Ryman, Rebecca

by Olivia

  "No. For his sins, Arvind Singh is a gentleman. I have other sources of information."

  A timely diversion occurred to plug a line of conversation Olivia had no wish to pursue. One of the men who had received them in the court-yard entered to engage Raventhorne in brief conversation. With his attention elsewhere, Olivia could study him more closely. Yes, his skin was pale beneath the leathery sunburn, justifying the impression of a European. The disturbing eyes, even now as they focused on the face of the attendant, appeared restless, burning with a fierce inner light that was demonic. His shock of hair, black and untamed, tumbled down his neck in a confusion of upturned ends. Thin lips—a clean gash in a shaven chin—showed ruthlessness, but his profile of aquiline nose and high, wide forehead was almost patrician. If clothes maketh the man it was obvious that man was not Jai Raventhorne; his garments were carelessly worn, a white shirt tucked casually into plain black trousers secured with a black leather belt and silver buckle. Yet, the power of the man was such that it was neither increased nor diminished by what he wore. That he was volatile and mercurial Olivia already knew, but there was again that air about him that seemed designed to make others uncomfortable and ill at ease. Had she told him that, she had no doubt it would have afforded him considerable pleasure, for his perversity was abundant.

  The attendant left and Raventhorne glanced at a watch attached to his belt with a clip and chain. "There appears to be a problem with one of my ships due to sail on the afternoon tide. I shall have to leave soon."

  If perversity was Raventhorne's pleasure, it seemed by no means only his prerogative. In his imminent departure Olivia felt an annoying stab of disappointment. "In that case, let me not delay you—"

  "I said soon," he cut in gently, "but not that soon. There is still time for breakfast." He laced his fingers behind his head and half lowered his eyelids. "Why are you frightened of me?"

  "Frightened? Surely you flatter yourself!"

  "All right then, nervous. Let me assure you there is no cause even for that. Neither of us is likely to inform your distinguished relatives of this encounter! I have no more messages to send." He made no effort to disguise either his mockery or his amusement.

  "I am relieved to hear it." Olivia matched mockery with sarcasm, but the discomfiting facility he seemed to have of dipping into her thoughts produced further annoyance. "Are you a musician as well?" she asked, pointing to the instruments in an attempt to change the subject.

  "As well as what?"

  "As well as ... whatever else you might be." She was careful not to say "tea exporter," since that would certainly inform him that she had been inquiring about him from others.

  "The current, popular descriptions are unmitigated scoundrel, moral degenerate, debauch and unscrupulous villain, but they vary with the season."

  It was difficult to suppress a smile; these were near enough the descriptions her uncle had used the other night. "You take pride in being called those? They give you pleasure?"

  He shrugged. "Neither pride nor pleasure nor anything else. They don't touch me."

  "What does touch you then?" The question escaped on impulse and Olivia regretted it instantly, for it again opened wide the avenues of impertinent counter-attack. But Raventhorne showed no reaction one way or the other. He merely looked away, faintly puzzled, and his eyes became distant.

  "Nothing." His face was like a blank even as the smile returned. "Nothing they say touches me." She too belonged to the world he dismissed with such contempt, and for an instant Olivia had an insane urge to say something, anything, that would touch him. But she could think of nothing. He spoke again in an entirely different tone. "I can see that Lady Birkhurst will approve of her son's choice this time. She at least is a woman of considerable vigour and vitality even if that is more than can be said of the Honourable Freddie."

  Olivia struggled between outrage and curiosity—and curiosity won. "Lady Birkhurst?"

  "The Honourable Freddie's mother. She is due shortly, no doubt to short-list the finalists for fair Freddie's hand, money and title. I can't see you finding much competition in the home stretch."

  To fly again into a temper would be to play into his hands; it was what he was waiting for. "I am obliged for your words of comfort and your vote of confidence," she said with every sign of pleasantness. "But it surprises me that you should be so well informed about my affairs even though I have little knowledge of yours." She added quickly, "Knowledge of or interest in."

