George leapt to the ground and turned to assist Jharna. She had stood the second the carriage halted and probably would have risked ripping her sari in a dozen places or landing in a briar patch just to escape the death trap! Fortunately, George was there, and he clasped her slim waist and lifted her to the earth as if she were a feather. Taking advantage of the situation, he pressed her against the phaeton’s hard side with his whole body, his hands running from her cheeks to upper arms to breasts. The latter he cupped, rubbing his thumbs over her hardening nipples, and then engulfed her mouth for a penetrating, heated kiss. Her instant response fueled the excitement he had been dampening since leaving Bombay. Merely thinking of the afternoon he had planned for them thrilled him. Now that they had arrived, more or less, and she was in his arms with her amazing body crushed against him, hands in his hair and one leg stroking the backside of his leg, George’s passion flared. With a groan, he ground into her pelvis and for a crazed five minutes considered making wild love to her right there. The vision was immensely appealing, and he knew Jharna wouldn’t resist based on the noises she was emitting and how she clutched him.
It was an effort to be sure. George lightened the kiss and pulled away from her lips. His hands and body he did not move, waiting until she returned to reality and opened her glazed eyes.
“Feel better now? No longer scared about the dangerous ride?”
Her laughter was shaky, although not from the ride, and she nodded.
“My devilish attack worked then. Fabulous! Grab a basket, and after a brief, leisurely stroll to the beach, the real fun will commence.”
The beach he led her to was at the end of a short but steep path that did not live up to the image he had painted. Jharna needed some assistance, not due to the physical difficulty but rather from her sari’s lengthy fabric. Her offhand comment that taking it off would make the trek easier was met with an anticipatory gleam in George’s eye. She kept it on, though, at least until they were comfortably settled with blanket spread on the sand and basket of food safe in the shade. At that point, they both removed their clothes, George every last stitch and Jharna down to her thin skirt and choli, and raced into the warm water. If anyone could have seen them, it would appear as if two giddy adolescents were frolicking. They splashed each other, rode the waves, and swam into the surf. As they played, they remained close to each other and often entwined as they floated and kissed.
George had imagined this as just one portion of how he planned to celebrate their special day—holding a wet, sun-glistening Jharna in his arms, leisurely bobbing with the gentle surge as they kissed. Her limbs wrapped around him, and her body slowly gliding against his chest as she took him inside her. Sheer heaven. Thirteen years to the day since the first time they made love and each time as wonderful.
After Bhrithi’s death, they never spoke of marriage again. George’s desire to wed legally had not died completely, but it no longer concerned him. To Jharna he was committed, in every possible way a man can be to a woman and vice versa. Over time, he had come to consider the night they first declared and consummated their love as their wedding. The man who eschewed formality a good portion of the time possessed a compulsion to mark a certain day to honor their relationship. For George, this date was when his entire life had aligned into a perfect pattern. Noting a day as their anniversary was not about placing a stamp of legitimacy on their unorthodox situation but to celebrate the pureness of their union and show her how abundant his thankfulness and abiding his love.
“How did you discover this quaint cove?”
George handed her a plate with a papad roll, samosas, pakora bread, and assorted Indian snacks—all of them cooked by him—before glancing around the tiny, tree- and brush-shrouded beach. “It was an accident, sort of. Lord Bingham’s house is just over that rise. When I was there last month delivering his daughter’s baby, I went for a swim. After the infant was born, of course. A perfect boy.”
“Did they name him George?”
“No,” he grumbled with mock anger. “I am still waiting for that. It is the least one should do, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” she soothed while trying not to smile.
“It was a rough delivery. I thought for a time I was going to need forceps. Marvelous invention though they are, they are delicate and have the potential of damaging. I was dirty and exhausted after, so a swim sounded appealing. I saw this little cove, asked Lord Bingham about it, and he said I could come here as a thanks. Not quite the high honor of naming the baby George, but I can share it with you, so that makes it better. Furthermore, after the amount of fun I intend to have with you here, priya, I don’t think a child named for me can compare.”
