by Olivia Drake
Sarah shook off the sticky threads of shame. It was only the close escape from death that had made her react so immodestly. The altered circumstances of her life had submerged her inbred decorum. But she wouldn’t lose control again.
A devil like me.
She looked across the clearing, where Damien bent to pick up the knapsack he’d dropped. She had the impression his words mocked himself rather than her. It was almost as if he believed the worst of himself and strove to fit the wicked image of a demon.
Her gaze fell to Kit, sleeping peacefully in the sling at her hip. The baby had napped through both the frightful skirmish and the shattering kiss. A splotch of scarlet on her sari caught her attention. Startled, she saw blood smeared on her abdomen.
Her gaze darted to Damien. He was walking toward her, tugging the goat after him. A bloodied slit scored the left side of his tunic.
“You are hurt,” she said.
“It’s only a scratch. Besides, what do you care?”
She moved toward him. “I care because you owe me a salary,” she said tartly. “Let me look.”
He reared back. “Leave it, Sarah.”
“And let you bleed to death out of bravado?” Mulishness coupled with fear made her reach for the folds of his tunic and lift the cotton fabric. At the indentation of his waist, blood seeped from a long slick gash. She touched the skin beside it and he winced, the iron muscles of his stomach sucking inward. Shuddering, she lifted her gaze to his. “If Keppu had struck a few inches over, you might have been killed.”
“You might have been, too. Bird-witted female! I told you to run, but you just stood there like a damned sacred cow.”
His ill-mannered speech tested the limits of her patience. “I intent to dress your wound,” she stated. “Not because I care for you personally, but because I won’t let you die and leave me alone in the wilds with Kit.”
“God forbid I should inconvenience you,” he muttered.
But he sank onto a flat stone and suffered her ministrations. She pressed a clean nappy against the injury. “I should wash this,” she said. “The good Lord only knows where that knife has been. I wish I had some antiseptic.”
“Quit fussing and get on with it. You’re worse than a mother hen.”
“And you’re as cocky as a rooster in a henhouse.”
With strips tied from another nappy, she bound the bandage in place. The work required her to press her cheek to his chest in order to pass the binding around his broad form. His male scent, his firm flesh, made her pulse leap. Gritting her teeth, she willed her body to recall how incompatible she and this man were.
To distract herself, she said, “I find it hard to believe Keppu survived that awful blow I dealt him back at the ghat.”
“Look at it this way—at least you can sleep with a clear conscience tonight. Two more deaths on my black soul won’t make much difference.”
His self-scourging tone struck her as odd. Rising, she eyed him curiously. “Damien, why do you always disparage yourself?”
His gaze faltered; then he cocked an eyebrow up at her. “What a question to ask of a liar, a scoundrel, and a murderer.”
“No one is completely wicked. Not even you.”
“What about Lalji and Keppu? And the fakir?”
“They’re men who fought back when their religious beliefs were trampled by the Raj. Perhaps our suppression of the natives brought out the worst in them.”
“As you bring out the worst in me?”
She pursed her lips. “There you go again, resorting to sarcasm when I’m trying to hold a reasonable discussion.”
“Reasonable?” Damien stood, yanking his tunic over the bandage. “You’re trying to turn me into your current crusade. Well, forget it. Contrary to what you believe, I haven’t been languishing my whole life, just waiting for you to come along and mend my flaws.”
Frustrated, she said, “Perhaps I’m struggling to find some good in the man who’s forced me to spend weeks with him. At least I can be assured you love Kit.”
“He’s my son. It’s not as if I have a choice.” Damien’s testy gaze dropped to the sleeping baby and softened, then snapped back to her. “I hired you to take care of him, so spare me your prying observations.” Wheeling, he picked up the tether and drew the goat toward the jhula.
Sarah followed slowly. The trek over the flimsy bridge held less terror for her this time. She glanced down only once and saw Keppu’s lifeless body, tiny so far below, pinned between two boulders. It could have been Damien down there.