  "Oh, you have interest all right, Miss O'Rourke," he remarked with an easy laugh. "And if the knowledge is lacking it is certainly not for want of trying. If there is anything you want to know about me, why don't you just ask?"

  Were it not for that utterly unlikely charm in one so undeserving of it, Olivia would have been disgusted at his monumental conceit. "And if I do ask will you tell me?"

  "No, but you can ask anyway."

  She had to laugh.

  Another diversion occurred, this time startling. A young girl entered bearing a silver platter, followed by a succession of servants bearing more. With subtle gestures she issued commands, and a low table was placed in front of Olivia on which were then arranged an array of bowls, silver plates and European cutlery. It was a smooth, economical operation, but Olivia's attention was riveted to the girl. Even by exotic standards she was breathtakingly lovely. Dark satin eyes were set in a sandalwood-smooth skin; she was tall and moved with the unconscious grace of a dancer motivated by unheard rhythms. Under a loose tunic of yellow gauze fringed with tinsel, her breasts thrust outwards in perfect cones. Her legs were slender and long with small ankles and voluptuously curved calves, all encased in fitted pyjamas crinkled at the ankles. As she swept past Olivia in pursuit of her duties she did not look at her, but she exuded a strong fragrance reminiscent of roses. Her sculpted fingers—deft and light in their labours—were patterned with filigreed henna, which looked like deep orange lace gloves.

  A slight chill travelled up Olivia's body. She knew instinctively that this was Jai Raventhorne's mistress.

  He offered no introductions. Instead, quite unperturbed, he said, "Sujata is an excellent cook, as you will shortly see for yourself. It is she who is the musician."

  Hearing her name spoken, the girl smiled, but only at him. The sidelong glance might have been coy and coquettish had it not been so full of love and longing. As she bent down to place the last of the bowls on the table, her flimsy veil slipped from her head, slid down and settled over a breast. Without embarrassment or hesitation Raventhorne reached forward to readjust the veil in its former position. Between them passed a look; his retreating hand lingered just a shade longer than it needed to on her shoulder. The fleeting gesture, the shared look, lasted barely a second or two, but to Olivia somehow they conveyed an impression of such intimacy, such explicit sensuality, that she felt her cheeks warm and the back of her neck tingle. A smile still playing on her glistening coral lips. Sujata walked out of the salon. All the while she had been there she had not looked at Olivia even once.

  Placing small portions into each bowl, Raventhorne started to serve the food. He offered no explanations for Sujata but merely concentrated on the job at hand with brief descriptions of each course and its preparation. Olivia listened abstractedly, shaken by what she had seen. This was the woman who shared Raventhorne's home and bed; the ravishing image seemed etched into her brain and it was not an image that brought her any pleasure. Unaccountably, she disliked it.

  "Eat while it's hot. Jalebis cannot be enjoyed when cold." A touch on her hand jolted Olivia back to reality and she coloured. He was pointing to the sweets she had fancied in the shop.

  With an effort she smiled. "You should not have gone to all this trouble. I only wanted to satisfy my curiosity about these." The array of courses included far more than the modest jalebis.

  "The trouble was not mine. I only gave the order. Sujata likes to please visitors."

  For devilish reasons of his own he seemed set on thru
sting his mistress down her throat, perhaps because Olivia's discomfiture was obvious and it gave him some impious pleasure. She was again annoyed, not only by his lack of delicacy but by her own irritation; what business was it of hers whom he chose to have in his bed? She found herself again regretting her rash decision to stay, but it was too late to do anything about it now. In any case the food was delicious.

  "To where does your ship sail this afternoon?" she inquired to fill the gaping silences. "Canton?"

  "No. I no longer involve myself in the China trade."

  She had heard that already, of course. "But isn't the China trade the commercial arena that holds most promise of riches?"

  "I already have riches. I have no need for more."

  "In business, surely, there is always need for more!"

  "Well then, let us accept that in my needs I choose to be different. To me money is only a means, not an end in itself."

