by Jade Lee
She set the book down and crossed closer to him. “I don’t understand.”
He sighed as he turned away from the dark window to lean against his desk. “I was such a rebel. I wanted to change the world.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I believe you still do, Brandon.”
“Yes, I suppose so. But I was going to forge a new world where English and Indian lived and worked together for great profit. It was my vision, and Tapas’s daughter was another symbol of that unified vision.”
She lowered herself onto the settee, accidentally displacing the pillow as she sat. “I can see that in you,” she murmured, picturing him as a young man, brash and idealistic. “Very like Kit, in some ways.”
He laughed, and this time the sound was bitter. “Oh, very much more idiotic than Kit would ever be, I’m afraid. I lived with Tapas, you see. Fully half the time I was in India, I spent in his home. Not long by their standards. Did you know that India has been around for thousands of years? They had a great civilization while we were still squatting around fires and hunting with arrows.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea.”
He toyed absently with papers stacked neatly on his desk. “I hadn’t gone native, as everyone thinks. It would take much more than a couple years for that to happen. But I do respect their ways and their people. They’re not English, you know, but that doesn’t make them barbarians.”
“I know,” she said. She had heard him say things like that in the Green Room a time or twenty. She always believed that was why he avoided the after-the-show group. Someone inevitably asked him about his politics and he was forever “defending the heathens,” as Mr. Phipps would say. Mr. Phipps was an idiot.
“So you married Channa,” she prompted.
“In an idealistic fit. And because it was what her father demanded as a condition of the joint venture. And because she was pretty and mischievous, and I liked hearing her laugh.” His gaze slid to the cold fire grate. “Many English marriages are built on less, and I thought I loved her.”
She could well believe it. “But then her family died in the fire.”
“Then her family was murdered and their home burned to the ground. She was nineteen. We didn’t even have our wedding night because I was drugged with opium and tossed into a den.”
He lifted his face enough that she could see how haggard he appeared. These were the memories that haunted him. She had already known the particulars, but having now seen his wife, she had a better perspective on how deeply they continued to affect his life.
She leaned forward on her elbows and touched his arm. The room was so small that she could do that from where she sat. “It is no crime to believe in a better world, to live your passion and your beliefs. You married her and have done everything you can by her. I find that incredibly honorable.”
“Dr. Dandin wants me to renounce her.”
She blinked, stunned. How could one of Channa’s own countrymen suggest something so cruel?
Brandon pushed up and away from Scher, pacing about the room with agitated steps. “I had to leave India. They made that clear.” He paused to glare at the fire grate. “After the fire, after I screamed that I would bring the murderers to justice, after I ranted and wailed like a madman, I was arrested and dragged to a jail. My captors, of course, were men from the East India Company.”
She closed her eyes, not wanting to imagine Brandon screaming in the debris of a burned factory, grieving for his lost friends, outraged by the horror, only to be dragged away by his coworkers. How could people like that live? People who used the veneer of civilization to cover heinous crimes? “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, but Brandon wasn’t finished.
“I was taken before my superior, Charles Cornwallis.” He practically spat the name. “I was given a choice: jail in India, probably for the rest of my life, or I could return to England a rich man with a title. The only condition, of course, was that I never return, never speak my ridiculous accusations again. Either way, of course, I would be branded a madman.”
“All because you spoke the truth.”
“Because I accused wealthy, titled men of murdering six Indian craftsmen, then burning their factory to the ground.”
She twisted her hands in her lap. Even now, seeing his distress, knowing Brandon would never lie about something like this, Scher still had trouble believing it was true. Someone from England, a member of the English elite, could be that immoral? It was hard to believe, but she did. All it took was one look at his face, and she knew it was true.
“I am very careful in my politics,” he said gravely. “I have to work for justice without ever mentioning Cornwallis’s true crimes. I shouldn’t even be saying his name to you.” He sighed. “Perhaps I would have done better to stay in India.”
“In jail? You could do nothing from there. Of course you had to leave.” But what a horrible end to an idealistic heart.
“Actually, I spit in his face the first time.” He released a rueful laugh. “That is one of my favorite memories of India. But two days in jail changed my mind.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes and she could see how weary he was. “You are right. I could do nothing from jail. And Channa was ill. They made sure I knew how vulnerable she was too.” He looked at her, silently begging her to understand. “I couldn’t abandon her. She was nineteen, with no family left, and branded as a traitor for marrying an Englishman.”
She stood up, moving to stand before him. She touched his face, bringing his gaze up to hers. “Of course you had to leave. You had to take their money and their title. What other means of support did you have?” She pressed a tender kiss to his lips. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Really?” he said, his gaze searching hers. “Because it feels as though I have been damned every step of the way.”
“It is no crime to be young and idealistic.”
“But you see what two years in England has done to Channa. Her mind is broken, she cannot see me without having a fit, and now the doctor . . .”
She dropped her head to his, forehead to forehead. She smelled the mint of his breath and knew that his eyes watered from the frustration of it all. “What does the doctor think?”
