The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  Aloise stared at him in disbelief. “But you promised! Surely, you don’t doubt that I’m a lady—after all the blasted tests I’ve performed.”

  “My messenger has not returned from Tippington.”

  “I don’t care if the man is swimming the bloody Channel! You told me that if no word to the contrary had arrived, I could leave after one week. You promised me safe passage in your coach and the return of my jewels. I will have what you offered and have it now!”

  “No.”

  She gasped in effrontery. “How dare you? How dare you lie to me? How dare you lead me on, then keep me here, against my will, after I have done everything you bade me to do!” Growling, she slammed her doubled fists against his chest. “Damn you to hell and back! You promised! Have you no shame? No honor?”

  A blatant frustration rushed over his features so quickly she could scarcely credit what had happened. He pushed her against the wall, holding her wrists immobile above her head.

  “Don’t speak to me of honor, mistress. I’ve learned the value of such a word far more than you will ever do. I’ve fought to uphold my name, a name sullied in the midst of greed. I’ve been forced from my home and stripped of my birthright—but I’ve beaten the odds. For honor’s sake. For pity’s sake. For friendship’s sake.”

  When she would have opened her mouth to question such odd remarks, he shook her slightly, damming the words in her mouth. “You would do well to remain silent about things you know nothing about. There are forces at work here, forces that you don’t understand—and may never understand. Because of your gentler sex, I’ve protected you from emotional turmoil as best I could these past few days. But do not push me, mistress! Or you will soon know the extent of your father’s perfidy, in terms so blunt that even you will cringe from what I know, what I’ve gathered.”

  The words echoed in the room, pulsed, swelling much like the storm clouds bunching against the distant line of trees. Then, as quickly as he’d grasped her, Aloise was released. Taking a deep, calming breath, Slater made a low noise of frustration, then stormed from the room, leaving an awful silence as well as a horrible realization.

  This man knew who she was.

  This man knew her father.

  Dear sweet heaven above. He’d never believed her to be a thief. He’d never truly tested her ladylike qualities. He’d merely meant to imprison her, taunt her, torment her, thereby satisfying some debt he felt her father owed him—for she had no doubts that his cryptic comments had something to do with Oliver Crawford. She had felt enough of her father’s wrath to know he had a nature prone to making powerful enemies as well as powerful allies.

  Pressing her hands to her mouth she forced back a sob that bubbled in her throat. A tear fell from her cheek and plunged to the silk of her bodice.

  Who was this man? What did he want of her?

  And what had her father done to cause McKendrick’s eyes to burn with such a fierce and anguished fury?

  Chapter 12

  The nightmare had come again.

  Slater stepped into Aloise’s bedchamber, having been drawn there by faint cries, a whimpering. Crossing to the bed, he enclosed her in his arms, wondering what she would say if she were to awaken and find him here.

  Twice in the past week he had come to her chamber to soothe her. He knew she suffered from a recurring nightmare of ghoulish proportions, one which caused her to tremble to the very heart of her being. He’d noted that such dreams came when the night was stormy and thunder rumbled.

  His hand passed over her cheek and she began to grow quiet, grow still. “Shh, Aloise. Shh.” His voice calmed her and she snuggled closer, inadvertently stoking a fire of need, a fire of want.

  The first night he’d found her like this, Slater had tried waking her, knowing from her guttural cries and half-uttered sentences that she was reliving a portion of her mother’s death in her sleep. But he’d since discovered that any attempt to bring her to consciousness during the height of such memories brought with it a terrible price. Invariably, such a rude awakening caused Aloise to forget the brunt of her dreams and suffer from blinding headaches the following day. The discomfort of her condition was so strong that she did not even sense his presence, only the overwhelming pain. It was better to soothe her back into sleep. To let her dream of happier things.

  To let her forget.

  The loss of her memories of that night had once irritated him, but now Slater found himself thankful that she hadn’t been able to recall those events. As a child, they had been her only brand of protection against her father’s wrath. Slater only wished that such blissfulness could continue a little longer, but events were accelerating to such a point that he feared Aloise would soon be forced to remember what she had seen so long ago. Not by Slater, but by her own mind.

  She slept now, peacefully, like an angel. Returning her to the cocoon of her bed, Slater stood. He regretted what was about to take place, he regretted what he had to do, but the time had come for a confrontation with Crawford. For the past few days, he and his men had intensified their scrutiny of the man’s affairs. They had kept careful track of the hoards of penniless aristocracy beginning to make their way toward Briarwood and a marriage that Slater was determined would never occur.

  All that remained was to arrange for Aloise’s protection.

  Backing from the room, Slater prayed she would not grow to hate him for what he was about to do. He prayed that somehow, someway, she would understand.

  Something awakened her, the distant thump of footfalls.

  Aloise lay motionless in her bed, her heart pounding for some unknown reason, her head throbbing. Wincing, she stood, intent upon retrieving a cool cloth to press against her brow.

  The dream had come again. She never remembered it clearly. She only knew that each time it rushed through her head, she awakened with a sense of dread, the same sick feelings of panic the sight of blood invariably brought. As well as the pain. The overwhelming pain.

