fabric over the ground.
Collier and Roxane were one pair among many making the promenade, including pale-cheeked, sleepy-eyed children, strolling with their ayahs or with bearers, who chattered with them good-naturedly. The children, having come by it naturally, spoke the language of the country as easily as their own. Walking slowly, Roxane observed them, and the young ladies in their fine, pastel frocks, and the soldiers attending them. On the outer fringes rode men on horseback, cavalry officers eager to show off their equestrian abilities to those who watched as they cantered back and forth from the pavilion with ices for their ladies. With the exception of the children and the married men with their wives, it seemed that the night had one purpose for everyone, mused Roxane, and that was courtship. From flirtation, to display, to the simple act of securing refreshment, the intent remained the same.
