by Olivia Drake
“I have that problem taken care of.”
“How? Did you find another ayah?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Damien snatched up the sack and paced to the door. “Right now we need to go.”
The notion of setting out on a long trek with only him and the baby roused her resistance. She followed him to the corridor and whispered, “I never agreed to travel alone with you.”
He rocked on the balls of his feet. “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m paying you to watch my son. I’m hardly interested in stealing your cherished virginity.”
Their earlier sense of camaraderie withered. “That isn’t what I object to. You should have consulted me when you concocted your plan—”
“Look, Miss Priss, if it sets your old maid’s heart at ease, Jawahir and the women will join us in a few days, once we’re safely away in the mountains.”
His hard brown eyes swung away to scan the corridor. How typical that she’d had to drag the truth out of him. Satisfied, she said primly, “Thank you.”
She quickly fastened Kit in a sling at her waist.
Lakshmi draped another veil over Sarah’s head and then embraced her. Madakka leaned down and tearfully kissed the baby. The girls gathered around, eyes wide and wistful in dusky faces. Jawahir said solemnly, “May Vishnu guide you.”
As Sarah and Damien slipped out a back door, an intense feeling of sorrow caught at her. How swiftly she’d grown to love these warmhearted people who had put their own lives in jeopardy in order to offer aid. Though her resources were few, she vowed to find some way to repay them—perhaps by teaching them to read and write.
The thought cheered her. She would have their companionship until the mutiny died down. Certainly she could tolerate Damien’s company for a few short days.
They hastened through the back streets of Hardwar. Damien kept one hand on the revolver hidden inside his tunic. Jittery fear stalked Sarah. Her arms wrapped protectively around Kit, she glanced over her shoulder and half expected to see Lalji’s bloodthirsty face, odd-matched eyes, and shaved head.
But only pilgrims and sacred cows thronged the byways.
On the road out of town, she and Damien joined the stream of sadhus and penitents trudging northward along the bank of the Ganges. The broad and beautiful river churned and swirled its way down from the mountains. Islands thick with trees parted the swift-flowing water.
“This is the way to Rishikesh,” she murmured. “Is that where we’re going? Surely Lalji could follow us.”
“Calm your nerves. We’re heading another way.”
Casting a look around, Damien took a firm hold of her elbow and steered her to the left, onto a dirt path that ascended toward forests of pine and cedar. He walked ahead, tall and surefooted, alert and watchful. She looked down and saw that the baby was asleep, lulled by the rhythm of her steps. Damien’s vigilance eased her own wariness. He would protect her and Kit. Odd, how in that one respect she could have faith in him.
They passed an occasional sadhu deep in meditation, but after an hour they saw no one. The farther they ventured from the Ganges, the more desolate the landscape grew. Monkeys chattered from the high branches of sal trees. In the dry season before the monsoon, few wildflowers dotted the steep hillsides.
In the absence of people, Sarah drew back her veil. The balmy afternoon breeze felt delicious after the baking heat of their journey across the plains. The air dried the dampness of her hem. Through a break in the thick undergrowth she caught a panoramic view of a lush valley. They passed groves of mangoes, detoured around huge mossy boulders, and climbed on a steadily rising slope.
The path dwindled to an indistinct goat track. Despite the weeks on the road, the exertion of the upward trek made her pant. Her legs ached. How long had they been traveling? She tried to guess by the angle of the sun. Two hours perhaps. The baby might be waking soon. She watched vainly for a village, but saw only a hare bounding through the shrubbery, a yellow-throated martin winging across the blue sky, a mongoose sunning its long brown body on a flat rock.
Damien slowed his steps and let her catch up. Walking beside her, he said, “I’ve been wondering how you managed to run into Lalji. What did you do, go to the ghat looking for trouble?”
His critical tone pricked her. “Of course not. I left the shop because I needed to find a messenger to deliver a letter and the photograph to Mrs. MacMurtry—”
“To deliver what?”
Sarah met his furious gaze with regal dignity. “You heard me, Damien. The poor woman deserves to know her husband’s fate.”
