Fire on the Wind

by Olivia Drake

  The clerk looked down his thin nose at her and left no doubt that he dismissed her as a whore. A flush burned her cheeks, but she stood firm until he said, “One-sixteen,” and pointed down a hall.

  His prejudice left a sour taste in her mouth. Was this what she would endure as Damien’s mistress, the rudeness of servants, the ugly stares of people?

  She wanted to run. Instead, she walked with the modest gait of a lady down the musty corridor. She found the room at the end of the wing and knocked softly.

  The door opened. His hair rumpled and his chest bare, his powerful formed outlined by the shuttered light of late afternoon, Damien stood staring at her. He clutched an empty milk bottle. Vulnerability softened his features and melted the misgivings from her soul.

  She smiled. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  He stepped aside and put down the bottle. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”

  “I told you I would.” She glanced around the small, dim chamber. “Where’s Kit?”

  “He just fell asleep.” Damien waved a hand to a bed draped in white mosquito netting. Neat rolls of clothing formed a barrier around the baby’s small shape. “What about Reginald?”

  “In a moment,” she said in a hushed tone. She dropped her bundle and moved to the bed. The baby’s long lashes lay closed, and his thumb was stuck in his mouth. A flood of love inundated her. She’d made the right choice. “Kit will be crawling soon. We’ll need to be careful so he doesn’t fall out of bed.”

  Damien came to her side. “For God’s sake,” he said in a harsh whisper, “answer me, dammit. Where’s Reginald?”

  “I imagine he went back to his bungalow.”

  “But why didn’t you go with him?”

  Tilting her head back, she studied his tormented features. Now she could see beyond his rugged male beauty to the strength of character that had developed from years of hardship and the unguarded need of a man too wounded to risk his heart. “I didn’t go with Reginald because I’m not marrying him.”

  His eyes narrowed, Damien gripped his fists like a knight ready to joust with a rival. “So he guessed about us?” he asked. “By God, are you saying that bastard dared to insult you?”

  She curled her fingers around his scarred fist and gently rubbed at the tension in his knuckles. “Are you saying you would mind if he had?”

  “Of course I’d mind. You’re too fine a lady to be insulted.”

  His fierceness made her smile. “I’m glad you think well of me. Because I told him you and I have been lovers.”

  For a moment the only sound was the quiet flap of the punkah undulating overhead. Damien touched her cheek. “I don t understand, Sarah. Why would you give up your dream?”

  “Maybe I have a new dream. You.”

  Beneath hers, his fingers tightened. “I can’t give you a proper home, a place with roots like you’ve always wanted.”

  “As long as we’re together, I am home.” She paused, sorting through her thoughts. “When I spoke with Reginald, I realized he could only give me the outer trappings of happiness. I wouldn’t have been happy inside.”

  “And love? I can’t give you that, either.” Damien’s voice was husky and hesitant.

  “Shall I leave, then?” she asked. “Do you want me to walk out that door and never come back?”

  The hard edge to his features crumbled, revealing the softness of yearning. “Walk out that door,” he murmured, “and you’ll take my heart with you.”

  Joy wreathed her. It was the closest he’d come to admitting the depth of his feelings. She slid her hands up his bare arms and to his chest, where the strong beating of his heart played against her palm. “Then I’ll take my chances with you, Damien. I want to help you with your books. I want to accompany you and Kit to England. I want to be there when you see your mother again.”

  Shifting restlessly, he grasped her shoulders, kneading gently. “That might not be wise.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Mother might...”

  Sarah tilted her head. “Might what?”

  His gaze shifted to the shuttered windows. “She might tell you things about me. Things that will make you hate me.”

  She took his jaw in her hands and brought his gaze back. “For mercy’s sake. Do you think I’m so shallow? That vexes me.”

  He grinned. “You are so easily vexed.”

  “I am when you denigrate yourself. Nothing your mother can say will take away my love for you.”

  His face sobered. “You’re always so certain. How can you love a man who can’t honor and cherish you as you deserve?”

