Her Master's Touch (5 page)

Cedric slumped into a chair. "I can't get rid
of Hasan,” he groused. “He uses almonds and pistachios instead of
rice and lentils and no one knows until they taste it. He cuts the
almonds to look like rice and the pistachios to look like lentils,
so you think you're getting
khichri
. And once tasted, the
dish is never forgotten. And with his
roghni rot
—" Cedric
kissed the tips of his fingers with a smack "—the bread's no
thicker than paper."

Damon dipped his pen in the inkstand and
scrolled a note, and handed it to Cedric. "This is it, old chap.
Keep your
mehra
or dismiss him, it's up to you. But you
won't get another rupee from me until this is paid in full, with
interest."

Cedric took the note. "Perhaps it will see me
through until harvest—"

"
Damon
!" Mara glided into the library,
sari swishing against her ankles, cheeks flushed with anticipation.
"I come for black horse."

Damon looked at her with at start. He'd
completely forgotten to send word that she not come. "I didn't get
the horse," he said.

"What you mean? Not get horse?"

"My lord? If I might interrupt." Eliza
appeared in the doorway, clad in the skirt and décoletté blouse
she'd worn at the horse fair. But now a bibbed apron stretched
tight across her breasts and hugged her tiny waist. "Could you
direct me to the sitting room?"

"Damon!" Mara gasped. "Who is this...
person?"

"My name is Eliza," she replied. "I'm the new
housemaid." She turned to Damon. "I am sorry to disturb you, but
like I assured you at the horse fair, I truly want to please
you."

"If you want to please me," Damon said, "you
will leave at once."

She batted her lashes. "Yes, my lord, if you
will direct me to the sitting room."

Mara leveled furious eyes on Damon. "You must
take me for complete, what you say, ninny! Am I to believe this
woman is housemaid?"

"It's true, my lady," Eliza said. "Lord
Ravencroft offered me a job as a cook, but when I told him I could
not cook, he offered me the job as a housemaid which—"

"Eliza!" Damon cut in. "Enough. The sitting
room is down the hallway to your right. Leave at once, and do not
disturb us again."

Eliza had barely left the room when Mara said
to Damon, "She not cook so why you employ her in first place?"

Damon inhaled a long breath to clear his mind
of flashing eyes and a pair of moist lips begging to be kissed. "I
did not intend to, but when I was ready to make an offer on the
horse—"

"My lord?" Eliza appeared in the doorway
again. "I couldn't help overhearing. Let me explain what happened
since it was because of me that you failed to purchase the horse.
You see, my lady, with Lord Ravencroft chasing me across the meadow
and tussling with me in the grass, he missed the chance to purchase
the horse. But he had fully intended to do so. Now, I must meet
with Mrs. Throckmorton." Turning quickly, she left.

"So, she not what I think?" Mara seized a
book and hurled it at Damon, sending it crashing against the wall.
"I saw how you look at her." She seized another book.

Damon rushed over and captured Mara's wrist.
"Enough! Either go back to the bungalow or back to your maharajah,
but don't come here telling me what I can and cannot do. I'll do
whatever I damn well please. Is that clear?"

“Very clear. You also find cold bed in
bungalow!” Mara made a dramatic sweeping turn and stormed out of
the room.

Damon started after her, set on having the
final say, but stopped short when he met Eliza in the hallway. "My,
but your lady rushed out hastily," she said. "I certainly didn't
mean to stir up a hornet's nest."

"Didn't you though?" Damon gave her a
black-hearted smile. "Well, it might please you to know that I
don't entertain high hopes of salvaging the alliance."

Eliza looked at him, mirth glimmering in her
eyes as she said, "I don’t know why you'd want to be entangled with
such an emotional women. I'd think you'd be glad to be rid of
her."

"And I should thrash you for your
impertinence," Damon said.

Smiling ruefully, Eliza replied, "With due
respect, my lord, I must remind you that I am merely a simple gypsy
girl with a limited knowledge of decorum."

"That's pure rubbish," Damon said. "You may
be gypsy, but you're far from simple. And, I suspect you have a
damned good knowledge of decorum, though for the life of me I can't
figure out how you've come by it. Maybe you can fill me in."

"I told you, I worked as a ladies maid."

