by Jane Feather
“Why, what has happened?” Kit’s eyes went in alarm to the closed door. “Annabel is all right, is she not?”
“As far as I know,” Bob said, straightening his tunic. “Wouldn’t let either of us in there.”
“I tried to take miss a nice breakfast tray,” Harley contributed, “and she told me to leave ’er alone.” Two red spots glowed on his weathered, leathery cheeks. “Threatened to take ’er clothes off in front of me, she did, sir. You couldn’t expect me to—”
“No … no, of course not,” Kit interrupted hastily, even as a bubble of crazy laughter edged its way into his voice. He turned into the sitting room, poured himself a large brandy, and drank it down in one swallow.
Bob regarded him rather as one might watch a close friend who has just run amok. “My dear chap, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Kit shook his head, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Not in the least. I only know I won’t let her go … not again.”
Bob pulled at his chin. “What did you think of doin’ with her, Kit?”
Kit gave a short laugh. “Ridiculous, I know, but I had thought to solicit Lady Sale’s protection for her … an orphaned, abducted girl of good family, returned to the bosom of her own people after horrendous experiences. I was sure the old dragon would assume the charge with the utmost enthusiasm.”
“I’m sure she would, if the charge were of a different character,” Bob observed. “But with the lady in her present mood, it’s a preposterous idea.”
“I know.” Kit fortified himself with another slug of brandy and turned resolutely to the door. “I’d best go and sort things out.”
“Yes, I think you had,” agreed Bob. “And I’d best report for duty. What’s Elphinstone doing about the riot?”
“Dear God.” Kit groaned, pausing at the door. “He doesn’t know what to do. It’s been nothing but orders, and countermanded orders, and repeated orders. And Macnaghten isn’t much better, just as indecisive, although he doesn’t make it so obvious. If Ayesha is right, and I begin to think she is, we’ll none of us get free and clear of Afghanistan.”
“Ayesha?”
“I thought I said before in Akbar Khan’s zenana, Annabel is known as Ayesha,” Kit replied. “And for the life of me, Bob, I don’t know whether to approach Ayesha or Annabel at this moment.”
“Ayesha,” said his friend firmly. “Ladies called Annabel Spencer don’t threaten to strip naked before two strange men. Mind you,” he added, “I’m not sure inhabitants of zenanas do either.”
“This one doesn’t seem to fit any particular mold.” Kit remembered how he had first met her, and the memory brought inspiration. He would meet confrontation with confrontation until she was prepared to talk in the way he knew she could and would, eventually, once she stepped back and looked at the realities. And once she began to talk with him, then he could begin to build.
“I’m excused duty until this evening. Keep me informed of what’s happening, will you, Bob?”
“Of course. And for what it’s worth, I wish you luck.”
He was going to need rather more than luck, Kit reflected, as an added precaution locking the front door after his friend before taking the high road to his bedroom. How did one convince someone that she had been rescued, not abducted?
At the sound of the doorknob turning, Ayesha said loudly, “If you take one more step into this room, I shall take off my clothes.”
Kit closed the door behind him. “A prospect that can only afford me inestimable pleasure, Annabel.”
“Oh, it’s you.” She got off the bed, where she had been lying staring up at the ceiling. “I thought it was one of your cohorts. Could we stop this nonsense now?”
“It’s not nonsense.” He came toward her, smiling, holding out his hands. “I told you I could not leave you—”
“By what right do you interfere in my life? I told you I wanted nothing of your feringhee blundering. I do not live by your rules, and I do not bear your labels. How many times must I tell you that?”
“Annabel—”
“That is not my name!”
Kit took a deep breath and reached for her hands. “Ayesha, listen to me.”
She stood very still, her hands resting limp in his. Her nose wrinkled, and for an instant her eyes closed. She had not smelled that pungent aroma on a man’s breath since she was a little girl. It took her back to another world … when her father had lifted her for a welcoming hug, or had leaned over her in her neat childhood bed to give her his good-night kiss.
