Rao stood and addressed the council, his voice strained. “I still say the task should be mine—”
“The decision has been made,” the maharaja said flatly.
Rao would not be silenced. “This Angrez is not an ordinary enemy. He has ridden in Kashmir with a band of Maratha tribesmen. He knows the Hindu language, our weapons, our ways. They say the sapphire he possesses has driven him mad to have the other eight. He wears it like a trophy around his neck. Many Rajputs have died—”
“Chuppi! Silence, Rao Chand Ajmir!” The maharaja proved he was yet young and strong enough to make an entire chamber quake with his voice.
Rao immediately knelt and touched his forehead to the floor. “Maf kijiye. I beg forgiveness, Maharaja,” he said humbly, though his jaw was clenched.
Ashiana’s stomach churned. Never had she seen Rao in such a passion! She could barely follow all that was being said, much less understand what any of it had to do with her banishment.
The maharaja resumed speaking, calmly, as if he had already forgotten his son’s transgression. “The emperor is to meet with many European traders at his summer palace in Daman, during the festival of holi. We shall let it be known that the maharaja of the Ajmir will be there, and this Englishman will surely come. The protector must get close enough to take the sapphire from him. There will be ample time to do this and kill him before the meeting is complete.”
Here he paused, and Ashiana looked from one council member to another, wondering who had been chosen for such a dangerous and important task.
It took her a moment to realize that they were all looking at her.
She felt stunned, as if the jeweled ceiling had just fallen down upon her. “M-me?” she stuttered. “B-but…” She could scarcely form a coherent thought, much less a sentence. “But I am a woman. How could I overcome this Englishman when so many warriors have failed?”
When the maharaja seemed reluctant to reply, Rao answered her question, his voice tinged with bitter irony. “Women are his one weakness.”
Ashiana swallowed hard, seeing the logic in her being chosen. A woman would be able to get close to him. And her English appearance would make it impossible for him to suspect that she was an Ajmir princess. She would make the perfect spy. If she succeeded, the sapphires and the clan would be safe. And if she failed…there were many who considered her expendable.
“The decision is yours, Princess Ashiana,” the maharaja said firmly.
Her first impulse was terrified denial. But then a much stronger feeling overcame her, a mixture of hatred for the English and love for her clan. She had stepped into this chamber thinking she was about to be cast out; instead she was being offered a solemn responsibility. A chance to give back to those who had given her so much.
How could she let the greed and cruelty that had killed her papa and destroyed her childhood home also destroy the maharaja and the Ajmir?
Still she hesitated, remembering what had been said of this Englishman. Like all his people, he sounded savage, violent—but he was quick-witted as well, a fearsome enemy for even the strongest Ajmir warrior. She had no training in weapons. And she spoke not a word of the English tongue. How could she hope to defeat him?
The maharaja and his council seemed confident that she could. And if she succeeded…she would return a heroine. She would marry Rao and at last be finally, truly Ajmir, forever.
As if sensing her thoughts, the maharaja said with quiet pride, “They will sing songs of you, Ashiana of the Ajmir. In the histories of the Rajputs, your name shall be written in gold letters.”
Ashiana of the Ajmir. It was the first time anyone had called her that. She also saw the concern and protectiveness that filled the maharaja’s gaze. He would not let anything happen to her. And she owed him so much.
“I vow by all the gods, my father,” she said with fierce determination, “I will not fail you.”
He nodded solemnly, accepting her pledge, his eyes reflecting his admiration, and his love. “Then we shall leave for Daman tonight.”
“It is time, D’Avenant.”
The Maratha warrior held the torch aloft and repeated himself twice more before Lord Saxon D’Avenant responded. Kneeling in the grass, Saxon didn’t even look up. His legs had gone numb long ago. His white gharara breeches, once wet with dew, had dried in the sun. In a distant corner of his mind, he realized it was his friend Bihar addressing him, but the emotions clouding his thoughts wouldn’t let him accept what was being said.
