Danger at Dahlkari (15 page)

“I—I forgot about it, too.”

“Anyway, a couple of days ago I took the dress out to see if it could be salvaged, and as I was examining it the scarf dropped out. It gave me
such
a turn.”

“Did you give it to Reggie?”

There was a touch of defiance in her voice when she replied. “I folded it up and put it in the bottom of my wardrobe,” she said. “No disrespect to Reggie, Miss Lauren, but he really hasn't been all that successful in flushing out these Thugs. I decided to wait and give the scarf to this man Gordon when he returns from his secret mission.”

“Gordon?” I couldn't hide my surprise.

“I didn't tell Bill about the scarf, I didn't tell anyone, but from what Bill says about him I figure Gordon's the man who'll know what to do with it.”

“You mean Sergeant Norman actually ad
mires
the man?”

“That's putting it mildly. You should hear him on the subject. Bill practically worships him, claims he's the brainiest and also the boldest, most daring man he's ever met. Oh, he admits Gordon's a bit
un
usual, has some peculiar interests, but he says he's undoubtedly a genius. If this Thuggee situation is ever cleared up, Gordon's the man who'll be responsible, Bill says.”

“That's not an opinion shared by others.”

“No one else likes him. They resent him being sent in from outside to take over a job they couldn't do properly. He in
tim
idates them—Bill says he's ever so cool and sarcastic, with a face like Satan incarnate. He and Bill struck up a friendship from the first, but Gordon makes everyone else uneasy.”

Sally broke off when she spotted the men coming around the side of one of the buildings. They were talking in low voices. Sergeant Norman looked grim, and Michael seemed to be reassuring him about something. He indicated their pistols, and Norman shook his head and heaved his wide shoulders and looked resigned. They saw us then. Sally waved. Michael smiled at me, and I felt that little leap of happiness I always felt when I saw him again after being away from him for a period of time. I tried not to show it. Sally greeted her sergeant with cool disdain, informing him that we had been waiting in front of these smelly stables for fifteen minutes and when someone said
ten
she didn't expect them to come shambling along at ten-fifteen. Sergeant Norman told her to shut up. Sally was delighted.

Michael wore highly polished brown boots, snugly fitting tan doeskin breeches and a silky beige shirt with collar open at the throat and sleeves rolled up over his forearms, the tail tucked loosely in the waistband of his breeches. With the pistol hanging low on his hip in a brown leather holster, he reminded me of pictures I had seen of the American cowboys. He seemed more at ease than usual, the rather formal British officer replaced by a relaxed young man with windblown hair.

“Sorry we're late,” he said. “We had to stop by the armory and check out our pistols. I hope you haven't been too impatient.”

“Not at all,” I told him, a shade untruthfully.

Michael took out his pistol and checked it, flicking the chamber open to make sure the gun was fully loaded.

“There—there isn't really any danger, is there?” I asked.

“The pistols are merely a precaution,” he said calmly. “Norman here is convinced we'll all be massacred by the dreaded Thugs, but I've assured him that's nonsense. There've been no sign of them in the immediate area, and they're only interested in rich caravans to begin with. I wouldn't allow this if I thought there was even the slightest danger.”

“I hope you're
right
, sir,” Norman said glumly.

“Trembling in your boots,” Sally taunted. “Big strapping fellow like you. Who'd have thought it?”

“You mind your tongue!” he warned.

Sergeant Norman was dressed in attire similar to Michael's, his shirt a coarse white cotton, breeches dark gray, black boots rather the worse for wear. Sally eyed him appreciatively as he pushed a wave of reddish-bronze hair from his brow and called for the grooms to snap it up. They led out our horses, all saddled and ready to go. Sally and I both preferred to ride astride, disdaining the elegant but highly impractical side saddle. Sergeant Norman picked up the picnic hamper and secured it to the back of his saddle as Michael helped me mount the gentle chestnut mare I had been riding each morning. Sally complained that her plump dappled gray looked like a hack, but she swung nimbly up into the saddle nevertheless, and in a matter of minutes the four of us were on our way.

