by Alyssa Deane
“Roxane,” he whispered, pulling aside the loose neck of her gown to run his tongue directly over her flesh, and feeling her tremble in his arms, “I must get out of these clothes. Will that frighten you?"
It took a moment for her to answer, and then she merely shook her head. She sat back over her heels, folding her hands in her lap, posture attentive. He realized that she meant to watch. A crooked smile creased his sun-browned features. Turning his shoulder to her in sudden, unaccountable reserve, he stripped the shirt over his head, then sat down to take off his shoes. When he stood to remove his trousers, he spun about completely, presenting his back, easing the garment down to the floor and stepping out of them.
“Should I undress, too?"
“If you'd like,” he said. “However, my love, if that makes you uncomfortable, you may leave your gown on. I don't think we will be hindered overmuch—” At a noise from her, he glanced back over his shoulder to find her kneeling in the center of the cot, the nightdress already in her hand, held up in her fist against her body as a fairly ineffectual shield. Through the window, the moonlight caressed every inch of exposed skin in a pale illumination, and made delectable shadows of all that was not exposed. Forgetting himself, he spun about. She gasped, and for the first time he saw something resembling uncertainty in her eyes.
He sat down quickly beside her.
“Roxane,” he said softly, “do you have any conception of what comes next?"
Watching her bite her lower lip in patent consideration, he thought her quite the most endearing lady he had ever known.
“I ... I have seen horses bred..."
Throwing back his head, Collier laughed until the tears ran. Wide-eyed, Roxane made to get up, but Collier put his hand over hers on the mattress, cancelling her departure.
“I am sorry,” he wheezed, still breathless with humor, petting her hair over her shoulder. “It is the mental image which has caused me such amusement. I am no stud, and you are no brood mare, Roxane. Though the basic intention is the same, there should be a qualitative difference in technique."
He paused, head bent, studying the bright color in her cheeks.
“Did you never have young, married women friends who spoke to you of this matter?"
She shook her head mutely.
“Nor your mother? No, no, of course not. Prudery abounds in this, the reign of our good Queen Victoria. Well, then,” he said, grasping her shoulders in the cup of his hands, shifting about on the mattress until he had situated them both to face each other again, “we shall have to take time, and care, for I do not want you to be frightened or ill at ease. Do you agree?"
“Yes,” she murmured.
Collier cleared his throat. “First, perhaps, you should look at me. Look at my face. Is this the man you love?"
Roxane nodded, lifting her hand to lay her fingers along his jawline. He took her hand in his own and kissed it, pressing his mouth into her palm before moving her fingers softly over his countenance. “Eyes, nose, mouth, ears—nothing here that will harm you, sweetheart.” Across from him, she smiled, a flash of teeth in the moon's light.
“Here,” he continued, “my neck, my throat, my arm ... see?” He ran her hand down the length of his arm into his other hand, where he held her fingers fleetingly captive before lifting them to his chest.
“Do you feel my heart?” he asked, placing his free hand on her hip to pull her a little closer to him. “Do you feel how swiftly it beats? As swiftly as yours, no doubt. Look at your hand and mine. Beyond them, look at the body which contains my heart. The chest, the cage of my ribs, the stomach which is, at this moment, making some rather strange noises.” She giggled, leaning toward his hand, feeling the bubbles of gas. The length of her hair swung forward, caressing his thighs. He held his breath, then released it, planting a soft kiss on her crown.
“And this, my abdomen. Look, my love. And here..."
A quick intake of breath, and she jerked her hand away. He drew it back. “You do not seem the type who will close her eyes and wait for it to all be over, dear heart. Understand what you will control, my love. We will, with God's grace, have a long life ahead of us. Look. Look at what you command...."
He could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow. When next she withdrew her hand, he let her go. She curled her fist into the fabric of the gown at her lap, which she still held closely against her breast.
“Like a dog,” she said.
He choked, brows lifting in amused confusion.
“A dog? How so?"
“A—a dog will lie about on the floor, for all the world like an inert rug of fur. Perhaps it lifts its head when you walk by. Yet, when you pet it, its entire body becomes charged with life, almost unexpectedly."
Collier was silent, and then his lips twisted in a smile.
“Hmm,” he grunted, “I believe I see the connection."
Roxane laughed, a purling bubble of sound.
“I do love you, Collier Harrison."
“I do love you, Roxane Sheffield,” he answered.
“We will make the best of things from now on, won't we?"
“I promise you I will try, with all my heart."
She nodded, rising up onto her knees. She touched his face, with the backs of her fingers.
“Collier, take the gown. I do not seem to be able to let go of it."
“Then don't,” he whispered, kneeling before her.
“But I want to."
Wordlessly, he brought both his hands up, disengaging her fingers from the gown with a gentle persistence she did not fight. Slowly, he lowered the garment along her body in tantalizing leisure which appeared to please her as much as it did him. As the gauzy fabric slid over her breasts, her nipples rose in silent yearning, and she laughed, a silky, sultry sound. He paused to kiss them both before sliding the gown further, his fingers splayed across her hips as the material draped that most secret part of her body.
“Are you certain?"
“Yes."