“That sounds promising. We have already experienced a stupendous bit of fun.” She glanced out to the foamy blue waves, then back at him, the arch lift to her brow and sultry smile assuring him she did not mean the swimming or splashing. Leaning closer to his lips, she purred, “What else did you have in mind?”
George grinned every bit as sensually as she had, closed the narrow gap until a scant inch from her mouth, and huskily rumbled, “Why, gathering seashells and building sand castles of course. What else could we do?”
Jharna playfully shoved him away. George was prepared and grabbed her, falling backward onto the blanket so that she half sprawled on top of him. They were laughing, again like two giddy adolescents, until he silenced the vocal mirth with a kiss. Skillfully, he encompassed her lips, his tongue tracing and seeking in a pattern proficiently blending gentleness with demand while his long-fingered, sensitive surgeon’s hands stroked over her upper body with the same dizzying combination. Currents of love and lust charged, sparks present at each point where their flesh touched. Food was forgotten, their hunger now transferred to a different physical need.
All part of the plan, he thought. Today was his gift to her, George plotting the day as well as one could prior to it taking place. Jharna’s action, while not precisely foreseen, had been anticipated. So he twisted his hand around her flowing, damp hair and tugged her away from his lips. At the same time, he commenced a slow slide of the other hand down her body. The impassioned cast to her face and harsh breathing was exhilarating!
“Tell me, priya,” he whispered, “how many ways are there for me to show you my love? How many ways can I love you and bring you pleasure? Hundreds, I know. How many can I manage in one day? How many times can I hear your cries of ecstasy in one glorious afternoon?”
If she had considered attempting a reply, George did not allow it. On the edge of harsh, he drew her back in for a kiss, the second with an intensity multiplied tenfold. At the same moment as he wrest her breath with the fervid onslaught to her mouth, he slipped his hand between her legs and plunged into the moist heat waiting within. Jharna gasped, or tried to, and bucked wildly in time to his stroking fingers. Tightly he held her, maintaining total control of his movements and playing her body as a virtuoso musician. Not until he was certain the crescendo was near did he pull her away from his lips.
“Scream for me, Jharna. I want to hear how I make you feel.”
And with a minuscule shift and flawlessly executed sweep of his thumb, Jharna did scream.
During that lazy afternoon into early evening, they built castles of sand, gathered seashells in a basket that would eventually be taken to Junnar for the grandchildren who had yet to see the ocean, ate of the scrumptious cuisine George had prepared, picked wild berries and herbs, and romped in the refreshing water. At random junctures, George would abruptly squeeze her rear or nuzzle the bend of her neck or brush across a bared breast or nip the inside of her wrist. Several times he tumbled her to the sand or crushed her against a tree, kissing and fondling until she was breathless. Three times he did nothing but stare silently, his blue eyes smoldering with raw potency and hypnotizing promise until her breathing hitched and eyes glazed. The majority of the time, he then pulled away, chu
ckling hoarsely and grinning salaciously before resuming whatever they were doing as if nothing had occurred. Jharna never knew when he was going to carry on with the arousing activity, which heightened the expectation to agonizing levels so that when he didn’t stop, they were so insanely enlivened, the interlude was cataclysmic.
They dozed for an hour in the late afternoon, waking to the sun hovering inches above the horizon. As they made love the final time, the sun crept over the edge, bathing the endless sea in orange and crimson light and their cove into dusky twilight. The sun’s gradual dip created an atmosphere of timelessness. George and Jharna loved slow and steady with measured strokes and tenderness. Pretty words were uttered and meant from the heart. Their pinnacle was attained together with bodies entwined and synchronized, as the rush of pleasure swept over and through them.
