Fire on the Wind

by Olivia Drake

  Sarah rose to follow the other women. Madakka shyly drew Kit from beneath her sari, and Sarah couldn’t resist pausing in the shadows to caress his velvety cheek. A sweet milky scent enveloped the drowsy infant. He blinked his long- lashed dark eyes, studying her with the solemn babyish look that wrenched her heart.

  If he came to any harm...

  “Wife,” snapped Damien from behind. “Quit fawning over Madakka’s baby.”

  The Hindu woman scurried away with Kit. Sarah whirled to find Damien towering over her. She could see through her veil that his chiseled features bore a look of impatience, his mouth taut and his eyes narrowed.

  “Come,” he said. “You’ll sleep beside me tonight.”

  Gall rose in her throat. Not since the day after the mutiny had he slept at her side. She wanted to tell him precisely what she thought of his order. But the sepoys might be watching.

  She placed her palms together and ducked her chin in the parody of a good wife. “As you wish, O Great Master.”

  His black eyebrows descended, but he merely turned on his heel. She dawdled over fetching their sleeping mats; then she spied Keppu stretched out by the fire. The gigantic man made no secret of watching her movements and leered knowingly.

  Her heart tripping, she swung away and found Damien waiting in the gloom at the edge of the orchard. She was in dire straits indeed, Sarah thought, when she saw him as her refuge. She spread the mats a few feet apart. He bent and yanked them together.

  “Lie down,” he commanded.

  He was probably enjoying the charade of exerting his power over her. Clenching her teeth, she sank onto her back, keeping her legs straight and her arms rigid. He settled down facing her. Sarah daringly drew the veil from her face and relished the refreshing breeze. The thin reed mat did little to cushion her from the hard earth. She yearned for a comfortable bed, a good book, a cup of tea. Instead, she had Damien.

  She shifted position slightly, angling toward him. His musky male scent spanned the narrow gap between them. Her stomach cavorted in a strange little flutter. The memory of their light-hearted moment on the river came floating back. What had gotten into her to douse him with water and then flee? She was haunted by the sensation of him holding her breast in the warm cradle of his palm. She glared at his big dark shape and silently recounted all the reasons she was furious at him, all the grievances she burned to voice.

  A short distance away, the rustling and murmuring of the villagers slowly died until only the sounds of the night remained, the far-off gurgling of the river, the lonely trumpet of a crane, the faint swish of mango leaves overhead. Insects buzzed and chirped loudly.

  Sarah could keep silent no longer. “Why did you drag me over here?” she whispered. “I feel safer sleeping with the women.”

  “Believe me, I’d as soon make my bed with a viper,” he hissed back. “But I had to get you away from my son. With all the attention you were paying him, Lalji and Keppu were about to get suspicious.”

  Her heart lurched sickeningly. Had she endangered the baby? “You’re blowing an affectionate pat all out of proportion,” she said. “All they’ll think is that I love babies. You shouldn’t have invited those two thugs into our camp in the first place.”

  “If you’d look past your own nose,” he growled under his breath, “you’d see that it’s better to keep the enemy out in the open rather than risk him skulking about in the bushes.”

  “That’s the most foolish reasoning I ever—” She choked back the urge to raise her voice. “They’re armed and dangerous. They could slaughter us all, your son included.”

  “Jawahir’s watching them—he won’t fail me. And speaking of fools, you almost got our throats cut at least three times. “‘Like the jackal who feeds from his own wounded body,’” Damien mimicked. “You can’t even be original. You were quoting that columnist, I. M. Vexed.”

  She froze. Dear God, he was too astute. She’d have to watch herself. “I suppose you object to a woman reading the newspaper.”

  “You can read the bloody Kama Sutra for all I care. We’re speaking of your stupid behavior. You couldn’t obey an order if the Queen herself commanded you to keep silent.”

  “And you couldn’t be civil if Prince Albert offered to knight you for it.”

  “The devil take your politeness,” he said in a rude whisper. “What the hell did you want that daguerreotype for? Your scrapbook? Are you collecting souvenirs of the mutiny?”