He let the gown fall, gliding along her thighs, and sat back over his heels, to observe her naked body in the moonlight. Free of clothing, there was no barrier between them now. Lust and love combined within his soul like fire; yet he felt strangely, subtly adrift, far above the world, with only one anchor, one safe haven, one asylum in which to bury all fear and uncertainty, one vessel to contain, without smothering, the fire of his passion.
“Oh, my God, Roxane,” he murmured harshly, lifting her in his arms to lay her down upon the bed. He stretched the length of his body against hers, holding her. Her hands moved across his back. He shuddered, once.
“Are you all right?"
“Never better, my love,” he whispered against her ear. He slid himself closer, felt the heat of her and the moistness.
“I have heard,” he felt compelled to warn her, “that there is some pain, the first time, for a woman, and bleeding..."
She nodded, pressing nearer, angling her hips. She slipped both her arms about his neck, drawing his head down, and kissed him. “Now,” she said, her mouth open on his own. “Now."
When he penetrated her, her cry of pain was stifled in his mouth, where his breath rushed to meet hers, and then she moved, and moved again, with a sound low in her throat. A sound that reverberated in his head, resounded in his chest, echoed in his voice. A sound of welcome, and of release, of torment, and of delight, on and on, sweeping him upward to the light, to the light he saw dancing in her eyes, to the reflected firmament where once he had seen her star, rooted and immutable, in the heavens, there to unloose the fire of his soul into hers, where it would be safe for a time, and whole.
Chapter Thirteen
In the hour before daylight, Roxane returned to her father's house, and to her bedroom. If she felt any shame for her actions, she could not summon it; and if she felt any strangeness at knowing that what she and Collier had done had taken place in the vacated home of her father's mistress, she did not dwell upon the fact. Discarding the torn and bloodied
nightgown, she washed with the tepid water that had been standing in the washstand and dressed for the day. Having had very little sleep the night before, she expected her reflection in the mirror to betray as much, but instead she looked healthy and animate. There was no other outer change to her demeanor, nothing that might alert the casual onlooker to her change in status, but she could see it in the eyes looking back at her; note it in the manner in which her lips curled secretively and languorously when her mind wandered; feel it in the small, sweet discomforts to which her body was prone; and with each least thought of what had transpired.
Hearing noise in the room next door, Roxane abandoned remembrances and hastily brushed and secured her hair, then went to Sera.
She said nothing about Cesya's departure until they were seated in the dining room, eating breakfast. Sera's eyes were still somewhat swollen from crying the night before, while her father's countenance spoke clearly of his overindulgence of alcohol.
“Sera,” said Roxane, “do you recall what your mother said, about going to visit with her family for a period of time?” These were not exactly the words spoken, but Roxane thought it best to lead the little girl to conclude that they had been, to spare her feelings. At her side, Sera nodded sleepily.
“She left, very late last night.” Sera started, looking back wide-eyed over her shoulder toward the door, her hands on the edge of the table as if she would push away to ascertain for herself that this was true. Roxane reached out, closing her hand over the child's much smaller one.
“I saw her go, Sera,” she said, meeting her father's eyes over Sera's dark head. He looked haggard and uneasy. Roxane returned her attention to her half-sister. “She left your things for me to bring here to you,” she went on in a partial fabrication. “They are upstairs in my room, waiting to be placed in your bureau. Later, we will go over to the little house and see if there is anything else you would like to bring in. I am—I am sure she won't be gone long, Sera."
Sera lifted her head, and the expression in her green eyes firmly denied any belief in Roxane's last statement. Roxane looked at her father again, remembering all the times her mother had said the same to her, giving her false hope, when there was, in point of fact, none. Sliding back her chair, Roxane lifted Sera from hers, depositing the child into her lap and enveloping her in a lavender-scented embrace. She smoothed the girl's hair, kissing her on the forehead.
“Sera,” she said, “maybe she won't be back. She was very much afraid, as you heard her say, of something which might very well be nonsense. But if it is not, I am here, Sera, to see you safe. And so is Colonel Max. All right?"
“She think she will be killed,” Sera muttered against Roxane's blouse.
Roxane looked again at her father, who was pointedly studying the napkin beside his plate.
“Sera, you have had bad dreams, haven't you? Ones that have made you afraid?” The little girl nodded. “I think it was like that with your mother. I think she had a very bad dream, and when she woke up she was still afraid, only she didn't understand that it was because of the dream, so she looked for other reasons, daylight reasons, on which to blame her fright. But all will be well in time, you will see."
Sera turned her head away from Roxane, looking to their father for final confirmation. At the head of the table, Max Sheffield smiled wanly at his youngest daughter. “We have all been that afraid at one time or another, Sera. It makes us do silly, sometimes hurtful things. But Roxane is right. All will be well."
Sera wriggled down from Roxane's lap, walking with a very unchildlike dignity to the chair at the head of the table. She laid her tiny hand on her father's arm.
“You still love me, Colonel Max?"
Artless and simple. If she could retain the love of one parent, then she would forgive the absence elsewhere. Max Sheffield put his large paw over the small, grasping fingers on his sleeve. There were tears standing unshed in his eyes.
