by Olivia Drake
Praylaya is Sanskrit for Potential. Water is a substance without shape, and therefore the perfect source of eternal potential. That is why the Hindus believe water has the power to cleanse away sin and purify the soul.
From my window I watch the monsoon drenching the hillside. But even the life-giving water cannot wash away the horrors of the mutiny. Just as the rains bring a bounty of wildflowers to the mountains, so the mutiny makes the summer-parched plains blossom with the crimson of English blood—
The sharp nub of Sarah’s quill pen scratched a hole in the damp paper. She stopped writing and ruefully regarded the damage. The humidity made everything soggy.
Water plop-plopped from the eaves, the sound almost drowned by the drumming of rain on the cedar shingles. Idly she watched a green lizard scamper across the windowsill and disappear outside. The deluge wrapped her in dreary isolation. Batan was feeding Kit in the bedroom. As always, Damien was ensconced alone in the spare room.
In the three weeks since his confession, she had seen little of him. He emerged only for meals, a few hours’ sleep, and an occasional visit with Kit. He refused to say what he did in there, beyond that it involved his photography and that he wished to remain undisturbed.
She had exercised staunch control over her natural curiosity. The wound on his side as well as the wound to his soul required time to heal. He needed the chance to adjust to another person knowing his painful secret.
What a viper he had for a mother!
Sarah shuddered. Damien, who saw so much, so clearly, was blind where the dowager was concerned. He defended her; amazingly, he saw her as an angel of mercy. She had so twisted his young mind that even as a man he couldn’t find his way out of the labyrinth of guilt. The injustice made Sarah steam with outrage. A woman had no right to wreak destruction on the emotions of her defenseless child.
Of course, Damien was no saint. The lies he’d told her, especially the one about Reginald, still rankled. Yet now Sarah suspected why Damien had been so desperate to employ her. He doubted his abilities as a father because he’d lacked a good example from his own parents.
Frowning at the closed door, she wondered if she’d been wrong to leave him alone. He might be brooding instead, sinking deeper into a quagmire of self-condemnation.
The prospect disturbed her. The dowager Duchess of Lamborough had dealt her second son a wicked, undeserved blow. The problem lay in convincing Damien of that fact. If only, Sarah thought, she could delve beneath the layers of his guilt and prove that, just like anyone, he possessed strengths as well as weaknesses, light as well as darkness. If only she knew more about his past...
She pushed back her chair and marched to the door. Her knuckles struck the wood.
“What is it?” came Damien’s muffled voice.
She opened the door. “Excuse me. I’d like to speak with you.”
Two lanterns cast yellow light over the windowless room. The rank odor of chemicals came from a row of gallon-sized, cork-stoppered bottles. A stack of glass plates in the corner reached nearly to the ceiling timbers. Glass-backed photographs were propped against every available space.
Arms bare and tanned, Damien sat before a black, boxy camera perched on a littered table. Her heart constricted. She yearned to smooth away the harsh marks scoring his forehead, the ravages of inner pain. With the hair curling over his ears and his beard shaved, he looked younger, more vulnerable.
“State your business,” he said. “Is something wrong with my son?”
“No. I...just wondered what you’ve been doing for so many days. Why did you forbid me to come in here?”
“Because I happen to like peace and quiet.”
Ignoring his sarcasm, she ventured a few steps into the room. “Is this where you develop your photographs?”
“Yes.” Using a small wrench, he tightened a bolt on the camera. “It’s my darkroom.”
“I’m glad to see you have a camera to replace the one you lost in the fire.”
“I’m building it with some spare parts I kept for repairs. Now, if that’s all you came in here for—”
“No, it isn’t.” She cast about for an excuse to linger and said, “I was wondering if you’d heard any report of the mutiny. From Batan’s people.”
“There hasn’t been a scrap of news. Yesterday I sent one of the village boys down the mountainside to see what he could find out.”
“Did you? That’s a relief.”
