The Royal Affair

by Barrett, Gail

  “It’s worth a try. It’s the only clue we’ve got right now, and we need to get out of town.”

  She nibbled her lip. “We can ask Indira. She comes from a place near there.”

  A sudden knock on the door made her heart trip. Deven stood and tugged out his gun, motioning for her to stay back. Her pulse racing, she leaped to her feet and moved aside.

  “It’s me,” Indira called, and Maya pressed her hand to her chest. Then she hurried to the door and undid the chain.

  Her friend bustled in, carrying two bulging cotton bags. “I got the clothes.”

  “Thanks.” Deven shoved his gun back into his waistband, then grabbed the bag Indira held out.

  Maya took the other. “Listen, Indira. We need to get to Djanpur Province. Didn’t you live near there?”

  Indira’s face turned ashen, her eyes wide. “You can’t go there. It’s too dangerous.”

  “We don’t have much choice. We need information about an ancient language they used to speak there. Abatta. Have you heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a village elder, someone who might know the history?” Deven pressed.

  Indira hugged her arms and shook her head. “I don’t know. You could ask at the monastery. Maybe the monks would know. But there’s no road past Krit. The trails will be washed out this time of year. And there are insurgents, kidnappers.” Indira’s eyes pleaded with hers. “Believe me. You really don’t want to go there.”

  Maya shivered, a premonition of danger sweeping through her like an icy wind. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” She hoped.

  Indira gnawed her lip. She flicked her gaze to Deven, then back to Maya again. “If you’re really going to Djanpur, you need to look married. It’s the only protection you’ll have. Otherwise, you’ll be kidnapped for sure.” She crossed the room to a cabinet and pulled out a wooden box.

  Realizing Indira meant to give her some jewelry, Maya held up a hand in protest. “Indira, no. I can’t take that.”

  “I insist.” She set the box on the cabinet and spread her hands. “It’s not much, but it will help.”

  Maya’s heart warmed at her generosity. She knew how precious even inexpensive trinkets were to someone who’d had nothing for years. “Thank you. I’ll get them back to you. And thanks for everything—the food, the clothes. We appreciate your help so much.”

  Indira pressed her palms together. “I need to leave for work now, but God willing, I’ll see you again.” She gave Maya a quick hug, slid Deven an uneasy glance. “Don’t let her out of your sight,” she told him. Then she left, and the apartment door clicked shut.

  Maya shivered again, trying to shake off the lingering gloom from Indira’s warning, and clutched the bag of clothes to her chest. “I’ll change in the bedroom.”

  Forcing away thoughts of danger, she grabbed her backpack, went into the sleeping alcove and pulled the curtain closed. Then she put on the long, loose pants Indira had found and the traditional tunic and shawl. She slipped the sandals on her feet, stuffed her own clothes into her backpack, using a safety pin to repair the hole. That done, she returned to the cabinet to check the box.

  The mirror above the cabinet stopped her. She peered at her reflection, shrieked at her rat’s nest of hair. She redid her braid, but there was nothing she could do about the shadows smudging her eyes except sleep. And she didn’t have that luxury yet.

  Turning her attention to the box, she sorted through the costume jewelry, choosing pieces typical for a married villager—bangles for her arms, a small gold hoop to replace the stud in her nose. She dabbed a bindi mark on her forehead, sprinkled red sindoor powder in the part of her hair like the married women did.

  Then she reached back into the box and pulled out a necklace, a pote made of bright red, green and yellow beads—the Himalayan equivalent of a wedding ring.

  Her heart faltered. Her hands trembled as she held the beads—a symbol of her hopes, her dreams, the future she’d wanted so badly with Deven.

  She inhaled sharply to quell the pain. That part of her life was over. Deven meant nothing to her now. She tucked the medallion under her tunic to hide it and lifted the necklace to her throat. But a movement in the mirror caught her eye, and she paused.

  Deven stood frozen behind her, his face pale, his tortured eyes on hers. And she knew what he was thinking, as clearly as if he’d shouted it out. The wedding ritual. When the groom gave the pote to his bride.

