The Sandalwood Princess (15 page)

Nothing to do. Nothing to say. Not a word. Not even good-bye. All the same, it was better she said nothing. After the other night... when he’d almost kissed her.

Amanda knew she was not the most decorous woman. She would never be altogether a lady—at least not the conventional sort. Still, she wasn’t a lightskirts. It was one thing to treat servants as human beings and friends, for her servants had always been her friends. It was quite another to be kissing someone else’s servant. One was not supposed to kiss any man, even a gentleman, unless one were betrothed to him.

So it needn’t have anything to do with rank at all, rather with what was right and what was wrong. Except, Amanda reflected sadly, she’d never entirely accepted all her culture’s rights and wrongs. Except, she added more sadly, she had wanted that beautiful, naughty man to kiss her, more than anything else in the world.

“
Well, lass, what’s
this?” Jessup asked as Bella set the tray down. “Not spirits, is it?”

Bella grinned. “My mistress don’t know, and she’ll be fit to be tied if she finds out. But you been complaining how thirsty you was, so I thought, no harm in a drop. But mind,” she added, shaking a finger at him, “only a drop. You don’t want to end up a sick old wreck like my poor pa, do you? Like I told you, Providence gave you another chance to mend your wicked ways.”

“I was hopin’ I didn’t have to mend
all
of ‘em,” he said meaningfully. “A man needs somethin’ to look forwards to. Like a bit of a cuddle now and then with a pretty lass,” he added with a wink.

“Well, I can’t think what pretty lasses you could find just now,” Bella answered, eyes downcast.

“Can’t you?” he asked. He took hold of her hand. “Mebbe you’ll think clearer when you’re not so thirsty.”

“Only a taste for me, Mr. Wringle,” was the prim answer. “Spirits always make me act so foolish.”

“Do they now?” he answered cheerfully as he released her hand to take up the bottle.

The crew members who weren’t sensibly sleeping were very non-sensibly engaged in jollity upon the forecastle. The noise carried but faintly to the stern, where Philip stood.

He was half tempted to join them, to spend this last night blind drunk.

It was the first night of the full moon, which was partially veiled now by a thin cloud. Yet it shed light enough to dance upon the water, which shimmered blue-black in the night. The Indians, Philip recalled, attached some deity to every phase of the moon. Whose night was this?
She
would know, of course. Miss Cavencourt meant to write a book about the myths and legends she’d so assiduously collected during her sojourn in Calcutta. Perhaps he’d read it one day. By then he’d have forgotten her, very likely, or would recall just enough to make him wonder at how susceptible a long voyage could make one. He doubted he’d remember later how very much he wished for her company now.

Her hair was merely brown, he reminded himself, and hazel was an apt enough label for her eyes. She wasn’t pretty, nor even attractive, really, unless one had cultivated a taste for the darkly exotic. Nor was she so fascinating a companion... unless one preferred contradiction and secrets and was helplessly drawn to a woman who must be unravelled, like an endless puzzle.

His muscles tensed, conscious of an approach. Barely audible, the footsteps, yet he recognised them immediately. Philip didn’t move, didn’t so much as turn his head. He didn’t want to look at her when it must be only to watch her walk on past as though he didn’t exist.

The footsteps drew nearer. A few feet away, they paused. A moment later, she stood beside him, her hands upon the rail.

“Several deities are connected with the full moon,” Miss Cavencourt said, just as though they’d been speaking this last hour. “Anumati personifies the first day. She and the others are fertility deities. She in particular, though, brings her worshippers inspiration and insight, wealth and longevity, as well as offspring.”

Slowly, disbelieving, Philip let his eyes turn to her at last. She was gazing at the moon, and in the silvery light her uplifted profile seemed to belong to some ancient goddess.

“Does she bring me a pardon?” he asked. “I’m rather in need of one.”

He waited through what seemed an interminable silence.