He gave her a pointed stare, his black brows knit with impatience. “As soon as I hear something I’ll let you know.” His tone indicated dismissal.
“Thank you.” Her gaze fell on a pair of long-handled scissors lying on the table. She moved forward and snatched them up. “Your hair has grown quite a lot. Would you like me to trim it?”
His wary eyes shifted from her face to the scissors. “Later.”
“I’ll be busy with Kit later. Better I should do it now, while Batan is still here to watch him.”
She slipped behind his chair and let the ends of his hair curl over her fingers. The dense black strands felt as soft and vibrant as raw silk.
His back stiffened. “For God’s sake,” he muttered, “can’t you leave me alone?”
“Oh, but you’ll feel better when this hair is off your neck.” Taking a breath redolent of his male scent, she lopped off an inch of hair. When he didn’t move, her spirits took courage. “Have you been a photographer these ten years?” she asked, cutting carefully. “Since you left England, I mean.”
Damien felt her nearness like a burning brand against his back. She stood so close he fancied he could feel her breasts brush against him. The slow snip-snip of the shears, along with the steady tattoo of rain on the roof, lulled his protests.
What was it she had asked him?
“I...always wanted to be an artist,” he admitted. “I studied drawing in Paris for a few years. By chance, I read in an English journal about a new photographic process using color –” He paused, uneasy with already having revealed far too much himself to Sarah Faulkner. “You can’t really be interested in the boring details.”
“Oh, but I am.” She bent nearer, the fragrant warmth of her body enveloping him like a loving embrace. “What made you decide to do a picture book about India?”
“It was back in ’fifty-two.” The raw pain of that time hurtled over him. He’d lived alone in a garret. He’d fought the deadly impulse to cross the Channel and tell his mother the truth about his father’s death. Damn Sarah for resurrecting memories best left buried. Lamely he said, “The book seemed like a worthwhile project to occupy my time.”
“Perhaps you needed to show your mother you’re worthy of her respect.”
He jerked his head away from her. Oh, God. Here it came. For three weeks he’d waited in suspense for Sarah to harass him about his fatal secret. “I don’t care what she thinks of me,” he snapped. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. I work only to please myself.”
“Keep still.” Sarah took gentle hold of his head and guided it back into position. “Else you might end up as bald as Lalji.”
Her mild response nonplussed Damien. She moved around to his right side. Snip-snip. Another hank of hair drifted to the floor. As she worked, he felt the rhythmic gust of her breath against his ear. The sensation prickled over his scalp and descended hotly to his groin.
“I’ve been wondering,” she murmured. “You must still keep in touch with someone back in England.”
He tensed. “Why the hell would you think that?”
“If I had a brother who was infirm, I’d like to know how he was getting on. Besides, you seemed so certain that he hasn’t fathered any children.”
She was too damned astute. Reluctantly Damien admitted, “I exchange an occasional letter with the butler.”
She tilted her head, her eyes wide, the shears dangling from her slim fingers. “The butler?”
“Yes. Bromley has been with the Lamboroughs since before I was born.”
“Ah.” She resumed clipping. “And what news has he reported recently?”
“Just the usual chitchat about Christopher.” Damien trained his gaze on the round lens of the camera. It was somehow easier to talk while not looking her in the face. “He was ill during the winter, but he’s better now. And Anne is back from nursing her aunt in Sussex.”
“Who is Anne?”
“My sister-in-law. Christopher’s wife.”
“Oh. What is she like?”
“Plain but sweet, rather shy. And as devoted to him as Mother.” Pincers of guilt closed around Damien’s chest. “I thank God he has two people to watch over him.”
“Mm.”
Sarah straightened and studied his hair. Her eyes were the clear blue of a Kashmiri lake. He shifted in the chair and tried to ease the rock-hard pressure inside his dhoti. God, he wished she’d back up and give him space to think.
“Hurry up,” he growled. “I can’t waste all afternoon on a damned haircut.”
