The Duke of Shadows (9 page)

He lowered himself to her side. She had no talent for hiding her thoughts; her eyes always gave her away. They lingered now, anxious, on the pond. "I wish I had my sketchbook," she said. When he did not reply, she turned to him inquiringly.

He made a pointed survey of her, toes to head. Ah, and there came the color back into her cheeks. He was developing a rather perverse taste for making her blush; no doubt it was related to his curiosity about how far down the blush actually traveled.

"What?" she said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You said you wanted to bathe. This is where the villagers come for it. I had to make a special request that we be left alone for a bit." He leaned forward, placing a hand on her knee; her breath audibly caught as he slid a finger down her soft calf. It occurred to him that his motivations might not be as noble as he told himself. A great deal of him simply wanted to get her down to her shift.

Ah, well. He'd made no bids for sainthood. "You would not believe how many villagers are curious to know what a memsahib looks like out of her skirts." He felt terribly in sympathy with them on that account. "There's a rumor that English mems must be deformed. Why else would they need to disguise their limbs with such strange conical contraptions?"

She shot him a laughing look, evidently trying to determine whether or not he was serious. The crests of her cheeks were scattered with new freckles. It was not a look generally sought by Englishwomen; he wondered if they would change their minds if they knew how tempting such sunspots could be. Like a map bidding a man to trace them with his lips, his tongue.

He pressed forward. "Emma, you do realize that if you want to return to England, you'll have to travel by ship?"

Her laughter faded. He felt the loss of it physically, like a muscle pulled in his chest, as she turned away. She ripped a flower from the ground and began to pluck away the petals. "I have nightmares. I admit that. And I would not feel at peace in the water any longer. But it doesn't mean I can't board a ship."

"It's your choice to swim or not," he said. "But better to face it here than in Calcutta."

She lifted her chin. "Why on earth do you care?"

There was a smile rising up inside him now; he let it touch his lips. "A good question." He lay back on his elbows and made a show of contemplating the clouds.

"You'd—" She exhaled slowly. "You'd come in the pool with me?"

"Of course."

"But—I'd ruin my shift."

"Kamala-ji has clothes for you."

"This is silly. I don't need to do this."

"I beg to differ," he said dryly. "You are perfectly filthy."

"Thanks very much!"

He rolled onto one elbow to face her. "More to the point, you aren't the sort to let your fears have the best of you."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not afraid. I said it was
silly."

She closed her eyes. "All right," she whispered.

"Good girl." He rolled to his feet and pulled her up by one hand, leading her down to the water's edge. She paused there to kick at the surface. The ripples radiated out, disappeared into the depths. Then, on a jerky move, she reached for the hem of her tattered dress and yanked it over her head. "Don't look," she said in a muffled voice.

That was bloody unlikely. Nevertheless, he made a show of inspecting the treetops as she shuffled into the shallows. He heard the whispering slide of laces, and then, a few moments later, the snick of a steel busk being opened. Ah, the depravities of modern fashion. Greatly to be regretted, that one could undress oneself.

A splash announced the end of the corset. "I saw them drown, you know." He glanced at her. Her face was pale again, her freckles pronounced. "I saw their faces as the wave swept them under."

"You loved them very much," he said.

"I still do." She shook her head. "This is stupid; we should just—"

"They must have loved you as well, to accompany you here, to want to see you safely arrived."

She blinked. "I suppose. Sometimes—sometimes I doubt it. I think of all the things I did wrong—that I still do wrong. I was never the dutiful daughter. Always in trouble. I couldn't sit still, I wasn't obedient—"

"You were theirs," he murmured. "You were perfect because you were theirs."

She tried to smile; he saw the effort. But her lips were trembling. She covered her mouth with one hand. "I suppose."

"You know."

"I know," she said softly, and took one large step forward before coming up short.

He saw her flinch; it registered through her whole body. It took immense restraint not to draw her back out. She bit a finger and shook her head. "Ridiculous," she muttered, and her eyes began to shimmer with tears. He had never seen her cry when Lindley was not involved; he felt, suddenly, like the worst sort of bastard. "This should be just like stepping into a bath," she said. "Shouldn't it?"

He stepped up so he stood at her side. "I used to swim as a boy in the lake outside Auburn Manor. Drove my grandfather mad, trailing muddy water over the carpets. For all his pretensions at playing the duke, he'd have made a more convincing housekeeper."

"But there
is
a difference," Emma said distractedly. "One can drown in a pond, you know. One doesn't drown in the bath. In fact, it's very likely, odds are, someone
has
drowned here. Did you ask about that in the village?"

"No."

"But don't you think it likely? If they use it so regularly? If it's the only place they bathe? It's very easy to overestimate one's strength, in the water…"

"I can't—" She bit her lip, gnawing furiously. She took another step. Again he followed. The water was now up to his calves, and the tops of her knees.

"One wonders," she said.

"What does one wonder?"

Her voice was very soft now. "Who's at the bottom."

