The Duke of Shadows (11 page)

She cried out and seized around him. He met his end, his body shaking violently beneath her hands.

Perhaps she was shaking as well. She could barely feel where the difference might lie.

He kissed her again, and she opened her eyes to the stars. Infinite and uncountable, bright and cold and distant. They brought her back into her skin. She ran a hand down his damp back. "My God…" he whispered.

Behind Julian's head, the ruins were looming, darker than the darkness itself. The earth was so dark, and the ruins so small, compared to the stars.

His head rose, blocking out the sight. He leaned down to kiss her. "Everything in your face," he murmured. "Emma, come back to me. I'm here with you."

Yes, she thought, so he was, and felt something inside her turn over, an old grief or a new hope—the sensation so sharp that she sobbed. It might have startled him; she could not tell by his face, for he was already pulling her up into his lap, his arms wrapping around her as he rocked her.

"I'm here," he said into her ear, as the tears came faster. "Emma, I'm here with you now. Listen to me: I will always be here."

Always, she thought. He said "always," but he had forgotten to say finally.
Finally you are here.
Thank God, finally at last.

She was riding pillion on Julian's horse; hers had drawn up lame, and was on lead behind them. Julian caught her hand where it sat at the front of his waist. "Fort," he corrected, rubbing a thumb over her palm. "Look again at the plateau."

All morning he had touched her like this, casually and constantly. She felt slightly drunk from it; laughter came up in her throat for no reason. She shaded her eyes with her free hand and squinted through the haze. "Good Lord! Those are walls at the top, aren't they? They're carved out of the mountain!"

"The fort hasn't been taken in two centuries. And the Maharajah is an old friend of mine. It's the safest place I can imagine."

The winding path led them up though the village. At the top, the entrance to the massive stone fortress was sealed by iron doors, taller than three men put together; they were greening with age and boasted several rows of lethal-looking spikes—to repel an elephant charge, Julian told her.

"Of course," she said. "The Indian equivalent of the log."

His answering laughter—he had laughed a great deal as well this morning—was lost in the scrape of metal. A smaller portal, which she had missed amidst the ornate working of the doors, opened to disgorge two guards dressed in white tunics and saffron turbans. They traded a few brief words with Julian, and then one of the men sent up a shout. The doors groaned inward.

Julian nudged their horse forward, up a sharply twisting flagstone path that was flanked by high stone walls. Fortress, indeed. Also, Emma thought, a rather effective prison, should the owners feel so inclined.

The grade was too steep to allow for anything but a very slow walk. Tired, she let her forehead rest on Julian's back.

The path widened as it topped the plateau, becoming a road that followed the crenellated bastions and ringed the main compound. They dismounted, and a contingent of guards escorted them through a courtyard and garden studded with fountains and statuary. They emerged into a vast marble arcade. The long walk was bisected by a shallow canal dotted with rose petals. Emma inhaled deeply; it smelled delicious.

Julian had been speaking with their escort; now he turned to her, smiling as he beheld her gaping over the water. "It cools the palace," he said. "Emma, it seems we're not the only English guests; the survivors from a nearby station are sheltering here. Will you be comfortable meeting them, and resting a little, while I speak with the Maharajah?"

She was not eager to be parted from him. But she nodded, speculation narrowing her eyes as she watched him move off down the hall. He was flanked by the remainder of the guard, all of whom wore swords at their hips.

Julian,
she thought,
I do hope you know what you're doing.

She sincerely hoped she would not be expected to find her way back to the entry hall.

They stopped in a small square enclosed by three stories of latticed marble windows. With simple signs, the servant indicated that hers was the entrance on the far side of the patio.

She entered to discover an apartment filled with light. Someone had thrown open the wooden shutters, permitting ingress to the breezes roaming far above the desert floor. The walls were painted in vivid murals, and a large Persian carpet covered the floor. On a low table by the window stood a small copper pot with slits to hold sticks of incense. Otherwise the room seemed to have been designed with British guests in mind. There were English chairs and tables, and a grand canopied bed in one corner.

"Oh, thank the Lord! You must have news!"

