A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (7 page)

She recalled seeing other guards lining the long entrance when she’d arrived, more stationed along the outside wall. Why so many? Turning around, she headed for the rear of the house and turned right, in the opposite direction of the bedrooms.

A door swung open and a man in a white
dhoti
with a tray of drinks balanced on his fingers ignored her and marched down the hall. She caught a glimpse inside the room he’d exited before the doors swung shut. At least she’d found the kitchen.

Wherever that servant with the drinks was headed, humanity existed. More than likely, Marguerite.

He turned down a short hallway, this one lined with a Turkish carpet runner which, thankfully, silenced her footsteps. The servant opened a door to her left and stepped inside. She hurried ahead but halted at the sound of men’s voices. Something indiscernible was said, and then she heard another male voice in response, followed by a burst of laughter. Definitely not where she’d find Marguerite.

The servant backed out of the room, paused in the doorway and replied to a male’s voice. He stepped back inside the room.

Oh, dear!
She didn’t want to be caught snooping, so she tried another door in the hallway. It opened and she stepped inside the darkened space. She waited for what seemed an eternity before she peeked out. Seeing no one, she crept to where she’d heard the voices. The sounds within were too muffled to make any sense, so she pressed an ear to the door.

Was that a growl?

Was that…oh, no, that sounded like Ravenswood’s cat! It must know someone lurked—

The door swung open in a flash and Suri stumbled inside—smack into Ravenswood’s hard chest. His arm swept around her waist and kept her from falling. Good Lord, he was in his shirtsleeves—no jacket, waistcoat, or tie.

Shahira’s growls turned into purrs.

With Suri’s nose buried in his shirt, the scent of him, the heat of his skin swept through her to her toes. Male musk, with a hint of bergamot elicited a quick pulse between her thighs. After all these years, that day in the stable had not lost a fraction of its poignancy—she’d always remembered his scent. He shifted his arm around her and the faint, spicy fragrance of Pears soap tickled her senses. The idea that he’d only recently bathed shot wicked images through her mind.

From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the bare flesh of his arm where his sleeves were rolled back, exposing a feathering of hair. She closed her eyes and braced her hands against his upper arms to ease away, only to grasp muscle so hard her knees went weak. She pushed and dared to open her eyes. All she saw was a pulse beating erratically at his throat, at a feathering of dark curls where the top button of his shirt was undone.

Her gaze drifted upward. His jaw was clenched, his eyes unreadable. And then suddenly, they shifted and filled with wry humor.
Exactly like in the stable when he released me from his kiss
. And his mouth—that sultry, come-hither mouth of his—twitched. “Why, Miss Thurston,” he teased in a husky voice. “I didn’t know you cared.”

She fought for some semblance of sanity while she surveyed the room, her head buzzing. Harry sat at a round table with another man, this one bearded and with a rather dirty looking turban wrapped about his head. Harry, too, was in his shirtsleeves, the other man in a loose Indian style garment. Both appeared unperturbed by her odd entrance.

“I…I am so sorry,” she stammered. “I…I sought Lady Marguerite…” She looked to the turbaned man. “My…my sister, to ask her why… And, oh, dear, I’m afraid I’ve been terribly rude. Forgive me, Harry, but why are there so many armed guards about? It has me quite perturbed.”

Oh, but don’t I sound the fool?
She turned to scurry away but found herself still locked in Ravenswood’s arms.

She pulled back.

He tightened his grip.

The nerve.

She slid her sandaled foot over his boot and pressed down.

He chuckled under his breath. “Shall we allow her to remain, gentlemen?”

“Indeed,” Harry responded. “I sent for Marguerite to join us.”

“You sent for Marguerite? When?”

“When the servant with the drinks notified us that you trailed him.”

Oh, dear God!
Her cheeks heated.

Ravenswood released her by slowly letting his hands slide forward along her waist, but as he did, his fingers warmed her skin through the thin fabric of the sari. She wasn’t at all certain of what she saw in his eyes just then, but something more than his touch sent those tiny, piercing arrows flying all through her body once more. Should he ever decide to kiss her again, she doubted she would have the wherewithal to resist.

