by Olivia Drake
Now she could almost see why Shivina had been blindly devoted to him. The poor woman had been bound to him by gratitude for his swashbuckling rescue. Like a pilgrim prostrating herself before a deity, she’d worshipped at his feet.
A disagreeable notion occurred to Sarah. Perhaps he expected homage from her. Because he’d rescued her from a bloody mutiny.
“Look,” Lakshmi said, pointing to a grove of dark green mango trees near the winding river. “Jawahir has chosen the place for our afternoon rest.”
A sigh slipped from Sarah. Needles of pain pricked her legs and back. Her head ached under the weight of the sleeping mats and the endless hours of gazing into blinding sunlight.
It seemed they’d been walking forever without getting anywhere. For days the foothills had remained a hazy shadow on the northern horizon.
Reaching the cluster of trees, she eased the bundle off her head. Monkeys chattered in the branches. Sunlight dappled the dusty earth and created a cool, refreshing bower. Sarah longed to rest her tired body, but Kit awakened and began squalling for his milk. She untied him from the sling and he ceased crying, giving her the wide-eyed look that touched her heart.
Lakshmi unpacked the cook pots and food. Her youngest daughter, Reena, a girl of fourteen, hefted a brass lota atop her head and went to fetch water from the river. Blinking the travel grit from her eyes, Sarah changed Kit’s nappy, then left him with Madakka and scoured the area for fallen branches to use as fuel for the cook fire.
The men lounged a short distance away. Leaning on an elbow, Damien puffed on a bidi, tobacco rolled in a dried leaf. Its pungent scent drifted through the hot air. He gestured and talked to the men, and their laughter wafted to her.
The dry boughs poked her ribs, and a sharp twig scored the tip of her index finger. Glowering at Damien, she sucked on the sore spot. The inequity of male and female roles nagged at her. He and the other men lay about like rajahs while the women labored like slaves.
She lugged the unwieldy bundle of tinder to Lakshmi, who sat on her heels, her swift hands rolling balls of millet and honey.
“I’ve been thinking about our talk this morning,” Sarah said. “Would you ever burn yourself for a man?”
“I will not have to. My husband abides by the laws of the sahib-log.”
“But if he didn’t?”
With a fatalistic shrug, Lakshmi said, “If he wished it of me, who am I to argue? It is a woman’s sacred duty to obey her husband.”
Sarah knelt and absently formed a ball of sticky honey and kernels of grain. “And what of his duty to honor you?”
“He honors me by keeping me in his house, as his first wife.”
“But he makes you share him with another woman. What would he say if you wanted a second husband?”
Lakshmi laughed. “Pah! Whoever heard of a woman with two husbands? She would be forever with child.”
“The number of husbands or wives isn’t the point,” Sarah persisted. “We women deserve respect, too. Why should we bow to men? Why should we work so much harder than they? Why must we speak to them only when spoken to? Why should we always walk in their dust?”
“Because that is the lot of women.” Lakshmi clucked her tongue. “You English have strange notions.”
Sarah blew out an exasperated breath. If only she could convince Lakshmi of her own worth. If only she could improve the life of the village women. But I. M. Vexed had lost the means to air her views on equality. Her fingers itched for pen and paper.
“Psst.” The Hindu woman drew her blue veil over her lower face. She dropped her gaze in the posture of a modest wife.
Sarah looked up to find Damien standing behind her. Days under the merciless rays of the sun had darkened his skin to a mahogany hue. The dashing wrap of his turban dramatized his stark male features, and the black, stubbly beard made him seem harsher, more wickedly attractive.
The devil himself couldn’t have looked more unsavory.
“I’d like to wash,” he said. “Fetch me water.”
The brusque order nettled Sarah. Yet a slight softening endured within her. Just as she had confronted the fakir, Damien, too, had rescued Shivina from a mob. Perhaps a trace of integrity lurked within his unprincipled heart.
He turned to go. Sarah quickly said, “Walk with me down to the river.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Come, and you’ll find out. Excuse us, Lakshmi.”