Emma turned. She had visitors: two women, one a silver-haired matron, the other an extraordinarily beautiful young girl, with a heart-shaped face and eyes a luminous violet beneath her tangled yellow hair. The girl came forward to grab her hands; there was surprising strength in her slim grip.

"Is it true?" she asked. "Have the troops mutinied? Where did you come from?"

"Anne Marie," the older woman said repressively. "Forgive her, madam; we are very eager for the tidings, but she forgets herself. I am Mrs. Thomasina Kiddell, and this is Miss Stringer."

"Miss Martin," Emma said. "Late of Delhi."

"I see. Bikaner is our station, but we were on our way to Ajmer to join Miss Stringer's father, who had finally sent for her. The Maharajah's men intercepted us en route and insisted we take shelter here. They did tell of a mutiny, but you will understand our doubts, as we had no verification from a
reliable
sort of person." She ran an eye down the native clothing Emma wore, and her upper lip twitched. "As to that, I fear your appearance is answer enough."

"Indeed," Emma said. "The Maharajah spoke truly. The troops in Delhi have mutinied; and in Meerut, too. I know it has spread further, but no more than that."

"Oh!" Anne Marie released her and took a small step back. "Oh—no!" Her eyes flew to Mrs. Kiddell. "They shall
kill
us!"

Mrs. Kiddell looked very pale. "Calm yourself, child."

"Calm
myself—!" On a muffled sob, the girl fled to the far window. Her narrow shoulders began to heave.

Mrs. Kiddell cast a glance at the chaise longue. "If … if I may, Miss Martin."

"By all means." Emma took a seat herself. "I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but at least we are safe here. The countryside is very unsettled at present."

"But we
aren't
safe!" Anne Marie turned back to them, her face blotched. "There is a dreadful girl who comes to taunt us—I can't imagine where she learned English, it's very queer—and she tells us that the ladies of the zenana are angry with us being here. They want the Maharajah to throw us to the wolves!"

"I am afraid it is true," Mrs. Kiddell said quietly. She began to pluck at the pilling on her skirt. From the grave dignity about her, Emma gathered that this idle gesture betrayed anxiety in the extreme. "Worse yet, she also says the crown prince of this little kingdom nurses a great hatred of the English. We are trying to introduce a Resident to the court, I believe, and he opposes that. At present he is hunting in Kashmir, but word arrived yesterday that his return is imminent."

Emma shook her head. "But there is no need to worry. I am assured of our safety by a dear friend of the Maharajah himself."

"Yes?" Mrs. Kiddell shrugged. "That may be so, my dear. The Maharajah has been nothing but kindness. But being somewhat familiar with zenana politics, I would be hesitant to rely on his word. A maharani and a crown prince, contriving together, are a formidable power indeed."

Anne Marie's noisy sobs were one thing, but the older woman's carefully contained fear was beginning to disquiet Emma. "You do not understand; Lord Holdensmoor escorted me here with the express idea that it is the
only
place he could ensure my safety."

Anne Marie gasped. "The Marquess? But he is
one
of them! You cannot trust him for an instant!"

"I trust him with my life," Emma said.

Mrs. Kiddell shook her head. "Miss Martin, he is infamous. Even in Bikaner, we have heard rumors—"

Emma came to her feet. "I will bid you good day."

Anne Marie whimpered. Mrs. Kiddell hesitated a moment, then rose. "Come, Anne Marie."

At the door, she turned back. Emma raised her chin beneath the woman's narrow-eyed inspection.

"I do not wish to know what has led you to such a state," Mrs. Kiddell said stiffly. "But I fear it was horrible indeed, and so I will make allowances. Should you wish for more … proper … attire, you may apply to us. We were traveling in full state, and have our luggage with us across the courtyard."

Emma inclined her head, but made no other move until they were gone from her doorway.

Then her hands fisted at her sides, and she sank back into the seat. There was food laid out on a sideboard; she'd not noticed it before. She stared at the silver dishes. She'd been hungry this morning, but her stomach could take no food now. It was too full of dread.

He waited until Kavita had gone, then crossed to the bed with the intent to wake her. But at the last moment, something caught him. His fingers curled and withdrew. He drew up a chair, running a hand over his mouth as he considered her.

