by Olivia Drake
Sarah blinked. “For what purpose?”
“He is making a book about India, about the people here. We have traveled for months, stopping here and stopping there.” A wistful sadness hit her dusky features. “In another month, our son will be born. But I fear...”
“Fear what?”
“I fear for my half-caste baby. People will condemn him, as they did today.” Shivina’s kohl-dark eyes went glossy, and she hugged her stomach. “I should not have gone out. But the air was so sweet and cool this morning. And I was restless after so many days of traveling.” Tears began to spill down her cheeks again, and she pressed her face into her hands. “I wanted only to serve tea to Damien upon his return.”
Sarah started to rise. How she’d love to offer comfort and friendship. How she’d love even more to speak her mind to one Damien Coleridge.
The scrape of a footfall yanked her attention to the door.
The towering figure of a man blocked the sunlight. Tanned dark, with black hair and brown eyes, he wore the white dhoti and tunic of a Hindu. At a glance he might pass for a native, save for his strong English features and exceptional height. A frown furrowed his brow as he stepped quickly to Shivina, hunkering down beside the weeping woman and sliding a possessive arm around her shoulders.
He aimed a hostile stare up at Sarah, a stare that chilled her despite the closeness of the air.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And what have you done to my woman?”
Chapter 2
Sarah burned with resentment. So this was the scoundrel who’d refused to wed his pregnant mistress and grant his child his name. Worse, he’d left her to the mercy of men like the fakir. Hidden in the folds of her skirt, Sarah’s fingers curled into fists, but she was determined not to distress Shivina further by flinging recriminations.
“I’m Miss Sarah Faulkner. You must be Damien Coleridge.”
His gaze raked her from blond hair to navy hem. She had the school-girlish urge to tidy her chignon. Crouched like a snow lion in a Himalayan cave, he dominated the caravan.
“I asked you a question, Miss Sarah Faulkner,” he snapped, mimicking her starched tone. “What did you do to upset Shivina?”
Nestled within the cradle of his arm, Shivina lifted her tearstained face. “Oh, but you mustn’t blame the miss-sahib—”
“Quiet. Rest yourself.” His voice gentled, then grew hard again. “Let Miss Faulkner speak for herself.”
Shivina lowered her head in unquestioning obedience. Incensed by his despotic manner, Sarah said with icy politeness, “May I sit, Mr. Coleridge? I wouldn’t wish to speak down to you.”
“You may hang your prim little arse out the window so long as you tell me what the hell I want to know.”
Shock stung her cheeks. No man of her acquaintance ever spoke so coarsely to a lady. Her palm itched with the impulse to slap him. He’d probably slap her back. Choosing the safest path, she lowered herself to the bench and folded her hands in her lap. “What I’ve done is hardly deserving of your censure. I helped Shivina escape being stoned by a mob.”
Damien Coleridge gave a start of surprise. His eyes widening, he swung toward Shivina, his broad back blocking her from Sarah’s view. She wondered if he touched his mistress with tenderness or if he glared in anger. “Is this true?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes,” Shivina whispered. “The miss-sahib was most brave.”
He remained still for another moment, then whipped his dark head back to Sarah. “Where?” he barked. “What happened?”
“It was in the bazaar, a short while ago. A Hindu holy man reviled her for being your mistress.”
“My mistress?” he demanded sharply. “He spoke my name?”
“No. But he convinced some rabble-rousers to threaten her.” She couldn’t resist imbuing her voice with scorn. “It’s fortunate that I happened by. Since you weren’t there to protect her.”
Damien Coleridge stared at her. His stern features and penetrating brown eyes offered no clue to his thoughts. If anything, he still looked suspicious, and she felt a deepening ripple of resentment. Of course, she hadn’t expected—or even wanted—his gratitude. It was enough that Shivina and her unborn baby were safe.
Rising with hard-won self-possession, Sarah ignored the man squatting beside the hassock. She focused on his mistress’s downcast face. “I’m sorry we met under unhappy circumstances, Shivina. I do hope we might see one another again.”
Lifting her head, Shivina smiled, a timid quality lending her an ethereal beauty. “I would be honored, miss-sahib.”
