A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (22 page)

“Good God!” A deep current welled up in John. Blood drummed against his temple. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting for control. “He’s having her watched. He has designs on her—”

“No!” Marguerite interrupted. “He cannot…I mean he does not…”

This time Chatham leaned forward, his face so red he appeared ready to explode. “Spit it out, Marguerite. For God’s sake, you aren’t protecting your sister by keeping something from us. We believe Suri is in danger with a mutiny about to break out during the wedding, not to mention what Maurya might want with her. Tanush is about to go back in after her, so for both their sakes, give over what you know.”

Marguerite’s eyes widened, and her cheeks blotched. “Mutiny, now? I…I…didn’t know.” She waved a hand in the air. “Ravi-ji has no personal designs on her. He’s…it seems he’s her cousin.”

“What?” all the men exclaimed. Even Tanush looked aghast. His lips thinned to a straight line before his dark eyes focused on John.

Despite the dread constricting John’s chest, he took the lead. “Her cousin? How in God’s name did she locate a relative while she was in England?”

Fingers trembling, Marguerite slipped a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Through a solicitor who handles business and legal arrangements with Indian royals.”

“Jesus. Ravi Maurya of all people.” The sick feeling swirling in John’s gut worsened.
The bastard’s out to kill her.
He took his time looking from one person to the next, willing his emotions to remain intact. “This bit of news alters everything, Lady Marguerite. Rather like sweeping a chessboard clean of all pieces except for the king and a pawn. The gentlemen sitting before you know what Suri being related to Ravi Maurya means. But do you?”

“What?” she whispered.

God, he needed fresh air to clear his mind so he could think and not panic. “As you well know, the Indians consider we British to be untouchables. As an illegitimate half-caste, Suri is perceived as the lowest of the lot.” He barely managed to hold his voice steady, so he paused a moment to collect himself. “Wouldn’t this bit of information have alerted you to the danger she is in?”

Marguerite’s shaky fingers pressed against lips gone pale. “But he’s her cousin. He’s done so much for her. He’s been so gracious—”

“Marguerite!” Chatham shouted.

Raising his hand, John signaled for Chatham to cease. “Don’t blame her. Memsahibs live sheltered lives here. They aren’t privy to male conversation.”

A sickly pallor inched across Marguerite’s face, yet she drew herself up until dignity took hold. “Pray tell, Ravenswood.”

He fixed his eyes on a disarray of notes in front of him while he fought the storm unleashing within. “Touchy things, these rigid customs. Death is the preferred punishment when one conducts an illicit affair or tries to marry outside his or her caste. Suri’s mother committed the greatest sin of all by falling in love with a British subject and begetting his child. The moment Suri was born she was marked for death.”

Marguerite gasped. “But why would Suri’s mother have even been allowed to give birth in the first place?” Her voice came hoarse and clogged with tears.

John struggled to say the words. “Perhaps…” He paused to clear his throat. “Perhaps it was the severest punishment they could conjure up for the young mother.”

An awful, primitive cry erupted from Marguerite. She began to shiver. Chatham rushed to her side.

John shoved a hand through his hair.
My God, what a holy mess!
“Had I any inkling Maurya was Suri’s cousin, he would never have been allowed that first dance with her. I saw the lascivious way he regarded her while in your ballroom each night, how he kept her close to him as only an infatuated man might. But that wasn’t what his attention had been about—all the while, he’d been planning her demise.”

Marguerite gasped, and her eyes shimmered with tears.

Chatham fished out a handkerchief and stuffed it into her hand. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “But why would he wait so long? Why bother going to such lengths? And why didn’t he simply refuse her request and leave her in England?”

“Once Maurya had learned Suri had survived,” John said, “he would’ve been obliged to inform his grandmother lest he himself be punished with death. Most likely he was instructed to see that Suri arrived here as proof of her existence. However, now that Maurya has her, he’s like a cat with a young bird fallen from a nest. He’s toying with her before he pounces. Regrettably, this particular cat is extremely dangerous. He’s powerful. He’s intelligent, and he’s become quite taken with his half-caste cousin—a deadly mix.”