Weary and enervated at the same time, they bid adieu to the pristine cove with only the last beams of the disappearing sun illuminating the path back to the phaeton and horses. Jharna nestled against his side as they drove back to Bombay. All her previous anxiety over the strange carriage was gone, replaced with tranquility borne of extreme satisfaction and energy expenditure.
“Do you think we will have an opportunity to come back here before we leave Bombay next month?”
George laughed at the fiery gleam in her eyes noticeable even in the diminished light. “We can certainly try, but the cove won’t go anywhere. If we don’t make it back before returning to Junnar, we will make a point to visit when next we come to Bombay.”
“When will that be?”
He didn’t need to see her face to know she wasn’t asking because of the cove. “Not too soon, priya. Raja is going to stay here when we leave in June. He and Searc are busy overseeing the addition to the surgical wing, so he asked to stay for a while. I am fine with my duties as a provincial officer, since it keeps me closer to home. Baji Rao has requested some assistance in Poona. I am already assembling a team for that and will send them ahead. Probably Drs. Tolman and Beckwith will lead it up. They have the most experience with Marathas and don’t mind working with the native doctors, plus they don’t need me breathing down their necks and directing every movement. I’ll meet Raja there in July after spending time with the family and spoiling our grandbabies. I miss them too.”
He kissed her forehead, then fell silent with thoughts drifting across the miles to their home in Junnar where Sasi and Nimesh lived with their wives and children. Aside from his months in England, the past two years had passed split between the Ullas house in Junnar and the beautiful home he had purchased in Bombay. It sat near the ocean and, while not large or of grand architecture, was perfect for the two of them. At forty-nine, it was the first house he had ever owned and he loved it. With Jharna, it was home, as was the dwelling in Junnar, because she was his home. It was nice to be able to call a place his, and he liked the pace they were setting these days. He couldn’t promise the urge to travel somewhere new wouldn’t hit him and with the EIC constantly evolving and expanding, it was unlikely the pattern of moving between Bombay and Junnar with his job as a provincial medical officer would last forever. For the present, however, they were content with the situation.
The three weeks following their anniversary, George was busy. No matter what his official job description, Dr. George Darcy had his hands involved in a dozen additional tasks. He gave lectures whenever asked, some of them officially planned while others spontaneously arose at the end of a patient’s bed or across an operating table. Research had never been a huge interest, but he did peer into a fair number of microscopes or visit the laboratory or experiment with medicinal concoctions. He always had a medical book in his lap or secured in the leather satchel slung over his shoulder wherever he went, either the latest text from the Continent or an Indian volume. A day did not go by without him tending to the ill or performing a surgery. Many nights did not go by without him being called to an emergency. Jharna had long since grown used to that and merely rolled over and returned to sleep.
There wasn’t a single soul in any of the medical facilities and few anywhere else within the EIC departments that did not instantly recognize him. The towering Englishman with the thin body, dressed in Indian garments inevitably in the brightest collage of colors and designs possible was easy to spot and remember. His infectious, booming laughter and resonant voice that could slip from perfect, aristocratic English into accent-free Hindi midsentence was known by all. Other Europeans had adopted native dress or learned the language, but not a one with the complete audacity of Dr. Darcy. There was no one with a smile as humorous, eyes as warm and intelligent, features as handsome, or personality as charming and kind. Energy bubbled forth as a fountain, none believing for a second that he was fast approaching the end of his fifth decade. There were many excellent physicians and surgeons in Bombay who excelled in certain areas, but none came close to his far-reaching expertise, diagnostic skill, incalculable knowledge, and unflappable confidence.
Taken together, it was a sad occasion when Dr. Darcy and the exquisite Indian woman who all but a handful assumed to be his wife, planned to leave. Therefore, Dr. and Mrs. McIntyre decided to host an afternoon luncheon at their lavish home in Parel as a farewell. A dozen physicians and officers with their wives filled the open salon, rear terrace, and gardens. George sat on a settee next to Jharna, a glass of brandy which he would sip at all night in his hand, and together they savored the merriment.