Rising, Sarah wiped her sticky hands and picked up a clay pitcher. As she started down the path through the jungle of plumed grass, she heard the tramp of his feet behind her. She was conscious suddenly of the flimsiness of her garments, the sway of her hips and breasts. The sari gave her a sinful sensation of freedom, a sensation more deliciously lovely than the metal cage of a crinoline and the stiff whalebones of a corset.
Glancing down at herself, at the nut-stained arms with the silver bangles, at the bare toes peeking from beneath the olive silk, Sarah marveled at her native appearance. Unfettered by the constraints of English society, she felt younger, almost giddy.
She wondered what Damien thought of her metamorphosis. He probably hadn’t even noticed. You aren’t exactly my kind of woman. Sourness sapped her frivolous feeling.
The high grass ended near the river. With the summer rains due within a month, the green-tinged water ran low through a labyrinth of channels. A massive banyan tree reached skyward, its bare roots anchored in the sand. The musical burble of the current over rocks blended with the screeching of monkeys and the squawking of birds.
Beyond the banyan, a small shrine caught Sarah’s attention. Rounded columns supported a peaked roof. She walked to the steps and peered into the shadowy interior. To her surprise, Lakshmi’s daughter Reena stood beside a simple stone sculpture.
The girl’s wide brown eyes skipped to Damien and her white teeth flashed before she lowered her gaze. She sprinkled water on the stone object, then bent and tenderly pressed her lips to it. Lifting the brass lota atop her head, she pranced out of the temple and smiled demurely at Damien. He smiled back, watching her disappear into the plumed grass.
Sarah tugged the veil tighter over her black-dyed hair and fought off annoyance. If he wanted to act the lecher, let him. His proclivities were nothing to her.
She set down her jar and stepped into the shade of the temple. The cool floor soothed her sore feet. In the center of the room stood the waist-high statue. Rounded at the top, it was shaped like a thick sausage standing on end. A string of withered marigolds lay at the base, someone’s now-dusty offering.
She walked to the sculpture and turned to see Damien standing in the doorway, the sunshine outlining his tall form. Moving her hand over the smooth curved top, she commented, “This is an odd piece. Do you know what it represents?”
“A lingam.”
She frowned. “A what?”
One corner of his hard mouth quirked upward. “You speak Hindi so well, I’m surprised you’ve never heard the word.”
His smirk annoyed her. “Just tell me what it means.”
“A lingam is the male sex organ.”
Her cheeks burned. She snatched her hand back. “You’re only saying that to irk me.”
He chuckled darkly. “Why would I bother? It really is a lingam. In honor of Shiva.”
“Why Shiva?”
Damien leaned against a column. “I take it you haven’t heard the story.”
His knowing brown eyes bored into her. Aware of the beating of her heart, she told herself to walk away. Curiosity got the better of her. “What story?”
“Brahma and the other gods caught Shiva and his wife making love. Shiva was so engrossed in his pleasure, he kept on with it. When his passion was spent, he died of shame. But before he expired, he ordered mankind to worship him in the form of his finest part, his lingam.” Damien waved a hand to encompass the small chamber. “So the Hindus erected shrines like this all over India.”
Sarah wet her dry lips. The epitome of i
dle masculinity, he lounged against the stone pillar. Her gaze skittered away from him, then irresistibly crept back. “Why did Reena sprinkle water on the...” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word.
That odd half-grin again touched Damien’s mouth. He looked her up and down in a way that made her insides contract in a peculiarly pleasant sensation. “It’s a rite of worship,” he said. “To cool the organ’s hot passion.”
“Oh.”
Flushed, she could no longer meet his penetrating gaze. She made a wide circle around him and picked up her pitcher. Desperate to collect her composure, she paused on the step and focused on the wide expanse of the Ganges.
Brilliant shafts of sunlight picked out sandbanks in the shallow water. Far downstream, a pair of fishermen drowsed in their boat. On the opposite shore a brown-skinned boy tramped behind a bullock.