“The trouble with you, Mr. Brentick, is that you don’t understand me,” she said at last. “When I talk, I talk. When I take a walk, no matter what time it is, I take a walk. It’s quite simple. There’s no need to make it complicated. That’s so—so curst
English.”
She turned to meet his bemused gaze squarely. “I know I don’t behave altogether properly. That doesn’t mean
I’m
improper. Only that sometimes I do what I like. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly, Miss Cavencourt.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. The trouble is, sometimes I do what I like. Regrettably, I not only behave improperly, but I
am
improper. Sometimes.”

She considered this, and must have comprehended, for her expression grew exasperated. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“I doubt you need worry yourself about that. Whatever need be done, we can be quite certain Padji will do it,” he said mournfully. “I’m only amazed I’m not at present the main course at some aquatic family’s dinner.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “Then I may take it you’ve learned your lesson.”

“Yes, miss,” he answered meekly.

“Because I’d rather continue friends, you know.”

Something seemed to squeeze his heart. “Are we friends?”

“Something like, don’t you think?” she asked, her gaze earnest. “You’re so easy to talk to, and your stories are quite as good as my own.”

“That is high praise, indeed, coming from you. If you write a fraction as well as you speak, the British public will be enchanted with your tales. I am,” he added. “When you tell a story, I’m transported to my boyhood. Every adult care vanishes, and the world becomes the world you reveal. You have a remarkable gift.”

“Perhaps that’s because I never altogether grew up.” A hint of mischief curled her mouth, and she looked back to the sea. “Like a child, I am also partial to being terrified. Shall I tell you a gruesome tale tonight?”

He grinned. “
I
should like that above all things.”

“Very well—but only because you’ve flattered me.” She glanced up at the moon, as though for inspiration, then back at him.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “a group of pleasure-seeking travellers ran aground off the Indian coast.”

She gave each traveller a character, and detailed with relish the charms of the alluring maidens who rescued them. She described the feast these beauties served, and made his mouth water. She made him long to sip the magical wine the guests tasted. Philip could hear the whisper of silk and the tinkle of bangles, smell incense and jasmine, feel the velvet softness of the sirens’ skin.

Just as the travellers were seduced by their hostesses, Philip was seduced by his companion’s low, sensuous voice. He heard her voice bidding him sample the food and wine, just as he felt her hands caressing his face and playing in his hair, her arms encircling his neck, her mouth, soft and ripe, warming and teasing his. He sank, with the guests, upon silken cushions, and gave himself up to pleasure.

“On through the golden afternoon into twilight, the guests dwelt in this garden of earthly delights. At last, darkness crept upon them.” Miss Cavencourt’s throaty voice dropped and cracked, grew raspy, and a tiny, delicious chill of anticipation crept up his neck. “The first of the guests, lying in the arms of one beautiful maiden, opened his eyes to gaze into those of his lover... and saw hers... cold as ice. Before his horrified gaze, she changed. Her skin darkened and shrivelled. Her thick, silken hair frizzled up as though a flame had been set to it. She laughed, and the horrible, hungry sound froze his heart. Then she smiled, and that was more ghastly still. Her hands, like claws, grasped a gleaming blade. He, immobile with terror, could only watch helplessly as the knife descended, ever… so... slowly... to his throat.”

The smiling sidelong glance she threw Philip was quite evil.
She was enjoying herself, bloodthirsty wench.

“She cut his throat,” Miss Cavencourt went on in sepulchral tones, “and drank the blood. Every one of the travellers met the same fate. You see, this was not a paradise of sensual pleasure, but a demons’ lair. The alluring maidens were ogresses, who seduced men only to feed on them.” She shook her head sadly and sighed. “The wages of sin.”

He’d remained a respectful distance away, though his lounging stance as he leaned back upon the rail, his body half-turned to her, was hardly decorous.

Nonetheless, he remained as he was, taking her in, trying to drink his fill of her, all the while knowing this could not possibly be enough. He told himself it must be enough. The enchantingly evil story was her farewell gift to him, though she couldn’t know it was farewell. Nor should she. He made himself speak normally.

