Lifting the garland of red blossoms that was the final step in the customary greeting, she started to raise it toward him, but he jerked aside as if it were made of fire.
“Nahin, no,” he growled, adding something in English that sounded like a curse.
Puzzled, Ashiana placed the garland at his feet instead. It did not matter. She had gained his notice, and that was all she had wished to do, for the moment.
They regarded one another silently, gazes locked, until the emperor’s voice broke the spell.
“And now that you have been properly greeted and honored, my guests, you shall be entertained with a dance that shall linger in your memory long after you have departed my palace.”
Saxon resisted the heat that coiled in him as he watched the pale, slender beauty join the other dancing girls in the center of the hall, her tinkling anklets and bracelets making music as she walked. She was dressed like all the others, and she spoke fluent Hindi, but she was clearly European. Saxon wondered how she had come to be here.
He also wondered why he couldn’t stop staring at her. He blamed it on a year of celibate living, combined with fatigue. He and Julian had raced here from Kashmir, stopping only to get Saxon’s uniform from aboard the Valor.
Which had been a waste of time. He grimaced, shifting uncomfortably in the too-tight frock coat and breeches. He hadn’t realized just how much the moghdurs had increased his muscle size until he tried on his old uniform. He would have to order a new one from Company headquarters.
For now, he had more pressing problems. He had endured an entire day of endless trade discussions, but so far the maharaja of the Ajmir was nowhere to be seen.
Every other nawab, prince, and potentate in ten provinces seemed to be here. The day had been spent in bowing and complimenting and exchanging gifts, each more elaborate than the last, from turbans and robes in silver cloth, to jewel-encrusted daggers, to a matched pair of trained elephants with gold fetters, presented to the leader of the Dutch trading company.
But no representative from the Ajmir had appeared.
In fact, Saxon had yet to hear a single mention of the clan. The sapphires seemed no closer than they had yesterday, or last month, or ten years ago. The emperor’s legendary hospitality was beginning to wear on him.
Except, he had to admit, for this particular entertainment.
As the women began their performance, he found his attention drawn once more to the European dancer. In this sultry, perfume-laden palace, she was like a breath of cool air off the Dover cliffs, a delicate rose plucked fresh from a Covent Square garden. She had the graceful elegance of a duchess combined with the exotic sensuality of a harem girl.
How the devil had she come to be in the emperor’s harem? Abducted in childhood, perhaps? Her touch still glistened on his mouth. He wiped away the rose-scented oil, but could not wipe away the memory of her fingertips brushing lightly over his lips.
He almost regretted that he had stopped her from completing the anointment ceremony. He couldn’t risk exposing the leather pouch around his neck, but he couldn’t help wondering how her touch might have felt on his bare chest.
As she swirled and dipped into one provocative pose after another, hunger surged through him.
A thought of Mandara flashed into his mind, bringing a stab of guilt. What kind of blackguard was he, that he could even glance at another woman so soon after losing his wife? He tore his gaze away from the performance, pretending interest in a gold hookah that sat untouched at his side.
Mandara had been all demure innocence. He had kissed her only once, after they had exchanged their vows. He had certainly never allowed himself to feel anything like…this in her presence.
This searing, aggressive male lust.
His gaze found the English-looking dancer again, and this time he could not look away. There was nothing demure or innocent about her; she was pure boldness, openly sensual. Her startling blue eyes burned with sultry promise.
She made him think of old, bad habits…pleasures he had not partaken of in a long time.
Bending backwards, she threw her arms over her head in the heat of the dance, her breasts nearly thrusting free of their scant covering. Every drop of blood in his veins pounded toward his groin. He whispered an oath under his breath.
Julian chuckled beside him. “Easy, Sax,” he admonished, though his dry voice reflected his own strain. “Remember why we’re here.”
Scowling at his brother, Saxon tried to do just that. He was grateful for the ceremonial kamarband that had been presented to him earlier. Without the embroidered blue cloth draped over his lap, his interest in the stunning blue-eyed harem girl would be all too obvious.
