Her Master's Touch (19 page)

To her mortification, she drooled, causing
her to make an audible sucking sound. Until then, she hadn't
realized her mouth had dropped open.

"Give me your hand, Elizabeth," Damon
said.

She looked up with a start. "Why?"

"So I can satisfy your curiosity once and for
all." When she made no move, he took her hand and put it on his
hardened shaft and closed his palm around her hand. What she felt
was hot and throbbing and soft and hard at the same time, like
silk-covered iron. And when he moved her hand against it, she felt
a velvety sheath shift on top of a hardened core. And that private
pleasure began to awaken. Like a flower opening. Beckoning her to
welcome the thing within her hand…

Realizing where her thoughts had strayed, she
pulled her hand from under his and said, "That was entirely
unnecessary."

"But now you know."

"Some things I'd just as soon
not
know," she snapped, "one being how that
thing
you so covet
feels in my hand. Like I said, thugees crawling through my window
are the least of my worries. What you just did reaffirms it."

Damon wrung out the cloth and slapped it
against the washstand. "What I did was preserve my sanity. Now,
maybe you'll look the other way when I strip to wash. You know what
the thing between my legs looks like, and now you know what it
feels like. The only thing you don't know is what it would feel
like inside you. But you already know how your body reacts when you
rub against it, weak though your reaction was. As for Thugees… I
told you I would not touch you again and I won't, but you can keep
believing whatever you want. It's too damn hot to spar with you."
He shoved his legs into a clean pair of drawers and sat opposite
her. Thrusting his traveling pillow behind his neck, he closed his
eyes.

Elizabeth glared at a face that both filled
her with disgust and made her heart race, and let her eyes roam
over a muscular chest she felt like beating with her fists, while
at the same time wanting to run her palms over. Her gaze moved down
to where his drawers stretched tight, like a tent over a pole. She
had a prurient desire to touch the thing again. Silk-clad iron. So
different from what she'd expected. Disturbed by what was becoming
a fixation, she looked out the window, not because she was
interested in what was out there, but because she wanted to block
out the sight of Damon and the effect it had on her.

The train gave a little lurch and slowly
began moving forward. Feeling as if she were about to suffocate in
the tight confines of the closed compartment, Elizabeth raised the
windowpane. A hot dry breeze began to funnel through the wire
screening. Gradually, as the train picked up speed, fine dust began
sifting in. Deciding she'd rather endure the heat than sit
half-naked to Damon's view, she unfastened the top few buttons of
her shirtwaist and settled against the seat. Shifting onto one hip,
she angled her body against the window wall, propped her head on
her travelling pillow, and closed her eyes...

The steady sway of the train, accompanied by
the rhythmic clankety clank of wheels made her drowsy, and before
long she was unaware of her surroundings…

Three hours later, Elizabeth awakened to find
everything covered in dust, and herself drenched in sweat. She felt
utterly wilted. The high afternoon sun beating against the tin roof
of the train had raised the temperature inside the compartment
until it was nearly unbearable. It had also greatly reduced the
size of the block of ice, the remainder of which sat in a muddy
puddle on the floor. She looked across at Damon, who was staring at
her. Dragging herself upright, she fanned her sticky wet bodice
back and forth against her damp chest and went to the wash stand.
The room seemed to darken momentarily. She closed her eyes and
braced a hand against the wall until the lightness passed…

"Take off the damn dress, Elizabeth, or
you'll be overcome by heat." Damon's voice seemed to come from far
away. Her eyes popped open. "Just because my cock reacts doesn't
mean I'll act on it. So, stop being so mulish. It's not like I
haven't seen what's under your dress."

The image of his eyes on her while she stood
bare breasted that first night on the steamer, and later, while
standing before him as he fastened her corset, triggered a familiar
response—heart beating a staccato rhythm, face flushed as if on
fire, breath coming so fast within the tight confines of her corset
she feared she wouldn't be able to fill her lungs with air. She
also felt desperate to shed her damp dress and corset, strip off
her sopping wet camisole and drawers, sponge off her entire body,
and let her skin breathe again. Glancing over her shoulder, she
said, "I would appreciate it if you'd look the other away."

