Fire on the Wind

by Olivia Drake

Despite her loathing of gossip, Sarah sat stiff and alert, her fingers gripping the teak arms of the chair.

  “Well...if you ladies insist upon knowing,” Mrs. Craven said. “Lord Damien left home even before the funeral. Some say Her Grace forced him out.” A self-important gleam in her eyes, she regarded her audience. “You see, people whispered that the duchess had accused him of murdering his own father.”

  Chapter 3

  Sarah escaped into the rear garden, the tension inside her dissolving under the spell of the exotic night. Stars spangled the black velvet sky, and a half-moon shimmered silvery light over the pathways, leaving the perimeter of the compound in dense shadow. The clove scent of the few remaining geraniums wafted to her, along with fuchsia and bougainvillea, though the more tender plants had already withered from the scorching daytime heat. Lights winked inside the row of huts where the servants lived. From the distant bazaar floated the nasal chanting and rhythmic drumming of the natives.

  Her petticoats whispering, she walked slowly along the path of beaten earth. A gecko lizard chirruped somewhere nearby. Beyond the hedge of plumbago marking the front yard, the gatekeeper’s lantern glimmered like a fallen star. The clink of glasses and the tinkle of laughter emanated from the yellow-lit windows of the bungalow, where the men had rejoined the women.

  Sarah slapped at a whining mosquito as her mind strayed to the after-dinner gossip. Could Damien Coleridge truly be guilty of patricide?

  The notion seemed monstrous. Yet she knew so little about him. Despite the warmth of the night, a chill iced her skin.

  The sudden hollow scrape of footsteps descended from the veranda. She whirled. Moonlight gleamed over a man’s fair hair, his regular features, his squared shoulders.

  “Reginald,” she breathed, and started toward him.

  Meeting her halfway along the path, he gathered her hands in his. “Why, you’re shivering. Come, my pet. Tell me what’s disturbing you.” He guided her onto a wrought-iron bench, then sat beside her.

  Somehow she was loath to bring Damien Coleridge’s name into the evening. “I was reflecting on our dinner discussion,” she lied. “Do you really suppose there’ll be an uprising?”

  “Of course not. You heard the commander. Rumors of revolt have been circulating for years. It’s just a lot of idle talk.”

  “But what if the new rifle cartridges push the sepoys to mutiny? The issue has certainly united the Hindus and Mohammedans in one cause. Look at the men who went to jail.”

  “And when they’re sentenced, it’ll act as a deterrent to further revolts.” His mouth formed an indulgent grin. “I commend your sympathetic nature, dear Sarah, but you’re entirely too lovely a lady to bother yourself with military matters.

  His patronizing attitude irked her. But it’s unfair to ask a man to betray his religious—”

  He touched a cool finger over her lips. “Please leave the problem of the natives to our commander. You’ve developed such a habit of fretting that perhaps I shall have to start calling you I. M. Vexed.”

  Her hands tensed around the soft muslin of her skirt. Her pulse surged in panic. Had Reginald guessed her secret identity?

  In the moonlight the corners of his eyes were crinkled, and his features held a familiar teasing humor. The rigidity of her muscles ebbed. “If I am vexed,” she bantered back, “you are impertinent.”

  Laughing, he said, “I don’t mean to be, my pet, not tonight.” His voice lowered to a murmur that was almost lost to the chirp of crickets. “I’d half hoped that what brought about this meeting was your lamenting the few weeks we have left before you and your aunt depart for Simla. It seems a dreary prospect, these hot summer months ahead, the ladies off in the mountains. I’ll miss you.”

  Her heart softened. “As I’ll miss you, Reginald.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll accept a token to remember me by.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew forth something and placed it in her hand.

  The cool weight of gold tickled her palm. “A locket?” she said, tilting her head at him.

  “Open it.”

  She carefully unsnapped the clasp. In the silver moonglow lay an oval miniature of Reginald, stiff-shouldered and solemn-faced.

  “Perhaps it’s a bit impertinent of me,” he said, flashing her a sheepish smile, “but I didn’t want you to go off and forget me.”