She and the others now moved in a circle, turning and swaying to the sounds of the musicians’ pipes and drums, faster and faster as the dance built toward a climax. The rings on their fingers flashed as their hands swirled in elaborate, hypnotic movements. Every few steps, they froze in intricate poses, like statues, only to sweep into motion a second later.
Golden chains around the European girl’s bare waist shifted with every subtle thrust of her hips. Her graceful spins made the weighted hem of her sheer peshwaz cloak wrap and unwrap provocatively around her body.
Saxon’s heart took up the beat of the drum.
Perhaps it was pure arrogance, but she seemed to be dancing for him alone. She glided around the chamber with the other women, but always when they stopped, she seemed to be in front of him—here giving him a flash of pale thigh, a moment later skipping near so that her flowing skirts brushed against him, her perfume wafting after her. Once she flashed him a smile as bewitching as it was inviting.
She might consider her brazen behavior mere flirting, but Saxon did not feel the least bit playful. If he dared so much as touch her, however, it would cost him a hand.
He was dangerously close to not caring. How long had it been since he’d bedded a woman, lost himself in physical pleasure? How long since he had found release in a woman’s arms and felt her shatter with bliss, so wet and tight around him? Too long.
Too damned long.
The dancers threw themselves into the final steps of their performance with abandon. She moved close to him again, eyes closed, lips parted.
Saxon forgot how to breathe. Overpowering need pounded through him. Her body quivered with what looked for all the world like sexual ecstasy.
The dancers spun in one final, dramatic pose, then the music stopped and they fell at the feet of the emperor’s guests.
The men sat in collective, lustful silence for a full minute before they managed a polite, civilized applause.
Saxon didn’t join in, feeling neither polite nor civilized. She knelt before him, head bent, breath panting in and out, her back and shoulders rising and falling rapidly. He fought the primitive urge to scoop her into his arms and carry her to the nearest bedchamber.
Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his.
He felt as if he were drowning. It was like standing on the deck of the Valor, watching the midday sun strike facets of dazzling turquoise from the jewel-blue waves of the Indian Ocean. Her half-lowered lashes only enhanced her languorous, sensual appearance.
Her skin, though flushed from her exertion, reminded him of the fine silk the Hindus called “white of the clouds when the rain is spent.”
And her lips…lush, rose-colored petals that beckoned him to taste them.
“Does she please you, Englishman?” the emperor asked lightly.
Saxon counted three breaths before he could speak. He quickly reminded himself of the manners required in the Indian court, where flattery was a subtle and refined art. “She is a beauty beyond compare, great Emperor. Surely, the flower of your harem.”
The emperor waved his hand dismissively. “A passingly able dancer, but pale for my taste. A gift from the clan Ajmir many years ago, when she was yet a child. She has long been in my harem but she has never caught my fancy.”
Saxon felt his heart thud
against his ribs at the news that this girl had once lived among the Ajmir. It was the first time he had even heard the clan mentioned since he arrived in Daman. “Truly, she does not have the look of a Hindu,” he said. “She is, perhaps, English?”
“Han, English and Portuguese. Daughter of a sea captain,” the emperor replied in a bored tone. “He traded her in exchange for treasure, and the Ajmir gave her to me. They could not abide an English girl among them. I understand there is little love lost between that clan and your people.” He picked up a slice of melon from the tray beside him and bit into it.
“Indeed, great Emperor, there is truth in what you say.”
Alamgir the Second spat out a seed. “Would you like her, Englishman? She is yours.”
Saxon stared at him in shock. The emperor had just given him a dancing girl—as casually as if she were a bolt of cloth or a bouquet of flowers. “Emperor, I…I am without words. I am unworthy of—”
“Sax.” Julian nudged him in the ribs, whispering harshly. “Refusing a gift is an unpardonable insult. Let’s leave here with our heads still attached to our necks, shall we?”
