by Olivia Drake
She was conscious of her own nudity, of the tickling silk of her hair curling over her breasts and belly, of a hedonistic sense of contentment. The smells of crushed grass and earth blended with the faint musky aroma of his sweat on her body. A blackbird sang somewhere high in the luxuriant vines draping the temple. She could scarcely believe she was here with Damien, sharing the ultimate intimacy and feeling no embarrassment, only a deep emotional ardor.
Sitting up, she propped her hands on the ground and watched him undress. He peeled off his tunic to reveal the breadth of his chest and the pelt of black hair narrowing at his flat belly, leading downward into his dhoti. She was enchanted by the play of sunshine and shade over the male magnificence of his body. The thin white scar down his side made her shudder inside.
Then he unknotted the white loincloth and let it drop onto the pile of clothing. Her gaze traveled up his long lean legs and transfixed on his engorged member.
She drew a stunned breath. “You really are...”
He positioned himself lithely on his haunches. His intense brown gaze scrutinized her face. “I’m what?”
Heat pulsed in her stomach; suddenly shy, she studied a green lizard scuttling between a pair of entwined lovers in a stone carving. “Never mind...I was reminded of something I read in The Kama Sutra.”
Touching her cheek, he turned her toward him. A grin stole over his face, imbuing him with heart-catching handsomeness. “Now let me see,” he mused. “You were looking at my lingam. What were you thinking?”
How could she say it? “Men are divided into three classes according to the size of their...” She faltered to a stop.
“Ah. And which group do I fit into?”
His teasing observation emboldened her, and without thinking, she brushed her fingertips over the smooth, fevered length of him. “The horse man.”
His grin died and his breath came out in a harsh gasp. “And you’re full of surprises,” he said. “I’m going to have to find a new name for you. Miss Priss simply doesn’t suit anymore.”
How about Mrs. Damien Coleridge?
Banishing the startling thought, Sarah melted beneath him onto the grass. She wanted him to fulfill her physical fantasies and nothing more. He stretched out on his side, his lingam burning into the softness of her thigh. He lowered his head to kiss her throat, his hand gliding over her arm, her waist, her hip. The smooth ridges of his ravaged palms sent tremors over her skin. The sun beat warmly on her face and bathed her in the clear light of exhilaration. They might be Adam and Eve, entwined in a lush paradise, about to savor the forbidden fruit and commit the first sin...
Sarah shied away from the thought. Nothing so good could be wrong. The exalted emotions lifting her heart proved the rightness of this moment. She wove her fingers into his hair, caressed his ear, traced his cheekbone and strong jaw.
His mouth grazed her breast and his tongue curled wetly over the nipple, his lips tugging at her. At the same time he slid his hand down her belly and lower still, to caress her inner essence, applying gentle pressure. The hot, honeyed sensations began to build in her again, and this time Sarah knew what she yearned for, the golden rapture only he could give her.
She moved restively against him. “Damien...I need you.”
“Patience, Saraswati,” he murmured against her breast. “I want you to be ready when I make you mine.”
“I am ready.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed the network of scars on his palm, wishing she could so easily soothe the scars to his soul. “Oh, Damien, I’ve waited for you all my life.”
His flat belly sucked in. He lifted his head to stare at her. “God, Sarah.” His voice was tortured; his dark eyes blazed with fire. “Don’t say things like that. Please don’t.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“I wish I could believe you...I wish we could be together forever...”
He shifted, crushing her to the grass, his leg nudging hers apart. Dazzled by the floodtide of sensations rushing through her, she willingly opened her thighs and enveloped him in a loving embrace. She let her hands roam over his hard muscle and heated flesh.
“I’ll try not to hurt you,” he muttered.
His words mystified her. “You aren’t—”
A white-hot spear entered her body and probed her delicate membranes; then a sharp pain stabbed her. She flinched and cried out, and Damien went still, his brow tilted against hers, his chest moving in uneven tension against her breasts, his arms trembling around her.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “Forgive me for being rough. But oh, God, you feel so damned good.”
