Soul of Fire (20 page)

She shook her head. “I don’t know, my lord. I just know I do. I can sense you are uneasy and questioning your wisdom in letting that person escape.”

“The person . . . I hardly had the option of catching up with him, you know? He was very fleet among the trees, and as tired as I am it would be folly to cede control to the dragon. The dragon looks only for one thing, and that is consuming as much food as possible. I’d be lucky if the only thing it savaged were the corpses in the burning ghats. It is far more likely it would go after the sacred cows and bullocks.”

“Yes, but all the same, the fact that you allowed him or her to escape, that you did not pursue the spy further, preys on you. And before we go into a more populated area in search of food, I would like to know what it is.”

She expected him to argue or to tell her that it was none of her concern. Instead, he nodded once, curtly, like a man faced with a difficult hand that he must yet gamble. “Very well, then, Miss Warington. What worries me about that man or woman who ran away is that this person was stark naked. I could not tell, at a distance, the gender or the age, but I did have an unobstructed view of a naked backside.”

“Oh,” Sofie said. It occurred to her that she did not in fact know how prudish he was. Certainly, he’d been naked in front of her and been able to carry on a conversation while dressing. But then, surely, being a were-dragon, he’d long since had time to be used to finding himself naked in odd places. However, how prudish was he about other people’s nudity? She’d forgotten, for a moment, that he hadn’t grown up in India. “But, surely, you see . . . In India it is not unusual for someone to go around stark naked. They lack the rules of modesty we have in England, and it doesn’t seem to disturb them in any way. If they are in financial distress, or else if clothing isn’t very important to them because of a vow or something, they will go around naked.” She shrugged. “I know it’s a great lack of modesty, but it is quite normal for them—you must not let yourself be disturbed.”

He’d looked a little bewildered as she spoke, and Sofie flattered herself that she was giving him new information. But on her last sentence, he made a sound like a hiccup and said in an utterly shaken voice, “Disturbed?”

He was taking this far harder than she thought. “I daresay it is very bad and immodest of me,” she said, “to not be disturbed by it, myself. But you see, I grew up in India, where this is viewed as quite normal, and therefore I have had time to get used to it. I know your views of modesty might be different.”

And now his hand went up to cover his mouth and his shoulders shook and it took her only a moment to realize that his eye was shining with a manic glimmer, and that he was not, in fact, shocked. Instead, he appeared to be laughing almost maniacally.

“Lord St. Maur!” she said, shocked in her turn.

He removed his hand from in front of his lips, giving up what had clearly been a vain attempt to conceal his laughter. “I know.” He gave her a quick, feral smile. “And I apologize for laughing, but . . . surely, my dear Miss Warington, you understand I do not heed the modest standards of British maidens. I find them, to be honest, a little boring. And I told you I’ve been all over the world for the last ten years. Surely—”

“I don’t know the standards of modesty in the rest of the world,” she said, sullenly, resenting that she showed her feelings in her voice. “I only know that India is very different from England. And you’ve hardly been in India at all.”

He nodded, while he made a visible effort to get his expression under control. “It’s just . . . the thought of me being so shocked by a naked human being, it undid me. I beg your pardon. I was not laughing at you, only at the image of myself swooning a drawing-room faint and needing to be revived by means of smelling salts. Tell me, would I need to wear a cap, too, or would my own manly curls suffice?”

The image made her giggle, in turn, but she shook her head. “I don’t understand. If you’re not shocked by the creature’s nudity, then why did it disturb you?”

His expression sobered immediately. “Because it is a condition weres often find themselves in unexpectedly.” He shook his head. “I daresay I’m being silly and imagining too much. As you say, it is not unusual in India to see people in all conditions, including quite naked. It’s all a mare’s nest, an unfounded fear, I’m sure.”

But despite his reassuring words, her mind leapt ahead to the inevitable conclusion. “You mean you think he might be a spy for those were-tigers who tried to capture us in Calcutta, do you not?”

St. Maur shrugged. “I’m jumpy and confused. And very, very tired. I’m sure it is nothing. I can’t imagine why they should pursue us this far. In fact, I’m not sure why they pursued us at all. I would give something to know why a were-tiger ruler finds it vital to have your hand in marriage.”

“It is possible,” she said, slowly, doubting her own words even as she pronounced them, “that he is madly in love with me. My parents said it was so. That he’d even agreed to have only one wife, provided I would be that wife, and I suppose it takes something to get a local ruler to give up his seraglio.”

“Then he’d known you before?”

“Oh, no. My maid, Lalita, said he claimed to have seen me in a dream. And there, you know, is where my doubt hinges. While I’m eager to believe he’s madly in love with me—and, in fact, while I’m as capable of vanity as the next delicately brought-up English miss—I find it very hard to believe he would have fallen in love with me that way, without ever having seen me up close. without knowing me in any way.”

He looked like he would say something. At least he opened his mouth and took in breath as though to speak, but then bit his lip and shook his head. “It is,” he said, “a trifle strange. Would it change your mind about him if you found out that he truly loved you?”