Damon grunted in irritation and turned toward
the window.

Her back to him, Elizabeth unfastened the
bodice of her shirtwaist, dragged her arms out of the
sweat-dampened sleeves, and shrugged off the dress. Sliding her
arms out of the lacey straps of her petticoat, she pushed the
garment down her hips and stepped out of it, then removed her
sticky wet corset and followed with her camisole. The drawers, she
decided, would remain. Displaying her back to Damon's view was one
thing. Having him turn and see her naked backside was quite
another. Relieved to be free of the sweat-dampened layers of
clothing, she took several long, deep breaths, filling her lungs
with air. Immersing her wash cloth in cool water, she passed it
over her feverish face… and tipped her head back and dragged it
down the column of her throat… and passed it over each breast… and
swiped it across her ribcage… and mopped under her arms… and let
water trickle over her shoulders and between her breasts. She
closed her eyes and let out a long, pleasurable sigh as a cooling
breeze from the window caressed her damp skin, drawing her body
toward it…

The sound of Damon mumbling a string of
expletives jerked her out of her blissful interlude. Shoving his
legs into his trousers, he shrugged on his shirt, yanked open the
door and left. Only then did Elizabeth realize she'd been so caught
up in her sponge bath and the relief the cooling breeze brought,
that she'd completely forgotten Damon's presence.

***

By late afternoon the second day it was so
hot, Elizabeth was tempted to doff the last vestiges of clothing
and sit naked as a jay bird. What difference? Whenever she dampened
her camisole and drawers to cool herself, they clung to her like a
transparent skin, hiding nothing. And she was beyond caring.

Damon was becoming increasingly irritable,
and she knew it was because of his ongoing male problem. But it was
his own fault for insisting they share quarters while traveling.
The only bright moments during the miserable day had been when they
pulled into a station, and men selling lemonade and coconut milk
boarded the train. And on a longer stop, they dressed hastily and
stepped onto the platform where kettles of spicy, milky tea were
being served. After having their fill, they bought mutton curries
from a vendor, who presented them on plates, neatly tied with
napkins, then returned to their compartment, stripped to their
underwear, and ate.

That night, as they lay on the hard beds,
Elizabeth was thankful for the cacophony of the iron wheels
clattering against the tracks, if only to drown out the sound of
the heavy breathing of the man who lay no more than an arm's length
away.

In the moonlight that flickered through the
window of the moving train, she saw that Damon's face was relaxed
and knew he was asleep. She turned onto her side and looked at
him—this man she'd been trapped into marrying for the sole purpose
of recovering an opal that would also make her free of him. He lay
naked on his back, one arm draped over his eyes, the other relaxed
at his side. The cluster of male parts lay limp now, lifeless and
unthreatening. She watched the rise and fall of his chest and
imagined how it would feel against her bare breasts, his arms
encircling her, pulling her closer. If there hadn't been an aisle
between them, she'd be tempted to curl up against him.

Reaching across the space separating them,
she placed her hand over his heart. It was a strong heart; she felt
its heavy beat against her palm. She glided her hand across his
belly. His muscles were hard and smooth, his skin cool now that the
heat of day was over. Resisting the urge to touch the thing that
lay limp and flaccid, she looked instead at his mouth and
remembered the pleasure she'd found from those lips. The taste of
him lingered in her mind, spicy and sweet, like ambrosia for the
soul. Curious to know if what she remembered was real, she leaned
over him until her lips brushed his…

When you come willingly to my bed, gypsy
girl, you’ll come as my mistress, or my whore… never as my
wife…

His words came at her like a slap across the
face, a reminder of exactly who she was. She might be Lady Damon
Carlisle, but she was his wife in name only. In his mind she was,
and always would be, his mistress or his whore.

She rolled onto her side away from him.

One night, and one long hot day to get
through, and they would be home. Odd, how she thought of
Shanti
Bhavan
that way now. But in less than two months it would be
hers. Never would she have thought the place would feel welcome to
her again.

