Rajasthani Moon

by Lisabet Sarai

  The Rajah’s expression was more inscrutable than his bride’s. However, his solicitous manner as he assisted Sarita in seating herself suggested that he would bestow upon her the love and the care that she deserved.

  They made an exquisite couple. When the white-garbed priest invited the assembly to join in petitioning the gods for the Rajah’s and Rani’s happiness, health and fertility, Cecily joined in the prayer with complete sincerity.

  As the chant died away, Amir kissed his bride, and a chorus of cheers rose from the crowd. The pavilion had been set up in the same enormous courtyard where Cecily had witnessed the new moon ceremony what seemed like a lifetime ago. Amir had apparently invited a good fraction of the capital city’s population to witness his nuptials and attend the feasting afterward.

  Tables laden with traditional delicacies lined the perimeter of the vast open space. The formalities concluded, Amir’s subjects gladly availed themselves of the Rajah’s beneficence, clustering on woven mats strewn with pillows with their plates piled high. The wedding party and most honoured guests ate upon the raised platform.

  Cecily sat cross-legged near one of the pillars that supported the wedding tent, picking at the savoury yogurt curry, spicy dal mekni and ladoos so sweet they made her teeth hurt. A peculiar and illogical melancholy afflicted her. After all, she had every reason to celebrate. Sarita had achieved justice and legitimacy for herself and her unborn child. Amir was luckier than he realised to have such a clever and capable woman as his spouse. The soothsayers predicted the Rani would give birth to a son and heir. Pratan had been relieved of the burden he’d borne since puberty and was now free to assume his rightful position as his brother’s deputy rather than living as an outcast. Meanwhile, Cecily had, against all odds, accomplished her mission. She now knew the reason Rajasthan was able to defy the Empire. No longer the Rajah’s captive, she could return to England to make her report to the Queen and convince Her Majesty that the Empire should abandon its attempts to make Rajasthan submit once more to its authority.

  Why was her mood so dark?

  Her eyes sought out Pratan, who sat at the Rajah’s right hand on the opposite side of the pavilion. In his gold-embroidered black sherwani and crimson turban, he was almost as resplendent as the groom. Cecily had seen far less of him than she would have liked during the nearly ten days of nuptial festivities that had culminated tonight. Since Amir’s father was deceased, it fell to his brother to play the traditional role usually reserved for the groom’s male parent. As soon as the plan for the wedding was established, Pratan had journeyed to Maharashta to formally seek permission for Sarita’s marriage from her royal father. Given that the woman had been betrothed to Amir as a child and had served as his sexual slave for years, Cecily thought this peculiar, but the prince had assured her it was required for the sake of protocol. He’d been gone almost a week. Then when he’d returned, Amir had tasked him with a whole range of responsibilities relating to the celebration.

  He’d spent most nights with her—Cecily was grateful for that at least—but on the eve of the final ceremonies, custom required the bride and groom to be kept apart, each attended by relatives and close friends of their own gender. Cecily had been segregated with Sarita and her women. They’d gossiped long into the night, telling ribald stories and boasting about their men’s virility. Cecily had kept uncharacteristically quiet. She found all the talk of sex made her miss Pratan’s physical presence even more.

  He was busy now, occupied in explaining something to Sarita’s father. She watched his animated face, his lively, expressive hands. She recalled the delight those hands could coax from her body. A hollow ache throbbed under her breastbone. Look at me, she broadcast, but the prince appeared to be oblivious to her silent plea.

  Music rang out through the plaza. The drums beat the infectious rhythm of the Ghoomar dance. Women whirled in time, their full skirts billowing around them in clouds of colour, while turbaned men whistled and clapped their hands. Normally Cecily would have been itching to join them, but tonight her feet felt like lead.

  I’ll just return to my room. I can pack my things and be ready to leave early tomorrow. The Rajah had promised her safe passage as soon as the wedding was out of the way. “Sarita insists that you don’t go until then,” he’d added.