Tears streamed unbidden down Marguerite’s cheeks. “I told Suri that very thing before I knew he was her cousin. Once told, I convinced myself that I’d only imagined such.”

John nodded. “Being related makes it all the worse, I’m afraid. He’s gone to great lengths to carry out an elaborate plan. He’s going against Indian customs that could cost him his own life, yet he arrogantly proceeds.”

“But why?” Marguerite cried.

John pushed his hand through his hair again and sucked in a hard breath to try and untie the knot in his gut. “Most likely to spend more time with her…dress her in the finest and revel in her beauty for as long as he dares. I doubt he meant things to go this far but, unless I’m wrong, he can’t let her go quite yet, and that angers him immensely. Here’s a man used to having anything he wants and yet the one thing he covets most, he’ll never be allowed. A part of him loathes her while the other part…”

He paused while he worked at unclenching his jaw. He’d had it clamped so damn tight, his teeth hurt.

“What’s to happen now?” Marguerite cried.

It would be cruel to suggest that, once again, Suri might be thrown to the lions or murdered and cremated to destroy the evidence. “Maurya may be toying with Suri because he’s indulging in a bit of his own fantasies but, as far as the anticipated end result, I’ll wager he’s following someone else’s dictates. Most likely the grandmother’s.”

A moan escaped Marguerite’s lips. She jumped to her feet. “My God, do something!”

The pain constricting John’s chest bound so tight he could barely manage a nod let alone words. He fisted his hands at his sides while little bolts of lightning struck his heart and the air convulsed in his lungs. Christ, he’d never forgive himself if he failed to rescue her. He stood and headed for the door. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Why didn’t Suri feel something? Anything besides this urge to run away? She sat on a wooden chair along a private balcony positioned behind a viewing screen above a room filled with a small group of women. She stared down at one woman in particular—her grandmother. Smells of curry and turmeric floated in the air along with feminine perfume. Such a cozy scene before her—odd that it left a cold emptiness seeping through Suri’s bones. Why did this gray-haired woman who’d tossed her out as so much trash look like any of the other women gathered around her?

Ravi-ji shifted behind her, his clothes barely rustling, yet every movement could’ve been a blast going off for as loud as the sound seemed. She wouldn’t ask just yet, for she had been told to remain absolutely silent, but was this her so-called meeting? It couldn’t possibly be. This had to be a mere first glimpse, as Ravi-ji had promised. Tomorrow morning, she would meet with her
nani
.

But what if he didn’t keep his word? What then? No longer did she trust her cousin’s promises. Whether she met personally with her grandmother tomorrow morning or not, by afternoon, she’d have Tanush spirit her away.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the scene below, she fixed her lips tight against her teeth, afraid if she let her guard down she’d blurt out the feelings that had driven her to India—the hurt at being tossed away like so much trash, the awful sense of never quite belonging anywhere. The anger at having been judged so harshly for so many years. And truth be told, there was another feeling crawling around in her belly—a creeping fear that something was terribly wrong. Lord, but she’d never experienced such discomfort.

To her grandmother’s right sat a younger woman. Could this be a sister to Suri’s mother? Suri’s aunt? Her father had kept a miniature of her mother hidden away in his desk. She’d found it after his death. Oftentimes, she’d held the small painting to the mirror, comparing herself to her mother. There was a distinct resemblance. Did the woman below bear that same resemblance?

A bitter sense of betrayal stormed through her. All those years her father had kept her mother’s likeness a secret and had never shared it with Suri. He’d cheated her out of knowing even that much about her mother.

She bit her lip and fought a sudden wash of tears.

Did every child who never met his or her mother long to speak to her just once? Long to be held in gentle arms for only a moment? Long to be told she was loved and wanted? Did a mother’s love carry more weight, more depth, than a father’s?

What if her mother had lived and wanted Suri? Would she have held her to her bosom and rocked her as a babe? Or would she have sent Suri off to a nanny to be looked after?