  "And the end?" She threw him an oblique glance and saw that he too was suddenly not at ease. The compacted tension she had sensed that night by the river was making him restless. He rose and walked to the window, the expanse of his shoulders forming a dark silhouette against the light.

  "To ensure survival in an environment that is essentially hostile."

  Olivia sat up slowly, food forgotten for the moment. She wondered again about those "obsessions" the Maharaja had refused to amplify or even disclose, perhaps rightly so. "But is not the environment hostile because you yourself encourage it to be so through your own wilfulness?"

  He walked back to sit down again, still restive. "Wilfulness is a privilege I have earned for myself, Miss O'Rourke. It is a very small reward for very hard labour. Surely you will not deny me such meagre pickings?" Then with a mercurial shift of mood his eyes narrowed. "Tell me, what bribes is your uncle offering Arvind Singh for his coal?"

  The sudden question startled her, but she answered calmly enough, "None that I know of. Even if I did know, it is hardly likely that I would tell you. Besides, why should he have to bribe to get the coal?"

  "He will not get the coal with or without bribes." A cutting edge sharpened his tone. "Everyone is aware of that except your uncle."

  Olivia's mind went back to her aunt's remark of not so many hours ago. How odd that she should share even this thought with a man whose very name had made her faint! "You mean you will use your friendship with the Maharaja to block the sale? Because you want to monopolise the coal for your own steamship?"

  "Ah, you are better informed about me this time!" The realisation seemed to afford him unconcealed satisfaction. "Sir Joshua's words?"

  "Hardly!" Olivia retorted. "One doesn't need a complicated espionage system or secret briefing to learn what the entire business community is up in arms about." But she had no desire to expand this particular dispute. What intrigued her about Raventhorne was not his professional ethics or otherwise, it was the essential contradiction inherent in the man. She had never met anyone so paradoxical, so cussed, so uncaring of opinion. She wanted to ask a hundred, a thousand questions, but then a servant entered to place before her a finger-bowl of warm water with a slice of lime and to clear away the table. In the lost opportunity all she could think of saying was, "You did not join me for breakfast."

  "I have already eaten. I rise early so that, like you, I can ride and exercise in peace. It appears we share this habit," a fractional pause, "among others."

  The pause, minimal but heavy with thoughts unsaid, made Olivia's mouth again run dry. "What . . . others?"

  He did not reply immediately. His brows met in a frown that indicated perplexity as he gazed beyond her out of the window. "Let's say excessive mutual curiosity and the . . . curse of being different from the herd." He sprang to his feet and stretched a hand in her direction. "Come, we must be away or my ship will miss the tide and I will have given my rivals something to be happy about. She is on charter to a jute manufacturer who wants her in Dundee on time or he will cancel my contract."

  Olivia rose too but quickly detached her hand from his. Even the trivial physical contact had accelerated her pulse in a manner that was unsettling. She bent down and quickly laced up her riding boots. "Thank you for breakfast. I enjoyed it very much."

  "Perhaps you might have enjoyed it more had your thoughts not been elsewhere!"

  Even after so brief an acquaintanceship—if it could even be called that!—he had learned to pin-point her passing contemplations with an accuracy that dismayed Olivia. "They were as much here as I was," she corrected sharply. "I tasted and enjoyed every morsel. You must extend my thanks and appreciation to . . . Sujata."

  "She does not expect to be thanked. It is her pleasure." He turned and strode impatiently out of the room.

  Olivia followed but more slowly. Through a perfect arch, one of many that lined the verandah, she observed the tall, erect figure call for their horses. How old was he? Thirty-five? Forty-five? A hundred and five! It was impossible to tell. His body, lithe, healthy with an abundance of energy, gave indication of a youthful prime, of a male at the peak of his manhood. But it was what Olivia had glimpsed lurking in his eyes, or behind them, that puzzled her. Dark, looming shadows barely concealed a world weariness that gave an odd impression of agelessness, as if he had lived long beyond his years. It was yet another of the maddening contradictions in which Jai Raventhorne abounded.

