Her Master's Touch (7 page)

"Not yet." She dipped the needle into a vial,
and after making a series of pricks that trailed down his breast in
an arc and back up again, she lifted the lantern, cast a critical
eye on her work, and announced, "I think you will be pleased."

He looked down but couldn't make out the
tattoo. "What is it?" he asked.

"A rat, my lord."

"
A rat!"
Damon felt his gut twist. If
she had tattooed a toad or a skunk he could have found humor in it.
But a rat brought back childhood memories of lying in bed at night
and hearing rats gnawing through the walls. And adult memories of
returning home from abroad with enough money to lift his mother
from the stink-hole she'd lived in, only to find her in a room
alive with rats and reeking of vomit and diarrhea, while she lay in
bed, dying of cholera. She'd looked more like a wizened monkey than
a woman, eyes peering from sunken hollows, lips thin and blue. He
eyed Eliza with vexation, and said, "Why did you do a rat?"

She shrugged. "I hadn’t intended to do a
tattoo at all tonight," she said, "and when you insisted I do so, a
rat was what came to mind. But I tried to make it an elegant
rat."

Damon looked into eyes filed with mirth and
found his anger fading. She had no way of knowing what she'd done,
the irony of it. But he refused to let her see his dismay. He
slipped on his shirt. "This has been an interesting night," he
said, then left abruptly.

Eliza stared after him, uncertain what to
make of his hasty departure. Something about a a rat cut deeply. At
first she'd thought he'd been surprised with what she'd done. But
afterward, she saw a profound grief creep across his face,
reflecting as misery in his eyes. She felt a bizarre desire to go
after him, tell him she was sorry, crawl into his arms and feel his
lips on hers...

Which was precisely why she must find the
opal and leave. Because, if she stayed, she feared she might suffer
her mother's fate. Fall in love with a man too high above her to
return her love. And she refused to burden herself with that
misery.

Eliza unfastened several buttons of her
uniform and fanned her chest. It was unbearably hot for so early in
the day and she was thankful for the chance to complete the task
before the sun was high. Dropping to her knees, she collected the
last of the dead mice and deposited them in a tin. Grappling around
for the bloated bodies repelled her, but it gave her a reason to be
in Lord Ravencroft's bedchamber, and a chance to search for the
opal. Stepping to the hallway, she looked both ways. Seeing no one,
she began her search, starting with a curve-top trunk at the foot
of the bed. Finding only men's clothing, she moved to the bed and
checked beneath the mattress. Finding nothing there, she made up
the bed and dropped the diaphanous mosquito netting...

...through a gossamer veil… the glint of
gold on the wing of a nose… the sparkle of a tika on a
forehead...

The image, though fleeting, immobilized
Eliza. It was the face of her mother, but the features were vague.
She closed her eyes, trying to bring back the image, but it was
gone. Only a sense of foreboding lingered. Dismissing the
disturbing reflection, she returned to her search. Before checking
the wardrobe, however, she stepped to the hallway and listened for
footsteps. Hearing none, she opened the wardrobe doors and ran her
hand over the shelf above. Finding the crude beginning of a mouse
nest, and deciding it could come in handy if she needed to justify
her search, she stuffed it into the pocket of her apron. Next, she
shoved the clothes on their hangars to one side and started
searching pockets.

She had just tucked her hand into the pocket
of a frock coat when a deep voice, coming from the direction of the
hallway, startled her. "Are you looking for something?” Lord
Ravencroft asked.

Eliza snatched her hand away. "I was looking
for... mice."

Lord Ravencroft arched a dark brow. "In the
pocket of my frock coat?"

Eliza retrieved the nest from her apron
pocket, and said, "I found this, so I was checking your clothes for
other signs of the little beggars. But, if you'd rather I not do
such a thorough job I'll consider my task done and tend to my other
duties."

"No, please. Carry on." His gaze fixed where
the lapels of her dress lay open.

Eliza pinched the lapels together. "It's very
hot in here," she said, cheeks growing warm, "which is why I
unfastened my dress."

"Pity," he said. "I was hoping you'd
unfastened it for my pleasure, like you did at the horse fair. When
you held the horse for my inspection, you were eager to give me a
view of what you have to offer. But you never delivered on your
promise.”

