A curse upon all Englishmen, Ashiana swore helplessly, feeling a renewed surge of hatred for the intruders who had caused this. The thieves had come seeking that which their kind had always sought, since the day they set foot in India more than a hundred and fifty years ago: the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir, the legendary gems supposedly protected by her clan for centuries.
How could these English be so foolish—and so savage? Ashiana turned away from the sight of the ruins below and leaped down from the little staircase. She moved through the damp grass with quick, gliding steps, depending on her bare feet to find the familiar marble-paved path that led to the garden’s center, where she was to meet Rao.
If Englishmen would apply a speck of the intelligence the gods had blessed all men with, they would stop chasing a myth and instead seek to understand the Hindu way of life, which was far more peaceful—and far superior, she thought firmly—to theirs.
But these arrogant invaders were not interested in learning. They refused to accept what the other Europeans in India knew: the sapphires did not exist. The jewels were no more than a tale, a fantasy invented by an explorer in the time when Alexander the Great ruled this land. Her clan, the Ajmir, were a proud band of Rajput warriors, but they guarded no magical treasure.
Time and again, the Ajmir had been forced to move from one home to the next, trying to escape the sapphire legend and the destruction it brought down upon them, to no avail. They had thought this island inaccessible, and had lived here happily for almost thirty years, but now the English had managed to find them again.
The men who had attacked three days ago were rogue sailors of the East India Company. No better than pirates, Ashiana thought. As relentless and cruel as any buccaneers in their efforts to get what they wanted. More than a score of Ajmir warriors had been killed in the battle, according to the eunuchs who guarded the harem. She whispered a fervent prayer to the gods for the safety of her people.
Ashiana’s emotions had not cooled by the time she reached the sculpted center of the harem gardens. She approached the white marble pavilion, ringed with trickling fountains, where Rao had said to wait for him.
Normally, this was a place of peace and serenity for her. She had spent many afternoons here, meditating or stretching in yoga asanas while the other women sought refuge from the sun’s heat. Other times she would come here at night to practice the dances she loved to perform, often with Rao and a few peacocks as her only audience.
Now, gleaming white beneath the full moon, the empty pavilion seemed ghostly, as if it were haunted by the spirits of those who had fallen on the ramparts three days ago. Blinking away frightened tears, Ashiana cast a curse upon those who had brought such violence to her clan.
The fact that she was cursing half her own blood did not escape her. If there were some way to purge the English taint from her veins, she would. She wondered for the thousandth time what had made her kindhearted father take an English woman for his wife.
She leaned down to put her slippers back on. Whatever his reasons, the fact that Ashiana was half English was not her own fault. Nor was it her fault that she so strongly resembled the mother she had never known.
A sudden chill chased down her spine. Was that why Rao had wished a secret meeting with her tonight? Was she to be banished at last?
From the day she had arrived here, the maharaja and his people had been generous to her, adopting her as one of their own. But the fact that she had been presented as a princess did not sit well with everyone in the clan.
Since she was six, she had heard the word whispered in the harem: feringi. Outsider. Foreigner.
And the other name, the one she hated most of all.
Angrez. English.
And now that the despised Englishmen had located the Ajmir clan once more, old wounds had been reopened. She knew that to some, she must be like salt to those wounds.
Perhaps they could no longer tolerate her presence. Perhaps even the love of the maharaja and his eldest son would no longer be protection enough.
Ashiana’s heart flooded with a feeling of loss. She had already had one home and family torn from her. Where could she possibly go if forced to leave this one?
Fighting the anxiety, she turned toward one of the fountains that splashed in the silence, slipped off her veil, and wet her face with cool water. She could not endure losing her clan. She loved the Ajmir. Memories of her childhood aboard the Adiante were little more than shadows now. Sometimes it seemed she had only dreamed it all.
Except when she looked at the long scar on her left arm.