  The agony within him brought her to a keen perception of how precious he was to her. “Oh, Damien,” she whispered. “You’ve cherished me quite well for the past few months. You can give me so much if only you’d let yourself. So long as we’re together, I don’t care what the world thinks.”

  “You need a husband—”

  “Then be one to me. If not in name, then with your body and mind and soul.”

  She boldly pressed her mouth to his and glided her hands over hard-honed muscle and sun-browned skin. His arms surrounded her, touching her greedily, as if her soft flesh were sustenance for his soul. His tongue plunged between her lips, and she tasted the tender ferocity of a starving man, a ferocity that fed her own desperate yearnings.

  His fingers delved beneath her sari, parting the garment and plying her nipples. The banked ardor within her flared to vivid brilliance. Her breasts felt heavy, her woman’s place weighted with the hot pulsebeat of passion. Yet greater than her physical desire was the ache to merge their hearts forever, to forge a bond strong enough to last a lifetime, to make Damien need her so much he could never, ever let her go.

  She brought her hand downward, over the hair-roughened flatness of his belly to his dhoti. She worked the knot free until the loincloth fell away, and her fingers stroked the rock-hard length of him.

  Gasping, he surged against her. “God, Sarah. What you do to me...”

  The urge to rouse him to new heights throbbed like a reckless drumbeat through her veins. If she couldn’t have his heart, she would secure him to her with the velvet chains of passion. She would give him a memory that would burn in his soul forever.

  “I mean to do more,” she whispered. “Much more.”

  Sinking to her knees, she adored him with her mouth, caressing places both soft and hard, smooth and rough. His fingers brushed over her hair as if to stop her; then, with a moan of submission, he encouraged her to pleasure him. His groans brought the glow of primal glory to her, the feminine delight that she had the power to claim the surrender of this potent man.

  In the moment when his swift bursts of breath told her that he teetered on the brink of release, Sarah reached for his wrists and tugged him down to lie with her on the rush matting.

  He pulled back, gasping. “The sheath—it’s in the knapsack.”

  She was swept by the unreasoning urge to nurture his seed within her womb, the seed of a man she loved with all her heart. “I need you now, Damien. Come into me.”

  Opening her legs in unashamed invitation, she enticed him onto her. His dark eyes and taut features betrayed an inner struggle; then he moaned low in his chest and glided into her, filling her to perfection, igniting her blood in a flash of white-hot wildfire. He pressed against her, caressing her with his body until an inarticulate cry of joy rose in her throat. Ecstasy rolled through her like the stormy swell of a tidal wave, drowning her fervor in the pure waters of bodily bliss.

  When they could breathe again, Damien murmured in her ear, “I don’t recall reading about that technique in The Kama Sutra.”

  Stretching her arms, Sarah smiled. “Perhaps you inspire my creativity.”

  “You inspire a hell of a lot more than creativity in me.” He sat up and raked his hand through his hair, mussing the already disheveled strands. “Oh, God, we took a risk. What would we do with another baby?”

  “We would love
him—or her—the same way we love Kit.”

  The punkah swished softly in the silence. Through the dimness of the room, his moody gaze met hers. “To tell you the truth, Sarah, I’m afraid. I worry about whether or not I’ll be a good father to Kit. I don’t need to fail another child as well.”

  “You’ve been an exemplary father. You’re fair, loving, and devoted to him. And you’re even honest about your feelings.”

  His rueful grin flashed through the shadows. “So I. M. Vexed reformed me after all.”

  He rubbed her calf in an absent gesture of affection that warmed her more than flowery compliments or false words of love. She sat up, curved her bare feet beneath her, and took his scarred hands in hers. “I meant what I said earlier. I want to go to England with you.”

  He clenched her fingers. “Sarah, there’s nothing on God’s earth I want more,” he said in a low growl of torment. “But I can’t ask you to give up your standing in society.”

  “You didn’t ask. I decided.” Aware of a trembly ache, she raised her chin. “You’re the man of my choice...the man of my heart.”

