by Olivia Drake
His tanned skin showed the stark outline of his cheekbones. He looked so stricken, she softened her tone. “I’m afraid not. You shan’t be going anywhere for a while, Mr. Coleridge.”
He continued to stare at her for another moment. Then he wheeled toward the beggar children. “Watch my equipment,” he said in Hindi, and flipped a coin to their leader. Without a word to Sarah, he started at a jog down the dusty road, his dhoti outlining his powerful thighs.
She clutched her skirts and scurried after him. Sympathy formed a warm pool inside her. Could this hard-hearted man really care for Shivina?
Far ahead, he veered away from the row of officers’ bungalows and headed toward the parade ground. The truth struck. He was going to his caravan!
She stopped and blew out an exclamation: “You...devil!” Yanking off her topi, she used her cuff to blot the perspiration from her brow. So the knave meant to run out on Shivina after all. No doubt he would bring the caravan around and collect his camera gear, then hightail it out of the garrison.
Fury and frustration raged inside Sarah. She wanted to race after him. She wanted to blister his ears with curses. She wanted to slap some honor into his cowardly soul.
Instead, she clamped the hat back on her head and paced toward the bungalow. Now was no time to lose her temper. Now more than ever, Shivina needed her.
She found the Hindu woman resting in the care of an ayah, and took the maid’s place beside the bed. The closed shutters kept the room dim, and the hot air was stirred by the punkah. She concocted a tale about Damien going off to take photographs, and Shivina seemed resigned to his absence. Sarah dreaded the moment when she’d have to tell Shivina the truth. Assuming she survived the untimely birth...
As the afternoon wore on, her pains grew harder and closer. Sarah maintained a cheerful facade despite the worry biting at her. When Reginald arrived at last, she leaped up in relief.
“Thank heaven you’re here.”
He drew her to the door. “My Hindi is quite rusty,” he murmured. “Will I need an interpreter?”
Sarah shook her head. “Shivina speaks English. Reginald, you should know the baby is early. Her water broke, and she’s been having pains about every ten minutes or so—”
“Shush, my pet.” A ruddy blush crept upward from his starched collar. “You leave her to me. A lady needn’t worry over such a delicate matter.” He shooed her out and shut the door.
Annoyance rippled through her, but she squelched the feeling. Reginald would take fine care of Shivina.
Restless, Sarah wandered through the bungalow. Upraised voices enticed her to the drawing room. Peering through the split cane curtain, she saw Uncle John and Hector Harte, the stoop-shouldered minister. Another man faced them, his back to her. Even in the braided suit of a gentleman there was no mistaking his towering build or the thick black hair brushing his collar.
Damien Coleridge.
Her heart took flight. So he hadn’t abandoned Shivina.
“This is highly irregular,” the minister was saying.
“Shouldn’t you think this over, sir?” added Uncle John. “What will people say?”
Damien shrugged. “Let them gossip. It’s nothing new to me. I’m sorry to involve you, Colonel, but I haven’t a choice.”
Sarah stepped toward the men and formulated an excuse to satisfy her curiosity. “Pardon me. May I fetch you drinks?”
Uncle John swung on her. “By Jupiter, forget the blasted drinks, niece! Perhaps you can talk some sense into Mr. Coleridge.”
“Don’t bother,” Damien said icily. “My mind is made up.”
He stared at John Thorndyke until the colonel harrumphed and folded his arms across the front of his uniform. “Begging your pardon, sir. Didn’t mean to offend.”
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” she asked.
Damien aimed his stony gaze at her. “I’m marrying Shivina. Now.”
The announcement robbed Sarah of breath. She couldn’t speak, could only stare at his resolute features. He truly meant to defy society and wed a Hindu woman.
Her swell of self-righteous smugness ebbed, leaving a peculiar flatness, heavy as the late afternoon heat blanketing the room.
“How is Shivina?” Damien said.
He might have been asking the price of a mango. “Doing well enough,” Sarah said tartly. “Reginald is with her now.”
“Then perhaps he’ll consent to stand witness along with you.” Turning to the minister, Damien took a paper from his pocket and held it out. “You’ll want to see the special license.”
