by Jane Feather
What was happening in the city? What was Akbar Khan planning now? A graveyard shudder lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. She had always known how vulnerable the British were, how tenuous their hold in this country, but she had known it from the lofty heights of the hawk, hovering over his prey, watching with amused contempt the antics of the pathetic little creature so blind to the threat from above. Now she was caught in the long grass, too, and when the hawk swooped, she would be as much his prey as any of these others, so heedless of their danger. There were women and children out there in that suburban huddle … families leading their lives as if they were tucked up in some smiling English village, instead of clinging to an ungiving landscape in the face of a barbarous opponent.
She turned back to the couch, snuffed the candles in the branched candlestick on the table, and lay down in the flickering firelight upon her makeshift bed. It was narrow and unyielding. Cold and lonely. And her body yearned for the comfort, the warmth, and the ineffable pleasure to be afforded by that other body, so freely offered and as desirous as her own, lying cold and lonely on the other side of the wall.
What virtue was there in a pointless self-denial when the very foundations of her existence were crumbling … had crumbled? She got off the couch.
Kit was staring into the darkness, his muscles tense with his longing, bitter self-recrimination whirling in his wakeful brain, when the door of his bedroom opened. A white-clad figure glided into the room.
“Salaam, Ralston, huzoor.” She slipped out of the garment and stood naked by the bed.
“Greetings, Ayesha,” he murmured, turning back the covers in invitation. He did not bother to question this visitation but simply accepted it as he had accepted Ayesha that first night … a wondrous, miraculous gift of the gods of love and passion.
She slid in beside him, and he felt the coldness of her skin. “Let me warm you.” He wrapped her tightly in his arms, holding her against his body. “Oh, if you only knew how my nights have been tormented with the memories of your skin,” he whispered. “The scent and feel of you.”
She stretched alongside him, twining her legs with his, pressing herself against him while she arched into the hands that touched her with slow and languid pleasure.
“Oh, God,” he whispered on a low groan, “I want to spend all night just touching you, feeling your skin dance beneath my hands. It’s never been like this for me before.”
“Nor for me,” she whispered back, nuzzling the pulse at the base of his throat, spreading her body for the hands that moved in a long, exploratory caress that brought every nerve center to piquant awareness. Her muscles in thighs and belly tightened involuntarily as she moved upward into the caress, and the deep recesses of her body melted in liquid arousal.
“I want to make love to you in ways you’ve never imagined,” he murmured, drawing his tongue upward in the cleft of her breasts. “You taste so wonderful.” The tip of his tongue flickered against her throat, traced the line of her jaw, tantalized in the corners of her mouth. “Do you like this, my Anna? Tell me what you want. Tell me what gives you the most pleasure.”
In the warm, whispering darkness she told him, and he smiled his delight as he loved her in the ways that made her body sing with the pleasure and brought joy bubbling on her lips as she crested, wave after wave. Kit seemed able to continue indefinitely, using his body to ensure her delight was infinite until, surfeited with ecstasy, she fell into an exhausted sleep and he lay wakeful beside her, long past the ability to achieve his own release, but content that it should be so.
When she awoke an hour later, in the first gray light of dawn, he hitched himself on one elbow to smile down at her before kissing her gently. “Good morning.”
She reached up a hand to brush aside the lock of fair hair flopping on his forehead. “Did you not sleep?”
He shook his head. “Too keyed-up, I’m afraid.”
“Why did you deny yourself?”
“I didn’t. I indulged myself,” he replied with a chuckle. Then the laughter died in the gray eyes, a deep burning probe in its place. “I had to bind you to me,” he said. “It was the only way I knew how.”
Annabel shivered at the intensity behind the words. Possession … ownership … Was he any different from Akbar Khan in what he wanted from a woman? But she knew it was different, and any intellectual attempt to equate the two would simply be a futile effort to protect herself from the intensity of the emotion that bound her to Kit as securely as it bound him to her.