She curved her supple body toward him again. Her faint musky aroma eddied over him. “I’m going slowly on purpose,” she said. “I’ve never trimmed a man’s hair before, and I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
“Now you tell me,” he muttered, raking his fingers over his head. “After you’ve hacked off half my hair.”
She laughed, a sweet tinkling sound that warmed his insides. Hell, his insides were already hot. His loins were a furnace of raging lust.
“You needn’t fret,” she said. “I promise not to ruin your image. You’ll still look like a disreputable rogue.”
“Thank God for that.”
But Damien didn’t feel like a rogue. A rogue would dispense with the chatter and pull her into his lap, rip her clothes off and fondle her nakedness, take his carnal pleasure in her tight virginal depths.
She leaned close to clip a strand over his brow. Oh, hell. Now he could see clear inside her blouse. Like an offering to Krishna, her unbound breasts rose and fell in a lush display that dried his throat and weakened his limbs.
“Did you ever stop to think,” she said, “what you would do if your mother died?”
His muscles went rigid. His head shot up to meet her gaze. “Why do you say that?”
She shrugged. “You could go back to England then. She is the only reason you stay away, isn’t she?”
Bitter confusion tormented him. “Mother won’t die, not so long as Christopher is alive. She lives for him.”
“Ah. At least in one respect you take after her.”
He blinked. He must be too caught up in lechery to focus his thoughts. “What in hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re both stubborn, headstrong people.” She stepped around to his left side and snipped a lock behind his ear. “You must have inherited the trait from her.”
The comparison flabbergasted him. “You don’t understand. I’m not at all like her.”
“Then tell me what she is like.”
Agitation stirred in him. “She’s refined, noble, caring—”
“Your mother sounds like a paragon. So why did she drive her own son to the opposite side of the world?”
“She didn’t,” he ground out. “I chose to leave England of my own accord.”
“Oh?” Sarah brushed a few strands of black hair from his shoulder. “I heard she accused you of murdering your father.”
His pulse throbbed so loudly in his ears Damien felt dizzy. He surged to his feet, the chair legs scraping the floor, bits of hair scattering. “I’ve had enough of your questions, Miss Busybody Faulkner. My family is none of your bloody business.”
Sarah coolly regarded him. “As long as Kit is my business, so is your family. Why are you afraid to tell me why you left home?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, will you let up?” he shouted. “I left because I’m not fit to live with other people. You’ve implied that yourself damned often enough.”
“Oh, Damien.” Her teeth worried her lower lip, and in spite of his fury, he couldn’t stop his eyes from focusing on the kissable curve of her mouth. “I have been a shrew,” she admitted. “But only because I didn’t know about your dreadful upbringing—”
“Spare me your pity,” he broke in coldly.
“It’s not pity. It’s compassion and understanding.” Astoundingly, she smiled at him, a warm, pensive smile that washed her features in gentle beauty. Her tender expression made his body swell with yearning. “I despise what your mother did to you, Damien. You’ve spent your entire life living up to the image she created. You want people to believe you’re wicked to prove your mother was right.”
He weighed the bizarre notion and rejected it. “That is the most asinine theory I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it?” Sarah tapped the closed shears against her palm. “Can you offer a better explanation for your unsociable behavior?”
“Yes.” Desperate to evade her discomfiting questions, desperate to resist her tempting body, he said, “I dislike people. Especially plain-faced spinsters who pry into my past because they lack a life of their own.”
The animation left her features and her skin turned deathly pale. Tears sheened the gentian-blue of her eyes. Regret flayed him like a lash. Oh, God. Despite all he’d done to her, Sarah had set aside her wretched opinion of him and leaped to his defense. Of course, her zealous nature motivated her. But that didn’t excuse his cruel lie.
His insult was even worse than taking her locket. He had hurt her in the most mean-spirited way possible. All to spare his own miserable hide.
She lay down the scissors on the table. “I’m finished. You may add another shilling to my wage to pay for the haircut.”