“My father always said that a man who drank before noon could never be relied upon,” she said distantly, removing her hands from Kit’s.
Kit felt the hot flush of discomfort rush to his face. He swung away from her. “I had a brandy … after the last few hours, a man’s entitled, for God’s sake.”
She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. But I do know that your Afghan opponents will not be facing you befuddled with alcohol.”
“What are you? Some kind of Puritan?” he demanded, as the ground slipped beneath his feet and he found himself pushed to the attack on a completely nonrelevant issue.
“You forget where I come from, Ralston, huzoor,” she taunted, in control of this exchange for all her essentially captive state. “I abide by the laws of Islam, and I do not find them in the least distasteful.”
“Don’t talk in that fashion!”
“I will talk in whatever fashion I choose, Christopher Ralston! I do not obey your orders or your whims.”
“But by your own admission you obey the orders and whims of men,” he threw at her. “By the laws of Islam, is it not so?”
Ayesha was abruptly engulfed with the rage that had consumed her during the mortifying, painful ride to which he had subjected her. She slapped him; and then again, while he was still reeling from the first blow. But as her hand drew back for the third time, he grabbed her wrist. He was now as lost in the essence of battle as she was; as much at the mercy of the primitive, elemental reactions usually so well hidden beneath the veneer of polite congress.
“No! Not again, Ayesha. Strike me one more time, and so help me I’ll wallop you right back!” The declaration bit into the air. His fingers tightened around her wrist. For a long moment, they stood thus, both breathing heavily, locked in a contest of wills. Then he felt the slowing of her pulse, the gradual relaxation as she brought herself under control.
“That would not surprise me in the least, Christopher Ralston,” she said with an icy calm that matched her complete immobility. “I would not expect a gentlemanly restraint from you. Brutality and abduction are hardly acts of chivalry.”
“Brutality?” The word shocked him from his brief sense of ascendancy.
“How else would you describe the way you forced me from my home and dragged me here?” The jade eyes were now filled with scorn.
He could not dispute it. “You gave me no choice,” he said. “I would not hurt you for the world, Annabel, but there was no other way to get you here. You would not come willingly.”
“And I suppose, following the laws of Islam you purport to despise, you decided that I must go where you wished.” She sounded simply weary now. “Let us have done with this silliness, Christopher. I will go back to Kabul. I cannot have been missed for more than two, maybe three hours. I will say I wished to see what was happening and became caught up in the crowd and could not get back to the house.” Even as she said this, she knew such an explanation would have no credence in Akbar Khan’s household. He would never believe she had deliberately disobeyed him. He knew too well his own power and her recognition of it.
Kit shook his head. “You would never have left the house unveiled, Ayesha. How would you explain that?”
She shrugged, improvised, even though she recognized the futility. “I will say I lost my veil in the rioting.” But Akbar Khan would have the truth from her. She could not possibly conceal it from him. And when he had the truth, he would not rest until
Christopher Ralston had paid the penalty according to Koranic law.
“Why would you do this to me?” she said, her shoulders sagging in sudden defeat. “I told you I did not wish to be a part of this disaster. I do not belong here. I could never belong in your world.”
“But you can,” he said with passion. “I will teach you to belong.”
“Such arrogance!” she exploded, swinging away from him. “Feringhee, you can teach me nothing! You saw what happened in Kabul. Do you think that is the end of it? It’s but the beginning of the end! You will have no world soon.”
Kit’s features set into hard lines of stubborn determination. “You are an Englishwoman, Annabel Spencer. That is the only reality that concerns me. When you’ve come to terms with that, then we can discuss how best to proceed.” He marched to the door and bellowed for Harley.
The batman appeared instantly. “Yes, sir.” He stood attentively, but his wary eyes were fixed upon the slender, copper-haired creature fulminating by the window.
