“Dalton’s in Venice at present, aboard the Prince of Malabar.” Julian answered the question that Saxon hadn’t asked. “But I only know that through a friend. We’ve had no word from him.”
“Still too busy spending his riches to bother with the rest of us.” Saxon waved a hand impatiently. “So if the family are all more or less the same, what brings you here?”
Julian folded his arms in imitation of the brother he so resembled. Then he smiled, the slow grin of one about to bestow a much-wanted gift. “The sapphires.”
Saxon went still, instantly on edge. “How? When—”
“The Ajmir have been located. Less than a fortnight ago. I knew you would want to know right away, so I came as fast as I could. And let me just say, riding at top speed in this climate, at this time of year, is not for the faint of heart…”
Flooded by memories, Saxon didn’t hear the rest. For ten years, he had sought the missing Sapphires of Kashmir, and his father had searched for uncountable years before him; on his deathbed, he had pressed the egg-sized gem into Saxon’s palm and made him swear not to rest until he had taken the other eight.
Brandon D’Avenant had been a notorious black sheep who overindulged in gambling—and he hadn’t been able to resist the enormous wager that challenged him to steal one of the legendary sapphires. Too late he discovered the consequences of his actions.
Not all the tales that surrounded the gems were mere myth: the curse, the one rumored to have haunted the stones from ancient times before they passed into Ajmir hands, was all too real.
Saxon had watched his father slowly die of a strange illness that stole the very breath from his lungs. Within days of his death, the same illness had suddenly struck Max—not Dalton, his father’s eldest and best-loved son; not Saxon, who now possessed the sapphire; not Julian. Only gentle, studious Max, the youngest of the four brothers. That was when Saxon had left to seek the jewels, on that first ill-fated voyage with his friend Greyslake.
According to the ancient curse, only one thing could save his brother’s life: all nine sapphires had to be reunited in the hands of the thief or one of his blood heirs.
The only problem was that the Ajmir weren’t about to just hand over the other jewels. On the contrary, they preferred to leave the thief’s family cursed forever. Three Ajmir warriors had taunted Saxon about that when they captured and tortured him in the desert, before he managed to kill them and escape.
“Where are they?” Saxon bit out.
“The clan is on some godforsaken, remote islands in the Bay of Bengal called the Andamans. But the maharaja himself is coming to the mainland, to attend a trade meeting at the emperor’s summer palace in Daman—”
“They’re moving the stones.” Saxon’s mind was already working out a plan.
“Exactly what I thought. Which is why I polished a little brass at Company headquarters to get our names on the list for this palaver.” Julian stepped closer, his gaze full of concern. “So are you going to stay out here among the saffron fields and the pretty larkis forever, or shall we pack up these—” He nodded to the array of weapons on the far wall. “—charming souvenirs of yours and get ourselves to Daman?”
Pretty larkis. Julian couldn’t know how much that might have hurt.
But Saxon couldn’t seem to feel pain anymore. All he felt was hollow, aching regret.
He glanced away, clenching his jaw. What a selfish bastard he had been, allowing himself to remain here so long. Allowing himself to relax, to get distracted from his duty, his family—and his enemies. That mistake had cost his innocent bride her life.
He would never forgive himself for failing to protect Mandara. But he would not fail the other people who were depending on him. All that mattered now was his mission. Saving Max’s life. Saving his family from the curse.
And seeking vengeance. Wherever he found the sapphires, he would also find Greyslake—and whatever dark deeds Saxon had committed in the name of this quest would pale next to what he would do when he found his former friend.
He picked up the khanjar he had dropped on the floor, twirling the dagger with a flick of his wrist. “We leave for Daman.” The blade flashed in the lamplight, a lethal silver blur. “Tonight.”
Ashiana took one look at her intended target and nearly lost her nerve.
“He is the one?” she whispered, her throat going dry. Standing behind a lattice screen in the emperor’s palace at Daman, she peered into the diwan-i-khas, the grand audience chamber, her gaze fastened on the Englishman.
