The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  “I will find something to …nibble on later. But I thank you for your concern. Please. Eat.”

  She hesitated and he said, “I will have a cup of tea if it will make you feel more comfortable. If you’ll pour…”

  So he had decided upon another of his tests, had he? This time, Aloise felt a swell of pride. If there was one thing Sacre Coeur taught its young ladies, it was how to entertain.

  In a flourish of pomp and grace, she took a cup and saucer, balancing them without the slightest quiver of china. After filling the cup halfway she inquired, “Milk?”

  “No.”

  “Lemon?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Sugar?”

  “One.”

  Deftly handling the delicate silver tongs, she selected one cube of sugar and dropped it into the fragrant brew then handed him his cup, her chin tilted in victory.

  “So …” he drawled. “You are familiar with the art of pouring tea.”

  “Intimately.”

  “Then you must either be a lady …”

  She grinned in triumph.

  “… or a well-trained servant.”

  When she opened her mouth to offer a scathing remark, he lifted a finger in warning, his eyes brimming in laughter. “As I recall, a true woman of breeding does not argue with the master of the house.”

  Her lips snapped shut in displeasure.

  After a moment of warring wills—one which Aloise feared she would lose—Slater reached for one of the rounds of shortbread and broke off a piece. “You must pour yourself a cup and eat something as well, otherwise Hans will be most upset. He’s Bavarian, you know, and quite known for his temper. I rescued him from beneath the sword point of an angry baron who thought he’d been cuckolded; but despite his weakness for married ladies, Hans has managed to learn to make tea like a true Brit. Come, my dear.” His fingers grazed against her. “Try it once. You will enjoy it, I assure you.”

  Aloise opened her mouth, intent on some scathing remark and he took the opportunity to insert the morsel.

  “Chew.”

  It was delicious, that fact she could not deny. She had not eaten in what felt like ages and the delicate nutty flavor tasted like manna from heaven.

  He looked pleased by the way she suddenly dug into the fare, eating with the relish of a prisoner set down to dine with lords. As she consumed her meal, he settled comfortably into his chair. Resting his elbows on the armrests, he steepled his fingers and studied her over the tips.

  For some time, there were no words between them. If not for the chink of cutlery and the snap of the fire, the room would have remained silent. But Aloise was far from unaware of her companion. He was forever analyzing her—and though he did not appear to dislike what he found, Aloise sensed a hidden resistance as well.

  She had nearly finished all the shortbread and was sipping at the last bit of her tea when he surprised her by speaking again.

  “You remember nothing at all?”

  The words were low, dark, slightly dangerous.

  She looked up at him in confusion. The shadows grew suddenly darker, the firelight less cheery.

  “Your childhood,” he prompted when she did not speak. “You told me once that you did not remember your childhood.”

  She had told him no such tale—only that she had no memories of her mother. Aloise carefully set her cup on its saucer, feeling an unaccountable shiver wriggle its way up her spine.

  “What a pity,” he drawled when she refused to respond. “Everyone should have happier times to fall back on when adulthood rears its head. Don’t you think?”

  “Why are you so interested in my past?”

  He shrugged. “Merely making idle conversation. Passing time.”

  Aloise would have labeled his manner far from idle, but when he did not speak again, she continued with her meal. Therefore, his next statement proved as startling as those which had come before.

  “You’re quite stunning, you know.”

  She paused in midswallow, taken unaware by his sudden remark. Wiping her hands on the napkin provided, she wondered if she would have to make a dash for the fire poker in order to defend herself.

  He must have sensed her intent because he made a waving gesture. “As I said earlier, I have no designs on you, tonight, I assure you.”

  Tonight.

  Tonight?

  Setting her napkin on the table with great care, she rose to her feet, pushing her shoulders into a line of brittle dignity. “Then that makes us even, sir, since— being a lady of breeding—I would not wish to be touched by a scruffy-faced, ill-mannered, overbearing know-it-all like yourself.”