  Sighing, she tried to force such thoughts from her head, splashing her face with water, then returning to the fireplace where she poked at the burning embers. Dawn had not yet arrived, yet she felt loathe to return to bed.

  She straightened, yawned, then grew still. Wary. To her complete astonishment, her chamber door lay slightly ajar.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  But as she tiptoed closer, she discovered she was right. It was open. Not just unlocked—open. The thought caused her to stand for several minutes in indecision, wondering what she should do. For the first time in a week, a viable method of escape had been presented to her. But after Slater’s refusal to let her go, she couldn’t help thinking that the whole situation must be a trap. He didn’t strike her as a careless man. The door must have been left that way deliberately.

  But what if it hadn’t?

  For some time, Aloise sat in the darkness, staring at the panels as if they held an answer to her dilemma, then, spurred into action, she dressed in the yellow gown. The one that Slater had said was hers. Whatever happened.

  Still … she hesitated.

  It wasn’t that she was afraid of her future. No, she wasn’t afraid. She was merely … resigned. If she succeeded in leaving this place, she would be completely defenseless and all but penniless. Her only possessions would be the yellow dress, the single ruby tucked under her stays, and the memories of what had occurred in this house. With this man.

  Blast it all! Why did she pause? Why didn’t she simply skulk into the night and continue on her journey as she’d originally planned? She could be free of Ashenleigh and its master!

  Free.

  So why did the idea leave a hollowness in her heart? Why did she feel saddened, not enervated? What kind of spell had this man cast to make her linger? Make her believe?

  Believe in what?

  More.

  That she could have more out of life than she had first thought. That she needn’t surrender to expediency.
That she could indulge herself in things she’d wanted so very long, so very much, desires she’d buried beneath her books and her studies, while refusing to acknowledge that a part of her needed. Wanted. Yearned.

  For companionship.

  For love.

  For warm linens on frosty winter mornings.

  A wetness plunged down her cheek and Aloise dashed it away. What nonsense. What sheer and utter nonsense! She must be growing morbid in her advancing age—or perhaps the moon was full.

  Grasping her hat and a reticule she’d filled with toiletries, an extra pair of hose, and a half-dozen hairpins, she opened the door. Opened it and stared into the gloom of the hall.

  She allowed no last glance of the room behind her with its black walls and rose-patterned rug. Moving determinedly, she crept downstairs to the inky shadows of the foyer.

  If the moon were indeed at its fullest, there was no sign of it. The heavy clouds and threat of rain had choked what little light managed to struggle through the windows. She was left in darkness. A quality she would forever associate with this house. This man.

  Impatient at her own behavior, Aloise reached to fling open the door and rush outside. The portal was locked—from the inside—with its key conveniently missing.

  An anger surged through Aloise. Was this another of Slater’s games? Did he mean to torment her with the opportunity to escape, then dangle the ability to do so just out of her reach? No! She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She would quit this place. One way or another.

  Systematically, she began moving through the house, checking those doors she knew existed. Each was locked, quite securely. Which left her with the choice of giving up her attempt, or searching the house room by room until she found a door or window left unlatched. But such a foraging expedition could result in bursting in on one of Slater’s men or the servants.

  Think, Aloise. Think!

  Gathering her skirts, she hurried down the hall to the ballroom, shutting herself inside. Desperate measures called for desperate means. The rumble of thunder was growing nearer, more intense. She would wait until it grew particularly loud, then break one of the windows, hoping the noise of the storm would disguise the shattering glass.

  The plan sounded weak—even to her. But as far as she could determine, there were no other real alternatives. None she was willing to entertain.

  Feeling her way through the dark, she crossed to the desk where she knew a candle and flint had been left. With some effort, she was able to ignite the wick and form a tiny puddle of light.

  Within seconds she became still. Wary.

  The room had changed.

  A cool finger of foreboding slid up her spine and she held the taper high, sure that she was mistaken, or that she had burst into the wrong room. But the somber portraits and gleaming marble supports were the same as those that had surrounded her for days. It was the furnishings that had altered.

  The candle did not cast much of a glow, but it illuminated enough of the room for Aloise to see that the ballroom had been returned to its formal glory. The chandeliers overhead had been freshly polished and adorned with new beeswax candles. The protective dustcovers had been removed from the gilt furniture that edged the monstrous expanse of the dance floor. And the walls … the walls had been relieved of their heavy tapestries to reveal hand-painted frescoes of frolicking nymphs, grinning cherubs, flowers and sunshine and spring.

  Everything else had been taken away—the crates, the treasures, the boxes. Everything, that was, except a single trunk. The last trunk Slater had brought for her to inventory.

  Inexplicably, a hand seemed to close over her chest, tightening, tightening, so that Aloise could barely breathe. She found herself being drawn toward it with a morbid sense of curiosity she did not understand. Kneeling, she opened the lid.

  As she stared down at the dusty toys, the blocks, the sewing basket, the picture books, a babble of voices filled her brain.

  Come, Aloise.

  The words fairly melted out of the darkness, and Aloise sobbed, realized that it was not a ghost who spoke to her, but a memory. A memory.

