Brit Party (30 page)

She rose in a hurry, splashed some water on her face, and, after some deliberation, dressed in her twill riding skirt with its front buttons and a long sleeved cotton blouse. She really had little idea what to expect, but she knew enough to shield her English skin from the fierce Indian sun.

Anil was waiting for her on the veranda, drinking tea. He was once again wearing his formal lawyer's garb. There was no sign of Jonathan.

"Good morning!” His smile was as brilliant as the sun riding high in the cloudless sky.

"Good morning. I'm sorry to have slept so late. Do we still have the time to get to Gauhati city and back today?” Priscilla found herself hoping that something would derail the plans for the expedition. Although Anil was charming, she was not at all sure that she wanted to spend the day alone with him.

"Certainly. There is no problem. The car and driver are already waiting down at the gate."

"Oh dear! Let me just have a bite of breakfast and we can be on our way."

"There's no need to hurry, Priscilla,” Anil poured her a cup of tea, as deftly as any British matron, and offered her a roll. “This day is devoted to your enjoyment.” As he handed her the porcelain cup, his fingers briefly brushed hers. Electricity charged through her. Her nipples tingled; her sex clenched, then relaxed, flooded with moisture. “Take your time."

Her enjoyment? Her whole body hummed with excitement. She felt light-headed, girlish. Guilt and fear were not sufficient to weigh her down. She sipped her tea, trying to regain her composure, wondering what it was about this stranger that drew her so.

"Where is Jonathan? Perhaps I could persuade him to join us."

"I haven't seen him today. I assume that he is in the tea fields; he was already gone when I woke up around seven. He is very diligent."

"Maybe too much so."

"Well—perhaps. But his father would have been pleased. As I told Jon yesterday, his father loved this plantation very much."

Priscilla wondered what Anil would think about their plans to sell it. She took another swallow, and then put down her cup. “There, that's enough. I'll just get my bag and then we can leave."

"Be sure to bring an umbrella."

Priscilla squinted up at the turquoise sky. “Actually, it's strange that it's not raining. Since the monsoon started, the rains have run like clockwork. Every day, it pours from seven until noon. Then it clears and the rest of the day is fair. Surely the rainy season can't be over already?"

Anil laughed, the sound warm and smooth like a subtle caress. “Hardly. It will rain until at least the end of September. However, as the monsoon progresses, the rain becomes less predictable. Nevertheless, I can guarantee that we'll see some rain before we return this evening. So, as I said, I recommend an umbrella, and also a hat."

"I will be right back. Lalida, would you please clear the table?"

"Yes, Madam."

Back in her room, Priscilla gathered a shawl, a comb, her diary, some toffees and her money purse, and swept them into a leather satchel. She stopped in front of her mirror, surveying herself critically. Her hair was an unruly shock of ginger curls. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes sparkled. She looked younger than her twenty seven years, and incredibly excited.
Too excited
, she thought.
I must not forget that I am a married woman, and that my husband trusts me.
The girl in the mirror, though, did not look married.

Anil took her arm to guide her down the steep path to the road. Priscilla had to fight to keep from swooning at his touch. Just outside the gate, the luxurious burgundy and chrome auto gleamed in the sunlight. The native driver, who wore a spotless white uniform, gave them a brisk salute. Anil handed Priscilla into the open back seat, then spoke to the driver in what Priscilla guessed was Bengali.

"The driver says that the road to Gauhati is open. Last week, it seems, a landslide closed it for two days."

"A landslide? Perhaps we should not undertake this trip after all."

Anil took her hand. Warmth crept through her body, starting at her extremities but eventually settling in her sex. “Don't worry, Priscilla. The terrain for most of the trip is quite flat and poses no danger. The English have sent in men to reinforce the site of the previous slide."

Priscilla extricated her hand from his. Her reactions were so intense, she couldn't bear his touch for long. “Are you sure?"

"Trust me, Priscilla,” Anil replied, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than was proper. “All will be well.” She turned her head to stare at the passing scenery, afraid of what he might read in her face.

