Revolutionary Hearts

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Pema Donyo.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-9087-7

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9087-0

eISBN 10: 1-4405-9088-5

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9088-7

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Armina-Udovenko

To my mother and father, for allowing me to grow up on a steady diet of historical romance novels.

Huge thanks to Tara Gelsomino for taking a chance and supporting my offbeat idea, and a colossal thanks to Julie Sturgeon for her keen editorial eye. Your endless support and offered help during the entire editing and publishing process is much appreciated. I extend my heartfelt admiration to the Crimson Romance artists as well, who never to fail to create some of the most eye-catching covers!

Thanks to you too, Kelsang, who I know would rather read a dystopian sci-fi thriller than a historical romance novel. When you said you liked this one, that was one of the best compliments ever.

And thank you to all my readers—this one’s for you.

• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• More from This Author
  
• Also Available
  

Village of Hathras, United Provinces of Agra and Oudh, British Raj, India

1924

What in the blazes was he supposed to do?

Warren read the wrinkled letter again for the thirtieth time that afternoon. The paper had faded yellow from its long journey across the Atlantic and had become creased in too many places to count. The shorthand method was familiar to him, but the contents of the letter were not.

He cursed beneath his breath. His previous years spent in the National Bureau of Criminal Identification investigating domestic anarchists hadn’t been this difficult. At least he would be able to dash away on a moment’s notice, unseen and unheard. The U.S. government had placed him as a blasted British general! He couldn’t just slip away anymore.

Where was the nearest other U.S. operative, anyway? Lucknow, most likely. But that was more than 300 kilometers away. He couldn’t steal one of the cars without the other soldiers running after him. And Lucknow was hardly a short motorcycle ride.

Warren pressed the letter against the oak table, his fingers running along the folded creases of the missive. He interpreted the shorthand as he read it aloud to himself, if only to confirm the message was true. Perhaps he had misread. “Agent, we regret to inform you that we have reason to suspect your identity has been compromised. The NBCI has folded into the FBI. Find a way to return home.”

He crumpled up the letter and shoved it into the roaring flames stoking in the marble fireplace.
Home.
Back to America. How on earth did they expect him to do that?

Warren rubbed his jaw with his hand, placing one elbow over the mantel. He had no time for this, not when he didn’t even have information to report back to the NBCI yet. They’d sent him to ferret out rumors that one of the Indian revolutionaries was an anarchist with the potential to influence rebels back in the States. What was his mission now that the bureau had become absorbed into the Federal Bureau of Investigation? He’d heard whispers of what the organization did, of course, and he assumed it was more than catching anarchists. But without any direct contact with the bureau, only the devil knew what the FBI would want him for. Did he still have a job? The Indians had only started to voice civil unrest, and there was so much knowledge yet to be discovered.

His eyes wandered to the open window. Wispy, white curtains framed the view outside his mansion, where he could see the tops of houses from the nearest village.
There.
That was where he needed to be. That was where all the real action was happening, not shut inside the safety of marble walls.

“
Sahib?
”

He looked up at the sound of his butler’s voice. The Indian bowed before him, his turban shaking a bit as he stood back up. The man kept his eyelids hooded, avoiding direct eye contact with his employer.

Warren winced. As much as he’d tried to acclimate himself to the British colonial culture, he never understood the servant system here. It was no better than the old slavery back in the States.

“What is it?”

“The gardener has brought a new maid for you.”

He raised a brow. “When did I request a new maid?”

“He says you will not turn her away,
sahib
. She is to replace one of the older maids who works here.”

In the passing seconds, the orange flames hissed and crackled in the fireplace as they eroded the logs. The contents of the letter were stored away as nothing more than dust and ash, and his message from home had faded into smoke.

So had his hard-won position undercover.

“Send them in.” What did it matter, a new servant or an old servant? Neither was going to help him maintain his position. How could anyone have suspected him? It certainly wasn’t the way he portrayed himself. His British accent had become nearly second nature. He barely remembered what he sounded like without it.

His fists clenched, straining his upper arms in the starched general’s uniform he wore. How on earth could the NBCI not send him any instruction on how to return home?

The turbaned servant bowed once more. His slippers padded softly against the marble flooring as he exited the room. The floor was nearly as elegant as the rest of the ballroom, complete with a crystal chandelier, gold-leafed accents, and colorful murals that would rival the works found in St. Peter’s Basilica. He had to admit that when he’d stolen the real general’s identity, he hadn’t expected a house quite so opulent. It would be difficult leaving such a lavish place. Maybe the NBCI had it wrong. Maybe his identity wasn’t compromised … yet.