“Come,” she said softly, sitting up and pushing him flat on the bed. “I have some skills, too. Let me ease you.”
He lay back as her hands moved cleverly over him, massaging the tension from neck, back, arms, and legs; even his toes received careful attention. But when she felt his gradual relaxation, she applied her deft fingers to those other parts of his body, and in his turn he yielded to the extremity of delight. Then they slept the sleep of satiation and recuperation, while the world woke.
Chapter Ten
The crackle of rifle fire, confused shouts, the pounding of feet in the street outside ruptured sleep.
Kit sat up just as the bedroom door burst open to admit Harley.
“Eh, sir, those damn savages are firin’ into the cantonment,” he said, then his eyes fell on the other occupant of the bed. “Beg pardon, sir,” he said stiffly. “Thought you’d want me to wake you.”
“Thank you, Harley,” Kit said as if he had not noticed his batman’s discomfiture. “Pass me my clothes.” He flung himself out of bed, stretched naked in the cold morning air, then began to pull on britches and tunic as Harley handed them to him.
Annabel sat up and blinked. “Did you say they’re attacking the cantonment?”
“Yes, miss.” Harley studiously avoided looking in the direction of the bed, where she sat, the sheet pulled up to her neck, her hair glowing bright as polished copper in the early morning gloom.
The sound of hammering on the front door sent Harley into the hall. Kit turned to the bed. “I have to find out what’s happening, but I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“I’m coming too,” she said, pushing aside the covers.
“No,” Kit expostulated. “You cannot show yourself around the cantonment.”
“Why ever not?” She picked up the discarded nightshirt just as Bob Markham’s urgent tones came from the hall.
“Just stay here until I get back,” Kit directed imperatively and left the room. “Bob, what the hell’s going on? Is it an organized attack?”
“It’s hard to say,” Bob replied. “It was all very sudden. Everyone’s panicking—”
“Of course it’s not an organized attack,” Annabel broke into the exchange, coming into the hall calmly fastening the buttons at the neck of the nightshirt. She threw the river of hair back off her shoulders with a swift, impatient gesture. “They are not fools enough to mount an open attack … or, at least, Akbar Khan is not. It’s not devious enough for him … Oh, good morning, Captain Markham.” She smiled. “How impolite of me to ignore you.”
It was clear from Bob’s expression that the significance of her attire and her emergence from Kit’s bedroom were not lost on him, but he recovered with admirable speed. “Good morning, Miss Spencer.”
“Annabel,” she corrected automatically. “I would imagine this is in the nature of intimidation, like the attack on the residency.”
“You call that butchery simply an exercise in intimidation?” Kit exclaimed.
Annabel shrugged. “I would guess that was how it started, but it became out of hand.” She turned toward the sitting room. “I wonder if my clothes are still in here. I will dress directly and—”
“Goddamnit, Annabel, you have to remain indoors,” Kit said distractedly. “You cannot wander the cantonment until we have decided how to explain your presence here. You must understand that.”
“I don’t understand it in the least,” she retorted. “What business is it of anyone’s who I a
m or where I go?”
“Kit is right, Miss … uh, Annabel.” Bob came to his friend’s assistance. “There are rules, y’know, and—”
“They don’t apply to an Afghan woman.” She dismissed the statement with a lofty gesture. “And since I am no longer in an Afghan zenana, I need not abide by zenana rules either. Had you better not both go about your business? I’m sure you must have to report somewhere.” The sitting room door closed decisively behind her.
Kit took a step toward the door, then realized that he could not tarry any longer, bandying words with that infuriatingly intransigent woman. With a muttered “Hell and the devil!” he stormed out of the house, Bob on his heels.
“Bitten off more than you can chew there,” Bob observed, matching his companion’s speed.
“Oh, no, I have not,” Kit returned sharply. “All I need is time to explain matters to her. It’s just that she’s not accustomed to the way things are here. She’s used to a quite different way of life.”