There was little traffic on the packed dirt highway, aside from a few carts drawn by bullocks or water buffalo. Twice they had to stop and wait while a cowherd drove his handful of scrawny animals across the road, but generally they made good time. The location of the landslide was obvious. The road ran through between two hills, the raw sides of which were bristling with labourers digging ditches and building retaining walls.

By noon they had reached the outskirts of Gauhati and were driving through a sprawling maze of wooden shacks intermixed with stuccoed official buildings and verdant plots overgrown with banana plants or sugar cane.

"Are you hungry?” asked Anil. He had been quiet for most of the drive, allowing Priscilla to pretend fascination with her surroundings. In fact, she hardly noticed the picturesque scenes of native life as they passed. She was too busy trying to ignore the heat emanating from the lean, masculine body seated beside her. “We could stop at the Hotel Nanda for luncheon before proceeding to Kamakhya."

"No, I'm fine. Let's just head for the temple."

"Very well.” Anil leaned forward and exchanged some words with the driver, who headed into the city proper.

After a month of near isolation at the plantation, Priscilla found Gauhati somewhat overwhelming. The twisted streets were crowded with carts, carriages and the occasional automobile. Porters, vendors, school children and beggars all darted around the traffic, working to avoid being crushed. The air rang with the cries of hawkers, the hammering of construction, the wail of some native song coming over the wireless. She smelled charcoal smoke and fenugreek, jasmine and manure.

They emerged out of the tangled streets facing the mighty river. A broad promenade followed the river's course. They turned to follow it westwards, crossing the railroad tracks. Before long, Priscilla caught sight of a steep outcrop jutting up from the green fields.

"Neelachal Parbat,” Anil explained. “The temple is perched on top. We will have to leave the car below and climb by ox cart."

The rough wooden cart lurched up the winding road to the summit, repeatedly casting Priscilla's body against Anil's, then away. After several tooth-rattling cycles of this, Anil circled her shoulders with one arm, pulling her to him and holding her steady. “I hope that you do not mind, Priscilla,” he said, smiling down at her. “I don't want you to be thrown out of the cart."

Mind?
she thought, her heart beating as twice its normal speed,
I don't think I have any mind left.
In truth, her physical reactions and sensations drowned out coherent thought. She huddled against him, happy for an excuse to be so close. His sandalwood fragrance surrounded her. She could only hope that it would cover up the scent of her arousal. Her thighs were slippery with the juices leaking from her sex. Her taut nipples ached, dying for stimulation. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her chest against his coat and was rewarded with a sharp spasm of pleasure both above and below.

Despite the jolts and bruises, she did not want the ride to end. All too soon, though, they reached the temple precinct. Seven beehive-shaped towers of stone rose above the vault of the main building, each one topped with gold. Ancient trees shaded the complex. A white-robed priest reclined in the shade of one. A colony of monkeys squealed in the branches of another. The place was crowded with worshippers carrying garlands and sacrificial vessels. Still, it was oddly peaceful.

Anil took her hand to lead her through the throng. Somehow, this seemed completely natural. “This temple is sacred to Sati, the wife of the Lord Shiva. When her father insulted her husband, the goddess committed suicide. Shiva, in anger and desperation, danced the Tandeva to destroy the world. The other gods sought to calm his fury, and in the ensuing struggle, Sati's corpse was accidentally cut into dozens of pieces. Her
yoni
—her female organ—fell here on Neelachal Parbat."

He led her to one of the smaller buildings, through a low arch and into a cave-like interior. The only light came from a few smoky lamps. Coming from the bright outdoors, Priscilla could see little at first, but she heard the burble of flowing water.

"We believe that this spring is her
yoni
—the holy sex of the great Mother. At certain times of the year, the waters run red, and then we know that the goddess is fertile. Some say that those who dare to bathe in the spring gain the gift of bestowing ecstasy. If you are a man, your penis will become like the bull's; if you are a woman, your sex will become so velvety and supple that mere entrance will bring your man to his crisis."