  Cecily had been happy to comply. She owed Sarita her life twice over. But now it was time for her to go home. Despite her affection for Sarita and her helpless attraction to Pratan, she didn’t belong here in Rajasthan.

  As she gazed at the wedding party, Amir pulled Sarita into a kiss so laced with sensuality that it made even Cecily blush. Her nipples tightened as she briefly imagined herself in the bride’s place. Nobody on the dais seemed to notice. Most, including Pratan, were focused on the dancers.

  Enough. Why torture yourself?

  As unobtrusively as she could manage, she rose to her feet and descended the steps leading to the courtyard floor. Picking her way among the wildly twirling bodies, she headed for the corridor that led to her quarters. It was more difficult than it should have been, because, despite her best efforts to suppress them, her vision was obscured by tears.

  Someone grabbed a handful of her hair, halting her already-slow progress. “Cecily! Where are you going?”

  “Ow! That hurts!” she complained, but she couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face when she saw the worry in Pratan’s.

  “My apologies, lady. I called out to you twice, but you didn’t stop.” He ran his fingers through her heavy locks, turning his rough gesture into a caress. “Why are you leaving? The party is just getting started. Don’t you want to dance?”

  “Not tonight. I think I’ve had enough celebration over the last two weeks to last me for a year.”

  “The Rajah wants to see you dance.” Pratan grinned under his drooping moustache and Cecily remembered that, despite his finery, he was a lawless bandit—a wild animal. Lust shivered through her.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint him. However, I’m tired and I don’t feel like dancing tonight. I thought I’d go to bed early.”

  “Without me?” He gripped her hair tight again, pulling her against his silk-covered chest. Her knees grew annoyingly weak.

  “You seemed to be occupied. Which is perfectly appropriate, of course, given your responsibilities to your brother…”

  “Have I been neglecting you, sweet?” Before she could stop him, his hands were sliding up under her choli, massaging the underside of her breasts. He teased her nipples and flames shot through her, liquefying her core. “I’ll have to remedy that…”

  “Pratan, wait, we’re in public… Stop!”

  He obeyed, somewhat to her regret. “Sorry. You are devilishly difficult to resist.” He released her, leaving her pining for his touch, and took her hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  Cecily let him lead her away from the plaza, through the maze of corridors and up multiple flights of stairs, to the aeroplatform on the roof.

  “What? What is it, Pratan?” There was no aviation activity at this time of night. She scanned the ranks of parked aerocopters and noted the two dirigibles, their still-inflated gas bags blotting out parts of the star-strewn sky. “Why are we here?”

  The prince strode off towards the far corner of the triangular tarmac. He pointed to a shiny, silver-coloured airship unlike any that Cecily had ever seen. About thirty feet long, its tapered cylinder of a body reminded her of an overstuffed cigar. Glass enclosed the upper half of its conical nose. Two pairs of stubby wings emerged from the sides, parallel to the ground, and a fin protruded up from the centreline, reminiscent of a fish.

  “This is the Chameela. My brother’s latest invention, a gift from him to me on the occasion of his marriage.”

  “It’s… It’s amazing—but will it really fly?”

  “Like the wind. I’ve already taken several test flights. She can make it to the oilflower fields in Sri Ganganagar—and back—in under an hour.”


  “A trip that took nearly six hours by dirigible?”

  Pratan nodded. “This is probably the fastest airship in existence—the most advanced in other ways, too. It incorporates Amir’s autopilot capability plus many other innovations.”

  Her Majesty would do anything to get hold of this ship, Cecily thought, old patterns asserting themselves. Well, that wasn’t going to happen, not if Cecily had anything to do with it. The Rajah and his people had earned the right to freedom. But why had Amir given such a fabulous mechanism to his brother?

  Pratan answered her unspoken question. “You got Amir thinking, with your talk of politics and alliances. He’s appointed me ambassador-at-large for Rajasthan.”

  “You? An ambassador?” Cecily laughed out loud, recalling her first meeting with the rough ex-brigand. “I’m sorry, you’ve never struck me as the diplomatic type. But what does he want you to do?”

