by Olivia Drake
“Forget? How could I?” Damien gave a dark chuckle. “You’ve managed to find some way to remind me so at least once a day for the past fortnight.”
“Because I had to endure their lecherous stares.” It was a relief to shed the charade, to uncork grievances kept bottled up for weeks. “If Lalji had leered at me one more time, I was going to slap his vile face.”
“That would have been interesting.”
“You never said one word to stop him from ogling me.”
“You were veiled, for God’s sake. Your arms were all he could see of your hallowed virginal body. Or were you worried that he might get a rise out of glimpsing your bewitching naked toes?”
Avoiding a thorny bush alongside the trail, Sarah bent her head to hide her chagrin. How naïve of her to imagine Damien might be thinking lascivious thoughts while touching her bare foot. “What Lalji could or couldn’t see is hardly the point. You were supposed to be my husband. A gentleman would have had the grace to ask him to treat me with respect.”
A look of sham horror crossed Damien’s face. “God spare me from being mistaken for a gentleman. Besides, you were doing a superior job of speaking up for yourself. I trust you’ll do as well taking care of Kit.”
“I had to speak up. You were busy inventing lewd tales about me to pique their interest.”
Damien stopped so abruptly she almost collided with him. The nanny goat bleated and settled to nibbling a few blades of grass. “Lewd tales?” he said. “About you?”
“Yes. About all those nights the mutineers thought we were really...you know.” Sarah started to dip her head, then willed herself to look straight at Damien.
Unexpected humor softened the strict line of his mouth. “No,” he said blandly, “I don’t know.”
Ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, she clung to anger. “Lalji said you told him some interesting tales of...of my talents.”
“I see. Go ahead, refresh my memory and relate one of those tales.”
“He didn’t say any more than just that. And I most certainly didn’t ask him to elaborate.”
Her huffy manner made Damien choke back a chuckle. For an old maid, Sarah Faulkner could look remarkably appealing with her clear blue eyes framed by dyed black hair, the hint of roses beneath the duskiness of her cheeks. Her unique blend of girlish innocence and womanly spirit made his imagination run wild with speculation. He wondered if she’d stained the skin beneath her clothing. He wondered whether her breasts were heavy enough to fill his palms. Most of all, he wondered if he could stroke away her inhibitions until she opened herself to him in sweetly provocative invitation.
He cursed the swell of life in his groin. Their sparring at least kept her at a safe distance. Turning his gaze downward, over her shapely figure, he looked at Kit’s small, slumbering form angled against her hip. His son rested near the cradle of her pelvis, where Damien ached to put his mouth.
Gritting his teeth, he snatched the tether and tugged the goat up the trail. “Come along,” he muttered to Sarah.
For too many nights he’d lain awake, sweating with the need to touch the woman sleeping beside him. Deep down, he knew why his body betrayed him. He knew why he could lust so hotly when only a month ago he’d watched his wife’s body burn.
He had the black soul of a devil.
The old shame escaped its bonds and ravaged his chest. With the swiftness of practice, he clamped down on his emotions. Christ, it was just that he hadn’t had a woman in too, too long. Once he’d learned of Shivina’s pregnancy, he’d avoided her bed to salve his guilt. She was a fine woman, a woman he didn’t deserve—shy and kind, the sort of female who fades into the background yet brings peace to a man’s life.
Not a shrew who nagged so much he couldn’t think straight.
Yet when he looked back to see Sarah valiantly struggling to match his long strides, he slowed his pace and admitted, “Lalji lied to you. I never told him any tales about your expertise in bed.”
“You didn’t?”
“No. I swear on my honor as a rogue.”
Sarah found herself believing him. Especially the part about being a rogue. Despite his aggravating, uncommunicative nature, sincerity gleamed in his eyes. “That’s a relief,” she murmured. “I couldn’t bear to think of you discussing me...in that manner.”
“I never said we didn’t discuss you. As a matter of fact, they wanted to know if a woman with a bold tongue was just as bold when lying with her husband.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “What did you say to them?”