He took the lead this time, stepping in front of her. "Personally, I always liked to float on my back," he said as he turned back to her—and like a fist to the gut, the sight of her knocked the wind from him. The shift, oh, the shift was a piece of wickedness, thin enough to reveal the shadows of her breasts, and the darkness between her thighs. She was beautifully formed, and the fabric was so thin that if he touched her, he would feel everything—the pebbling texture of her nipples; the heat where he would make her wet. "It's…" He cleared his throat. "It's remarkably easy to do. I'm sure you've done it before. I would make monsters out of the clouds." Christ, what was he on about? "Clouds, yes. It was a sight more interesting than my Latin lessons."

"You—know the classics?" she gasped. She had been inching forward steadily as he spoke; he watched her lower half disappear beneath the surface with an utterly unconscionable sense of regret.

"Well, and I did go to Cambridge," he said. "Actually took the double first, though I repented for it later. It made my grandfather too damned pleased with himself."

"The double first!" She turned to stare at him. "In mathematics
and
classics!"

"Let me guess. You know Latin?"

"And some Greek. And calculus—" She took a sideways step, and then thought better of it, retreating to shallower ground. She was soaked up to her armpits, and it had a brilliant effect on the chemise. He knew exactly what she would feel like now, in his hands, beneath his mouth; what she would look like, when he pulled off that ridiculous excuse for a shift and— Hell. This had not been his brightest idea.

"Shall we float?" he asked. She glanced at him in surprise; no doubt she was wondering why his voice had dropped a bloody octave.

"Very … very well." She held her breath as she tilted onto her back—then shook her head violently and splashed back to her feet. "No. I cannot."

"Let me help you." He moved through the water to her. No illusions of virtue now remained to him. He simply wanted to touch her.

She closed her eyes as his hands pressed around her waist. Such a beautiful thing, this fleshly curve; corsets had clearly been invented by monks. Schooling himself with deep, even breaths, he slid his hands up to her shoulders, then around to her shoulder blades as she lowered herself toward him.

When the water came up to her ears and cheeks, her eyelashes fluttered wildly. He stood above her, waiting. It would be a better sign if she would open her eyes, but if she did not choose to, then who could blame him for failing to restrain his own? He drank in the sight of her, wondering at himself as he did. Like a green boy.

Her throat moved as she swallowed. "You've got me," she said.

"I do."

Up came her lashes.

"See any clouds of interest?"

She frowned. "Medusa, I think. Those twigs coming off the main section are the snakes." She lifted her arm to point, and the movement unbalanced her. It would have been an easy recovery, save that she gasped and started to thrash in panic.

He grabbed her under her arms and hauled her to her feet. His hand closed on one breast—by accident, please God; he did not think he was so depraved yet as to take advantage of her fear. She froze beneath his touch, and he immediately made to pull away.

Her own hand came up and held him to her.

His turn now to inhale in surprise.

"Let me try again," she said quietly. For a moment he could not make sense of the words; then chagrin hit him. She was only trying to gather her courage.

Her head came around, and she met his eyes over her shoulder. The fear was still there, but something new accompanied it: something that had his entire body tightening, in a primitive promise to meet her tease and raise her one. She smiled slightly, and sank down out of his grasp, back into a float.

Damn this climate. Even the water was not cold. With a laugh at himself, he slid down next to her, so they were floating side by side.

She was still not entirely at peace; he could follow her journey through the peaks and valleys of fear by the rhythm of her breath—now rapid and shallow, now long and slow. After a few minutes, he decided it was enough. "Can you bear it now?"

She turned her head to look at him. "More and more, Julian." And she reached out to take his hand in hers.

Julian uttered a short and very graphic word. He grabbed her hand and drew her back behind the tree. "Sit down," he said sharply, and then, when she failed to obey immediately, shoved her to the ground. He joined her there, his fingers steepled at his lips as he followed the band's approach.

The three men wore the bright red jackets of the British infantry, and while two of them sported saffron turbans, the third carried his black shako beneath his arm—like a head, she thought, some horrible hunting trophy.

As two women ran out to meet them, the Marquess exhaled. "They've come to see their families."

Her heart was beating a drum roll in her throat. "What should we do?"

"We wait."

"But they'll kill us!"

"Not all the sepoys are taking part in the killing. Besides, they could be deserters. But the first thing we must do is get you into Indian clothes. Right now you stand out at a hundred yards."

"But they'll see us!"

"No," he said. "Look, they're going into the temple. Come on."

He looked at her and sighed. "Come, we're to hide on the roof."

She followed him to the rickety-looking ladder set in one corner of the courtyard, hiking up her skirts when he motioned for her to precede him. "Are you sure?" she asked as she began to climb. "Isn't this the most exposed place in the house?"

"Not where we're going." His tone was resigned. "Stay down on your knees," he added, as she stepped onto the flat, whitewashed roof. She sank down, watching as he pulled the ladder up after him.

He led her to what she initially assumed was a chimney, although of course houses with open courtyards wouldn't need such a thing. In fact, it was a large, flat-bottomed receptacle for rainwater. Thanks to the dry season, it stood empty, but it was barely big enough for the both of them. Emma tucked her knees as far into her chest as possible. The Marquess's legs were considerably longer than hers, and after a few moments' struggle to accommodate her position, he settled his hands on her ankles.