He sighed. “That it would be best for her to return to her native country.”
She stilled, her mind thinking furiously. She ought to be feeling the pain of the nineteen-year-old girl who lost everything in a fire. Instead, her thoughts were on herself and what her life would be like without Brandon in it. “You are planning to go back to India with her?”
His hands went around her hips, not pulling her to him, but keeping her close. “I can’t. If I return to India, I will be killed. They made that quite clear as well.” He sighed. “I thought I could take her to a different part of India, someplace far away from where she grew up, but Mrs. Dandin says that Cornwallis has expanded. The East India Company is everywhere. There is no place that I could go that would be safe for me.”
“Or for Channa then, as your wife.” Scher was beginning to understand. “So Dr. Dandin thinks you should renounce her, turn her aside as if everything you ever did in India never happened.” Oh, what a terrible choice. The one thing he clung to was his honor. “What are you going to do?”
He didn’t speak. He just sat there, leaning against his desk while she stood before him. Their foreheads still touched. He still held her hips in hands that clenched without hurting. She could feel the struggle within him with every breath. The tension in his body was palpable.
She wanted to say something that would ease his choice. But only he could decide what his honor was worth, what his bargain with Channa’s father was worth. How best to respect their memory. All she could do was love him, she realized.
So she kissed him. She poured all of her heart into that kiss. She pressed her mouth to his, she stroked her tongue across his lips, and when his hands drew her tight between his thighs, she opened herself up to him.
He plundered her mouth, slamming himself into her with
a passion born of pain. She arched into him, letting her head drop back as he did what he willed. Thrusting, stroking, even tiny nips of his teeth when he chose. She didn’t resist. If anything, she matched his passion. She wanted to show him without words that she was his. No matter what he chose, no matter what he had done before, it didn’t matter to her. It would never matter. Because that is what love meant. She loved him completely independent of the world’s constraints, of the rules of society. Love was free of all those restrictions. And love was more important.
She stilled, her thoughts and body spinning to a halt. He didn’t notice at first. He continued to dominate her body, crushing her against his groin, thrusting into her mouth. But in time, he realized her lack of response. His mouth slowed, his hands tightened then released, and he once again dropped his forehead against hers, pulling back enough so that they could speak. “Scher?”
“I love you,” she said. “I think I have loved you for a very long time.”
She felt the words hit him, his body clenching with the impact. He even stopped breathing. It took a few moments, a long suspension of everything, but then his body eased. He took a slow stuttering breath, and with his exhale, his hands softened, his shoulders lowered, and his eyes slipped closed.
“Scher,” he breathed, but she stopped him from saying anything more. She pressed her hands to his mouth and said the one thing she never thought she would.
“I will be your mistress, Brandon. Whatever you choose, however you want. This love I feel for you is more important than anything else to me. And even if we have children—”
His hands spasmed on her hips when she said that, tightening to draw her close. She understood because the thought of having his babies, of raising his children made the love in her heart swell even further.
“If we have children,” she continued, “I will love and care for them. I will make sure they lack for nothing.”
She touched his cheek. He still didn’t speak, though his eyes were open again. They watched her with a gaze so intense he stole her breath.
“Our children will have the money to be whatever they want,” she finally said, her words shaping her thoughts as much as the other way around. “Kit was right in that, but he didn’t see what you did. He didn’t see that it is a large world.” She smiled. “Our children can have a future, just not in the English peerage. Illegitimate or not makes no difference—”
“It makes a difference,” he said, his voice thick.
She bit her lip. “Then we will not have children,” she said, already mourning the loss. “But I will have you, and I will have your love.”
“Would that be enough?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “All this time I thought my fears were because I wasn’t respectable.” She shook her head at her own stupidity. “The unsettled grayness of my days, the despair, I blamed it all on being locked out of the respectable world. But that wasn’t it at all.”
He touched her face and spoke the same words he had said so long ago. “Tell me. Let me make it better.”
“You already have!” she said with a smile. “It’s love, Brandon. I was missing love. Mine for you. Yours for me. With you, I’m not so afraid. Life suddenly has hope instead of—”
“Despair. You take the despair away.”
“Not me,” she returned. “We. Us. Our love.” Then she lifted her lips up for a kiss. He allowed their mouths to touch, they shared a few kisses, but he did not allow it to go further. In the end, he pulled back.
“It is not enough for me,” he said. “I will find a way, Scher. I will find a way to help Channa and honor you.”
“You don’t need—” she began.
“I will,” he said firmly. Then he smiled, his eyes and his touch growing gentler. “I do.”
“I do,” she echoed. It wasn’t a marriage, it wasn’t a church wedding, but it was good enough for her. It was his promise and hers in return.
This time, they kissed each other at the same time, moving together as one. There was no restraint, no reservation, just deep penetrating kisses and the sweet build of passion. Her gown came off quickly. He undid her buttons even as he plundered her mouth. And when she stepped back enough to shrug out of her dress, he took the time to rip off his cravat. His shirt came off next with both of them fumbling at his buttons. Then he held her face in his hands, both of them panting, as he looked at her. “This should be done in a bed—”
“I don’t care.”
