Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  “Set me free, Pratan-ji. I can give you even more pleasure…”

  “Soon, very soon…” He nibbled her earlobe, then sucked it into his mouth. Cecily’s clit jumped as though he suckled the lower nub instead. “Ah, but what shall I call you? I want to be able to scream out your name as we spend together.”

  “Cecily,” she sighed, as he pressed into her, grinding her still-pulsing clit against the column. “My name is Cecily.”

  Chapter Four

  “Well, my dear Cecily.” Pratan drew circles around her navel with his switch. He’d stretched her out on the bed like a cow’s hide laid out to dry, her arms and legs roped to the four corners. “Tell me more.”

  “I shouldn’t have told you anything at all.” She was furious at her own weakness—but at least she’d let slip nothing more than her first name. “Beat me all you want. I’ll say no more.”

  He tugged at the right side of his moustache. Without further warning he slashed at her thigh. A line of angry red emerged in the switch’s wake, matching the grid of stripes that already decorated her coffee-coloured skin. She kept silent as the sting crested and died, her eyes burning into his. How could she have thought him tender?

  “I believe you,” he said at last. “You’re as stubborn as a camel.” Tossing the switch onto the mattress, he turned his back to her and strode over to the communications console. The apparatus glowed as he flipped it into active mode. Cecily wondered where he’d got the viridium to power the device. Unless of course the rebels had managed to smuggle the precious mineral into the country from elsewhere… But where? All the neighbouring kingdoms had been brought under Her Majesty’s sway.

  “Amir—are you there?” Pratan lowered the volume of his voice as he spoke into the mouthpiece, and switched to Hindi, but Cecily had excellent hearing and a natural linguistic facility.

  “Brother! How are you? I’d hoped to see you here at the palace tomorrow for the new moon festival.”

  “I’ll be there. With a guest.”

  “A guest. And who would that be?”

  “I’m still trying to figure that out. It’s a woman—a damned seductive woman—whose carriage I ambushed this evening. She looks Indian—dark skin, black hair, plenty of flesh on her bones—but I think she’s English. She’s got these amazing blue eyes… Her given name is Cecily. That’s all I’ve managed to get out of her.”

  “With your skills of persuasion? I’m most surprised, brother.” The Rajah’s amusement came through clearly. “And you’ve given up?”

  “I figured I’d let you take a crack at her.”

  Amir chuckled. “I could enjoy that, though Sarita might object.” There was a pause. Pratan scratched his head. Cecily found herself distracted by the way the muscles in his back shifted. “Bring her along then. Should I send the aerocopter to pick you up?”

  Cecily shuddered. Faced with the threat of a trip by air, could she maintain her silence?

  “No, no—I think I’ll commandeer her vehicle—quite a fine self-propelled amphibious coach, a good deal more sophisticated than any of ours. I imagine it should have more than enough fuel to make it to Jaipur, since I suspect that’s where our mystery woman was heading.”

  “Sounds as though it will be an excellent addition to our fleet. I’ll alert the engineers. So I’ll expect you tomorrow, then. Travel safe, brother.”

  “As long as I keep my—ah—guest securely bound, I doubt that I need to worry.”

  “Accha! I look forward to meeting her. Ram ram.”

  “Ram ram, Amir. Till tomorrow, then…”

  “Wait a minute. ‘Cecily’, you said? Something’s tickling the back of my brain… Let me examine the Universal Electropaedia…” In the ensuing pause, Pratan glanced over his shoulder towards the bed. She assumed a demeanour of indifference. “Ah, yes… Dark complexion, you say, and blue eyes?”

  “Correct.”

  “Between twenty-five and thirty years of age? About eleven stone?”

  “Ten stone four pounds!” Cecily interjected before she could help herself.

  “Yes, and tall too, for a woman. And from the way she’s straining against the ropes, I’d say she understands every word we’re saying!”

  Her spirits sank. Did the Electropaedia actually include an entry for her? Why hadn’t the Empire’s censors excised it? This unforgivable breach of security might well have sealed her fate, though she wasn’t about to give up yet.