“So you risked your life—mine and Kit’s as well. For God’s sake, Sarah, use sense instead of sentiment. Your messenger might have been a sepoy sympathizer.”
“He was only a destitute boy. He looked quite trustworthy, I assure you. I gave him ten rupees, and he vowed to deliver the letter himself onto the mail packet at Kurnaul.”
“Christ Almighty! Of all the bloody fool—” Damien bit off the curse. “Your messenger likely pocketed the money and tossed the letter into the nearest gutter.”
She wrestled with the uneasy possibility, then drew a deep breath. “Perhaps you have little trust in anyone, Damien, but I prefer to have faith in people. I had to make the effort.”
“Spare me the noble sermon,” he muttered. “Tell me how you met up with Lalji.”
“After I finished the letter, I thought I’d take a short walk around Hardwar—”
“Typical. You didn’t give a damn that you’d left me to explain your outrageous behavior to Keppu.”
She cast down her gaze and studied her bare toes against the mossy trail. For once, he was right to chastise her. Yet she ached to make him understand. “It was the freedom, the chance to do something on my own after acting the meek Hindu wife for weeks. I didn’t see that a few more minutes mattered, so I walked to one of the temples on the river. I had no idea Lalji was following me.”
Suppressing a shudder, she described the confrontation, the horrid moment when he’d pulled off her veil, her desperate effort to escape, and Lalji’s tumble into the river.
The slap-slap of Damien’s sandals and the far-off screech of a kite broke the silence. She risked a look at him. To her astonishment, a grin turned up the corners of his mouth, making him appear more youthful, less intimidating.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked.
“I was picturing you pushing that sadhu into the Ganges,” he said. “Good God, Sarah, that was quick. I wish I’d been there to cheer you on.”
A warm glow unfolded within her, but only for a moment. Memory chilled her. “Do you really think Lalji’s still alive?”
Damien shrugged. “It’s a possibility. The current’s strong. But if he could keep his head above water, he might survive. Somebody might have pulled him out. Even so, with any luck at all he was swept too far downstream to catch up to us.”
She looked away. Her chest felt so tight it hurt. The thought of Lalji alive frightened her. But somehow the thought of him dead at her hand troubled her as well. And she remembered the awful smack of the statue against Keppu’s skull...
“Sarah.” Damien’s low-pitched voice intruded, and his hand on her wrist drew her to a halt. “Don’t brood. It was them or us. Quite frankly, I vote in favor of us.”
Their eyes met and married in a breathless moment. The dreamy mood washed through her again, stronger this time. His gaze was a steady, tender brown beneath burnished lashes. Heat spread in her belly, unrolling its delicate fronds throughout her body. She was conscious suddenly of how isolated they were, alone for the first time in weeks, with the breeze drifting against her cheeks and the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves.
Kit stirred and squawked. Distracted, Sarah unfastened him from the sling and gently rocked him in her arms. He turned his head, his open mouth seeking her breast. His crying reach a crescendo; he waved his arms and kicked his legs. She moved him to her shoulder. He looked around and quieted, but sucked noisily on his fist.
Panicky alarm swept over her. Madakka had tended to his care and nourishment. Never had Sarah been more aware of her limited experience with infants.
“Damien, he’s hungry. How are we going to feed him?”
“Goat’s milk.”
“Goat’s milk?” Surprised dismay curled her lips, and she rubbed the flat of her palm over Kit’s small back. “You’re going to let your son drink goat’s milk?”
Damien cocked his head at her. “Is there something wrong with that? You don’t think it will upset his stomach, do you?”
He looked so anxious, she said, “I most certainly hope not. But still—”
“Good. It was Jawahir’s idea. He said he knew of motherless infants who thrived on goat’s milk.”
“But, Damien, I thought you’d hired an ayah.”
“I never said that.” He started back along the upward trail. “You drew your own conclusion. A habit, you know.”
Their truce vanished like a wisp of smoke. Sarah wanted to scream at him in frustration. Silently counting to ten, she tramped after him. “But how will Kit drink the milk? Do you have a bottle? And...something for him to suck on?” She couldn’t bring herself to say nipple.
