The Lady's Desire

by Audrey Abbott

  She was trapped. Her first thought was to cry out, but she did not. With his hands now free, William cupped her chin and raised it up, hazel eyes searching blue. He drew close. Paused. Then pressing his mouth hard against hers, he captured her lips. Anne did not cry out. She did not resist. She did not shrink away. She had no will to do so. She welcomed his mouth, firm and unyielding. No man had ever kissed her like this. Except William himself. For a moment she found herself in that small room in Calcutta locked in William’s arms. She moaned softly as she thrust her fingers through his hair.

  William pulled her tighter, his body strained, his arms taut, crushing her against his chest. Again she did not resist. In fact she welcomed his contact, his hands warm and strong as they enveloped her. She did not know how long they remained thus, eyes closed, lips touching, bodies converging.

  She leaned into his embrace. There was such pleasure in his touch. She never wanted this kiss to end. But in her heart she knew it must end. What was she thinking? At any moment someone could stride into the surgery and discover them. Any moment she would cross a barrier that she knew she could not. Must not cross.

  Tears flooded her eyes, ran down her cheeks, and marked his shirt. Tethered to her vows, she drew back. “No, William. No. Please?” she pleaded. “I can’t do what you want. I can’t be who you want me to be. I made a vow. I . . . I must keep it.”

  His mouth brushed her ear. “Anne, your husband does not love ye.” William would not divulge Westmeare’s bizarre proposal. But what could he tell her?

  “I know that. But what am I to do?” Lowering her head, she confessed through her tears, “I have tried to be a dutiful wife. I desired to love and be loved, but my husband will not reciprocate. My marriage is a sham.” Again she asked, “What am I to do?”

  William did not have an answer for her. He wanted to assuage her pain, to offer her hope, but there was nothing he could say or do. He released her, unwrapping his legs that had pinioned her so securely. She gradually opened her eyes. She was not prepared to see the depth of sorrow and regret and pain imbedded in William’s eyes. He rose from the surgery table and leaned over to pick up his discarded uniform jacket from the bench.

  In a husky whisper, he said, “Thank ye, my lady, for your gentle touch and for allowing me to take advantage.” He reached out and brushed a stray chestnut curl behind her ear. “Ye are so very sweet, my Lady Anne. I hope ye will not think poorly of me. I do not regret the kiss.”

  Anne touched his hand, leaned into his soft caress, silently entreating him not to leave. “No, no. I do not think ill of you, Captain. I . . . I . . .”

  William lingered for a moment, then withdrawing his hand, he said, “But I promise, it will not happen again, Lady Anne.” Bowing once, he departed the surgery, leaving her thoughts jumbled and her fragile heart shattered.

  Who is this officer who captivates me so?

  I have never known the true love of an honorable man. It pains me to acknowledge that my own husband does not love me, in fact, scarcely desires my company. Yet, the way William Ferguson gazes at me, holds me, kisses me, touches me . . . He has only kissed me twice, but I have savored each kiss. There are no regrets for me. In fact, if I were to be truthful, I long for more.

  Oh, my sweet William, if only we had met sooner.

  But Anne knew that she must uphold her marriage vows and not encourage William’s attentions. She must try to secure her husband’s attentions. She must not encourage William’s embraces, his kisses, his love . . .

  Love. Does William love me? Do I love him?

  But she could not answer those questions. With tears still stinging in her eyes, Anne resolved to forget Captain William Ferguson.

  She failed in that endeavor.

  Utterly.

  Part IV

  Chapter 51

  September 1813

  Fort Paanchdurga, India

  A week later, after the evening meal, a dozen or so of the sepoys gathered around a fire built in the center of the inner compound. They imbibed a local liquor. They laughed. They sang old songs in Hindi. Some songs were melancholy. Some were raucous.

  A few of the British soldiers joined them and also broke into song. Some were drinking songs half sung, half shouted. Some were ancient folk songs sung by generations of Britons huddled around their humble hearths on long winter nights. After a while, the men experimented with various harmonies.

  The sun had dipped behind the hills and a purple haze hung in the sky. The fire sparked and leapt as silhouettes of the men danced around the flames. Anne and her maids slipped from the house and crept to the edge of the gathering pulled there by the haunting melodies that whispered of firesides and friends and families far away.

  After a brief silence, William stood up, cleared his throat and in his rich baritone began to sing. Anne listened to the lyrics as they tugged at her heart:

  “Down in the valley . . . valley so low.

  Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

  Hear the wind blow, love. Hear the wind blow.

  Hang your head over, and hear the wind blow.”

  Young Corporal O’Reilly joined him for the second stanza, his sweet tenor voice intoning a descant that arced over William’s bass melody. Anne shivered at the simple beauty of the tune and felt Bridget grasp her hand.

  “Build me a castle, forty feet high.

  So I can see her as she goes by.

  As she goes by, dear . . . as she goes by.

  So I can see her as she goes by.”

  Other voices joined and the chorus swelled around the campfire.

  “If you don’t love me, love whom you please.