Her heartbeat unsteady, she turned wide eyes to the maharaja, who had just pointed out Captain Saxon D’Avenant.
The maharaja nodded. “Han, yes. He is the one.”
Ashiana couldn’t hear anything else for a moment. The pounding of her pulse had suddenly become deafening. Clustered around her in the shadows, musicians, fakirs, and dozens of dancing girls whispered excitedly among themselves, waiting for the emperor’s command to enter and perform for his important visitors. On the other side of the screen, nearly fifty emissaries from the Dutch, Portuguese, and English trading companies sat listening to Emperor Alamgir the Second speak.
Ashiana looked through the intricately carved lattice again. “Not the other one?” she asked hopefully, pointing to another blond man, sitting beside the first. He looked similar but younger, not so powerfully muscled…less dangerous.
The maharaja, who wore simple robes and carried a small tabla drum to blend in with the crowd of entertainers, shook his head. “No, not him. Do not allow the physical appearance of this Englishman to daunt your courage, Ashiana of the Ajmir. He is only a man. He has weaknesses. You will find them.”
Swallowing hard, Ashiana studied her enemy, who sat a few feet away. Weaknesses? Saxon D’Avenant looked as solid and unconquerable as a fortress, his features like stone chiseled by a sculptor who lacked an eye for elegance. He was all hard angles and broad jaw and sharp gaze. He did not wear a wig like the other Europeans, but even his blond hair, hanging loose to his shoulders, did not soften his appearance.
The Englishman’s obvious strength made Ashiana’s every instinct urge her to turn and flee. His British East India Company uniform strained across his chest and shoulders, the embroidered blue coat too small, the gold buttons on his snug white waistcoat ready to tear free if he but took a deep breath. It was as if the gods had tried to pack too much physical prowess into this one man.
Despite his expensive garments, he did not look like any sort of nobleman. He looked…dusht. Roguish. Wicked.
And she was to be offered to him for the night.
Her knees went weak and she laced her fingers through the lattice screen to steady herself. Then she noticed that the Englishman’s right hand rested on a sword, a weapon unlike the ceremonial blades carried by the other European traders. She recognized it as a shamshir, the light, curved, deadly saber favored by Hindu warriors.
It reminded her that he knew a great deal about her people and their ways. And their weapons.
She closed her eyes. Only years of yoga practice helped her bring her breathing and heartbeat under control.
After a moment, she forced her fear aside and opened her eyes, reminding herself that the maharaja had prepared her well for this mission. They had gone over every detail of their plan a hundred times since arriving in Daman two weeks ago. The emperor himself had agreed to assist them. An old ally and friend of the maharaja, he put his resources at their disposal without probing too deeply for explanations. He would even play a small role in their ruse this afternoon.
This Saxon D’Avenant might be expert with sword, knife, and pistol, but she had less obvious weapons at her command, things he couldn’t dream of.
As for spending the night with him, that was merely part of the deception. She would have the sapphire and be gone before he had a chance to do anything more than kiss her.
She studied his face, his mouth. One kiss, she told herself. She could survive one kiss.
Ther
e was no more time for hesitation. Even as she watched, the emperor made an impatient motion, interrupting a Dutchman who had been speaking of a new shipping route.
“I am weary of this,” Alamgir the Second said loftily. “The day’s discussions are done. We shall continue tomorrow.” Reaching for a jewel-encrusted gold hookah beside him, he inhaled deeply then exhaled, tobacco smoke curling around his moustache and beard. He nodded to one of his guards, who dashed toward the rear of the hall.
The guard came around the corner of the lattice screen. “The fakirs. Quickly.”
Ashiana felt an icy lump fill her throat. The musicians and dancing girls would be summoned next.
The women giggled nervously, making last-minute adjustments to their costumes as they traded opinions about the more handsome men among the emperor’s visitors.
The maharaja touched Ashiana’s arm. “Durga, goddess of battle, shall see you safely through this task, beti.”
