'A young man such as you should not look at these statues,' Mary linked her arm with that of Jack, 'unless he wishes to see.'
'I am always surprised how open Indian people are about such matters.' Jack felt a twinge of embarrassment at Mary's casual acceptance of the explicit images.
Mary smiled. 'Despite being brought up in a missionary school, I am always surprised how closed British people are about such matters.' She squeezed his arm. 'Come on Jack, you and I are both here because our parents made love, and the same goes for everybody else.'
'Yes, but there's no need to show such things,' Jack said.
'Why not?' Mary laughed again. 'Is it such a big secret that most of us need and desire love, physical as well as emotional?'
'No, of course not.' Jack watched as Mary lit a small diya lantern and placed it on a handy shelf. Yellow light pooled around them, illuminating the carvings, so they seemed almost alive.
'Are they not interesting?' Mary's fingertips traced the outline of a plump woman, following her curves with relish. 'Look at her, waiting to receive him, look at her anticipation, Jack. Is she not attractive?'
'Yes, she is, I suppose.' Jack agreed as Mary teased him, cupping a stone breast in her hand.
'And is this fellow here not impressively masculine?' Mary allowed her hand to drift to the woman's partner, a handsome young man evidently ready for the act of love. 'Don't they look happy there?'
'They do.' Jack couldn't hide his discomfort as Mary's hand stroked the man.
'Jack,' Mary said. 'Why are Englishmen such cold fish?'
'Are we?'
'Yes,' Mary said. 'I was taught, again and again, to hide my emotions, not to cry, to be phlegmatic like a true Englishwoman. You know that I am not a true Englishwoman, Jack. I am half-Indian. I am sure that English women share my passions and I think that Englishmen do as well, underneath that chilling exterior.'
'Do I have a chilling exterior?' Jack asked.
'Yes, sometimes,' Mary said. 'Not always. At present, you look embarrassed, bemused and lost. Here, let me help you.' Reaching over, she kissed him on the cheek. 'There, Captain Jack. Is that not better?'
'What are you doing?' Jack touched his cheek. 'I have a unit of men to command.'
'Lieutenant Elliot is more than capable of organising them, Captain Jack, and I am seducing you. Or did you believe I brought you here to admire the artwork?'
'Mary!' Jack said.
She stepped back. 'Jack Baird Windrush,' she said sternly. 'Are you rejecting me?'
'Heaven forbid,' he said.
'That is just as well for you, Captain Jack.' Mary stepped forward again, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him soundly. 'There now, that was a proper kiss for you.' Suddenly Jack allowed his growing desire to triumph. Hang duty, Mary is right; Elliot and Bryce are more than capable of looking after the men, and O'Neill and Greaves are there if required. I am here, with Mary, we have survived a whole raft of dangers, and God only knows when we will get another chance to be alone together. Indeed, either of us might catch a fever and die tomorrow, or the rebels could kill us. India may be a place of death, but it's also a place of vivacious life and love.
'Do you call that a proper kiss?' He looked into her brown eyes. 'Try this.'
Her lips parted beneath his, their tongues intertwined, and Jack eased his hands around her, caressing her back and smoothing downward to the plump swell of her bottom. He withdrew for breath, half expecting her to protest. Instead, she pressed against him, cupping his buttocks in both hands.
Before Jack realised what had happened, they were on the ground, using soft foliage as a bed as they slipped off their clothes.
'The men?' Mary asked once.
'They won't come in here.' Jack was no longer concerned about the men. Elliot would have them under control.
'Jack,' Mary whispered in his ear. 'I've only done this once before. Remember that time?'
Jack paused as the memories flooded back. 'I'll never forget. You're doing very well, again,' he said. 'Are you sure you wish—'
'Oh, Heavens, Jack! You know I do.'
The lantern cast their shadows across the carved couples, showing the living reality and a continuity of human desire in that chamber dedicated to love. There was no sound except their deep breathing and the soft tinkle of the spring outside. They could have been alone in the world, separate from the turmoil and horror of the war that still tore India apart. Nothing mattered but each other, and then nothing mattered at all. Jack rolled away and looked at Mary, as she lay naked and with her breasts softly undulating with each breath. 'You're beautiful,' he said.