Michael and I rode slightly ahead, heading east, village and garrison both in back of us. There was no road as such, only a vast expanse of rough terrain covered with stiff brownish-green grass, bleak and empty, only an occasional tree with wind-tormented black limbs breaking the monotony. The wind was strong. Michael's locks flew about his head like short blond banners, his silky beige shirt billowing. I hoped my hairpins would hold the French roll in place. In the distance I could see a line of hills, green and dark brown and tan, all blurry in the haze of sunlight. We rode for several miles over this desolate area, horses moving at an easy pace, and gradually the land grew more verdant, greener, trees more profuse.

Michael drew his horse closer to mine, looking at me with a faint smile on his lips.

“Disappointed?” he inquired.

“I don't know what you mean. Why should I be disappointed?”

“I thought it might have been the uniform that dazzled you. I feared you'd take one look at me in these clothes and decide I was an unglamorous fellow not worth your time.”

“I think you look quite dashing,” I told him. “I'm not sure that I don't like you better without the uniform. You look less formal, less remote.”

“Formal? Remote? Are you talking about Michael Stephens? I thought I was an engaging chap too whimsical for words. I see you've gotten some false impressions. I'll have to correct them. Today might be just the day for it.”

“Indeed?”

“You're still going to swoon with rapture, you know. I imagine Sally and Sergeant Norman are going to want to wander off by themselves once we get to Karbala. Perhaps I'll have an opportunity to correct a few of those false impressions then—once we're alone.”

It was light banter, nothing more, but I felt a nervous tremor inside, not certain whether it was dread or anticipation. Behind us I heard Norman give a loud guffaw, and I turned to see Sally clinging to the reins with one hand while trying to control her flying skirts with the other. The sergeant was grinning broadly, his blue eyes atwinkle. Sally controlled the unruly skirts and tucked them about her legs, giving the sergeant a look that should have felled him. Michael and I smiled at each other, and I was thankful for the distraction.

We rode past a small native village, a collection of wretched hovels, women in dusty saris working in stony fields, half-naked children running about as starved-looking dogs barked vociferously. Ironically enough, there was a rather magnificent old temple at the edge of the village. It looked like some bizarre wedding cake with hardened pink icing, a polished blue dome reflecting the sun rays. The columns were festooned with garlands of flowers. An emaciated old fakir clad only in loin cloth sat in the doorway, scrawny legs folded beneath him in the lotus position, his eyes glazed, an empty wooden bowl before him. I knew that he might well have been sitting there for years. Not a single person looked up to watch us pass, not even one of the children, but all were aware of us. I could sense their hostility, and those backs seemed to stiffen as the despised English galloped past on their expensive, well-fed horses.

Several miles beyond the village the vegetation grew thicker, and we rode under tall trees that blotted out the sky, flowering vines hanging from the spreading branches. It was cool and shadowy, not really jungle, but I saw a large gray monkey dart across one of the branches, and the birds cried out loudly. We finally stopped near a large, rushing stream, mangrove trees growing thickly on either side. There was a small clearing, and it was here that we dismounted. I was weary from the long ride, but not too weary to marvel at the immense flamboyant tree that towered nearby, trunk a tannish-gray, branches abloom with thousands of showy scarlet flowers. Karbala was at least another mile on the other side of the stream, Michael informed us, and we would have to leave the horses here and go the rest of the way on foot.

“There's a rough, rocky slope on the other side. It's a difficult climb for humans, impossible for the horses. The jungle beyond is extremely dense.”

“If I'm going to climb rocky slopes and plunge through jungles, I want to
eat
first,” Sally declared.

“I thought we'd lunch here in the clearing,” Michael said.

“Haul down that hamper, Norman!” Sally ordered. “I do hope Olana packed some nice things. I wouldn't be greatly surprised if the old witch had filled the hamper with rocks. I thought she was going to throw a knife at me when I asked her to make some of those delicious honey cakes.”