  Rather than infuriating him, her words only amused him further. “Of that you are certain?”

  “More certain than the sun rising in the east each morn.”

  “Then I suppose we are in accord.” Once again, his eyes gleamed in the light shed from the candles. “You are not at all what I expected.”

  Aloise had been about to march to the opposite end of the room, but subsided at his remark. “Expected?”

  He didn’t answer her right away, but regarded her over his hands, making her feel that he could strip each layer away and see to the very core of her soul.

  “What do you mean ‘expected’?”

  His gaze intensified, nearly burning her with its power. She was struck by a wealth of meaning obscured behind his inscrutable expression and an intent she was powerless to interpret.

  “Merely that when I encountered you on the beach, I hadn’t thought so vibrant a woman could be hidden beneath the saltwater and grime.”

  Aloise felt there was much more he left unuttered, but when he did not continue, she realized he’d told her all he intended to say.

  A sound of irritation pushed from her throat and she strode the full length of the room then realized how easily he could interpret her nervous actions, thereby knowing how much he’d disturbed her. Grasping the bath sheet, she returned to her chair as if her only intent had been to retrieve a towel to dry her hair.

  Turning toward the rollicking flames, she tried to block Slater from her line of sight, busying herself with the still-damp tresses. But such peace was not to be so easily obtained.

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  She refused to meet his perusal, refused to allow him to pull untold secrets from her soul in the uncanny way he had in the past. A dull throb began deep in her head. One which she had felt earlier. At the cottage. This man knew something. Something he wasn’t telling her. But what? What?

  “Why would you want to know anything about me?”

  “If, as you say, you’ve nothing to hide, why wouldn’t you want to tell me about yourself, about your education, your training, your family.”

  She looked at him then, wondering what he might think if she told him of a father who had never forgiven her for being a girl. Of a forgotten childhood. Of years in a stern private school. Of days filled with tedium and drudgery with only the occasional marriage attempt to break them up.

  No. She couldn’t tell him that. She wouldn’t. It would reveal far too much about the nature of her upbringing. The loneliness she’d endured.

  “Prove to me you’re a lady,” he taunted softly.

  “Would you be willing to respond in kind?” The words popped, unbidden, from her mouth, but she didn’t try to retract them. The thought proved too irresistible by far. Although she had determined that the other members of the household called him Slater, she had no tangible information about this mysterious man.

  “I might supply you with a detail or two about my life, if you are as forthcoming with yours.”

  He grinned, “Very well. What would you like to know?”

  “Your full name.”

  “As you have already deduced, my friends call me Slater. Slater McKendrick.”

  The towel nearly fell from her grasp. “The explorer?”

  He nodde
d and Aloise felt an unwilling thrill of discovery. She knew of this fellow. She had devoured his treatise in the library at Sacre Coeur. His travels were legendary in France, his exploits renowned. Yet, from all indications, the man himself continued to be shrouded in mystery. It was said that he had surrounded himself with a host of men wanted for various crimes of passion and that only a blessed few in all Europe had actually met him. Aloise had somehow stumbled into their charmed circle.

  She blinked at him in sheer delight.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, I—”

  Slater rose and crossed to the vanity. Taking a silver-backed brush he returned, stepping behind her and drawing her hair over her shoulders. Slowly, softly, gently, he began to work the tangles free, moving from the tips, ever upward to her skull.

  Her lashes flickered closed. The towel she held was forgotten as she surrendered to the heady sensations that stormed through her system. This man had traversed the earth. He had discovered strange beasts like Sonja and charted unknown lands. Now those same hands smoothed over her shoulders, drew across the damp tresses there, and caused an unknown heat to course through her veins. Such actions inspired an unaccountable excitement. So much so, she was almost willing to forget his altogether irritating personality.