  She slapped at a gnat and wished it were Damien’s sarcastic face. “I’m going to send the photograph to that poor man’s family. It may be their last memento of him.”

  “So you risked our necks for a damned keepsake. It’s not even a good photograph, for Goa’s sake.”

  “Now who’s being prissy? I wouldn’t expect you to understand the great sentimental value of memorabilia.” Swallowing hard, she clasped the locket beneath her sari and murmured, “I treasure my miniature of Reginald. It’s all I have left of him. I’ll keep it close to my heart forever.”

  Damien abruptly rolled onto his back and pillowed his head on his folded arms. He stared up at the canopy of leaves. “Lot of good that’ll do you,” he said, so low she had to strain to hear. “You’ll still be wearing it when you’re a gray-haired spinster.”

  “Better a spinster than an uncaring blackguard like you. You have no sense of loyalty, and even less appreciation of family values and devotion to loved ones.”

  “Thank God for that,” he muttered. “At least I have my freedom.”

  “The freedom to do what? To be a vagabond for the rest of your days? What kind of life can you give Kit?”

  “Better than a crusading do-gooder who meddles in the lives of everyone who has the misfortune to blunder into her path. I’m surprised you’ve resisted lecturing Keppu and Lalji on their ill-mannered behavior toward the British.”

  She kept a firm lid on her temper. “I don’t lecture anyone,” she whispered back. “I merely do whatever I can to secure justice for downtrodden people.”

  “What have you ever really done except complain?”

  Sarah gritted her teeth. She dared not tell him about I. M. Vexed, or he’d proclaim her secret to everyone once she got back to English society.

  “Obviously nothing,” Damien went on, his tone subdued but smug. “Whenever you’re at a loss for an answer, you turn into Miss Prissy Principles.”

  “Calling me names makes you feel superior,” she murmured stiffly. “And you’re changing the subject. We were speaking of the way you put your son and me in danger by inviting murderers into our camp.”

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know that I’m escorting them away from here tomorrow.”

  She started to sit up, then caught herself. “What?” she said on a strident breath.

  “I’m going with them. To make damned certain they go to Kurnaul instead of planning an ambush.”

  Fear churned away her anger. The thought of Damien leaving made her feel horribly alone. For all his boorish nature, he was familiar, her last link to the life she’d lost. “You can’t abandon Kit and me. How do I know you’ll come back?”

  “Trust me, Sarah.” Sarcasm deepened his low-pitched voice. “They’re suspicious of us. I have to make certain they don’t follow us. So I’ll tell them I’m joining the glorious mutiny. Then I’ll lose them in Kurnaul and rejoin you in a week.”

  She swallowed. His plan was far too risky, too foolhardy. She strained to discern his features through the darkness. “Suppose they discover who you are?” she said in a shaky undertone. “You could be hurt—even killed.”

  “Then you can celebrate my demise. You’ll have Kit, just as you wanted.”

  His negligent attitude rankled Sarah. “Of course I’d care for him. I love him as my own son. But how am I to travel all the way to Bombay? How will I pay passage to England?”

  Silence reigned for a heartbeat. “To England? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Your mother is the dowager
Duchess of Lamborough. Surely she’d wish to meet her grandson and see to his welfare.”

  Damien’s hand shot out and gripped her wrist. “You’re never to take my son there,” he said through gritted teeth. “Never.”

  His fierceness took her by surprise. “Why not?”

  “None of your damned business. I have some rupees set aside that I’ll give you in the morning. And a draft for my bank in Bombay. That’ll do you.”

  His reticence intrigued her. “But if you die—”

  “For God’s sake, I’m not going to die.” Letting her go, he blew out an exasperated breath. “You sound as if you’d miss me.”

  She stiffened. “I wouldn’t wish anyone dead. Not even you.”

  “Your charitable nature overwhelms me,” he drawled softly. “And here I thought you viewed me as an unfit father.”

  “Now that you mention it, I do have reservations,” she couldn’t resist murmuring. “You need to settle down. You can’t drag Kit around a volatile country in another caravan.”

  “I suppose you and Reggie could have done better—a shrew and a bore.”