  Touched by the gift, she said, “I wouldn’t have forgotten you, Reginald. That’s why I wanted to see you alone.” Hesitating, she bit her lip against an unforeseen attack of cowardice. “You see, I...”

  “Yes?”

  His blond eyebrows lifted in an endearing expression. Her fingers closed tightly around the locket. In a rush, she said, “I wondered if your offer of marriage was still open.”

  He grasped her hand. “What of your aunt? You’ve always been so devoted to her, especially given her...ill health.” He made a delicate reference to Aunt Violet’s most recent miscarriage.

  “You yourself said she’s quite recovered,” Sarah reminded him. “It’s high time I got on with my own life.”

  “Of course, my pet. Every woman wants her own house, her own children. You’ve been an unpaid companion to your aunt long enough to repay any debt you owe her.”

  Relief filled her. “You’ve been so understanding.”

  “My dearest Sarah, nothing could make me happier than to have you as my wife.” Lifting her hand, he brushed a warm kiss across the back. “Shall we set a date for the autumn?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  “I must wait for the right moment to approach your uncle, then, and ask for your hand. I know how much your aunt values you, so perhaps it’s best you gently prepare her first.”

  Didn’t he want to shout his elation to the heavens?

  The thought flustered Sarah. He was being considerate, she told herself. His loving concern washed away her doubts and submerged her in a weakening tide of tenderness. How she needed his affection, his regard! Overwhelmed by impulse, she swayed toward him, touching her lips to the smooth warmth of his mouth.

  His arms moved around her, clasping her tightly. For a moment he returned her kiss with all the tender fire of a man in love. Her heart beat faster as she rejoiced in a sensation of perfect security and reveled in the wonder of her first real kiss.

  Abruptly he drew away, frowning. “You’re ever a surprise, Sarah,” he said, sounding half breathless, half chiding. “I shouldn’t wish your aunt or uncle to discover us like this.”

  “But...don’t you want to kiss me?”

  Laughing, he patted her hand. “What a question for a pretty girl to ask a gentleman! Surely you know as well as I that we must restrain our...ah...urges for now.” He stood and offered her his hand. “We’d best go back inside.”

  Somehow she couldn’t face the airless bungalow, the idle chatter. She wanted to bask in the moment that promised to change her life, and savor the lingering warmth of his kiss. “You go on. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  He nodded, then strode back into the house. From one of the neighboring yards came the soft strains of a sitar and the haunting melody of an Indian folk song. Only half listening, Sarah tried to sort through her mixed emotions. Why did she feel a nagging disappointment, a nebulous desire for something more, as if she’d gone to the stars but returned empty-handed? For mercy’s sake, she ought to be riding the clouds!

  But Reginald hadn’t spoken of love, a voice inside her whispered. And he could so easily draw away from her...

  She shook her head impatiently. She’d agreed to a worthy match, all a woman of her station could hope for. Sudden understanding lightened her spirits. Surely the emotion darkening her heart was only a bride’s nervousness over the private side of marriage, the side a lady must not dwell upon. But Reginald would treat her with consideration and respect.

  Respect. A cold fist closed around her happiness. Respect and honesty went hand in hand. She should have told him of her nom de plume. A woman of honor wouldn’t withhol
d a part of her life from her intended husband.

  And if he forbade her to editorialize about injustice?

  Drawing a deep breath of scented night air, she fastened the locket around her neck. She would ease him into understanding by cautiously expressing her views. She would bring him around to her way of thinking. Then, at a judicious time before the wedding, she would reveal the truth. He’d probably applaud her.

  Feeling better, Sarah rose from the bench. Wistfully she thought of their kiss, and a soft sigh of longing escaped her. On their wedding night Reginald would sweep her off her feet—

  A tiny hissing scratch emanated from beyond the veranda.

  Startled, she sought the source. Alongside the shadowed bungalow, in the gloom beneath a peepul tree, she spied the glow of a match and the black outline of a tall man. The flame lifted, illuminating his harshly handsome face as he lit a cheroot.

  Damien Coleridge!