Turning, Ashiana looked up at him and her nervousness ebbed. Still, she had the vague feeling that the maharaja had not told her all he knew about this Englishman. There was something he was purposely leaving unsaid—perhaps something so terrifying, it would make her turn back.
She pushed her doubts aside, remembering the many Ajmir warriors who had died at Saxon D’Avenant’s hands. Remembering that he was a thief and the son of a thief. Greedy, ruthless, a man completely lacking in honor. An Englishman.
She remembered her papa dying on the deck of the Adiante.
The last of her hesitation vanished. “I am ready, Maharaja.”
He touched her cheek, a gesture of such tenderness, it nearly brought most unseemly tears to her eyes. “Within days, you shall be home,” he whispered, “and your brave deed shall be made known to all the clan.”
Ashiana smiled tremulously, holding fast to that thought. The Ajmir, even her friend Padmini, had been told that Ashiana was being sent away to live in the emperor’s harem. The secret of the sapphires would be kept until the stones were safely hidden once and for all.
And if she failed…another protector would have to be chosen to finish her task. The clan would never know the truth of the risk she had agreed to take.
“I will not fail you,” she said fiercely.
From the other side of the screen, they could hear the Europeans applaud as the fakirs ended their display of magical feats. The emperor clapped his hands and called for the dancing girls. The musicians went in first, to tune their instruments.
“Remember,” the maharaja whispered, stepping back into the shadows, “as soon as you have the sacred stone, make your way to the chamber of the winds. The eunuch Hasin shall meet you there. He will accompany you while you take the sapphires to their new hiding place.”
“Han, Maharaja.” Ashiana had gone over every step that led from the emperor’s preet chatra, the pavilion of pleasure, to the underground chamber a dozen times. She would stop on the way to get the other eight sapphires from their hiding place in her room. She could walk the entire path in total darkness if need be.
The sounds of flutes and drums and sitars filled the scented air as the musicians began to play.
“You will be the most celebrated heroine the Ajmir have ever known, my daughter,” the maharaja said proudly, before he turned and slipped away into the palace corridors.
Ashiana watched him go, feeling a painful echo of another time when she had been separated from the only family she had known, from the father she loved.
She was completely on her own now.
And the crowd of dancing girls had already begun to move forward, lining up at the entrance to the audience chamber. A eunuch held a gold tray bearing dozens of tiny silver carafes, and a second servant held an armful of flower garlands. Each girl took a carafe and a garland before gliding gracefully inside.
Waiting her turn at the end of the line, Ashiana felt awe at the riot of color that greeted her eyes. The emperor’s diwan-i-khas had been built to dazzle and overwhelm, its ceilings of solid gold, its walls gleaming with inlaid ivory and mother-of-pearl, its massive marble pillars wrapped with lavish lengths of red-and-gold brocade.
A canopy of red silk billowed over the entire hall, fastened with red silken cords and huge tassels. Enamel lamps burned precious oils that scented the air with jasmine and the essence of the rare flower called “queen of the night.” Everywhere silver trays laden with mangos, guavas, pomegranates, and grapes sat ready to appease the guests’ hunger.
Reclining on his quilted satin musnad, the emperor smoked his hookah and smiled as he watched the women file in. “The most beautiful dancers in all my empire have been selected to entertain you.” His gaze flicked up to meet Ashiana’s as she came to the front of the line. “But first they shall honor you with proper greetings.”
At his signal, each girl went to kneel before one of the European guests. The emperor had let it be known that the brawny, rough-looking Englishman was to be left alone. No doubt the other dancers were quite happy to comply with that command, Ashiana thought as she moved toward Saxon D’Avenant.
He did not even glance at her as she knelt at his feet, the silver carafe clutched in her hand. He was conversing in low tones with the blond man who sat beside him—who in turn had his eyes on the beautiful girl kneeling before him. She flashed Ashiana a look of sympathy.
