She even used it in the bath water.
Ridley stalked over to her dressing table, pushing himself past the pace of his leg. He repositioned her hairbrush and angled each glass bottle and a few small jars.
Peach oil tonic for her hair. Very Hindu. Very nice.
He dabbed some onto his fingers and slicked it, drifting it toward his nostrils. Dragging in a breath, he reveled in the scent he’d buried his face into when he’d been picking out hair pins from her black silk hair. Angling in, Ridley ticked through the rest of the jars and bottles.
Lip rouge.
Kajal for the eyes.
Red ochre paste for her bindi.
Empty bottles of…Jasmine ittar, jasmine ittar and…jasmine ittar.
Women.
He scanned the piles and piles of stockings and garters and picked up a silk stocking, dangling it before himself. “France and India unite.”
Skimming his fingers across the smooth silk, he shoved it into his pocket. “Let us see how long it takes for you to notice it’s missing. I estimate…never.”
He would pack everything up in a way to teach her how to better organize, because this was fucking ridiculous. Even at his worst, he’d never been this.
Opening the drawer on the nightstand next to her bed, he paused, his pulse roaring.
Countless pieces of crushed, then smoothed and folded parchments were stacked within.
It hinted she had attempted to destroy them but decided against doing so.
Glancing toward the main entrance door of her room, he fished out one of the heavily crinkled parchments and unfolded it.
An unfinished letter was written in her hand in English. It was no longer the perfect and neat cursive he knew her by three years earlier.
It was quick and harried.
It was…to him.
He lifted a triumphant brow knowing she had attempted to write.
Ridley,
I am ever so sorry about Chaucer. I know what he meant to you. Even as I write this tears blind my ability to see, but it does not blind my ability to feel. I apologize for leaving you and London without waiting for you to be fully conscious of what I had decided. Aside from the chaos of people coming to the door on the hour, and them treating me like an exhibit at the museum, understand that when I had stumbled upon you and thought death had taken you from me, I realized you had stolen what I cherish most. My ability to smile. My ability to laugh. You had told me that you needed someone more broken and in pieces. I am that now because of you. I would have never
It was left unfinished.
Ridley’s chest tightened as he lingered with those words burning into his soul.
It would always be there.
The scar of his teeth on her fingers and the bottle of laudanum in his hand. As if his own guilt and his own hatred for himself wasn’t enough.
Folding the letter, he kissed it and tucked it back into the drawer, leaving the other letters untouched, and closed the drawer. He hardly needed to see any of the other unfinished letters to know he had destroyed the most beautiful soul he had ever met.
He had turned it into a tangled mess of knots and left the frayed ropes to hang by her ceiling.
He had tried to pretend she hadn’t marked his mind.
Unfortunately, the overlord in him had spoken and that motherfucker owned ninety percent of his brain. Sometimes more.
He shoved the phytology book off her bed, letting it thud to the floor and leaned over the bed and touched a hand to the coolness of the pillow she had slept on, smoothing his palm and fingers downward and beneath it.
Turning toward the massive row of trunks which needed to be packed with the contents of the room, he crossed the space. Fighting against his limp to feel more like a man, he paused, something on the far wall catching his eye.
It was at shoulder height.
Walking backward, he veered right and toward the wall.
Though barely visible, it was hairline seam in the bamboo paneling that dented inward.
His finger slid along the seam.
Squinting, he thudded the wall with his fist hard. It swayed.
His pulse roared as he unsheathed his dagger from his leather belt and stabbed it into the seam. Wedging it loose with the grit of his teeth by pushing against the handle, a creak and a reverberation unhinged the narrow two-foot-wide door.
Shoving it open, he paused.
It was a corridor.
“Son of a bitch.” He braced the frame of the narrow opening and leaned in, peering into the darkness beyond. Only a single sliver of light on the farthest end, several feet in, outlined what appeared to be the other end of the door. Sheathing his dagger, he quickly wedged himself in, realizing it was going to be tight. His arse and the flap of his trousers were almost hitting the front and back of the corridor wall.
Pressing his back hard against the uneven mud walls studded with nails, he guided himself down the darkness of the corridor toward the sliver of light, shifting his shoulders to unhinge his waistcoat that occasional got caught on nails.
His jaw hurt from gnashing his teeth not to rip anything.
His leather-booted foot and bare hand pushed the outline of another doorway, creaking it wide open. He peered out, realizing it was an empty servant’s room.
The shutters were left open, pouring in light and a hammock creaked in the corner.
Ridley wedged himself out and scanned the small room, seeing only a trunk.
Stalk-limping toward it, he leaned down, wincing against his leg that shot up pain to his hip and weighed a lock that held it shut. Eyeing the rest of the room that was eerily empty, he noted that everything else in the room was heavily caked in dust. Unused.
Even the hammock had cobwebs.
He slid his finger across the top of the trunk. Pristine.
It was being used. “Fuck.”
Dragging the trunk away from the wall with the grit of teeth, he paused when it slid easily toward him.
He didn’t like it.