“Darcy, come over here and tell Perkins why he is dead wrong about Midnight Jewel taking the title from Houdon in tomorrow’s horse race!”
George kissed Jharna on the cheek before rising, crossing to Searc and the others. The discussion grew lively, Englishmen, even physicians, taking horses and racing very seriously. Being raised at Pemberley, where thoroughbreds were as much a staple as the sheep and crops, gave George an advantage over some when it came to comprehending the finer nuances of breeding. All those lectures from his father, a lifetime member of the Jockey Club, came in handy.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jharna continuing her conversation with the ladies sitting near her, the topic destined to shift from flowers to cooking, children, or clothing eventually. She had never experienced trouble connecting with people whether male or female, native or foreign. She was nowhere near as flamboyant or outgoing as George, her gift a sedate humor and honesty that appealed to others. Watching her mingle was never out of protectiveness or fear but due to his pride and happiness. Such was the case now, as she stood and gracefully wandered to a far wall, the ladies trailing behind as she spoke words he could not hear and gestured fluidly with her hands.
Indian art, he thought, smiling. One of the many subjects my incredible lover is versed in.
To his reckoning, she was a rare, priceless jewel among lesser gemstones. No offense intended to the wives of his friends, many who were lovely, and naturally he knew he was prejudiced. Nevertheless, Jharna was special. There she stood, pointing out the details of the magnificent painting hanging on the wall when she was a living work of art. She was dressed in a fine sari, a true masterpiece of craftsmanship, and exquisitely wrought jewelry adorned her wrists, neck, and forehead. The window dressing enhanced rather than overwhelmed the flawless beauty of her regal features and curvaceous body. George had recognized Jharna’s attractiveness while she was an unknown woman dancing at the Sardar’s birthday party. In all the years that had passed since, while Kshitij’s wife and his friend, up to this day twenty-five years later, Jharna had only grown more beautiful as far as he was concerned. Physically and spiritually, she was breathtaking to him.
Sensing his regard, she turned from the painting, met his eye briefly from across the room, and smiled warmly. It was one of those fleeting exchanges that was electric and spoke volumes. She lifted one brow when he winked and then glanced away toward one of the ladies. She nodded at whatever the woman said and opened her mouth to speak. At that second, George was ab
out to redirect his attention to his comrades, but Jharna snapped her lips closed and an odd twitch of her head stayed him.
No matter how often he replayed those moments in his mind afterward, George would never know precisely what launched him away from the men, the brandy flying from his hand as he shoved bodies—he never discovered how many—out of his way in a mad bolt to Jharna’s side. It only took two, maybe three seconds, and each one was an eternity etched upon his mind and heart with a razor-sharp knife.
Jharna pressed two shaking fingertips to her left temple, her body shuddered a half heartbeat before her head jerked backward, and her frantic eyes swung toward him, all in the time it took him to traverse the room, skidding to a halt just as her legs buckled and arms dropped boneless to her sides. Catching her in his arms and falling to the floor in a semicontrolled heap, George screamed her name and grasped her chin. Wrenching her face toward him, he bent to engage her eyes, helplessly watching the awareness slipping inexorably away.
“Jharna! Priya! No, no! Look at me! Please!”
“Priya.” A wisp of air through slack lips. “Love you…”
And then she was gone.
The only sound audible in the stunned silence was George’s screams and sobs—wrenching, disconsolate sobs as he held her lifeless body to his chest and rocked back and forth for minutes, hours, maybe days. He was never sure how long before Searc knelt beside, his ruddy Scottish face stricken and tear streaked, and laid one hand on his shoulder. He barely noted Raul Penaflor checking for a pulse in Jharna’s wrist. Nor did he remember exactly when a hysterical Anoop knelt on the other side of Jharna, Hindu chants for the deceased barely audible amid the weeping.
The Passions of Dr. Darcy Page 39