A few years ago, one of the maharaja’s talented artists had turned it into a tattoo, a long-stemmed rose in a dark red color. That gentle disguise, though, could not hide the mark completely. Nor did it make her forget the violence of the Englishmen who had given it to her.
And now that same violence was about to rip her from her home and family a second time.
She gripped the cool edge of the stone basin and tried to calm herself. Rao would never let it happen. He loved her. Soon she would be his wife. He would order the disgruntled ones in the clan to accept her, and they would. One did not refuse the crown prince.
But she knew that Rao’s order could not change what was truly in his people’s hearts, any more than it could change the color of the sky…or the color of her skin.
She stared down at her reflection in the surface of the fountain. The rippling water obscured her image slightly. If she did not look too closely, it was almost possible to believe for a moment that she truly was an Ajmir princess. She had strong features and ebony hair, inherited from her father, which looked enough like those of a Hindu girl.
The heartfelt wish lasted only a moment, as she sadly admitted all she lacked. She lacked the lushly rounded curves. She lacked the rich brown skin. She lacked the dark, intriguing gaze.
Ashiana’s slim body, her clear blue eyes, and, most of all, her pale skin marked her as her mother’s daughter.
She ran her hand through the water, destroying her image and wishing it were equally simple to wipe away her English appearance. She slipped her veil back into place. The only women Ashiana had ever known were those of the maharaja’s harem, and she knew she would never be as beautiful as the plainest maidservant among them.
When Rao had offered marriage last year, she had thought it the most wonderful, generous thing anyone had ever done for her. He would be a kind husband, and of much higher rank than a feringi girl should dare hope for. Ashiana could not be his vadi, his first wife, for she had not been born Hindu. He would marry another before her, but he had always assured her that she would be the favorite among all his wives.
Now that dream was slipping through her fingers. She turned away from the fountain, wondering again why Rao’s note had been so terse, dreading the meeting she had been looking forward to all day.
Her mind was so preoccupied, she nearly leaped out of her slippers when she felt something brush against her leg.
“Nicobar!” she said in a hushed tone, kneeling to pet her six-month-old tiger. “Have you no better prey than I tonight, brave hunter?” she whispered in fluent Hindi.
He allowed her to ruffle his fur only a moment before he growled and knocked her hand away with one gangly paw. Nicobar had been a betrothal gift from Rao, one that pleased her far more than any bauble could have. Rao knew her so well.
The tiger cub was at an awkward stage, still half playful kitten but rapidly becoming a dangerous predator. Flopping onto the grass at her feet, Nicobar blinked sleepily and flicked the tip of his tail. His amber eyes reflected the moonlight, as did the jewels on his elaborate, padded leather collar.
“Shall you keep me company then,” she whispered, “until our prince comes to keep his appointment?”
Nicobar yawned ferociously and rolled onto his side, halfheartedly batting at a red frangipani blossom that bobbed in the sultry breeze.
She started to sit beside him when he leaped to his feet, crouching low to t
he ground, his gaze locked on something in the shadows.
Her heart pounding, Ashiana had to grab Nicobar’s collar to keep him from pouncing on the man coming down the path. She started to call Rao’s name—but the word caught in her throat when she realized it was not him, but one of the eunuchs.
The man held a small oil lamp which he kept shaded with one hand. By the flickering light, she could see that his expression was grave.
“You are to come with me, Princess Ashiana.”
Deep inside the palace, through sinuous corridors Ashiana had never seen before, Rao awaited them in a small chamber lit by candles. He looked tired. More than tired, haggard, as if he had not slept in some time. His gauzy blue jama and shilwar were rumpled, his dark cheeks stubbled with beard, his brow creased with deep lines.
He was speaking with someone—a woman—and Ashiana and her escort waited a respectful distance away until he finished. Ashiana had to fight an urge to throw herself into Rao’s arms and deluge him with questions. Such behavior would be improper, verging on scandalous.
When he had finished, Rao addressed them at last. “Ashiana, there was no time to fetch you myself,” he said without greeting. “Come with me. My father awaits.”