He lay hard and deep within her, joining their bodies and souls, giving her a feeling of completeness she had never imagined in all her speculation on the act of lovemaking. The miraculous bond rinsed away her pain and left in its wake a throat-catching urgency. She cradled his face in her hands; the bronze of his skin was enhanced by the blue sky beyond the vine-twisted ruins of the temple.
“Show me how good, Damien.”
She rolled her hips, the better to feel him. He hissed in air and squeezed his eyes shut, his brown throat arched back, his hard features gone soft with need. The knowledge of her power over him filled Sarah with feminine delight and sensual awe. Twining her arms around his neck, she hooked her feet around his calves.
“Sarah...Sarah...Sarah.”
The chant rained from his lips as he thrust into her in a rhythm that matched the tempo of her blood. The purity of her emotions washed her in wonder. She felt herself ascending toward light, reaching for radiance. With her eyes closed, her other senses played to the magical harmony of Damien’s body, a harmony that built to a crescendo and a soul-shattering peak. The darkness behind her eyelids fled with the suddenness of the sun rising over the horizon, pulsing through her body in great waves of brilliance. Damien shuddered and went still, her name pouring from him in a low sob of ecstasy.
His body settled over her like a comforting blanket. He nuzzled her hair as their heartbeats slowed in unison and her senses grew aware of the outer world. Leaves whispered overhead, and a monkey chattered somewhere beyond the temple wall, then fell silent. The feel of Damien holding her, needing her, suffused her in a tenderness far keener and brighter than the wild sensations of physical love.
Emotion crowded her throat and stung her eyes with tears of joy. All her hopes and fears and dreams of the past weeks merged into one vast, shimmering revelation, a revelation she could no more contain than she could stop the sun from shining. She turned her head and pressed her lips to his smooth-shaven cheek.
“Damien...oh, Damien, I love you.”
Her voice filtered to him through a fog of perfect serenity. He wanted to lie there forever, secure in the sinless circle of her arms, sated by the sumptuous banquet of her love.
Love. His chest constricted with a yearning so strong he went stiff with fright. The temptation to believe her declaration battered him with the strength of storm waves pounding upon the shore of his heart.
He opened his eyes to the softness and certainty of her smile. Her sweetly reddened lips and tousled hair bespoke a woman who had been thoroughly pleasured. Her vulnerable expression bespoke a girl whose heart deceived her.
God. Oh, God!
He should have foreseen this. He should have known that Sarah of all women, Sarah with her open and honest heart, Sarah with her hunger for affection and security, would fall prey to the ultimate delusion.
No one could ever love a devil like Damien Coleridge.
He sprang to his feet and snatched up her tunic. “Get dressed,” he muttered.
He tossed the garment to her; she caught it against her belly. Without covering herself, she sat up and blinked in bewilderment. “What’s the matter?” Her voice lowered to a throaty murmur. “I said I love you, Damien.”
“I heard you.”
Hurt bruised the adoration in her eyes. “And all you have to say is ‘Get dressed?’”
Against the back
drop of erotic art, she looked like a pagan fertility goddess, the nimbus of hair streaming around her naked body, her breasts thrusting proudly through the spun-gold strands. The powerful need to keep her forever coursed through him, pooling like liquid fire in his loins. Before she could see him harden with renewed desire, he turned away and reached for the length of white cloth, draping it around his hips.
“You’re in love with what we did just now, that’s all.” With a savage jerk, he knotted the dhoti before swinging back to her. The stricken look on her face made him lower his tone. “You’re a lady, Sarah. You could never be intimate with a man until you’d convinced yourself you were in love with him. I’ll forget you ever said you were. I won’t hold you to a promise made in passion’s throes.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Her fingers clenched the blue fabric in her lap. “So you’re saying my morality has misled my sentiments.”
“In a word, yes.”