“Of course,” he said. “I will always love you."
Watching them, Roxane was overwhelmed, not with a sense of loss or displacement, which she might have expected and understood, but with the foreboding which had been coming at strange intervals. She wished now that she had taken the time to speak with Collier on it during the night. Excusing herself from the table, Roxane went to her room to fold the untidy pile of Sera's clothes Cesya had left behind.
There would, or course, be opportunity to discuss anything she chose with Collier soon enough. As she had said to Sera, given the chance, all things would be well. At the moment, however, she did not even know where he had gone when he left her, nor exactly when he would be able to return. He had promised it would not be long, but in the interim, should she need him, she should send word to Ahmed, and he would see that Collier received it. This secrecy only served to unnerve her further.
The day after Cesya departed, Max brought home a puppy, whelped by a spaniel bitch belonging to a friend of his, and offered it tentatively to Sera, for comfort. The child was instantly enamored, as was Roxane. This became a new focus for her days, assisting her little sister in training the young animal, as she anxiously awaited Collier's return.
In the weeks that followed, Roxane found herself receiving cryptic messages, some from Ahmed, some from a writer who did not sign his name, but who she knew was Collier, whose messages were designed to let her know that all was well with him, that he thought of her often, that he loved her still, and she was not to worry on that count, as she had confessed to Ahmed one day, during lessons.
“Your star is fixed,” Ahmed would say, with a smile.
Other messages warned her of certain precautions to be taken, if she read them aright, regarding travel into the city or elsewhere, of stockpiling stores in her father's home without the knowledge of the servants, and various other warnings and directions she attempted to follow, though no reasons for them were given. It was not necessary. She was quite aware of the varying complaints of the sepoys in regard to their religion, and their fear of losing caste.
The most notable seemed always to return to the new cartridges. And although the army seemed to be doing what it could to allay the fears of its men, it no longer appeared to be enough. Roxane knew, from talking to Ahmed and to the jemadar who still instructed her daily with the pistol, that the native sepoy regiments discussed mutiny now as regularly as they paraded in arms for their officers.
Additionally, all through the cantonments, servants were reported to have become sullen, watchful, or wary, or merely as clinging as children, not willing to go far from their masters. One woman reported finding her ayah had developed a sudden and intense interest in the value of her silver and her earrings. Roxane kept Sera ever near her, and both pistols cleaned and ready to be loaded at all times, for she had no illusions regarding the mortal threat to those she loved, should the men revolt.
On the other hand, Colonel Sheffield was regularly reported to with incidents or rumor which he chose to ignore. More than once, he announced with pride that his men would never mutiny. Roxane could see that the soldiers did, indeed, possess a heartfelt affection for her father, but she could not help wondering if this would be enough, should a call to arms come from thousands upon thousands of their own countrymen in the heat of a mutinous, religious fervor.
The puppy daily grew more judiciously aggressive, attacking shoes, pillows, carpets, and servants’ unwary feet only when no one else was looking. Roxane insisted, out of fear of rabies, that he be taught to walk on a lead, to keep him clear of other animals—animals of which he had no natural fear, yapping and straining at them as if it were his sole duty to see them quit of the compound. The spaniel, which Sera had named Courage, accompanied them to the apartments of Ahmed Ali, much to the dismay of the man's own servants, who viewed the little beast with a predisposed dislike. However, for all of his noise and bravado, he had a gentle disposition when handled and a loyalty to Sera which was remarkable. Ahmed was quite fond of the animal and insisted that he come along, even when Roxane
suggested the puppy would be better off at home.
Sometimes, Ahmed would take Sera and her ayah into the gardens with Courage, to walk them about the pathways and to teach the dog, as he termed it, “the dignity as befits its naming.” During these excursions, Roxane was left to her own devices in Ahmed's apartments, where she would read or talk to the myna on its perch. The reason for these arrangements did not occur to her until one day she turned around and found she was not alone.
He looked thinner, worn, with a tinge of gray under the eyes, beneath the brown of his skin. He pulled the headpiece from his face, dropping it on the floor at his feet. He seemed unable to do more.
Running to him, Roxane took him by the arm, leading him to sit on a low stool by the window. Dropping to her knees, she loosened his belt and removed the sword and the pistol. He lifted his hand, letting it fall against her hair. She turned her cheek into it.
“Collier—"
“Shh,” he said, smiling tiredly. “Do you see the cobalt bowl on the table? Take it, please, and put it in the window."
Without argument, she did as he asked, situating the bowl directly in the center of the casement. Then she stepped away, taking his hand.
“Why did you have me do that?” she asked.
“To let Ahmed know that I am here. For over a week now, he has expected me. As long as the bowl remains in the window, we shall be undisturbed."
His smile, thought Roxane, watching him, had turned quite lecherous for one who looked so without strength. Dropping to her knees again, she swept back the unhooped hem of her skirt, and leaned toward him, slipping her arms about his waist. Smoothing back the flying hair from about her face, he planted a kiss, firmly, on her nose.
“I have missed you,” he said.
“And I you,” she answered.
“Have you? No regrets?"
“None,” she said.