“Amoral tale,” he said. “Yet puzzling. I’d always thought the Hindus celebrated pleasure. What of your favourite, the blue-skinned Krishna, who played his flute and drew women by the score?”

“Earthly love, in all its many forms, offers us a glimpse of transcendent, spiritual love. That, apparently, is how the Hindus accommodate it, as they seem to accommodate all aspects of life. This story was probably some sort of warning not to let physical pleasure blind one to evil. Or, the tale may simply have been composed by a misogynist,” she added, grinning. “Actually, it’s rather mild, when you compare it to Adam and Eve’s fell from grace.
All
our earthly woes are blamed on one naive female.”

He laughed. “You lived too long in India. It’s made you a skeptic.”

“And a heretic and a cynic. But not consistently. My brain is not nearly well-regulated enough.”

“Consistency is boring. To me it bespeaks a narrow mind. There are far too many predictable people in this world, Miss Cavencourt. Be thankful you are not one of them. I am.” He paused a moment. “I shall miss you.”

“I shall miss you as well,” she said lightly. “You’re an exceptionally good listener. Still, I have a few days left to tax your patience, have I not? I promise to treat you to one or two more grisly tales, for you seemed quite taken with tonight’s.”

“I
was a soldier. Murder and mayhem are quite in my line.”

“Then murder and mayhem it shall be.” She stepped back from the rail. “Now, however, it’s time to say good night. I got away early because Mrs. Gales was dining with the captain. I’d best return before she does. She rarely lectures, but I should hate for her to discover how disreputably I’ve been behaving.”

“Others may consider it disreputable. I consider it kind.” Philip straightened and moved a pace nearer. “You were especially kind to pardon me. You don’t know how grateful lam.”

She smiled. “To be alive, certainly. Still, it wasn’t all kindness, Mr. Brentick. To encounter a kindred spirit is rare, and I hated to lose the few days we have left. I wanted us to part with pleasant memories. As friends,” she said, putting out her hand.

So simple a gesture. So trusting. She thought him a servant, yet she offered her hand to him as a friend. Even the Falcon’s cynical heart was touched. Because she was so very alone, he realised. What a pity that was.

He took the proffered hand, and as he felt the cool, soft, slim fingers close about his, his heart constricted within him. His hand tightened as well.
Goodbye,
he said silently.

Then, because a polite handshake could not be enough, he held it a moment longer, and another. His eyes scanned
her moonlit countenance, memorizing her as she was this last night, all silver and shadow, her eyes widening in surprise or perhaps alarm, he knew not which. It hardly mattered. He raised her hand to his lips, and heard her sharp intake of breath, but more important was the light tease of patchouli about him, the scent and velvet softness of her skin against his mouth. He felt her hand tremble. Reluctantly, he released it.

“Good n-night, Mr. Brentick,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Good night, Miss Cavencourt.”
Goodbye, Amanda.

She turned and began to move away.

No.

No.

“Damnation, not like this,” he muttered.

In one swift flash of movement, like the Falcon he was, he’d closed the distance between them, lightly caught her shoulder to turn her back to him, and pulled her into his arms. One sure hand clasped her neck, the other pressed her back, preventing escape. Swiftly, too, his mouth descended to hers, covering it before she could cry out, and taking before she could think not to give.

He was a thief, after all, and he’d steal this, too, if he must.

Four bells. Ten o’clock. Amanda heard the sound distinctly just as she was moving away. After that, nothing was clear. She was aware of a blur of motion, a hand on her shoulder. Then the world, or some mad wind, sent her spinning into his arms.

It could not be happening.

Automatically, her hands went out to break free, but they were trapped against his chest, and she was imprisoned in the hard strength of his arms. She looked up, alarmed and confused, only to watch his face blur into darkness as his mouth crashed down on hers.