  “Your Empire rules vast portions of the world at the moment. But power depends at least partly on technology. The balance may be about to shift. The Rajah has instructed me to visit various countries, kingdoms and territories who might be happier in a looser alliance, not under the control of the British Queen.”

  “You’d challenge the Empire?”

  “The challenge won’t come from our side. However, if Her Majesty should try to enforce her authority using military means, the more countries we can count among our allies, the better.”

  That seems only fair. Although I suspect Her Majesty would not agree.

  “I’ll be leaving for Madagascar in a few days.” Pratan slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “From there, I’ll go on to Siam and then Cochin. At some point, Amir wants to send me to America. The Yanks are known for being the independent type. I think we might get along with them well.”

  “Well, um, what can I say? Bon voyage…” Her cheeriness sounded false even to her own ears. She stared at the sleek airship so he wouldn’t see the gleam of her gathering tears.

  “Come with me, Cecily.” Raising her chin, he forced her to look into his eyes. The ferocity she saw there stole her breath. “I know you want to.”

  “But… I can’t. The Queen…”

  “She doesn’t need you. She’ll find other minions to do her business for her. But I need you, Cecily—I need you desperately. If only to teach me how to behave like a gentleman rather than a savage.”

  He bent to her trembling lips and gave her what she craved. His arms snaked around her, holding her tight while he devoured her like a ravenous beast. Cecily stopped fighting, stopped thinking, and allowed instinct to take over. Nothing on earth felt as right as kissing this man.

  When he finally allowed her to catch her breath, she knew the decision had been made. Her eyes were wet, but now she didn’t mind if he noticed. He cradled her against his chest. She leaned her ear against the cool silk of his jacket, listening to the powerful beat of his heart.

  “The moon is full again, sweet,” her lover murmured in her ear. “And there’s no sign of the wolf. I’m truly cured. How will I ever thank you?”

  Cecily examined the perfect orb hovering above the horizon, huge and ripe, the colour of fresh cream. It bathed the airfield in light, turning the Chameela’s silver flanks a warm gold. “Well… You could give me a ride in your new airship,” she responded, running her hands down his back and over his firm rear. “Although, unfortunately, I’m rather afraid of flying.”

  Pratan scooped her up as though she weighed no more than Sarita and carried her in the direction of the futuristic vehicle. As he approached, a portal slid open automatically and a set of jointed stairs unfolded towards the ground.

  “Trust me, Miss Harrowsmith. I know just how to deal with that problem.”

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Wild About That Thing

  Lisabet Sarai

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Ruby could feel it in her bones. It was going to be a good night. Only ten thirty, but most of the tables clustered ‘round the stage were full. Lori had already lugged two extra cases of Heineken—tonight’s beer special—up from the basement, and from the looks of the empties accumulating in front the customers, they were going fast. The bartender caught Ruby’s eye and gave her a thumbs up. Everything under control.

  Up front, the Night Travellers hit a dark groove, wailing through Born Under a Bad Sign. Zeke’s fingers flew over the strings, improvising a high riff, while Jojo’s bass kept the song grounded. “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all,” Zeke growled, torturing his guitar to match the pain in his voice. Damn, but the man sounded black, despite the mop of straw-coloured hair he kept pushing out of his eyes. Born in Mississippi, he must’ve soaked up blues in the water and the air. Certainly he could play with the best. Ruby was lucky to have him and his band, given the pittance she could afford to pay them.

  As if he sensed her attention, Zeke picked her out of the shadows at the back of the club. She felt the warmth of the smile he beamed to her, a smile totally at odds with the desperate mood of the song. You know why Zeke plays here, her inner critic commented. You’re just taking advantage of him.

  He gets what he wants, she argued with the internal voice that sounded so very much like her mother’s. I treat him fine. Of course, she got as much out of their relationship as he did. Zeke was a strong man with powerful desires. He could set her on fire. It wasn’t her fault that he was so sentimental. You wouldn’t expect it from a rough and tumble guy like Zeke Chambers—ten years a New York cabbie, a guy who’d seen every horror the city could dish out.