“Don’t presume to tell me how I feel, Damien Coleridge. I know my own heart and mind.”
“I’m not presuming—I just know you’ll come to your senses,” he snapped, half from the need to convince her, half from the desperation to quell his own dangerous yearnings. He slid a glance down at her. “I can’t deny that what we shared was wonderful...the best I’ve ever known. But there’s a difference between being lovers and being in love.”
“And you’re an expert on both.” She tilted her head, a contemplative light sweeping over her face. “Perhaps you’re the one deluding yourself. Perhaps you’re striking out at me because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Why, of love.” She scrambled to her feet, the shirt dangling from her hand. “You’re afraid to love because it might mean getting hurt. You’re afraid because of the brutal way your own mother rejected you. Well, you’re a fool for letting her convince you that you’re unworthy of affection.”
His chest squeezed in a suffocating clash of confusion and fury. Sarah was wrong. Wrong. Yet the walls of the temple seemed to dose in, and he fought the urge to run from the cloying atmosphere of seduction, from the wise expression on her face. Unable to bear her scrutiny, he lowered his gaze to her bosom, where the sun-gilded nipples peeked from the drapery of her hair.
“The only thing I’m afraid of,” he observed silkily, “is seeing you cover up those lovely breasts.”
A flush tinted her cheeks, and she yanked the shirt over herself. “Don’t change the subject. We were speaking of your mother.”
He gave a dark chuckle and shoved his arms into his sleeves. “Now there’s a damned peculiar post-coital topic. I wonder if Reggie will want to talk about his mother after you two share a bed.” The very thought of the virtuous doctor touching Sarah made Damien want to run his fist through a wall. He settled for hurling a rock against a carving of idealized love, and reaped a juvenile satisfaction out of hearing stone strike stone.
“We were speaking of your ability to love,” Sarah said. “Please leave Reginald out of this discussion.”
“Like hell I will. He’s your bloody fiancé.”
She compressed her lips. “I’ll decide that later. We’re talking about you and me, and the feelings we have for one another.”
“Feelings?” Damien scoffed. “Let’s accept what happened for what it really was: a few moments of intense physical passion.”
“It was more than that—”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “It was a mistake. A mistake I have no intention of ever repeating.”
The spirited light left her face, and she bit her kiss-bruised lower lip. “So, just like that, you can walk away from me. You can act as if nothing ever happened between us.”
“Sarah,” he said, his voice rusty with restrained desperation, “listen to me.” He paused, aware of a heartfelt regret over hurting her, yet gripped by an even deeper dread that lurked like a fearful demon inside his chest. “What we did may have started a baby inside you. Believe me, the last thing in the world I need to complicate my life is another child.”
A hush seemed to fall over the shrine. She stood perfectly still, staring at him. Oh, God. She’d hate him now for ruining her life, for turning her dreams of love into a sordid nightmare.
Her eyes drifted out of focus, and a strange look came over her fine features, a look he couldn’t read. “Merciful Lord,” she whispered. “I hadn’t even considered...” As if imagining herself saddled with his bastard, she flattened her hand over her belly, drawing his eyes downward to the flecks of blood on the inside of her thighs.
Remorse flayed him anew. He strode to the knapsack, which lay atop a pile of rubble. Rummaging inside, he pulled out a cork-stoppered bottle of water and the cloth that had wrapped their chupatties. He wet the napkin and turned around to find the dazed frown lingering on her face.
“Lie down,” he said.
She focused on the cloth. “Why?”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Must you question everything?”
She sank to the grass. “As you wish, O Great Master.”
Her face frozen, she gazed beyond him. God, she must be stricken with horror, he thought dismally. He deserved to be tortured for exposing her to unconscionable risk. She didn’t flinch as he gently cleansed away the traces of their lovemaking, the blood that was the damning testament to her loss of innocence. He steadfastly avoided thinking about the place where he’d found the sweetest ecstasy he’d ever known.
After a moment, she said, “You must think me intolerably naïve for not considering what we did as an act of procreation.”