This close to D’Avenant, Ashiana felt renewed awe at his obvious physical strength, but also noticed the tension in him. While the other Europeans freely partook of the fruit, tadi wine, hookahs, and chewing betels heaped around them, D’Avenant had not touched any of the pleasures offered him. He looked as tense and out of place as a panther dropped into a gathering of lions.
No, not a panther, Ashiana decided as she knelt there, willing her heart to slow down. A caracal. That was what he reminded her of: the honey-colored hunting cats that prowled the rain forests of her island home, hungry for prey yet so wary of other predators that they never relaxed the merest muscle.
As yet, he had not noticed her.
“It is the greatest of honors to be anointed with the precious balm known as attar of roses,” the emperor explained for the benefit of those unfamiliar with the custom. “And so shall you be welcomed this night, my estimable guests. The first anointment shall be upon the forehead, to honor your wisdom.”
Ashiana sprinkled some of the scented oil on her fingertips. As she raised her hand to dab the Englishman’s forehead, he turned to face her at last.
His gaze met hers and Ashiana froze in mid-motion.
His eyes gleamed a bright silver-gray. Like tabar blades. They captured her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her. There was no softness in that gaze. His golden brows, slashing downward over his eyes, only added to the harsh look.
This will be over soon, she admonished herself. You are an Ajmir princess. Act with the bravery of your clan!
To him, she said in soft Hindi, “I mean you no harm, sahib.”
It irked her to call him “sir,” but her soothing words were a lie in any event.
He didn’t reply or indicate that he understood, only kept his gaze steadily upon hers while she dabbed his forehead with the attar. The scent of roses perfumed the air between them.
His skin felt warm, like smooth, golden sand heated by the sun. Ashiana’s stomach made an odd little leap. Confused by the unfamiliar sensation, she looked away, bending her head as she tipped the carafe a second time.
“The second anointment shall be upon the lips, my guests,” the emperor said, “to honor the truth of the words you have spoken this day.”
Wetting her fingers again, Ashiana looked up and repeated the motion, brushing her fingertips over his lips. Their softness took her by surprise—as did the quick, subtle shift in D’Avenant’s gaze.
His eyes traced downward from her veiled face to her barely clad breasts and back again. The silvery color darkened with a look unlike any she had seen directed toward her before. She withdrew her hand, trembling despite herse
lf.
In the maharaja’s harem, Ashiana had heard countless frank discussions of men, and physical appetites, and the act that took place between man and woman. But never had she pictured herself in any such interlude…until now. Until she saw desire ignite in Saxon D’Avenant’s eyes.
Even more startling was the sensation she felt—a tingling that began at her fingertips and flowed through her entire body. It unnerved her. D’Avenant’s interest was exactly what she had hoped for and intended…but why did she feel so strange?
It must be nervousness, she decided, although it was unlike any nervousness she had known before.
He kept studying her, as if in his mind he were removing her veil and her choli bodice and every other bit of iridescent silk that covered her body.
The younger man at D’Avenant’s side glanced her way and muttered something in English. A grin quirked at the corner of D’Avenant’s mouth, and he translated for her in low, fluent Hindi. “My brother says he wishes you were not already a woman of the emperor’s harem, for you and your friend here would make an excellent start to a harem of his own.”
Ashiana lowered her gaze, feeling her cheeks warm. It was unacceptably bold to speak so to a woman—even a dancing girl. Unmannered curs, she thought. Both of them.
She had almost forgotten the carafe in her hand until the emperor spoke again. “The final anointment shall be over the heart, my guests, to honor your courage.”
Remembering the role she was supposed to be playing, Ashiana reached out to unbutton the Englishman’s ruffled white shirt—but he knocked her hand away. Startled, she blinked at him in surprise. His grin had vanished. He regarded her with suspicion, every muscle taut.
“Maf kijiye,” she apologized. “I meant no offense, sahib.”
He did not relax, and did not explain why he had stopped her when he had not objected to her other touches.
Ashiana set the carafe down, her pulse pounding. She would do well to remember that Captain Saxon D’Avenant could be unpredictable.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 4