by Olivia Drake
He found himself looking down at Sarah’s thick-lashed blue eyes and nut-stained face.
Relief and panic tangled his heart. He dropped his bundle of blankets and swung fully toward her, blocking her from Keppu.
He clamped his hands onto her shoulders. A keen awareness of her fine bones and warm skin pulsed through him. “Where in hell is your veil?” he hissed in her ear.
“I lost it,” she said in a breathless voice barely audible in the din of the crowd. “Oh, Damien, Lalji tried to—”
He clapped his hand over her mouth and glanced back. Keppu was a few steps ahead, his soiled turban rotating back and forth as he scanned the stalls to the left.
“Are you mad?” Damien muttered to her. “Don’t call me that.”
Sarah wriggled away from his hand. “Stop interrupting and listen,” she whispered. “Lalji knows about us.”
The news jolted him. “Damn! What the hell did you do?”
“Me? I had to push him into the river—”
She stopped abruptly and tilted her face to the ground. Her dyed hair hung around her slim body like an unbound ebony curtain, half shielding her features from view.
“Why have you stopped here?” asked Keppu from behind them.
Damien’s stomach sank like a rock. “Praise Vishnu, I’ve found the wayward wench. I am taking her back to the dharmsala immediately.” He quickly stooped to snatch up the blankets, then grasped her hand and angled her away.
“But where has she been?” the sepoy said, pushing forward. “And where is her chuddur?”
“She lost it. She said a beggar snatched it right off her head. It was the finest silk from Benares, too.” Damien spoke over his shoulder as he propelled her toward the perimeter of the bazaar. “She’s earned herself a sound whipping this time.”
Like a bear stalking its quarry, Keppu followed. “I wish to know where she has been.”
“Wandering the shops, just as I’d guessed,” Damien replied. “She was slavering like a child over sweets and pretty bangles.”
“Your words reek of trickery,” Keppu growled. “Halt where you stand. I will read the truth in her face.”
Damien stiffened and stopped. Hellfire and damnation.
Racking his brain for a plan, he turned slowly toward the sepoy. People pushed by, some casting curious glances at the trio. Sweat prickled his brow. Clasped within his scar-thickened palm, Sarah’s fingers felt as small and fragile as a nosegay of marigolds. Her head was bowed in the subservient manner of a Hindu woman. Yet beneath the olive silk, her shoulders were squared with the starched pride of an Englishwoman.
Damn her spirit. Damn her for ruining his escape plan. Damn her for plunging both of them into terrible trouble.
Damien knew only one way to get out alive.
He thrust her toward the waterfront. “Run like hell!”
Her head shot up. Her eyes widened, a flash of blue against her brown skin. For one horrid instant he feared she meant to protest. Then she spun around and darted into the crowd.
Keppu loosed a bellow of rage and grabbed for his dagger. “Lying feringhi dogs—oomph.”
His words ended as Damien thrust his bundle into the sepoy’s belly. He shoved hard. Both parcels slipped from Keppu’s hand. Like a giant fir toppling, he fell backward into a stall stacked high with earthenware pots.
Jars crashed. Pottery shattered. People screamed.
Keppu landed on his rear, his legs splayed. He shook the shards from his hulking shoulders. The rifle disappeared beneath a mountain of debris. Damien didn’t stop to watch. He scooped up the package holding the revolver. Then he bolted into the multitude of shoppers.
He strained to see over the many bobbing turbans and shaved heads. At the edge of the bazaar, the throng parted momentarily. A few yards ahead, he spied Sarah’s slim back. She turned around, shading her eyes to search the crowd. But she must not have noticed him, for she whirled and resumed her fast pace.
Damn! She was heading straight for the dharmsala. Ice gripped his heart. Keppu didn’t know Kit belonged to Damien. If she led the sepoy there, he’d put the baby to the knife along with the two of them.
“Sarah!”
Her name was drowned in the earsplitting blast of a conch shell, blown by a priest in a jeweled howdah atop a plodding elephant. A tight-packed band of sadhus paraded slowly by, ringing bells and chanting mantras. Damien glanced back. Keppu barreled after him like a maddened water buffalo.