  Her phone vibrated in her jeans pocket, interrupting her train of thought.

  “Hey, hon. What’s up? You should be in bed.”

  “I’m going, Mama. I just want to finish this chapter…”

  “Isaiah Jones, it’s nearly eleven and tomorrow’s a school night! You shut your light off right now!”

  “Okay, okay, Mama! But don’t forget about your meeting tomorrow with Ms Rodriguez.”

  “Oh, right.” Ruby sighed. Isaiah’s grades were good but he was so small that he tended to get bullied. She needed to put a stop to that, somehow. “Thanks, hon. Three thirty, right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’ll be there, don’t worry. Then we’ll walk back home together. Maybe stop for a banana split.”

  “Yum!”

  “But only if you go to bed right now, you understand? I don’t want to have to come upstairs and make you!”

  “Of course. Good night, Mama.”

  “’Night, sweetie. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.” Ruby fought against the wave of guilt that threatened to swamp her. Sure, it would be better if she could awaken with her son, make him breakfast and see him off to school like a “normal” mom. But the club kept her up until three a.m. most nights.

  Isaiah understood. She’d tried staying up until after he’d left, but he had seen how wiped out that made her. He insisted she needed her sleep. At thirteen, he didn’t have any problem dressing and feeding himself—heck, he’d been doing it for the past two years, ever since she’d opened the Crossroads Blues Bar. He knew the club was her dream—the dream that had kept her alive after his bastard father took off with his leggy hygienist.

  And the bar was finally starting to take off. Just last week, Time Out had published a feature about Crossroads. “A bit of Chicago or the Delta transplanted to Fourteenth Street,” the reviewer had raved. That glowing memory almost balanced the effects of the letter she’d received this afternoon.

  The crowd erupted into claps and whistles as the Travellers finished their number. “Thank you kindly, ladies and gentlemen.” A decade in New York hadn’t erased the softness of the South from Zeke’s speech. “Welcome to our first open mic night here at the Crossroads. Hope you brought your axe, your sax or your harp—if you didn’t, well, hell, you can borrow ours! Everybody gets the blues sometimes. This is the place to let it all out!”

&nb
sp; Fresh applause greeted Zeke’s invitation. He stood up there on the platform—his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans jacket, his axe hanging around his neck—and grinned like the country boy he used to be. At six-foot-one, with the solid build of a halfback, Zeke was an imposing figure. He’d broken up more than one drunken brawl for her over the past two years and he had a temper that could be scary. To Ruby and Isaiah, though, he’d been nothing but kind. Whatever success the Crossroads could claim was largely due to him.

  “To kick things off tonight, I want to invite a very special lady to join us here on stage. She’s been through some hard times, friends, and she knows the blues. It’s in her blood, passed on from her daddy, Jimmy ‘The Harp’ Jones. When she sings, she spills her soul. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for Ruby Jones, the lovely owner of the Crossroads Blues Bar!”

  Applause filled the club. Zeke’s invitation hadn’t been a surprise. They’d discussed having her warm up the crowd, and of course, she’d been performing since she was a kid. Nevertheless, his effusive introduction made her feel self-conscious. Ruby wished she’d worn something a bit more glamorous than her usual jeans and tailored shirt.

  She picked her way between the tables, headed for the stage. Zeke held out a big hand. When she grasped it, he swung her onto the platform, and quite neatly, into his arms. The crowd roared.

  Zeke brushed his lips across hers. His distinctive scent engulfed her—clean sweat, Jim Beam and Ivory Soap. It was like turning on a movie—she instantly remembered the last time he’d been inside her. His blond stubble grazed her cheek. She saw him in her mind’s eye—body suspended above hers on powerful arms as he buried his cock in her pussy, fucking her with a smooth, steady rhythm while he scanned her face, focussed on her pleasure. She felt again the way he stretched and filled her. The seam of her jeans teased her suddenly swollen clit. She wondered if Zeke could smell her growing dampness. Hell, what about the rest of the band?