by Olivia Drake
“It’s only a lump of gold,” he snapped. “Besides, isn’t there a photograph inside for you to keep? Nail it to the bedroom wall and make a holy shrine of it, for all I care. Or put it under your pillow. Then you can moon over him all night.”
“I do not moon over Reginald.”
“There you go again, defending him.”
Sarah hesitated. Decisively she reached her free hand to the clasp at her nape. Seeing her awkwardness while holding Kit, Damien found himself saying, “I’ll unfasten it.”
He set down the bottle on the rattan table. Moving to her in two swift steps, he lifted aside her rope of black hair and reached for the catch. She bent her chin to her chest, exposing the delicate column of her neck. The submissive pose struck him with a keen awareness of her femininity. His fingers brushed satin-soft skin, scattered by wisps of hair as fine as the fronds of a feather. She smelled faintly of womanly musk.
Damn. He had to find a woman soon before he did something rash—like seduce a busybody spinster with the body of a goddess.
The clasp let loose. The butter-slick chain slipped from his fingers; Sarah caught it to her breasts. Wordlessly she lifted her head and let him take the piece from her. He snapped open the locket and pried out the miniature of a stiff-shouldered Reginald. The honorable doctor looked like a man with a clear conscience who enjoyed the love of a woman, the man Damien would never be.
He slapped the picture into Sarah’s palm. “Here’s your hero, Miss Priss.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “By the way, I’d also appreciate a comb, if you can bother yourself to find one.”
His fingers clenched around the gold, still warm from her flesh. He felt like Judas accepting thirty pieces of silver. Yet he also felt a guilty satisfaction that he wouldn’t have to look at the damned locket anymore.
“I’ll do what I can.” He fetched the bottle and thrust it into her hand. “Here, feed my son. And by the way, there’s paper and pen in the desk out there. Just don’t go writing any more incriminating letters.”
Chapter 15
5 June 1857, High in the Himalayan Foothills
Himalaya is a Sanskrit word, hima meaning “snow” and alaya meaning “abode.” Here in the Abode of the Snow, so far from the military stations of the Ganges Plain, one might never guess a mutiny rages over the face of India. The revolt is an abomination of blood and destruction, and yet a struggle for liberty, for the basic human right to freedom of religion.
A Hindu proverb says that truth is like a diamond with many facets; no viewpoint can reveal its entirety. So does the revolt of the sepoys have many sides...
Sarah lay down her pen. It was almost too dark to see. She rose from the desk and went out onto the veranda. From several earlier trips, she knew it took precisely twenty-one paces to walk from one end to the other.
Dusk spread a deep purple veil over the hillside. She rubbed her arms; the air had grown cooler. The cedar leaves whispered, and an owl hooted in the shadows. How peculiar it felt to be apart from Damien after so many weeks. The desolate setting gave her the eerie sensation of being the only person alive in the cosmos.
She peered through the gloom for his tall form. What if he’d taken a tumble into a gorge? What if he’d fallen down a rocky slope and broken his leg? Dear God, what if he really didn’t come back?
Nonsense. If anyone could take care of himself, he was Damien Coleridge. He was too mulish a man to die.
She reached absently to her throat; then her hand dropped. A hollow ache yawned within her. The locket was gone. She struggled to summon a clear picture of Reginald and saw only the vague image of a handsome blond-haired man. Damien, however, loomed in her mind like a vivid, unforgettable photograph. She contrasted the two men: pallid and proper versus dark and dangerous.
She banished the disloyal comparison. Society would consider her dishonored because of her sojourn with Damien. Would her fiancé concur? Would he believe her unchaste? She expected a vast dismay, but felt instead only an indeterminate curiosity. Odd, how the opinion of others no longer seemed so vital.
Then again, perhaps there were no English left in India to censure her.
Sarah stepped back into the hut and lit a lantern. Too troubled to continue writing, she gathered up her papers and went into the bedroom. Quietly, so as not to awaken Kit, she secreted her work in a drawer of the rattan dressing table. God help her if Damien read the unfinished essay and realized she was I. M. Vexed. She’d never hear the end of his sarcastic remarks about her unworthy occupation. Heaven knew she endured enough of his ridicule already.