He studied Sarah, as if gauging her worth and finding her wanting. “I tola them you were a rotten lover. That you just lay there like a dried-up gourd.”
She almost stumbled on an exposed root. Damien caught her arm and held her upright. “You all right? he asked.
“Yes.” She pulled away, irked for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “How could you talk about your wife that way?”
“My wife? Thank God you’re not that.”
“Damien, answer me.”
“Well, my description of your lovemaking is a hell of a lot closer to the truth than Lalji’s version. Think about that when you assume I didn’t try to protect your precious purity.” He swung back up the trail.
Sarah pursed her lips and marched after him. She shouldn’t be incensed, she should be grateful he’d made her sound unappealing to the sepoys. Then again, he shouldn’t have looked so infuriatingly smug. As if he’d told a vulgar joke. A joke that somehow escaped her comprehension.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” she said as loftily as she could when addressing his broad back. “I’m glad the charade is finally over. I’m glad we needn’t sleep together any longer.”
Only hours later, she dearly regretted her statement.
Chapter 13
They camped that evening in a tiny ruined temple beside a clear stream. The burble of water over rocks filled the void left by their sparse conversation. Sarah made a silent vow to be civil for the few days until they rejoined the villagers.
She managed to swallow her opinion when Damien struggled to milk the reluctant goat. She was proud of her restraint in offering advice while he cooked dinner and she fed the baby. She permitted herself only a gracious compliment when she tasted his excellent curried rice and dal. She even managed not to inquire where he’d learned to cook so well.
Let him be secretive about his shadowy past, she thought as she cuddled Kit against the evening chill. Damien Coleridge was her employer. Their association began and ended with that.
Wanting to cover Kit’s head, she reached for the cap, but it wasn’t tucked into her sari. She frowned at Damien, who crouched and washed the dishes in the stream. “Have you seen the red hat I purchased in the bazaar?”
He shook his head. “Keep track of your own damned belongings.”
As he returned his attention to his work, she stuck her tongue out at his back. The boor. Let him be rude, too.
The sky deepened through a succession of gold, red, and purple. With the swiftness of a blink, the colors vanished, leaving velvet blackness and a smattering of stars which Sarah could see through the fallen roof of the shrine. She settled Kit near the small fire on the dirt floor and lay down beside him.
A distant scream prickled over her skin. She shivered, as much from the eerie sound as from the coolness of the evening. She looked at Damien, who lounged against a vine-wrapped pillar. He drew on his bidi, and the tip glowed orange.
“What was that sound?” she asked.
“Panther.”
She sat up straight, the blanket falling back. “Panther?”
“Don’t worry, it was far away. I doubt it’ll roam close enough to bother us.”
“You doubt? How reassuring.”
“There may be leopards and tigers out there, too, though I didn’t see any pug marks. The big predators usually keep to the lowlands and valleys.”
“Usually.” She focused on the one word.
“We’ll
be safe enough inside here.” He jabbed the cigarette toward the gun on the ground. “I’ll keep the revolver beside me.”
Somewhat relieved, she forced herself to lie back down, covering herself to her chin with the scratchy blanket. The stream gushed its endless melody. An owl hooted overhead. The goat bleated from its tether in the shadows. A faint snuffling noise came from the darkness outside.
She pushed herself up on an elbow. “Damien? Did you hear that?”
“It was probably a chital.”
“A chital?”
“A type of deer. Go to sleep, Sarah.”
She curled herself close to Kit’s slumbering form. He stirred and sighed, then stuck his thumb in his mouth. The night seemed alive with sounds—the buzzing of insects, the rustling of leaves, the howling of jackals. And too many other noises she couldn’t identify—an indistinct grunt, a muted thump.
She and Aunt Violet had stayed every summer in the hill station of Simla, but they’d resided in a snug bungalow, rather than camping out in the wilderness. Sarah resolutely closed her eyes and tried not to speculate on the savage beasts roaming the gloom. The crackle of the fire lulled her. Exhaustion weighted her limbs. Suddenly a loud shuffling noise came from nearby.