“That must be it,” Bob agreed solemnly. “Once you explain about how Lady Sale wouldn’t look with a friendly eye upon a lady livin’ under your bachelor roof, I’m sure the lady will understand the need to behave with circumspection.”
“Oh, be quiet!” Kit snapped at this uncomfortable reminder of his own responsibility in the matter. He stalked into the headquarters bungalow.
Annabel, meanwhile, had dressed, fastened her makeshift veil of the previous evening, and enveloped herself in the fur-trimmed mantle Kit had taken from Akbar Khan’s house. It was almost as concealing as a chadri, and she felt confident she would draw no remark. There were Afghan servants in the cantonment, as well as camp followers and several regiments of Afghan troops, loyal to the British, so she would not present a particularly unusual sight.
Harley had been given no instructions to keep the front door locked on this occasion, and as it was perfectly clear that circumstances had changed somewhat since the lieutenant had brought home his resistant captive, he made no attempt to prevent her leaving the house.
“I am just going to the gate of the cantonment,” Annabel told him. “I would have a look for myself at the fighting. I might recognize someone, or something, I don’t know, but it might be useful. Tell the lieutenant that I will be back soon, if he wants to know where I am.”
“Very well, miss.” Harley closed the door behind her, reflecting that the lieutenant’s amorous exploits had taken a new turn with this one. Not his usual style at all, and, unless Harley was much mistaken, one likely to lead him hip-deep into trouble. Shaking his head over this gloomy prophecy, he went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
Annabel hastened through the streets toward the sound of gunfire. She realized she was the only civilian in sight, and an officer leading a troop at the double toward the gate bellowed at her in halting Pushtu to get off the street. But she simply ducked into a garden until they had passed, then continued on her way.
The gates were locked; behind them and on the earthworks that formed the only defensive structure for the cantonment were massed troops returning the fire of the Afghans below them. Stones flew as well as bullets, and insults and threats were hurled upward. The grim-faced troops on the earthworks took no notice of Annabel as she wriggled between two posts and poked her head over the top of the barrier.
Below her was a horde of screaming, scimitar-waving Ghazis. It was a disorganized rabble, as she had guessed, but nonetheless alarming. Their jezzails cracked with devastating accuracy, and the screamed insults and curses were so redolent with menace that the soldiers around Annabel muttered prayers and imprecations in superstitious self-defense. However, it was clear to Annabel that no serious attempt was being made to storm the cantonment at this point.
She watched for a while longer, but nothing occurred to change her mind about the nature of the engagement so she slid backward between the posts and attained ground level again, brushing twigs and dirt from her cloak.
“What the ’ell are you doin’ ’ere?” bellowed a corporal, leading a party of sappers repairing damage to the earthworks. He stared in astonishment at the veiled woman who had suddenly appeared in their midst.
“Just looking to see what was happening,” she replied in English without thinking. “I believe it would be sensible for you to tell your commander to hold his fire. The Ghazis will lose interest if they don’t have the satisfaction of an opponent at the moment, and—”
“I beg your pardon?” A voice spoke in clipped accents at her back, and she swung around to come face to face with an immaculate colonel with a waxed moustache and the red-brown complexion indicative of long service under the Indian sun.
“Oh, I was just explaining that the Ghazis are only playing games at the moment,” she said earnestly. “Terrifying games, of course, but nevertheless, if you ignore them, they will probably go away. You can always tell by what they are shouting. From what I can hear, it’s mostly just taunts and they will soon run out of steam. You don’t need to worry until the real threats—”
“Woman, I do not know who or what you think you are.” The colonel finally recovered from his incredulity and interrupted this blithe exposition. “But I can assure you I do not need your advice.”
Annabel threw up her hands in a gesture of frustration. “Feringhee!”
At the clear contempt of that one word, the colonel’s color deepened and he laid hands on her. “Who the hell do you think you are, Afghan bint? I’ll have you thrown out of the cantonment!”