"I was following the orders of my elders,"
Eliza said. "I’m rarely required to deal in horses. I either tattoo
or dance, after which I pass my tin cup. But the elders gave me
orders to sell the horse however I could, which is what I did."

Damon peered down at her, and said, "If I
fill your cup with rupees will you dance for me, gypsy girl?"

Eliza looked at him sharply, and replied,
"Why? So you can look down your noble nose at me and tell her what
a fool I am to degrade myself by being what I am?"

Damon's face sobered. "No, so you can share a
little of the life you lead so I can try to understand what's
holding you to it."

"I doubt, my lord, you could," Eliza said.
"Most
gorgio
s cannot."

"And after you leave my employ? What then?"
he asked.

Eliza gave him a droll smile. "I'll carry on
as before. Begging, stealing, swindling. All the things gypsies do
best."

As she turned to go, Damon took her arm and
pulled her around. "I don't suppose I have a hope in hell
convincing you that I'm sorry if I offended you," he said, his eyes
holding hers.

The way he was looking at her brought a surge
of desire coursing through Eliza. Whatever concerned him about the
tattoo the night before had vanished, along with her resolve to
keep her distance. But it was the look in his eyes that captivated
her now. No man ever looked at her that way, as if she mattered.
Did he feel something for her? Could he feel something for a
half-Hindu woman, maybe take her into his heart and make her his
wife? As Lady Ravencroft, she’d shed her gypsy ways and be the wife
he'd want her to be. She focused on his mouth. How could a man’s
lips look so inviting? And why did she want to taste them one more
time? He was, after all, just a man with an ordinary mouth.

No, not ordinary. No man she’d ever met had a
mouth like that.

Strong... firm... soft... inviting...

On impulse, she raised on tiptoe and kissed
him squarely on the lips. Before she could explore the reason for
her impetuous move, he pulled her into his arms and returned the
kiss in a way she’d never expected. The tip of his tongue teased
her lips apart, touching and tasting and darting in and out of her
mouth like a game of tongue tag, reminding her of a bevy of gypsy
urchins running and tagging and darting here and there. But it was
the sweet, smoky taste of him that near took her breath away. With
that came the realization that she was exploring his mouth, yet she
had no idea when she’d been the one to touch and tag. It was so
pleasantly warm, so deliciously refreshing, so wildly exciting.
She’d never dreamed kissing a man could be like this. But oh, how
she didn’t want it to stop...

And it didn’t. He seemed as excited with
their oral sparring as she, their tongues touching and thrusting
and lunging like two fencers in a duel, then twisting and curling
together like playful pups, until her nerves were humming and
satisfied purrs reverberated in her throat. It was beyond reason to
analyze why she was kissing Lord Ravencroft like her life depended
on it, when she should be keeping her distance and searching his
house for the opal. But all her best intentions seemed to have
abandoned her, along with her rationale for keeping her distance
from the man whose arms felt so comfortable around her. But she’d
never felt a man’s arms around her before. Not like this...

She had no idea when she'd clamped her legs
around his hips and tightened her arms around his neck, clinging to
him like a monkey, or when he'd carried her behind the bamboo
screen and pressed her back up against the wall. All she knew was
it felt good to be crushed against him, not like at the horse fair
when she’d felt the full length of him on top of the full length of
her, but a different kind of closeness, the kind that made her want
to strip off her clothes, and his, if only to find out what
happened next.

While she pondered that, he cupped her
buttocks and she felt something hard moving slowly and rhythmically
against her privates. It was some moments before she realizes
exactly what it was. But the sensation his slow, direct actions
brought was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, gradually
building to something just out of reach, something evasive that she
desperately wanted. Tightening her legs around him, she met his
rhythmic thrusts until her body gave a shudder, and wave after wave
of glorious sensation rippled through her. For a few moments she
stayed wrapped around him while trying to process what happened.
Then her eyes popped open, and she saw him smiling.

"You have to admit, this arrangement leaves
something to be desired," he said.

Abruptly, she pushed out of his arms and
dropped her feet to the floor. "I don’t know what you're talking
about," she said, backing away. Embarrassed and humiliated at what
she'd allowed him to do, and stunned by her bizarre response, she
darted from behind the screen. And froze.

Mrs. Throckmorton stood in the hallway, eyes
a pair of baneful slits.