To distract herself while she waited, she perused the bookshelves above the desk. The Arabian Nights. Fairy Tales by the brothers Grimm. Pope’s Iliad and Odyssey, translated into English from the Greek. A fanciful collection for a rogue like Damien. Her vision went hazy as she realized anew that he had depths he kept hidden from her.
An intricately carved box serving as a bookend caught her attention. She reached out, then drew back. She wouldn’t sink to Damien’s level by prying. Her gaze drifted like a magnet to the closed door of the unknown room. Nor would she peek inside the room. Let him keep his precious mysteries; she had private matters of her own to conceal.
She forced her eyes back to the books. A rare edition of Hammer’s Shakespeare. Several tomes on ancient and medieval art. The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana.
Her gaze riveted to the slim, leather-bound volume. It was a classic treatise of Indian literature which Patel had once mentioned to her, a guide to erotic love she’d heard the English ladies whisper and speculate about.
She lifted a hand to the text, hesitated, then grasped it firmly.
Opening to a random page, she scanned the words:... the man should rub the yoni of the woman with his hand and fingers (as the elephant rubs anything with his trunk) before engaging in congress, until it is softened, and after that is done he should proceed to put his lingam into her...
Heat washed through Sarah, setting off a tremor deep within her belly. Was that what Damien had meant when he’d spoken of stroking her between the legs? And what exactly was a yoni? Where a man put his lingam into a woman?
Lurid curiosity glued her eyes to the page; guilty shame stopped her from reading on. Feeling strangely warm and weak, she clapped the book shut and shoved it back on the shelf. Merciful heaven. Aunt Violet would have been horrified to find her niece perusing the forbidden volume. She probably would have swooned—
“I’m back.”
Sarah gasped and whirled around. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk behind her. Framed by the darkness beyond the doorway, Damien loomed like a demon from hell. The lamplight threw his handsome features into sharp contrast. Blatant masculinity radiated from him, singeing her with the intensity of a flame.
Had he witnessed her reading The Kama Sutra? Mortification immobilized her. She couldn’t think of what to say, what to do; she could only gape stupidly at him.
“Sarah?” Frowning, he strode into the room and dropped the knapsack on the table. “Is something wrong?”
He hadn’t seen. With the force of a monsoon, relief blew away her paralysis. She walked jerkily away from the desk and clasped her hands tightly before her. “No...no, nothing’s wrong. You startled me, that’s all.”
“I see. Is Kit asleep?”
“Yes. He drank his bottle and...and we talked for a while. I mean, I talked and he listened. He’s really beginning to take an interest in what I say. I rather doubt he understands me, but he certainly smiles a lot.”
Damien cocked an eyebrow at her. “Something is wrong. You’re babbling like a Sikh on hashish.”
Taking a breath, she collected her senses. “If you must know, I was angry that you took so long. It would be just like you to run off and leave me alone with Kit all night. While he screamed for his bottle, I’d have to milk the goat—”
“Do me a favor, Sarah. Leave off the nagging for once. I’m tired. My feet are sore. And I’m hungry.”
&
nbsp; Damien sank into a chair and propped his sandaled feet on a brass stool. Leaning back, he laced his fingers behind his head. Weariness bracketed his eyes and mouth. He looked tousled and disreputable, a man hovering on the brink of exhaustion. Chagrined, she recalled his knife wound.
“I’m so sorry,” she said honestly. “Will you be all right?”
“I’ll survive. Your things are in the sack over there.” He angled his head toward the table.
She moved toward him. “I must check your bandage. You may have broken open the wound by overexerting yourself—”
“Don’t come near me,” Damien snapped. “I knew you couldn’t last a minute without pestering me.”
She clamped her lips and veered toward the table. “Go ahead and bleed, then,” she muttered.
From atop the stores of food in the knapsack she drew out a carved wooden comb, an assortment of bright hair ribbons, and an eclectic set of women’s garb made of colorful, homespun puttoo. The fresh woolen scent imbued her with delight.