  “Brother, I believe that you’ve succeeded in capturing one of Queen Victoria’s most notorious agents—Miss Cecily Harrowsmith. According to reports, she is brave, brilliant, beautiful and as dangerous as a king cobra.”

  Pratan rubbed his bruised shin where she’d kicked him and grinned at her with genuine menace. “That sounds like her.”

  Cecily bounced up and down every time the coach hit a rut in the execrable road. Her captor had not bothered to reinstall the ejected cushions, so she was forced to endure the journey sitting on the floor, with only a woven rush mat protecting her sore buttocks. Pratan seemed an even worse driver than the native she had hired in Bombay—who, according to the highwayman, had fled at the sound of his rifle. Or perhaps the bandit was deliberately trying to make the journey as uncomfortable as possible. She did not find this particularly implausible. The royally-connected brigand seemed to delight in vexing her.

  After his conversation with the Rajah, Pratan had trimmed the lamps until the cave was mostly in shadow. Then he’d stretched his lanky, naked body out on a pallet next to the bed where she’d been restrained, close enough that she’d thought she could feel the heat coming off his skin. All night long his scent had tormented her. Her clit had throbbed like a sore tooth and her quim had soaked his mattress, but he’d made no move to touch her, and of course she hadn’t been able to touch herself. To distract herself from her arousal, she’d bent her clever mind to the task of devising ever more excruciating tortures to inflict on him. Since many of her ideas involved his penis or testicles, however, this strategy had not been particularly effective.

  When she had finally drifted into uneasy sleep, she’d dreamt she was hurtling through the air after having been expelled from the carriage. Pratan swooped up on a carpet and snatched her out of the sky, then forced her mouth down on his erection. In the dream, she had sucked eagerly on his swollen member, certain that if she could bring him to spending, she’d have him at a disadvantage. He’d got fatter and harder every minute she worked on him, until she could scarcely encompass his girth in her stretched jaws. Still he had seemed far from his crisis. Finally, as she’d begun to despair, he’d flipped her onto her stomach and driven that enormous column of flesh into her depths.

  Cecily had awakened, whimpering and shuddering in the throes of a climax triggered entirely by her imagination. In the near-darkness, the voice of the subterranean stream had seemed much louder. She’d craned her neck until she could make out Pratan’s recumbent form, concerned that her passionate vocalisations had awakened him. The even rise and fall of his well-muscled chest had suggested he slept deeply but she hadn’t been able to help but note that his cock was splendidly engorged, bobbing gently with his breathing.

  Despite her dream-kindled crisis, Cecily had found herself randier than ever.

  In the morning, Pratan had modified her bonds so that she could sit or squat. After feeding her some dahl, yogurt and tea, he’d dressed her in a worn cotton tunic and trousers like his own. He’d touched her as little as possible but every time his fingertips had grazed her skin, electricity crackled through her. The laughter she’d seen in his eyes had made it clear that he knew very well what he was doing to her.

  He’d almost had her ready to beg. She’d bitten her tongue, determined to keep silent. No one had ever expired from sexual frustration.

  “You expect me to meet a prince dressed like this?” she’d complained instead.

  “My apologies, Madame Spy. These are the only clothes I have available.”

  “I’ve several dre
sses in my trunk.”

  “Too much work. Besides, I think you look rather fetching in this attire. Of course, if you’d prefer to travel in the nude…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Roll up the pants, would you please? They’re much too long.”

  Grinning, Pratan had obeyed. He’d managed the task without making the slightest contact with her hungry flesh.

  They’d been travelling for several hours, her trussed-up body tossed about like a sack of potatoes, when the ride became considerably smoother. She worked herself into a sitting position, with her back to the door, and strained to see out of the window opposite.

  The coach proceeded along what appeared to be a broad boulevard, overhung with lush vegetation. Carts rolled past in the other direction, some drawn by oxen or mules but many apparently self-propelled. An occasional camel decked in bright garlands bore passengers or goods. Pedestrians made their way along the route as well, often with bundles or baskets slung over their shoulders or balanced on their heads. The women wore cholis, saris or flowing trousers in a rainbow of hues. For the most part, the men were clad in pure white, with their twisted multicoloured headdresses a delightful contrast. Everyone looked well-fed, healthy and prosperous.