  When Aloise had plunged into the frothy sea, she longed for mystery and excitement. Who would have guessed that she would have found such things within seconds of being washed ashore?

  Without thought of possible repercussions, she reached to touch him, to ensure that he was not a figment of her imagination. His ministrations stilled beneath her inquisitive caress and she was able to discern the ridges of his knuckles, the strength of his wrist.

  “You have a habit of playing with fire, cherie.” The comment fairly melted from the shadows. The shadows she was beginning to associate with this man.

  “Do I?”

  Aloise knew she had been warned, that she should back away. But on that point of contact, she found that the heat she had discovered earlier that day began to drizzle through her. All without the benefit of rum.

  Mindful of her wound, he lifted her out of the chair and turned her to face him. “Why?”

  Aloise didn’t know exactly what information he required. She only knew that he had taken her in his arms, holding her weight against his own. Then his head bent, and his lips closed over hers.

  She barely had the presence of mind to clutch his shirt to maintain her balance. There was no real need for such a precaution. He kept her close. So close, their thighs laced and the fabric of her night clothes bunched between her legs.

  He overpowered her. In thought, in deed, in intensity. His mouth moved to her cheek, her chin, roaming her face and neck and teaching her delights she had never imagined. Sucking, nipping, wooing. When he pulled aside the fabric of her gowns and exposed her shoulder, she could not refuse. Did not want to refuse. He kissed her there, and lower, skimming the curve of her breast. Passion raged through her extremities, forcing her to delve deep in her soul for control. She would not allow this man to rule her. She would not trade her father’s reign for this man’s.

  “Slater?”

  His head lifted. His expression grew still, masked.

  “I won’t become your mistress.”

  Despite the thundering of her pulse and the trembling of her limbs, she infused her voice and her stance with as much iron-willed determination as she could muster.

  “You won’t?”

  “No.”

  His lips twitched and once again, she was struck by the fact that she had secretly amused him. “Then perhaps you should wait until such a thing has been asked of you. For you see, Aloise, I have no desire, none whatsoever, to see you ensconced in Ashenleigh as my paramour.”

  With that parting remark, he smiled enigmatically and backed away, stepping over the hairbrush which had dropped to the floor.

  “Sweet dreams, Aloise.” His voice was husky. Deep. “Feel free to sleep as late as you wish tomorrow morning. After all—whether you prove to be a lady or not—you are my guest. Once you are well rested, we will resume your tests.”

  The teasing reminder echoed in Aloise’s brain as he left the room. She could not shake the feeling that something far more subtle than a battle of wills had occurred between them. Something warmer, richer.

  Something that she did not entirely understand.

  Chapter 11

  “Mademoiselle?”

  Aloise snuffled deeper into her pillow, sure that she had dreamed the gentle call. Miss Nibbs would not awaken her in such a manner. For the past five days, the old woman had summoned her from her bed each morning with a shrug of resignation and a snort of disapproval, then escorted her downstairs to yet another of Slater McKendrick’s tests of gentility. So far, she had been asked to fence and sketch, play the piano, sing, and sew.

  Unfortunately, she had not proven very adept in such matters. While fencing with Slater’s men, she had managed to slice open one gentleman’s chin and another’s vest all before they’d even begun their match. Her sketches had proven to be barely recognizable smears of charcoal, her musical abilities painful to the ears, and her needlework a horror beyond belief. If not for the fact that she had been able to hold her own in other such tests—a game of backgammon, flower arranging, gardening, and correspondence— she feared that Slater would have long since branded her a commoner.

  Therefore, the soothing voice summoning her to rise must be a dream.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  The bed dipped at her side and Aloise moaned a little. Then, the most astonishing thing alerted her senses. Chocolate. The sweet rich scent of chocolate.

  “I ’ave brought you a treat, Meez Aloise. Zomething to soften zee coming of morning. It eez from my own private cache.”

