by Olivia Drake
She flushed. “You must be feeling better since you’re back to your usual crude self.”
“Crude? Keep criticizing your employer and you’ll be seeking a new post.”
“I never sought this one.”
“Oh, yes. You were seeking a post as Reggie’s wife.”
He walked past her, heading toward the bushes. She fled into the hut and set a pot to boil by the fire crackling merrily in the stone hearth. Finding a brick of tea among the cache of supplies, she crumbled a handful of leaves into the bubbling water.
He walked back inside, his steps slow and his face ashen. Sinking onto the settee, he propped up his feet. “I’m hungry. Get me something to eat.”
His weakened condition roused a twinge of sympathy in her. “As you wish.”
“I don’t want any more of that damned broth. Surely Batan cooked something with more substance.”
Her compassion vanished. “It’s so pleasant to hear ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’” she muttered.
From the kitchen she brought two warm chupatties smeared with goat cheese. While he ate, she said, “Speaking of Batan, I must say, her sudden appearance shocked me.”
“Everything shocks you.”
Sarah held tight to her temper. “You should have told me about her.”
He shrugged. “She’s a widow. She’s weaning her son, so she has plenty of milk for Kit.”
“Why didn’t you ask her to live here?”
“Her father-in-law expects her home to help in the evenings.”
“I see.” When he offered no more information, she said, “Would you care for a cup of tea?”
Damien grunted an assent which discouraged conversation. If he thought she would sit in docile silence, he’d soon discover otherwise. From the cupboard she fetched two cups of fine Chinese porcelain.
Her skin prickled; she looked over to find him watching her, his expression dour. In a flash of self-consciousness, she wondered how he perceived her new clothes. He probably thought the trousers too mannish. Well, he was the one who’d selected them.
Disgruntled, she poured the tea and handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed and her thoughts scattered. She sank into a cross-legged position on the tiger-skin rug and gathered her resolve. Waiting until after Damien took a sip, she said, “Since you’re feeling better, I should like to end your secrecy.”
He swung his head up, wariness glinting in the devil-dark depths of his eyes. “My secrecy? About what?”
“About your past. You named Kit after your elder brother, didn’t you?”
Her knowledgeable words hit Damien like a blow to the solar plexus. Damn. Bloody double damn. He had a hazy memory of Sarah’s cool hand on his burning brow, of garbled nightmares alive with the flames of memory. God help him, he must have babbled in the throes of the fever. What had he said?
Tasting bitter fear, he decided to bluff. “Maybe I named him after Christopher Columbus.”
“Don’t prevaricate. Last night you spoke of saving your brother, Christopher.”
“So? It’s common to call a baby after a family member.”
“But why the brother who was involved in the fire you set at your parents’ estate?”
His blood ran cold. Only the cup of tea kept his palms warm. In his most lordly voice, he said, “More of your stupid gossip? You work for me, Sarah. You’ve no right to pry into my private past.”
As slim and lovely as a Himalayan princess, she met his gaze with unflinching valor. The soft, loose garb somehow suited her English features, and the firelight glinted off gold strands in her hair. “On the contrary,” she said, “I have every right to pry. You’re ill. Last night you might have died. What if something like this happens again?”
“It won’t. I told you, there aren’t any sepoys around here to kill me.”
“Regardless, I have to plan for possible calamity. If you were to die, what would I do with Kit?”
Damien’s heart squeezed. “You’d care for him and raise him as your own.”
“How? I can’t provide for him. You never got around to giving me the bank draft.”
“I admit I’ve been remiss in seeing to the transfer of funds. I’ll write you a letter to take to my bank in Bombay. The village headman can witness the document.”
“And what if Bombay has fallen to the rebels? There might not be an English bank in operation. Even so, I’d feel honor-bound to take Kit on to England to meet his family.”
A gale of fear blasted Damien. Trying to conquer the emotion, he gritted his teeth and said, “I already gave you explicit orders to the contrary. But nothing’s going to happen to me. So leave off the bloody nagging.”