Quickly rounding the trunk, he used his leather ankle boot, thudding it on each side, looking for any weakness in the wood paneling and leather. None.
No need to be polite.
Removing his pistol, he stepped back two feet and angled it downward toward the lock knowing it would take at least eight direct shots at its center.
He paused, checking his brace of bullets.
He only had three.
Of all days. He usually carried nine.
It was best. Pistol shots would only bring attention to him and the trunk. He needed to pack up Jemdanee’s life and get her out of this mess first. For while she damn well thought he overanalyzed the world, his analyzing exposed the grime she clearly refused to see.
Not everything is as horrible as you imagine, she had said.
Gritting his teeth, he kicked the trunk, jarring it. “Sometimes, it’s worse, mon chou.”
It was something she would have to learn, because reality couldn’t be miraculously altered with a positive attitude and a smile.
Shoving his pistol back into his holster, he stalk-limped over to the door of the room and unlatched it, swinging it open. He edged out into the corridor and seeing a male servant, called out in Hindi, “Sahib. Might I ask a favor of you?” He wagged his fingers toward the man in the red-linen turban.
The young, dark-skinned man hurried over.
With a quick bow, he met Ridley’s gaze with uncertainty. “How might I serve?”
Inclining his own head in greeting, Ridley glanced down the otherwise empty corridor and dug into his waistcoat pocket, removing a handful of gold mohurs. He grabbed the man’s heavily calloused hand and set all ten into his palm. “What is your name, sahib?”
The young man’s lips parted in astonishment at the amount of coins weighing his hands and brightened. “Amit.”
“A pleasure, Amit. Do you speak English?” His Hindi wasn’t as good as it needed to be.
Amit nodded and quickly offered in a h
eavy accent, “Yes, sir. I have been with the Government House since I was a child.”
“Excellent. It will be less painful for both of us.” Ridley leaned in, lowering his voice. “This stays between us. It’s incredibly important you tell no one. Can I trust you to protect a fellow Indian? Her name is Miss Kumar. Do you know her?”
Amit’s brows rose, flickering. “Haan. She tended to my mother several times and gave her medicine when no one else would. She…” Amit sheepishly hesitated. “Does she need me?”
His woman was stealing too many hearts.
Ridley thudded that lanky shoulder. “Yes, she does, but not in that way, my boy, I do that,” he chided. “Do you like her?”
Amit beamed and offered from behind a calloused hand, “My mother insists I offer on her, but there is a man by the name of Sahib Ridley and she does not entertain anyone but him.”
Well, well. Ridley almost did something he never did: smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amit. I needed to hear that.”
Stepping back, Ridley gestured toward the lone trunk in the room. “I’ll give you double what you have in your hand if you take this trunk and have it delivered to Spence’s Hotel to the valet under the name of Mr. Ridley.” He tapped at his chest. “That would be me. Sahib Ridley.”
Amit blanched. “You are…?”
“Haan.” He held the young man’s gaze, needing to lay out the importance of what he was asking. “Given what Miss Kumar has done for your mother, keep her in mind and do this without delay. Take that trunk and deliver it to Spence’s Hotel to the valet under my name. It’s important and has to be done now. I need it out of this house lest it disappear and I can’t have anyone seeing you do it. Can I trust you to this?”
Amit nodded, shoving the coins into the pocket of his stitched kurta. “I have time to do it.”
“Good. The hotel is just across the street. I’ll ensure you get additional compensation by tonight.” Ridley hesitated. “Where is the Lieutenant Bradley at this hour?”
Amit extended a hand beyond the corridor. “He just returned from the barracks and is in the Council Room in the east wing.”
“Thank you.” Ridley gestured toward the trunk.
“It will be delivered at once, sahib.” Amit hurried toward the trunk.
Once Amit was well down the length of the corridor with the trunk and out of sight, Ridley was about to walk out to the corridor door that lead into Jemdanee’s room, when he realized…he had locked the door. “Fuck.”
Ridley quickly stepped back into the empty servant’s room and latched the door to ensure he left everything else like it was. He grudgingly headed back to the hidden door in the wall and wedged his way back through, shutting the paneling behind himself.
Pressing himself through the uneven mud walls studded with nails, he guided himself back down the darkness toward the light and back into Jemdanee’s room, thudding the door closed and smoothing the seam.
Who else would know about the secrets of the Government House but the appointed right hand to the Governor General? This Lieutenant Bradley was going to get a visit and it sure as fuck wasn’t going to be friendly.
With the grit of teeth, Ridley set both hands against the now hidden door, easing out breaths that were permeated by Jemdanee’s ittar. Who knows how many times or how many nights her peace had been violated without her knowing it?
Ridley’s eyes burned as he dragged his hands down the paneled wood.
This was his fault.
She would have never came here if not for him.
She would have never been forcibly touched by another if not for him.
She would have never spent three years outside of his embrace if not for that fucking laudanum.
He slammed his head into the door, jarring his skull.
He needed tobacco.
Or he’d keep hitting his skull and that…wasn’t helpful.