Temperamental or no, Olana had done herself proud with the lunch basket. Sally spread the blue- and white-checked tablecloth over the ground and proceeded to take out from the basket an abundance of delicious items: tiny sausages, sandwiches, hunks of cheese, fruit, even the famous honey cakes. Sergeant Norman had watered the horses and tethered them to trees nearby, and he returned with a wide grin and two rather dusty-looking bottles of wine he had smuggled into his saddlebags. The four of us sat on the ground. It was spongy and slightly damp, and above us the leaves rustled and birds darted. A monkey perched on a limb, jabbering quietly and watching us with greedy eyes as we ate, gradually inching closer. Sally tossed it a bun. The monkey caught it with a thin gray hand and scurried away in a burst of excited shrieks.

We all laughed. The food was marvelous, and the wine, which we drank from the bottles, was surprisingly cool. When the meal was finally over, I felt gloriously replete.

“Oh dear,” Sally said, “I've got juice all over my fingers. I'd better go rinse them off in the stream.”

“Go ahead,” Sergeant Norman said lazily.

“By myself? What if I ran into a
co
bra? Get up, you big lout. You're coming with me.”

Sergeant Norman groaned, brushed a spray of bronze locks from his brow and climbed to his feet, following with a lazy gait as Sally traipsed happily toward the stream, her dusty rose skirt swaying. Both were soon out of sight. Michael sprawled comfortably on his side, propped up on one elbow, long legs stretched out. I had never seen him so relaxed, so utterly at ease. He was like a different person. His lids drooped heavily over his eyes as he watched me put things back into the basket, and his full mouth lifted slightly at one corner. He looked like some superb, satisfied animal, and there was an aura of sensuality that hadn't been there before. I was rather nervous, for while I could cope with the polite, agreeable British officer, this new Michael disturbed me.

“They're likely to be gone for some time,” he remarked.

“I shouldn't be surprised.”

“Your Sally is quite uninhibited.”

“She's—natural. I admire that. I don't pass judgment on her.”

“You'll have to admit she's an unlikely companion for a prim young woman like yourself.”

“Perhaps some people might think so. It's none of their affair. Sally has been like a sister to me. I'd defend her to the death.”

I stood up, shook out the tablecloth and began to fold it up. Those deep blue eyes watched lazily, lids at half mast. I placed the folded cloth back on top of the hamper and brushed my skirt, wishing he wouldn't look at me like that.

“Your hair's coming undone,” he said idly.

“Is it? All that wind, I suppose.”

I reached up to push the hairpins back in place, and as I did so Michael stood up. He tucked the tail of his shirt more securely into the tight waistband of his breeches, and then he sauntered over to where I stood and turned me around so that my back was to him. I was startled when he began to remove the hairpins, too startled to protest, and I felt the heavy waves spilling to my shoulders as he removed the pins one by one. Dropping the pins into his pocket, he wrapped one arm around the front of my waist and, with his free hand, lifted my hair until the back of my neck was exposed. I closed my eyes, nervous, trying not to tremble. He murmured something I didn't quite catch, and then, leaning down, he placed his lips against the side of my neck.

“There are things we need to talk about,” he told me.

“Are—are there? I really don't think this is—”

“You're stiff as a board. Relax. You're quite prudish, Miss Gray. So broad-minded about some things—about Sally, for example. Yet so very rigid. I've been wanting to—”

“Please, Michael, I—I'd rather you didn't.”

“You just want an agreeable escort, is that it? You want a companion to take you riding, a cool, proper gentleman to walk with you in the gardens and discuss books and philosophy and never touch, never step out of character. Someone to use. Is that it?”

“You know that's not true. I just—”

“I'm very fond of you, Lauren. Were we back in England I would pay proper court and observe all the conventions, but time is very precious out here. Things happen quickly. If we were to announce our engagement tomorrow no one would be surprised.”

He turned me around so that I faced him. There was a sleepy, indolent look in his eyes, and those wide, firm lips were slightly parted. Several blond locks had tumbled across his brow in disarray. His strong hands held my shoulders in a tight grip, and when he spoke there was a husky catch in his voice.

“I'm going to kiss you now, Lauren. I'm going to hold you tightly in my arms, and I'm going to kiss you until your head reels and every bit of that stiff reserve melts away, and you're going to enjoy it. You're going to hope I never stop.”