Sarah leaned forward, the deep V of her shirt revealing the shadowy cleft of her breasts. “Kit’s grandmother is the dowager Duchess of Lamborough. His uncle is the duke. Your son deserves all the advantages of his noble blood.”
“Noble blood be damned.” Damien slammed his cup onto the brass footstool, so hard the porcelain cracked. Hot tea sloshed over his hand. “You’re never to take Kit within half a continent of my mother. She would—” He broke off, sweating, his skin clammy and his limbs weak.
“Your mother would what?” Sarah asked.
She would hate him because he’s my son.
Agony burned like a rope enclosing his neck. The blaze on the hearth lured his eyes. From the dark passageways of memory he heard his mother’s icy voice. He tried to block it out, but her words devoured his soul as fire devours tinder: I rue the day I gave birth to you, Damien. You’re a devil who deserves to burn in the flames of hell. You destroyed your own brother...
“Damien?”
His vision swam. He blinked, and found himself gazing at Sarah’s earnest face, at the sun-kissed hue of her skin and the zealous blue of her eyes. As fresh and untainted as a lotus blossom, she sat gazing at him, her teacup cradled in her hands. The urge to seek refuge in her warm arms washed over him, an urge as abhorrent as this conversation.
“Damien, answer me. What would your mother do?”
He should get up and leave. But he felt too infirm to move. Besides, she’d still be here when he came back, waiting for answers, a tenacious crusader with her mind fixed on a cause.
Casting about desperately for a plausible explanation, he said, “My mother would despise Kit for his mixed blood. He’d be ostracized by her and by society.”
Sarah shook her head. “It’s more than that. She’s his grandmother. It would be unnatural for her to hate him.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make me understand. I won’t abide by your order until you tell me the truth. You’ll have to convince me that it’s to Kit’s advantage to stay away from your family.”
The noose tightened. Damn her persistence. Yet another voice inside him whispered, Bless her for wanting the best for your son.
His choices had dwindled to one. He had to trust Sarah. Even if it meant giving her the most deadly ammunition to fire at him. Although he felt certain of his recovery, he dared take no risk of exposing Kit to the torture and loneliness of growing up unloved, without Sarah’s care and affection.
“Tell me about the fire,” she urged. “And about your brother.”
“I hope to God you’ll shut up about it then.” He searched the swamp of his emotions for the right words. “Christopher and I are very different. As different as two brothers can be...”
“How so?”
“He has a delicate constitution and a docile temperament. I was the wild, hot-tempered one. I was always getting into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
He shrugged. “Putting a toad in the housemaid’s bed, hiding Nanny’s spectacles, leaping out and scaring the butler. Goa knows the number of times Mother had to send me to bed without supper. It was no wonder she favored Christopher’s gentler nature.”
“So you were high-spirited,” Sarah said. “That’s hardly an unusual trait for a boy.”
“You haven’t
heard the worst.” Feeling like a sinner on the verge of a hideous confession, he said, “One day when I was five years old and Christopher was six, Mother gave him an entire set of tin soldiers, cannons and cavalrymen, the whole works. She told me I wasn’t to play with them, that I’d lose half of them and chip the paint on the other half.”
“Why did he get a gift and not you? Was it his birthday?”
“No.” Damien shifted his gaze from her inquisitive eyes. “He was the elder, the heir, so he had privileges that I didn’t.”
“Nonsense. That’s favoritism. Children ought to be treated alike.”
Her oblique attack on his mother raised Damien’s hackles. “I didn’t ask for your damned opinion,” he snapped. “I’m trying to tell you what happened.”
Sarah ignored his anger. She tilted her head and quietly said, “Go on, then.”
“I’m trying to.” He cleared his throat and gazed into the flames on the hearth. “Lord help me, I lusted after those tin soldiers. And for once Christopher wouldn’t share his new toys, either. When I grabbed a dragoon, he cried for Nanny and she shooed me away.”
