Danger at Dahlkari (32 page)

“You—you
are
insane,” I said hoarsely.

He didn't bother to reply, didn't even look up. The front tent flap lifted. Ahmed stepped inside, the voluminous burka draped over his right arm. Michael didn't say a word. He merely nodded curtly in my direction and went back to his papers. Ahmed grinned and came toward me like a lithe young panther, his eyes glittering. He paused to drop the burka on the cot, and then he reached for me, wrapping strong, sinewy fingers around my arm. I struggled violently, kicking at his shin, clawing at his cheek with my free hand. His handsome young face turned into a mask of venomous fury. I saw him ball his hand into a fist, saw him swing back his arm, and as the pain exploded inside my head I hurtled back into the swirling blackness of oblivion.

The motion caused me to awaken, and I opened my eyes to see sad, dark faces all around. I was walking, stumbling, strong hands holding my arms and leading me across the camp. There was chanting, and I saw the huge pile of wood and the two men with lighted torches standing beside it. I tried to cry out, and I tasted the cloth tied across my mouth, brutally tight. The white robe enveloped me completely, with only a small slit in front to see through. Ahmed held my left arm, another man my right, and they forced me to move. I struggled. Ahmed wrenched my arm with sadistic glee, chuckling to himself. I fell to my knees. They pulled me back up, dragging me forward, nearer and nearer to that pile of wood.

Almost a hundred Thugs watched, their faces grim, respectful, for they thought I was the widow. They stepped aside as we passed. The chanting continued, a dreadful dirge, mournful, monotonous. I saw Michael standing several feet away from the pyre, his arms folded over his chest, his face expressionless. My terror was so great, so overwhelming that, finally, I was unable to feel anything at all. Trancelike, I moved, and Lauren was far, far removed, observing all this with total disbelief, for it wasn't real. It couldn't be happening.

We stopped in front of the pyre, both men holding me tightly. Michael gave the signal, and the men with the torches tossed them onto the pyre. I saw the wood catch, crackle, the flames shooting up in a blaze of sizzling orange, devouring wood, turning brown to black. I could feel the heat as they rose higher, higher, and I could feel Ahmed's muscles tense as he prepared to hurl me into that blazing inferno. I shook my head. I was screaming inside. The screams rose, growing louder and louder, and then they seemed to be all around me, filling the camp.

Ahmed whirled around to see what was happening, and then he let go of my arm and gave a loud shriek and fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Streams of scarlet flowed between his fingers. He arched his back, kicking his legs out, then he fell limp. The other man screamed and, still holding my arm, pitched forward into the flames. If strong arms hadn't seized me, tearing me free, pulling me back, I would have gone into that crackling orange hell along with him. Gordon tore the robe off of me, untied the gag and flung it aside, and then he held me very tightly while all around figures leaped and yelled and darted, shouting, firing pistols, tumbling to the ground. I paid no attention. None of it was real. The only reality was this man, his strength, his arms crushing me to him as though he feared I might somehow get away.

Twelve

I watched the groom leading the chestnut back inside the stables, and then I turned to the young corporal who had been my escort this morning, thanking him for his courtesy. The corporal smiled a shy smile and nodded, then moved briskly across the cobblestoned yard. It was a dazzling, sun-spangled morning with a sky of silver blue, and we had had an exhilarating ride over the plains. I should have felt exuberant and glowing, but the sadness that had been hanging over me these past three weeks colored everything, made it impossible for me to savor youth and health, sunshine and fresh air, made it impossible for me to truly enjoy anything.

Five weeks had gone by since that dreadful day when I had been rescued by Robert Gordon. He had left for Delhi immediately afterwards, without a word, without making any attempt to see me, and three weeks ago I had finally realized that he had no intention of returning to Dahlkari. His job had been completed. He had done it brilliantly, succeeding where all others had failed. There was no reason for him to return. If I had been taken in, if I had believed his absurd, outrageous promises, that was my own fault. It had been sheer moonshine, all of it. Five weeks had gone by, and I had finally resigned myself, giving up all hope, yet the sadness lingered on, coloring my days in pensive hues.