With a gasp, she shot up. “What was that?”
“That was me, Sarah,” came Damien’s laconic voice. He paused. “Look, do you want me to sleep beside you?”
Pride was an inadequate protector. “Would you?” she asked in her meekest tone.
She braced herself for a sarcastic remark, but he merely tossed his bidi into the fire and then stretched out beside her on the hard floor, drawing the blanket over them. Heat and comfort radiated into her. His strength and solidity soothed her tense muscles. Within moments, she was sound asleep.
After two more long days of traveling, Sarah awoke on the third morning to find Damien gone. Scrubbing the sleep from her eyes, she rolled onto her side and reached for Kit. Her hand found empty space. Alarm gripped her. The baby was gone, too.
The pink glow of dawn washed the densely forested area in pearly light. They’d reached the high area at dusk, too late to make the precarious trip across a nearby jhula, a narrow rope bridge spanning a rocky gorge. One misstep would send the clumsy traveler plunging to the river far below.
She sat up and peered frantically around. They’d slept in the lee of a gigantic boulder, where a natural depression provided shelter. Pine needles carpeted the ground. Across the clearing and beyond the small campfire, the nanny goat was grazing in a patch of long grass. The tang of cedar and wood smoke hung in the air.
Merciful God, where were they?
Then she spied Damien. Several yards away, he sat half hidden by a tall deodar tree, his back propped against the trunk, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. In the nest of his arm, Kit lay sucking contentedly on a bottle.
She leaned weakly against the boulder. How ridiculous to be frightened. If Lalji hadn’t tracked them down already, he wouldn’t now.
In the absence of fear, wonderment curled around her heart. She had never before seen Damien pay more than fleeting attention to his son. The baby looked tiny cuddled against his father’s massive chest. They were angled slightly away from her, yet she could see in Damien’s profile a tenderness alien to his rough-hewn features, and all the more touching for its rarity.
He’d left off his turban, and his thick black hair embellished his swarthy handsomeness. She was struck by the likeness between father and son, the same wide brow and high cheekbones, the same dusky skin. How remarkable that the sepoys had never seen the English resemblance.
He set down the bottle, pushed up his knees, and nestled Kit against the bracket of his thighs. The baby gazed wide-eyed at his father. Damien tickled him under the chin and then let his tiny fist enfold one scarred finger.
“Drank all your milk,” he murmured. “What a clever lad you are. And gallant to behave so well. You’ve only complained when you were hungry. Can’t blame a boy for that, can we?”
His gentle tone astounded Sarah. A knot of emotion unraveled deep within her, threaded past barriers of pride and propriety, and unfurled in a tender smile. My heart can hear the pain in his soul. It is a pain that makes him fear to show love.
Many weeks ago, Shivina had spoken the words Sarah had scorned. Yet now, in a bolt of revelation, she knew how very wrong she’d been about Damien, how very quick to judge him. The sensitivity beneath his gruff exterior shone as clear as his love for Kit.
She burned to know what had happened in his past to make him so reticent about showing emotion. Had the tragedy of the fire scarred more than his hands? Mrs. Craven had gossiped that he set the fire as a prank and turned his brother into a half-wit...
“You’ll see birds and squirrels today,” he told the baby. “I promise we’ll be home by the afternoon. What do you say to that, son? Are you curious to see where we’re going, you and me and Sarah, hmmm?”
The infant cooed, batting at the air.
Drawn irresistibly, Sarah rose and walked to them. Damien cocked his head up at her. The grin died a slow death on his hard mouth. He appeared oddly guilty, like a child caught filching a sweet. He lowered his gaze to his son.
“He smiled,” Damien said, as if to explain his lapse in guard. “Kit smiled at me.”
“Did he?” Surprised and pleased, she knelt beside him and watched the infant. Brown eyes regarded her from a sweetly chubby face wreathed in a happy smile. “That means he likes you.”