  Had he witnessed her meeting with Reginald?

  Indignant heat scorched her cheeks. She marched across several yards of dull grass, the dry blades rustling beneath her slippers, and stopped in front of him. “Just how long have you been standing there?” she demanded.

  Holding the match high, he studied her as the flame licked slowly down the stick to his scarred fingers. Only then did he casually shake out the match. Cigar smoke and a trace of sulfur scented the air. Feringhi devil...

  Had he committed patricide?

  She braced herself against another chill. “I asked you a question. You might have the decency to answer, sir. Or shall I say ‘my lord’?”

  “Damien will do.” He paused, his expression obscured by darkness. “You might give me the benefit of the doubt, Miss Faulkner. Judging from the disapproving look on your face, you’ve already tried and found me guilty.”

  “You were listening to a private conversation.”

  “I wonder what my sentence will be. A dose of your priggish opinions? Ostracism from your drawing room? Or perhaps you won’t let me dance at your wedding.” He sounded amused, rather than apologetic. “Besides, my pet, I didn’t intentionally eavesdrop.”

  His mocking use of Reginald’s endearment made her skin burn. “A gentleman would have made his presence known.”

  “Don’t ever mistake me for a gentleman. I wouldn’t have missed that touching scene for the world. I must say, you two make a handsome couple. May I be the first to congratulate you?”

  “Thank you,” she forced herself to reply.

  Drawing on his cheroot, he leaned against the outside of the veranda. “It’s a shame dear Reggie refuses to listen to your views on India.”

  “He’s a very intelligent gentleman. He’ll come around.”

  “Will he? The British sahibs are too caught up in their own superiority to imagine the lowly natives daring to rise against them. Nothing you say will give vision to their blindness.”

  “I have more faith in Dr. Pemberton-Sykes’s judgment.”

  “Then perhaps you’re just as blind as he is.”

  His cynicism raised her hackles, when she ought to be glad that he, at least, saw the Indians as people deserving of respect. What was it about Damien Coleridge that aroused this instinctive dislike, this turbulence inside her? It was more than his illicit relationship with Shivina. It must be the charge of murder.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she said stiffly. “You claim to value the Hindu people, yet you show little enough regard for Shivina. Where is she tonight?”

  “She’s safe. As she wouldn’t have been here.” He waved the cigar toward the bungalow. “Those old biddies in there would have roasted her alive. Even if suttee is illegal.”

  Sarah knew he was right, yet a devil’s impulse pushed her on. “So you left her alone again. What if the fakir comes back?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because he’s on the road to Cawnpore.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “I can, indeed.”

  The hard edge of his statement sliced her with surprise. Had he gone after the fakir and threatened him? She tried to read Damien’s expression; the gloom hid all but the slash of strong cheekbones and the glow of his cigar.

  “What did you do to him?” she asked.

  “Do?” He chuckled. “I instigated a rumor about Nana Sahib calling a secret meeting of holy men. The fakir is on his way there now.

  “How clever,” she murmured.

  “Thank you.”

  Dhondu Pant, better known as Nana Sahib, was the adopted son of a maharaja who had been dethroned by the British and granted a pension in exchange for his dominions. Upon his father’s death the pension had ceased, and Nana Sahib vowed to regain the money. He was one of many Indian princes who carried a grudge against the English.

  “What will happen when the fakir discovers the truth?” she asked. “What if he returns?”

  “Let him. I’ll be moving on before long.”

  “With or without Shivina?”

  A cricket chirped over the dry rustle of peepul leaves. Damien blew a smoke ring. “You disappoint me, Miss Faulkner. Most Englishwomen are more devious at ferreting out information.”

  Anxiety for her newfound friend overrode Sarah’s scruples. “I’d rather be candid than cautious. I don’t wish to see Shivina left to beg for a living, like the women in the bazaar. She needs a husband to protect her.”

  “What makes you so certain I intend to abandon her?”

  “Why else would you deprive an innocent baby of his father’s name? Unless you’re already married.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  A stab of grim pleasure caught her unawares. “Then perhaps you’re ashamed for your noble family back in England to learn of your half-caste child.”