“Do come in, Suri,” Harry said, casting a spry glance between her and Ravenswood. “For your own safety, you should know why there are extra guards about.”

The thin-faced, turbaned man, who’d never taken his eyes off Suri, stroked his narrow beard and nodded in agreement.

Remembering her native dress, a small gasp escaped her lips. “I am not dressed for visitors. I thought only to take a brief tour beyond my rooms.”

Harry smiled. “We are all informal, as you can see. It’s far too hot to be otherwise. You’ll find Marguerite in similar attire.”

She glanced up at the ceiling then, at a length of narrow carpet hanging on a vertical brass rod used to fan the room. It hung perfectly still.

“If you’re wondering why there is no servant to work the fan, it’s because we seek privacy,” Harry said. “At times like these, one does not trust even the most innocent of servants.”

“At times like these?” Her cheeks still burning, Suri entered the room and moved toward the chair Harry indicated to his right. She caught sight of a small chest on the table, a book, what appeared to be a bullet, and an unusual knife, its hilt embedded with jewels. Maps and a sheaf of notes lay nearby.

She wondered what all this had to do with her, but at least she wasn’t bored, so whatever was about to be discussed had her full attention.

Marguerite swept into the room, dressed in a bright green and gold sari, her eyes filled with anticipation. “Oh my, Suri, don’t you look lovely. Doesn’t she look lovely, Harry? If it weren’t for her fair complexion, why she could pass…” she ceased her chatter at the raising of her husband’s hand. “You have us here for a reason.”

“Indeed,” Harry answered. With the same hand, he directed her to the chair opposite him.

Which left the chair beside Suri for Ravenswood. But of course, in between the two lay Shahira. “Hello, girl,” she whispered and reached out to pet the cat.

Ravenswood caught her hand in mid-air. “I would rather you didn’t.”

“You would rather I didn’t,” she repeated, the heat of his grasp pulsating between them. “But I did so last evening.”

“Which I consider to be one time too many. I don’t care to take chances with your arm.”

The sparks flying between them could have lit a night sky. Good Lord, but this man did scandalous things to her insides. She really must stay away from him.

“Release me, Your Grace, and I will not attempt to touch your property again.” She regarded him with a scathing boldness she did not feel. Not in the least. And then a curious rebellion caught hold of her. She looked down at the cat. “I am sorry, Shahira. No love from me today. Your master forbids it.” There, that felt good. Placing her hands primly in her lap, she turned to the stranger across the table.

Ravenswood spoke. “Miss Thurston, this is Mister Armin Vámbéry.”

The little man only nodded, but his intense, charismatic gaze nearly unsettled her more than she already was. Why was Ravenswood introducing her and not Harry doing the deed? She sat straighter.

“Good to meet you, sir.” Puzzled as to what this man represented, she could not, in all good manners, ask.

Humor sketched tiny lines at the corners of Ravenswood’s eyes. “Mister Vámbéry is Hungarian by birth, considered to be one of the finest researchers of social science.”

“Hungarian by birth?” Suri asked. What in blazes was he doing in India?

Marguerite shifted in her seat. “Suri, I do hope you won’t find it necessary to repeat everything that is said.”

Suri shot her sister a setdown look. “Repeating what someone says is how I lock information in my head.”

“No, it is how you give yourself time to think,” Ravenswood responded in a bored tone.

The nerve.

“Vámbéry is likely the most adaptable man I’ve ever encountered,” he said. “He’s spent the last few years in Turkey and India passing himself off as a native, thereby being privy to secrets none of us could ascertain. His work helped the British in the Crimean Peninsula. We hope it will aid us here. He’s a brilliant man who has somehow managed to teach himself twenty-five languages with no accent.”

“Twenty-five languages?” Suri repeated. What in the world did that have to do with her?

“Suri,” Marguerite scolded.

Ravenswood chuckled while a brief smile passed over Vámbéry’s mouth. Harry simply flushed. His cheeks pinked at anything that amused or excited him.

Suri took a moment to survey the room.
What an odd space.
The walls were striking, lined with white marble, but there were no windows, and the heavy door was iron studded. The only furnishings were the table and chairs, and a side table, all rather plain compared to the other decorations in the house.

Harry regarded her. “This was once home to a prince who made certain there were secure areas where one was safe from those with sensitive ears.”