“You’ve brought me wonderful clothes,” she said in surprise. “I can hardly wait to take a bath and change—” She bit off her words. A lady never discussed intimate matters in the presence of a man.
“A pity I couldn’t locate a corset,” Damien said. “I know how anxious you must be to truss yourself up again.”
She bristled. “Can’t you accept a simple thank-you?”
Turning away, she carried the precious garb into the bedroom. In the morning she would haul water from the stream, enough to have a lovely, all-over wash. She would even scrub the disgusting dye from her hair and skin. She would feel normal again after the long, dusty weeks on the road.
When she came back to the doorway, Damien lay stretched out on the settee, his eyes closed, his crossed legs half hanging over the arm. A sinking sensation oddly like disappointment pulled at her stomach. So he wouldn’t offer to sleep beside her tonight.
A sound jolted Sarah awake. Groggy from feeding Kit in the wee hours, she lay in the predawn darkness and tried to orient herself. Her hand stole out to find the baby’s small form. He slept the peaceful slumber of the innocent.
What had she heard?
Then it came again—a hoarse cry from the outer room. Mutineers? Leaping up, she cracked open the door and peered into the gloom. The faint starlight through the windows revealed the vague outline of Damien’s large frame on the settee. He thrashed like a madman, then went still, muttering something unintelligible.
Her fear faded to concern. She pushed the door wide. “Damien?”
He didn’t answer; he only tossed his head back and forth on the pillow.
With shaking fingers, she struck a match and lit a lamp. Then she pressed her hand to his brow. Her breast squeezed tight. His skin burned with fever. Dear God, his wound must be infected.
Suddenly he reared up, the blanket falling from his bandage-wrapped chest. His glazed eyes met hers, but she had the odd impression he didn’t see her. “Save Christopher,” he said in an agonized voice. “Save him, please save him.”
What did he imagine was wrong with the baby? “Kit is fine,” she said soothingly. “He’s asleep. Damien, we’ve got to get your fever down.”
She started to draw back, but his hand latched onto her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “You have to save Christopher. He’s locked inside there. He’s burning up. Don’t hate me, Mother. I can’t reach him. I tried to put the fire out. Oh, God, I tried—”
Wrenching sobs choked off his words. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Sarah’s mouth dropped open. The great Damien Coleridge, weeping? Surely she was seeing a sight no one had ever witnessed. His grip slackened and he fell back, his face buried in his scarred hands, his breath gusting harsh and hard.
His anguish cleaved her heart. Christopher must be Damien’s older brother, the one Mrs. Craven said had been turned witless from a fire Damien set as a prank.
“It’s all right, Damien. It’s all right.”
Quickly Sarah fetched the jar of water and several clean cloths. Dipping one, she wrung it out and draped it across his brow. Its coolness heated within moments, and she replaced it with another. His eyes closed, he muttered and squirmed as if suffering from intolerable pain, a pain as much of the soul as of the body. She wished she knew what Reginald would have done, but he hadn’t shared his medical knowledge with her. In despair, she knew of no cure for the fever but to keep changing the wet clothes.
Her mind worked as fast as her hands. Dear God. Damien could die. She had known people who were alive and hale one day, then dead the next from cholera or a host of other tropical illnesses. Keppu’s knife might have harbored any sort of deadly disease. The thought coiled in her stomach like a serpent waiting to strike.
After a time, Damien’s brow felt cooler, and he fell into a fitful slumber. Sarah rejoiced in the small victory, yet her emotions were tainted by the remnants of fear and the heaviness of exhaustion. Cautiously she untied his bandage. The skin around the gash was reddened and crusty. Gently she cleansed the wound and applied a fresh bandage.
She sat back on her heels. Her shoulders drooped; her back hurt from neck to waist. She watched the rise and fall of his bare chest, let her gaze drift over the coarse mat of black hairs, over is lean waist and hips. Damien looked so very vulnerable stretched out asleep. Odd, it seemed perfectly natural to view him half clothed. The prim lady she’d been in Meerut would have been appalled. For a moment she teetered on the brink or a great discovery about herself, but her tired mind failed to catch the thought before it slipped away.
