Danger at Dahlkari (24 page)

“I could brutally assault you,” he drawled. “I could strangle you to death. No one would ever know. You'd simply disappear without a trace.”

“I trust those aren't your intentions.”

“Don't get clever with me, Miss Gray. I just might forget myself and give you the thrashing you deserve for pulling something like this.”

His anger was under control now, but there was an undeniable menace in his voice. I realized with horror that he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. I remembered the way he had shoved Sally to the ground and pulled me roughly over to the horse that day he had come upon us in the desert. Robert Gordon was no polite, considerate gentleman. He wouldn't hesitate to strike a woman. I glared at him rebelliously, defiant, refusing to be intimidated.

“You don't frighten me,” I snapped.

“No?”

“Not in the least!”

“You're headstrong, impulsive and far too independent for your own good, Miss Gray. Most girls your age, with your background, are sitting in parlors with their embroidery.”

“Are you implying that that's what I should be doing, Mr. Gordon?”

“God forbid.”

“I've always had freedom to do what I wished. I—”

“I'll wager you can't even cook,” he taunted.

“I've never had to,” I informed him. “I've been far too busy translating the Latin poets and studying Greek philosophy. I happen to believe that women have as much right to an education as a man.”

“Greek philosophy isn't going to do you much good when we're living in a tent in the middle of the Sahara desert.”

I didn't deign to reply to that absurd comment. His anger had vanished completely now, and those dark, glowing eyes seemed to be filled with something akin to amusement. He stood there with his legs spread apart, hands still resting on his thighs, and a wry smile played on his lips. He was enjoying himself, enjoying my obvious discomfort. I couldn't be near the man without experiencing a whole series of tumultuous emotions, anger foremost among them. That arrogant, aloof, lordly manner made me want to lash out at him, and it took a great struggle to maintain any sort of composure when he looked at me with such cool mockery in his eyes.

“You don't even have a pistol,” he remarked.

“Of course I don't!”

“What if there were a cobra coiled under that rock?”

I stepped aside gingerly, glancing back at the rock. Robert Gordon was considerably amused. I didn't find it at all amusing and told him so in no uncertain terms. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long revolver with a handle of polished horn.

“Ever use one of these?” he inquired.

“Certainly I haven't.”

“If you're going to go gadding about like this, it's high time you learned. Here, take it.”

“I wouldn't touch—”

He thrust the revolver into my hand, and then he stepped behind me and placed both his arms around me, guiding my hand with his own. I tried to pull away, but his arms tightened, holding me prisoner. There was nothing I could do but lean back against him.

“You hold it like this—” and he wrapped my fingers around the gun in the proper grip—“with your index finger on the trigger. Don't pull it! Not yet. You take aim, looking along the sight.”

“The sight?”

“You
are
dim, aren't you?” He indicated the sight. “You hold it thus, until the sight is centered on what you want to hit—in this instance, the rock over there in the grass. Is it in your sight?”

“I think so.”

“This isn't a game, Miss Gray. Your life could depend on this.”

“Mr. Gordon, this is—”

“Shut up! All right, take aim. Got the rock in your sight? Now you squeeze the trigger.”

I squeezed. The explosion was deafening. The chestnut mare reared up on her hind legs and squealed loudly. The more sophisticated stallion continued to nibble at the grass, unperturbed. The impact knocked me back against his chest. His chin rested just above my right shoulder. I could smell leather and tobacco and a strong, male odor of sweat and skin.

“Did I hit it?”

“Nowhere near,” he replied. “We'll try again.”

“This is utterly ridiculous. I have no intentions of—”

His arms tightened about me in a brutal grip, and he leaned forward until his lips were inches from my ear.

“You're going to learn to use a pistol, Miss Gray. In fact, you're going to become a crack shot. You may as well resign yourself. I'll keep you here all day if need be.”

“You're hurting me!”

“Let's have another go at it. Take aim this time. That rock's no more than thirty feet away. You couldn't possibly miss it.”

I did. I missed it three more times in a row, although the bullets did seem to be getting closer. Gordon was growing more and more impatient, and there was a distinct edge to his voice when he spoke.

“If you don't hit that bloody rock this time, Lauren, I'm going to believe you're deliberately trying to miss it, and if I believe that I'm going to be very, very angry. Do you understand me?”

“Damn you! I can't help it if I keep missing!”

“You'd better not miss this time,” he said ominously.

“I don't know how you expect me to hit anything with you holding on to me like this.”

“Aim!”

I aimed. I pulled the trigger. The rock shattered, chips flying in every direction. I was startled—and vastly pleased with myself.

“
Now
are you satisfied?”

“Not at all. A child of five could have blown that rock to pieces the first go round.”

He released me and, taking the pistol, carefully reloaded it and put it back inside his jacket, thrusting it into the waistband of his trousers. He had been holding me so tightly that I felt stiff and sore, and I felt curiously elated as well, pleased with my accomplishment. Although I would never have admitted it to Gordon, the lesson had been exceedingly stimulating.