The idea that perhaps her brother-in-law was more than a merchant seeped through Suri’s bones. In any case, he was suddenly appearing more intelligent than she’d given him credit for. She opened her mouth to repeat what he’d said but, on second thought, closed it again.

Ravenswood regarded the objects on the table. “Shall we begin?”

“As you wish,” Harry said.

Puzzled at Harry turning the floor over to Ravenswood, Suri scrutinized the bits and pieces before her.

Ravenswood slid the book to Suri, the cartridge to Marguerite. “What you see are the makings of a mutiny.”

He had Suri’s full attention. “The makings of a mutiny? Why, this is a Bible written in Urdu. Whatever for, when the natives are Hindu and Muslim? How does this—”

Vámbéry’s fingers paused in his beard. Ravenswood’s eyebrow arched. “You speak Urdu?”

She shook her head. “I read and understand it to an extent, but I don’t speak it much. I learned from my father and his writings. He’d spent years here. So, why is the Bible translated into Urdu? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It is the language of the sepoys.”

She frowned. “Are you saying the native privates, who serve under British officers, are being issued Bibles when they are not Christians but Hindus and Muslims? How queer is that?”

He nodded. “And what your sister holds is a cartridge to a military rifle greased with both lard and tallow.”

Puzzlement swept over Marguerite’s face. Suri figured she carried the same expression. “And the knife?”

Ravenswood slid it over for her inspection. “It belongs to someone close to Bahadar Shah, the Mughal emperor. Who, by the way, has not taken kindly to the East India Company’s control in his country, nor the ensuing loss of lands to peasant farmers. Therefore, we suspect he is instigating an overthrow.”

“The Bible and cartridge?” Suri asked.

“You’re right about Indians being primarily Hindu and Muslim,” Ravenswood said. “The sepoys are being told the East India Company has masterminded a plot to convert them to Christianity. As for the cartridge, it’s made of paper and must be greased, and the end bitten in order for it to fire. The sepoys have been wrongly informed that what greases the cartridge is either lard—the Muslims do not eat pigs—or tallow, and the Hindus revere the cow. They believe the British are demeaning them and their religions by trying to force them to bite the bullet. To bite the bullet to them means to lose caste.”

“Is none of this true?” Marguerite asked.

All three men shook their heads.

Ravenswood glanced at Marguerite. “Unfortunately, the cartridge you hold actually is greased with both tallow and lard. Someone’s infiltrating these incriminating bullets into the armories.”

Suri flipped through the pages of the Bible. “How did this come about?”

Ravenswood shrugged. “A certain misguided officer’s wife had every intention of trying to convert the sepoys. The Bible translated into Urdu was her doing. We stopped her from passing out more than a few, but someone stole the entire shipment and is delivering them to the sepoys along with an insert implying mandatory reading.”

Marguerite leaned forward. “Why don’t the generals, or whoever is in charge, institute some kind of policy that would allow the sepoys their various religious practices? And why not let the sepoys grease their own cartridges with whatever they choose—such as ghee.”

“We’ve tried that,” Ravenswood responded. “They’ve been allowed so much freedom of their own religious practices that if they think they’ve been slighted in any way, they sit down on the job. As for greasing their own cartridges, we instituted that as well. Now they believe the rumor must have been true in the first place.”

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “We’re back to greasing our own cartridges—with beeswax—but the sepoys won’t believe it.”

Suri turned and studied his profile. He was all formidable strength, and her confusing emotions regarding him irritated her.
He keeps saying “we.” Who is Ravenswood?

Harry piped in. “The worst of it is, a sepoy by the name of Mangal Panday went berserk last March and wounded two British officers down in Meerut. He was hanged for treason last week. Already, he is being hailed as a hero. Hence, we now expect some kind of reprisal.”

“What does this have to do with my sister and me?” Marguerite asked.

It was Harry who spoke. “We would like you to leave, Marguerite. Take Suri and our son and go back to England while you can.”

Marguerite’s face turned the color of the marble wall behind her. She stared at her husband, the cartridge still in her hand. “And leave you behind? Harry, no. I shall not. Why, this is pure speculation. The army is strong, it can—”