Dishonored (47 page)

“Ashok,” she whispered behind her, “it’s all here, it’s…” Suddenly she heard the thump. It echoed off the walls and she
spun around. “Ashok?” She flashed the light up and down. “Ashok?” She saw his face. “Oh my God!”

Dropping the torch, she staggered back, groping behind her. She was breathing fast and hard, the darkness engulfed her and
she lost her footing. Clutching at the wet, slimy rock, she managed to right herself, clawing forward.

A hand grabbed her arm. She screamed and it covered her face. An arm went around her neck.

“Not here…” a voice said, “not now, not yet.” She felt the cold tip of a knife on her breast through the thin fabric
of her shirt and she jerked with fright. It grazed the skin, drawing blood, making her flinch.

“Stupid!” he hissed. “Stupid girl!”

He yanked her head back, wrenching her neck and walking her backward. She started to cry. “I want to see you before I kill
you,” he whispered, his hot breath on her throat “In the light.”

She struggled to breathe, to stop the uncontrollable sobbing. She could hardly walk and he had to drag her along the rock,
hauling her up every time her legs gave way, twisting her whole body, tearing her skin on the filthy, bat-infested walls.
“I want you to feel the pain,” he hissed, “the fear.” Then he laughed, a high-pitched, manic laughter that rebounded off the
rock and sent the bats swooping overhead.

John ran along the edge of the slope and motioned to Mulraj above the cave. He dropped to his knees, felt the sharp pain of
arthritis and swore under his breath. He crawled along the ground to the cover of the rocks and saw the figure at the edge
of the cave. He watched, then swung his arm up over his head in a split-second movement to give Mulraj the signal. The man
staggered out, dragging Indi in a neck lock, and Mulraj aimed the pistol. A shot rang out, Indi screamed and fell to the ground.
John ran forward.

Before he saw it a machete flew through the air and hit him in the shoulder. He fell, rolling over, digging the blade deep
into the flesh. Mulraj was down and over the body of the assassin when he stumbled on them. He clutched his arm, his face
ashen, the blood seeping through his fingers.

“Indi? Jesus! Indi?” He knelt down and lifted her head up, cradling it in his lap. She was bleeding where she’d hit her face
on the rock but she opened her eyes, dazed, shocked. “Gramps? What the…?” She lifted her head around, saw his arm and
scrambled to her feet. “My God, Gramps!” She bent forward and inspected the wound. “You’re too bloody old to be playing soldiers!”
she suddenly snapped. Then leaning forward and touching his forehead with her own, she said, “But Christ am I glad that you
did.” And she burst into floods of tears.

Two hours later, Oliver stood by the jeep and waited for the guide, Mulraj. He had a nasty lump on the back of his head but
he was all right, fit enough to travel, and he was leaving. He had said his goodbyes.

He smiled as Ashok came toward him, nursing a sling over his right arm and a bandaged head.

“You are off, Oliver!”

“Yes, in a few minutes.”

Ashok held out his good hand, the left, and they shook hands warmly.

“What will you do?” He meant about Indi and Oliver knew that but he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t need him, not at the
moment, not with so much going on in her head. Perhaps not at all. It hurt, the pain was far worse than any crack on the head
but what could he do? “Return to Delhi,” he said, “hand in my notice and go back to the army.” He glanced in the direction
of the hospital. At least one good thing had happened to him: he’d finally made up his mind about the army. John Bennet had
convinced him; if he ended up even half the soldier the brigadier was then he’d be happy.

“They will find out the truth now,” Ashok said, following Oliver’s gaze.

“Yes, I’m glad.” He turned to the Indian. “What about you? What will you do, Ashok?”

“Once the truth is known and the wealth is uncovered I will restore my family’s honor and I hope I will be getting married.”

Oliver grinned. “Congratulations!”

Ashok bowed. He took out his photograph and handed it across. It was an honor only befitting a friend. Oliver looked, then
handed it back. “You must be very proud,” he said. They were the same words Indi had used.