Saxon looked down at the girl, who remained frozen at his feet, eyes wide. She looked just as stunned as he was by what the emperor had said.
The emperor dismissed the musicians and other dancing girls with a clap of his hands. “She has been trained most thoroughly in the ways of love by my best courtesans. I am sure she will please you,” he said, as if the matter were already closed. “And she is yet a virgin.”
Hellfire and damnation. Saxon tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t get his head lopped off. He couldn’t refuse a gift from the emperor, but he couldn’t allow anything to distract him from his mission—and this English rose with a courtesan’s erotic training qualified as a major distraction.
“Say something, Sax,” Julian whispered urgently. “Hell, if you don’t want her, I’ll be glad to take her.”
Trying to think of some way to extricate himself from this impossible situation, Saxon suddenly realized that he shouldn’t—at least, not yet.
She might know something useful about the Ajmir. Something that could help him find the sapphires.
He would be a fool to turn down the opportunity to question her in private.
Julian impulsively addressed the emperor. “Great and wise Emperor, I—”
“I thank you for the generous gift,” Saxon broke in. “I accept, with the deepest gratitude.”
He reached down and touched her, as he had been longing to all night, his thumb brushing over her cheek through the silk of her veil.
“Koi bat nahin,” the emperor replied. “You are welcome.” Smiling, he summoned one of his eunuchs. “I shall have her made ready for you. She will await you in the pavilion of pleasure.”
Her heart beating too fast, Ashiana followed the eunuch who led her out of the harem, her slippers silent in the hushed corridors. He guided her toward the preet chatra, the pavilion of pleasure, where she would await the arrival of Saxon D’Avenant.
She reached up to touch her cheek. Her courage had started to waver the instant the Englishman had touched her, his fingers unexpectedly gentle, his gray eyes dark with desire.
The sensations his touch had ignited within her were far different from the tingling she had experienced when she touched him. During the greeting ceremony, she had been the one in control, protected from him by the distance that custom and etiquette demanded. Now everything was different.
Now there would be no distance.
With trembling fingers, she wiped away the beads of perspiration that dotted her forehead. For the past two hours, the women of the harem had worked to prepare her for a night of passion: bathing her, rubbing beeswax onto her lips to make her mouth look moist and full, burning sandalwood incense so that her hair absorbed the fragrance as it dried. They had emphasized the shape of her eyes with black collyrium, painted on with a paper-thin brush, and dusted henna powder over her pale cheeks to add much-needed color. Then they had massaged herbal essences into her skin until it glowed with the luster of pearls, all the while offering tidbits of advice on how to captivate a man’s heart.
The entire time, Ashiana had clung to one thought: she was not being prepared for a night of lovemaking, but for a deception. None of this was real. It was all merely part of her ruse, just like the provocative poses the dancing girls had spent the past two weeks teaching her. She had no interest in captivating Saxon D’Avenant’s heart.
All she wanted to take from him was the stolen sapphire he wore around his neck.
She ran her thumb over the onyx ring she wore on her right hand, trying to calm herself. She had carefully rehearsed every step, every smile, every detail of this plan, down to the garments she had chosen for this night: salwar pantaloons of iridescent purple fabric with deep pockets, layers of matching skirts, and a sleeveless bodice, tight-fitting and so low-cut that it revealed far too much of her breasts. Only the familiar, weighted peshwaz cloak she wore helped calm her nerves.
She nearly collided with the eunuch’s back when he stopped before the preet chatra doors.
He pushed open the massive, gem-encrusted portal. “As soon as the emperor and his guests have finished their evening meal in the audience hall, one of the guards will bring the English sahib here.” The eunuch bowed and moved aside. “Pray call for me, if you require assistance before then.”
“Dhanyavad,” she managed to say, her throat going dry. “Thank you.”
“No one will disturb you until morning,” he assured her.