She’d always told herself her mother would’ve wanted her. Would have seen to her needs. From what she’d observed here in Delhi, Indian women took it upon themselves to care for their own children, with nannies only as support. Even below her, she spied several of the finely dressed women sitting on large pillows, each with a child’s head in her lap, petting and stroking the child’s hair. The children appeared content and familiar with this kind of gathering.

A brittle shaft of pain broke inside Suri’s heart. She could’ve been part of this scene had she been legitimate. Had her mother married someone of her own caste.

But then, she’d not be the same Suri, would she? And she would not have known Marguerite. Or her brothers. She shifted in her chair.

Ravi-ji touched her shoulder at the rustling her sari produced. She nodded, letting him know she understood the need for silence and returned her concentration to the scene below.

Her grandmother appeared to be stern and autocratic, but every now and then a whisper of a smile passed over her mouth, or at least Suri thought that’s what she saw. From where she sat, she could pick up bits of conversation. Nothing much of interest—chitchat that could’ve taken place within the cultural confines of any family gathering. If she could hear them so easily, then she herself must be very quiet lest she be detected. The pounding of her blood sped up at the idea of being caught peeping at a grandmother who’d once wanted her dead.

Suri frowned. There were still pieces of the puzzle missing. How was Ravi-ji going to arrange a face-to-face meeting? How would he get her grandmother to agree? Oh dear, what if she wasn’t to know Suri was the granddaughter she’d thought dead by her own hand? What if she was to meet her as a casual acquaintance of Ravi’s? That was it, wasn’t it? There was no way on earth he intended to escort her into this fold.

Heat flushed her cheeks.
I have put another dunce cap upon my head. Good heavens, I’ll be wearing a tower of them before I’ve finished here.

A movement from below caught her attention. Her grandmother rose to her feet. The other women stood, pressed their hands together prayer-like, and bowed their heads to the matriarch. Without a backward glance she glided from the room, like the royal she was, her servants trailing behind. The other women followed suit. Those carrying children were the last to depart.

Ravi-ji tapped Suri lightly on the shoulder. She turned and, nodding silently, rose to follow him from the darkened balcony through an even darker room. Keeping close enough behind to feel his presence, they entered a passage hidden behind a tapestry and descended a narrow set of stairs.

When he opened the door for their exit, Suri blinked at the harsh torchlight that would have been a mellow glow had she not made her way through a darkened corridor.

And then she faltered.

Her grandmother stood before her, unsmiling, regarding Suri with hate-filled eyes. Whatever words Suri had mulled over all these years were lost in the realization that nothing she said would overcome such vehemence.

Still, she made to step closer. Ravi-ji grasped her by the elbow so tightly, she bit her tongue to keep from crying out.

She did not move. Did not speak.

Then her grandmother turned to Ravi-ji and with a bare nod of her head, sent a silent message to her grandson, who responded in kind. A look of satisfaction swept over his countenance. With a militaristic turn of his heel, he marched Suri out the door and into the night.

They walked in the moonlight back to the women’s quarters with fear beating a wild drum in Suri’s chest. Munia followed a few steps behind. The grounds of the Red Fort were peppered with people still celebrating. Small fires dotted the landscape. Music lingered in the air. Would any of these people come to her aid if she cried out?

Knowing it was useless to discuss her grandmother, Suri struggled to act unafraid. “Do the celebrants carry on through the night for all these days?” Her words left her mouth in a sticky, uncomfortable cadence.

“Some do. I doubt the groom will sleep much, but the bride will take her rest so she will be presentable for the morrow.”

The groom doesn’t have to be presentable?
Suri scrunched her forehead. “But this is their wedding night. Won’t they spend it together?”

If what left his lips was supposed to be some sort of cynical laughter, he only succeeded in snorting. “Once the consummation has taken place, the groom is free to do whatever he chooses. Usually, the new husband prefers the company of other men to celebrate and not the isolation of some stranger he has barely set eyes upon.”

Suri couldn’t help herself. “Ah, love. So grand a thing, isn’t it?”

“Love?” Ravi-ji’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Is that what you call your little escapade with Ravenswood?”

Anger at the invasion boiled in Suri. “Did you have me followed, cousin?”