Grudgingly setting his shoulder against the wall, he flipped open the leather casing of his own stash from within his slung satchel slung around him and stuck a cheroot into his mouth. Striking the flint of the match, he lit the end of the cheroot and dragging in several breaths, ignited the hissing tobacco. He eased out smoke between teeth, tossing the flint and matches back into his satchel.
A knock on the main door made him pause.
He checked his watch, flicking open the casing. It wasn’t even noon. Who…?
He left his cane outside the door, signaling he was in her room. Damn it.
Ridley tucked away the fob back into his waistcoat and stiffly walked over to the main door leading into the room. Hitting the bolt, he unlatched it and pulled the banyan paneling open, sticking his cheroot back into his mouth.
White magnolias momentarily blocked his view before they were playfully lowered.
Jemdanee peered over them, her pale blue eyes meeting his. Her oval bronzed face brightened. She no longer looked like the European doll she had attempted to be days earlier, but had transformed into what he wanted: her.
He almost staggered.
The straight severity of the center part of her black hair had been perfectly smoothed with peach oil that drifted from her braids. A frayed burgundy linen sari had been sensually wrapped and pleated around her curves, making her doubly alluring.
“You were missed,” she offered softly, that regal Indian accent humming into his veins. “Welcome back.” Her full lips curved into a smile. “I was hoping you would be here packing my effects like you had promised and I wanted to thank you for that.”
It was as if his heart and his soul had summoned her.
Dragging in a mouthful of smoke he needed to remain calm, he draped the doorway, the heaviness of his body overtaking each breath. He’d been up since three this morning, stressed, but finally being in her presence…relaxed him.
He blew out smoke toward his shoulder, chanting to himself not to grab for her and bring an end to the raging need sitting in a very tight, heavy sac. A need his deprived body had harbored well before she choked out, ‘Pleasure me’.
His shoulder dug into the wood of the frame. He flicked fingers against one of the orchids with the hand that held his cheroot, ensuring he didn’t singe any of the petals. “An ostentatious bow to what few men get: equality. You would be the first woman to deliver me flowers.”
She tucked them into his arm. “May I be the last.”
Holding her gaze, he edged back into the room and set the flowers onto the side table beside the door. “I’m sorry I had to leave after what our mouths did to each other.”
She bit her lip as if reliving it.
He shifted his jaw knowing full well where this was going.
She, who panted and lost control, merely by him introducing a tongue to her mouth.
It was inevitable that he’d have to dilute the ink that made him who he was. For despite her blazing ways, she was still as conventional as a cup of tea with no sugar steeped only in overly bright smiles. “It’s your last day on the compound. How are prescriptions progressing? Are you almost done? How long do you think you’ll be?”
She eyed him. “It may take as long as eight this evening.”
He shrugged. “I expected as much. I know the hotel is across the street, but I’ll send a rickshaw to fetch you. Give the valet your name when you arrive at Spence’s. He’ll be waiting. In the meantime…” He gestured toward her room. “I have to assemble.”
She edged in closer, lingering. “Ridley?”
He lowered his chin, the heat of her body taunting him. “Yes?”
Those overly large blue eyes peered up at him. She reached up and dragged her hand up to his bicep, gripping the bound rope beneath his linen shirt. Holding his gaze, her slim fingers curved around it.
His pulse roared.
She fingered the rope. “Why did you bind it to your arm? What is its meaning?”
His throat tightened in angst.
Life without the rope or any sex had done insufferable things.
To compensate for what his anatomy wasn’t procuring, his mind ceaselessly frigged the obscene by ticking through unnerving possibilities of where his veined, swollen prick could onanistically pump out a full sac of semen without hurting her.
Many claimed that through abstinence it got easier over time.
That wasn’t fucking true.
What used to be a soft breast he once sought to suckle turned into a knocker he wanted to bite off. What used to be a velvet opening to the womb turned into a cunt and a slit to bang, bang, bang. The overlord in him born of France was disgusted by the lack of refinement. His British counterpart, however, who had been raised in England and known for kicking the devil, demanded her cunt lips drip with semen.
He was losing the last of his well-cultivated mind.
It was exactly why he needed to ease into this or more than her hymen was going to rip.
Ridley removed her hand rigidly from his rope-strapped bicep, informing the rational side of his brain that his prick needed to stay out of the conversation. “Whilst I’m honored by your sense of adventure, its meaning is involved.”
He kept smoking, taking longer drags in a restrained attempt to ease the tension coiling within too many needful muscles. “I leased the entire first floor over at Spence’s. It will allow you to have separate living quarters until we settle in with each other.”
Her eyes grew playful. “Not that I am by any means a complete whore, but why are you insisting on separate living quarters?”
It was like being back in London and having to manually remove her hands from the belt of his robe. He thudded the frame of the door. “Jemdanee,” he warned in a low tone. “This is me giving us time to adjust to each other. Do you understand?”
He stared her down to ensure she did understand. “The moment you permit me to penetrate more than your mind, your body becomes a door I will be walking through on the hour and it won’t be confined to a bed. Are you saying you’re ready for that?”
The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel Page 11