  As quickly as it had formed in her brain, the familiar sounds disappeared, leaving her desolate. Lifting her head, Aloise stared into the darkness around her. Why? Why couldn’t she remember? What was wrong with her? What horrible thing had she done that her mind had built an impenetrable wall around her childhood?

  Setting the candle on the floor, she hesitantly reached into the trunks, fingering the dusty items which had been kept there. These objects held some special message. But what? What?

  Just when she was about to concede defeat, the mellow warmth of her candle touched a shape that lay wrapped in a silk shawl. The shape seemed to call to her with the tender familiarity of an angel’s song so that she reached out and drew back the covering.

  A doll.

  Come, Aloise. Show everyone your gift, then you and I will sing a lullaby for your baby so that everyone can see what a lovely bride you’ll be. What a beautiful mother.

  The voice whispered in the room around her. Touching a corner of Aloise’s soul, plucking her heartstrings as surely as the melody reverberating in her head.

  Sleep, my wee one, sleep …

  A face swam in front of her mind’s eye. One filled with sweetness and a mother’s unbounded love.

  Lo, Lilly, lo Lilly, lo Lilly, loo lee.

  Her birthday party. There had been a dozen young children and their parents, hoards of visitors, sweets and music and people making a fuss.

  Let everyone see what a lovely bride you’ll be. What a beautiful mother.

  “That night, she sang as I have never heard before or since.”

  Gasping, Aloise whirled to find Slater standing behind her. Dropping the doll, she sprang to her feet, bumping against the trunk and causing the lid to slam closed.

  Slater automatically reached out to steady her, clasping her elbow.

  “You knew her?” she asked in amazement.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “I was there that night. It was your birthday. Remember?”

  She nodded.

  “You had just turned five.”

  She did not ask how he’d so easily divined her thoughts. She didn’t want to know. This man was already able to delve too easily into her soul, to pluck out responses she felt should remain hidden.

  “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  “I want to see you happy.”

  She yanked free. “If that were true, you would let me leave this place.”

  He regarded her with an expression that bordered on pity. “You can’t leave any more than I can. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that destiny has brought us to this point. It will see the game through to the end whether we like it or not.”

  Aloise wrapped her arms around her body. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Slater eyed her with something akin to pity. Aloise must have roused him from slumber because his hair was tousled. His shirt hung loose and rumpled about his chest, leaving a good deal of the hair-spattered expanse to her view.

  “Think, Aloise. What else do you remember?”

  The air became suddenly close, too thick to breathe. When he took her shoulders, she tried to wriggle free.

  “No. Let me go. I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Think, Aloise.”

  But he was far too close to make thinking of any kind possible. He crowded her, overpowered her, robbed her of the capability to make her own decisions. A panic filled her breast. A dank foreboding that this man knew things about her, things she didn’t want to uncover. Even his eyes said as much, willing her surrender to his artful persuasion.

  A pain darted through her head, more powerful than any she had experienced. Nausea tainted her stomach. A horrible fear clutched at her limbs.

  She had to get away! Now. Before it was too late.

  Pushing him aw
ay, she dodged free. Rather than heading for the door as he had obviously expected, she rushed to the window. Ignoring his surprise, she grasped one of the ornate chairs and threw it through the leaded panes of the guillotine window. Then she was running into the night, into the blackness.

  “Aloise!”

  He gave chase, just as she knew he would. But she refused to pause, refused to glance over her shoulder. She would not allow him to take her back to that place, those fearful sensations of panic.

  A chill wind pushed against her, bringing the thick scent of rain, but she didn’t ease her pace. She had only one chance at liberation. Over the hill, she’d seen the beginnings of an overgrown maze. If she could make her way there and hide in the foliage until Slater tired of the chase, she could dodge to freedom before first light.

  “Aloise!”

  The call came louder, nearer, but the storm was on her side, dousing the betraying light of the moon and hiding her in shadow. Inky, black shadows.

  Her side began to ache, but she ignored the pain just as she ignored the branches and bushes that seemed determined to grasp at her clothing and her hair. The maze loomed ahead of her, the metal folly dilapidated and scarred, the privet bushes wild and untamed. Someone had evidently begun repairs because a slight path had been made toward its center. Aloise drove to the heart, swiftly losing her way midst the twists and turns. Slater would not be able to follow. He would never find her here.

  Seeing a natural alcove formed by a blighted bush, she dodged into the damp hole, ducking her head and wrapping her arms around her body, hoping that he would give up his search, that he would leave her. That he would understand her need to be free of this place—of him.

  She could not go back.

  She would not go back.

  A clap of thunder splintered the night, sounding much closer, much more threatening than it had mere minutes ago. To Aloise’s intense dismay, raindrops began to spatter the dust around her, bringing their musky smell.

  Her eyes squeezed shut. No. No! She didn’t like the rain. She’d never liked it. Something about the suffocating presence of the heavy clouds and the strong winds had always frightened her since childhood. Those fears had not lessened with age. On the contrary, they had intensified, as if there were something horrible waiting for her in the buffeting weather. Some horrible monster she could not remember.