Damien paused, his throat tight. From the shadows of the past came the clear image of his fair-haired brother, his frail body bent over the troop of shiny soldiers.
“Did you ever get to play with the soldiers?” Sarah murmured.
“Yes.” The words gushed from Damien like water from an opened floodgate. “I waited until almost bedtime, when Nanny left to fetch Christopher his special cup of hot chocolate. He was sitting on the rug by the hearth, lining up his tin battalion. I asked him again if I could play, and he told me no. I...got so angry I shoved him into the cupboard where we kept our toys, and turned the key. He was crying, banging on the door, but I callously sat down and played with his soldiers.” The pitiful memory of his brother’s muffled sobs wrenched at Damien.
Sarah sat with her hands folded in her lap, like a governess poised to pass judgment. At any moment he expected disgust to curl her lips. “How did the fire start?” she asked.
“I heard Nanny outside in the hall, scolding the footman about something or another. I knew I’d be in bad trouble this time, and I thought if I let Christopher out quickly I could accuse him of telling tales.” Damien’s voice faltered.
“And did you do that?” Sarah prompted.
He moistened his dry lips and forced himself to go on. “I meant to. When I scrambled up to release him, I knocked over a side table. An oil lamp fell to the floor and shattered. The flames caught the window curtains and raced toward the cupboard where Christopher was locked.”
Damien stopped, clamped in the irons of his private hell. He inhaled the choking smoke. He felt the intolerable heat. He relived the horrible, helpless experience of hearing his brother’s shrieks over the crackle of the inferno.
Sarah’s eyes were wide, her face pale. “What happened then?”
“For a moment I just stood there. I was too terrified to move. Then I grabbed Nanny’s shawl and tried to beat at the flames. It was a stupid thing to do. I should have let Christopher out, or at least gone for help.”
Her gaze narrowed on his hands. “Is that when you burned yourself?”
“Yes.” Ashamed, Damien stared down at his scars. He clenched his fingers into a tight ball, but he could still see the ugly marks. The hands of a demon. “I hit at the fire for an eternity before Nanny heard the commotion. She and the footman came running, and he rescued Christopher. But it was too late for my brother. The damage had been done.”
“Do you mean he was burned?” An undertone of shock quivered in her voice.
Damien shook his head. “Physically, he escaped unscathed. But his mind...” His voice scratchy with emotion, he added, “The trauma stole his wits. It turned Christopher into a simpleton. My mother called in doctor after doctor, but no one could ever cure him.”
The hearth fire snapped in the silence. A log popped and settled. He felt strangely better for the confession, as if he’d shed a portion of the dark and suffocating burden. Bracing himself, he slowly raised his eyes to Sarah. Only thoughtful interest lit her flame-gilded features.
His heart tripped, but he extinguished a flare of hope. She was hiding her revulsion, that was all.
“What is your brother like now?” she asked.
“Still a child in a man’s body—at least he was the last time I saw him, about ten years ago.” Despondency tugged at Damien’s chest. He ached to see Christopher again. But it was an ache he could never assuage. “He’s handsome and looks outwardly normal. He’s also sweet and loving, though prone to an occasional tantrum.”
“Then perhaps he’d like to meet his nephew. I still fail to see why you would forbid me to take Kit to England.”
Fear strangled Damien. Knotting his fingers, he struggled to draw a breath. “Because he’s my son. Don’t you see? Mother never forgave me and never will. Not a day went by that she didn’t remind me of the awful deed I’d done.” Pain choked his voice. Unable to look at Sarah, he stared at the floor. “She said she wished I’d died in that fire.”
Sarah heard the words through a veil of disbelief. The teacup lay cold against her fingers. From the twisting of his hands, the tremor in his voice, she knew he felt a soul-deep anguish. It was an anguish that reached out and wrapped around her heart. “Your mother surely spoke in the heat of anger. She couldn’t possibly have meant such a dreadful thing.”