She closed her eyes. Please, God, let him live. Let him live.
Dawn spread a haze of light over the room. She blinked and straightened. Damien lay asleep, his arm thrown over his head, his face younger in repose, looking startlingly like his son.
Kit would awaken soon. She hadn’t ever milked a goat, but if Damien could, so could she.
Outside, she shivered from the dew-wet chill. The goat was tethered in a lean-to behind the hut. The animal bleated and sidled into the shadows. “Come here, sweet nanny.”
Sarah moved close enough to grasp the halter. Pail in hand, she drew the reluctant goat out into the light and struggled to drive the stake into the rocky hillside.
Kit’s whimpering cry came from inside the hut. Dear God, he’d awaken Damien. The goat watched her through thick lashes. Just as she reached beneath the silken hair and brushed the full udder, the nanny bleated a protest and leaped sideways.
Sarah grimly followed. “Come, darling. Baby needs your lovely milk. Please be a dear and cooperate.”
Its bell tinkling, the goat trotted to the end of its tether and circled the stake, keeping several steps ahead of her. The look in its eyes was almost intelligent, as if this were a game.
She tried to recall how Damien approached the goat. Distract the beast. She crossed to a clump of tall grass and yanked out a big handful, which she lay on the ground near her feet. The goat came over and began to munch.
Sarah placed the pail beneath the goat and tentatively squeezed the warm rubbery teats. Nothing. She compressed them again, to no avail.
“Bloody double—” She caught herself and pursed her lips. Lord help her, now she was cursing like Damien.
The baby’s bawling ceased with a startling suddenness. She straightened her aching back. Merciful heaven, had Damien picked up his son? In his weakened condition, he might drop Kit.
Sarah hastened around the front of the hut. And froze.
On the veranda squatted a woman in a red vest and baggy trousers similar to the garb Damien had bought. A boy of about two played with sticks at her feet. A silver nose ring gleamed above her mouth, and scarlet beads adorned her brown throat. Her khaki shirt lay open, baring twin globes of maternal plumpness, where Kit sucked contentedly.
Baffled and wary, Sarah approached. “Who are you?” she demanded in Hindi. “Where did you come from?”
The woman’s broad, flat features bloomed into a
smile. She jabbered in a foreign dialect, and waved a hand toward the hut. The only words Sarah understood were burra sahib.
Realization hit her. Damien had arranged for a wet-nurse from the village. Relief gilded Sarah’s spirits; annoyance tarnished the feeling. The least he could have done was tell her.
This was the last straw. She’d suffered enough of his reticence. The time had come for him to share some basic facts with her. The moment he opened his eyes, she would get the answers she wanted.
A sense of purpose simmered inside her throughout the day. He awoke twice and swallowed a bowlful of rice broth, then sank back into sleep. The longer his brow remained cool, the stronger her resolve grew.
The hill woman was called Batan. Despite the language barrier, Sarah enjoyed her companionship. A placid person with a ready smile, Batan helped with the most taxing chores, hauling water, fetching firewood, and cooking a stack of chupatties.
Sarah escaped into the bedchamber for her long-awaited bath in a cedar half-barrel. But the cake of harsh soap lightened her skin only a shade, and despite her scrubbing, she achieved only muddy brown hair rather than its normal blond. She dressed in her new clothes: a sky-blue shirt and a baggy tunic, cinched at the waist with a brown sash, and khaki Moghul trousers with perky blue dots. She felt cleaner and brighter, girded for battle.
Batan fed the baby from her breast one last time, milked the goat, and then departed at dusk, explaining by gesture that she would return in the morning. With Kit asleep inside, Sarah stood on the veranda and watched the Pahari woman step down the path, the boy toddling in her wake like a gosling after a goose.
When she turned, Damien was leaning against the doorframe.
Her heart jumped. His clothing was rumpled, his face lean and hollow-cheeked. “You shouldn’t be up,” she said.
“It was either answer a call of nature or ask you to mop up a puddle in my pants. Which do you prefer?”