Damien ducked into the group of holy men. Crouching to hide himself, he worked a path through the mass of orange-yellow robes. It was like wading through treacle. Entranced faces gazed dully ahead; the smell of incense stung his nose.
At last he broke free and ran after Sarah. He caught her near the entrance to a ghat. “Not that way, for God’s sake,” he growled in her ear. “Use your brain for once.”
“We have to warn the others,” she whispered. “Kit—”
“My son is safe with Madakka.” Having lost sight of Keppu, Damien half dragged her inside the huge arched entryway. He hoped to God they blended with the pilgrims filing in and out of the sacred bathing place.
“But, Damien—”
“Don’t argue.” He hauled her toward a deserted corner, away from the custodians collecting the bathers’ sandals. Behind a stone pillar, he released her and ripped at the greasy brown parcel. In low-pitched English he went on. “Keppu’s out there somewhere. The game is up. I have to finish him off.”
Her eyes rounded. “Finish him...you mean kill him?”
He flung down the paper. “I sure as hell don’t mean to serve him cucumber sandwiches and tea.”
“I’ll help you. I can lure him over here—”
“Like hell you will.” Damien’s head jerked up in surprise. Sarah would help him draw a man to his death? God, he must be corrupting her. “You stay put for once. I won’t be worrying about you getting into more trouble.”
She returned his fierce stare with quiet dignity. “What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing but wait here for five minutes and then head back to the women. I’ll come fetch you there.”
He drew out the gun and gripped the curved stock. A five-shot Adams revolver, rather new and likely stolen from an English officer. He opened the box of bullets and began to load the chambers.
“Damien, there’s something you should know. Lalji may have guessed that Kit is your son.”
His hands tensed. “What?”
“I’m not certain, but he questioned my relationship to Kit.”
“Damn. Bloody double damn!”
She touched his sleeve. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have been so careless. I shouldn’t have wandered off.”
The misery shining in her eyes clutched at his chest. She bit her lower lip, and he found himself studying its fullness and wondering what her mouth tasted like. He tore his gaze back to hers and said gruffly, “Never mind. You told me you pushed Lalji into the river. Did you see him get out?”
“No, and he didn’t seem to know how to swim. The river swept him downstream.”
“Well, thank Mother Ganges for small miracles.” Damien stood, tucking the revolver into his sash, where his tunic half concealed the weapon.
“Still, we can’t be sure, so I’m changing plans. We’ll head to the dharmsala and fetch Kit. If Lalji managed to pull his carcass out, he might well go after the boy.”
“Surely he wouldn’t hurt an innocent baby.” She looked as if she were trying to convince herself.
“My son is half English,” Damien said flatly. “You saw what the mutineers did in Meerut. Those murderers need no other excuse to kill him.”
The possibility iced his soul. Wrestling down rage and panic, he drew Sarah toward the crowded entrance of the ghat.
“How will we hide Kit?” she asked.
“We’ll take him into the mountains.”
“But they could follow us. The villagers—”
He stopped short. “Oh,
hell.”
His fingers dug into Sarah’s upper arm and yanked her to a halt.
“What is it?” she asked.
He pointed to the entryway. The sunlight pouring through the fretwork cast a lacy pattern over Keppu’s bulky form. His big head swung from side to side as he searched the throng of pilgrims. A knife glinted in his hand.
Chapter 12
Sarah’s stomach did a sickening flip. She lifted her gaze to Damien’s harsh, bearded features, the feral glint in his eyes. He looked tough and indomitable, ready to do battle. ‘‘Merciful Lord,” she breathed. “We can’t get out without him spotting us.”
“Then we’ll go this way.”
He jerked her toward the wide bank of steps leading down to the river. She scurried to keep pace with his long strides. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Keppu turn his head toward them. He lunged in pursuit.
“Damien, he’s seen us!”
“Then run, dammit.”
His arm slid around her back. He propelled her headlong down the steep stone stairs, elbowing past people who called out irate protests.
She and Damien reached the wide flagstone ghat bordering the river. Sunlight drenched the scene in brilliance. Custodians in booths guarded the clothing of the penitents. Barbers ensconced beneath black umbrellas shaved the heads and nostrils of their customers in the ritual manner. Hundreds of half-naked men waded in the shallow water near the embankment.
