by Jenny Brown
As she took it, he peered at her face with the same intensity with which she suspected he would scan the horizon for enemy horsemen. He was listening again as if trying to hear her thoughts. Could he sense the bleakness that swept over her at the thought of leaving him, even for America? Could he sense her dismay at having him strip away all her excuses? He must. Just as he must know that, by offering her this freedom, he’d made it impossible for her to leave him.
He pulled out his watch and consulted it. “It’s two o’ clock now. I’ll be back tonight when the clock strikes seven. If you still want me, leave your door unlocked, and I’ll do my best to give you what pleasure I can in the time that is available to us.”
“And if I don’t?”
He shrugged. “If I find your door locked, I won’t trouble you again.”
Chapter 9
As the church bell struck the last peal of seven, Trev told himself to expect nothing. She wouldn’t be there, or if she was, her door would be locked. Why should she give herself to him now that he’d made it possible for her to be independent? He cursed himself for the strange fit of chivalry that had kept him from taking what she’d finally offered him—this girl whose tall, shapely body had tormented him every night in those dreams where he embraced her only to have her melt away and leave him bereft.
But perhaps that was why he’d done it. He’d had enough of her slipping away from him. He’d had no choice but to call her bluff. At least he’d made certain that if by some miracle she was still here, and her door was open, it would be because she really wanted him.
When he saw the light shining through the crack at the bottom of her door, his heartbeat quickened. But he must not assume she was waiting within. She might have neglected to extinguish her candle before leaving. And even if she was here, it didn’t mean she’d let him in. She might take perverse pleasure in observing his frustration as he fruitlessly tried the lock. He felt a lump swell in his throat as he reached toward the knob. But when he twisted it and gave a slight push, the door swung open, and he stepped over the threshold.
She was still there.
She was sitting where he’d left her, in one of the rough wooden chairs that furnished the small chamber, which also contained a washstand table, a small corner cupboard, and the narrow bed placed against one distempered wall, on which he’d planned to take his pleasure with her. As he entered, she put down her book, met his eyes, and smiled.
She had let down her honey gold hair. It fell in glossy waves at both sides of her parting. The blush that crimsoned both of her cheeks betrayed her excitement. Her eyes were the color of the sea off Portugal after a storm, their gray fading into green in the warm light of the single candle that illuminated the room.
She rose to greet him, opening her arms wide to invite him into her embrace. He flung himself into them and hungrily sought her lips. As their bodies pressed close, her hips lifted against his as he sucked her tongue into his mouth. He couldn’t get enough of her. She was his at last, pliant and yielding. His cock strained against the leather of his breeches. And yet even as his thoughts dissolved into wordless, animal hunger, something warned him to slow down.
His instincts again.
He broke from their embrace, feeling her shock when he pulled away. She tried to draw him back, enfolding him in her arms more tightly and lifting her plump lips, swollen now with her need for him, toward his. There was something frantic about the way she did it, as if she felt she must rush to the final consummation, unable to savor the journey. She seemed desperate to bring their passion to a conclusion.
This was too easy after what had come before.
“There will be plenty of time for pleasure later on,” he said, pulling down his tunic and straightening his tall shako, which her embrace had knocked askew. “First, I have planned a treat for you.”
“A treat?”
“A taste of oriental pleasures. Do you recall how you asked me about curry, that first night we met?”
Her eyes shifted, their color deepening to stormy gray. “You warned me it might cause pain—”
“There can be pain with—curry” he said, giving the word an emphasis intended to make her question exactly what it was he was actually referring to. “Especially the first time. ’Til you get used to it.”
Her eyes widened, revealing her anxiety. She wasn’t sure what he meant—as he’d intended. He relaxed. It was a deplorable way of reestablishing control, but it had worked, and he felt less at her mercy. She’d used misdirection at the masquerade when she’d made him think she dwelled in a bordello. Now the shoe was on the other foot.