“Yes, she could. What I did to Christopher was terrible, unspeakable. I destroyed him. And my mother.”
Gazing at his averted face, Sarah glimpsed a raw wound laid bare. “It was an accident, Damien.”
“Locking him in the cupboard wasn’t. I did it on purpose. I hated him for being Mother’s favorite.”
“Of course you did. You wanted her love, too.”
“But I didn’t deserve it.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. You were only five years old. You can’t be held responsible for the impulsive act of a child.”
He abruptly stood and went to the doorway, his gaze focused on the darkness outside. “The fact remains that, child or not, I caused my brother’s deplorable mental state. My mother did her best to hide his tragic flaw. She kept Christopher at home instead of sending him to a private sanitarium. Whenever he suffered spells of illness, she nursed him and nurtured him with all of her devotion and love.”
And left nothing for you, Sarah thought. Her heart beat in her throat. How ironic that she, who had grown up in genteel poverty, envying the aristocrats who could afford carriages and fine clothing, had been far richer in love than Damien. The advantages of birth had brought him only pain, a pain that had dogged him for nearly thirty years and thousands of miles. Now she understood his fascination with fire, why he had saved Shivina from suttee and why he’d balked at burning her body. He was haunted by the ghost of a childish prank gone horribly awry.
He loomed in the doorway, his shoulders slumped. Firelight glowed over his unhappy, handsome profile. She knew now why he scorned society, and why he rebuffed her attempts at friendship. An enormous burden of shame crushed his tender emotions. Within him dwelt the lonely boy who had been spurned by his own mother, and the man who feared to lay himself open to rejection again.
“Damien, don’t you think you’ve suffered long enough? Your mother had no right to persecute her child.”
He swung on her. Surprise and torment glittered in his eyes. “You still don’t understand,” he said fiercely. “She suffered far more than me. She watched Christopher grow up an imbecile. I can’t blame her for wanting to punish me.”
“Your own guilt has been punishment enough.”
He slashed his hand downward as if to erase her words. “I stole Christopher’s mind. I ended any chance he had at leading a normal life. His title made it easy enough for Mother to find him a wife, but...
“But?”
“He hasn’t been able to father any children.”
Sarah set down her empty cup. “Merciful heaven,
Damien. Surely you can’t shoulder that blame, too.”
“Yes, I can. It’s my fault that he can’t perform as a man.”
She despaired of making him see logic. He wore his guilt with the same blind devotion as a sadhu who praised the gods by holding one arm up to the heavens for so long that the limb withered.
“You’re heir to the dukedom,” she pointed out. “And Kit will inherit after you someday. You’ll both have to go to England eventually.”
“No. Title or not, I’ll never return. Neither will my son go.”
The finality of his voice disturbed her. She tried another line of reasoning. “Where was your father while you were growing up? Didn’t he defend you against your mother’s hostility?”
Damien shrugged. “He spent day and night at his London club. He couldn’t bear to face his half-witted heir. Or the devil he’d sired for a second son.”
“Don’t belittle yourself.”
“Why not?” He aimed his hard, bitter gaze at her. “Am I encroaching on your territory?”
Sarah flushed. All these weeks she had been feeding his shabby view of himself. In confusion, she latched onto the gossip of the murder. “Tell me what happened to your father.”
“Enough prying. I told you why my mother would hate Kit, and that’s all you need to know. I want your word that you’ll never take him anywhere near her.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll do more than think, by God. You’ll honor my wishes.”
“Do you realize what you’re asking of me?” She tried one last time. “Kit might someday become the duke, yet you’re saying I should deny him his birthright.”
“Yes. His future isn’t yours to decide. You’re only the hired nanny.”
His hardened expression closed off further discussion. Sarah blew out an exasperated sigh. “All right,” she said. “I shan’t take Kit to England without your permission.”
But silently she vowed to work on changing his mind.
Chapter 16
1 July 1857, High in the Himalayan Foothills
