A Duke's Wicked Kiss (Entangled Select) (6 page)

No man had a right to be so sinfully gorgeous. And he had the elegant manners of an aristocrat. Yet, there was a hardness to him that hadn’t existed ten years ago, an aloofness that gave her pause. What was it, she wondered, that had caused him to turn so cold? What had stolen the mischievous gleam from his eyes?

Oh, why was she thinking of him at all? Once she was finished with her Indian relatives, she’d be long gone, back to England to build a life for herself and for the homeless innocents she’d collect—all half-castes like herself who belonged nowhere in the world.

Something scraped against the wall outside.

That is not the wind!

She shot upright. Blood pounded in her ears as she strained to hear.

Turning her head away from the lamplight in an attempt to see better, she peered out.

Silence.

A breeze caught the netting once again. Oh, God, she didn’t care how blasted hot it got, she was closing the shutters! Scrambling out of bed in a panic, she flung her arms wildly about, trying to locate the opening to the netting.

“Hold still, or you’ll tear it,” came a voice out of the darkness.

Suri squealed.

“Shush,” he said. “It is I, your cousin.”

“Cous…cousin?”

A form emerged out of the darkness. Her knees threatened to give way.

“You wanted us to meet as soon as you arrived. Isn’t that what your letters indicated?”

She squinted. His silhouette against the night sky inched forward. Could she trust this man? It had to be him. No one could possibly know of their communications. Their letters had been exchanged clandestinely through a private agent out of London.

“How did you get in here?” Her knees wouldn’t hold her upright any longer. She plopped down on the bed and pulled the covers around her.

He paused, framed by the open shutters. “I have my ways.”

“Come here so I can see you.”

“I have no wish to frighten you.”

“You’ve already managed that. Come here, so I can at last find myself face to face with a relative on the Indian side of my family.”

Ravi Maurya stepped from the shadows and into the room. A faint smile touched his lips. “But we have already met, my dear cousin.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

A steady pulse of need vibrated through John’s veins, drawing him slowly awake. He lifted himself on one elbow. Blood rushed from his head to his groin and left him dizzy, as if he’d over-imbibed. His cock throbbed with the same potent hunger that had got him barred from Thurston land ten years ago. Soft spices and white petals wrapped his memory in a heady mist, transporting him back to the stable.
Suri’s scent
. From the moment it had brushed his awareness, when she’d bent to pet the cat, it had clung to his mind like cobwebs.

Fighting a war between body and mind, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed with a groan and cast the mosquito netting aside. He wasn’t about to take care of unwelcome carnal needs by his own hand.

Three years of celibacy. Had it really been so long? Watching a loved one die a slow and painful death from a cobra’s strike could do that to a person. Vivid memories rushed through him of Laura giving birth while in her death throes—of their dead child, bloated with venom when she’d emerged from her mother’s womb. John should have let Laura return to her mother in England for the child’s birth, like she had wanted. He should have… Damn it, he should have done a lot of things differently.

Mind won over body. The urge for physical release receded. The last bloody thing he needed was a woman. He stood, crossed over to a marble inlaid table, and poured a glass of water.

He glanced back to the bed encased in netting, its intricate frame of hammered silver flashing in the morning light, and the rumpled white sheets where he’d tossed and turned all night. Thoughts of Suri cleaved a path straight through his mind to his heart. He shoved them aside. He was in no condition to attach himself to anyone. Hell, he couldn’t even name his emotions any longer—and caring was too painful.

Shahira rose from alongside the bed, stretched her long, lean muscles in slow motion, and made her way over for her morning rub. One touch of John’s fingers and raucous purring vibrated through the cheetah’s body.

He smiled. “You’re a love, though, aren’t you?”

A flash of red in the large garden caught his eye. A brightly colored parrot landed in a young bodhi tree, then another, and another. Shahira went silent, crouched low, and began her stealthy pursuit—a repeated ritual at every sunrise.

“Haven’t you learned by now, girl? You are only being teased.”

