Her Only Desire (20 page)

She kept thinking about how he had rushed into the fray to calm the situation. He had saved their lives, and she doubted any of them could ever repay him properly.

Unlike Derek, he had not said one word of reproach to her. Not a single “I told you so.” In fact, he had been entirely kind, patient, and steady, his concern for her visible in his eyes.

When they had said good-bye, she had buried her face remorsefully against his chest, hating the knowledge that he would be left behind with much-reduced forces to help him if the situation turned ugly again after they had gone.

“Don't be afraid,” he had whispered, lifting her chin with his warm fingertips until her gaze had met his. He had stared soberly into her eyes. “I will see you in England, all right?”

Georgie had stared at him, longing to kiss him good-bye, but with King Johar and Meena both in the room, it would have been unseemly. Instead, she had nodded.

“Good. Run along now. Chin up, my girl,” he had ordered her softly. “And, mind you, save a dance for me at Almack's.”

He had sent her on her way with a knowing smile and a discreet wink, but tears had flooded her eyes at the thought of leaving him behind without allies.

“I'll be fine,” he had whispered. “Go.” He had nodded toward the door with a tender look of reassurance that she knew she would remember for the rest of her days.

“A husband, that's what you need,” Derek informed her, dropping back to ride alongside her, apparently eager to resume his browbeating.

She gave him a warning look.

“I'm only thinking about what's best for you, Georgiana. If you were married off properly the way you
should
be by now, at your age, then this sort of thing wouldn't always be happening. With the responsibilities of a wife and mother, you could not go about doing whatever you please—”

“Derek, if you say another word, I'm going to take this riding crop and shove it down your throat—”

“Enough, you two! Derek, leave her alone! This isn't the time.”

“Oh, I think it's the perfect time, considering she nearly just started a war.”

“Let's take a break,” Gabriel ordered everyone, lifting his hand to signal a halt. “We'll rest here for fifteen minutes and let the horses drink.”

“We should get off the road,” Derek asserted.

Gabriel nodded, and dismounting, they led their animals several yards deep into the woods, where one of Janpur's many crystal streams flowed parallel to the road.

As the horses drank greedily, Georgie looked at her eldest brother. His opinion had always carried great weight with her.

“What do you think, Gabriel? Is Derek right? Do you think I ought to take a husband?”

Stroking his horse's neck, he spoke slowly and chose his words with care. “Not just any husband would do for you, Georgiana. It would have to be someone who'd make you happy. Someone you'd respect and trust.” He paused, slanting her a piercing glance. “What do you make o' Lord Griffith?”

Her eyes widened and, at once, a telltale blush crept into her cheeks. Gabriel ducked his head, following her movement as she tried to turn away; he smiled knowingly at her embarrassment.

“Out with it.”

“Gabriel, he's a marquess.” She shook her head. “He's too highborn for me. Besides, after what happened, he's probably going to run as fast as he possibly can in the opposite direction the next time he sees me coming toward him.”

“I wouldn't be too sure if I were you. On either point.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one, he
is
very highborn, and you may be merely the niece of a duke, but there is that old alliance between our families. Second, I have to say, it certainly looked like the two of you were getting along famously.”

“Yes, well, the man's not a glutton for punishment,” Derek opined, butting in on their conversation as he loosened his horse's saddle. “Nobody wants a wife that runs around causing trouble.”

“Derek!” Gabriel exclaimed as tears leaped into Georgie's eyes.

Because she knew it was true.

Her eldest brother turned to her and saw her welling eyes. “Oh, sweeting, don't cry—”

“I didn't mean it!” Derek practically shouted, for neither of her brothers had ever been able to stand seeing tears in her eyes.

“No,” she told them, her lower lip trembling. “You're probably right. He's not going to want me now—I don't blame him! Oh, never mind!”

Georgie quickly walked away to hide her woman-ish sensitivity from the men, but she could hear her brothers arguing in hushed tones back by the horses.

“You idiot! What's the matter with you?”