She opened her eyes. 'We needed that,' she said.
'Did you do that because we needed it?' Jack asked.
There was a short pause before Mary replied. 'No.' She shook her head. 'No, I did that,' she emphasised the last word, 'because I wanted it.' She held his eyes for a long moment. 'I wanted you.'
'You got me,' Jack said.
'You're covered with scars.' Reaching forward, Mary touched the barely-healed white ridge that ran across his ribs. 'What was that?'
'That was in Lucknow,' Jack said. 'Bayonet or sword, I never knew which.'
'And that?' She touched the raised scar on his thigh.
'A pointed stake in Burma.'
'And this?' She touched a circular white mark on his arm.
'A Burmese decoit chewed me.' Jack didn't explain further.
'And this one?'
'Crimea.' Jack tired of the game and touched her face. 'Where do we go from here, Mary?'
'You go off to find some mythical treasure,' Mary said, 'and I either go with you or stay here with Elliot.'
Jack briefly wondered which would be safer for her. Should he take Mary on a long march through India, or leave her in this isolated garrison knowing that the enemy was only a few miles away? 'That's not what I meant.'
'What did you mean?' Mary's face was full of innocence.
'I mean, where do we go from here – you and I.' Jack hesitated for a moment. 'Us.'
Mary's head jerked up at the last word. 'Is there an us, Jack? Or are we just using each other because of this terrible war.'
Jack realised that although Mary was naked and lying within a few inches of him, he was concentrating on her face and her words rather than on her body. She meant more to him than merely a few moments pleasurable relief. Was there an us? Could there be an us? Did he wish an us? Alternatively, was Elliot correct and would any relationship with Mary, beyond the mere physical, wreck his military career?
'Would you like there to be an us?' Jack temporised by handing the question and the responsibility back to Mary.
'It's not my place to decide,' Mary replied at once. 'You know the difficulties that marrying a Eurasian would bring to you if it's marriage that you're thinking of. Or rather, if it is marriage of which you are thinking.' She smiled. 'There's my missionary school upbringing coming to the fore, Captain Jack.'
There had been no reason to ask the question. Mary lying there naked provided all the proof required that she cared for him. She was not the sort of woman to invite such intimacy with a mere acquaintance.
'No,' Jack said. 'You're right.' He looked around at the no-longer shocking carvings. 'I wonder how many people have come here to make love.'
'Hundreds probably, over the years,' Mary said. 'Perhaps even thousands.'
Jack had a sudden recollection of something his mother had said. 'My mother and father met in this temple,' he said. 'I wonder if they were in this chamber.' He had hardly known his true mother while his few memories of his father were of a loud, confident man. Yes, he could believe that they'd met in here, surrounded by images of long-gone lovers. It was something that would appeal to his mother's romantic side. His father? He would probably have found it quite amusing, perhaps even stimulating.
'Continuity,' Mary said. 'That's nice.' Reaching forward, she took hold of his hand. 'I'm not trying to put pressure on you, Jack. I know I a
m only a Eurasian, a chee-chee, a half-caste, a teen pau rather than a pukka British woman. I am country-born and country-bred. I didn't entice you here to force the issue, Jack.'
'The thought never entered my head,' Jack said truthfully. 'Anyway, I am country-born as well, not four miles from this temple.'
'Nor do I wish to be thought of as your bit of khyfer.'
'My bit of skirt?' Jack smiled. 'That's hardly the language an officer would use, Mary, or his lady.' He ran his hand down the length of her body, from her throat to her knees, enjoying the sensation.
'I'm yours, Jack,' Mary said simply. 'If you want me.' She took hold of his hand and pressed it into her groin. 'I want you, Captain Jack and I want to know you want me.'
For a brief, betraying moment, Jack wondered if Helen Maxwell, or other British women, would be as forward once they disposed of the outer veneer. He pushed the thought away. Helen had no place in his mind and certainly no place in this enchanted chamber. This place belonged to Mary and him, and no other, however many couples had been here before, and however many would be here in the future. They didn't matter. Only the present mattered, only what was happening between him and Mary at this moment.
'I want you,' Jack said.
Mary's smile was somehow wistful. She spread her arms. 'Then come and get me, Captain Jack.'