A small ornate chest, one his brother had left for him, sat on the table. He lifted the lid, retrieved the letter inside and unfolded it. The parchment resembled wrinkled linen, he’d handled it so much. Here it was, plain as the hand that held it—James had been murdered. Whatever it took, John intended to prove it.

He had to.

Another thread of remorse tangled with the many others that kept his insides knotted. James would still be alive had John shown up on time instead of finishing that bloody card game. Why the hell had he never learned to give heed to the people he cared for most?

And then there was Edward. A cobwebbed memory invaded John’s senses—his younger brother, five years old, face streaked with tears, holding his wet crotch with one hand and pitifully waving good-bye to John with the other. Why hadn’t he remained at home until Edward was old enough to attend boarding school? Their mother had wanted as much, since she’d rarely been there for them. Instead, John had been desperate to escape. By the time Edward was of age, it was too late; the damage had been done. He should never have been left alone with their drunken father. It was John’s own damn fault his brother was the way he was.

John focused back on the missive in his hand. In vain, he scoured it for any clues he might have missed, something he’d done every day since his brother’s so-called accident.

Here is the proof I have sought that someone is feeding incendiary rumors to Kunwar Singh. It is no longer safe for me to remain in our home. Meet me tomorrow at noon under the large white banyan tree beyond the stable. No one will hear us there.

John fingered the cartridge from a British made Enfield P53 rifle, pushed the small Bible translated into
Urdu
around on the table, and studied the small, curved knife, its handle laden with precious stones. For nearly two years he had worked alone, ever since he’d found his brother under the banyan tree, dead with a broken neck, his horse standing beside him. Now, he needed help. Things were about to come to a head. An imminent uprising of native privates against British officers was rumored. And possibly, all too true.

…

Suri picked up the copy of
Les Maîtres Sonneurs
her sister had lent her and slapped it back on the table. She didn’t care much for George Sand’s way with words, let alone trying to dig through French in this heat. Lord, reading anything in this obnoxious weather was entirely too tedious.

These past two days, she’d toured her private garden more times than she cared to count. There were only so many birds flitting in and out of the grounds to observe, beautiful and brightly painted as they were—only so many colorful plants for Munia to name that Suri promptly forgot. Had it been a matter of remembering each plant or certain death, she would have had to plan her own funeral. Gardening had never held much interest for her.

Oh, pish-posh.

Where in heavens was Marguerite? Her suite was empty last she’d checked, which was half an hour ago, but seemed more like hours. She hadn’t seen a soul since Jeremy’s nanny had scooted him off to his morning lessons. Well, so much for keeping to her rooms until she met with her mother’s side of the family.

She studied the exotic furnishings again—the carved teak four-poster draped in netting which sat lower than her bed at home, the colorful silk hangings, pillows, and chair coverings that had dazzled her when she’d first entered her quarters. Whose idea had it been to paint the elegant escritoire a merry green dotted with small purple flowers? They certainly liked to fiddle with things in India. If the wood wasn’t carved, it was painted in bright, intricate patterns or scenes. And rarely did she see metal attached to anything that wasn’t painstakingly hammered into a work of art.

At least the room was resplendent in its accoutrements, but she couldn’t remain here, a self-imposed prisoner, for long. Exploring the Chatham home that had once belonged to an Indian prince might entertain her for half a day. After all, it certainly was large enough. All she had seen since the first night was the withdrawing room, ballroom, and dining room.

Well, she’d have to dress for that, wouldn’t she? She eyed the luscious pink sari edged in embroidered silver Munia had laid out for her on a low chest. She wore only a choli, the short sleeved, cropped blouse, and
lehenga
, a loose petticoat that went under a sari. She was infinitely cooler, dressed so simply. Besides, the choli, decorated with small mirrors and beads, and the loose fitting
lehenga
were of the same magnificent fabric as the sari, and left her feeling quite dramatic. God forbid she would have to dress in tight laces and a sweltering gown.