Sarah averted her eyes from the spectacle. The worshippers descending the stairs went around her and Damien. She spotted Keppu thundering down toward them.
She gasped out, “Hurry, Damien!”
“This way.”
They plunged through the multitude and surged toward a building on the riverbank. Splashing noises and giggly conversation emanated from within the cedar-shingled structure. A pudgy attendant with his nose in a newspaper squatted in the doorway.
“Move,” Damien snapped.
The attendant looked up. “Your woman may enter, but not you, huzoor. This is the ladies’ bathing house. No men allowed.”
Damien stepped over the servant. Hampered by her long sari, Sarah squeezed past the man’s bulk.
“Stop! You must stop!” The attendant lumbered to his feet. He waved his newspaper like a prissy matron fluttering a fan. “Women only here. Women only.”
Damien pulled Sarah into the dim interior. To the right lay a row of changing alcoves. Ahead and to the left stretched a great sunken pool crowded with naked women. Small statues of Hindu gods and goddesses gazed benevolently from niches in the walls. From the incense pots wafted the aromatic scent of burning joss sticks.
“There’s another exit,” Damien said, pointing to a door on the other side of the pool. He hustled Sarah toward it.
Shrieks and squeals pierced the air. Ladies covered their bare breasts with their hands. Others crouched chin deep in the shallow water, their black hair floating like banners.
“Women only!” The image of a wrathful Buddha, the attendant continued to shout and gesture. “Women only!”
Disregarding the uproar, Damien strode swiftly around the tiled lip of the pool. Sarah trotted after him. They’d gone only halfway when Keppu burst into the bathing house.
“Halt, feringhi!”
Damien thrust her in front of him. “Get the hell out!”
Sarah began to run. Realizing he wasn’t following, she stopped and looked back. As dark and ominous as a thundercloud, he stalked toward Keppu. Dear God, he meant to confront the huge sepoy.
She stood cold and still. Keppu brandished his dagger. The dagger that already had been christened with English blood.
Surely Damien would draw his revolver. But he didn’t. With dawning dread, she realized there were too many women about for him to risk a shot.
Fists clenched, he stopped a few feet from Keppu. The men circled slowly, warily.
The attendant waddled between them. “You must leave now, both of you. Women only here! Women on—”
Keppu whipped his meaty fist across the man’s face. Several ladies screamed. The attendant went sprawling against a potted fern. The plant smashed on the tiles. He lay blubbering amid green leaves and scattered dirt.
In the second that the sepoy shifted his gaze away, Damien’s arm flashed out. He landed a wicked blow to Keppu’s jaw. The sepoy staggered back a step, shaking his bull-like head. With the quickness of a cat, he recovered and attacked. His dagger arced toward Damien’s abdomen.
Sarah gasped. She anticipated the slice of steel, the spurt of blood. But he caught the sepoy’s forearm and forced it back down. They struggled chest to chest, arms locked. Keppu backed Damien to the edge of the pool. Women screeched and splashed away. The sepoy’s mighty hand inched upward until the blade neared Damien’s throat.
Something fierce and wild rose in Sarah. Without giving herself time to think, she snatched a statue of Parvati from one of the niches.
She ran at the men. Damien grunted in an effort to throw off his opponent, but the sepoy outweighed him. She stepped behind Keppu. With all her might, she swung the heavy stone goddess at his skull.
A dull crack resounded. His back arched. A snarling groan parted his lips. Then his arms went slack and his dagger clattered to the tiles. Damien vaulted nimbly backward as the sepoy tumbled into the pool.
A tidal wave of water sloshed over the floor and drenched the hem of her sari. Keppu lay on his back, his arms and legs splayed, his face submerged. A haze of bubbles rose to the surface and obscured his features.
Nausea rolled in Sarah’s stomach. Unable to tear her gaze from the fallen man, she stood panting, her heart squeezing. He was dead. The knowledge struck her deeply, for Lalji at least had been swept down the river alive.
