Wild Jasmine (58 page)

“My mother enjoys her garden,” Jasmine said thoughtfully, “and she would know that my father often called Candra his English Rose. What if Alain O’Flaherty, himself, brought two rosebushes to Mama Begum.
English rosebushes!
He could speak to her using the roses to explain my situation. She would understand.
I know that she would!
”

“Perhaps,” Skye said. “Perhaps you are right, my darling girl, but it will be at least ten months before our ships leave again for India. In that time you may have other news for your Mama Begum. That, too, would please her every bit as much as I know it will please me and Velvet.”

“Now I can be happy,” Jasmine said softly. “Thank you, Grandmama! I do not know what I should do without you. May I never have to know it!” She hugged Skye hard.

“Nonsense, my darling girl,” Skye O’Malley de Marisco said. “I shall be with you for many a year yet. I am just now skirting the edges of old age, but there is a great deal of living left in me! A great deal of living indeed!”

At dawn the next morning the family and their guests crowded themselves into the chapel at Queen’s Malvern. As there were but four carved oak benches within, most were forced to stand about the room, in the rear, and out into the hallway. The rising sun lit the stained-glass windows, casting shadows of red, blue, gold, rose, and green that gave the place a magical glow. Upon the marble altar with its Irish lace cloth sat a gold crucifix which was flanked by tall gold candlesticks burning pure beeswax tapers.

The bride, radiant in her apple-green silk gown with its charming gold adornments, was escorted by her proud grandfather. Adam looked extremely handsome in his elegant suit of dark green velvet. He beamed with pride, and tears shone in his blue eyes as they traversed the narrow aisle. He and Skye had been in India when Velvet had married Alex. He had not
had the privilege of giving his daughter away, and had always felt the loss of that singular, special moment. When Jasmine had asked him to do the honors for her, he had been overwhelmed with delight, and readily accepted.

Now as they reached the altar rail, which was carved around with grapevines, he bent down to place a kiss upon his beloved granddaughter’s cheek, even as he put her hand into the hand of a besotted Rowan Lindley.

Jasmine smiled at him, and reaching up touched his cheek tenderly with her other hand. “I love you, Grandpapa,” she told him softly.

Adam stepped back to join Skye, the tears now slipping quite unashamedly down his cheeks. Wordlessly, his wife handed him a handkerchief, squeezing his hand in hers as the Church of England priest began to speak the beautiful words of the marriage ceremony.

Part III

The Marchioness
of Westleigh

Ireland
1607–1610

Chapter 15

I
n the summer of 1608, in the garden of Rugaiya Begum, a young European gentleman came to speak with the late Mughal’s eldest widow. She greeted him politely. He was a diversion in the otherwise drab existence of her days. He was a factor of an English trading house, she had learned.

“Why do you come to me?” she asked him. “I have no influence with the Mughal. He is not my son,” she explained. Too often Europeans did not realize that Akbar had had many wives. Because she had been his first wife, they assumed she was Salim’s mother.

“I have been told that you are very fond of your gardens, gracious lady,” the young gentleman said. “My name is Alain O’Flaherty. I seek no favors of you, but recently there came into my possession some particularly fine rosebushes.” He paused. “
English roses
. They flourish more freely than do the roses of India,” Alain O’Flaherty said. “Knowing of your love for roses, I thought to perhaps bring these two bushes to you, gracious lady. I had to make a trip to Lahore on business matters, and though you modestly claim no influence with the Mughal, your friendship is important to me.”

“What are these bushes called?” she asked him. “One is white, I see, the other red. Do they have names, good sir?” Am I growing mad, Rugaiya Begum wondered, or is this gentleman trying to tell me something?

“The white bush is called the Jasmine rose, gracious lady. Note that it bares a faintly elusive scent similar to the night-blooming jasmine flower. The red is named for the Marquess of Westleigh, a most worthy gentleman,” he told her.

“Ahh,” she said, and arose to examine the bushes in their porcelain tubs. Her head lowered, her fingers playing with the deep green leaves, she said in a voice so low he barely heard her, “
Is my daughter happy?
”

Alain nodded and replied in equally low tones, “We are cousins, gracious lady. She is married to the Marquess of
Westleigh, and was, when our grandmother’s fleet set sail from England last February, already great with child.”

Rugaiya Begum straightened herself and said to Alain O’Flaherty, “Your bushes are of an excellent quality, good sir. You may bring me more of these English roses when they are available. I should like to see a garden full of them, Allah willing!”

He bowed. “I shall do my best, gracious lady,” he promised. “
God willing.
”

She watched him as he departed her presence. He could not know how his visit had cheered her. It was August ninth, and Yasaman, her beloved daughter, was eighteen this day. A tear slipped down the old begum’s face. In all the years she had lived in India, Yasaman had never allowed a birthday to go by that she had not gifted her Mama Begum. Yasaman would never know that today she had given Rugaiya Begum her best gift of all. The knowledge that she was safe and happy once more.