  Tears burned her eyes. She blinked hard, lest Damien spy the moisture through the shadows. It was absurd that the opinion of a rogue had the power to wound her. “Reginald was a fine, upstanding man. He would have made a wonderful father.”

  “Too bad Sir Galahad wasn’t there today to rescue you. No doubt he would have pulled out his shining sword and impaled those two dacoits.”

  “Only you would mock his memory. You lack even an ounce of his honor.”

  “Lot of good honor did him. What a damned shame your hero got killed in the mutiny. Now you’re stuck with me.”

  His bald assessment of her predicament slapped Sarah in the face. It was a test of her willpower to keep her voice hushed. “Since you brought up the topic, I am growing weary of this charade. It’s humiliating for me to come whenever you crook your little finger.”

  “God spare me from humiliating you, Your Highness.”

  “Lakshmi and Jawahir and Keppu and Lalji— they all saw me trot over here to join you, your devoted wife.”

  “Ah,” Damien murmured, “at last we’re getting to the heart of what’s really bothering you. You’re worried that everyone thinks we’re over here making love.”

  “I am not!”

  “Shush.” His scarred finger pressed against her lips. “You’re afraid they think I’m sliding my hands beneath your sari, touching your bare skin, caressing your naked breasts—”

  She recoiled. “No!”

  “—lying on top of you and suckling your nipples until you’re writhing with passion, stroking you between your legs until you beg me to put my lingam inside you—”

  “Stop it, Damien,” she hissed in an undertone.

  The dark, erotic images he painted brought a flush to her skin. Her breathing quickened at the notion of him exploring the places no man had ever touched, at feeling his roughly tender hands unveil the intimate secrets of her body, at tasting the gentle pressure of his lips...

  It was outrageous. Damien Coleridge could never be tender. He could never be gentle.

  “Do you truly want me to stop, Sarah?” His velvet-soft question floated through the darkness. Heat radiated from him, and he suddenly seemed too, too close. “I wonder,” he mused, “if there’s a warm-blooded woman beneath all your starch and strait lacing. Maybe deep down you’d like me to claim the privileges of a husband.”

  Fabric rustled faintly; then his hand slid up her forearm, and she felt the smooth ridges of his scarred palm, the callused pads of his fingers, the warmth of his skin spreading over hers. She couldn’t speak; she couldn’t move. Ever so slowly his fingers glided upward, setting her whole body to tingling. What did he mean, stroke her between the legs? In some unfathomable part of her, she was conscious of a lush and throbbing heat, the tantalizing ache to let him teach her...

  His fingertips brushed her breast. The turmoil inside her exploded. She scooted away, off the mat. The gritty taste of dust entered her mouth.

  “Now I understand why you’re going off with those murderers.” The urge to lash out at him possessed her. “A villain like you would feel right at home with them. After all, you killed your own father.”

  The instant the words were out, she froze in shock. Merciful Lord, even Damien didn’t deserve that. The rasp of his breathing blended with the creaking of the crickets. She tried to see his face, but the darkness obscured his expression.

  His fingers bit hard into her arm. “Who’s been talking about my father?”

  “M—Mrs. Craven. At the dinner party.” That naïve time seemed ages ago, like a half-forgotten dream. A web of remorse and doubt entangled Sarah’s heart. She didn’t know if her accusation had hurt him or angered him. “Damien, I’m sorry. It was stupid gossip, that’s all. I shouldn’t have repeated it.”

  A gust of wind parted the mango leaves and let the faint starlight illuminate his face. His gaze glittered from stony features. She wanted to ask him to deny the rumor, but a belated sensitivity stopped her. Prying into his private affairs had brought her enough trouble already.

  For a long moment Damien lay unmoving. Then he muttered, “Go to sleep, Sarah.” His voice was flat, barren of emotion. He rolled onto his side, away from her.

  His rejection left her feeling hollow inside. He had every right to be furious. She edged back onto her mat. As the night waned, she lay watching the play of leaves overhead and listening to his steady breathing. The memory of his touch lingered on her skin like a phantom caress. For some inexplicable reason, he possessed the power to plumb a hidden part or her, a part she wasn’t certain she wanted to uncover. She thought of him departing at dawn, and an unbearable ache descended upon her.