Harte peered at the document. “It looks ironclad to me. Signed by Lord Canning himself. No higher authority in the Raj.”
‘Yes. I met with the governor-general in Calcutta a few months back.”
“But...did he know you intended to wed a native woman?”
Damien glanced at the minister. “I hardly think my choice of a wife is your concern. Shall we get on with it?”
Harte gulped visibly, but made no further protest.
Damien extended his arm to Sarah. Still astonished, she curled her fingers around his sleeve and felt the hard warmth of his muscled arm.
As they walked out, she couldn’t resist murmuring, “You certainly waited long enough to use the special license.”
“And you take an unmerited interest in my personal decisions.”
“Nevertheless, I’m glad you heeded my advice about marriage.”
“Sorry to deflate your self-satisfaction, Miss Faulkner, but I changed my mind because of something else.”
She tilted a dubious look up at him. “What’s that?”
“An editorial I read in yesterday’s newspaper about the shabby way we English treat the native women.” Damien flashed her a look that seemed to mock himself as much as her. “You see, I owe my change of heart to a fellow who calls himself I. M. Vexed.”
“Your son, sahib.”
Damien swung around. Illuminated by the light of a single lantern, a plump ayah stood inside the drawing room doorway. She cuddled a small, white-shrouded bundle.
Dumbfounded, he stared. How many hours had passed since that hurried wedding ceremony? Since he’d pledged his life to a woman whose need for love he could never fulfill? Since he’d insisted on being left alone here with only the prayer wheel of his thoughts for company?
Forgive me, Shivina. Forgive me for snatching you from one fiery torment only to plunge you into another. Forgive me, for you deserve better than the paltry ashes of my heart...
As if seen through an unfocused camera lens, the image of ayah and baby turned fuzzy. He had always taken care not to scatter bastards wherever he roamed. This child was a mistake. The mistake of a man who had gratified a casual desire. The mistake of a man who had indulged a momentary craving for companionship.
His punishment was a son. A son.
He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He almost gagged on a clot of panic.
Hand shaking, he set down his brandy glass. How could he presume to raise a son? He knew nothing of being a father! He knew even less of tenderness and affection, for his mother had taught him an early lesson, that love bred only pain, that trust brought animosity and despair. Better to stay aloof and keep his emotions intact. Better not to let anyone strangle him with the ties of sentiment.
Long ago he had vowed never to marry, never to sire any offspring. Now, a moment’s weakness had bound him to a woman he didn’t love and a child he didn’t need.
He should have let the Coleridge name die out, he thought with sudden savagery. He should have ensured that there were no future Dukes of Lamborough.
The baby squalled. Damien blinked, and the ayah came back into focus. Despite the lateness of the hour, she waited patiently. “Sahib? The miss-sahib, she said you would wish to see your son.”
Miss Sarah Faulkner. Seeking a release valve, his explosive emotions vented steam. Miss Sarah-Holier-Than-Thou-Faulkner. She likely meant to flaunt his error. To make him do p
enance for the sin of fornication. A pinch-mouthed spinster like her didn’t understand—would never understand—the pleasures of physical passion.
The servant stepped toward Damien and lay the squirming bundle in his arms. He started to thrust it back in a violent motion. No, he wanted to shriek. Take it away!
Then he looked down at the small form. Swaddled in a bleached cotton blanket, the infant felt surprisingly compact and sturdy. The face, dusky in color and wrinkled from crying, resembled that of a baby monkey.
The boy ceased whimpering and went still. He stared up at his father. His dark irises rounded into a faintly quizzical expression. In the lamplight, he had ivory-brown skin and the wide Lamborough brow, high cheekbones and a rosebud mouth. He looked vulnerable, utterly trusting. Damien touched the child’s hand. Soft and new, it grasped his scarred finger in a tiny fist.
His chest tightened with a yearning so fierce it hurt. Tears blurred his eyes. Quickly he turned his back on the ayah and tried to rein in his runaway emotions.
He couldn’t possibly love the boy. It was only a baby, no different from thousands of others.
Yet something long buried broke free inside him. His son. The notion now brought waves of pride and awe and protectiveness. This child, Damien vowed, wouldn’t suffer as he’d suffered.