  Their eyes locked for an eternal moment. Tenderness and longing gentled his features and wrapped Sarah’s heart in the silken bonds of affection. If his attachment to her wasn’t precisely love, she thought, then his feelings might grow and deepen with time.

  Without moving his gaze, he lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. “You’re quite a woman, Sarah Faulkner.”

  “You’re quite a man, Damien Coleridge. We make a fine pair.”

  “I wish I could be so sure.” Yearning thickened his voice. “I’ve always thought of myself as a loner. I never envisioned needing a woman as much as I need you. It frightens me.”

  “You needn’t be frightened of something that can only bring you happiness.”

  “Perhaps that’s it,” he said slowly. “What have I ever done to deserve the happiness we’ve shared?”

  “Oh, for mercy’s sake.” Anger gripped Sarah. “Stop seeing yourself through your mother’s eyes. You’re not a devil, Damien. You’re a wonderful, sensitive man with no more faults than any one of us.”

  He rubbed his brow for a moment, then stood and began to dress, his naked form as strong and beautiful as a living statue of Shiva. “Will you stay here with Kit?” he asked. “I need to go out for a short while.”

  “Why?”

  “My legal documents burned in the caravan. I want to see about acquiring proof of my marriage to Shivina and also Kit’s birth record.” Damien paused, his expression troubled. “And you’ve given me a lot to think about. I need to mull things over.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  Sarah watched him pull on his sandals. He gazed at her again, and she had the odd, unsettling impression he was imprinting her on his memory. Then he went out and quietly closed the door.

  She leaned her back against the bed, the rush mat prickly beneath her. He had taken a giant leap in acknowledging his feelings, yet she wanted more. What if he decided he couldn’t risk opening his heart to her? What if he refused to let her go to England with him?

  Pain burrowed inside her. She would survive, as she’d survived the awful adversities of the past months. Sarah knew now that she possessed the confidence and the courage to withstand the petty dictates of society, a lesson she’d learned from the rich experiences of knowing Damien.

  Aching in body and soul, she rewrapped her sari, lifted the mosquito netting, and lay down beside Kit. He shifted position and sighed, and his small presence comforted her. She closed her eyes, and the pressure inside her melted into a mist of weariness.

  A noise awakened her. Rising on her elbow, Sarah blinked at the dimness of dusk. She touched the baby and he squirmed, sucking hard on his thumb. Ruefully she acknowledged that she’d let him sleep too long; now he’d be awake late into the evening.

  Beyond the white gauze netting, gray shadows shrouded the room. What had she heard?

  A black shape moved against the gloom. A scratching sounded; then she saw a muted light. Her heart warmed. Groggy, she yawned and stretched. “Damien? I’m so glad you’re back.”

  A figure walked to the foot of the bedstead. His arm lifted, and a lantern blazed high. She squinted against the sudden radiance. The hazy form materialized into a yellow-draped body and a fanatic brown face framed by long, oily locks.

  The fakir.

  Gasping, Sarah sat bolt upright. Her fingers clenched the bedcovers. “You’re dead.”

  His cackle of laughter rang out. “Thou only believed it so. We, the blessed of Kali, know the art of appearing lifeless.”

  She remembered the yogi she’d once thought dead on the steps of the bazaar temple. But he had only slowed his breathing...

  The fakir had been injured so dreadfully. Yet now he stood before her. Fear slithered like a deadly cobra inside her. “Why have you come here?”

  “To finish my ordained mission. For months I wielded my sword in Delhi for Bahadur Shah. I slew many feringhis, but never enough to cleanse India of the pollution. When the city fell to the foreign devils, Kali sent me back to Meerut, to wait at her shrine.”

  Shuddering, she recalled the priest she’d seen in the shadows of the bazaar temple. “So that really was you.”

  His grimace of a smile revealed yellowed teeth. “Thy coming hast opened my eyes. I now know the mission the goddess sent me to complete. The son of a feringhi duke will serve the cause of the holy rebellion.”

  Damien? She wondered what he meant, but the thought fled as the fakir moved slowly around the side of the bed. “First,” he said, “I will destroy the product of a Hindu woman’s shame.”