Sarah smiled warmly back. “The honor is mine. Please don’t hesitate to call—or send a message and I’ll be happy to come here. I live with my uncle, Colonel John Thorndyke.”
Damien Coleridge shifted suddenly, whether from impatience or some ulterior emotion she couldn’t tell. With the limber grace of a tiger, he got to his feet and regarded her.
The top of his head nearly brushed the caravan roof. Her eyes were on a level with his jaw, and her gaze met the black stubble peppering his sun-browned skin. The loincloth draped his thighs, but bared his legs from the knees down, and the short-sleeved tunic left his muscled forearms exposed in a manner no proper Englishman would affect in mixed company. She felt an alien tightening deep inside her, a reaction no doubt arising from her aversion to this man, who, despite his strength and arrogance, had failed to safeguard his mistress.
“Does your uncle know you’re here?” he said.
She swallowed hard at his calculating look. Would he tell Uncle John? “No. As I hardly expected to come here when I left this morning, how could I have told anyone?”
Damien Coleridge extended a hand. “Until we meet again.”
The subtle mockery in his tone robbed the phrase of all civility. Despite his uncouth behavior, he certainly knew a gentleman should wait for the lady to offer her hand first. A retort leaped to her lips. She aimed a haughty glare at his hand, and a gasp emerged instead.
A webwork of scars marred the back of his hand and covered his long fingers. The paleness formed an unnatural contrast to the tanned flesh of his wrist and arm. She glanced at his other hand; it bore similar markings. Burns?
“Is something wrong, Miss Faulkner?”
Coloring, she yanked her gaze up to his face. His eyes were narrowed, defensive somehow.
“Of course not.” With deliberate graciousness, she grasped his outstretched hand. His scarred flesh lay smooth and firm against hers, and for an instant his physical warmth radiated into her. Strangely agitated, she drew away.
Shivina stirred on the hassock. “Damien’s hands are blessed by the gods with the gift of an artist.”
She pressed a gentle kiss onto his palm. As he gazed down at her, his expression softened, the harsh edges dissolving until he looked almost human...
Uncomfortable at intruding on a private moment, Sarah took a step toward the door. “I must go now,” she told Shivina. “My aunt will be wondering what’s become of me. Please inform Patel that I couldn’t wait any longer.”
“I will do as you ask,” said Shivina. “Thank you again, my friend.” She bent her head and numbly touched her brow.
Descending the short ladder, Sarah caught a last glimpse of Damien Coleridge staring after her. The stony look had returned to his face, a look that banished the brief impression of humanity. Feringhi devil.
The memory of the fakir’s words made her shudder. Blinking against the bright sunlight, her feet stirring dust on the baked road, she walked past the deserted parade ground. Perhaps on that one count, the holy man was right; Damien Coleridge was a callous devil for using Shivina, for bringing a child into the world to suffer the stigma of bastardy and mixed blood. Regardless of the social strictures against an Englishman marrying a native, he should act honorably and legitimize his relationship with Shivina.
Unless he already had a wife back in England.
The heat of the sun dimmed beside the disgust and anxiety scorching
Sarah’s heart. What would become of Shivina should he return to England? Would he abandon her and the child? Did she have relations somewhere who might take her in? Living a nomadic life, she must have scant opportunity to make acquaintances. Sarah resolved to offer friendship to Shivina.
In the British sector, the officers’ homes sat in military precision along the Mall. A feathery tamarind tree in the front yard marked the Thorndyke bungalow, a single-story dwelling built of whitewashed mud-bricks with a thatched roof and a wide veranda.
The bhisti, his leather bag slung over one shoulder, walked slowly through the rear garden, spraying water over the pathways to keep down the dust. It must be later than she’d thought, Sarah realized with a guilty start. Pray heaven Aunt Violet still lay abed.
But the older woman must have been peeping out an unshuttered window, for she bustled onto the veranda. Plump as a pomegranate, Violet Thorndyke wore a pink tea gown with a crinoline that added needless width to her figure. Her skin was sallow from lack of sunlight. Despite her thirty-nine years, she styled her plain brown hair in the sausage curls of a young girl.