The woman he had been speaking to turned and raised her head, and Ashiana felt a stab of surprise. It was her maidservant and friend, Padmini, eyes bright with tears.
Padmini rushed over and fell at her mistress’s feet, taking Ashiana’s hand and squeezing tight as if afraid to let go. “Oh, my mistress!” A sob escaped her and she could say no more.
“Hasin,” Rao said to the eunuch, “you may escort Padmini back to the harem.”
Padmini rose shakily, her soft brown eyes filled with such sadness, it robbed Ashiana of both breath and voice. Never had she seen her friend so upset—not when Ashiana had broken her arm falling from a tree when they were ten years old, not all the times the maharaja had chastised Padmini for encouraging Ashiana’s unruly nature, not even when the battle had broken out three days ago. The fate that awaited must be truly terrible to bring Padmini to tears.
Her friend had departed with the eunuch before Ashiana could even blink. Anguished, she turned toward Rao. “I am…to be sent away?” she asked haltingly.
His eyes were impassive, like his father’s, his voice calm. “This is a time of difficult decisions—”
“Krupiya, please. Rao, you must tell me.”
He softened slightly and touched her arm, an expression of great intimacy even though they were alone. “There is little time for explanations. But you must believe that no matter what occurs this night, my feelings for you will never change, premika.”
Despite his endearment, Ashiana felt a sense of panic. So she was to be sent away! She would never have the life she had dreamed of: marriage to Rao, a sense of belonging, a home among the Ajmir forever.
“Rao, no…” She started to slump toward him but Rao grasped her by the arms and forced her to remain standing.
“Premika, you have always been strong, for a woman, and daring and clever. You must summon all your courage now. Tez. Hurry. My father awaits us.”
That news only frightened Ashiana more. Was she to be not only banished, but publicly denounced as well? The painful thought made her light-headed as Rao led her toward a door and into an adjoining chamber.
This room, much larger than the other, was brightly lit with oil lamps. It took Ashiana’s eyes a moment to adjust. The lavish tapestries, jewel-encrusted ceiling, and cotton carpets that decorated the chamber were magnificent even by the maharaja’s standards.
Her heart thudded unevenly as she looked to the far end of the room, where a half-dozen men sat on plump silk musnad pillows. Each appeared just as tense and fatigued as Rao. Ashiana guessed, with a fresh jolt of surprise, that she must be in the durbar hall—the secret meeting chamber where the maharaja met with his advisors and the raj guru, the high priest. She had no doubt that she was the first woman ever to set foot here.
Ashiana realized Rao was no longer holding her arm and quickly remembered her own manners, modestly lowering her gaze and bowing her head.
“Sit there,” Rao whispered, pointing toward a carpet that faced the semicircle of men. Her legs shaking, Ashiana did as he bade, kneeling with her hands folded in her lap. Rao came to stand beside her, then leaned down, keeping his voice low.
“Remove your veil and raise your eyes, premika.”
Ashiana started at the unusual command. It was most improper for a woman to appear unveiled in front of men—but then nothing about this night had been normal. She unknotted her dupatta and let it fall, raising her head. Whatever she must face, she would face it with the dignity and courage she had learned among the Ajmir these last fifteen years. Nothing could take that from her.
The council members stared at her for a long time, their expressions harsh and probing. Then, oddly, they all began nodding and murmuring among themselves. Ashiana could not hear their words, but there seemed to be an air of approval among them. It confused her more than ever.
Without another word, Rao went to his seat beside the gaddi throne in the center of the half-circle. He seemed more distressed than before.
Ashiana watched him, silently pleading for some sort of explanation, but he would not meet her gaze. She started to glance at the other council members, then felt warmth burning her cheeks. It was unspeakably bold to keep returning their looks this way. Ashiana fell into an almost unconscious habit learned long ago: she lowered her eyes and held her head at a slight angle, so that her hair fell like a black curtain to conceal her English appearance.
