The Duke of Shadows (8 page)

"It sounds generous."

His look was sharp. "Hardly. Were it not for them, I would never—well, no matter. Anyway, it has occurred to me that the rebels may decide to root out British sympathizers. And my actions will ensure that they are mistaken for such."

She considered this in silence, finding implications in it that chilled her. "You think the rebels will hold Delhi. That they will hold it long enough to … do such a thing."

"I think it's very possible," he said. "Perhaps, in the chaos this morning, you did not hear. But those sepoys did not come down from the Ridge. They marched in from Meerut. Which means the uprising began before today—and who can say where it
did
start, or how far it has spread? I had it from Sir Metcalfe that the telegraph wires have been cut in all directions."

"Sir Metcalfe? He's all right, then?"

"I don't know. I ran into him on the way to the Residency; he was looking for his wife."

"You came to the Residency? But when?"

He arched a brow. "We had agreed to meet there, had we not? I suppose I arrived shortly after you left. The point is, there may have been news of other disturbances which did not reach us."

"Lord above." This nightmare could spread to swallow the whole of India. "If
all
the sepoys decide to mutiny—"

His smile, so unexpected, startled her into silence. "Then it would no longer be mutiny. It would be a revolution."

"But…" It was too much to take in. "India without Britain?"

"The Americans managed it. I don't see why the blackies couldn't as well."

She recoiled at his sarcasm. "That wasn't what I meant!"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Martin; what
did
you mean?"

"Just—" She dug her fingers into her skirts, twisting the material hard. "Well, we simply can't drop everything and run away, can we?"

A warm wind kicked up, ruffling through his thick, dark hair. Very softly, he said, "I see. Is this where you preach to me of how English civilization will save the savages?"

She hated this,
hated
the way he was suddenly looking at her—as though she were some unfamiliar specimen whose novelty was rapidly losing interest. "Be fair, sir! All I meant was that we've created a society here. Laws, a justice system, a—postal service…" The argument sounded weak even to her own ears. "I simply mean that to leave those things behind would hardly be simple."

"Not simple, no. Few things are."

She looked away from him, to the water. "True enough."

After a moment, he murmured, "Emmaline. I am sorry. I am … overwrought." His laughter was unsteady. "And there's a phrase I've never used before. At least not in reference to myself."

An unwilling smile curved her mouth. "I hope you won't swoon. I don't carry smelling salts."

"No," he said. "I wouldn't have imagined you did."

The Marquess wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "You dream of the shipwreck?"

"Every night." She sobered and sat back. "Perhaps now I'll dream of Delhi instead."

After a pause, he said, "This is a good enough place to stop for a bit. You could try to nap."

"Are we safe, then?"

"Soon enough. We're headed for a village I know, on the outskirts of the district that Sapnagar rules. It's another few hours' walk."

"So what would you do while I sleep? Stand watch?" She shook her head. "Just let me catch my breath."

He shrugged and looked past her. The moonlight rendered his face a chiaroscuro of shadows and highlights; his eyes were pools of shadow as he stared out at the silvered plain.

"You are thinking of your family, my lord?"

"Julian," he said. "Julian is my name."

She hesitated. "If you only intend to go back for them, why run in the first place?"

He gave a small laugh. "How noble it sounds when you put it thus."

"You know I didn't mean it like that. But why not find them before you left?"

"I might have done, but they would have refused to come. And there was the small matter of your wanting so very badly to get out." He cocked a brow at her. "If I'm not mistaken, you even stole a horse for it."

"Why—gracious, I suppose I did! But surely the Resident will not mind. That is, if the Resident…"
If the Resident even survived.
She shook off the unfinished thought. "If you are saying you left to see me to safety, I'm very grateful."

"Oh?" He ran both hands though his hair, then held up his arm to inspect a cut he had managed to bandage. She recognized the fabric with a start: it was fashioned from a strip of her skirt.

He glanced to her, and perhaps he saw the realization on her face, for his smile slid into a tease. "You're not meant to be grateful, Emma; you're meant to be flattered. And perhaps a small bit flustered, if you can manage it. That would give me the advantage. I seem to need one where you're concerned."

She eyed him warily. "You're being silly, I think."

"Silly, she says?" He heaved a sigh. "Not a becoming assessment, for a man so widely accounted a rogue."