  He should have given a pote to her.

  She closed her eyes and swayed, unable to stop the deluge of memories—his feverish words of love, of need. How he’d cherished her, made heart-wrenching love to her, promising her forever as he made her his.

  Her throat closed up. She drew in a breath, using all her strength to subdue the stinging lash of emotions. She didn’t need this—not now. Not when he stood watching her. She felt too defenseless, too vulnerable, too exposed.

  “I’ll help with that.”

  Panicked, she shook her head. She couldn’t handle his touch right now. “No, I…”

  But he strode to her and took the necklace from her hands. She pulled her braid forward and steeled herself, unwilling to reveal how affected she was.

  He draped the colored beads around her neck, then fumbled to hook the clasp. His warm fingers brushed her nape, sending shivers shimmering over her skin, and she braced herself against a torrent of pain.

  His fingers stilled. She didn’t move. Time seemed to grind to a halt.

  “Maya.” The word came out as a plea.

  She forced her chin up, met his gaze in the mirror. And the agony in his eyes—the naked yearning—stripped her bare. She trembled, using all the willpower she had to hold on to her anger, her distance. Her pride.

  She’d believed him once. She’d believed he was decent, honorable, a hero in every way.

  She’d been wrong.

  And she refused to delude herself again.

  “Thanks,” she choked out. He lowered his hands, and she turned. “Are you ready to go?”

  He stared at her for an endless moment, the anguish in his eyes tearing her apart. She leaned toward him, tempted to weaken, to beg for an explanation, to believe there was some other reason he’d left.

  But he turned away, added his clothes to her pack and slung it over his back. Then his eyes cut back to hers. And she saw it again—that terrible, haunting pain. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  And despite her vow to cling to her dignity, despite her certainty that she was right, she couldn’t stop the flurry of doubts. Why did she keep seeing that hurt in his eyes? Why was she so darned confused?

  She knew why—because everything she’d seen of him so far supported her old view, that he was a moral, honorable man. He’d saved her from attack. He’d helped Gina escape. He was working undercover, fighting to bring down Singh.

  But if he was the hero she’d once believed, then why had he callously dumped her? What secret lurked in his cynical eyes? And what was he hiding about Singh?

  She crossed the room behind him, trying to forget all that and focus on the journey ahead. They had to elude the police, escape a city filled with Singh’s violent thugs, cross a province fraught with danger of every type. And they were walking in blind. Singh was already a step ahead. They had no idea what they might find.

  But as she pulled the shawl over her head and stepped through the door, she realized that the worst threat might not come from Singh—but the danger Deven posed to her heart.

  Chapter 6

  He’d failed Maya, worse than he’d ever dreamed.

  Deven stood in the crowded bus depot in downtown Kintalabad, still reeling from what he’d seen. He’d expected anger from her, resentment—even indifference after all this time. But nothing had prepared him for that raw vulnerability in her eyes.

  He’d intentionally hurt her when he left. Hell, he’d wanted to make her despise him. And all these years, he’d convinced himself that it had worked, that she’d moved on w
ith her life, forgotten him. That she was safe and content.

  But the stricken look in her eyes when she’d held that necklace had been a knife blade eviscerating his heart.

  It should have been his necklace she held, the one he’d hocked the day he’d left. The one he’d promised her, along with his heart.

  He fingered the old scar slashing his jaw, the proof of how thoroughly he’d failed—failed to defend his mother, failed to defeat Singh. And he’d failed to do the one thing that mattered most—protect the woman he loved.

  He exhaled heavily, knowing he couldn’t dwell on those troubling thoughts right now. He had to concentrate, get Maya safely out of Kintalabad—and then he could mull over the past.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked from beside him.

  He turned his mind to the noisy bus depot, scanning the crowded ticket counters, the weary people standing in lines. Travelers streamed past. Vendors milled around, hawking trinkets and food. Voices ebbed and rose, mingling with the hollow hand drums and reedy flutes of snake charmers entertaining a crowd.

  And police guarded every door.