At the train station in Calcutta, the
following day, Damon's coach, along with a utility wagon for
hauling their steamer trunks and other luggage, were waiting for
them.

As the coach rolled toward their destination,
Elizabeth felt growing apprehension about returning to
Shanti
Bhavan
as Lady Ravencroft. Two years before, on the night the
gypsies arrived, she'd fled, presumably with them. Gossip among the
servants would have been vicious back then. Lord Ravencroft's
gateman was murdered. Eliza Shirazi stole a valuable gem from his
lordship. And now she was returning as Lady Ravencroft. Hopefully,
the lower servants, who had been her friends, would receive her
well. But Mrs. Throckmorton would be mortified, a thought that
brought an ironic smile to her lips.

But when she stepped from the coach and took
Damon's arm to receive greetings from the servants, the lightness
Elizabeth had felt earlier vanished. Not a face in the lineup was
friendly, and the look on Mrs. Throckmorton's face was as lethal as
a dagger. And Elizabeth realized that her troubles as mistress of
Shanti Bhavan
were just beginning.

Once inside the house, Damon excused himself
and vanished down the long hallway, leaving Elizabeth to confront
Mrs. Throckmorton, who made no attempt to disguise her hostility.
Elizabeth knew that the woman was crucial to running the place, but
she would demand compliance, if not respect from her. Looking
directly into her hard, cold eyes, she said, "Mrs. Throckmorton,
you will now address me as Lady Ravencroft."

Mrs. Throckmorton's lips pinched, and her
large oval nostrils flared with disdain. "You have only risen to
that rank by whoring with His Lord."

Elizabeth fought with all her might the urge
to slap the woman hard across the face. It was no less than the
woman would have done had the situation been reversed. Instead, she
held the woman's caustic glare and said, "I will not tolerate your
insolence, Mrs. Throckmorton. You
will
apologize to me and
address me as Lady Ravencroft or you'll find yourself in the
laundry. Have I made myself clear?" she said, mimicking the woman's
own words from an earlier time.

Mrs. Throckmorton's eyes narrowed into
scornful slits, and spittle gathered in the corners of her mouth,
as she said, "Because you bedded His Lord you think you are above
me. Well, you are no higher than a commonplace whore ."

Elizabeth glared at the woman, fists in tight
knots to keep from striking her. "You
will
dip into a curtsy
and address me as Lady Ravencroft," Elizabeth insisted. "I am
giving you one last chance, and I advise you to take advantage of
it."

Mrs. Throckmorton looked directly at
Elizabeth. "And I am giving you my resignation." She snatched the
keys from her belt and shoved them into Elizabeth's hand. Turning
abruptly, she marched off, leaving Elizabeth staring after her in
stunned silence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Palms braced against Damon's desk, Elizabeth
leaned forward and said to him, in a hushed voice, "There is a
problem."

Damon looked up from his accounts, his face a
combination of perplexity and annoyance, and said, "We have only
just arrived, Elizabeth. What kind of problem."

Elizabeth leaned closer, lowered her voice
yet, and said, "Mrs. Throckmorton quit."

"
Mrs. Throckmorton did what!"
Damon
shoved his chair back and shot to his feet.

"For heaven's sake, keep your voice down,"
Elizabeth said, while trying to maintain her composure. "The
servants have enough to gossip about as it is."

Damon paced across the floor, turned back,
and faced Elizabeth squarely. "
What in hell did you say to make
her quit!?
" Muscles bunched in his jaw as he waited for her
response.

"I didn't say anything," Elizabeth hissed,
hands laced together to keep from... She wasn't sure what. Slap
him. Shake him. Kiss him on the mouth if only to distract him until
he regained control of his temper. "It's what she said to me."

"
I don't give a damn what she said to
you
," Damon shouted. "Mrs. Throckmorton is crucial to running
this place. Whatever it was she said, you could have come to me
instead of aggravating her."

Holding his angry gaze, Elizabeth said, in a
tightly controlled voice, "And what would you have done if I'd told
you she called me a whore? "

Damon eyed her dubiously. "Mrs. Throckmorton
has been with me for years. I can't imagine her saying anything
like that to my wife."