“I want to bath,” Kit said, “and get this muck off my face. Also, I could do with some breakfast. You must be hungry, too, Annabel,” he added, politely, dispassionately considerate.
“I will not eat your salt, Ralston, huzoor,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “Please yourself. Fill the tub for me, Harley.”
“Yes, sir.” Harley hauled a brass hip bath from a cupboard and dumped it before the fire. His expression was a study in shock and disapproval barely restrained. He went off, reappearing shortly with two jugs of steaming water. He filled the bath. He looked at his officer, and then at the woman who had not moved a muscle, it seemed, in the last ten minutes. He cleared his throat. “Should I show miss to the sitting room, sir?”
“Good God, no,” Kit said, sitting on the bed to pull off his boots. “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
Ayesha’s breath was expelled in a low hiss. It seemed the battle lines had been drawn. But if he thought she was going to take the slightest interest in his toilet, he was much mistaken. Somehow, though, she delayed turning her back on the scene by the fire just a fraction too long, and when she did so, her memory of that broad-shouldered, well-muscled body, slim-waisted and narrow-hipped, had been recharged.
Kit had been well aware of her surreptitious gaze as he stepped naked into the bath, and he did not misinterpret the haste with which she had swung away to face the wall. It afforded him a modicum of satisfaction in this generally unsatisfactory situation. That current of passion still flowed between them. He had known it since that moment in the bazaar—a moment when nothing had existed but their own selves, reaching for each other, the shared longing naked in their eyes. From then on, he had known that only one course was open to them. She must enter his world since he could not enter hers. He wanted her, and she wanted him. If he could establish her in his world, then what was between them could develop at its own pace.
But first she had to be brought to acknowledge the passion openly. And she would not do that while she fought him. He turned his head against the rim of the tub to look at her through half-closed eyes. “Annabel?”
A quiver rippled through the still figure, but she neither turned nor responded.
Kit sighed and began to scrub the boot polish off his face. Harley’s return to the bedroom with the lieutenant’s freshly brushed uniform broke the silence, and Kit, resolutely ignoring the third person in the room, engaged his batman in customary conversation as he shaved and dressed. Harley was less successful at pretending Annabel was not there, so the conversation was somewhat stilted, but he did volunteer the information that since Kit had left headquarters, a runner had come from the Balla Hissar to say that the shah, on his own initiative, had ordered one of his own levies, under Colonel Campbell, to engage the rebels in the city.
“With what result?” Kit asked, buttoning his tunic.
“Too early to say, sir. Captain Markham’s servant just brought me the news. The captain thought you might be glad to ’ear it.” He dipped a jug into the tub, drawing off the dirty water, then glanced uneasily at the woman. “Will I lay breakfast in the dining room, sir? Or in ’ere?”
“In the dining room, please. For two,” Kit said.
“I will not eat your salt,” Ayesha said again, still without turning to face the room.
“You are being childish,” Kit said, waving Harley toward the door.
“You dare to accuse me of childishness!” She spun around on him. “You are behaving like some blindly willful, spoiled brat, just like the rest of your misbegotten colleagues in this place. Refusing to acknowledge realities, firmly convinced that you can ride roughshod over anyone—”
“Annabel, that is not so,” he interrupted. “Now, please—” He came over to her, holding out his hands. “Please, cry peace. Think of the opportunity we have. Only Bob and Harley know you’re here. We won’t have to present you to Lady Sale for a little while. Until then, we could enjoy ourselves—”
“Is that all you can think of? ” The expression in the jade eyes was incredulous. “At this moment, with murder and mayhem all around you, all you can think of is lust. You abduct me from my home and force me into yours. I suppose ravishment is the natural conclusion!”