  “We have to get on that bus.” He was sure of that much. There was only one road into the mountains, and they’d stand out in a car. Their only hope was to blend in with the villagers on the local bus.

  Maya nodded, but her eyes reflected her doubt. “I’d better buy the tickets. I’m less noticeable than you are.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, reluctant to let her go off alone. But she was right. Even with the change of clothes, his height set him apart.

  “All right, but keep your head down,” he warned.

  She gave him a disgruntled look. “You don’t have to tell me what to do. I’ve been hiding from Singh for years.”

  He scowled, not wanting to think about the risks she’d taken as the Leopard. “Don’t come back here after you get the tickets. Don’t even look at me. Just stay across the room. Right before the bus leaves, I’ll follow you on board.”

  “All right.”

  His eyes met hers. “You have enough money?”

  “Yes.” She pulled the shawl closer around her face and turned.

  “And, Maya…” She turned back, arched a brow. “If anything happens to me, get on that bus. Just get the hell out of town.”

  “But—”

  “Promise me. No matter what.” He’d failed her enough already. He couldn’t let Singh get her now.

  But her eyes narrowed, and she lifted her chin. “I told you before, Dev. I’m not the type to run off.”

  She spun around, plunged into the crowd, and he let out a frustrated growl. She was too stubborn, too daring.

  Too appealing.

  He shook off that unwelcome thought and watched her cross the room. She hunched her shoulders, assumed the weary gait of an older woman, transforming before his eyes. Then she headed straight toward a group of policemen. His gut tensed, but they barely glanced her way.

  His relief mingled with reluctant respect. No wonder she’d succeeded as the Leopard. The woman knew how to blend in.

  Needing to make himself less visible, he sidled through the crowd to the snake charmers and slouched against the wall to watch. A cobra coiled up from the basket, following the rhythmic movements of the charmer’s flute. Feigning interest, Deven tossed a rupee into the box.

  But he kept one eye on Maya as she inched through the line and bought their tickets, then huddled on a bench near the door. She looked up, and her gaze met his from across the room. He turned and walked away.

  Still trying not to attract attention, he bought an apple from a vendor, wandered toward a kid performing on stilts. Joining the group of spectators, he lowered himself to his haunches and slowly hitched out his breath.

  So far, so good. Maya had the tickets. No one had spotted them yet. Now they just had to get on that bus.

  He bit into his apple, still wishing Maya wasn’t involved in this. There were too many unanswered questions, too much he didn’t know about Singh.

  He knew one thing, though. Singh wouldn’t let Maya go, even without the medallion, not when she’d defied him for years. He hadn’t let Deven’s mother escape; he’d pursued his onetime mistress for nearly two decades, refusing to let her live her own life. His high-born mother had done everything she could to evade him—changed her name, fled from town to town, performing the menial jobs of an outcast. And Singh had still caught up.

  Deven rubbed his eyes to blot out the memories—his brutally tortured mother, his futile battle with Singh. Singh had slashed his face that night, then left him in the alley to die.

  But Deven hadn’t died. He’d lost his country, his identity, his dreams. He’d lost his illusions about his past, the future he had planned and the woman he’d loved—but he had survived.

  And he’d vowed revenge.

  And every day since then he’d worked to make himself stronger, more powerful. He’d honed his skills in Britain’s military, toughened himself more in the Special Forces. And all the while, he’d studied how Singh thought, how he conducted business. He’d learned the man’s habits and quirks. And when Interpol had needed someone to infiltrate Singh’s inner circle, Deven had seized the chance.

  But investigating Singh was like trying to corral snakes. Clues never panned out. He’d hit wall after dead-end wall. And when he did manage to unearth something useful, it almost seemed too easy, as if Singh had intentionally doled out the tip.

  But that didn’t make sense. Deven’s cover had been foolproof. There was no way Singh could have recognized him, especially after all these years. And neither the head of Interpol in Romanistan nor Skinner, his Magnum boss, had known about his background. His fake identity guaranteed that.

  Seething with frustration, he shook his head. Whatever Singh was up to, Deven had to stop him. He couldn’t fail this time—not with thousands of lives at stake.