  The scene did not look much like the impoverished, energy-starved country Cecily had expected. Clearly someone was defying the embargo, supplying the Rajah with viridium in defiance of the Empire.

  The carriage swung around a sharp curve and began to climb. In the distance, upon a bare promontory, stood a massive fortress. Its sheer stone walls appeared rooted in the bedrock, rising a hundred feet or more to loom over the town. Windowless, cylindrical donjons clung to the cliff-like walls. The enormous citadel looked as though it had been built by giants from the misty past. Nevertheless, Cecily noted a cloud of nimble aerocopters, swooping and hovering like silvery honeybees at the far left of the edifice, while the metal fretwork of a com tower spiked up above the domes and minarets on the closer corner.

  “Mehrangarh Fort.” Pratan’s voice issued from the control panel, as though he’d read her wondering mind. “The royal seat and abode of His Highness Amir Pratihar Rajput, the ruler of Rajasthan.” He chuckled. Cecily easily pictured his mocking grin. “My brother. Who is most eager to meet you, madam.”

  “I fear that he’ll find me a sore disappointment,” she replied. “Dirty and unkempt, without even the ability to comb my hair. And surely you don’t intend to present me to a king trussed up like a pig carried to market.”

  “Oh, I doubt Amir would mind that. He shares my fondness for restraints. Knowing him, however, I suspect he will have devised a more elegant solution for preventing your escape.”

  From a distance, the fortress walls appeared impenetrable, but as they approached, a gate became visible, hewn into the rock. Pratan paused to confer with the red-clad sentries, then piloted the vehicle through a tunnel lit by golden glow-bowls and out into a broad plaza ringed by towers and balconies of pink-hued marble.

  The coach rolled to a halt. Pratan threw open the door and leaned in. “I’ll untie your ankles so you can climb down from the carriage, but do not get the notion that you can run. If you make the slightest move that suggests flight, you’ll be as riddled with arrows as a pin cushion with pins. Our soldiers train from birth”—he gestured towards a dozen or more men fanned around the carriage with bows drawn—“and they never miss.”

  One glance at the force arrayed against her convinced Cecily to cooperate, for the moment at least. In an edifice of this size and complexity, surely she’d have an opportunity to slip from her captors’ clutches at some point.

  Awkward because of her bound wrists, she clambered out of the vehicle, almost tumbling onto the flagstone pavement. Pratan steadied her, his powerful hand clamping around one arm. She resolutely ignored the heat that flowed from that hand, through her body and down to her centre, but she knew she was dampening her borrowed trousers.

  As she struggled to regain her balance, the mass of soldiers parted, creating a clear path for a slender female figure to approach. The men offered respectful bows as the woman passed through their ranks. She ignored them, her gaze focused on Cecily and Pratan.

  She looked to be about Cecily’s age, but there the resemblance ended. Her complexion was ivory, almost as fair as the ladies Cecily knew in London, though with less pink in the mix. Certainly her skin was shades lighter than Cecily’s own. In contrast to Cecily’s solidity, the woman’s limbs were delicate as a faun’s, and the swell of her modest breasts barely distorted her regal purple sari. Her waist-length plait was a deep red-brown, though that might have been the effect of henna. A gold diadem traversed her forehead, with an opal centred above her almond-shaped eyes. Cecily read contempt and suspicion in those lovely orbs.

  “Lady Sarita.” Pratan bowed nearly as low as the guards, though he didn’t relax his iron grip on Cecily’s flesh. “Allow me to present Miss Cecily Harrowsmith—emissary of Her Majesty Queen Victoria.”

  Sarita released an audible sniff of disdain. “She’s an agent of Queen Victoria? She looks like some farmer’s wife, just come from slopping the hogs.”

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Sarita,” Cecily swallowed her annoyance and replied with as much courtesy as she could muster. She would need allies against Amir and Pratan, and as unlikely a friend as this woman seemed, it wouldn’t help to antagonise her. “I suspect that a bath and a change of clothing might help make my identity more plausible.”

