The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  Aloise straightened in surprise, but Georgette did not allow her time to speak. Issuing a burst of orders in French, Georgette waved her assistants away. They quickly gathered their things and left the room.

  “Come, Aloise. Now we will find Slater to see how ‘plain’ he thinks you can be.”

  The woman took her hand and drew her from the room as if the two of them had been old friends for some time. Once at the head of the stairs, she paused, putting a finger to her lips.

  Slater stood in the foyer below, glancing through the letters that had been left on a silver tray. Nudging Aloise with a hand at her shoulder, Georgette indicated that she should descend the staircase and surprise him. Aloise wasn’t so sure that such a thing was a good idea. After all, the man’s back was turned. She should take the opportunity to dart outside, try to escape. The past few days had been too wearing on her emotions. She’d discovered that she’d enjoyed banter with this man, pitting her will against his own. But even as the thought flashed through her head, she took a step, another, and another, slowly, deliberately.

  What was happening to her? Only days had passed, yet she found herself being seduced to surrender to his ploys. To succumb to the gilded temptation of luxurious clothes, decadent rooms, and hot baths. As well as this man.

  Slater McKendrick.

  As if she had said his name aloud, he turned. The force of his scrutiny became as tangible as a naked hand. He eyed her from the shiny tips of her black boots to the delicate lace cap balanced on the back of her head—and there was no doubt that he found her appearance less than “plain.”

  The foyer seemed to suddenly shrink, become an intimate place, one filled with anticipation and wicked indulgences. From somewhere behind and overhead, Aloise heard Georgette’s soft laughter. “She eez very ugly in zat dress, eez she not, mon ami?” Then she disappeared somewhere down the upper hall.

  Silence stretched between them like a taut silver thread. One beaded with anticipation, hesitancy, and just a touch of fear.

  “Good morning, Aloise.”

  “Slater.”

  The necessary niceties did little to alleviate the tension. In fact, they only underscored the rather strained quality of their breathing.

  “You are well rested, I trust?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Good.” He dropped the correspondence he’d been holding onto the salver and brushed past her, taking her arm and tugging her behind him. “Then you are ready to prove once and for all that you are a lady.”

  When he would have pulled her along behind him, she balked.

  “I have completed enough of your silly tasks to prove I could be the queen herself!”

  He paused, turned. “Have you? Have you indeed? Then this task, this last and final test, should not prove too difficult, should it?”

  At the mention of one last test, she allowed herself to reluctantly consider the idea.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Merely a chance to see the … depth of your education.”

  “Education?”

  “I told you days ago that I had a position for you should you care to take it.”

  Dear sweet heaven, had he changed his mind and decided she should become his mistress? Was that the education to which he referred? A sensual education that could only be determined by proving she was a virgin?

  “Let me go!” She tried in vain to stop their progress, finally grasping a marble pillar and holding on for dear life.

  He sighed. “If you will release the post, you will see I mean you no harm.”

  “But—”

  He stopped her protest by lifting her face and swooping to steal a kiss. One that was at once masterful and involving, sapping her of her defiance even as it filled her with another more potent thrum of desire.

  “At least I’ve found one way to quiet your complaints,” he murmured when he finally lifted his head. Peeling her free from the support, he drew her the rest of the way down the hall and threw open a set of double doors.

  Aloise, expecting some den of iniquity with a huge black bed, gazed about her in confusion at the vaulted room filled with crates and boxes and trunks.

  Slater eyed her strangely, darkly, as if he knew some secret brand of information that she had yet to fathom. “I trust, as a lady, you’ve been properly schooled in the art of running a household.”

  His shift in conversation took a moment for her to grasp, but her shoulders straightened in utmost dignity. “I spent thirteen years at a women’s academy in France.”

  His eyes glittered strangely at the knowledge. “Good. Then I’m sure you’ve been introduced to the art of reading?”

  “Yes.”

  “Writing?”

  “Yes!”

  “Overseeing servants, meal preparation—”

  “Yes, yes!”

  “—As well as the proper methods of inventory.”

  His words took her completely by surprise.

  Slater strode forward to pull aside the draperies that had shrouded the windows, allowing her to see the extent of the job he wished her to perform. The ballroom fairly burst with items that had been stacked and stored in the chilly marble cavern.

  “As you can see, I’ve amassed a huge collection over the years.”

  Looking at him, she suddenly knew what he intended. He wanted her to see the extent of his travels, the volume of his wealth. He wanted her to submit to him, to surrender to his will, to become part of his following just as his men had done.

  “I won’t become your slave.”

  “I haven’t asked you to do so.”

  “Oh, really?” She gestured to the hundreds of crates. “You want me to make a list of all the treasures you’ve amassed over the years, and you think such an act will prove me a lady?”

  “It could.”

  She marched toward the door. “Damned if I’ll do your bidding.”