A gust of wind made the jhula sway. The sickening pitch in her stomach brought her gaze back up. Holding tight to the side ropes, she kept her eyes focused on Damien’s back.
When her feet touched solid ground, she breathed a sigh of relief. With the bridge and the murderers behind them, she and Damien climbed a path barely visible on the steep hillside, where primulas and gentians flourished in the rocky soil. Clusters of pines towered to the achingly blue sky, and at the top of every hill, the great snow-clad mountains loomed on the northern horizon like a stairway to heaven.
Exhibiting no handicap from his injury, Damien moved effortlessly over the rough terrain, his thigh muscles bunching, his legs long and brown and sturdy. Her gaze wandered over the breadth of his shoulders, the leanness of his waist, the bronze sheen of his skin. Now she knew the silky texture of his hair, the power inherent in his male flesh.
And the infuriating quality of his character, Sarah reminded herself. With each step, she cited his failings. He was impossible to talk to. He was hopeless to befriend. He thought women were beasts of burden. I. M. Vexed could teach him a thing or two. Yet he was her solitary adult companion for Lord only knew how long. She envisioned silent meals, lonely nights. She envisioned him kissing her again, fondling her naked breasts—
She stilled a voluptuous tremor. He had her thinking like a hussy, acknowledging her own sensual nature. She must never sink to his level of jaded immorality. Her reputation might be in shreds, but she would behave with the dignity and honor expected of Reginald’s fiancée. A stolen moment of lust wasn’t worth the cost of her entire future. Besides, Damien had made it quite clear that he found her less than appealing.
You aren’t exactly my kind of woman. His words nagged at Sarah like a sore tooth. She was conscious suddenly that her hair felt greasy from the black dye, her skin was a dreary brown instead of creamy rose, her sari hung limp and bedraggled after so many days of travel. He liked his women silent and subservient, dainty and doting, unsoiled and soft. She glowered at his back. The lout wanted to be worshipped like a rajah.
They made two brief stops to feed the baby. As expected, Damien reverted to his taciturn self. With typical discourtesy, he rejected her attempts to make polite conversation about Kit or the scenery. In the early afternoon, she was startled when he volunteered, “There. We’re home.”
Her gaze followed his pointing finger to a hut nestled in a clump of cedars on a slope so sheer that several of the trees grew at an angle. Built of logs, the house perched on a shelf of rock overlooking a green valley. Cedar shingles formed a steep roof shaped like a huge triangular hat, the brim curling outward in Tibetan style, shading a wide wraparound porch.
She fancied the home beckoning a warm welcome. The weight of the baby dragging at her, she trailed Damien over a swiftly flowing stream. The water chilled her toes. Without speaking, he turned and lent her a hand as she carefully negotiated the pattern of mossy rocks. Then they climbed the hill to the hut.
Damien ushered her into the dim interior. A musty, unused smell pervaded the air, along with the aromatic scent of cedar. He flung open the wooden shutters. Sunlight poured over a cozy parlor, sparsely furnished with a wooden settee and chairs topped by handwoven cushions. A simple desk stood beneath a row of bookshelves. Before the stone fireplace lay a tiger-skin rug.
Framed photographs decorated the log walls. Moving closer, she scanned a picture of a flat-faced mountain woman toting a basket
of rice on her head. “These are your photographs.”
“How astute,” he drawled.
“Then this house belongs to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I called it home, for God’s sake.”
“I thought that was just a manner of speaking.”
He sent her a look of black humor. “You should know by now that I haven’t any manners.”
He dropped the knapsack on a table in the corner kitchen. Then he rummaged in a wooden cupboard.
How incongruous to think of a duke’s son living in a hut. She burned to ask more, how long he’d owned the place, if Shivina had lived here as his concubine. But his reserve stood between them like a granite wall. Sarah moved toward the nearest of two closed doors.
“Where are you going?” Damien said sharply.
“To lay Kit down.”
“Well, don’t go in there.”
“Why not?”
“Because the bedroom’s through there.” He jabbed a finger toward the other door.