Dimly she heard the exclamations of the Hindu ladies. Mere weeks ago, ensconced in the pampered security of her uncle’s house, she could never have imagined the sick sensation of killing a man. Even if he was a murderer who had intended to murder again.
Someone unpeeled her fingers from the statue and took its weight away. She looked up. Damien’s bearded face swam into focus. Faint astonishment shone in his brown eyes, and his hand glided with unexpected gentleness over her cheek.
“Well done, Sarah,” he said. “At least now we can leave by the front entrance.”
Settling his arm around her waist, he guided her away. She leaned into him, needing to feel his warm strength and grateful that he didn’t fuss as Reginald would have done. She wanted only the closeness of a friend, the bond of an ally.
At the door, she glanced back. One by one, the chattering naked women sidled toward the corpse. The attendant crouched by the edge of the pool and attempted to haul out the body by its feet.
“Only women,” he muttered mournfully. “Only women allowed in bath.”
Outside, the bright sunshine made Sarah blink. The ghat looked as before, with pilgrims swarming as thick as ants and penitents splashing away their sins in the Ganges. She pressed her nails into her palms. If only she could submerge herself in the river and rinse away the stain of guilt. If peril befell Kit, she would never forgive herself.
As they hurried up the steps, she glanced at Damien. Her own fear was reflected in his demon-dark features. Softness dawned inside her. He truly did care about his son.
In the crooked street outside the dharmsala, Jawahir paced with his bamboo walking stick. His movements were agitated, his orange turban and white robe vivid against the mossy-green wall.
He rushed forward. “Burra sahib! By Vishnu’s benevolence, you and your woman are safe. I must tell you that Lalji slipped past me—”
“I know,” Damien cut in. “He isn’t here, is he?”
“I have not seen him in more than an hour. But how can you know?” Jawahir glanced beyond them. “And where is Keppu?”
“Gone to his next incarnation.” Damien’s fingers closed reflexively on the handle of his revolver. “Lalji might still be on the loose, though Sarah did her best to incapacitate
him.”
“He attacked you?” Jawahir asked, his brown eyes widening at Sarah. “And where is your veil?”
“We’ll talk inside,” Damien said. “It’s safer.”
He hustled them into the rest house, past a courtyard overflowing with weeds and children at play. People strolled by on their way to the shrines or baths. Sparsely furnished cells lined the corridor. Inside the sunlit chamber at the end of the hall, Lakshmi was cutting vegetables into a pot. Several young girls, daughters of Jawahir, took turns rolling a ball to his toddling son. Sitting on a charpoy in the corner, Madakka suckled the baby. When she saw Damien, she modestly drew the infant from beneath her sari.
“Kit,” Sarah breathed.
She rushed to gather him close, and her fingers sought his smooth cheek, his wispy black hair, to reassure herself that he was unharmed. He squirmed, and she nestled him against her shoulder. Joy flowed through her as rich as the milk he’d just consumed.
Damien came up beside her. A distracted frown shadowed his eyes and lent starkness to his cheekbones. With endearing awkwardness, he patted the baby’s back. His scarred hand looked large and dark against the infant’s small form. Kit let loose a lusty belch.
Damien blinked. “Thank God he’s eaten. That’ll save us a few minutes. Gather our belongings, Sarah. We’ll need food, too.”
He turned away and joined Jawahir in the doorway. The men squatted on their heels and commenced a whispered conference. All the while Damien focused his gaze down the outside corridor. Watching for Lalji.
Handing the baby back to Madakka, Sarah wondered at their air of secrecy. What could they be saying? But urgency set her scurrying about the task of packing spare clothing and nappies for Kit. Lakshmi’s brown hands moved swiftly, too, wrapping parcels of rice and dried beans and spices.
She was replaiting Sarah’s hair when Damien strode up. “Get the baby,” he said tersely. “We need to hurry.”
“But Lakshmi and Madakka haven’t yet packed their things.”
“Because they’re staying with their husband. We’ll travel faster alone.”
Shock jolted Sarah. She glanced at the two Hindu women, now crouched at Jawahir’s feet. The headman wore a bland expression; his wives looked as incredulous as she. “But Madakka has to go with us. How else will your son eat?”