I am counting on that. Summoning all her courage, she stepped inside. As he closed the door behind her, she glanced around the room and hurried to begin her preparations.
She had much to do before the Englishman’s arrival.
Saxon noted that he was not the only European being led through the darkened palace corridors to one diversion or another. Emperor Alamgir the Second certainly seemed to be generous with his hospitality. Too generous, Saxon thought with a frown as he followed a guard to the preet chatra. The feast had been interminable. Three hours of kebabs, tandoori, toasts to the emperor’s good health, and a deadly dull discussion of trade tariffs.
The entire time, all he could think about was a pair of sea-blue eyes, skin pale as mist, slender curves that begged to be unveiled…
Clearing his throat, he forced those thoughts aside. He was only going to talk with the dancing girl, nothing more. Never mind what the emperor had decreed; Saxon had no intention of keeping his surprise gift and no time for any sort of dalliance. Speaking with one of the other English delegates during the meal, he had learned that Greyslake was on his way to the Andaman Islands with all speed.
Greyslake was a Royal Navy officer with access to spies in all the corners of the East—and he could very well know something Saxon did not. Perhaps there was a reason the Ajmir had not been seen or heard from here in Daman. Perhaps this meeting was only intended as a diversion, and the sapphires were yet on the islands.
Saxon had dispatched Julian to ready the Valor for an immediate departure. His light, fast Indiaman could outpace Greyslake’s man-of-war, but Greyslake had a head start. Saxon intended to sail with the dawn tide.
Which gave him just enough time to find out if the dancing girl knew anything helpful about the Ajmir. As soon as he had accomplished that, he would send her back to the harem and be on his way.
His guide led him to the entrance of the preet chatra, then bowed. “All that you have need of, sahib, you will find inside.”
“Dhanyavad,” Saxon replied as the guard left him alone in the darkened corridor. He took a deep breath, trying to cool the potent hunger that heated his blood, reminding himself that he was only here to gather information. Then he opened the door and stepped inside.
The scent of pungent incense and the sound of trickling water surrounded him, only to be forgotten upon seeing the beauty who stood in the center of the pavilion, hands clasped, gaze lowered.
She had been prepared for him as promised: garbed in sheer layers of lavender silk, her skin glistening like new morning sunlight, her hair a black cascade beneath her diaphanous veil.
He belatedly remembered to close the door behind him. By habit, he evaluated the security of his surroundings before doing anything else. Two entrances: the door he had just come in and an open terrace on the far side of the chamber. Flickering oil lamps in sconces around the room cast a low, dusky light, reflected in mirrors of various sizes embedded in the walls and ceiling. An enormous mattress on a raised platform, curtained with gauze, took up one wall. A hammock swung in the breeze on the adjacent terrace. Pillows had been strewn about in inviting disarray.
He moved around the room, checking behind curtains and under the oversized silk pillows. There were no armoires, no trunks where assailants might conceal themselves. The terrace was deserted. He found a knife, six inches long, on a platter of fruit in one corner.
“Sahib?” the girl said lightly. “I am over here.”
Her joking tone made a grin tug at one corner of his mouth. “I see you, sundar.” It seemed only natural to call her beautiful. “Just making sure we’re alone.”
“No one will disturb us until morning. I…I am yours to command.”
Saxon felt his breathing deepen as she said that, his attention on a shallow bathing pool, just large enough for two, on the opposite side of the chamber, fed by a fountain in the shape of the fertility god Nandi. Lotus blossoms floated on the water’s surface.
Damn, he could only imagine how much the two of them might have enjoyed that…
But he wasn’t here to enjoy himself.
“I can’t stay until morning,” he said with regret. Satisfied that the shamshir sword at his waist would be equal to any threat that might arise, Saxon crossed the chamber toward his dancing girl. “And I only want to talk.”
He realized he had just thought of her as his. Where had that come from? He had no business feeling possessive or anything else toward her.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 5