“General Carton,
sahib
, this is my sister.”

Warren turned his attention away from the comfortable palace he’d learned to call home and toward the gardener. He recognized Raj … the one whom his chain in command had told him to keep an eye on. Raj Singh had risen to fame in the record books of the National Bureau of Criminal Identification as an anarchist determined to overthrow the British government. He’d started to gather quite the following, the bureau had been alarmed to find out. Their brilliant idea had been to dispatch Warren as a British general. He found the idea laughable in retrospect. Yes, of course, the British general would be informed of all the revolutionaries’ secrets.

“Raj.” He nodded to his gardener and then turned his attention to the woman standing next to him. She was several inches shorter than Raj and slighter in build. A long veil covered her head, and a faded red sari draped over her slim shoulders. “Lower your veil.”

The girl dropped her veil. He studied her with the quick precision of an operative scanning a target.

Her Eurasian skin was tan, not quite as dark as the other Indian maids in his house but not light enough to be British. Half-Indian, he guessed. He’d heard during his training that they were rare, but his time in India had proved quite the opposite. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties. Her dark, wavy hair fell to her shoulders. Her thick eyebrows were high and arched, her lips full and plump. Though her veil had been covering her face moments before, she stood with her chin tilted upward. Pride shone in her eyes as she met his gaze with a challenging look.

“Parineeta Singh. She will serve as the new maid in place of our grandmother.”

“Hello, Miss Singh,” Warren began in Hindi. “Why do you wish to take your grandmother’s place here?”

Her eyes flashed with an emotion he was surprised to decipher as anger. Before he could apologize, she responded in British-clipped English, with nearly no trace of an accent. “She has served enough of her time in this prison. It is my turn to take her place.” She bit her lip immediately after her response, as if afraid of what she’d say if she continued speaking.

Raj elbowed his sister.

Warren held up his hand. “It is quite all right.” A corner of his mouth twisted upward. She was not simply any maid after all. “What makes you so convinced this is a prison, Miss Singh?”

She remained silent.

“Go on,” he encouraged. Now this was the information he needed to report back to the National Bureau … FBI, he corrected. Damn, he needed to find out what this new FBI wanted him for. No more battle plans or details of rebellions; he’d had enough of those. He needed real accounts from Indians about the effects of this anarchist’s leadership.

“The way you treat us as racially inferior.”

“I should hope not. And how do you know such flawless English?”

“My mother taught it to me.” Learned it from her British soldier, Warren presumed. The girl looked away from him and toward the marble floor. The challenging expression was still set by the fierce look in her eyes, but she seemed to be trying to displace it somewhere else.

He narrowed his eyes at her. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her head was turned slightly downward now. There would be no more information from her today. But she was spirited. She was willing to share the details he needed. And she was, he noted, Raj’s sister. If he could not gain information from Raj himself, she would be the next best source.
Perhaps I will return home with useful information after all.

“Miss Singh, I do not think I want you as a household maid.” Warren smiled. This would work out very well. “You will assist me, and me alone, in my study.”

The girl looked up; her large, brown eyes widened in surprise and her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

“My study is in that direction.” He pointed down the hall. “That is all. Thank you,” he added in Hindi to Raj.

Warren couldn’t resist one last peek at the fireplace. Miniature marble columns flanked the collection of ashes and flame on both sides. No traces of the letter. For now, his identity was safe.

His footsteps echoed on his walk to the study. The framed portraits of British generals before him lined the walls. Their images looked the same, one after another: brown uniform, handlebar mustache, judgmental gaze at Warren’s disguise.

The Anglo-Indian girl’s pretty face as she dismissed him on her way out of the room flashed through his mind. He furrowed his brow. When had he ever cared for women’s looks when on a mission? Her appearance didn’t matter; her words did.

Judge me now
, he wished to say to the paintings. For however long his mission would last, he would not return to the States empty-handed. He hadn’t just found a maid—he’d found a source of information.

• • •

“What was it? What did he say?” Raj grabbed Parineeta’s shoulders and whirled her around to face him.

“I...” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I am to help him in his study?”

“Perfect!” Raj grabbed both of his sister’s hands. His weathered palms squeezed her smooth ones. “I want you to remember everything he says, all right? Anything he says about our independence movement … I want you to remember it all.”