  His hand slammed against the wood. “You will do as I say, Aloise.” The voice was hard, implacable. “You will look in each box, examine each treasure, and catalogue each item. As you do so, you will think, long and hard. You will ask yourself: Is this what I want to give up? A life of adventure, a life of passion? All for what? A little bit of pride?” When she refused to answer, he forced her to look at him. “My offer of a position in my household still stands. This is the way to prove you’re smart enough to take it.” With that he let her go. “I’ll check on you come noon.”

  “But—” Aloise backed away, eyeing him in astonishment. “I haven’t agreed to work for you! I told you I didn’t want—”

  “To be my mistress. And if I recall correctly, I told you at the time that such a … position was not my intent. The offer I intend to extend involves a much higher level of dependability.”

  His brows lifted, and he moved to her, so slowly, so purposefully, she was reminded of the way Sonja prowled through the garden.

  “Therefore, I will leave you with a choice. You may perform this simple test, prove to me once and for all that you have been given the education which would have been awarded to a woman who could own such a pretty bauble as I found in your belongings. Or you may return to your room where you will spend the rest of the week behind locked doors.”

  Drat, he’d cornered her—and he knew it. If she refused his offer, there would be no possible way for her to escape. At least if she gave in to him now, she had a chance, however slim it might be.

  “You have ink and paper?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  “But of course. On that desk over there.” Offering her a slight bow and a knowing grin, he backed from the room, audibly locking the door.

  “Blast it all,” Aloise muttered under her breath, rushing to each of the windows in turn. But even before she had checked the first one, she knew they would be locked. Short of breaking the glass and alerting Sonja and her host to her activities, she was trapped.

  Completely and utterly
trapped.

  “What, pray tell, are you doing?”

  Slater looked up from where he’d been listening outside the ballroom door. He’d heard Aloise rush to the windows, then heard what sounded suspiciously like a curse.

  “Merely keeping our guest busy.”

  “As well as away from you, it would appear.”

  Scowling, Slater offered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Curry grinned. “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I believe we’ve had this conversation,” Slater interrupted wearily.

  “Yes, but things seem to be developing at a great clip this past week. I’ve never seen you surrender so much time to the company of a mere woman.”

  “Just part of the ruse.”

  “Is it?” Curry straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Admit it. You like Aloise. She interests you. When you look at her, you don’t see her with the eyes of a jaded explorer presented with yet one more stunning female.” He tapped Slater on the chest with his finger. “You look at her as if she were a rare discovery. A jewel beyond price. That, my friend, worries you no end. Because, you see, you no longer think that she betrayed you all those years ago, that she refused to expose the truth. Instead, you are beginning to believe that you may have betrayed her.”

  Slater felt a pang of guilt at his friend’s words, one he’d experienced more often than he would care to admit in the last few days. As Curry disappeared down the hall, whistling tunelessly to himself, Slater felt unaccountably uncomfortable.

  Because his old friend was right.

  He had betrayed Aloise.

  He continued to betray her by refusing to tell her the truth.

  Unconscious of his own actions, he made his way to his study. Once there, he knew what he sought, what had called to him. Sinking into one of the chairs, he stared up at Jeanne’s portrait, trying to ignore the swirling emotions that churned in his stomach. But try as he might, he could no longer deny that Aloise affected him. Not just physically.

  But emotionally as well.

  How many reactions to a woman could a man endure? Slater wondered idly, remembering the searing anger he’d first displayed toward Aloise. Then the frustration at her supposed memory loss; the irritation of her escape attempts; the unwilling sense of pity. And now the possessiveness. A deep, overriding possessiveness.

  Never had he felt this way about any woman. Nor had he ever thought he would feel such things for Aloise. Bloody hell! He’d known her when she was but a child. He’d witnessed runny noses and skinned knees. He’d seen her dressed in flannel and playing with dolls.

  But such images had long since been superseded by Aloise the adult.

  The woman.

  His betrothed.

  Over the past few days, he’d seen so many interesting sides of her personality. Her determination, her gentleness, her anger, her laughter. Each emotion had tugged at his heartstrings until he found himself utterly …

  Besotted. There was no other word to describe it. He wanted to be near her, he wanted to indulge her. He wanted to make her laugh and see her run through the halls with her petticoats flashing. He loved to enter the house and hear her off-key melodies. He anticipated joining her for dinner each evening, watching her struggle to appear unaffected by the half-dozen forks and numerous goblets.

  She enchanted him completely.

  How could such a thing have happened? He didn’t want to love her. He didn’t want the responsibility. He didn’t want to open himself up to the possible pain. That was why, after planning on spending the afternoon with Aloise and wooing her with his tales of adventure, he had grown angry instead and left her alone.

  Great bloody hell. What had he done? Had he unconsciously allowed her to wriggle deeper into his affections than he had ever dreamed possible?

  His gaze skipped to the portrait. That smiling, all-knowing portrait. “Did you guess that such a thing would happen?” Slater demanded.

  Jeanne didn’t answer—not that he was so far gone that he thought she would—nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling that if she’d been here, Jeanne would have been pleased by this sudden twist of events.

  His hands curled into fists against the leather armrests and he fought the unfamiliar sensation of being out of control. Of having his heart lean toward things his head told him to forget.