“Ayesha!” White-faced, his gray eyes smoky with anger and anxiety, Kit came running across the strip of grass toward them. “In the name of goodness, what have you been doing?”
“Lieutenant, is this woman something to do with you?” demanded the colonel, his hands still gripping Annabel’s shoulders.
“In a manner of speaking, sir.” Kit saluted. “I’m sorry if—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kit, I was only trying to explain to this gentleman that the Ghazis are not about to storm the cantonment, and if they don’t have the satisfaction of returned fire they will probably give up and go home. But with typical feringhee arrogance he won’t listen to me.”
“For God’s sake, hold your tongue!” Kit hissed, as the colonel looked more apoplectic by the second. “I’ll take her away from here, sir,” he offered, hoping that would secure Annabel’s release.
“What’s an Afghan bint doing talking like an Englishwoman?” The colonel still maintained his hold and stared down at the woman, who reverted somewhat belatedly to the docility proper to her sex and supposed race, and dropped her eyes.
Kit had to swallow the insulting term because to deny it would expose Annabel to a label with much more far-reaching consequences. “She picked it up somewhere, sir,” he said vaguely.
“Oh, did she? Well, it seems to me it’s gone to her head. I never heard such insolence from a wench. Goddamnit, man! What you do with her in the privacy of your own house is your business, but you’d damn well better keep her there,” declared the colonel, finally releasing Annabel. “If I see her around here again, we’ll toss her over the embankment to play with her ‘playful’ Ghazis! And we all know what they do to their women who consort with the enemy.” On which Parthian shot, the colonel strode off.
“Come along.” Kit, his mouth taut, seized her hand. “I have never been so humiliated!” he bit out, hauling her beside him. “Are you mad to go around spouting your Afghan contempt for the feringhee in this place? You are not in Akbar Khan’s fortress, I’ll have you remember, but in the heart of the British encampment.”
“But I was just trying to give him some advice, only he wouldn’t take any notice,” Annabel protested, stubbing her toe on a large stone in the street and swearing in fluent Persian as she hopped on one foot.
Kit put an arm around her waist, holding her steady as she rubbed her sore toe through the thin slipper. “How could you possibly imagine a British colonel is going to listen to the advice of an Afghan camp f
ollower?” he demanded in exasperation.
“But I’m as English as he is … or so you keep telling me.” Gingerly, she put her foot on the ground again. “But I happen to know things that he doesn’t. It’s just so silly … such a waste of ammunition … to scrap with those Ghazis at the moment. They’re not an organized group, just a rabble of fanatics.” She began to walk again. “What I cannot understand is why your precious commanders would do nothing about the riot and massacre in Kabul, which was important, and waste time and bullets playing a silly game at the gate.”
They had reached Kit’s bungalow by this time and he pushed her ahead of him into the hall. “What do you want to be?” he asked harshly. “Afghan or English? Because so help me, Annabel, while you’re here you must be one or the other and stick to it.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, sniffing the air. “Harley is cooking something and I am hungry.”
“Then let me explain it to you,” he said. “You can have breakfast afterward.”
“I will be much more attentive on a full stomach,” she declared, making for the dining room.
“No, you won’t!” He caught her arm and swung her toward the sitting room. “This is important, Annabel.”
“I do wish you’d stop manhandling me. It’s getting to be something of a habit.” She marched into the sitting room, unfastening her veil.
Kit sighed, massaging his temples where an ominous tightness had begun to throb. “I don’t mean to. It’s just that you’re always challenging me. Ever since I first laid eyes on you, when you held that damn stiletto at my throat.”
Annabel smiled in reminiscence, tossing her veil and cloak over the couch. “I don’t always challenge you,” she pointed out.
“No.” He grinned slightly. “I grant you that. But I can’t keep you in bed permanently.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him. “I think on past performance you might be able to do that very easily.”