“Christopher,’’ he murmured. “I’ll call you Christopher.”
With the unqualified trust of the innocent, his son continued to study him. As Damien’s elder brother had once regarded him.
Oh, God, could the boy ever love him?
Panic and longing choked Damien. Or would he ruin his son’s life, too?
Spinning around, he thrust the child into the hands of the startled ayah. Then he plunged through the split cane curtain and fled into the dark Indian night.
Quill in hand, Sarah sat at the teak desk in her bedroom. From outside came the cheep of a cricket and the far-off thump of drums. Distracted from her editorial about improved quarters for the sepoys, she gazed out the unshuttered window and watched the last brilliant rays of sunshine pierce the heavens. With a swiftness unique to India the sun plunged below the horizon, and dusk spread a silver-violet veil across the sky.
Little Christopher—dubbed Kit—was a week old today. And today, against Sarah’s protests, Shivina had insisted that she and Kit rejoin Damien in the caravan. Already Sarah missed the sweet joy of cuddling the baby. Even Aunt Violet had been torn between relief and melancholy. Of course, Sarah intended to visit Shivina—tomorrow she would deliver the first of the gowns the dirzee had sewn for the Hindu woman.
Sarah hoped she wouldn’t encounter Damien Coleridge.
Idly she twirled the raven feather of the pen. What an odd man he was! As cold and remote as a Himalayan peak. Hardly the image of a happy bridegroom. This past week he’d taken scant notice of his new wife and son, and Sarah ached for Shivina. Yet the Hindu woman either was content or hid her hurt well.
Guilt left a sour taste in Sarah’s mouth. Most likely Damien regretted the hasty nuptials. Perhaps her zeal for justice had made her overlook his faults. Perhaps he would mistreat Shivina.
Perhaps he really was a murderer.
No, she mustn’t entertain the frightful thought. Much as she disapproved of his moral character, in her heart she couldn’t believe his nature was so twisted that he could cause Shivina or Kit physical harm.
By candlelight, she reread the editorial. Satisfied, she neatly penned I. M. Vexed at the bottom. She sanded the wet ink, folded the paper, and stuffed it into an envelope.
Damien might read this editorial, too. She allowed herself a moment of pleasure. Her private satisfaction would have to be enough. It was a shame she dared not tell him that he owed his change of mind to her.
A sudden knock made her tense. She slid the envelope beneath the leather desk pad and scurried to open the door. “Oh, Patel.”
He tossed a furtive glance over his shoulder. “Missy-sahib,” he hissed. “I must speak to you alone.”
“Do come in.” Sarah stepped back. “But you know I always bring my Delhi letters to you.”
“I have not come for letters,” he said, closing the door. “I have news, terrible news. I have come from the hut of my cousin.”
“The sepoy in Captain Craigie’s regiment? I do hope he isn’t ill.”
“Oh, no, missy.” Patel sketched a quick salaam, his turban flashing ivory in the candlelight. “It is you who are in danger!”
She regarded his wrinkled face dubiously. “Me? In danger?”
“Brahma save you, yes. On my cousin’s own doorstep I heard three sepoys speak of mutiny!”
Despite the heat, a chill shivered through her. “Surely you misunderstood.”
“No, missy. The sons of snakes vow death to all the sahib-log, men and women alike. Death even to the baba-log, the children. My cousin tried to shush the men. But the bhang they smoked made them bold.”
“When is this mutiny to take place?”
“In two days, as the prisoners are punished.” He clasped his brown hands. “Please, missy- sahib, you must leave, I beg you. Go to Simla tomorrow. You will be safe high in the hills.”
Disbelief throbbed inside her chest. Most Indians she knew were like Patel, peace-loving people who shared her abhorrence of bloodshed. Yet there were also fanatics like the fakir.
Everything will become red.
Suppressing a shudder, she paced past the bed with its mosquito netting of white gauze. She had seen the signs of unrest, witnessed the power of the mob, felt the uneasy impression of resentment from the sepoys. Could Indian soldiers engage in indiscriminate slaughter?
The ugly image was unthinkable. Yet Damien’s warning in the garden echoed inside her. She must not let complacency blind her.