“Well, here’s Mulraj!” Oliver turned to the guide. “Are you ready?” The guide smiled and bowed. He slung his bag on the seat
and climbed into the jeep. Oliver looked at Ashok. “Good luck,” he said. “With everything.”

Ashok nodded. “And good luck to you, Captain Hicks.” He stood back as Oliver climbed up into the driver’s seat and started
the engine. He slammed the door shut

“Goodbye!” Oliver called out of the window. He reversed, turned the wheel and swung the jeep around.

“Goodbye!” Ashok shouted as they moved off. “Goodbye, Captain Hicks!” And he stood, watching the cloud of dust all the way
up the track until the jeep turned into the main road and disappeared from view.

I
T WAS
O
CTOBER AND AS
I
NDI HURRIED OUT OF THE HOSPITAL
entrance, she pulled the collar of her coat up high around her face. She was tired, hungry, her legs ached and to cap it
all it was freezing. She shivered, bought an Evening Standard from the news-seller on the corner and walked quickly along
to the tube. It was six-fifteen, she had been on duty since four that morning and she had a mood like a thunder cloud.

At the tube station she had to queue for her ticket, she got the heel of her shoe trapped in the slats on the escalator and
a month’s worth of old receipts fell out of her wallet as she got her ticket out. She stood in a crowd for the train, pushed
and shoved her way on, finally found half an inch of space and managed to get the
Standard
out of her bag. She sighed miserably.

Ever since she had returned from India she’d felt miserable. Dr. Bennet, about to sell a major portion of the maharajah of
Baijur’s jewelry collection which the legal profession had somehow decided was rightfully hers and to give a huge chunk of
money to charity, should be feeling pretty damn chuffed with herself. No, she felt lousy, unhappy, dissatisfied and lonely.
Lonely! Ha! She’d never felt lonely in her life before! Well, not since she went to India anyway.

Indi struggled to get the paper up and read the front page. She saw a young man out of the corner of her eye try to look at
the headlines and she rustled it irritably. She turned the page.

“Erm, excuse me?”

She sighed and shifted away, holding the paper a bit higher.

“Hello? I’m looking for…”

God! Some people were so bloody tiresome! “Whoever it is,” Indi snapped as she dropped the paper, “I’m sure…” She stopped
and let the paper go. It slithered to the floor, shedding its pages. “Oliver!” she croaked.

He smiled. “I’m looking for Indu Bennet,” he said, “I wanted to tell her that I love her.” There was an instant silence in
the carriage.

Indi stared at his face as it blurred out of focus and Oliver silently handed her a handkerchief.

“Do you know where I might find her?”

Indi blew her nose. “Yes,” she whispered. “Here.” She wiped her eyes. “I love you too,” she murmured.

Oliver frowned. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

Indi cleared her throat. “I love you too!” she shouted over the noise of the train. He shook his head and put his finger behind
his ear. “I love you too!” she suddenly yelled.

“Good!” He smiled. “That’s settled then.” And as he leaned forward to kiss her, the entire carriage broke into a round of
applause.

In old India under England’s rule, fires of revolution make implacable foes of two families, one British, the other native. A century later, a terrible revenge and a defiant love will vie for the souls of a new generation…
Phillip Mills,
arrogant and imperious, stops at nothing to redeem the honor of his name, even if it means sacrificing the sancity of his marriage…
Jane Mills,
Phillip’s bride, channels her unmet passions into the arms of a man whose every breath whispers promise and danger…
Rami Rai,
poet of his people and heir to a vow of blood, must choose between hallowed tradition and the woman he loves…and
Indi Mills,
the child born of a forbidden union, must embark on a quest that will yield treachery and violence at every turn, and offer an undreamt-of redemption at its stunning conclusion.

In the rich storytelling tradition of Belva Plain and M. M. Kaye, Maria Barrett’s DISHONORED spans decades and continents…and touches every emotion.

“A BRILLIANT NOVEL…SIMMERS OVER THE FLAME, AS COMBUSTIBLE AS A DRY MATCH.”
—Book World