“I think you’re a remarkably responsive woman,” he said gruffly. “You were swept away by passion, that’s all.”
She was silent. Too silent. He looked up and nearly drowned in the warm blue pools of her eyes. “Think what you like, Damien. But I was swept away by love for you.”
Her quiet assertion grabbed him by the throat. That she could still cling to her delusion made his heart hammer with impossible dreams and unbearable panic. He surged to his feet. “I’ve told you before, Sarah, don’t turn me into your latest crusade. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I can never love you. No matter what happens, I won’t do the honorable act. I will never, ever marry you.”
She sat up straight. Her mouth firming, she looked him up and down. “What makes you think I’d ever consider you as my husband? I’d never marry a man who couldn’t give me a stable home, a devil who doesn’t even want me to mother his children.”
Her words stabbed deeper than the slash of a knife. Against his will, he saw the fantasy of her body beautifully rounded with his baby. “We’re in agreement, then.” He forced the words out. “Though, of course, if you discover you’re pregnant, I’ll provide for you and the child.”
“I wouldn’t dream of depending on you. I can manage on my wage and the money from the book. You’ve no other obligations toward me.”
She rose lithely and began to dress. Sick with regret and a perverse longing, he watched her slip into her clothes and then plait her hair into a thick, golden rope.
A shadow moved over her and crept onward, enveloping him. He lifted his gaze past the ruined roof and saw charcoal clouds blotting out the blue sky, the signal of an approaching monsoon shower. A fitting end to a disastrous day.
Sarah looked at him. “Since we obviously didn’t come here for the book, we may as well go back.” Turning, she walked toward the foliage-wrapped archway of the temple, a small but determined woman intent on salving her pride and saving her heart.
Damien clenched his fingers around the damp rag. He’d hurt her. Deeply, dastardly, deplorably. She’d never forgive him now. He ought to feel relieved to be shed of her.
He felt as if he’d lost his soul.
Chapter 18
26 July 1857, High in the Himalayan Foothills
Like Hindu weddings throughout India, a Pahari ceremony is steeped in ancient ritual, followed by feasting and festivity. An astrologer sets the propitious hour and minute for
the rite, and the couple sits before a fire which burns brightly from the ghee poured upon it. After they repeat the long Vedic verses, the priest ties a sacred thread to their wrists and symbolically binds them together. To seal the marriage contract, the bride and groom walk the Seven Steps around the nuptial fire. And then the voices of the guests lift to the heavens in joyous prayer for a lifetime of happiness—
Her heart aching, Sarah looked up from the sheaf of paper in her lap and gazed at the wedding celebration going on in the apricot orchard bordering the village. She sat with her back to a cool stone hut, but in her emotions she felt farther than a few yards from the merry gathering. Afternoon light slanted through green leaves still dewy from the latest rainfall and illuminated the laughing, dancing villagers who commemorated the marriage of Batan’s youngest sister to a local sheepherder. The throb of drums and flutes created a haunting melody that steeped Sarah in wistful melancholy.
As she had a hundred times already, she peered through the throng at Damien. In the midst of the revelers, tall and dark in crisp white cotton, he bent over the tripod-mounted camera and prepared to photograph the newlyweds. They posed cross-legged on a richly patterned rug, a banquet spread out before them, their broad Mongolian faces aglow with happiness.
Absently Sarah stroked the feather of the quill pen against her cheek. A liquid shiver slid over her skin and puddled deep in her belly, a bittersweet echo of Damien’s caresses and empty compliments.
Stricken, she dropped the pen. Now she understood why lovemaking was a closely guarded secret, and why girls were chaperoned so strictly. Were they to discover the passions of the flesh, they would crave it again and again. As she did.
In the fortnight since their tryst in the temple, Damien had all but ignored her. He spent his days closed off in his darkroom. She spent her days caring for Kit and working at Damien’s desk, rewriting the disorderly notes he had collected over the past five years.