His mercurial mood bewildered her, but she was willing to match his tone, if he wanted to persist with it. It seemed far preferable to dwelling on the day's events. "You do not strike me as a Lothario. You're far too serious for the part."

"Oh? I did give it a small try, if you recall. And your mouth tasted quite sweet. But perhaps I was too subtle?"

From an airy exchange of quips, he had suddenly moved onto solid ground. Having his attention so fully focused on her made her feel peculiar, as if air were in short supply. "You're a skillful flirt," she managed. "I will give you that."

"And you're no flirt at all. Come, give it a try. Tell me how a rogue charms a woman, if not through sober, industrious application."

Her lips twitched. "That sounds like the factory brand of roguery. But all you need do is attend to a woman's vanity, I suppose."

"Ah, yes. Of course. It comes back to me now; I've been going about it all wrong. The first thing I should have said is that you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She laughed despite herself. "That's a clever sort of compliment, seeing as it reserves you the right to change your mind with the next woman you meet. As well you should, with me in such a state!"

He leaned forward a little. "Would you like me to remove the qualification? I'd be more than willing to oblige."

"No, that's all right. My looks aren't where my vanity lies."

"But you are beautiful," he said. "Don't you know it? A very rare kind of beauty, Emmaline. Your spirit is as lovely as your face."

That was too much. She dropped her eyes.

"And now I should kiss you again, I think. Isn't that how it's done?"

Startled, she put her hand to her lips. But their rough, cracked surfaces made the very prospect seem ludicrous. "Yes, I suppose—in a gothic romance. But if you kissed me now, no doubt my lip would split open, and I'd bleed on you."

His shout of laughter was quickly restrained. "Well, all right. Since you put it so romantically. Someplace else. Shall I be adventurous?"

This was too ridiculous. They were marooned in the desert, bedraggled, on the run for their lives. And he was having a bit of fun with her. It was clear from the amusement on his face, the carefree curve of his mobile lips, that she should not take him seriously.

But her heart had lost track of the game. "This is absurd."

"Indeed. So much is absurd. For instance, where are your crinolines?"

Her hands pressed flat against the thin muslin draping her thighs. Before today, she had never stepped into the world so lightly. Feeling the breeze as it flirted under her skirts seemed very close to being naked. "You are unkind to notice."

"I do try not to," he said softly. "And it seems as if it should be easy. But it isn't."

From somewhere inside, a place that trembled and ran hot and cold all at once, she found the courage to meet his eyes. "You are not joking," she said.

"No, Emmaline. I never said I was."

She inhaled as he leaned toward her. "I said my lips—"

"So you did," he said against her ear, and she closed her eyes as his teeth gently trapped her lobe.

"That is not a kiss," she gasped. Her voice sounded as if it came from a distance, barely penetrating the thunder of her pulse.

"Do you want one?" He spoke it against her skin; his tongue flicked over the tender rim of her ear, drew a line down the edge. "I thought it was not advisable."

She would have laughed, if she had not felt as though every bone in her was dissolving. "You
are
a rake," she whispered.

"My dear, how unoriginal." His mouth shifted to trace down her cheekbone, skating very lightly over the swelling bruise. His eyelashes flickered up as he passed, giving her a momentary glimpse of some unreadable thought. Then, pausing where her jaw met her neck, he sipped gently, and then again, harder now, as if trying to draw her heartbeat to the surface.

Her hand rose of its own volition, curving around the very same spot on his own jaw. His skin was so warm to the touch, the stubble a strange and pleasing texture under her palm. "This isn't a kiss either."

"No," he murmured. He pressed his face fully into her throat. For the space of several breaths he remained like that, breathing deeply against her. Her hand moved up to grip the back of his head, threading through the softness of his hair. A strange impulse to grip him harder, to cradle him fully, had her biting her lip. The urge was animal. Unnerving. Entirely out of her experience.

But how right it felt. Perhaps that was what unbalanced her most.

He spoke against her neck.
"Have
I kissed you, then?"

"Not yet," she whispered.

"Then you should be content."

"I am certainly awake."

He pulled away a little, just far enough to show her his appreciative smile. "Shall we walk?"

"By all means," she said, and gave him her hand.