At first I had expected him to come back right away. I had been filled with elation, hardly able to contain myself, and then, when he failed to return, I expected a letter of explanation. None had come. Not from Gordon. Corporal Burke had returned to Delhi, too, and
he
had written. It was merely a short, awkward note, clumsily phrased, but it had meant a great deal. He informed me that he had been promoted to the rank of sergeant, that his new duties were rather a bore. He said he hoped that I had recovered from my “unpleasant experiences” and wished me the best of luck, signing the note Sergeant Theodore (Ted) Burke. I had cried then, because I had been so fond of Burke, because he had been thoughtful enough to write me, because Gordon hadn't.

Leaving the stables, I strolled slowly past the white-frame buildings, beneath the tall, leafy trees that threw dancing blue-gray shadows over the sun-washed walks. I could hear men marching in the distance, hear a sergeant calling the cadence. There was a strong breeze. The skirt of my tanand bronze-striped dress billowed, petticoats fluttering, and my chestnut locks were tossed about. As I passed one of the small, rather shabby bungalows where the married enlisted men lived with their families, a handsome and robust young sergeant stepped out onto the porch. Seeing me, he stood back near the front door, in the shadows, waiting for me to pass. I moved on, pretending not to see him. It was the Simpson bungalow. Sergeant Major Simpson was obviously on duty this morning. His wife and her new lover had clearly been taking advantage of his absence.

Poor Valerie. I wondered what would happen to her when that rich, exotic beauty began to fade, when that voluptuous body was no longer so enticing to men. She would probably turn to drink, or perhaps even drugs. She was a pathetic figure, actually, desperately searching for a fulfillment she would never find. I knew now why Gordon had been seeing her. The first time he had encountered her she had been wearing a lovely amethyst bracelet that he had recognized as a piece of property stolen by the Thugs. He knew that Sergeant Major Simpson spent a great deal of time in the village, consuming liquor in one of the native establishments, and he strongly suspected that Simpson was the man he was after. He had courted Valerie, pumping her for information about her husband, assuming he had given her the bracelet. He had built up quite a case against the sergeant major, and it was not until it was all over that he learned that the bracelet had been a gift from Michael.

Michael. I tried not to think of him, but it was unavoidable. He was dead now. When Gordon and his men had poured into the Thuggee camp, Michael had gone berserk, firing his pistol wildly, killing three English soldiers before he was himself shot down. I still found it hard to believe that he had been the rajah's illegitimate son. His fierce native blood and savage heritage had been carefully concealed beneath a cool English façade, but he had let the façade drop that last day. I had seen the real Michael, and I would never be able to forget the chilling terror he had instilled. He had been insane, quite insane, yet I knew that he had genuinely loved me, had sincerely planned to take me away with him until my horrified rejection had turned him into a merciless, unfeeling savage.

I tried not to think about Michael, and I tried not to think about what would have happened if Gordon and his men hadn't reached the camp when they did, if Gordon hadn't seen my tan kidskin boots showing beneath the burka and fired immediately. I remembered the way he had held me, so very tightly, so protectively, while chaos reigned all around and the Thugs were rounded up, their hands tied behind their backs. I had been in a daze as we made our march to the English camp, prisoners in tow, and Gordon had stayed close beside me. Reggie and Major Albertson had sent out three different search parties after I had disappeared, and Dollie was frantic. She had clasped me to her, and then the medical officer had given me something that put me to sleep immediately.

When I awakened I was in my own room back at the house, Sally and Dollie both sitting beside the bed with worried expressions. I had slept for over twenty-four hours. Gordon had already left for Delhi with a detachment of men and the Thuggee prisoners. That had been five weeks ago, five weeks without a word from him. Dramatic, tempestuous, larger than life, Robert Gordon had entered my life with shattering force, changing it completely, and now he was gone. I would never be the same again, and I knew I would never be able to love another man, for he would always be there in memory, taunting me, making any other seem pale in comparison. I bitterly resented what he had done to me. I wished it were possible to hate him. If I could hate him life without him might somehow be endurable.