Chapter Sixteen
As Jack inspected his ten-man patrol, he wondered how many departures he'd endured. How often had he marched out of an encampment or cantonment with the knowledge that he might never return, that he could leave his bones in some foreign place, the cold uplands of Inkerman, the fever-jungles of Burma or the baking plains of India? Jack thought this time felt worse, perhaps because he was leaving behind somebody he knew cared for him. He patted his pocket, with the emergency medical bag that had been Mary's parting gift.
'You know how you always hurt yourself,' she had said and kissed him. 'Take care, Captain Jack.'
Do your duty. The stern words brought Jack back to the present.
'All set, O'Neill?' Jack had selected his men with care. As well as Riley and Logan, he was taking Batoor, Coleman and Thorpe, MacKinnon and Mahoney, Whitelam and Armstrong. Jack had chosen Coleman and Thorpe for their long experience, while Whitelam had a poacher's instincts, Mahoney was a quiet, steady Irishman and MacKinnon had some inner gifts that Jack didn't understand but guessed could be valuable. Armstrong was a thoroughly unpleasant man whom Jack personally disliked, yet he valued him as an efficient fighting man.
'All set, sir.' O'Neill threw a smart salute.
'Shabash, sergeant.' Jack glanced back at the temple. He would never forget this place with its special chamber and sweet memories. Mary was standing in the shade of Hanuman's pillar, trying to catch his eye. Jack lifted a hand in salute, still in an inner turmoil. Was their relationship only a brief episode in his life of campaigning and blood-letting?
He couldn't say.
Mary's gaze remained on him as he turned away. He knew she would watch as long as he was in sight, and probably a lot longer than that. He steeled himself. He had his duty to do, and Mary would have to wait.
He didn't want to leave her.
'We march fast and hard,' Jack said. 'We stop for nobody and nothing. We ignore trouble and don't get involved.'
The men looked at him, bitter eyes in hard sun-browned faces, Enfields held casually in calloused hands, uniforms a dozen shades of khaki and bayonets, buttons and all things metal browned to ensure they didn't reflect the sun.
'Bring double water bottles.' Jack had requisitioned a camel and loaded the panniers with mussocks – leather water bags – and ammunition. 'You look after the water,' he told the uncomprehending driver, 'and don't let me down.'
'Batoor,' Jack said, 'you watch this fellow. If he tries to run or does anything except what I tell him, you cut his throat.'
Batoor grinned and touched the Khyber knife with which he had replaced his tulwar. 'Yes, Captain Windrush.'
'We'll need transport on the return.' Riley sounded surly, unhappy to lose his prize.
I will have to watch him, and Logan. Logan lived by loyalty to the regiment and to his friends, of which Riley was the foremost. If Riley decided that Jack's throat should be cut, Logan would wield the blade – not out of any dislike of Jack, but through loyalty to Riley.
'We'll deal with that when we need it.' Jack decided he'd come too far to have scruples. If he needed more transport than one camel, he would find it, somehow.
When Jack had lived in his bungalow in the Gondabad cantonment, back in the far-off days of peace, there had been measures to cope with the hot season. The servants had placed hurdles of dried straw – khas-khas tatties – against the verandah and the open doors and had thrown water on the straw. This procedure cooled the air that entered the house, and incidentally, created a sickening smell of mildew. In common with other officers, Jack would sleep naked on his charpoy, with a mosquito net above and a table at his side complete with a brass bowl of water and a revolver. On some nights, he would sleep outdoors on the lawn, naked under his mosquito net.
Out here on the plains, he couldn't take such precautions, and from the moment the sun cracked over the horizon, the heat was intolerable and the glare so intense, it was impossible to move with eyes fully open.
'Keep moving!' Jack pushed the 113th on, following the road, with the heat rising from the ground beneath, burning the soles of their feet and coming up the legs of their trousers in unbelievable waves. The hot-weather birds were calling, with koels and brain fever birds, the latter with a rising call that ended in an irregular high pitch. 'I don't mind these birds so much,' Coleman said. 'It's the tin-pot bird that I hate. It goes hammer-hammer-hammer all the bloody time. Hammer-hammer-bloody-hammer.'