Saying nothing, Eliza scurried past her and
down the hallway as fast as her feet could carry her. But when she
reached the stairway leading to her bed chamber, Mrs. Throckmorton
caught up with her. Grabbing her arm, Mrs. Throckmorton yanked
Eliza around, and said, "Filthy girl! Whoring with his lordship!
And on Sunday no less!"

Eliza's hand came up to gather the lapels of
her dress. "I was not doing what you said,' she explained. "I was
disposing of mice remains. It's what Lord Ravencroft asked me to
do."

"
Lies!"
Mrs. Throckmorton slapped
Eliza's face. "I heard the moans and cries coming from behind that
screen. And look at you with your dress unfastened to tempt his
lordship. You are a filthy, despicable girl. At least Alice didn't
try to rise above her station. She did her whoring with a stable
boy. But you covet whoring with his lordship. Well, you'll not be
tarrying in his bedchamber again. From now on you'll work in the
wash house. Perhaps then you'll shed your high-flown ways and no
longer have lustful designs on his lordship."

Eliza had no one to blame but herself. If
she'd had any sense, she would have left Lord Ravencroft's
bedchamber the instant he entered. But because of her folly, she’d
no longer have access to the house during the day, which meant
prowling about at night.

Unless she could placate Mrs. Throckmorton.
"I am ashamed," she said in a plaintive voice, "but I assure you,
it will not happen again. Besides, I’ve never worked in a wash
house. I don't know what to do."

"Then you shall learn." Sucking in a long
breath, Mrs. Throckmorton said, "On Mondays you sort clothes,
examine them for stains and soak them in a tub of water and slaked
lime. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays you rise before the gong and start
the fires under the coppers and boilers, then you boil the
garments, remove them from the coppers, rinse, rub and wring them.
You then refill the coppers and boilers and wash the clothes with
lye soap. The table linens are boiled in soda water, rinsed in hot
water, and hung to bleach in the sun. Thursdays and Fridays you
spend mangling, starching and ironing. Then you bring the
newly-washed laundry to me, where I will inspect it. Is everything
clear?"

Eliza hung her head. "Yes, Mrs.
Throckmorton." She ascended the stairs quickly, anxious to be away
from the loathsome woman.

In her room, she found her chamber mate,
Lekha, wrapping herself in a yellow sari. Lekha took one look at
her, and said, "I think you just get tongue lashing from Mrs.
Throckmorton."

Eliza explained what happened, leaving out
the kiss, but saying that she'd been caught with Lord Ravencroft in
his bedchamber. Lekha's eyes grew wide. "He
jungli pagal
sahib
—wild crazy man. Is talk he kill a man. He keep matched
guns, and he shoot canna lilies off stem. Bang, bang, bang, one
after another. If he in duel, he kill other man."

"Just because he owns dueling pistols does
not mean he killed someone," Eliza said, surprised to be defending
the man. "Many men own dueling pistols."

Lekha blinked several times. "Something
terrible happen here a long time ago," she said, "but no one know
what. Only hear talk that house hold terrible evil. That his lord
evil too."

Although Eliza vowed not to be drawn into the
servants’ prattle, the fact was, she knew something terrible had
happened at
Shanti Bhavan
when she was a child, something so
horrifying that her mind erased all memory of it from her mind.
Perhaps those memories were best left buried. As for Lord
Ravencroft... Few aristocrats moved to India without good reason.
India was for those without title or land, those who had to make
their own living. Those who had to flee the country. Still, she was
absolutely certain he was not capable of killing a man.

Fairly certain, that is. Wasn't she?

***

During her first week in the sweltering
confines of the wash house, Eliza thought she’d never suffered such
misery. Air redolent of slaked lime and hot wood ashes stung her
nostrils, brought tears to her eyes, and made her throat scratchy.
Her hands were raw from the caustic gray water, muscles in her back
ached from bending over the wash tubs, and her hair was a mass of
limp curls. After each day in the oppressive heat she was so
lethargic that while she lay in bed waiting for Lekha to fall
asleep so she could search for the opal, she too would fall asleep
and not awaken until the six o'clock gong announced another day of
drudgery. By week's end, she feared she might not accomplish her
goal. But she wasn't ready to abandon her mission yet.