  But throw your arms round me, give my heart ease.

  Give my heart ease, dear. Give my heart ease.

  Throw your arms round me, give my heart ease.

  Down in the valley . . . valley so low.

  Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

  Hear the wind blow, love. Hear the wind blow.

  Hang your head over, and hear the wind blow.”

  The last note echoed across the yard and into the night sky bright with stars. In the gloaming and through the smoke of the smoldering campfire, somehow, William’s eyes found and held Anne’s. What did he see? Her tears? Her regret? Anne’s heart splintered. If only she could throw her arms round him and give his heart ease. If only . . . .

  Anne wrapped her arms around herself, turned away, and slipped back through the shadows as she made her way across the compound toward the Officers’ House. She hoped to perhaps find some comfort in the library.

  “Lady Anne, may I stay a bit?” Bridget whispered, skipping by her side. Over her shoulder, Anne saw the corporal smiling in their direction. She searched the crowd for William, but did not see him.

  “Yes, but Bridget, do not stay out too late. I am responsible for you. And please do not allow Corporal O’Reilly to make too many advances.”

  Bridget giggled. “Aye, milady!” Then the maid turned and hastened back to the circle. Soldiers and grooms and officers and wives, military and civilian, moved around the fire, laughing and dancing. It would be a joyous spontaneous celebration and the men deserved a respite from the strain of recent hostilities.

  Anne trudged along, her head down, her shoulders hunched over. She stepped toward the back of the Officers’ House alongside the kitchen garden. The familiar spicy scent of marigolds floated around her. Anne considered her future. She faced an empty house . . . an empty bed . . . an empty life. If only William would materialize in front of her. She would not refuse his advances. She would throw her arms round him. She would give her heart ease.

  She turned. Through the smoke and firelight, she searched the gathering one more time. But William was gone.

  Chapter 52

 
As she entered the house through the back doorway, Anne noted the absence of the usual sepoy guards who routinely stood watch at the rear entrance. Perhaps, she thought, they were making the rounds of the outer perimeters of the building.

  The central hallway stood deep in alternating streams of shadow and light that played along the walls and stone floor. Moonlight filtered through the curtained windows in adjacent rooms and spilled through the doorways and into the hall. A brighter light from a lamp flickered in the library, drawing Anne to seek the comforting illumination of that space.

  She would select a book, take it back to her abode, and perhaps find some consolation within its pages. As she crossed the threshold, she stumbled over something soft and giving on the floor. Catching herself before she fell, she turned to see what had tripped her. To her surprise, it was a man. She knelt to examine the still body of one of the guards, lying face down on the carpet.

  In the dim light of the room, Anne rolled the body over. Curious but not yet alarmed, Anne identified Rishi, brother of her Indian maid, Tanvi. She found his eyes open, staring blankly above her head. What was the matter here? Was the young man ill? Drunk? She doubted that, but . . . .

  She felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. Leaning closer, she listened for his breath. Nothing. She detected no signs of life. With worry and fear mounting, Anne clawed open his uniform and felt for his heartbeat, hoping for even a tiny throb. She drew away in alarm, her hand coated in a warm sticky substance. She raised her hand to her face. Blood! Blood coated her fingers and dripped down her arm.

  With a sharp intake of breath, Anne realized a morbid and startling truth. Rishi was dead. Shock and outrage clutched at her heart. Poor Rishi. Such a sweet, kind man. But who would do such a thing? And why? She glanced around the room. And where were the other guards?

  Realizing that this was no accident and that someone of evil intent was to blame, terror momentarily seized her. She wiped her bloody hand on her yellow dress. While uttering a quick prayer for his soul, Anne searched Rishi’s uniform for his dagger. Now alarmed and armed, Anne rose prepared to face any possible intruders. With her heart pounding, she paused to listen. Was she alone?

  Curtains billowed. Candles flickered. Lamps smoked. The house held a terrible silence . . . or did it?

  Her first thought was to cry out for help, but she quickly repressed that urge. Grimly, she realized that danger might be lurking only a few footfalls away. Anne pressed herself against the open door of the library and searched the murky spaces that filled the room. Black shadows veiled the corners that she knew could conceal anyone seeking to do her harm.

  Then in the distance, gunfire reverberated across the confines of the fortress.

  Chapter 53

  Anne heard the gunshots. She gripped Rishi’s dagger as she held her breath.

  Where were the servants? The other guards? Was anyone else . . . dead? Something was terribly wrong. She knew that she must escape from the house immediately. She must find help. Warn others. Where was William?

  Stepping into the hall, she fled toward the front door, but before taking three steps, rough hands seized her shoulders and waist. She took a deep breath and let out a piercing scream.

  Powerful hands jerked her backward, tightening their grip. Someone covered her mouth with a cloth saturated in some vile substance. She gagged. She tried not to breathe in the evil stuff.

  Still clutching the dagger, Anne stabbed behind her at her attacker’s legs. She heard an angry howl as her captor released her. She screamed again, but her captor grabbed her once more and strengthened his hold over her mouth.