“I long for curry,” he said. “And to share it with you.” He paused for a beat, skewering her with his gaze. “Do you think you can bear it?”
The color fled her cheeks. “I—I don’t know.”
“Then indulge me,” he said. “If you would be my Scheherazade, you must be willing to explore the secrets of the East with me. You can trust me, can you not?” He lifted one brow. “As I can trust you?”
Her eyes shifted. She was definitely hiding something.
As Temperance turned to get the pelisse that hung on a hook by the door, her emotions were in turmoil. Why hadn’t she taken his fifty pounds and fled when he’d given her the chance? She must have been mad. What had possessed her to give in to the treacherous yearning for a man? Hadn’t Randall’s betrayal taught her anything? And if she must yearn for a man, why must it be this man, whom she’d riled up with her lies and trickery?
He was toying with her now, parrying each move she made to get control of him with one of his own. Her kiss had not swept away his control. He was still wary of her. It was she who was in danger of being swept away. Her body still throbbed with the need he’d fanned into a blaze with his kiss, and she was wet and hungry for him, even knowing now, where it might lead her.
And he knew it, too. He had warned her in the coffeehouse that he was cruel. He’d reminded her of the humiliation she’d dished out when she had held the upper hand. He’d offered her freedom and told her to think out her choice with care. Had she missed the message he’d tried to convey? Had she agreed to something she hadn’t understood?
She steeled herself to endure what lay ahead. Perhaps she would prove to be that scorpion stinging herself to death out of sheer spite. But she wouldn’t give in to her fear. She’d endured what had followed after she’d given herself to Randall. Let Trev do with her what he would. She would survive that, too.
Perhaps there would be pleasure in the torment he had planned for her. She’d heard of such things from the girls at Mother Bristwick’s. But it wasn’t likely. Her short life had already been filled with too much pain, and it had never turned to pleasure, just into more pain, no matter how much she forced herself to ignore it. Sometimes, theft made it better for a while, but then it would come back, more strongly than before.
“I’m ready to taste your curry,” she said, facing her tormentor.
“Good,” he said, keeping his eyes from meeting hers. He put on the gloves a gentleman always wore, taking her hand in his only after his warm flesh had been sheathed in cool leather. Did he hope it might protect him from any power she might posses in her touch? Then he led her down the stairs and down the street, to the stand where they found a hansom cab.
The cab let them off at a plain building in a nondescript street. Trev took her hand again and led her toward a doorway that revealed no hint of what lay inside. Its anonymity was disturbing. He knocked, and moments later, the door swung open. A short, dark-complected man wearing a turban greeted them in a voice that bore a thick accent she did not recognize. He bowed rapidly and exchanged a few words with her companion in an outlandish tongue. Trev replied in the same language though his accent was subtly different from that of the turbaned man, who ignored her completely, carefully averting his eyes from her. Was it because he knew what would come next?
A strong scent of exotic spices wafted through the reception room in which the
y stood. As her nostrils quivered at the pleasing odor, she closed her eyes for a moment. Truly, it would be a relief to find out what Trev wanted and to give it to him. Far better than imagining it.
Trev extended one hand and led her to a doorway draped in thick woven hangings patterned with paisley, like a costly shawl her stepmother had owned, worn only for show and that rarely. He parted the curtain with his hands, lifting the heavy brocade to make an opening for her to pass through. It did not escape her that the thick drapes would muffle sound.
The room inside was draped from floor to ceiling with more hangings, giving it the feel of a tent. Small oil lamps placed in the corners cast a pale glow over the ruby red silk laced with golden thread that surrounded them. Tiny bits of mirrors were set into the ceiling, scattering the rays of the lamps. A low table no higher than her knees was surrounded by huge cushions backed by piles of pillows. The cushions looked deep and soft. Perfect for love play. A long, thin stick smoldered in a brass holder, giving off an intoxicating vanilla-like scent.
“Incense,” he explained, “to stimulate the senses.”
She peered into the shadows, but to her relief saw no objects there to cause alarm, just brass jars and small paintings in frames.
He motioned for her to sit on one of the cushions. Uneasily, she did so, but as she neared him, the closest of the paintings came into focus. It depicted a man and woman in oriental garb whose limbs were wrapped around each other in an unlikely posture as they indulged in the sexual act. The man’s penis was improbably long. Trev smiled as he caught her observing the painting. She blushed and looked away, and then wished she hadn’t when she heard him laugh.
He settled himself on the cushion beside her. Very close beside her. Her body tingled as her desire rose in response to the lascivious painting. The vanilla-scented smoke seemed to penetrate her body, intensifying her hunger. He caught her eye, and his scarred lip quirked up in a half smile. She forced herself to smile back, fighting for control, and feeling as she did so the way each breath she took enhanced the curve of her bosom, so visible in the low-cut gown. His eyes dropped to her cleavage appreciatively. Then his eyes met hers again, and he asked, “Are you ready to taste curry?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
His tongue flicked out and brushed his upper lip, unspeakably suggestive. She heard the air rushing into his lungs as he breathed in deeply, inhaling the scented air. But he made no move toward her. Was he expecting her to make the first move? Boldly, she leaned toward him and cupped his cheek with one hand, surprised at how smooth it felt. He must have shaved right before he came to get her. At her touch, his eyes dropped shut for a moment. He was liking this. As her fingertips brushed over the sensitive skin just in front of his ear, he gave a delighted shiver. Then he grasped her hand in his and restored it to her lap.
“There will be time for that later. Now it is time for—curry. Rajiv is a master of that art. It is time to surrender ourselves to his skill.”
“Rajiv?” Surely he wasn’t going to include the turbaned man in their love play. But how could she make any such assumption? She had no way of knowing what she’d got herself into. This was no longer the London she knew. And this man? She’d been mad to think she understood him.
“If that is what you wish,” she whispered.
“On then, to savor his cooking.” He clapped his hands loudly, twice.
“Cooking?” she repeated, idiotically, her voice shaking with the fear she’d been repressing.
“Of course. Curry must be cooked.” A mischievous look swept over his face. “We are going to dine together, aren’t we? What did you expect?”
Ravishment. Torment. Terrifying sexual practices unknown even to the girls at Mother Bristwick’s.
As he had meant her to. His eyes twinkled now, their twilight blue deepening to slate, and he was with difficulty repressing a smile. The bastard! He had been playing with her, paying her back in her own coin for the trick she’d played on him when she’d lured him to the Refuge.
But as her heartbeat slowed, she couldn’t but admire the elegance of the trick he’d played on her. She felt a broad smile twist her features as she fought back laughter. He might be a bastard, but he was a bastard who spoke her language—and spoke it as fluently as he spoke the lingo of their exotic host.
A small boy parted the curtains, and Rajiv entered, bearing a large brass tray loaded with covered dishes from which steam still issued. He set it down on the low table, bowed like a genie from The Arabian Nights, and withdrew to leave them to their feast.
“Curry!” Trev sighed happily. “It has been months since I’ve had a decent curry. Rajiv is famous for his. He came to England years ago as a general’s servant, and on his death used the legacy his master left him to open this private restaurant. He serves only those who are referred to him by others. My friend, Major Stanley, was kind enough to put a word in for me.
He lifted the lid on one dish, sniffed appreciatively, and placed the lid to the side. Next he unwrapped what turned out to be a pile of flat breads wrapped in an embroidered cloth and took one, broke off a piece, and dipped its corner in the greenish mixture.
“Take only a small bite,” he warned. “I asked Rajiv to make this mild enough for an Englishwoman, but like all Hindus, his definition of mild can be surprising.”
She took the bread and lifted it to her mouth, sniffing it before venturing to take a bite. The scent was complex and unfamiliar, but enticing, nonetheless. She licked at the dollop of curry on the bread. The flavors exploded on her tongue, spicy, sweet, and pungent all at once. And hot. Extremely hot. She swallowed, feeling the heat make its way down her throat.
“Oh my!” she said when at last she could speak.
“This may help.” He handed her a glass of watery juice. She took a sip. It had an odd fruity taste, unlike anything she’d ever tried before. “This curry is wonderful,” she said. “If I close my eyes, I can imagine myself in India.”
“This is but the faintest echo of the magic of the East.” He broke off another piece, dipped it, and gave himself up to savoring the flavor. “Were we really in India, you’d not be hearing the feeble chirps of London starlings but the sharp warble of the bulbul and perhaps the distant growl of tigers.”
“Tigers. How beautiful they must be!”
“And deadly, don’t forget that. They eat unwary women when they come down to the river to do their wash. But they are beautiful, as is so much in India. Beautiful and deadly. An Indian fever can turn a hearty man into a corpse within a day. You’re so much safer here. Englishwomen do not take well to India. They waste away and long for the cold potatoes and boiled sausages of home.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Perhaps. You are courageous.” His unexpected praise warmed her like the curry.
He reached for the cover on another of the dishes. “This one might be stronger. Take only a tiny taste.”
She did. It was almost too much for her, but he relished the bite he took of it though after he savored another spoonful he, too, reached for his glass of the fruity drink and swirled it around in his mouth. His tongue and lips must be on fire.
“Is it too hot even for you?” she asked.
“It’s never too hot for me.” He grinned, and the lamplight made the copper highlights surrounding his pupils twinkle. She wondered what it would be like to kiss his lips while they still burned with the bite of the curry. Would it burn her or make her burn for him?
“Rajiv has baked you a pheasant in the Indian fashion. It is a mild dish. Here, let me serve you.”
He put the small plate before her, where small pieces of fowl, skinned, disjointed, and tinted an unusual shade of red, lay on top of a bed of saffron-colored rice. As he gave her the food, he leaned toward her, his lips so near she could have leaned over and kissed them. With difficulty, she suppressed the impulse to do so. He helped himself to another dish, spooning some of it onto her plate, too, and motioned her to dig in.
> As they ate their way through the delicious meal, he didn’t gobble his food, as so many men did, but gave his attention to each bite, enjoyed it, and moved on. She wondered if he would bring the same attention to his lovemaking. When he had eaten enough, he lay back against the pillows with his eyes half-closed. A satisfied smile flitted across his lips.
He looked as if he had already had sex. As if he didn’t need it. As if he didn’t need her. He wallowed in his satisfaction for a few moments, then he asked her if she was done, and when she said she was, he clapped his hands loudly, three times, to summon Rajiv.
In heavily accented English, the man asked, ”Did Bichchu enjoy his repast?” At Trev’s reply, he bowed, loaded the dishes onto the tray, and removed them. The boy who had followed him into the dining chamber pulled the table away from the divan on which they reclined. Then the two foreigners withdrew.
“He will leave us undisturbed until I summon him again,” Trev informed her.
“Why did he call you Bichchu? Does that mean ‘master’ in his language?”
“No. It’s the nickname they gave me in India. It means, The Scorpion.”
The Scorpion, which Lady Hartwood had called the symbol of her self-destruction. “Why?”
His indigo eyes widened under the deep hollows beneath his brow, “The scorpion has six eyes. He sees everything.” He paused, and, with a dismissive wave of his hand, added, “Soldiers call each other by such names. It started out as a joke.”
But it was not a joke now, and they both knew it. And she knew just how much he saw with those eyes of his, whose color deepened in the light of the oil lamps like cloth left too long in the vat. He’d stripped her soul naked, and he knew the impact he was having on her. Her lips still burned slightly from the last of the curry. He was so close, she could breathe its spicy aura on his lips. He reached toward her and ran one strong finger along the delicate skin by her ear, where she had stroked him before, back when she’d been so afraid of what it might be that he wanted from her. Her skin prickled at his featherlight touch.