With graceful dignity, she pivoted and walked out, closing the door quietly. Damien stood paralyzed, aware of his heart beating in the hollowness of his chest. No wonder she loved an honorable doctor like Reginald Pemberton-Sykes instead of a wicked devil like Damien Coleridge.
Yet he ached to call her back. He ached to kiss away the brutal wound he’d dealt to her pride. Most of all, he ached to bask again in her warmth and tenderness.
Man is divided into three classes: the hare man, the bull man, and the horse man, according to the size of his lingam.
Sarah’s eyes widened. In the privacy of her bedchamber, she blushed at the book propped in her lap. Was Damien a hare, a bull, or a horse? A horse, definitely. He was so masculine.
Heat seared to the depths of her belly. She slapped the book shut. Mercy! She was reading The Kama Sutra for its value as a classic of ancient Hindu dogma and custom. Not so that her imagination could use the text for unseemly conjecture.
Her cheeks felt pink and her heart beat fast. It was the height of indecency to speculate on the hidden parts of a man. Especially a man who had made it clear he had no interest in a plain-faced spinster.
Although more than a week had passed since his blistering condemnation, she still stung from the pain. Sometimes her spirits dragged with the conviction that the derogatory portrayal was true. At other times she perked herself up with the belief that she was a fine woman and he had been driven by the need to isolate himself.
He wanted her to think the worst of him.
Then again, perhaps he didn’t care what she thought.
Buffeted by her vacillating emotions, Sarah let her gaze return to the leather-bound book. She must not apply every sentence to Damien. He had gone out this morning, and she so seldom had the chance to steal away and read. Curiosity thrummed hotly inside her. Unable to stop herself, she cracked the book open and flipped through the vellum pages.
By union with men the lust, desire, or passion of women is satisfied, and the pleasure derived is called their satisfaction—
A knock sounded. She jumped. “Sarah?” his voice boomed. “Are you in there?”
She fumbled with the book. “Yes, Damien,” she squeaked.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Just a moment.”
Sarah sprang up and tucked the vol
ume beneath the thin mattress of the charpoy. Oh, dear Lord. Perhaps he’d noticed the book was missing.
Hastening to the door, she started to smooth her clothes and hair. She forced her trembling hands to her sides. How ridiculous. She was acting like a schoolgirl caught reading... The Kama Sutra. Well, she was a grown woman with a scholarly curiosity. She had the right to read anything she wished.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped into the main room. Damien had moved over to the hearth, near Batan. The Pahari woman squatted on the floor, one of her long knitting needles tucked beneath her plump arm in the Tibetan manner as she clacked away at the pattern for a red cape. Propped on the settee, Kit watched the swift motion of the needles and the gamboling play of Batan’s young son.
Sarah’s gaze shifted to the bookshelf. Apprehension coursed through her. She should have moved the books to hide the slender gap.
But to her relief, Damien wasn’t looking at her; he was speaking to Batan. He wore a tunic and trousers today, and the homespun garb that hung baggy on other men fit him like a well-tailored glove. The sunlight slanting through the open window illuminated his sculptured features.
His serious tone and solemn expression piqued Sarah’s interest. Over the past weeks, she had learned a little of the Pahari tongue, but today he spoke too fast for her to catch more than a few words. Something about Nana Sahib and Cawnpore. Batan’s jolly face drooped with distress.
Sarah hastened forward. The instant he paused, she broke in. “Have you heard news of the mutiny?”
His deep brown eyes bored into her. “Yes.”
He motioned her onto the veranda. The monsoon rains had subsided for the moment, and the sun sparkled from an achingly blue sky. The aroma of damp cedar tinged the air.
“Something happened in Cawnpore.” Fists clenched at her sides, Sarah stepped closer. “Damien, tell me.”
He lounged against the hut, one leg crooked, his foot braced behind him on the wall. Scratching a match on a log, he lit a bidi. “Wheeler’s garrison fell under siege last month.” He stopped and studied her, as if debating how much to tell her.
She stared him down. “I want to hear every detail.”