Damien looked dubious. “How could he? He hardly knows me.”
“Then show him the shining example of a father,” she said tartly. “Take care of him more often. But even though you haven’t spent much time with him, he can sense that you love him.”
“Oh.” Her words seemed to fluster Damien. Without meeting her eyes, he shoved the baby into her arms. “I’ll boil his bottle and pack up.”
Holding Kit against her shoulder, she followed Damien to the fire. “What did you mean just now when you said we’ll reach home by afternoon?”
He glanced at her, then pitched the bottle and nipple into the small pot of bubbling water by the fire. “Exactly what I said.”
“But...home?” she asked in bewilderment. “Just where are we going? I’ve asked you that before, and you evaded the question.”
“I’ll show you.” Crouching, he picked up a stick and sketched a precise map of India in the dirt, marking the major towns. “This is Meerut. And here’s Delhi to the west. Sepoys have mutinied to the east of us in Bareilly, Budaun, and Fatehgarh. So it’s a damned good thing we headed north.” He drew a line upward from Meerut, then jabbed a dot to the northwest. “Here’s Simla. Back in Hardwar, I heard a rumor of a battalion of Gurkhas revolting there. We’ll stay in the mountains to the east, right here.” He made an X on the ground.
“Is that Mussoorie?” she asked, naming a closer hill station.
“No. English settlements are too damned dangerous. Filled with the likes of Keppu and Lalji.”
She tilted her head and shifted Kit into the cradle of her arm. “But, Damien, I still don’t understand. We haven’t seen anything in these hills except a few goats. Where exactly are we going?”
“To a hut where we’ll be safe.”
He brushed dirt over the map. By the way he avoided her eyes, she had the distinct impression he was holding something back. “Is that where we’ll meet Jawahir and his family?”
Damien broke the stick and dropped the pieces. Sitting on his haunches, he looked up at her. His stone-brown eyes glinted in his handsome face. “We aren’t meeting them, Sarah.”
“What?”
“You heard me. They had to return to their village before the monsoon begins. So they can prepare for the summer planting.”
Comprehension burst through her confusion, obliterating her tender mood. Her arm flexed around the baby’s small form. “You tricked me,” she whispered in disbelief.
He lifted his shoulders in a c
asual admission of guilt. “I had to. You were putting up a fuss about traveling alone with me. I told you what you wanted to hear because it was the quickest way to get you moving.”
He’d let her blithely believe a lie. He’d played her for a fool. Hurt slashed her like a knife. “Get me moving? You know I wouldn’t have endangered Kit.”
“Then you shouldn’t have argued. You should have come without a protest.”
“And you should have told me the truth. All along you meant for us to spend weeks—possibly months—alone in the wilderness. And you’ve waited three days to tell me about it. Why?”
“We’ve been traveling hard. There never seemed to be a good time.”
His nonchalance filled Sarah with trembling anger. “And what if Lalji goes after the villagers? He could kill Madakka, Lakshmi, the children.”
“They’ll be fine. Jawahir had a friend in Hardwar he intended to stay with for a few days.”
“Oh, really,” Sarah snapped. “I wonder if I can believe anything you say. How many other lies have you told me?”
His gaze shifted away. “Let’s not waste time on another argument.” He jumped up and went to the fire, using a stick to pluck the bottle from the boiling water. “We need to press on.”
She marched after him. “Oh, no, Damien Coleridge. You’re not going to weasel your way out of this one. Tell me, was my exalted salary a lie, too?”
“You’ll get your money. Believe me, I’d do anything, say anything, to make you quit pestering me.”
“I’ll pester you until I know the truth. Now I asked you a question. Answer me. What else have you lied to me about?”
He flung the bottle into the sack and pivoted to face her, his hands on his hips. “You work for me. I don’t owe you any explanations.”
“Then I quit.” She held out the baby. “You can take care of Kit yourself.”
Damien blew out a breath. “All right, Miss Priss. The answer is one.”
She clasped the infant close. “One?”