“Oh, merciful heavens, you’re safe,” she said, hovering in the shade as Sarah mounted the veranda steps. “Wherever have you been? I could scarcely manage a bite of breakfast for worrying.”
Sarah swallowed. There was no need to magnify her aunt’s agitation by revealing the episode at the bazaar. Nor to risk losing Reginald’s esteem by admitting to her visit to the forbidden place.
“Please forgive me, Aunt. I...went for a walk, and the lateness of the hour escaped me.”
“A walk, you say?” Aunt Violet’s fretful pacing jiggled her hair ribbons, and she twisted a lace handkerchief in her beringed fingers. “In this horrid heat? Oh, such a wicked girl you are to wander off without telling me! And just when I needed to consult you on the seating arrangements for dinner. I couldn’t find that rascally Patel, either.”
“He accompanied me.” Sarah hesitated; she couldn’t let her aunt think Patel was shirking his duties. She phrased an excuse that wasn’t precisely a lie. “On our way back he stopped at the bazaar to do the marketing for tonight.”
“The bazaar? Thank heaven you at least had the good sense not to join him there.” Aunt Violet dabbed at the perspiration dotting her brow. “Such a den of iniquity it is, or so the colonel tells me. Imagine, natives swarming everywhere, breeding like flies. I suppose it’s fortunate they lack our more delicate sensibilities, else they couldn’t bear to live in such filth.”
Sarah struggled between anger and caution. “Perhaps they haven’t any choice. So many Indians lack the means to buy adequate shelter or even food and clothing. But that doesn’t make them any more immune to suffering than you or I.”
“Oh, dear me, I believe I may swoon.” Aunt Violet sat down, the wicker chair creaking. She languidly fanned her face with the handkerchief. “Fancy, my own niece defending heathens. Oh, what would Charlotte think? My dear sister entrusted you to my care, but I’ve failed her miserably.”
Accustomed to such histrionics, Sarah smiled at her aunt. “Please don’t fret so. Mother would be most grateful for the generosity you and Uncle John have shown me.”
“Humph. Yet despite all my careful instructions, you left this morning without permission. And without even a hat! This dreadful Indian sun can scorch a lady’s brain, you know.”
“I’m perfectly fine. Really I am.”
Her aunt heaved a sigh. “Well, I do hope no one of consequence saw you gadding about like a native. Else the burden of averting a scandal will fall upon my shoulders, as everything else here does. Mercy me, running this household is a chore.”
Affectionate exasperation touched Sarah. She managed the household, while her aunt lolled in bed most days, indulging a variety of real and imagined illnesses. “Then allow me to help. I promise I shan’t go out the rest of the day.”
“I trust so,” said Aunt Violet, an injured pout dragging at her mouth. “Don’t forget, we’ve the packing for Simla ahead of us. You have a duty to your uncle and me. You mustn’t forget the sacrifices we made for you and your dear departed mother.”
Shame trickled through Sarah. She did owe much to her aunt and uncle. At the tender age of twelve, her father having died the previous year, she’d watched consumption alter her energetic mother into a sickly shadow of herself. Aunt Violet had taken them in and helped nurse her elder sister, Charlotte, during the months of lingering illness. And when Mama died, Aunt Violet had grieved alongside her orphaned niece.
Then, when Sarah was sixteen, Uncle John had accepted the military post in India. The hot climate that withered Aunt Violet’s spirits made Sarah blossom. Here, she’d fallen into the role of housekeeper. And here, she’d fallen in love with her exotic new home.
Bending, she stroked her aunt’s fleshy hands. “You’ve done so much for me,” she murmured. “I’m happy to do whatever I can to return your kindness.”
“There, there, dear, you’ve been a daughter to me, the daughter Our Lord never saw fit to bless me with. He took all those babes from me...” Her sulky features easing into a mournful smile, Aunt Violet went on. “Which reminds me. The colonel has invited Dr. Pemberton-Sykes to our dinner tonight.”
Reginald. A spark of interest glowed inside Sarah. For the past few months the gentlemanly doctor had courted her, twice asking her to marry him. Only duty and a nagging uncertainty about the depth of her feelings had kept Sarah from accepting. “He adores your parties, Aunt Violet. And he’ll make a splendid addition—he cuts a dashing figure.”