  Especially Maya’s.

  An announcement blared, pulling him out of his thoughts. His bus was about to leave. He stood, tossed a coin to the kid on the stilts and carefully surveyed the room.

  Police still guarded the exits. More cops roamed through the crowd. His muscles tightening with tension, he searched for Maya and spotted her looking his way. He returned his stare, willing her to follow the plan and wait for him near the bus.

  Keeping his shoulders stooped, his head low, he wove toward the door through the crowd. He passed a line of beggars, vendors selling candy, bearded trekkers carting backpacks and poles.

  “Hey, you,” someone called from beside him. “Stop.”

  His pulse quickened. He kept threading his way through the throng.

  “Stop. Police,” the man shouted again.

  He glanced back, and his heart sped up. The cop was calling to him.

  He stepped over a basket of spices, dodged a woman selling beads, pretending that he didn’t hear. He had to hurry, get outside the station to the lot where the buses were parked.

  A whistle blew. The cop shouted at him again. He saw Maya walking toward him, and his heart abruptly lost its beat. What was she doing? She was supposed to wait by the bus.

  Without warning, she lurched forward and crashed into a candy cart, causing it to overturn. Chaos broke out, a melee of people shouting, arguing, pushing. More baskets and another cart spilled.

  Children swarmed the area to pick up candy. Merchants rushed to safeguard their goods. Deven glanced back and saw that the crowd had blocked the cop. The police manning the exits ran toward the fracas to help.

  Deven leaped over an overturned basket and reached Maya’s side. “Go,” he ordered, furious that she’d disobeyed him—again. She swung around, hurried through the now-unguarded exit and he rushed after her outside.

  He paused in the late-morning sunshine, spotted a bright green bus closing its doors. It rolled forward and began to drive off.

  He swore, broke into a run. Maya sprinted beside him, shouting and waving her arms. But the driver refused to stop.
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  “Get on top,” Deven yelled as the bus slowed at the end of the lot. Maya lunged for the rear bumper, grabbed hold of the metal ladder and pulled herself up. He leaped aboard a second after.

  The bus accelerated, swerved around the corner. Maya gasped, and he grabbed her arm to keep her from falling off. The bus straightened, belched out a cloud of black exhaust and picked up even more speed.

  “Go on up,” Deven said. He glanced back, watching for signs of pursuit, but no one had followed them out. He exhaled, his heart still sprinting, then scrambled up the ladder after Maya to the roof.

  Three men rode on the cargo rack. Deven followed Maya across the roof to some sacks of grain and lowered himself beside her, moving close to stake his claim.

  Two of the men averted their faces. The third—a dark, wiry man smoking a cigarette—eyed Maya with a speculative gaze. Deven stared him down until he finally looked away.

  But Deven wasn’t about to take chances, especially with Indira’s warning fresh in his mind. He shifted even closer to Maya to shelter her from prying eyes. “You all right?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Yes, just out of breath.” She leaned back against the sacks of rice and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. The wind frothed up strands of her hair.

  He studied the elegant sweep of her cheekbones, the fatigue-bruised skin beneath her eyes. He wanted to hold on to his anger, to rail at her lack of sense. She’d taken a terrible risk back there, endangering herself to rescue him. But arguing with Maya was futile. She might look fragile, but she was the most independent, headstrong woman he knew.

  He sighed, settled the backpack beside him, checked the gun he’d tucked into the waistband of his pants. The bus jolted through a pothole, jarring his throbbing arm, then swerved around a slow-moving truck and blasted its horn. He glanced at the bandage, saw that the wound was bleeding again. Not much he could do about that now.

  “You think we’re safe?” Maya asked.

  “For now.” Ignoring his bleeding arm, he angled back against the sacks. “You might as well rest.”

  She nodded and met his eyes. And for a minute time stopped, and that old camaraderie curled between them, that feeling of friendship, understanding—as if being together was right. But then her eyes flickered, and that wounded look moved through them again like a shadow passing over the earth. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes.