by Mia Marlowe
“I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise I won’t. The diamond is very compelling.”
“Then I’ll keep you from it.” Quinn wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “I won’t risk you. Not for anything.”
It wasn’t a declaration of love, but it felt like one. It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t about thievery. It was about two souls who’d found their odd bits and pieces; their imperfections and private shames seemed to fit together to form a less broken whole. A warm glow shimmered over Viola. She relaxed in Quinn’s embrace, perfectly content to remain there till morning.
An ungodly shriek pierced the night and lights winked on in every room of Schloss Celle.
CHAPTER 25
“Stay here,” Quinn ordered.
“Not likely.” Viola scrambled off the bed and toed on her slippers. Fortunately, she was still dressed, but even if she’d had to take to the drafty corridors of Schloss Celle in her nightshift and wrapper, after that scream nothing would keep her alone in the chamber without Quinn.
Viola couldn’t say for sure whether it came from a man or a woman. It was bloodless. Disembodied. She gave a superstitious shudder.
Together, they bolted down the hall and took the stairs at a brisk place. Other guests joined them, all talking at once, all wondering what had happened.
“Quiet!” Quinn commanded and everyone fell silent.
Voices echoed from a lower level. The group followed the sound, keeping their own speech to a whispered hum. They slowed when they came to the foot of the stairs and found Neville Beauchamp and the ambassador with several other guests standing around a prone figure.
Viola peeked around Quinn. The French count was sprawled on the flagstones. His face was waxy and pale in the flickering light of the wall sconces. His unblinking eyes were bleached of all color, the irises mere shadows on the whites.
A serving girl sobbed into a corner of her apron and rattled on in German.
“What’s she saying?” Quinn turned and asked.
“She doesn’t know how it happened,” Neville translated in a flat voice, clearly unnerved by the unnatural appearance of the count’s body. “She found him like this.”
Quinn squatted down and checked for a heartbeat at the French count’s throat. He shook his head.
“Did he fall down the stairs?” Neville asked.
Quinn turned the count’s head to one side. “No blood. No evidence of a blow. His neck’s not broken.”
“Where’s that doctor?” Neville looked around, but the ambassador’s physician wasn’t among the group. “Check for a wound of any sort, Lieutenant.”
Quinn moved the count’s arm from across his chest. It was limp as a noodle. His fingers dangled as if his bones had dissolved inside his body. Quinn jerked his hand away and de Foix’s arm flopped to his side, palm up.
“His hand,” Viola said. “Look.”
There was a burn in the center of the flesh between his lifeline and heartline. The angry hole was so deep it nearly went all the way through his hand. The burn on her own palm, which hadn’t hurt at all before, flared in sympathy.
Viola had no doubt the Blood of the Tiger had killed de Foix.
Quinn glanced at her hand and a flash of understanding passed between them.
“Where’s Chesterton?” Quinn asked, rising to his feet.
The ambassador cleared his throat noisily. “The prince’s men arrived shortly after Lady Ashford was taken ill at supper with orders for Chesterton to depart with them immediately. The escort took time only to eat a quick meal in the kitchen while Chesterton packed. They should be leaving now for the port of Bremen to sail with the next available tide. The sooner the burden he bears reaches the Royal Collection, the safer it will be.”
Viola realized Lord Cowley spoke the truth. The diamond’s low drone was gone, but she couldn’t say precisely when the sound had stopped. It had become such a habitual background noise, she’d ceased to note it since her silver and jet jewelry protected her from the diamond’s power. She hadn’t marked its absence until now.
Viola looked down at de Foix’s body. She could imagine what had happened. Mr. Chesterton would have changed from his formal clothing into a traveling ensemble. The Frenchman must have realized the diamond was being taken away and moved quickly to snatch it while Chesterton packed.
But the comte wasn’t cautious enough. Either he didn’t know to protect himself from the stone or the diamond beguiled him into holding it in his bare hand while it sucked the life out of him.
If Chesterton was sensitive to the stone, he would have been aware in short order that it was no longer in his possession. He must have found the comte’s body before the serving girl. Chesterton had pocketed the diamond and left de Foix as he lay, then strolled out to join the waiting escort without so much as a backward glance.
Quinn put his arm around her waist and led her back up the stairs, leaving the ambassador and Neville to see to the disposition of the body and any further investigation. “There’s nothing more for us to do here.”
She suspected he was talking about more than the poor comte. With the diamond gone, there was no reason for them to tarry in Schloss Celle. No reason to follow the diamond since it was unlikely they’d be able to slip past the prince’s men.
No reason for them to continue the charade of being husband and wife. Their adventure together was over.
Her chest hurt. Her palm burned. She ached all over.
They continued in silence up to their room. The door thudded behind them with finality. She ducked behind the dressing screen to change into her night clothes.
“Viola, we won’t follow Chesterton across the Channel,” Quinn said.
“Naturally not. With the diamond under royal guard, we’ve little chance of pinching it now.”
“No, it’s not that. Whatever defenses a man can devise, another man can find a way around. But after what happened to de Foix, I don’t want you near that thing.”
His words sent hope dancing through her veins again. He did care about her. “Your reasons for wanting to steal the diamond are still the same, still strong.”
“Yes, but now my reason for not stealing it is stronger.”
She wished he’d say more, but she didn’t want to press him.
He stepped behind the screen with her and undid the back of her gown without being asked, his movements easy and unhurried. It was a simple thing.
A husbandly thing.
He dropped a soft kiss on her shoulder, then left her to finish preparing for bed behind the screen alone. He undressed on the other side of the room, hanging up the pieces of his dress uniform so it wouldn’t wrinkle. He made no effort to shield himself from her eyes, totally unconcerned by his own nakedness.
The soft light of the candle kissed the smooth skin of Quinn’s broad back. Viola’s gaze followed the line of his spine down to his bare buttocks and muscular thighs.
He was such a fine man. She wished he was truly hers. She wished her menstrual flow hadn’t begun and she was bearing his child. She wished she could walk around the dressing screen and seduce him into loving her.
He pulled a silky banyan around his body and knotted the belt at his waist. When he turned, she averted her gaze.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
Only you. “No,” she lied.
“Then come to bed.” He held out a hand to her.
She came around the dressing screen and took it with a little sigh. “Oh, Quinn, everything’s gone wrong. Even if we did want to tail the diamond, we can’t very well follow it to Bremen because Sanjay is still in Hanover. The fake Mr. Chesterton would recognize us and know why we followed him.” She leaned her forehead against his chest, her crown fitting neatly under his chin. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to bed.” He cupped her chin, tilted her face up to his, and shot her a wicked grin. He kissed the tip of her nose. “There are plenty of delightful possibilities in that plan, but I think t
his time we should try to get some rest. I don’t know about you, but I could sleep for a week.”
She climbed into the bed and under the covers. He pinched off the candle flame and followed, pulling the bed curtains behind them to shut out the world.
But the world wouldn’t stay out. Unresolved questions niggled at Viola’s brain. “I wasn’t asking what we’d do now. What will we do in the future?” She really wanted to ask what would become of them, but Baaghh kaa kkhuun seemed like a safer subject. “About the diamond, I mean.”
“I know what you meant,” he said, snuggling her close so her head was pillowed on his shoulder. “We’re not going to think about it for the next twelve hours or so.”
His breathing grew deep and rhythmic.
Viola raised her head and tried to make out his profile in the darkness. How did men do that? Could he really shove aside all the loose threads of their life and decide not to tug on any of them?
Apparently, he could.
But Viola’s mind chased the endless possibilities around the bedpost for hours before exhaustion claimed her and she sank into oblivion.
The scent of musk and jasmine tickled his nostrils. Silk sheets caressed his skin. Quinn sat up abruptly. He was back in Padmaa’s opulent bedchamber, but the Indian courtesan was nowhere to be seen.
What was he doing there? He’d left Padmaa and her athletic eroticism behind. Whether it made sense or not, he wanted only Viola.
She’d be devastated if she found him there.
Mother-naked, he rose from the thick bed of cushions, looking for his uniform. He must have discarded it somewhere. If he could find his clothes and slip out the open window, Viola never need know he—
He heard the soft pad of bare feet behind him.
He turned, expecting to find the courtesan. Instead of Padmaa’s kohl-rimmed eyes, Viola’s hazel ones greeted him above a gauzy veil. She unhooked the veil to remove all doubt of her identity.
She didn’t seem surprised to see him there. Or hurt. The breath he’d been holding seeped out of him as he relaxed.
Viola was dressed as an odalisque, with only gossamer silk covering her form. Her pert nipples stood out clearly beneath the sheer fabric. The dark shadow of her pubic hair showed plainly.
Her gaze sizzled down his bare body and his cock responded with an aching stand. The corners of Viola’s lips turned up, a slow sensual smile.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Sh!” She lifted her fingers to his lips, then drew them down over his chest, around his nipples and on to his navel. Her fingertips marked him with wicked little charms. She wove lust spells into his skin. He ached for her to hitch her knee over his hip and press herself against him so he could rut her on the spot. Much more teasing and he’d bend her over and take her in a raging swive.
He moved to embrace her, but she straight-armed him. Evidently, she wanted to lead.
Very well. Quinn preferred to be in control, but there were times when a man was rewarded by letting his woman take the reins.
She walked a slow circle around him, trailing her hand at his waist and teasing his buttocks with maddening light touches. She rubbed herself, catlike, against his back, her breasts unbearably soft, her nipples hard beneath the thin silk. His balls tightened.
When she returned to stand in front of him, he plucked at a corner of the silk wrapper. She raised her lovely arms in surrender and did a slow turn as he unwound the fabric from her form.
Her skin glowed like alabaster lit from within by a hundred candles. He moved to stroke her, but she intercepted his hand, shook her head and returned it to his side. He swallowed hard and decided to let her continue to torment him.
She stepped closer so that her breasts nearly grazed his chest. His swollen cock found temporary relief rubbing against her soft belly. She cupped his scrotum and fondled his balls, running her nails lightly along the strip of darker skin that divided them.
He ground his teeth. He ached to touch her, to drive her to the same burning fury she whipped up in him. “Viola, I—”
“Choose, Quinn-sahib,” she said.
The voice was not Viola Preston’s. Padmaa’s musical tones dropped from Viola’s red lips.
He stepped back a pace. “Who are you?”
“Only a fool asks a question to which he already knows the answer,” she said. “And you are not a fool.”
“I choose Viola.”
“Truly?” the spirit inhabiting Viola’s body said. “You would choose one woman over all of Hind?”
Yes. The word sprang to his throat, but he couldn’t force it out his mouth.
The woman opened her palm and he saw Baaghh kaa kkhuun pulsing in the center of it. The flesh around the scarlet diamond was blistered and reddened, but she gave no sign the burn pained her.
“If the Blood of the Tiger is not returned to the temple . . .” her voice faded and his vision swirled.
Angry men in turbans ran through the streets, shouting “Maro, maro!”
Kill, kill!
Flames engulfed the British cantonments. A terrified Englishwoman and her son were dragged from under the bushes behind their bungalow.
“No!” the young mother screamed. “He’s only a child!”
The boy was hacked to death before her eyes.
“One does not suffer an infant viper to live,” the sepoy with the machete said before he dispatched the wailing mother as well.
The horrific vision faded and Quinn was back in Padmaa’s bedchamber.
“Choose, Quinn.”
The woman before him was the dusky Padmaa, her palms tattooed with henna, her plum-colored nipples standing pert.
But Viola’s voice came from her lips.
The Blood of the Tiger growled its malevolence and burst into flames.