"Emma, I'm sorry," he said, sounding thoroughly amused, "but you're going to have to put your feet on my lap."

"You can't just squeeze?"

He laughed. "I'm a flexible man, but I'm not going to
squeeze
any further unless I break a few bones first."

She lifted her feet. He slid down beneath them to the ground and crossed his legs in the native fashion; even so, his knees brushed either side of her hips, and her bottom pressed against the juncture of his calves. She reached out to yank down the hem of her skirt.

"We won't be up here long," he said. "Just until they go to dinner."

"You think this is funny?"

"More like absurd."

She nodded and closed her eyes. But, robbed of vision, she became aware of new sources of disturbance. He had a distinct smell: sandalwood and something darker, mysterious and unmistakably male. It pulled at her stomach, like the scent of baking bread when she was famished. It made no sense. She wasn't hungry at all. Yet the sensation intensified every time he shifted slightly, thigh muscles moving beneath the thin soles of her slippers. It made her feel shaky.

His hand on her breast had been hot and firm. She could still feel it cupped around her.

She opened her eyes to seek new focus, and found he was watching her. His face revealed nothing save the genius of an unfair God, who had squandered so much beauty on a single man.

Perhaps her eyes were better shut after all.

"Is it hard," she began, and then stopped, appalled at what she'd been about to ask.
Is it hard to
be so handsome?
She must be sun-addled! How he would tease her if she asked that!

His brows lifted in question, and when she only shook her head, he sighed, tipping his own head back against the wall. The movement exposed a long length of throat. His hair was startlingly black, his skin a deep gold against the white of the wall. If she were to paint his portrait, she would use only those shades to capture him—along with a touch of the purest, brightest green for his eyes.

She made a faint, impatient noise. This was ridiculous. She had always admired his looks. That they should suddenly become so singularly
fascinating
struck her as absurd. She'd do better to worry about surviving the next hour.

The sun had gone down entirely now, but their enclosure blocked the breeze, so it was dreadfully hot. The braid from last night was still in place, and almost fully dried; she reached back to lift the heavy mass, twisting it around and tucking it between her skull and the wall. A bead of sweat snaked from her temple down her throat, and she caught it with a finger, wiping it across her collarbone. For some cool water, she thought wistfully. Dear God, for
ice.
At least she was no longer in English clothing.

"It will be difficult to get used to wearing a corset again," she whispered.

"So don't."

She rolled her eyes. "Wouldn't that be lovely. Alas, I'd never be able to set foot in society."

"Yes, and I'm sure you would miss that terribly."

His words arrested her. There was no judgment in them, only a gentle sort of mockery, as if he thought—as if he knew—that she did not, in truth, care a fig.

"Tell the truth," she said slowly. "Wouldn't you be shocked?"

He gave her a lazy smile. "Try to shock me, Emma. Go ahead. I promise you I would enjoy it." His voice pitched lower. "The way you're looking at me … I rather like it. No, no—don't look away. What a delicious blush. I must say, it does the most charming things to your skin."

Voices!
She slammed a hand against his mouth and jerked her head in the direction of the noise. He inhaled sharply, making her acutely aware of his lips against her palm.

The voices sharpened in apparent dissent. She removed her hand and looked to him anxiously. His eyes were shut, his head cocked in concentration. As he listened, a frown tightened his brow. Not a good sign. She wrapped her arms around her torso, rocking slightly to vent nervous energy.

"Oh, bloody hell," he whispered. "The sepoys are trying to get the priest's blessing to fight the British, but he's refusing to give it. So they're going to prove to him that the stars are aligned in their favor. They're looking for the ladder to the roof."

"What!" She started to rise, but he dragged her back down. The voices were nearing.

They had found a way up, then. They were on the roof.

She was not ready to die. She didn't feel she was meant to, not after all she had survived already. But it seemed that Julian had misread her palm. She stared at him as he pushed her as far down as possible, wondering if this would be the last sight she ever saw. He met her eyes, but his attention seemed inwardly focused, his expression blank.

And then he focused on her, and he smiled.

It carried the force of a physical slap, that smile. It shocked her to her bones. He had shown her a great many smiles since she'd met him—enigmatic, amused, mocking; cheerful, mischievous, grimly determined. But this one she had never seen. It stole her breath more effectively than fear. An angel's curve of lips, this: a gentle benediction, a silent understanding. An acknowledgment of the strangeness of a God that would lead them to such an end. Most inexplicably, a sweet reassurance that he would not complain of having had to share it with her.

They stared at each other, and his expression changed yet again, the smile fading before a new intensity. She recognized now the message it held. She leaned toward his kiss.

His mouth on hers defeated her alarm. This slow, heated exchange of lips and breath and tongue brought out something else entirely—a strange exaltation—as though her heart, sensing the end, had spread out through her veins. Her inhalation was deep and startled, and his tongue traced the passage of her breath, tasting her with thorough and increasingly ungentle care.

"Are bhai chalo chalo jaldi dekho!
Turn! Angrezi! Niklo vahaan se!
Haath uthaao!"