I couldn't remain in India. That much was certain. In exactly one week Sally and Sergeant Norman were leaving for England. They were to be married day after tomorrow. It was to be a festive, formal military ceremony with crossed swords and all the trimmings. Dollie was having the time of her life making all the arrangements, snapping orders, bossing people about, carrying on as though it were
her
wedding. Sergeant Norman would be demobilized at the end of the week, and the newlyweds would begin the journey that would take them to the charming little house in Chelsea. I was going to make the trip with them. I had sufficient funds to live on my own until I could find some kind of teaching position. It would be a dull brown life, true, but I would welcome it. The very dullness would be a sedative, would help me forget what might have been.

I was walking along beside the parade ground now, tall trees concealing it from view. Leaves rustled. Sunlight and shadow danced at my feet. The sound of men marching was much closer, the sergeant's husky voice bellowing commands. Seeing the gazebo where the military band played, I felt a sharp stab of pain, remembering that day when the storm had broken. It was flooded with sunlight now, shadows making moving patterns over the dazzling white floor. Unable to help myself, I moved up the wooden steps and stood there in the center of the gazebo, remembering. A bird warbled nearby. Through the limbs I could see the men marching on the other side of the parade ground, looking in the distance like toy soldiers in white breeches and vivid scarlet jackets.

My skirts fluttered. A lock of hair blew across my cheek. The sun was warm. I remembered the dark, dashing gypsy in his tight black trousers and white shirt, the red scarf tied around his neck, unruly raven locks tumbling over his forehead. I remembered that harsh face, lips twisting in a sardonic smile, the glowing, hypnotic eyes half concealed by drooping lids. Moving over to the railing, I gripped it tightly and closed my eyes, trying to exorcise the images, but his presence was so strong that I could actually feel it in the air. He might have been standing right behind me. I was torturing myself, I knew, but I couldn't tear myself away. There would be time enough for forgetting in years to come. Now I remembered.

“I thought I might find you here,” he remarked.

I turned around, and at first I actually believed he was an apparition. He was dressed exactly as he had been the day of the garden party, the same shiny black boots and creamy white linen suit, the emerald green tie loosely knotted. The thick black locks were tousled in the wind, the deeply tanned face as cruel and ruthless and fascinating as ever. Sunlight flickered. I expected the image to disappear. It didn't. Robert Gordon arched one dark brow and smiled, the black-brown eyes filled with that familiar wry amusement.

“I stopped by the house first thing,” he said casually. “Dollie said you'd gone riding. I went to the stables. The groom said you'd come back quite a while ago. Then I remembered the gazebo—thought you might be lingering about here.”

“You're back,” I said. My voice was flat.

“I'm back. I'm a free agent now, no longer affiliated with Her Majesty's Army. We're going to be married first thing—I've already arranged it with Dollie. There'll be two ceremonies day after tomorrow. It'll take some
do
ing, she confessed, but she's more than up to the challenge.”

“It seems to me you're taking an awful lot for granted!”

“We'll leave for England immediately afterwards,” he continued, ignoring my comment. “I have to finish my book, but as soon as it's done we're going to Africa. The Royal Geographical Society is providing funds for the expedition. We're going to locate the lost city of Azulah. We may encounter a few cannibals and a python or two, but—”

“I will
not
be taken for granted!”

“You angry about something?” he inquired.

“All—all these weeks! How dare you leave without—without a word. How dare you not write! If you think you can just—”

“I've been busy,” he interrupted. “There were any number of loose ends to tie up—Thugs to be tried, reports to be completed, forms to be signed, all sorts of things to do. I didn't have time to write, didn't feel it was necessary. I knew you'd be waiting.”

“For your information, Mr. Gordon, I—”

“You look magnificent like that—cheeks flushed, eyes flashing angrily. It's going to be a joy fighting with you—an even greater joy making love to you. I'm going to make love to you, you know. I'm going to teach you what it's all about. Unfortunately, your head is stuffed full of romantic nonsense, foolishness you've acquired from silly novels.”