Calling for Munia to wrap her in the sari could prove more tedious than trying the task on her own. She didn’t care to have the maid follow her around the house afterward. Why should she need anyone to escort her through Marguerite’s home, anyway?

The very idea.

She lifted the colorful sari off the chest only to have the blasted thing tumble layer by layer onto the floor like a flowing river of pink and silver. “Drat!”

Three unsuccessful tries at a proper wrapping and perspiration trickled between her breasts. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She stomped over to a chair and sat, her chin propped in her hand while she stared at the mound of fabric—a puzzle of monumental proportions.

Eventually, the idea of remaining in her room, or the sheer torture of dressing in her traditional clothing, changed her mind.

One more try.

Picking up an end of the soft fabric, she tucked the silver edge into the waistband of her
lehenga
, and wrapped it once around her lower body. Next, she gathered it in even pleats, like petals of a flower, tucking them into the waistband as she went. She laughed softly when she realized her tongue had managed to wiggle its way out one corner of her mouth. As a child, that had always happened when she had learned anything new.

Her task completed, she gave the sari one more wrap, draped the loose end diagonally across her torso, and flipped it over her left shoulder and arm. Her right arm was exposed with only the fanciful short-sleeved choli covering the upper part.

“
Hmm
, not bad.”

Munia had shown her how she could leave her midriff bare, or use the excess fabric over her shoulder to act as a scarf around her neck, or to cover her head.

Quite versatile, this
. But baring her midriff was not something she’d dare, even confined to Marguerite’s home. While in her garden and room, she would stick with the cooler choli and
lehenga
. However, wrapping herself in a sari turned out to be as much fun as when Marguerite and she used to sneak into her stepmother’s wardrobe to play dress-up. But this—this was different—a sense of the sensual and exotic infused her. No wonder Marguerite adored wearing native dress.

She twirled in circles on the bare balls of her feet, causing the drape over her shoulder to fly about like the wings of a great plumed bird.

“Oh!” she blurted out when she caught sight of herself in the full-length cheval mirror. The yards of pink, the color of cabbage roses in full bloom, the silver edging flashing in the morning light, left her breathless. She loved the feel of the soft fabric moving gently against her naked skin. Loved the sense of freedom beneath the lightweight cotton.

And her hair. She gave her head a shake, glad that Munia had insisted on braiding her thick hair in a single braid and not piled atop her head. That, too, had a cooling affect.

She squinted. On closer inspection, she could make out the top of her bare navel and ivory skin beneath the thin fabric.

“Oh dear.”

Munia hadn’t mentioned this, and the sun hadn’t been high enough when the servant had worked the sari around her the first time to discern what she saw now. She sighed. Had Marguerite’s navel shown yesterday? She couldn’t recall. But, oh, wasn’t this exquisite!

What did she care if she ran into Harry and he spied her midriff? He should keep his eyes above her shoulders like a decent gentleman.

She retrieved the key to her door hidden away in a book. She’d be darned if it would remain in the box by the bed for Ravi-ji—or anyone else for that matter—to confiscate. Once was enough. Sliding into a pair of sandals, she exited her room, locked the door behind her, and tucked the key beneath her waistband.

The soft slap of her sandals against wood was the only sound to be heard. By the time she reached the end of the corridor even that echoed too loudly, so she practically tiptoed. She turned and made her way through a central corridor, wide enough for a train to pass through. Statues and lush foliage were everywhere. Ornate tapestries and odd pictures of what appeared to be hammered brass covered the teak walls. The corridor separated the bedrooms from the rest of the vast single story home, a small palace with ceilings that soared to the heavens.

Two guards wearing saffron-colored turbans and dressed in crisp white
sherwami
—coats split up the sides that reached the knees and covered loose pantaloons—stood sentry at either side of the tall and elaborately carved front doors. The rifles by their sides were a sharp reminder that the men served a larger purpose than mere decoration. They stared beyond her, as though she didn’t exist, as though her intrusion into their space was merely an insignificant breeze tossing the air about.