She tensed as Damien walked up behind her. He stopped so close she fancied she could feel the warmth of his body.
Birds twittered into the silence and a monkey chattered. Her pulse fluttered. “Ganga Ma,” she murmured to break the awkwardness. “The Hindus revere Mother Ganges as the most sacred river on earth.”
“You’re blushing, Miss Priss,” he said in a low-pitched voice threaded with humor. “And you’re changing the subject. Does it disturb you to think of women worshipping a man’s—”
“Stop it!” Willing away the hotness in her cheeks, she swung to face him, the pitcher clenched like a shield to her breasts. “I didn’t ask you here to listen to your lewd remarks.”
“Then why did you ask me?”
She groped among her scattered thoughts. “Because I just found out Shivina was Jawahir’s sister.”
“I see you’ve been gossiping.” He propped his hand against a pillar; sunlight whitened his scars. “I never did know two women who could get together without spreading rumors and causing havoc.”
Determined to be civil, Sarah forced a smile. “Lakshmi told me about the suttee incident. It’s unnatural to keep such a secret. She said you faced down a mob to save Shivina.”
“I faced down a sorry collection of white-faced weaklings. A crusader like you could have done as well.”
“Nevertheless, threatening them with that photograph was most effective.”
“The photo was a bluff.”
Nonplussed, she tilted her head. “It was?”
“Yes. I hadn’t even silvered the plate yet.”
“Damien, they might have killed you—”
“Don’t make a damned romantic hero out of me.”
Sunshine gleamed on the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. The scruffy black beard shadowed the bold angles of his jaw and cheeks. “I doubt anyone would mistake you for a romantic hero,” she retorted. “Still, what you did was noble.”
“I saw the chance to acquire a mistress. A mistress who was so indebted to me for saving her life that she’d serve my every lusty wish. Isn’t that what you’re waiting to hear?”
Disgust trampled Sarah’s good intentions. “That’s precisely the sort of crude behavior one would expect of you.”
“You wanted the truth.” He straightened. “Now, if you’re through with your damned complaining, I’m heading back to camp.”
She held out the pitcher to him. “Then fetch your own water, burra sahib. Your slave just quit.”
His expression infuriatingly cool, he regarded her. “You’re no slave. I pay you a huge salary.”
“I’ve yet to see a penny of my much-lauded salary. How do I know you’ll keep your word?”
“You don’t. And in case you’ve forgotten,” he said with elaborate patience, “there’s a reason behind our masquerade.”
“Hah! You’re using that as an excuse to treat me like your personal drudge.”
“Shush,” he said, casting a quick glance around. “God help us if the wrong person were to overhear you. You’re supposed to behave like a Hindu woman.”
“I’ll lower my voice,” Sarah murmured, “but don’t expect me to meekly accept my role. We should be setting a good example for the others. We could show them how a husband and wife can work together. We might better the lives of the Hindu women.”
“So you’ve found a new crusade. I might have known you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
“The way these women work isn’t ‘well enough.’ I’m merely trying to make the world more equitable to all people.”
“Well, my philosophy is to respect the local customs. Now quit complaining and fetch me the damned water.”
His constant profanities and arrogant attitude set her teeth on edge. “You might at least make an effort to be civil. Didn’t your mother teach you to say please and thank you?”
He stood perfectly still, feet planted apart, hands on his hips. A puff of hot wind fluttered the tail of his turban. His dark features might have been carved from teak. Yet she had the impression of a tempest raging inside him.
“Is it help you want?” he said. “All right, then.” He lunged at her and grabbed the jar. Stomping over the sand to the river, he bent and sloshed the pitcher into the muddy water. Then he returned and shoved the dripping container back into her arms. “Say thank you, Miss Priss.”
The heavy vessel dampened the front of her sari, but Sarah clutched it as tightly as her temper. “Now you keep your voice down. I’m asking you for a little cooperation, that’s all. Together we might ease the harsh lives of Lakshmi and Madakka and the other women.”