CHAPTER 26
Quinn’s fork chased the eggs and sausage around his plate, but Viola didn’t think much of the heavy breakfast made it into his mouth. Certainly none of the desultory conversation around the table made it into his brain.
When she’d woken that morning, Quinn was already dressed and standing at the window, watching dawn break over the castle walls. He hardly glanced her way while she rustled around behind the dressing screen.
He was quiet. Distracted. When she asked him to help with her laces, he rang for an abigail to come. He mumbled something about seeing her at breakfast and ducked out of the room before the maid arrived.
Most of the guests in residence were not up yet. Viola suspected the violent death of de Foix had left more than a few sleepless. Only Neville, the baron from Sussex and his loquacious mother, Viola and Quinn sat at the long table.
“Not hungry this morning, Lieutenant?” Neville asked, reverting to Quinn’s rank instead of his title.
Probably thinks it will offend him, Viola guessed.
Neville would have given his right arm to inherit his uncle’s title, but couldn’t know Quinn didn’t give two figs for his. She shot Neville a warning glare.
Don’t poke the bear. She wished she possessed the ability to send her thoughts to others instead of the dubious gift of receiving visions from gem stones.
Neville wasn’t disposed to take a hint. “Good Hanoverian fare not to your liking?”
“The food’s fine.” Quinn shoved his plate back and glowered at Beauchamp. “Must be the company.”
Before they could start a real row, Sanjay strode into the room, having just arrived from Hanover. Viola was grateful for the interruption until she saw the Indian prince’s expression.
His hawkishly handsome face was drawn in misery.
“The tar has come from Delhi, sahib.” He handed Quinn the telegram. “But it is not from your friend, Lieutenant Worthington. It is from Colonel Tibbets, his commanding officer.”
Quinn opened the envelope and ran his gaze over the page. As he read, a muscle in his cheek ticked and a vein bulged on his forehead.
“Quinn, what is it?” Viola asked.
&nbs
p; “It’s happened. And it’s still happening,” he said woodenly. “The sepoys have mutinied.”
Neville was on his feet demanding to know more.
“The uprising started in Meerut.” Quinn continued to stare at the telegram, but Viola suspected he saw little of it. “And spread to Delhi. They have no estimate of the dead yet, but women and children were not spared. By either side.”
“You say the news doesn’t come from Lieutenant Worthington,” Viola asked, her chest aching for Quinn. His warnings to his commander of an impending rebellion were the reason he’d been demoted to lieutenant and shipped Home. She was sure he wished he’d been wrong. “What does the telegram say of your friend?”
“There’s a British magazine at Delhi, an arsenal of arms and ammunition,” Quinn said. “If the mutineers got control of that, they’d have been able to take the subcontinent. So Worthington and a few others blew it up.” Quinn’s jaw went rigid. “From inside.”
“After all we’ve done for those people,” Neville said, “this is how they repay us.”
“What precisely is it you think we’ve done for them?” Quinn asked in a deceptively mild tone. Viola feared he’d go off like the magazine at any moment.
“Schools and roads and clean water, for God’s sake,” Neville said. “We’ve even built them a railroad.”
“Without asking if they wanted one.” Quinn chuckled mirthlessly. “Did you know the ranks of the Indian military are filled with princes and noblemen? They volunteered to fight for us purely for izzat, for the honor of it.”
“So much for their honor.” Neville sneered.
From the corner of her eye, Viola saw Sanjay’s posture stiffen, but he maintained his deferential façade.
“What set the heathens off?” Neville demanded.
“We did,” Quinn said. “We gave them the new Enfields and somehow the rumor started that the paper cartridges were greased with either pig or cow fat. I heard the rumor myself.” Quinn’s eyes took on a faraway light and Viola suspected the sumptuous dining hall had faded around him. “I didn’t think anyone would believe it. But if a lie is repeated often enough, it becomes the truth. It was the perfect spark to light the tinder.”