  In the court-yard together with Olivia's own mare, Jasmine, awaited a midnight at least sixteen hands tall with fiery red eyes and a fiercely swishing tail. As Olivia approached with caution, he snorted and his nostrils flared. Knowing horses well, she stood rapt with admiration, for he was an extraordinarily perfect specimen of horseflesh. Glaring at her, he kicked his back legs and sent the attendants skittering. Olivia laughed. "I see that he too is trained to guard you with his life!"

  "Since my head is greatly in demand, yes!" Raventhorne fondled the midnight's forehead with surprising gentleness and, pulling down his head, whispered something in his ear. The animal seemed to listen intently, eyes barely moving. Then he neighed softly, pawed the ground and rubbed his nose in the palm of his master's hand. There were men Olivia had known in her own country, where a horse was more often than not a meal ticket, who could establish almost human rapport with their steeds. Raventhorne obviously was one of those. The horse trusted him implicitly.

  "What did you say to him?" Olivia asked curiously.

  He shook his head. "Secrets between a man and his horse are sacred. It is an impertinence even to ask." He broke off two lumps of jaggery from a large piece that one of his attendants presented and fed one each to the two horses. "His name is Shaitan, which means devil. Sometimes he can be a vicious brute, perhaps to justify the reputation that name gives him."

  "Very much in the manner of his master, no doubt!"

  Raventhorne looked nonplussed at Olivia's tart observation but then flung back his head and roared. "No doubt at all, I assure you!" He continued to laugh as a Nepali arrived leading a third horse, a dun with white stockings. "My man Bahadur will follow you home from a discreet distance."

  Olivia's protest was almost a reflex. "Oh, that will not be necessary—"

  "It will be necessary!" He interrupted her with a decisiveness that called for instant obedience. "I know that you are American and given to postures of defiance and independence, but please humour my whim, if only so that I can prove I am not entirely without social refinements."

  Without another word Olivia got onto the box and mounted Jasmine. Raventhorne ensured that she was well settled in her saddle before vaulting into his own. At the moment of parting the question trembling on Olivia's lips could not be restrained. "In return for your many impertinences, will you allow me one more?"

  A wariness settled over his face. "Ask."

  "At least partially, you yourself are European," she said meeting his suspicious eyes steadily. "Is it not hypocrisy to profess to hate those to whom you too belong in part?"

  She wondered if he would answer a
t all, for instantly his jaw cemented. But then he did. "It is because I do belong to them partially that I have the right to hate them. And the reason?" The pewter eyes were icy. "In America livestock carries its brand on its haunches; in India the Englishman's bastard is branded forever by his face."

  He dug his spurs into Shaitan's sides and at the same instant the huge black gates swung open soundlessly. Like a gigantic wind machine the midnight charged forward to blow a storm around him. For a second, man and beast stood poised at the gate. Then, crouching low in the saddle Raventhorne nudged his horse again and in a burst of speed vanished into the thoroughfare. He did not look back at her. But then Olivia knew from past experience that he wouldn't.

  Shaken by the extreme bitterness of his answer, she sat for a moment, unmoving. Then, remembering the open gates and the waiting Bahadur, she urged Jasmine forward. Before the black gates finally closed behind her, Olivia turned for a last look at the house and caught a flash of yellow in an upstairs balcony. It was Sujata watching her leave.

  Whether or not it is possible for human beings to define in their minds moments of destiny, Olivia did not know. But what she did know was that her second unsolicited encounter with Jai Raventhorne was like a signpost confirming a direction that confounded her. She was fascinated and baffled by this strange conundrum of a man, yes; but she was not yet sure that she even liked him! He was hard, opinionated, arrogant, twisted with hate and cynicism. He believed in adventurism, thought nothing of flaunting his moral turpitude before come who may and had no scruples about achieving his ends with whatever dubious means happened to be available at the moment. Arvind Singh had professed profound admiration for Jai Raventhorne as a man of rare courage. In Olivia's view, however, there was nothing especially admirable about a man merely because he was foolhardy enough to challenge the gods themselves.