Damon saw her gaze falter. She was lying. She
also possessed schooling and finesse beyond that of an ordinary
Eurasian. He saw it in the graceful manner in which she held her
hands when she gestured, and in the way she stood straight and held
herself erect. Maybe she'd been trained as a courtesan. Maybe, as a
man's mistress. But he knew damned well she hadn't spent many years
roaming with gypsies. He was curious, though, as to why she'd taken
up with them at all, and he intended to root it out of her,
eventually.

"As for your behavior," he said, "I suggest
you give careful thought to your conduct when in the presence of
Begum
Mara."

"
Begum
Mara?" Eliza looked at him in
amusement. "She claims royalty?"

Damon's jaw tightened. "That's no concern of
yours. But you will address her as
Begum
Mara. Is that
clear?"

"Yes, my lord," she said, dutifully. "I will
strive to be more decorous and to speak with respect and reverence
to your precious little—" she stopped short.

"My precious little what?" Damon asked. When
she didn't reply he said, "Go ahead. I insist. My precious little
what?"

"Peagoose." Eliza patted a smile. "Forgive
me, my lord, but I find it difficult to consider with respect
someone who is—" she stopped short again.

"Who is what?"

"I don't believe you really want to
know."

"Oh, but I do. Someone who is what?"

"Very well. Someone who is..." she
paused.

"Yes. Who is what?"

"Nothing more than a commonplace
courtesan."

Damon couldn't argue her point. He'd given a
valuable pigeon's blood ruby to a maharaja in return for releasing
Mara from the
zenana
. "And you are an impudent chit."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Eliza said,
"But you wanted to know what I was about to say and I told you. In
the future I shall hold my tongue."

"Fine. You do that."

"Well, I'd best find my way to the sitting
room. You did say it was just down the hallway, didn't you?" She
stood looking up at him expectantly, waiting for his dismissal.

"Yes... just down the hallway…" Damon caught
the aroma of sandalwood and found the effect unsettling. His eyes
rested on a pair of parted lips. Lips he intended to sample in the
very near future. Stepping aside for her to pass, he said, "Keep in
mind that my butler takes an accounting of all the silverware,
every day."

Green eyes flared. "I am not a thief," she
said. "I am willing to make things right because I have done you an
injustice, and I assure you, I am here in that capacity only."

Her words had the distinct ring of a lie.
Damon resolved to watch her closely, although he wasn't certain why
he should even keep her on. She'd been nothing but trouble from the
moment he'd set eyes on her. But he wasn't ready to let her go. At
the horse fair she'd given him a glimpse of what she had to offer,
and he intended to collect. "If you want to make things right," he
said, "you’ll see to ridding my bedchamber of a family of mice who
invade my quarters nightly."

Her eyes widened. "Mice, my lord? But, surely
you don't expect me to come into your bedchamber at night... for
mice."

Damon's mouth curved with an ironic smile.
"If you come to my bedchamber at night, gypsy girl, I pray it will
not be for mice.”

“And I can assure you, I would not come for
any other reason.”

The image of an enticing gypsy wench, warm
and naked and curled in his arms, filled his mind's eye. It would
happen, though not tonight.“Then I'll expect you to prepare the
room before I retire for the night and clean up the mouse remains
in the morning after I leave. You do know the procedure for
eliminating mice, don't you?"

"No, my lord. I've never been given that
duty."

As Damon peered down at her, he resisted the
urge to touch her face. Her skin looked as smooth as porcelain, as
unblemished as a child's. He could only imagine how the rest of her
would look laying naked against silk sheets. "You'll find corks in
the kitchen," he said, redirecting his thoughts to the issue of the
mice. "Slice the corks crosswise and as thin as a rupee, have Cook
stew them in grease, and place them near the mouse hole, which
you’ll locate when you clean my bedchamber. The mice will eat the
corks and die. In the morning, you can dispose of them, clean up
the bits of cork, and scrub the floors."

Batting her eyes, Eliza said, "Tomorrow is
Sunday. Surely I’m not expected to work seven days a week."

"You have not yet worked an hour."

"But, Mrs. Throckmorton insists I attend
church."

"And so you will... After you rid my bed
chamber of mice. And so that I am out of the room in time for you
to take care of things before church, I will rise with the six
o'clock gong," he said, magnanimously.