“Do not be absurd,” he said softly, sure of his ground this time. He caught her chin, tilting her face to meet his desirous gaze. “Yes, I want you … yes, that wanting has fed my obsession to get you away from Akbar Khan. But I can offer you a better life, Annabel, than any he could offer you, if only you would stop spitting for a minute and think about it. When we get out of this godforsaken country—”
“You will never leave Afghanistan alive,” she interrupted flatly, but the heat had gone from her voice, and he could detect a hint of uncertainty swimming in the depths of those clear eyes.
“You want me, too,” he said, softly insistent. “Say it, Annabel..”
“Breakfast is served, sir.”
Kit swore under his breath. He released his hold on her chin. “Come and have breakfast.”
She shook her head. “I have already told you—”
“That you will not eat my salt,” he supplied wearily. “Very well, it is up to you. When you’re ready to discuss this rationally, just let me know. I’ll be waiting.” He turned and left the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. “Harley, make sure that all the outside doors of the bungalow are kept locked at all times, and that the keys remain on your person,” he instructed, marching into the dining room. “Miss Spencer is to have the freedom of the house when she chooses to take it.”
“Yes, sir,” Harley said woodenly.
Annabel examined the room that she had designated as her own prison cell. There was a carafe of water, a chamber pot in the commode cupboard beside the bed; the basic necessities. It was simply a question of how long she could hold out.
She flung herself on the bed again, staring up at the ceiling. Of course she would not be able to hold out indefinitely. Escape was as pointless as it appeared impossible. While Akbar Khan would be unlikely to punish her involuntary part in her disappearance, he would be revenged upon Christopher. And it was inconceivable that she should expose Kit to that danger. However angry she might be with him, she could not deny to herself how important it was for her peace of mind that he stay safe and well.
She had been tormented by fear for him during the weeks since he had ridden away after the buzkashi, her nights haunted with images of his inevitable fate if he could not find a way to leave this embattled land. In many ways she believed the feringhee invaders had brought their end upon themselves. She understood the Afghan, knew and understood their need for vengeance, for all that she recoiled from its inevitable savagery. But she would protect Kit from it as far as she was able. Why that should be, she had so far chosen not to examine. The question and its answer seemed to lead down a blind and frustrating alley. It was an alley Kit seemed determined to explore … passion … wanting … yes, she felt all of that. But the years of
her growing had taught her to subjugate any emotion that might hinder the clarity of judgment necessary to steer her path through the complexities of Akbar Khan’s zenana. And all-consuming desire for another man was definitely an interference.
Yet acknowledging that desire did nothing to lessen her sense of outrage at the position in which she now found herself. And Christopher Ralston was going to come to a recognition of the justice of that outrage. Since she did not believe the Afghans would permit the British to leave Afghanistan alive, her own future seemed academic. She would be with them and would therefore suffer the same fate. But she would not yield passively to the new existence decreed for her by Lieutenant Christopher Ralston. When all was said and done, he was not an Afghan khan. On which thought, she fell asleep.
Kit ate his breakfast, but without much pleasure. It was simply a necessary refueling. He was hungry, and the thought that Annabel must be also didn’t aid enjoyment. He reached for the brandy decanter; then his hand stilled, as he recalled Annabel’s lightly scornful tones. It was past time he exercised a little moderation where that sop and strengthener was concerned. He refilled his teacup instead.
His appetite satisfied, he paced the dining room restlessly; went into the sitting room and did the same there; he wandered into the small hallway; apart from his bedroom, Harley’s quarters and the kitchen, that comprised the entire accommodation in this unmarried officer’s bungalow. He hovered outside the bedroom door. He had said he would leave her alone until she indicated that she wanted both company and sustenance, but his hand found its own way to the doorknob. He turned it slowly and pushed open the door. He didn’t need to go over to the bed to verify that her sleep was not counterfeit. The complete relaxation of her body, and the deep, rhythmic breathing, were sufficient. Soundlessly, and with disappointment, he closed the door again and put his head into the kitchen.
“Harley, I’m going to headquarters to find out what’s going on. If Miss Spencer wants anything, see that she gets it … and lock the front door after me.”