“I didn't know she was going to cry—”

Georgie blocked them out. It was hard to hold on to Ian's gentle assurances amid her desolate certainty that she had made a complete fool of herself in front of him. She was quite sure he had made such kind comments only because he was a gentleman, and too chivalrous to tell her what a blockhead she was, especially when he could see that she was already distraught.

It was true. She was badly shaken up, robbed of her usual sturdy self-confidence. Maybe it was time to stop acting so bold, before she ended up like Aunt Georgiana—ruined, and causing her loved ones pain. Look at what had nearly happened. She could have gotten all of them killed. What a fool she was, meddling in important affairs in the realm of men! Maybe she
should
be in purdah, where she couldn't cause any disasters, or at the very least have a husband to tell her what to do.

Leaning against a big old teakwood tree, she wiped her nose on the edge of her sleeve in a most undignified fashion, since she had no handkerchief. She couldn't help thinking of Lakshmi with her shaved head.
Duty.

Maybe Derek was on to something.

Never once had she conceived of marriage as her duty. She knew it was that way for other girls, but Papa had never made it seem so in her case, had never put that onus on her.

“Ach, lass, don't ye cry.”

Georgie looked over to find big, red-headed Major MacDonald offering her his handkerchief.

She accepted it tearfully. “Thanks, Mac.”

“Aye, keep it. And if ye're wantin' me ta marry ye, why, only say the word,” he teased.

She mustered up a rueful smile of thanks.

All of a sudden, she heard a nasty whizzing sound followed by a loud, wooden
thunk.

“Bloody hell!” the major cursed. Staring at the tree trunk right above the spot where Georgie leaned, he shoved her toward the ground.
“Get down!”

“What's the matter?” she started, then heard that strange sound again.

Thunk.

She looked up and saw two arrows sticking out of the tree trunk, inches above the place where she had been standing.

“To arms, lads!” Major MacDonald bellowed, shielding Georgie with his fearless bulk. “We've got company!”

         

Finally, Ian had gotten his treaty signed.

They were fortunate that Johar had suspected the maharani for some time, a fact he had admitted to Ian. But although he had suspected Sujana, he had not wanted to believe it. Now, thanks to Georgiana's meddling, the truth had come to light.

It was no exaggeration to say that the girl had saved King Johar's life; therefore, he had spared her brothers' lives in return.

As Ian strode back to his guest chamber to pack his traveling trunks, eager to be gone, he mused on the efficacy of her direct approach. Subtlety might be cleaner, but her way had certainly brought about faster results. There was something to be said for speed.

Though she had acted in direct defiance of his orders, Ian had to admit, ruefully, that if Georgiana hadn't interfered, then Johar's signature on the treaty would have been moot, for the king soon would have been a dead man. Queen Sujana simply would have waited until the English delegation had gone and then ordered her husband's killing. No doubt the maharani would have promptly thrown out his neutrality agreement to join forces with her brother, Baji Rao.

Now things would turn out the way they were supposed to, and Ian couldn't help but feel a certain degree of satisfaction in that.

Then he opened the door to his chamber, and his fleeting sense of triumph evaporated.

A pair of bare brown feet were sticking out across the floor from the narrow aisle behind his bed. Ian closed the door behind him and rushed around the bed, cursing to find his trusty servant Ravi lying unconscious on the carpet, his arms sprawled. No, not unconscious, he realized as he felt in vain for a pulse.

Dead.

Jesus.

His shocked gaze traveled over his interpreter's stark, wide-open eyes and rigid form. Foamy spittle mixed with vomit trailed from Ravi's mouth onto the carpet under his cheek.

Ian could hardly believe his eyes. He looked at Ravi's outflung arms and then spotted a mango on the floor with several bites taken out of it. It appeared to have rolled out of his hand when he had fallen.

On his guard, Ian's glance swept the room. Fury filled his eyes when his gaze homed in on the enticing fruit bowl that he was sure had not been there earlier.

Poison.

Oh, Ravi, I'm so sorry.

He sat back on his heels and wiped his hand across his mouth as he debated whether to tell Johar about this insidious attack. Poison was the favorite weapon of women, and there was not a doubt in his mind that this was the work of Queen Sujana, taking her revenge for Shahu's death.