  “Was this what you wanted all along, Jeanne? Hmm? When we both conspired against Crawford to wed your daughter to a common schoolmaster, was this your goal?” His head dropped against the chair and he regarded her with half-closed eyes. “Did you mean for me to become her champion?” His throat grew tight as emotions he fought to resist burgeoned inside him. Pain. Regret. Fear.

  “Did you mean for her to become my obsession?”

  After so much time in Slater McKendrick’s company, Aloise did not see him for two days. Her meals were brought to her by a servant and each evening she was ushered from the ballroom to the Rose Room where she was offered a hot bath and a warm meal. Except for Sonja, who occasionally scratched at her door and yowled in greeting, Aloise might have thought herself virtually forgotten by anyone other than the staff.

  She knew such was not the case. Although her host had given every appearance of abandoning her, she felt his presence in the house as surely as the storm clouds that gathered in the afternoon sky. She’d grown highly attuned to the chambermaids’ whispers about their mysterious master, the way they feared his temper and valued his praise. She learned to listen for each of his men: Rudy’s bearlike grumbling; Marco’s complaints; Clayton’s ruminations; Curry’s laughter; Hans’s jokes; Louis’s propositions. She longed for Georgette to talk to her again, to tell her more about Slater, but the woman appeared occupied in other areas of the house. The Frenchwoman had evidently told her as much as she was willing—or able—to do.

  With the passage of time, she longed for some sort of human companionship, but she soon had no more time to dwell on such things. As of this evening, seven days had passed since she’d come to Ashenleigh.

  Seven days.

  Upon entering the last item on her inventory list, Aloise breathed a soft sigh of relief. Tonight, Slater would check her list and proclaim her education sound. Then he would have to let her go. He would have to honor his promise to give her passage to whatever place she chose—save it be Africa. Her lips twitched in remembrance of his words, and staring at the items she had unpacked during the past few days, she had ample evidence that this man had indeed traveled to such exotic lands.

  When her anger at being so imperiously pressed into service had subsided, Aloise had actually come to enjoy her time in the ballroom. Each box, each crate, had revealed untold treasures: vases from the Orient, bottles of Arabian perfume, ivory tusks, exotic seeds, ornate pieces of armor. From the beginning, her imagination had been sparked and her appetite for adventure honed. This man had seen the world! What tales he could relate to her.

  If she dared to ask.

  If she dared to stay.

  Slapping the ledger onto the desk, she firmly thrust such an idea from her head. She had her own adventures to find, her own life to live, her—

  The door opened and Slater McKendrick entered, tall, bearded, lean. Once again, she was struck by the way this man seemed forever cloaked in shadows, mystery. He had only to step inside and close the door behind him for the vaulted ballroom to become suddenly too small, too close, too intimate.

  “Good evening, Aloise.”

  The words stroked her senses and she tried to steel herself against the sensation. Unfortunately, she hadn’t seen the man for some time. Too much time. She hadn’t realized the way she’d waited for him. Her body trembled with a strange energy. Her mouth grew dry, her hands damp.

  Dodging his scrutiny, she grasped the ledger and held it out to him.

  “I’ve finished,” she stated bluntly, glad that her voice revealed none of the shaking of her limbs.

  He se
t the small trunk he had been holding on the floor and took the book, thumbing through the pages.

  Aloise felt a momentary twinge of alarm. In a fit of pique, she had begun the entries in Italian, then had continued thus through the entire exercise, not wanting this man to know the moment when her anger had faded into acceptance, then into wonder.

  Slater didn’t even blink at the obvious attempt at rebellion. “Very good. How wise of you to use another language in order to keep the information private. Apparently, your education was much more sound than I had suspected.”

  Of course the man knew Italian. She should have considered such a fact. Unfortunately, she’d been so angry that first day she hadn’t thought beyond much than needling his irritation.

  “I fear, however, that you’re not quite finished.”

  She stiffened in pride. “I assure you, I’ve checked and rechecked each box—”

  “This trunk was inadvertently left in another room. Miss Nibbs obtained it for me years ago. The contents will also need to be inventoried.”

  She sighed and stomped toward it. He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

  The contact was unexpected and thoroughly startling. A heat burst from that point of contact, causing her to straighten, back away.

  “You still fear me.”

  This time, she didn’t refute the statement he’d made twice before. She did fear him. This man made her feel things she didn’t want to feel. He made her dream of impossibilities. He made her wish for pleasures that would always be denied her.

  Slater tucked his finger beneath her chin. “Don’t be afraid, cherie.”

  “You leave me no choice.” The words were husky, yet firm. “You keep me here against my will, you try me and test me and believe me a thief, all under the guise of seeing justice served. But what of the wrongs made against me?”

  He cupped her cheek. “Someday you will understand what I have done.”

  His cryptic comment only served to make her more angry.

  “My seven days have been served. I wish to go now.”

  A shutter fell over his eyes, making them even more dark, even more inscrutable. “No.”