  “That is exactly my Lord’s orders for you, though why he charged me rather than my maids with this loathsome task I don’t know.”

  “Because my brother respects your intelligence and your loyalty, Sarita,” Pratan soothed. “Miss Cecily’s dangerously tricky. She might well get the better of a simple ladies’ maid, but you are more than a match for this agent’s skills. He knows the captive will be secure in your capable hands. And I’m sure you will more than merit his confidence.”

  “Of course I will.” Clearly Sarita’s temperament did not match her demure appearance. “You—and you—bring her to the women’s quarters.”

  “Don’t be concerned,” Pratan murmured in Cecily’s ear. The tickling of his moustache sent little thrills racing along her skin, despite her attempts to ignore the stimulus. “I’m sure Sarita will take especially good care of you for my brother’s sake—though I don’t doubt that if the choice were hers, she’d be more than happy to slit your throat.” After this less than comforting communication, he relinquished Cecily to the designated guards, much to her undeniable regret. “I will undoubtedly see both of you at the festivities this evening.”

  “Come on then—Miss Harrowsmith,” Sarita urged with exaggerated politeness. “Let us see if we can make a silk purse of a sow’s ear.” The soldiers marched Cecily down richly decorated corridors, into the inner precincts of the palace. She couldn’t help looking back over her shoulder to send a desperate glance in Pratan’s direction. The bandit prince merely grinned.

  Chapter Five

  Two muscle-bound female warriors, taller than Cecily, flanked the intricately carved door to the women’s domain. Gleaming armour hid their breasts but their short skirts bared legs with the girth and strength of tree trunks. In contrast to the traditional bows of the male guards, these women carried pistol-like weapons of dull metal the same colour as the automated ropes.

  “Electrical stun guns,” Sarita commented, noticing the direction of Cecily’s gaze. “Like being struck by lightning. On low charge, they’ll immobilise you in an instant. At maximum strength, they can kill you.”

  One of the Amazons opened the door. Sarita directed the guard inside with a curt gesture, then pushed Cecily in after. “It will unfortunately be necessary remove your shackles in order to clean off all your filth. Be assured that Bhuni won’t hesitate to shoot you at the least threat to me or the smallest suggestion that you are trying to escape.”

  One glance at the guard’s grim expression was enough to convin
ce Cecily that Sarita spoke the truth.

  “Unbind,” the Rajah’s favourite intoned, brushing a delicate finger over the coils wrapping Cecily’s wrists. The snake-like machine loosened and dropped into Sarita’s waiting palm. She handed it to Bhuni.

  “A remarkable device,” Cecily ventured, experimenting with a friendly tone. “Her Majesty would be most interested to know how it works.”

  “I’ll wager she would, but there’s little chance of that. ‘Twas invented by my Lord Amir. I very much doubt he’d be willing to share the details with our enemy.”

  Is he brilliant, then, as well as handsome? Cecily wondered. “The Queen does not want to be Rajasthan’s enemy,” she began, “but only its patron, its protector…”

  “Be silent, or I’ll have Bhuni give you a taste of her lightning just to amuse me. Off with those rags and into the bathing pool.”

  Cecily stripped off the tunic, then pushed the baggy trousers over her ample hips and down to her ankles. She was acutely aware of Sarita’s appraising stare. The contrast between her own ripe curves and Sarita’s delicate frame could not have been more pronounced. The weight of Cecily’s breasts, the solid swell of her buttocks, made the Rajasthani woman look like a fragile young girl in comparison. I could snap her in two like a twig, came the tempting thought, nurtured by the hostility she read in Sarita’s beautiful face. With the warrior Bhuni’s eyes fixed on her as well, though, that sort of aggression would be far too risky.

  “Hurry up, you old cow. I have more important things to do than supervise the hygiene of a disgusting creature like you.”

  Cecily bit back the sarcastic retort that raced to her lips. She understood Sarita’s attitude was born largely of jealousy. “Sorry, Rani Sarita. My muscles are still cramped from my bonds and the journey.”