“You shall have a church wedding with all your friends around—”
“I don’t care.”
“This should be done carefully with tenderness—”
She reached down through his waistband to grab him. She tried to be gentle, but she was trying to make a point. He gasped, his words cut off by her action.
“I want you now,” she said. “Quickly.” Then she squeezed him for emphasis. “Right. Now.”
His eyes darkened, his nostrils flared, but his lips curved in a smile. “Very well then, Scher. Your wish is my command.” And with that, he eased her hand off his organ before he quickly shucked all his clothes.
She stood back a pace, watching him undress. The candlelight turned his skin to gold, but she watched the promise in his eyes. She saw his passion and his hunger. What a difference from the man who had come to her room so many nights ago. This man could see a future. And she knew it would be filled with love.
She thought he would come to her when he was naked, his organ jutting proudly before him, but he didn’t. Instead, he crossed to the settee, carefully laying out a blanket before the fire. The pillow came next, and then he bowed to her.
“Your bed, m’lady.”
“No,” she said as she stepped forward into his arms. “I want to lie on you. You will be my bed.”
He grinned as he slipped his hands beneath her shift. Though she’d already discarded her gown, she still wore her shift and stockings. At least she had managed to kick off her shoes. “I believe that can be arranged,” he said.
His fingers were warm where they stroked over her belly and ribs, but she still shivered at the caress. And as he raised his arms, taking her shift along with him, she arched herself into his hands. Oh, she would never tire of feeling his hands, large and hot as they stroked her breasts. Unwilling to let him abandon her chest, she managed to pull off the shift herself. And while she was tossing it aside, he bent his mouth to her nipples.
The feel of his lips on her breast, the way he sucked and stroked, made her knees go weak. She had to grab on to his shoulders for balance, but he knew of her difficulty before she did. He wrapped his hands around her, then supported her gently down to their makeshift bed. Then, when she was on her back, he began to stroke her body in earnest.
With both hands and his mouth, he traveled over her body. He stroked her breasts, her ribs, her hips. His mouth tugged at her nipples while she grasped the blanket and arched into his embrace. She tried once to bring his mouth to hers, to touch him as she wanted, but he firmly pushed her hand back to the blanket.
“Let me make this perfect for you,” he said as he began kissing down her belly.
“It is!” she gasped. “It—” Her words were cut off as his hand slipped into her curls.
He spread her legs. His fingers stroked deep inside her, pushing inside, rolling upward and over while she writhed. He stroked his thumb across her once, twice, then pressed his tongue right there. She shifted restlessly, using her knee to settle him more deeply between her thighs. But she didn’t want his mouth, she wanted him. She wanted him inside her.
“Brandon,” she cried. “Oh, please, Brandon. I want you!”
She didn’t know if he understood her. But before the tension became too great, before she was swamped in ecstasy, he abandoned her intimate place. He kissed down her thighs, one after the other, untying her stockings as he went. Then he rolled them down and pulled them off her with a flourish.
Then he stopped. He was kneeling between her legs while she l
ay wide open before him. “I will never tire of seeing you this way.”
She had no words to respond. The heat in his eyes robbed her of everything—shame, embarrassment, even coherent thought. So her words spilled out without conscious intent.
“I love you,” she said.
His eyes darkened, his nostrils flared, even his organ jerked, stretching for her. But he didn’t move to where she wanted. Instead, after a long, heated look, he shifted his gaze to his desk. He didn’t even have to stand up to open a drawer. The room was that small. He reached inside, rooted around a bit, then pulled out a French letter. He was carefully pushing it on his organ when he spoke.
“This will prevent pregnancy,” he said. “It’s called a—”
“A French letter,” she said. “I know.” She had been raised around whores, after all. And while they didn’t often have them, they absolutely knew what they were. “Thank you,” she said, sitting up enough to pull his face up for a kiss. “Thank you for having them.”
“I will always have them,” he said softly, as he rolled the thin bladder onto his organ. “Until we are both sure.”
She grinned. “I’m sure now,” she said as she began to lean back, bringing him with her. “I’m sure I want you now.”
She didn’t allow him to argue but possessed his mouth in a demanding kiss. She had wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and when she finally lay on her back, he was stretched on top of her. His elbows settled to the side, his weight pulling off her as he placed himself right where she wanted.
He was hot, she realized, even through the covering of the French letter. Hot and hard and slowly pushing himself inside of her. Thick, he stretched her. She arched her back, lifting her knees to both give her more room and allow him to push deeper.
He continued his insistent pressure and she groaned at the wonderful feeling. She liked the push, liked the feeling of being filled by him. She tightened her knees, silently trying to pull him closer.
“More,” she murmured.
“Are you ready?” he rasped.
She opened her eyes at his words, pleased when she saw the stark tension in his face. He was holding himself still for her, keeping it slow for her.