The song outside drew her out of the hut now and into the lane. The village of Sukhpur was clean and peaceful, a curving line of thatched, whitewashed cottages bordering a tree-lined lane. Fading light filtered through the peepul leaves, dappling the dusty path. She started in the direction of the large white banyan tree at the foot of the village; its ten or fifteen separate trunks rose beneath a single united awning of leaves. As she rounded the turn, she glimpsed the source of the music: a stone building topped by a gleaming pyramidal canopy. A Hindu temple.

She took a seat beneath the banyan and spent a long moment studying the geometrical patterns drawn in rainbow chalk on the houses' packed-earth walls. A group of monkeys, tails cocked upright, jumped off a roof nearby and strutted past her. She smiled, her eyes following them until they disappeared.

From inside the temple came a chorus of bells. She stepped up onto the banyan's protruding root to peer inside. A large group of women and men sat on the floor, facing a table at the very front. On the table rested a small statue of a six-armed, blue-skinned flutist. She knew very little about the native religions, but it seemed safe to assume that he was the god they worshipped.

A man in white stood, holding a silver tray upon which jars of oil burned. While he waved the tray, drawing smoke rings around the statue, a younger man next to him rang the bell she'd heard from her hut. How mysterious.

The bell stopped just as the singing did, and then everyone stood and approached the man with the tray. He smeared something on each of their foreheads, between the eyes. The Marquess, she saw with a shock, was one of the first recipients.

She was ducking back down when he turned and saw her. Someone had given him a change of clothes. His calf-length tunic and loose trousers were in the native style, made of simple homespun cotton with no ornamentation. His hair was freshly washed, rippling black and thick to just below his ears, and the red dot on his forehead called attention to his eyes, an impossible greener-than-green. If Marcus had reviled him before, he would have been apoplectic now, for Lord Holdensmoor looked anything but English.

When he reached her side, he said, "You look as though you've swallowed a frog."

His feet were bare! She raised her eyes to his. "You're Hindu, my lord?"

He came to a stop. "Please, it is beyond ridiculous at this point."

She surrendered a small smile. "You're Hindu, Julian?"

"My mother's mother is Hindu. I honor her beliefs, when I am asked to do so." He drew her up by the hand. "You look much better. But Kamala-ji said you wouldn't accept the clothing she offered you."

"My hostess? Oh, was she offering me that clothing?" There had been a pile of clothing shown to her during dinner, but since she'd had no clue what the woman was saying, she had simply nodded and smiled and continued to eat. "I thought she was asking if I thought they were pretty."

His mouth quirked. "And did you?"

"I did actually, yes." She smoothed a hand down the single braid the old woman had made of her hair the evening before. This talk of clothes was making her acutely aware of her rumpled state. Her skirts were soiled beyond repair; what had been rose was now, for the most part, brownish-gray. "I hope she hasn't retracted the offer. I'd like a change of outfits. And a bath, if possible." She gestured toward the temple. "Was the entire village there?"

"Only the Hindus. The Mussulman services are at the prayer wall, about a mile away."

"Why so far?"

He shrugged, propping a shoulder against one of the tree's trunks. "Invading armies would erect them wherever their forces camped. The villagers have probably been using that wall for five hundred years now."

She tried a smile. "Habits are hard to break."

"In some cases." He ran a hand up his forehead, shoving away a thick handful of hair. He looked tired.

"What's wrong? Didn't you sleep?"

"A little." He sighed. His hand dropped back to his side. "I've had some bad news."

Her tenuous peace evaporated. "It's not just Delhi and Meerut, is it?"

He shook his head and took her hand. "This entire area seems to be in an uproar."

"Then where will we go?"

"Sapnagar is still the plan." He looked down to where her hand rested in his, and smiled in some private amusement. Twining his fingers in hers, he overturned their hands, and studied the paleness of her palm. "Some believe your fate is written here," he said, tracing the long line from her middle finger to her wrist. The touch had a disproportionately strong affect; a bolt of heat shot through her stomach. His fingers moved to bracket her wrist, rubbing lightly over the creases that ringed the base of her palm. "These, here, signify great good fortune. And here"—his caress shifted back to the long line dividing her palm—"is your life line. You'll live a long, healthy time."

What poppycock. And yet—she supposed that the fact she still lived might be considered good fortune. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself, old and bent, battered but still surviving. Everyone she had known, gone. No one and nothing remaining but herself. It seemed a ridiculous thing to wish for. She did not like to hear that it might be inevitable.

She withdrew her palm. "A bath," she said. "Please."