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what hallowed secrets the other room held. But he probably wouldn’t tell her. She was weary of prying information from Damien Coleridge.
In the tiny bedchamber, she found a charpoy and an ancient rattan dressing table. Carefully, to avoid awakening the baby, she untied the sling and settled him onto the low bedstead.
Two photographs hung on either side of the door. One portrayed a beggar boy in grubby clothes who stared with huge liquid eyes at a fruit stand piled high with mangoes and bananas. The other depicted an elderly Mohammedan kneeling beside his dead wife, his gold-capped teeth visible in a bushy white beard and his withered hands raised in prayer.
The powerful images unsettled Sarah. How could an insensitive man capture these sensitive portraits? The question magnified her curiosity and gave her yet another tantalizing hint of hidden facets beneath a rough-diamond exterior. Perhaps she could use his talent to break the ice.
Returning to the main room, she said, “Your photographs are poignant. They illuminate the heart of India. Will you use them all in your book?”
“How the hell do I know? I haven’t even written the text yet. Do you remember where the stream is?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good.” He shoved a clay jar at her. “Then go fetch some water. I’ll milk the goat.”
She held back a retort. Reforming his rude nature was a hopeless cause. “Will you please listen for Kit while I’m out?”
Unloading the knapsack, he grunted in reply. She marched out, her hips swaying with annoyance. The glorious view lulled her inner turmoil. The mountains stretched along the horizon as far as the eye could see, and the cedar freshness of the deodars perfumed the air. Beyond the craggy slope, green forest unrolled into a great valley. Thrushes twittered in the tall pines.
It was like a place in a fairy tale...and everything but Damien fit in. Unless he was the beast.
Walking over pine needles as soft as a thick- piled carpet, Sarah approached the stream and knelt on the grass. For long minutes she soaked up the dappled sunshine and the peaceful gurgle of the water. Ferns and wild violets grew thickly along the bank. She plucked a single purple bloom and anchored it behind her ear. Cupping her hands, she scooped up the water. It slid down her throat like chilling nectar, a delicious contrast to the warmth of the sun. With great reluctance, she filled her pitcher and started back.
Kit’s high-pitched wail met her halfway up the slope. Dear Lord, what was Damien doing to the poor mite? She hastened her steps and went inside to find him holding a pail of milk in one hand and the baby in the crook of his other arm. He was jiggling Kit so hard that milk sloshed over the sides of the leather pail.
A merry laugh burst from her. “You might try putting down the milk,” she said.
His forehead puckered into a peevish frown. “What the hell took you so long?”
“Pardon me, your lordship. I didn’t realize I was on a strict schedule.”
“You’re neglecting my son. He needs a fresh nappy.”
Placing the water jar on the table, she coolly arched an eyebrow. “You’re an educated man and a parent now. Are you incapable of changing a baby?”
He thrust Kit at her. “I don’t do the smelly ones. At least not while I’m paying you a wage.”
She cuddled the infant close; an odorous aroma wrinkled her nose. Toting him into the bedroom, she muttered, “Yes, O Great Master.”
Damien chose to ignore her breathy comment. He positioned the glass bottle on the table and poured warm milk from the bucket. Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken so sharply. But seeing the violet behind her ear startled him into wondering if Sarah Faulkner had whimsical depths beneath her tartness. Having her on his territory unsettled him. For five summers, he’d lived alone here. He’d found peace working by himself and cataloging his prints. Yet this time he felt crowded, restless with the urge to escape.
She wasn’t the sort of woman who could keep her mouth shut and her legs open in the bedroom. Like a prickly nettle, she continually worked her way under his skin. He’d encountered billy goats that were less cantankerous.
Of course, he himself could hardly claim to be the ideal companion. A painful tightening gripped deep within him. He wasn’t fit to dwell in close quarters with civilized people. His mother had spent years drumming that fact into his head.