She shrugged. “If he truly loved me, he would endeavor to conquer my affections by romantic means, not to as good as buy me from my parents. Or, worse yet, to send his henchmen after me. I’m willing to believe he might be smitten by me—oh, I don’t think myself any great beauty, but then again, it is possible that local tastes vary—but I do not believe he loves me. And even if he did, surely that is not a cause to love someone? Just because they love you?”

He nodded at that, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere. He spoke, softly, between barely parted lips, as though he were talking only to himself. “I would give something to know why you are so important to the were-tigers, and what game is afoot right now. While they are less at risk from the Gold Coats in India than anywhere else in the world, still it seems a little brazen to follow us across half a continent, trying to capture you. Unless you are vital to their plans in some way that we can’t guess at.”

“If they are, indeed, following us,” Sofie said.

“If they are,” St. Maur agreed, nodding. “And if this is not all madness brought about by tiredness and sleep deprivation. But in either case, Miss Warington, I think it would be good if we were to leave these relatively depopulated areas. They are far less likely to be able to strike at us in a populated area.”

Sofie nodded. She took his arm again, and this time she allowed him to lead her down a path, which appeared to have been beaten by the feet of generations of pilgrims. She could imagine throngs of barefoot people making their way to the Ganges. Or, as the Indians called it, Mother Ganges.

“I wonder what the purpose is,” she said, lightly, more trying to draw him into conversation than truly wanting to know. She could sense his tension, his worry. She suspected that the incident of being spied upon disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. She imagined, too, that this must be part of being a were. If you lived with a death sentence over your head simply for being what you were, you would grow a little jumpy, scared of every shadow. And if you were a gentleman, you wouldn’t show it. She wanted to ask him if there were were females. The novels she’d read had never mentioned any. But she dared not. Instead, she said, “Why they bathe in the Ganges, I mean. I know that water is not abundant in the dry season, but the river can hardly be clean with this many people bathing in it, and cadavers being burned there and whatnot. Certainly not enough to justify the throngs that come from all over the country.”

“They believe that any Hindu who bathes in the river has all his sins forgiven. And those whose ashes are thrown in the river after death will incarnate higher on the scale of things in their next life. Why, they even believe that Muslims and Christians who come and bathe in the Ganges will benefit from it.”

She almost said perhaps they should try it, but the time seemed strange for levity. Unable to find anything else to speak of, and afraid that any topic would lead her into weres—a fatal conversation now that they’d reached areas filled with pilgrims who might, any of them, be spying for the tigers—she remained silent, holding on to his arm.

Fortunately, the scene before her eyes was wholly absorbing. As they neared the Ganges itself, she saw that, contrary to what she expected, it was all built up with palaces and villas, which she supposed belonged to princes and rajahs. And amid those were mud-walled hovels and what seemed to be very ancient shrines. And of course, a throng of humanity.

She could smell the sickly sweet cremations out in the river, could see flames here and there, flaring against the setting sun. The smell seemed to touch something primal in her and make her wish she could run away. Somewhere up the river, a group of pilgrims were chanting.

“Where shall we bed down for the night?” she asked.

“There are . . . rest houses and houses of accommodations. Wealthy philanthropists build them for the benefit of their souls,” St. Maur said, speaking as if from a great distance. “Some of them, perforce, must be for low- or no-castes, and they won’t throw us out.”

“Do you think . . .” She hesitated. “Do you think that it will be quite comfortable?”

He chuckled, then shook his head. “I’m fairly sure it will be devilish uncomfortable, Miss Warington. But amid all those people—and those houses are always crowded—there will surely be some safety.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I beg your pardon if I subject you to discomfort, but my goal is to keep you safe.”

Indeed, faced with the multidinous strangeness of India, Sofie wondered if she’d even have made it so far without him. Surely not with the tigers pursuing her. And she, too, wondered why they’d pursue her. Surely a raj or king—and she’d heard him referred to as both—of a city would have more choices than one in matrimonial affairs. Perhaps it was connected to the ruby that was meant to be her dowry? No. Impossible. The ruby was flawed and cracked.

“Come, Miss Warington. We must find food.”

She felt like doing anything but eating just now, but looking at his pale, drawn countenance and the dark circle under his uncovered eye, she remembered he needed it. And because of his nature, so did she—she had no intention of being left alone because he’d been killed for feasting on a sacred cow.

It was dangerous, she thought, traveling with a were. But not nearly as dangerous as it would have been traveling without him.

AN UNRELIABLE REFLECTION; FIRE AND BLOOD; MIRRORED FACE

William Blacklock chased his carrier out. This was his
most constant servant, and he suspected in England he would have been called a butler or a valet or something of that nature. Here in India, even—in a proper household, constituted of a married couple and children—he might have borne that title.

But William’s carrier was just his main servant while William lived in a household shared by several young men, all serving Her Majesty in these distant climes. And while most of the time the carrier’s skills in communicating both with William and the rest of the staff were welcome, William didn’t want him now.