The young Marchioness of Westleigh awoke early at Cadby on the morning of her eighteenth birthday to find her bedchamber filled with flowers. “Rowan, have you gone mad?” She laughed happily as her husband entered the room carrying their daughter in one arm and a squirming red and white spaniel puppy in the other. “Give me India. She will want her breakfast at once or her little Mughal temper will burst forth,” Jasmine said, and bared her breast, causing her daughter to grunt eagerly in anticipation.

Rowan Lindley dumped the puppy upon the bed and handed Lady India Lindley to her doting mother. “I have been mad with happiness ever since we married, my love,” he said. “I wish you would find a wet nurse for India. She takes far too much of your time, and I wish to do that.”

Jasmine put her daughter to her breast and the baby suckled noisily, now content. “Soon,” she promised him. “What did you get me for my birthday, Rowan?”

“You will have to wait until your birthday dinner, madame,” he told her with a smile. “ ’Tis a most special gift, I promise you.”

“Did your going to London have anything to do with my gift?” she wheedled him. “Is this why you left me for almost three weeks?”

He chuckled. “In time, Jasmine. In good time you will know
everything you desire to know, but not until tonight! For now, be satisfied with this charming puppy I have bought you. Her name is ‘Feathers,’ and eventually, I am certain, she will learn not to pee on the bed.” He scooped the puppy up with a rueful grin. “Rohana! A cloth!”

Jasmine shook her head at him, but she was laughing too. Rowan was always bringing her gifts of one kind or another, be it an occasion or no occasion. The one thing he would not give her, however, was jewelry, the only exception being her wedding ring.

“I could not possibly give you anything as magnificent as what you already possess,” he told her honestly. “Between the separate pieces and the caskets of gemstones you hold, there is nothing left for me to give.” She had to agree, but of all the jewelry she owned, the wedding band he had given her was her most treasured possession.

India’s nursemaid arrived to take her little mistress. After Jasmine kissed her daughter’s dark, downy head, she waved her off. “I’m starved!” she announced. “I think I may be breeding again, Rowan. ’Twill be a son this time, I promise you! We cannot allow Tom and Sybilla all the glory with their lads. My mother simply dotes upon them.”

“Your grandmother dotes upon India,” he replied. “Should you have another child so quickly, my love?”

“Why not?” she demanded of him. “I am healthy. Besides, my lord, you cannot seem to keep your cock in your breeches for very long when we are together,” she teased him. “A puppy is but a little birthday gift. Have you nothing bigger for me?” She had not fully replaced her chamber robe, and flaunted her bared breasts at him.

“Madame, you are a shameless creature,” he told her, pretending an outrage he was far from feeling. Indeed, if he was feeling anything, it was pure and unadulterated lust for his wife. His delicious, naughty, and totally uninhibited wife. The randy beast between his legs stirred.

Jasmine saw the movement beneath his nightshirt and she giggled. Though they both continued to sleep together in the nude, they dressed in the morning for the sake of their servants’ modesty.

Although it would not have disturbed Rohana and Toramalli to see their master and mistress as God had fashioned them, Cadby’s English servants would have been shocked. They were just now becoming used to the idea of having Adali as
their majordomo. Many of the servants at Cadby had been elderly when Jasmine arrived sixteen months ago as her husband’s bride. She had retired most of them to cottages and replaced them with those of her own choosing who had known no other mistress. Only the cook, a plump, middle-aged woman, remained, and she, poor creature, was completely in Adali’s thrall.

Jasmine threw back the bed covers and smiled invitingly. “Come back to bed, my lord. Why the sun is even now just barely up.”

“I am bound to take the gentlemen hunting,” he said.

“
This early?
” She slipped a hand beneath his nightshirt, fondling his stiffened rod and pouch.

“
Jasmine!
”

“
Yes, my lord?
” Her fingers tangled themselves within his bush, tickling him.

“You will make me late,” he protested weakly.

“You will be later if you do not come into this bed and give me a little gift,” she teased mischievously. “Do I no longer attract you, Rowan, my love, that you will not dally with me of a morning?”

He glanced toward the windows. “It does look like rain,” he reasoned. Her hand was driving him wild. “Perhaps a few minutes will not matter, you incorrigible little witch!” He pulled away from her and yanked his nightshirt off, then threw himself upon the bed.

Giggling, Jasmine scooted away from him, pulling her own garment fully off and sticking her tongue out at him. “I am not incorrigible,” she said. “I am the very model of a good English wife!”

“Your aunt Willow is the model of a good English wife,” he answered, laughing. “You are deliciously, naughtily, delightfully incorrigible.” Tackling her, he flung himself atop her and kissed her soundly, sheathing himself within her even as he did so.

“Oohh, you are a terrible beast,” she murmured, running her tongue across his lips.

“ ’Tis a beast you like well,” he teased her back, moving on her slowly at first and then more quickly as their mutual crisis drew nearer. “Ahhh, sweetheart!” he groaned as he filled her with pleasure.