The men fell silent suddenly, and Ashiana looked up from beneath her lashes to see the maharaja entering.
He looked older than she had ever seen him, his face drawn and strained beneath his jeweled turban, his shoulders slightly stooped in a way that even his majestic silk robes could not disguise. The sight of him pained her heart. The past few days had obviously taken a great toll on the maharaja’s spirit. The situation must be even more grave than she had feared.
She felt a fresh wave of anger toward the Englishmen who had attacked the island, and worry for her clan.
It took the maharaja a long time to move from a passage at the rear of the chamber to his gaddi. He settled himself with the help of the raj guru and acknowledged each of his councilors in turn. Then his gaze fell on her.
“Ashiana, before we begin,” he said in a solemn tone, “we must know one thing of you.” He paused, adding weight to his next words. “Are you English, or are you Rajput?”
“I am Rajput,” she replied without hesitation.
“My beti, this is not a thing to be taken lightly. Measure your words carefully. Search your heart before you answer.”
Ashiana felt a wave of emotion when he called her daughter. She did not need to measure her words, for she knew her heart. Struggling to keep the calm, dignified exterior that was the hallmark of her clan, she repeated her declaration. “I am a Rajput princess of the clan Ajmir.” She spoke each word distinctly. “Nothing shall ever change that.”
The maharaja seemed to relax slightly. He glanced at his advisors with an expression that held both satisfaction and a bit of reproach. The council members whispered and nodded to each other once more.
When the maharaja continued, he addressed his men, but his eyes never left Ashiana.
“For more than three hundred years,” he began, “we the Ajmir have been the defenders of the defenders of India.”
There were murmurs of agreement and pride among the council members. The words puzzled Ashiana—but the maharaja’s next declaration shook her like a tremor of the earth.
“The sacred stones, the Nine Sapphires of Kashmir, were entrusted into our care long before the first foreign intruders came to our land. Legend foretells that if they be taken from India, our clan shall fall into chaos and ruin, as befell the ancient civilization that once possessed them.”
Incredulous, Ashiana could only s
it in shock, her fingers digging into the thick carpet. Questions tumbled through her mind. The sapphires were real? How could this be? How was it that this had never even been whispered of in the gossip of the harem?
The maharaja answered her questions before she could ask. “The sacred gems are of such surpassing beauty, that if their true value were known, all the world’s kings would clash to possess them. We have kept the secret, even from our own women, passing it down only from maharaja to crown prince, from council to council, hiding it beneath myths and legends. After centuries of such tales, the world no longer believes the sapphires exist.”
He paused, shaking his head. “All but the English. They are not like the other Europeans. The others came as traders, but these men would strip our land of all its treasures. They proved their savagery on our ramparts three days ago.”
Ashiana felt her stomach tighten. The maharaja had been merely explaining to her why she must be banished. Now it would come—her denouncement and exile.
The maharaja’s voice took on an edge of criticism, aimed not at her, but at himself. “It is my fault that the English know the sapphires exist. Forty years past, I was chosen as protector, entrusted with the task of moving the stones to a new hiding place. Because I was young and arrogant, I was not careful enough, and one was stolen during the journey. By an Englishman. Despite all our efforts and many Ajmir lives, we have been unable to reclaim it. We know only that when the thief died, he passed it on to his son.”
Ashiana braced herself, poised at the edge of her endurance, waiting for the dreaded words that had not yet come.
“Now the remaining eight are threatened as well. We defeated the attackers three days ago, but more Englishmen will come. Many more. I fear they would kill every Ajmir warrior, woman, and child to possess the stones. They must be lured away from this island.”
This brought louder mutters of assent and urgency from the council members. The maharaja rose with great dignity from his gaddi. “It is time for the sacred stones to be reunited. A protector must be chosen from among us, to reclaim the sapphire stolen by this Englishman and move all nine to a new hiding place. A final, secure resting place where they will be beyond the reach of thieves forever.”
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 2