Priscilla's face grew hot with embarrassment. How could a near stranger speak to her of these things? Still, his words aroused her unbearably. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, gentle and provocative, and she imagined him stroking the folds of flesh curled between her thighs. She stood beside him, gazing into the sacred spring, powerless to take back her hand or to protest this unseemly intimacy in this heathen sanctuary.

He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “You are as lovely as a goddess, Priscilla.” His mouth claimed her, his tongue more insolent than his fingers had been. One arm slid around her waist and pulled her body against his. She melted into him, grateful that she no longer had to resist her own desires.

Through the fine wool of his tailored trousers, she felt the hardness that testified to his own need. Panic and lust fought within her.
I am a married woman
, she wanted to cry out, but his lips played upon hers and stopped her voice. His hands roamed freely over her body, massaging her buttocks, cupping her breasts, fingering the tight nubs of flesh that poked so obviously through the fabric of her blouse. He strayed to the damp crease between her thighs. She moaned into his spice-flavoured mouth, urging him on to more brazen explorations. He began to unfasten the first of the buttons that closed her skirt.

All at once, thunder cracked around them. Lightning flashed outside the arched door, momentarily blinding her. She smelled sulfur and charred wood.

Anil broke the kiss, looking around them, “Oh dear. It sounds as though the rain I predicted has arrived.” Another fierce peal of thunder echoed through the stone buildings. Priscilla cringed. “I think that perhaps we should head back. Come."

Priscilla was simultaneously disappointed and relieved. She smoothed her skirt and ran her fingers through her curls, then followed Anil out into the courtyard. The rain had not yet begun, but the sky was a roiling mass of black clouds. Another lightning bolt lanced across the horizon, turning the clouds a livid purple.

Maybe the gods had intervened, to save her from herself. Or maybe they were angry at her faithlessness.

Anil hailed one of the carters huddled under a bamboo roof. “If we're lucky, we can make it down the hill before the heavens open.” He held her tight during the bumpy ride back to the Bentley. The driver had wisely raised the convertible top. The two of them tumbled into the back seat and slammed the door just as the downpour started.

Buckets, sheets, torrents of rain assailed the car as it crept back along the road they had come. Huge drops battered the fabric roof, loud as gunshots. The windows were obscured dense, lead-coloured curtains. Darkness descended, though it was barely three in the afternoon. The driver switched on the headlights, but the pale yellow beams did little to show the highway ahead. Priscilla prayed that livestock or other vehicles stayed out of their path, for there was no way that they would ever be able to see any obstacles in this storm.

She leaned against Anil, seeking comfort. He hugged her to his body and she lay her cheek against his chest, listening to the strong, even rhythm of his heart. There was something about this man, some power he had to both rouse and calm the spirit. Her hand fell into his lap and she discovered that he was still erect. She cupped his bulk in her hand, stroking it gently. Anil murmured something in his own language and pressed his lips to her hair.

They sat thus, entwined, poised on the plateau of desire, through the whole achingly long drive back to the plantation.

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It took nearly four hours for the auto to creep back to the plantation. Full night had fallen by the time they arrived. The rain had slackened, but it was still heavy enough to drench them, despite their umbrellas, on the climb up the path.

Jon must be terribly worried
, thought Priscilla. She imagined him pacing back and forth on the veranda, peering into the night for any sign of them. Guilt weighed on her spirit, though she knew she was not responsible for the weather or the delay. Her intense reactions to Anil did not alter her deep love for her husband.

She had not, technically, been unfaithful. Still, she was honest enough to admit to herself that, if the storm had not interrupted, she would have gladly surrendered herself to Anil. In public, in a sacred space, she would have been willing—no, eager—to allow the seductive native access to her body. Her sex ached, remembering his intimate touch. She looked up at him, but she could not read his expression in the dark. Did he still want her? Would he try again?

Priscilla tried to compose herself, to think only of Jon and his concern. As the house came into view, she stopped short in surprise.

Normally at this time, Lalida would have lit the kerosene lamps and golden light would be spilling out from the windows onto the path. But the bungalow was completely dark, and silent too, no sounds of clattering dishes from the kitchen, no scratchy jazz coming from Jon's gramophone.