“Yes, everything is right here.” Damien patted the sack slung over his shoulder. “Jawahir took care of that problem in the bazaar early this morning, before he escorted Lalji to the ghat.”
She jiggled Kit to keep his whimpers from escalating. Her gaze swept the hilly ridges, the stands of tall, arrow-straight sal trees. “I don’t see any goats.”
“They’re here.” He strode up the ill-defined path. “Trust me.”
She’d sooner trust a fakir who worshipped Kali, Sarah thought darkly. She derived meager satisfaction from scowling at Damien’s broad back. She must have been wrong about him caring for Kit. The blackguard was all too casual about his son’s well-being.
At the apex of a hill, they came upon a large mossy stone sprouting from a tangle of shrubs and thrusting toward the sky. It was a lingam, a phallic symbol. A blush heated her cheeks. She lowered her gaze to the withered marigolds scattering the ridged base. An unearthly melody drifted from beyond the slope.
“You see?” Damien said as he led her over the hill.
“I’ve seen quite enough,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Miss Priss. I wasn’t referring to the lingam. Look.”
Her gaze followed his pointing finger. Halfway down the grassy incline, a small herd of goats grazed. Their bleating accompanied the lilt of the music.
Like Pan in a book of myths, a wizened man squatted in their midst, playing a bamboo flute. Damien shouted a greeting. The haunting music ended abruptly. As the man leaped nimbly up, Sarah half expected to see cloven hooves instead of bare human feet.
“Burra sahib!” he shouted, waving. “Welcome back.”
Damien strode down the slope to greet him. Curious about his acquaintance with a goatherd and anxious to feed the baby, she hastened after him. The man saluted Damien with a deep salaam.
“So many months I have not seen you, sahib. I wondered if you would be returning this year.”
“I’ve brought my wife and son. Sarah, this is Vijay.”
As she greeted him, the goatherd preened a beard as bristly as a billy goat’s. “You will accept my humble hospitality, sahib?”
“We need to press on,” Damien said. “But we’d like to buy milk, and a she-goat to take with us.”
“I bring you my best nanny.”
He dashed over to a shaggy-coated female with full udders. As he milked the creature, Sarah tried to soothe Kit, who now howled from hunger. She changed his wet nappy and sang him a lullaby. Rocking him in her arms, she watched Damien get out the bottle. It was an odd-looking contraption, a glass jar with a rubber teat fitted over the top.
He filled the jar with the warm milk Vijay brought in a leather bucket. Sitting on the grass, Sarah gently touched the teat to Kit’s mouth. He spat out the nipple. She tried again. This time he sucked and choked, then turned his head away and screamed louder, his little face red with frustration.
“What’s wrong?” Damien said over the din. “Can’t you get him to eat?”
“It isn’t what he’s used to.” Her nerves on edge, she added, “You should have thought of that when you dismissed Madakka.”
Damien merely cocked an eyebrow. He studied her and the baby. “Maybe you can coax him into drinking. He’s used to nursing. Angle him to your breast.”
Before she could react, he reached down and turned the baby’s body. His scarred fingers brushed the globes of her breasts, but there was no time to protest his familiarity. Kit rooted eagerly and she stuck the nipple into his mouth. He latched on, gulping and sputtering. After a few clumsy tries, he settled into a steady sucking rhythm.
Awash with relief and embarrassment, she looked up at Damien, who stood outlined against the blue sky. “Praise God you found Vijay. How did you know of him?”
“I’ve been through here before.”
“So I gathered.” Questions about his life crowded her throat. She looked over at Vijay, who had resumed playing his flute. How had Damien come to gain the esteem of so many people? “Did you photograph this place for your book about India?”
He shrugged. “This and a hundred other areas.”
“Did the pictures burn in the caravan?”
His gaze sharpened on her; then his black lashes lowered as he looked at the baby. “Some of them. Everything I’d accomplished for the past eight months was destroyed. I can never replace the photographs I took in Meerut. The sepoys, the punishment parade, things that should be chronicled for all the world to see.”