“I’ll warn my uncle,” she told Patel. “He’ll know what to do.”
“I’m glad you came to see me instead of your uncle. But I do wish you’d notified me that you were coming.” Cheeks red, Reginald quickly knotted his neckcloth and donned his jacket.
Sarah had never before seen him in undress. Her uncle had gone to play billiards at the Meerut Club, so she’d taken the palka-ghari to Reginald’s bungalow.
The lamplit study smelled of medicines and leather-bound books. Neat rows of bottles lined the shelves. Her fiancé stood behind a small desk that bore an empty soda-water bottle, an inkstand, and the Hindustani dictionary she had given him for his birthday. The breeze from the punkah gently stirred a stack of papers.
“Now, about this wild tale,” he said. “I’ve been in India for nine years, and no matter where I’ve been stationed, I’ve heard rumors of imminent revolt come out of the bazaar.”
Sarah felt oddly like an outsider invading his private domain. Too restless to sit, she paced to a glass-fronted cabinet. “You must believe me,” she said. “This is no bazaar tale.”
He smiled indulgently. “Where did you come by your information?”
“Patel heard so from his cousin—a sepoy.”
“Stuff and nonsense. You heard Hewitt at the dinner party. Meerut is the last place a mutiny would occur. Why, ours is the only military station in the Raj where English soldiers aren’t vastly outnumbered by the native troops.”
“But the imprisoned sepoys are angry. Patel said—”
“Patel is just another wild-eyed Indian, afraid of his own shadow. I shall have a word with your uncle about his servants spreading idle chatter.” Reginald came around the desk and took her hand. His grip was gentle and reassuring. “I must speak to him soon anyway, my pet. About us.”
“Of course.” She was ashamed to admit their betrothal had flown her mind of late. “With a baby in the house, I confess I haven’t had a chance to soften Aunt Violet to your cause.”
Reginald compressed his lips. “At least that Hindu woman is away from there at last. I must say, I felt uneasy standing witness to their wedding. I can’t imagine why his lordship would make a half-caste his legal heir.”
Sarah b
ristled. “Because he sired the baby. Surely you wouldn’t want him to thrust Shivina and Kit into the streets?”
“Of course not, darling. You miss my point. Lords don’t go around marrying native women, that’s all.”
“Perhaps not. But he did right by her, and for that I’m glad.”
Reginald smiled. “Your integrity is one of the things I love about you, Sarah. I’m anxious to announce our engagement to the world.”
Disquiet stirred in her. She ought to tell him about I. M. Vexed. Yet something stopped her. “I’m anxious, too,” she said. “But please, promise you won’t cause trouble for Patel. He believes he spoke the truth.”
“If you wish, my pet.” Reginald patted the back of her hand. “I don’t doubt he may have heard a few malcontents talking. But if our commander trusts the loyalty of his regiments, then so do I.”
His steady blue eyes made Sarah uncertain. Was she overreacting? Surely a few rebels couldn’t incite a friendly majority to riot...
“Perhaps my aunt and I should leave early for Simla anyway.”
“Nonsense. You’ve time aplenty.” He guided her to the door. “Now, darling, you shouldn’t be here alone after dark. I’ll have Ali Khan escort you home. I’d do so myself, but I must prepare the hospital’s supply lists for the mail packet to Calcutta tomorrow. Dashed boring task compared to your lovely company.”
His tender regard made her fears dwindle. It was only as she lay abed that night, listening to the drone of mosquitoes and the distant howl of jackals, that her misgivings came creeping back. The Indian people had suffered injustice at the hands of the British. Would the rifle-cartridge incident tip the scales toward revolt?
She stared into the darkness, watching the elongated shadow of the peepul tree dance on the bedroom wall.
Did she truly have time aplenty?
Chapter 5
Beneath a sky dark with clouds, a gust of wind swirled dust devils across the road. Sarah blinked her smarting eyes. She perched on the edge of the leather seat as Ram Lall, the Thorndykes’ syce, guided the palka-ghari through the crush of conveyances. The hot morning air hung heavy and breathless, like the oppressive hours before the onset of the monsoon.