“We? Just what the hell do you expect me to do?”
“Educate the men. Help me in front of them. Watch Kit while I collect firewood. Show the men that women aren’t beasts of burden and inferior beings.”
“No, thanks. I’ll leave the reforming to do-gooders like you.” His insulting gaze swept her, lingering for a moment on her bosom. “Hell, maybe some women are inferior.”
He turned toward the camp. A great surge of rage broke inside her, drowning her judgment in a hot red mist.
“Mr. Coleridge.”
He swung back. “Miss Faulkner?”
“You’ve forgotten your bath.”
She hurled the contents of the pitcher at him. He leaped back, but water slapped him in the face and drenched his tunic and dhoti.
Shocked at her lapse of restraint, Sarah stood immobile. The shrill cawing of crows sounded over the quiet melody of the river. The soaked cotton adhered to his torso, outlining every sleek curve and hard muscle. The sight abruptly struck her as comical. A bubble of mirth rose within her.
Clasping the clay container, she swallowed hard, but a burst of merriment pushed past her lips.
“Damn you,” he sputtered, shaking the sodden sleeves of his tunic. “What the hell are you laughing at?”
“You look ridiculous,” she said between giggles. “Like a wet heron flapping its wings.”
He glowered for a moment. Then his bad-tempered expression eased into something halfway between a scowl and a smile. He snatched up a piece of driftwood.
“You’re bloody lucky I’m not a true Hindu husband, else I’d take this rod to your prim little arse.”
Stick in hand, he strolled closer. Was that a twinkle in his eyes or a trick of the sunlight?
Her heart tripping, she left the temple step and backed away, the sand hot beneath her feet. “You can’t be angry over that trifling amount of water.”
“Oh?” He slapped the stick against the flat of his scarred palm. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be quite so certain.”
Her feet splashed into the warmth of the river. She barely noticed the sting of her blisters. Damien Coleridge had no sense of humor.
Or did he?
Daringly she taunted, “Ganges water is supposed to wash away sin. Are you feeling the least bit redeemed?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps you should have been completely submerged.”
“Go ahead and try,” he said. “By God, I’ll pull you in with me.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.”<
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Holding the empty pitcher, she spun around and ran. Hot wind rushed past her cheeks. The sari whipped against her legs, the wet hem sticking to her skin. His footsteps pounded behind her. At some deep level, she was shocked at her rash behavior, but an inexplicable caprice drove her on.
Ripples of heat undulated over the slim strip of sand and the wide expanse of water. A vulture sailed overhead, black wings outstretched. A small flock of cranes scattered before her on the sand. Their squawking covered the tinkling of the tiny silver bells on her anklets.
Nearing a bend in the river, she veered to avoid a fallen tree trunk. A huge turtle rose to the surface of the water and blinked sleepily. A fin flashed as a mahseer glided through the river. Holding her veil in place, Sarah risked a glance backward.
Damien grasped her arm and brought her to a skidding halt. His rough-hewn features loomed over her. His warm palm cupped the softness of her breast through the thin sari. Gasping, she felt her belly twist with the same stunning urge she’d felt that night in the garden. The urge to let him touch her naked skin, to press her body to his, to drown in the warmth of his lips...
But his hand dropped away. His hard brown eyes focused beyond her.
She turned to look.
Along the embankment, half hidden by the waving grass, two dark-skinned men squatted beside something lying in the sand. The blood-red coats and filthy white trousers marked them as sepoys, though they wore turbans instead of the regulation white caps.
The fatter man shifted position, and she saw the object of his interest.
A lightning bolt of horror struck her heart.
Chapter 10
Damien yanked the veil down over Sarah’s face. In the same instant both sepoys spun
around.
With the clarity of a photograph, the scene imprinted on his mind. One sepoy was rapier-thin, with a flattened nose and a low brow. A milky cataract colored one of his eyes, giving him the leering aspect of a Cyclops. The second man had the hulking build and broad face of a bullock. He gripped a bloodied knife.