A keen sympathy unfurled in her; she knew the pain of losing something precious. “I’m so sorry, Damien,” she said softly. “About your photographs...and Shivina. Nothing can ever replace what you lost that night.”
“I’ll manage.”
His jaw set in a rigid line, he turned on his heel and walked off to join Vijay. Sarah yearned to ask if he missed Shivina, if he ever ached for his wife in the darkness of night, if he ever felt so lonely that he wept for the closeness of another human being. How absurd, she thought with a shake of her head. Damien likely hadn’t wept since he was a baby.
She looked down at Kit. His sucking had diminished, and the tiny fringe of his lashes lay against his cheeks. Gently she drew the bottle away and kissed his brow. If only she could nurture him forever. But he was Damien’s son, and someday she’d have to leave him. The prospect carved a painful hollow inside her chest. She sighed and absently fiddled with her locket. Someday she’d find another man as kind and honorable as Reginald. Someday she’d have a child of her own to fill her heart. Someday she’d have a real home and a family to love.
Damien returned, leading the long-haired goat on a halter fashioned from a length of twine. They said their goodbyes to Vijay and started along the trail again. The nanny bleated a protest, then ambled after Damien.
Sarah asked him more questions about the area, but his monosyllabic replies discouraged her. He reverted to his usual aloof self. Annoyance seeped into her somber mood. The uncivil cretin. She hadn’t probed very far into his personal life. What had she done but inquire about his lost photographs?
She trod on a sharp object. “Ouch!”
“What’s wrong?” said Damien, swinging back, his hand flashing to the revolver.
“I stepped on a stone.” Taking care not to awaken Kit, she sank onto a flat rock carpeted with moss and rubbed her heel. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”
His breath hissed out between his teeth. “Let me look.”
He left the goat to graze, then knelt beside Sarah. Grasping her ankle, he angled her foot onto his knee. The gentleness of his fingers made her insides quiver and soften even while her limbs stiffened at his unfamiliar touch. Her gaze riveted on the austere male beauty of his face, the beard that disguised his jaw and cheeks. His mouth was compress
ed, his black brows lowered, rousing in her the urge to smooth away the lines of tension.
Sarah forced a swallow past her madly beating heart. Lowering her eyes, she realized her hem had slid up to her knees and his thick brown forearm rested against her slim, bare calf. Did he feel as suddenly warm as she? The sole of her foot was as filthy and callused as a farmer’s. No, he must be repulsed. Tangled in a web of embarrassed confusion, she twisted away.
“I’m fine now, really I am,” she said. “I only wish I had a pair of sandals.”
He straightened. Sunlight glinted off the tiny gold flecks in his irises, making his eyes shimmer in his bronzed face. “If your feet are sore, it’s your own damned fault,” he said. “Because of you, we had to flee before I’d purchased all the supplies. Now get off your arse and walk.”
She bristled. “Is it quite necessary to use foul language?”
“Pardon me, your ladyship,” he said, sweeping into a formal court bow that looked absurd from a man in a turban and dhoti. “It’s going to be dark soon. Would you please get off your arse and walk?”
The temptation to defy him curled her fingers into fists. Instantly she reined in the impulse. She was guilty, and they did need to press on. Yet his rudeness nettled her.
Rising, she fell into step beside him. “I offered my apologies once,” she said stiffly, “and I’ll do so again. I made a dreadful mistake in slipping away alone this morning.”
“A mistake? You make it sound like a faux pas at tea.” He lifted a black brow. “I had the perfect escape plan worked out. Jawahir and I were going to slit their throats during the night. Instead, Lalji could be tracking us.”
“Or they could be tracking the villagers.”
Damien shook his head. “We’re the English. They’d come after us.”
With a shiver, Sarah glanced over her shoulder and lightly stroked the sleeping baby’s back. “It’s not entirely my fault,” she couldn’t resist pointing out. “Don’t forget, you invited those two murderers to travel with us in the first place.”