“Yet I do trust you’ll continue to put him off, won’t you, my dear? I simply don’t know how I’d manage without you here to lighten my burdens.”
“I’ll try my best, Aunt.”
“As you say.” Puffing with effort, Aunt Violet levered herself from the chair. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind seeing to the dinner preparations, I must go lie down. This heat gives me the most frightful headache.”
As her aunt lumbered into the bungalow, Sarah sighed. How had Aunt Violet managed to make her feel guilty for wanting a suitor? She chided herself for being manipulated once again. Aunt Violet must realize that Sarah craved her own household, her own husband, her own family.
Yearning inundated her again, the same intense hunger she’d experienced upon feeling the kick of Shivina’s baby. That moment had crystallized Sarah’s restless dreams. With all her heart, she ached to feel the movements of her own child, to cuddle a newborn to her breast, to bask in the love of a husband.
Most women of twenty-three were already married, with a brood of children. Surely her years of toil had repaid the debt to her aunt and uncle. She ached for her aunt, who had suffered so many miscarriages, but it was time to make her own life. A life with Dr. Reginald Pemberton-Sykes.
She leaned against a mud-brick pillar and let the intensity of the sun burn away the last of her misgivings about accepting his suit. A hawk wheeled against a sky so blue it brought tears to her eyes. Anticipation curled warmly within her, and the future loomed as radiant as an Indian morning.
She thought fondly of Reginald’s solid character, his attractive features, his polite bearing. Without warning, the image shimmered like a mirage and transformed into Damien Coleridge. She recalled his appraising stare, his blunt speech, his muscled form. The scanty garb that suited the Hindu men only served to dramatize the uncivilized nature of Damien Coleridge.
Renewed resentment simmered inside her. Would he cherish his baby? Or would he cast Shivina and the infant aside, and leave them to the mercy of fanatics like the fakir? Would his child be forced to beg on the streets like that poor half-caste boy?
Sarah gritted her teeth. Despite duty and the lack of a dowry, she possessed the respect of society and the right to decide the course of her life. Shivina deserved the same honor. Flagrant abuse of the native women must not continue.
Stepping purposefully along the veranda, Sarah headed to her bedroom. Dinner preparations could wait. I
. M. Vexed had an editorial to write.
“By Jupiter, the author of this essay ought to be tossed out of the Raj,” Uncle John told the guests assembled in the drawing room that evening. A stolid man of forty-six, clad in the dark green uniform of the Bengal Infantry, he rattled a copy of the latest Delhi Gazette. “The fellow writes for a British paper, yet he preaches against our military policies.”
“Indeed so,” said Major General Hewitt. Stuffed into an armchair, the jowly commander waved his glass of sherry, which glowed amber in the candlelight. “Any idiot can see the native troops are behaving steady and soldier-like.”
“Being a lady, I would never dream of reading one of those horrid newspapers myself,” said Mrs. Amelia Craven, the most outspoken of the officers’ wives present. A willowy woman, she fluttered a fan at a mosquito buzzing around her gray-and-cherry striped bodice. “Whatever does the editorial say?”
“It proposes that we release the insubordinate sepoys,” said Uncle John. “He’s gone too far this time, the cheeky bastard.”
Aunt Violet gave a little gasp. “My dear Colonel Thorndyke,” she murmured, dabbing her brow with a lace handkerchief. “Pray remember the ladies present. Have a care for our delicate sensibilities.”
“Begging your pardon.” His walrus mustache twitched as he flung the newspaper onto a teak table. “I. M. Vexed, indeed. The fellow is free enough with his opinions, but he hasn’t even the courage to sign his own name.”
If only Uncle John knew why, thought Sarah, shifting uneasily on the rose chintz settee. Though it was unlikely that anyone would notice the faint ink smudges on her fingers, she kept her hands folded in the lap of her apple-green muslin gown. Her call for clemency in the rifle-cartridge incident was bold enough. What would people think of the scathing editorial she’d posted just hours ago? They’d be mortified if they knew they were debating the opinions of a woman.