"Very well my lord," she replied. "Your wish
is my command." Dipping a demure curtsy, she turned and walked
away.

Damon watched the graceful sway of her hips
as she sashayed down the hallway. Perhaps he would send Mara back
to her maharajah. Then he could install a certain gypsy miss in the
bungalow. Yes. That idea pleased him.

***

The sound of Mrs. Throckmorton's irksome
voice thrummed in Eliza's head: ‘
Not so much soda in your pail.
Scrub harder, harder. Up and down. Not crosswise on the boards, you
stupid girl. There are still spots. See here, and here, and here.
Leave no spots!’
She'd hovered over Eliza until Eliza felt as
if the walls were closing in. By seven, Eliza still had corks to
prepare. But for that, she’d work outside where the air was
fresh.

From the kitchen scullions she procured a
lantern, matches, several coals, lard, a long-handled spoon, a
cutting board, and a copper kettle. Gathering her supplies, she set
up behind the smokehouse. While grease heated in the kettle, a
multitude of nocturnal vagabonds fluttered around the coals like
multi-colored sparks. From every direction came the sounds of
night: cicadas with their ceaseless whirring, frogs croaking in
unison, the brain-fever bird screaming an ascending brain-fever,
brain-fever, brain-fever.

She inhaled the incense of night, the breath
of the wind carrying with it a blend of verbena and mignonette and
warm earth. Pressing her hand to the soil, she felt the heat of the
day against her palm. Scooping up some dirt, she formed a round
flat cake, as if making a dirt pie...

‘
Humpti-tumpti gir giya phat...'

"
Ayah
?" she said aloud, then wondered
why she'd done so. When she was a child, at
Shanti Bhavan
,
she knew she'd had an Indian
ayah
, but she had no
recollection of the woman. But the string of words had come as if
from
Ayah
'
s
lips. Faceless, elusive
Ayah
.
‘
Humpti-tumpti gir... Humpti-tum... Hum...
’ She closed her
eyes, grappling for the phrase, but it was slipping away. And
moments later, all that captured her attention was the dirt cake
she held in her hand. Eyeing it indifferently, she tossed away.

Unlashing a small knife from a sheath
strapped to her leg, she began slicing corks into thin wheels until
a mound of round disks rose beside her cutting board. She tossed
the corks into the grease and stirred, then allowed them to soak.
She had just set the spoon aside when Lord Ravencroft appeared.
Peering into the kettle, he said, "What's this?"

"Corks for the mice, my lord," she
replied.

He crouched and sat back on his heels.
Lifting her knife from the cutting board, he tipped it toward the
lantern. The carved ivory handle shone, and the blade flashed
bright. He studied it more closely. "The workmanship is good," he
said. "Where did you get it?"

"It belonged to my mother," Eliza
replied.

Damon touched the knife tip to his finger and
a drop of blood emerged. "Wicked little devil," he said. "Is this
what you use for—" he lifted a questioning brow "—tattoos?"

"No," Eliza replied, "I use this." She pulled
a bamboo tube as thin as an artist's brush from her knot of hair,
sending black tresses tumbling about her shoulder. Twisting off a
cap on one end of the tube, she removed a bamboo needle. "And these
are my dyes." She raised the gold chain around her neck. Vials hung
from it like colorful glass baubles.

He eyed her dubiously. "Who are your
customers?"

"Mostly Hindu girls," she said. "They
decorate their arms with flowers and animals."

Damon returned the knife. "Would you tattoo
me?"

Eliza slipped her knife into the sheath
lashed to her leg. "Perhaps sometime."

"How about now?"

She looked at him with a start. She'd done
many tattoos by lamplight, but never alone with a man in the
seclusion of woods. "It's dark here."

"I'll hold the lantern." Eyes, black as
night, danced with fiery sparks. "I insist."

Eliza shifted nervously. The thought of
pricking the skin of Lord Ravencroft made her chest feel tight...
breathless, in fact. "Very well," she said, her voice shaky. "Where
do you want the tattoo, and what kind of design would you
like?"

Damon shrugged out of his shirt. His eyes
flickered with amusement as he placed a hand over his heart and
said, "I want it here. And I want you to tattoo the name,
Eliza."