  He paused in the act of carrying the cigar to his mouth. Despite the shadows, she sensed a sudden violence of emotion in him, and knew uneasily that she’d ventured into forbidden terrain. Abruptly he ground out the cigar beneath his heel.

  “I’ll leave marriage to the romantic dreamers like yourself. What a dull place this world would be if we were all as civilized as you and your darling Reggie.”

  She bristled. “Reginald and I treat each other with respect and love.”

  “Respect? Domination is more the word. Love? He won’t even allow you to express affection.”

  Stung by his derisive reference to the unfulfilled kiss, she snapped, “You undoubtedly would have taken everything you wanted without bothering with clergy. And without a care for ruining my reputation.”

  Damien Coleridge stepped into the moonlight and stopped mere inches away. He reached out and caressed her beneath the chin. The feel of his sleek scars sent a shiver over her skin. “Judging by your passionate display on that garden bench, you undoubtedly would have loved it, Miss Faulkner.”

  Fire swept over her, a fire sparked by fury and indignation, a fire that burned away her retort. The lush fragrance of jasmine perfumed the hot dark air. The evening was so still she could hear the soft melody of the neighbor’s sitar, the quiet rasp of Damien’s breathing, the beat of blood in her ears. She couldn’t move from his warm fingers. She couldn’t tear her gaze from him, from his moon-silvered black hair, his hard brown eyes and clean-shaven face. The blaze within her flared into a mind-drugging urge. The urge to draw his head down to hers, to slide her fingers into his hair, to taste the smoothness of his lips, to feel his body pressed against hers...

  A burst of laughter from the bungalow pierced the spell. A cold wave of horror washed over Sarah, and she took an instinctive step backward. How could she feel drawn to Shivina’s lover? How could she forget her own commitment to Reginald?

  Her fingers closed around the locket at her throat. “If you’re done with insults,” she said in a voice steadier than her heartbeat, “I must ask you to leave.”

  Damien gave a humorless laugh. “Spoken like a true lady. Ah, well, my pet, we must all have our dark and
secret desires.” He started toward the front yard, then swung back, his head cocked in a watchful attitude. “By the way, I came out here to apologize. I leaped to the wrong conclusion this morning. Thank you for helping Shivina.”

  He turned and strode off into the night, and a moment later she heard the deep murmur of his voice and the indistinct reply of the gatekeeper.

  Sarah slumped against the veranda rail. So Damien Coleridge was noble enough to admit a mistake, civilized enough to express gratitude. Yet one gentlemanly gesture couldn’t justify her moment of scandalous longing.

  Shame and bewilderment engulfed her in a murky tide. No respectable lady would think—even for an instant—of kissing a near stranger. A stranger she didn’t even like. Only an immoral hussy would feel desire for an insolent rogue.

  Shaken, she turned her flushed cheek to the cool rail and tried to fathom the depth of her response. We must all have our dark and secret desires. Yes, she had a hidden side, her identity as I. M. Vexed and her hunger for adventure. She didn’t, as Damien implied, conceal a passion that any man could arouse, even a man who scorned her moral code. His abrasive manner must have shocked her into a false reaction, that was all. She loved Reginald—dear, kind, honorable Reginald.

  Yet for a long time afterward she gazed into the shadows of the garden and wondered about the secrets Damien Coleridge harbored.

  “A visitor, missy-sahib.”

  Sarah finished recording a sum in the stores book, then looked up to see Patel hovering in the doorway of the small pantry. Sunshine outlined his slim, robed figure, and he glanced behind him, then looked beseechingly at her. From his aura of nervousness, she guessed this was no ordinary visitor.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “Come, you see.” He motioned dismissingly to Hamil, the cook, who squatted before the open cupboard. “You finish later.”

  Hamil contorted his moon face into a scowl. “I will anger the memsahib,” he said in melodic Hindi. “She will scold if the rice pudding is not ready for dinner.”

  “By Krishna’s benevolence, how long does it take to boil rice?” Patel retorted. “If you would but work as many hours as you sleep upon your charpoy—”