  So let him go, Sarah thought. She didn’t need him. For all she cared, he could stay away forever. Resolutely she closed her eyes and went to sleep.

  But in the morning, Lalji announced that he and Keppu had changed their minds. They were traveling to Hardwar, too.

  Chapter 11

  “How much for this feringhi weapon?”

  “One hundred rupees,” said the grizzled shopkeeper.

  “That’s robbery! My friend and I mean to join the holy uprising.” Damien indicated Keppu, who stood nearby in sullen silence. “Surely you can give fellow patriots a fair offer.”

  “Bah. We have no English here in Hardwar. It is the sepoys far away on the plains who revolt against their masters. Still, I give the weapon to you for seventy-five rupees.”

  “You have the heart of a dacoit. Better I should kill a feringhi and steal his gun.” Damien dropped the shiny revolver onto a pile of blankets and started to walk away.

  “Wait, wait!” His dingy white robes flapping, the merchant stepped in front of Damien. “For a fighter of the great mutiny, I give a special price. Sixty rupees.

  “For this poor piece? It isn’t worth more than twenty.”

  “Fifty.”

  “Thirty, and I’ll take a box of bullets besides.”

  The shopkeeper threw up his hands and groaned. “Hi yi! You snatch food from the mouths of my children.” Yet he grinned as he wrapped the weapon and bullets in brown paper.

  Sarah watched from the rear of the tiny shop. The faint scent of gun oil underlaid the musty aroma of wool emanating from the mounds of handwoven blankets, the mainstay of the shop’s trade.

  Keppu seized the package. “I will hold this,” he grunted. “And buy a rifle for myself, too.”

  “If you wish.” Shrugging, Damien stepped back as the sepoy commenced haggling over another firearm.

  Sarah studied him, and her insides pulled taut. His broad form seemed larger in the low-ceilinged shop. Black-bearded and clad in turban and dhoti, he looked as dangerous and disreputable as a mutineer.

  Damien’s nonchalance, Sarah knew, was part of the nerve-racking charade they’d played for the past fortnight. Despite his repeated attempts to convince Keppu and Lalji to leave the vi
llagers, the sepoys attached themselves to the group like leeches. With cool aplomb, Damien had fielded their many prying personal questions about him and Sarah. Battered by dust storms, hungry from food shortages, and limping on blistered feet, the small party of pilgrims had arrived the previous evening in the sacred town of Hardwar.

  She tapped her fingers on a stack of scratchy blankets. At the rest house where they were staying, Damien had drawn her aside to whisper that he meant for them to slip away from the rebels soon. But he was infuriatingly closemouthed about the particulars of his plan.

  Would he use the revolver to secure their escape? The old Sarah would have cringed at the thought. The Sarah she’d become knew the cold necessity of self-defense.

  Keppu turned around to study her veiled form. Familiar tension gripped her belly. His piggy eyes and broad build gave him the appearance of a bad-tempered water buffalo.

  Damien aimed a quick frown at Sarah. “Keppu,” he said sharply, “I’d like to purchase a blanket. Do you need one, too?”

  The sepoy shook his immense turbaned head. As Damien examined the blankets, Keppu turned back to pay for the guns, counting out a pile of silver rupees. Hugh MacMurtry’s money.

  Sarah slowly let out a breath. She mustn’t forget her duty to the poor Scotsman. She still had the precious photograph of his family secured inside her sari.

  This morning, Jawahir had taken Lalji to bathe at one of the sacred ghats. The others, Kit included, had stayed behind at the dharmsala while the women did the washing. Keppu had insisted that Sarah accompany him and her husband to the bazaar.

  So he could watch both of them.

  As swift as the snow-fed waters of the Ganges, the unbearable thirst for freedom swept over her. She had acted the obedient wife for too many days. She had endured the unsettling experience of sleeping beside Damien for too many nights.

  Besides, she needed to discharge her duty to MacMurtry.