When Saxon finally spoke, it was a single word, the same one he had been repeating all afternoon.
“No.”
Bihar hesitated, until Saxon slowly raised his head. That single glance made the warrior turn and move away with haste. Saxon returned his gaze to the beautiful woman who lay before him. Mandara.
He wasn’t ready yet.
After several days of rain, their wedding day had dawned clear, the sky a perfect blue. Through shimmering waves of late-afternoon heat, he could make out the Himalayas breaking into the horizon, their white peaks embraced by clouds. A hot wind tangled his long, loose blond hair against his face, and teased the fields of saffron that stretched for miles across the Kashmir plains. Two men using scythes had cleared a wide circle for the ceremony.
Saxon ignored the crowd of villagers that waited uneasily several yards away. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. Mandara was almost too beautiful, possessing an unearthly radiance, her dark skin and hair glistening with fragrant oils, her wrists and fingers sparkling with jewelry. She lay before him veiled in her brilliant wedding silks, as if awaiting his kiss.
Saxon stared blankly at the garlands of yellow and red flowers around her neck. They draped across the lush curves of her body, over her arms.
And down the sides of her funeral bier.
No, no, no. Shouting it a hundred times in as many languages would not change what had happened. Nothing could erase that gut-wrenching moment this morning, just after they had spoken their marriage vows. They had been walking through the village toward the feast that awaited, surrounded by a boisterous crowd of well-wishers.
She had given him a shy smile. Their gazes had met and shared a private message: tonight, she would share his bed at last. No longer would she live with her father and sisters, but with him. She was his, now and forever. The future stretched out before them, bright with promise.
Then, without warning, out of nowhere, it struck—an arrow no larger than a dart. Struck her so lightly she thought at first it was but an insect. Minutes later, she lay dying in his arms, in agony. With her last breath, she had whispered his name.
“D’Avenant?” Bihar had returned, standing a few feet away this time.
Saxon clenched his fists. Even in the sweltering sun, he could feel the heat of the funeral torch, like a blast from hell at his back.
Like a curse. His hand moved to the pouch he wore around his neck, gripping it as if he could crush the jewel within. The Maratha villagers had begun a furious search for Mandara’s killer, but Saxon knew who it was, and knew they would not find him.
Greyslake. Poisonous. Treacherous. Silent as a cobra, he had struck an unexpected target. Saxon hadn’t needed to see the engraved gold G on the poison-tipped arrow. The cruelty of the act itself was signature enough. Murdering bastard.
But Greyslake would not have done the deed himself. He would have hired an assassin, someone familiar with Kashmir, someone who could fade away into the fields in minutes.
The worst part was that Greyslake must have been in the area for days, lurking, watching Saxon—then instead choosing Mandara as his victim. Deciding on the most vicious moment to strike. Slipping away to let his hireling do the rest.
Saxon felt the edges of the sapphire digging into his palm even through the leather that concealed it. The need for revenge burned in his veins—but so did fury at himself. He never should have stayed here this long. Rested. Allowed himself to think that his life could be different, that this place of peaceful refuge mi
ght—
“D’Avenant.”
Bihar’s voice was gently insistent this time. Saxon quelled the anger within him. He rose, slowly, his eyes never leaving his wife’s still form. His legs refused to hold him at first, but Bihar knew better than to offer assistance. Saxon forced his muscles to respond, depending on the long months he had spent training with moghdurs to get him to his feet.
Mandara. Every memory of this place had her name attached, including that one. She had shown him the Maratha custom of training with the heavy weights. When he had crawled out of the desert to the peasant village, half-dead from wounds that should have killed him, she had nursed him back to health, using her healing skills and the moghdurs to help him regain the use of his arms and legs.
Even when he took out his frustrations with harsh words during his long months of recovery, she had shown him only quiet kindness and gentleness. Because of her, he was now stronger and healthier than he had been in all his twenty-nine years.
And because of him, she was dead.
His wife, dead.