  Aloise blinked, discovering the tiny French seamstress perched on her bed. She had only seen her twice since that first time, both occasions for fittings. Such events had been formal affairs, but this morning, Madame LeBeau had abandoned her wig in favor of styling her own tresses, and Aloise was struck by the youth of the woman, the exotic quality of her black hair and black eyes.

  “Bon! You are awake.”

  Madame LeBeau handed her the delicate teacup. “Drink please. We ’ave work to do.”

  Aloise peered over the mounding duvets. “Work?”

  Madame LeBeau opened the door to admit her army of assistants. Aloise was drawn from her nest of comforters, powdered, perfumed, and coiffed for the day. As the women swarmed about her like busy bees, Aloise found she could summon little more energy than that required to enjoy the experience of being pampered and savoring her chocolate.

  “Very well. What do you think of zee gown?”

  Madame LeBeau snapped her fingers and a pair of women held a full-length glass for Aloise’s inspection. This time, she had been dressed in gray silk—a rather restrained style considering the elaborate costumes she’d been given for most of the week.

  The fabric hung full and stiff from her panniers, ending a respectable three inches from the floor. Above, the bodice tightly hugged her torso, the square neckline artfully covered by a swathe of lace that wound about her neck, then had been inserted into the tabs of her stomacher and left to dangle below like a peasant’s apron.

  “I think zat gray eez very beautiful on you, Aloise.”

  At the tiny woman’s strange comment, Aloise lifted a brow in silent inquiry.

  “I ’ad many pretty zings for you to wear, but Slater asked zat you be put in zomething … plain.”

  “Plain?”

  “Of course, I ’ad no such zing.” Her chin tilted proudly. “I do not design … ‘plain.’”

  Aloise became quite still, eyeing herself in the mirror. She prayed it would not be considered vain for her to take a slight glimmer of hope at Madame LeBeau’s words, to think that she might, just might, have affected the great Slater McKendrick so much that he now lon
ged to dampen a portion of his emotions. Through each of her tests, he had kept a certain distance between them, but time and time again she’d found herself being watched in a very disturbing manner. She had been alarmed, then secretly pleased by the growing light of hunger kindling in his gaze.

  “Do you know him well, Madame LeBeau?”

  “Georgette, please. Madame LeBeau eez so formal, and I am not a formal woman.”

  Aloise smiled in genuine delight. “Very well. Georgette.”

  “I know him but a leetle. What woman could ever know such a man?” She offered a Gallic shrug. “My brother, Louis—”

  “Louis?”

  “—eez one of Slater’s friends. Slater leeterally saved my foolish brother from zee gallows. Zat eez why, when Slater sent word to me in London saying he was in dire need of a seamstress, I told zee duchess zat I ’ad to go. I came to Ashenleigh zat very night— bringing a good portion of zee woman’s clothing, I might add.” She beamed. “But you are a far more beautiful setting for my creations zan zat old … how you say? … cow?”

  Aloise couldn’t prevent the chuckle that escaped from her lips, but she quickly sobered. “Your brother was sent to the gallows?”

  Georgette nodded. “You will find zat each of Slater’s men ’as a story to tell. Louis was accused unlawfully of treason, Marco of bribery. Zee czarina damned Rudy for kidnapping a child, and Hans …”

  “Has a penchant for married women.”

  “Exactement.”

  “What about Curry?”

  Georgette leaned close, obviously delighted to share in the gossip. “Eet eez said zat he stabbed his brother in zee heat of passion.”

  “Did he?”

  She frowned. “I think not. In zee years I ’ave ’eard Louie speak of zem all, I ’ave come to believe zat Monsieur McKendrick’s men ’ave all been unjustly accused.” She chuckled. “All, zat eez, except Hans. And one must forgive one so young, don’t you agree?”

  “How did Slater discover such interesting companions?”

  Georgette patted her on her knee. “Zee man has a talent for finding zee wounded, zee distressed. Is zat not why you are here, ma petite?”