Emma slept like a child: arms crossed, hands tucked to her sides. Her mouth fell open slightly. Beautiful mouth. Rosy, plump lower lip. But he liked the upper one for its freckle. He could lean over to kiss it. Very gently, so her waking would be gradual. Confusion in her eyes, and then desire. He had the right to touch her now, and he intended to make use of it.

But instead he found himself staring at her hair. The rough ends at her shoulders. His own hand had accomplished that.

A tightness formed in his throat. He could not risk her out there. Not again.

He scrubbed his face. The exhaustion was stupendous. How long since he'd had a full night's sleep? His conversation with the Maharajah still circled through his mind. Rathore-ji was troubled, rightly so.
This hatred of the British burns fiercely, Julian. Even in my own kingdom, there is tinder to
burn. But you need not fear. I am not such a fool, to play with a fire that would consume us all.

And what of Delhi? The Maharajah's men could gather little news. They knew only that the Mughal emperor, Bahadur Shah, had lent his blessing to the mutineers. The city was controlled by them now. The British, in turn, were regrouping in Kurnaul, planning a massive attack.

Strategically, Ajmeri Gate would be an ideal entry point for their forces. One brief, concentrated siege to break through the gate. The houses beneath it would pose little impediment to British mortar and gunpowder. Did his young cousin see that now? Did Deven look at the rickety walls that sheltered his family, and consider how far Julian's gold might take them? Nani-ji would press him to listen to Julian's advice; she had promised as much, in her last letter to him. But age had settled on her heavily, and she was too frail to overrule Deven. Did he imagine, with his naive, seventeen-year-old pride, that Delhi would stand?

There was no choice, Julian thought. He had to leave Emma here; he had to go.

She murmured in her sleep, and he tensed, ready to wake her from her nightmare. But no, she seemed peaceful; she was only turning over. And perhaps, he thought, perhaps that had been his name she'd spoken, just now.

He moved onto the bed to sit beside her. He ran a gentle finger over her elbow until she sighed in her sleep and let her arms fall to her sides.

There was a minute, silvered scar at the base of her chin. He had never noticed it. It made him feel ignorant. Impatient as well. There was so much to be said and asked between them. Being with her felt like charting the sea: there were marvels beneath, and they lured him, and he wondered whether he ever might reach the bottom.

"Emma," he said quietly, and pressed a kiss to her parted lips.

She stirred, small twitches and movements. Soft, sleepy noises. He kissed her again, more deeply this time, and ran a hand down her side, to the swell of her hip. Her eyelashes fluttered up; color came into her cheeks. He smiled against her. Fairy tales were wasted on children. Until this moment, even he had not fathomed the power of waking someone with a kiss.

Her arms came around him, and she arched. "Julian." And then, abruptly, her body stiffened. "Julian," she said, in a different voice altogether, and he moved back to let her sit up. "Did you know—there are Englishwomen here—across the courtyard, and they say it is not safe, that there are people in the palace who are plotting against the English."

He opened his mouth, then thought better of his first impulse. The women had obviously frightened her. Bigoted, birdbrained, and no doubt hysterical; God knew what they must have told her. "Emma, they are wrong. The Maharajah has sworn to your safety. But I will speak to them, if you like, explain that their fears are unfounded."

Her hand tightened on his arm. "But it is not the Maharajah they—" Her eyes shifted past him and she fell silent. He turned.

"Clothes," Kavita said, holding out a silk-wrapped bundle.

Good to see that she still had a talent for poor timing. "Emma," he said as he rose, "this is Kavita-ji."

"Wife of Yuvraj," Kavita said with a smile.

"The crown prince," Julian clarified.

"Oh." Emma still looked distressed. She shook her head slightly, then came to her feet to make a curtsy. "You … speak English, Your Highness?"

Kavita laughed.
"Na, na,
Emma
behin,
we are like sisters. Actually, you must call me Kavita only, as
bhaiyya
does when not so formal.
Aur haan,
I am speaking English very well, isn't it?"

"Very well," Emma murmured.

"Hmm. In the zenana they think me smart. But I tell them it is all because of my teacher, Julian
bhai.
I was this high"—she gestured toward the floor—"but
bhaiyya
was very patient. And also I read your English books.
Robinson Crusoe,
yes?
Vaah vaah!"