Saxon closed his eyes, loss and guilt and remorse raking through him. Of all the women he had known, Mandara was the only one who had ever made him think of marriage. She was so good, so beautiful, all sweetness and innocence.
And he had destroyed her. Brought down his quest and the curse and death upon her.
He hung his head. God help me, Mandara, please…
No, he wouldn’t allow himself to ask for her forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it. He would never forgive himself for this. He should have protected her.
Mandara…my sweet bride…I swear that no other will take your place. I am your husband and you are my wife, and I will never marry again.
He could at least give her that. He could honor her by honoring the vow he had taken this morning.
And I swear to you, on my life, I will avenge you.
That was all he had left now. Blood and violence and vengeance.
Opening his eyes, Saxon found Bihar waiting right beside him, holding the torch. The orange-and-yellow flame licked at the wind.
Saxon reached out, silent, and his friend handed it to him.
For a moment, Saxon remained frozen, his grip so tight that his fingers went bloodless. Then he turned and plunged the torch into the bier, setting the wood and rushes ablaze. Within minutes, the fire leaped into the sky and the women in the crowd fell to their knees, crying and tearing at their hair.
As Saxon walked away, he felt as if the flames seared him inside, until nothing was left. Until he could no longer feel sorrow or guilt or remorse or anything else.
Except rage at his enemies.
He blinked rapidly, squinting in the darkness. His head ached. His mouth felt as dry as cotton. How many days had passed? Saxon couldn’t remember. He knew only that there had been a long span of time between the moment he had seen his wife’s body consumed by fire, and the realization that he had just heard a sound.
It took another full minute to remember where he was. The same place he had been since the funeral: the hut he occupied at the eastern side of the village. He lay on the dirt floor amid a clutter of broken earthenware, shattered oil lamps, torn strips that had once been a dhurrie, remnants of a woven screen, and bits of a carved stool that had been snapped like a twig. He barely remembered doing any of it, except that he had cuts and splinters on his hands.
He sat up and stared out the hut’s only window, in the direction of the stream. It was night.
The sound came again—a knock that barely registered. Fully awake now, Saxon returned to his last conscious thought: wondering how he could get his hands on a bottle of rum or illicit tadi palm wine. Any drink strong enough to help him remain numb. But liquor was forbidden among the Hindu Marathas.
When the knock invaded his consciousness a third time, the door creaked open. Light flickered tentatively into the shadows.
“I have a message for D’Avenant.” A man’s high-pitched voice squeaked in fluent Hindi, mispronouncing the name. “From England.”
For the first time in days, Saxon felt something. A familiar tension flooded his veins. He resented the hell out of it. But too many years living on edge—years spent watching for Ajmir warriors or Greyslake around every turn—had made the aggressive response involuntary.
No one in England knew he was here. Not even his family, except for his brother Julian, who didn’t speak Hindi.
And Julian would know better than to trust a messenger with Saxon’s location.
“Nikal jao,” Saxon said with soft malice. “Get out.”
Perhaps, he thought calmly, Greyslake had returned. Maybe he had finally grown bored of subterfuge and cat-and-mouse games and decided on a direct confrontation. Without conscious effort, Saxon had already mentally reviewed the array of weapons that hung on the wall behind him and selected one.
“I am to deliver a message to Saxon D’Avenant,” the man insisted, again mangling the family name.
The too-familiar killing instinct had taken over now. Saxon rose casually, as if to look out the window, not yet turning around. “It’s not dee-avinant,” he said lightly. “It’s dahv-inant.”
Suddenly he whirled and snatched a khanjar dagger from the wall. In the space of a single breath, he slammed the messenger up against the doorjamb, the weapon at his throat.
Only his sharp reflexes saved his brother from the razor-honed edge of the blade. “Bloody hell. Julian!”