  Desperate to breathe, she scratched at her captor’s hands, trying to claw the cloth from her face. As she did so, she lost purchase on the dagger’s hilt and the blade clattered to the floor. Someone stepped in front of her and forcing her hands together, bound a leather cord tightly around her wrists. The thong bit painfully into her flesh. Her attacker, dressed in black, towered over her. His glittering dark eyes glared at her through a mask, his evil intentions manifested there.

  Once more, the man behind her pressed the cloth into her mouth and over her nose. She thrashed and twisted, kicking at her tormentor as she attempted to glimpse his face, but he, too, wore a mask. Anne continued to struggle, but she was losing the battle. Her head swam and she could not form a complete thought. I must escape. Breathe.

  Dimly she realized that she was drugged. Panic seized her.

  With her last morsel of strength, she bit down as hard as she could through the oily cloth and behind her someone bellowed. The cloth again fell away. For a second she was free. Shaking her head and taking an enormous breath, she shrieked in desperation.

  Low voices whispered behind her followed by a snarled command. One of her captors struck her head with a heavy object and she recoiled from the agonizing blow. The room dimmed and conscious thought slipped away. Someone threw a black hood over her head and darkness, total and complete, closed over her.

  Chapter 54

  William trudged back toward the barracks, head bowed. His thoughts held Anne close. He wanted to turn and stride back to the gathering, wanted to find her, wanted to tell her that he loved her, wanted to take her in his arms, wanted to kiss her.

  And Westmeare could go to Hell!

  Maybe this time, Anne would surrender to his advances. Maybe this time, she would . . . And then . . . What? The consequences were too terrible to contemplate. Especially for Anne.

  The Viscount Westmeare would have his victory. William recoiled at that thought. If he had Westmeare here, he would gladly strangle . . .

  Gunshots severed his reflections, wrenching William back to a more horrible reality. Westmeare’s image vanished replaced by the screams of men as they met a quick death by invisible hands. A deluge of bullets pierced the air around him. Soldiers dived and scrambled for shelter. William lunged with them. Who would dare to attack the fort?

  William scoured the scene before him and what he witnessed stunned him. Assessing the danger, William quickly determined that the shots were coming from within the walls of the stronghold, both from the ground and from above. The enemy commanded all of the sentry posts. What treachery was this?

  Shots and shrieks thundered around him as men struggled in personal combat. Chaos reigned as an unseen adversary hurtled death from all directions. William ducked behind a wagon. He looked up at the sentry posts. Rogue sepoy guards were firing into the post, picking off unarmed men one by one, quickly reloading and firing again and again.

  William pulled out his pistol. He aimed at the closest enemy combatant and fired. The man spun around and fell backwards down the steps. William grunted in satisfaction. One down. But how many more were there?

  And who were these villains dressed in the uniforms of Company sepoys? Sepoy soldiers gunning down sepoy soldiers? This did not make sense. Who were they?

  William surveyed his location. He was only a few yards from the armory. He needed guns and more ammunition. He made a hasty dash for the arsenal door, but he was pulled up short, his forward momentum halted.

  A woman’s high scream pierced the tumult of the gunfire. The scream conveyed pain and anger . . . and terror. And the cry came from the direction of the Officers’ House. Anne! He was certain of it.

  A chill flooded through him as panic, like bile, heaved along his throat. He stormed into the armory, seized another pistol and a rifle, and spilled reserve ammunition into a rucksack. Now better armed, William turned and dashed outside. He crouched behind a stack of boxes to reload his weapons and assess the danger.

  Other troops now responded to the attack. Company men assaulted the steps that led to the sentry posts, but bullets rained down on their heads. Raising his own pistol he aimed again at the nearest felon and fired. The man shrieked and fell off the battlement, crashing into a wagon parked below. The Company
men cheered as they streamed upwards and recaptured the sentry post.

  William quickly reloaded and turned in the direction of Anne’s scream. With his survival instincts on highest alert, William and his adrenaline surged forward.

  Out of the smoke and chaos something long and lethal whistled past William’s ear and pierced the wooden railing of the arsenal porch behind William’s head, halting his advance. William reached up and wrenched the bamboo spear free. Its sharp metal tip had penetrated the tough wood by several inches.

  He recognized the deadly spike, the weapon of choice of the mysterious band of vicious and amoral brigands known as the Pindaris. William mentally shuddered at the thought of that spear slicing through human flesh and bone. My flesh and bone.

  Another terrified scream reverberated through the fort, but this time a cacophony of female voices merged with it in panic and fright as a blur of colorful skirts fled in search of sanctuary.

  But there was no sanctuary. No safe haven. Guns blazed in every direction, illuminating the chaos around William. The brightness temporarily blinded him. Acrid smoke from dozens of gun barrels floated over the bodies of the dead and dying. William’s eyes burned. The stench of blood and piss and excrement flooded his nostrils and coated his throat. Bodies carpeted the ground, some bleeding, some twitching, some all too still. Bamboo spears sprouted from countless torsos and limbs.

  Death stalked the garrison.