He fastened the teat on the bottle and walked to the bedroom. Sarah’s soft voice stopped him in the doorway. She was bent over the charpoy, her back to him. Kit lay before her, cooing and kicking while she pinned on a clean nappy.
“I so wish you could talk, darling,” she said.
The pressure eased inside Damien, giving way to yearning, like a rhododendron bud opening to the sun. God, she had the sweetest voice when she spoke to his son.
“Yes, indeed,” she went on. “Then I’d have someone pleasant to converse with, someone who didn’t always snap at me like a testy old bear. And maybe you could even intervene for me. You could tell your father I’m weary of being treated like his slave.”
The mellowness inside Damien withered. Now she was even complaining to his son, for God’s sake. He pushed away from the doorframe and entered the room. “And while you’re at it, son, you can tell Sarah I’m leaving.”
She spun to face him. Her eyes rounded, twin mirrors of the purple-blue violet tucked behind her ear. “What?”
“You heard me. The larder is bare. So is the knapsack. I need to buy food if we’re going to eat tomorrow.”
“Buy? Are there people nearby?”
“There’s a village of Pahari—hill people—down in the valley.” He spoke with exaggerated patience.
She snatched up the baby. “We’ll go with you.”
“No. It’s getting late. I’ll have to hurry. I can travel faster alone.”
“And if you don’t return? What if you meet up with more sepoys?”
Her anxious expression made Damien think she truly cared whether he lived or died. He shook off the foolish thought. Her only interest in him was as a protector, someone to chase the wolves away during the night. “There aren’t any mutineers around here because we’re far from any military station. Except for Keppu and Lalji, they’re all down on the plains.”
“You could still die. You could fall down the mountainside.”
“Then feel free to claim this palace for your very own,” he said. “Now, is there anything you need? A ball and chain, perhaps? Or maybe a whip? Just so I can make you properly feel like my slave.”
She gave him a look that could have shriveled the violet in her hair. “Some warm clothing for Kit will do. He’s growing so fast, many of his things don’t fit anymore.” Holding Kit in the nest of her arm, she ticked off each item on her slim fingers. “And for myself, I’d like paper and a pen, a cake of soap, and some pins for my hair. Oh, and something new for me to wear, too.”
He couldn’t resist looking her up and down, letting his gaze linger on the shadowed curve of
her breasts. “My, my. Have you been growing, too?”
A becoming pink washed her cheeks. She drew herself up and regarded him with the hauteur of a princess acknowledging a lowly subject. Someday he’d capture that look in a photograph, he thought. “I’ll thank you to keep such indecent comments to yourself,” she said, and grasped the locket at her throat as if it were a lifeline. “I realize it’s difficult for your diabolical mind to manage, but if we’re to survive the coming weeks, you must make an effort to comport yourself as a gentleman.”
Annoyance slashed at Damien, along with self-flagellation. He’d given her ample cause to dislike him. He entombed the lonely feeling and reached for anger. Damnation. He was sick to death of her belittling lectures. He was sick to death of the oblique comparisons to her darling Reggie. Most of all, he was sick to death of seeing her fondle that locket as if it were a rare icon.
“Give me your locket,” he said testily.
“Pardon?
“Give me the damned locket so I can trade it for the things on your list.”
“No!” Sarah curled her fingers in a protective embrace around the gold. “You may deduct the cost of the articles from my salary.”
“Sorry, I don’t keep much money lying about,” he lied. He had to get that locket off her. It was driving him mad. “Not with this place unoccupied for half the year.”
“Aha.” Self-righteous disdain firmed her dainty jaw, and she shook her finger at him. “I knew you never intended to pay me.”
“You can cash in your bank draft when I can safely get our arses to civilization. Now, if you don’t hand over the locket, you’ll have to forgo your new things.”
She lovingly stroked the piece. “How unfeeling you are,” she accused. “You lack the heart to understand what this memento means to me.”
Damien felt his insides turn to warm slush. He froze the weakness. How could he soften toward a woman who considered him ill-fit to lick her beloved’s boots? Why not act the callous bastard? She expected no better of him.