'We should shoot the bugger,' Thorpe said. 'It'll be working for the pandies.'
'If it was only one, I wouldn't mind,' Coleman said, 'but they're everywhere.'
'It's only a bird,' Armstrong said.
They marched on, avoiding settlements wherever possible, covering the ground twice as fast as Havelock's column had managed. Jack drove them hard, knowing their capabilities as well as their weaknesses. He posted sentries when they halted and ignored the terrifying howling of jackals. Twice they heard outbreaks of distant shooting, and each time Jack altered direction to avoid the trouble.
'We're British soldiers,' Logan said. 'We should go and see what's happening.'
'We've more important things to do,' Riley told him. 'Like giving away our treasure.'
Jack inched closer to the two men, trying to hear their conversation and gauge Riley's intentions. Logan saw him, grunted something to Riley and they marched in silence except for the monotonous drumbeat of boots on the pukka road.
'These jackals are like banshees,' Mahoney said. 'But quieter.'
'Have you ever heard a banshee?' MacKinnon asked. 'I mean a real one, back in Ireland?'
'No,' Mahoney said. 'I never have. I heard the old people talking about them though.'
MacKinnon nodded slowly. 'We don't have them in Skye,' he said. 'We have other things, especially up in the Cuillin Mountains.'
Mahoney looked over to MacKinnon. 'I've heard of Skye. It's a weird place for those with the power to understand.' He waited for a second as their boots hammered on the ground. 'You've got the power, haven't you?'
Jack moved fractionally closer, wondering what MacKinnon's answer might be until O'Neill interrupted the conversation.
'Sir!' O'Neill pointed north. They were on a track in a level plain, with small topes of trees and wide areas of grassland. 'Something is moving out there.'
Jack levelled his binoculars. 'The grass is certainly moving,' he said.
'Rebels? Dacoits?' O'Neill ran a hand along the barrel of his rifle.
'Something's coming this way,' Jack said. 'And it's coming fast.' He raised his voice. 'Form square lads! There's something or someone coming from the north.'
'There are only eleven of us,
' Armstrong said. 'How can we form a square?'
'Follow orders, you grousing bastard!' O'Neill shoved him into place.
'Here it comes,' O'Neill said as the grass parted.
'It's only a dog!' Thorpe said. 'A little mangy dog.'
'Shoot it,' Jack ordered. 'Open fire!'
Veteran soldiers who had fought in a dozen battles and could uncaringly shoot at Burmese or mutineers or Russians, hesitated when ordered to fire at an animal. 'It's only a dog,' MacKinnon said.
As O'Neill lifted his Enfield to fire, Logan shifted sideways and nudged his elbow, sending the sergeant's shot wide.
'Oh, sorry, Sergeant!' Logan said.
'You bloody idiot!' Jack grabbed Logan's rifle, shoved him aside and aimed. The dog was running toward them, its mouth open and its course undeviating. Jack kept the dog in his sights, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He measured the distance, waiting until he knew he could not miss. A bead of sweat formed on his right eyebrow, hovered for a second and dropped. Jack squeezed the trigger.
The dog jerked backwards as the bullet made contact. Its head exploded in a shower of blood and bones.
'You've killed it!' Logan said.
Jack handed back the rifle. 'That dog could have killed at least one of us.'
'It was only a dog.' Logan automatically reloaded his rifle.
'Running like that, it was rabid,' Jack said. 'It only had to lick one of us to give us rabies. Have you ever thought about rabies, Logan?'
'No, sir.'
'You'll go mad, Logan, and froth at the mouth. You'll be scared of water, and you'll howl. You've heard the jackals howling at night. You'll sound the same, before you convulse and bend backwards until you break your spine and die.'
'Yes, sir.'
'And the next time you disobey my order or disrupt my sergeant when he's about to shoot, I won't save your life, Logan. I'll leave you for a rabid dog, or Sergeant O'Neill – whichever is most dangerous.'
'That would be me, Logan. That would be me,' O'Neill said quietly. 'When we get back to camp, I will deal with you.'
'Yes, sergeant. I thought—'
'You thought?' O'Neill shook his head. 'You're a soldier, Logan; you're paid to fight, not to think!'
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