“Damnation!” Julian’s gray eyes, wide with surprise, were locked on the knife. “That’s one fine welcome, Sax. I see being on extended holiday hasn’t improved your sense of humor any.” His face regained its color as his expression shifted easily to amusement. “But let’s use the full family name, shall we? We’re not just the Dahv-inants, we’re the ‘world-wandering, seafaring, scandalous Dahv-inants.’ How the devil are you?”
“Since when do you speak Hindi?” Saxon belatedly threw the khanjar aside and let his brother down from the doorjamb.
“The Rising Star’s been up in the stocks at Bombay for repairs and refitting since Christmas.” Julian adjusted his East India Company captain’s uniform, meticulously straightening the medals clustered on the lapel. “I sought comfort with a charming little courtesan. You wouldn’t believe what else she taught me—”
“Never mind.” Saxon stepped back and glowered at him. “You complete idiot, your sense of humor is going to be the death of you someday.”
“Good to see you, too.” Julian picked up the primitive lantern he had dropped. “The locals warned me you were in a foul mood, but they wouldn’t elaborate. I assured them I had seen it all before.”
Saxon scowled. No one could manage to provoke him quite like his irresponsible younger brother with his penchant for practical jokes. Despite being as opposite as a bowsprit from a sternpost, the two of them were only a year apart, and had always been the closest of the four D’Avenant brothers. “What the hell brings you all the way out here?”
Julian looked startled at the surly question. Holding the lantern higher, he regarded Saxon with raised eyebrows, then belatedly noticed the clutter strewn across the floor of the hut.
His lighthearted air instantly turned serious. “Sax, what the devil happened? What have you—”
“Say what you came to say.” Saxon turned on his heel and stalked back to the window.
“When you wrote a few weeks ago,” Julian persisted, “you said you weren’t well enough to travel yet…but you look healthy as a horse. Why haven’t you come back to Bombay?”
Saxon’s throat tightened. He didn’t reply.
“You know, the Company hasn’t exactly been happy about one of its captains taking a year-long unannounced holiday. Not that you don’t deserve one. It’s just so unlike you. The Valor’s sitting there with her cargo holds empty. And that pack of smugglers you call a crew are as loyal as bull terriers, but they’re getting itchy. They’ve become a bit of a menace.”
Saxon remained mute.
> “Let me guess. There’s a woman involved, isn’t there?” Julian chuckled. “Some pretty little larki caught your eye and you—”
“Shut up, Julian.”
The clipped warning was enough. If Julian was still curious about the mystery, he kept it to himself and let the matter drop.
Saxon released a harsh breath. His head throbbed. He didn’t want to snap at his brother, but he didn’t want him here, either. He didn’t want anyone here. “Tell me whatever the devil you came here to tell me and leave me alone, damn it.”
Instead of replying in kind, Julian kept his tone mild and shifted to small talk. “Mother said to send you her regards, last time I saw her. She’s still flitting around London redefining the term ‘eccentric.’ Would you believe she’s actually applied to lecture in history at the university?”
“What does that—”
“She would, of course, appreciate a visit from you.”
“I can’t go home. You know why.” It had been years since he had ridden up to the door of Silverton Park in Kent or the family town house in London’s Grosvenor Square. But when there were people in the world who wanted to cut one’s throat, it was wisest to stay out of sight, on the move, and away from home and loved ones. “How is Max?”
“Still sick.” Julian sighed. “Still confined to bed and having trouble breathing. But it doesn’t seem to be getting worse.”
“Thank God for that.” Saxon nodded, feeling a wave of guilt and regret. Here among the Marathas—for how long? Had it really been a year?—it had all seemed far away: England, his responsibilities, his duty.
“You’re not even going to ask about Dalton, are you?” Julian asked, his disappointment clear.
Saxon turned to face his brother and folded his arms over his chest, silent.
“You can’t hate him forever.”
“Whom I choose to hate is my business. I surmise he is at least still alive, because if his high-and-mightiness were dead, that would make me the Duke of Silverton—and you, in your inimitable way, wouldn’t be able to resist calling me ‘your grace.’”
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 3