With a grimace of remorse for Ravi's murder, he reached down and closed the dead man's blankly staring eyes. Obviously, that poison had been meant for
him.

I've got to get out of here,
he thought, his worry for Georgiana and her brothers suddenly renewed.

They were in danger. He had to warn them. If the maharani had sent poison up for him, God only knew what she might have sent out after the Knights.

Since there was nothing left that he could do for Ravi, he made haste to leave the palace, for the rest of them were not yet out of harm's way. Aside from his urgency to catch up to his friends, he still had to dispatch his riders to bring the signed treaty to Lord Hastings.

Throwing his belongings into his traveling trunk with none of his usual orderliness, Ian suddenly realized his picture of Matthew was missing.

Where the hell had it gone to? He looked all over the place, threw aside the bed covers, and pulled the dresser away from the wall, wondering if the picture had fallen behind it; he even looked under poor Ravi's corpse, but it was nowhere to be found.

Bloody hell, had he left it in Calcutta?

There was no time to keep hunting for it.
Leave it. You'll see the boy in person soon enough.

Still, as he pulled his portmanteaux out into the corridor and called for a few palace coolies to bring his luggage down to his waiting retinue of soldiers, the picture's loss made him uneasy, a bad omen.

The sooner he got out of here, the better.

         

Within a few days, the smell of sea salt on the humid breeze heralded Ian's arrival at Bombay. Cantering past the outlying marshes, he entered the town with his few remaining soldiers and found his way to Jack Knight's shipyard.

“Good God,” he murmured as he pulled his weary horse to a halt and stared into the shipyard at the aftermath of a battle. There were scorch marks on the wooden fence, the smell of smoke and black powder still wafting on the air. Here and there were gruesome puddles of blood.

It appeared his luckless servant hadn't been the only casualty.

Ian quickly asked one of the battered Highlanders where the Knights had gone. The man pointed to a handsome brick house down the street. Ian turned his horse and rode down to it, realizing this must be the Knight family's Bombay residence. The Calcutta house was a glorious folly, but this one was all business.

Straw had been scattered on the street outside the house to dampen the sound from carriages rolling by. That was an ominous sign, for normally this practice was followed when someone inside was ill. As Ian dismounted and tied his horse to the fence in the shade, his worry climbed.

Letting himself in the gate and then striding up the short front path, he knocked on the door. When a moment passed and still no one answered, he opened the door and poked his head inside. “Hallo? Anybody here?”

An Indian servant came padding toward him on bare feet, her face etched with alarm. “Sahib?”

“Don't be alarmed, I am Lord Griffith.” He stepped inside. “I am looking for the majors and Miss Knight.”

“Oh, sahib! Thank heavens you've come! The masters are upstairs, sir. Go, go! They are expecting you!” She gestured to the polished teakwood staircase, looking relieved that someone had come along prepared to take charge.

“What of the lady?”

“She is gone,” the woman said, tears rushing into her eyes.

“Gone?” The blood drained from Ian's face. He did not wait for her explanation, but ran up the stairs with dread forming a knot in the pit of his stomach.

“We're in here,” a flat voice called.

Ian followed it into a neat, plain bedchamber. “Derek?”

With a grim glance devoid of his usual jovial irreverence, Derek looked up from the letter he had been writing.

He was sitting beside the bed where Gabriel lay, his chest bandaged, his face ashen.

Ian took a deep breath when he saw him.

Gabriel was not entirely conscious, but his glazed blue eyes were filled with suffering. He did not stir when Ian entered.

“Did Johar sign the treaty?” Derek asked in a deadened monotone.

Ian nodded.

“Well, then. At least there's that.”

“How bad is he?” he whispered, lowering himself for a closer look at Gabriel.

“He's been better,” Derek said, staring at his brother. “Fought like a lion, he did. Never seen anything like it.” He paused. “It was an arrow got him, Griff. It was meant for me, but he pushed me aside and took it instead.”