  Kit! He meant to kill the baby.

  Horror put her in motion. She threw back the mosquito netting and snatched up the only weapon in sight, a candlestick from the bamboo bedtable. Then she hurled herself between him and the baby.

  “Get out!” she screamed.

  She swung at him. He leaped nimbly back.

  “Feringhi she-devil!” he roared. “Thou hast interfered twice, but never again.”

  He lifted the lamp high. Yellow light bathed his ash-streaked features. In a startling movement, he dashed the lantern to the floor. Glass tinkled. Flames whooshed up the coverlet and licked at the netting.

  Sarah screamed again. Dropping the candlestick, she scooped up the baby and rolled toward the other side of the bed.

  Her limbs tangled in gauze. She tore frantically at the web-like netting. Smoke choked her lungs. In the grips of a sluggish nightmare, she heard Kit wail, the fire crackle, her own pants of despair.

  She broke free. The door. She must find Damien.

  She started to run. The back of her head exploded into agony. She felt herself falling into a black pit. With her last bit of strength, she tightened her arms around the baby.

  Chapter 21

  “I am most humbly sorry, sahib,” said the abdur stationed at the door. He gazed askance at Damien’s native garb. “But I cannot permit you to enter without a subscription card.”

  Damn the English and their bloody rules, Damien thought glumly. He craved a drink in the worst way.

  He frowned past the white-coated servant and into the Meerut Club. In the hour before dinner, a few British officers and their ladies strolled the lamp-lit foyer with its pale columns and banks of green ferns. He was about to turn away when his attention was caught by a familiar, fair-haired man clad in tropical white, who leaned on an ivory cane.

  “I’m a guest of Dr. Pemberton-Sykes,” Damien said.

  Instantly he regretted his impulse. But it was too late, for the abdur had left his post and was scurrying to the doctor.

  Reginald swung around. His perfect features froze into a rigid mask. He limped toward Damien, then waved away the doorman. “It’s quite all right, Malhotra. I know the chap.” To Damien, he said in a low tone, “What the devil are you about?”

  Damien shrugged. He wondered which of them felt worse, Reginald for losing Sa
rah or he himself for being faced with the painful prospect of hurting her. “I wanted a drink. You’re the only person here I know.”

  Reginald glowered. For an instant he looked torn between engaging in a bout of fisticuffs and behaving like a gentleman. His carriage stiff and straight, he wheeled around, using the cane for leverage. “Come along, if you must.”

  Without looking back, he marched away, favoring his bad leg. Damien ambled behind, unsure of what to say. Sorry, old boy, but I won the girl. Can’t help the fact that she fell in love with me instead of you. He tried to envision Sarah and Reginald sharing a future, but the image sparked a possessive fury in him. God! How had he ever thought he could let her go?

  Only men sat at the wicker tables in the bar. Cigar smoke formed a blue haze in the air. As he joined the doctor at a table near the veranda, Damien was aware of people whispering and eyeing his dhoti and tunic. Hellfire and damnation. He shouldn’t have come here. He and this bastion of the Raj fit as well as gunpowder and a lighted match.

  Reginald rested his leg on a stool and motioned to a servant. “Koi-hai,” he said in an imperious voice. “Bring us two whiskey and sodas.”

  The man hastened away. Reginald drummed his fingers on the table. “So,” he said, his blue eyes keen and caustic, “you’ve compromised Sarah.”

  Surprised that the doctor would attack so swiftly, Damien fought the engulfing waters of shame. He took a cheroot from the tray of a passing waiter, lit the tobacco, and drew deeply. He hated feeling obligated to anyone, yet he owed Reginald honesty. “Yes, I have,” he admitted. “But I never intended to get involved with your fiancée. I told her she was better off with you.”

  “Did you, now? Was that before or after you seduced her?”

  “As I’d never intended to seduce her, of course it was afterward.”

  Reginald clenched his fists. “I ought to strike you for that.”

  Damien forced himself to lounge carelessly in his chair. “Why don’t you?”