“You'll do better tomorrow,” he told me.

“Tomorrow?”

He reached up to adjust the brim of his hat, slanting it down on one side. It made him look quite dashing. With the pistol concealed under his jacket, he might have been a highwayman getting ready to pull a job. His expression was bored, his voice a casual drawl.

“Since you seem determined to take these morning rides, and since your soldier boy is no longer here to accompany you, I'm taking the job. We'll continue with the lessons each morning.”

“And what will Mrs. Simpson have to say to that?”

“I was wondering when you were going to bring her up.”

“I—I saw you with her at the bazaar yesterday.”

“I saw you, too, and your expression was one of pure moral outrage. In answer to your question: Mrs. Simpson won't say a word. It's none of her business what I do.”

“You bought her a bracelet—pure silver. She clung to your arm like she owned you. She—”

“I don't intend to discuss Valerie Simpson with you, Lauren. I have my reasons for seeing her.”

“I feel quite certain you have. It doesn't take a great deal of imagination to guess what they are. You can forget about escorting me on my rides, Mr. Gordon. I've just decided to give them up.”

“You'll be at the stables at nine-thirty in the morning,” he told me. “I'll be waiting. I suggest we start back to the garrison now before I do you bodily harm. I've exercised considerable restraint up till now, but I'm fast losing my patience.”

Chin tilted haughtily, I marched over to the mare and untied the reins from the tree. Cool, dignified, ignoring him entirely, I put my foot in the stirrup and swung myself up, only I didn't go up. My foot slipped and I went down with considerable impact, landing on a particularly sensitive portion of my anatomy. Robert Gordon didn't say a word, nor did he make any attempt to come to my aid. He simply gazed at me with a bored expression. Catching hold of the stirrup, I pulled myself up and brushed off my skirt. If I had had the gun in my hand at that moment I would have shot to kill, and I felt certain I wouldn't have missed.

We returned to the garrison in silence, Gordon immersed in thought and apparently unaware of my presence on the horse beside him. When we reached the stables I quickly dismounted, handed the reins to the groom and hurried away without a word, picturing in my mind the anger and frustration Robert Gordon was going to experience the following morning as he waited and waited and I failed to appear. I had every intention of giving up the rides. I would find something else to occupy my time. The man was insufferable, and it was unthinkable that I should deliberately spend time with him. He could wait all morning long, but it would do him no good. I wouldn't be there.

As my riding skirt had been unfortunately soiled by my tumble, I was wearing a pale tan dress sprigged with tiny rust red and brown flowers and miniscule black leaves, a highly becoming garment that really wasn't at all suitable for riding. I had brushed my chestnut hair until it gleamed with silvery highlights, and as I approached the stables I was confident that I had rarely looked better. Robert Gordon was leaning casually against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, and he didn't seem at all surprised to see me. I gave him a cool nod, and, ignoring me, Gordon called for the groom to bring the horses.

In the days that followed, I was cool and exceedingly formal, treating him with a polite indifference frequently difficult to maintain. I was determined to retain my dignity at all costs. Gordon treated me with a curious combination of weary impatience and surly disdain, that mockery always lurking just beneath the surface. I could tell that he considered me a foolish girl, and that irritated me, but somehow I managed to keep my poise, even when he was berating me for being so awkward and clumsy with the pistol. At other times he was remote, deeply immersed in thought and completely ignoring me. His harsh face would be fierce then, his scowl causing a little hump of flesh to swell above the bridge of his nose.

Dollie was absolutely horrified when she learned that I was going out riding with him each morning. It was unsuitable, she claimed, most unsuitable. I told her that I had been out riding with Michael and failed to see how my riding with Gordon was any different. There was all the difference in the world, she protested. Why, the man was openly carrying on with Valerie Simpson, it was the talk of the post, and heaven only knew what terrible things he might do to an innocent young girl. Reggie's reaction was near apoplexy, and I found myself championing Gordon against both of them. For some reason their ardent disapproval made those early morning rides all the more exciting.

For it was exciting to be with him, I couldn't deny that. I never knew what he was going to say or do. He might nod coldly when I happened to hit a target, or he might scowl darkly and threaten to throttle me if I missed. He might tease me in a bored, lackadasical manner, or he might withdraw and brood silently, no doubt thinking about his work. On occasion he might tell me about the books he had written and the translations he had done, or he might talk about his trip to Africa at twenty-two, his journey to America and his experiences in the rugged frontier towns in the west. He had done so many things, been so many places, had such a vast, incredible store of knowledge about such diverse, unusual subjects. He was undeniably fascinating, this sojourn in India merely another bizarre chapter in an already remarkable life.

There was a truce between us, and we didn't argue at all, although he was unnecessarily rough and surly during the shooting lessons, determined I would become an expert shot. He taught me how to load the gun, how to clean it and take care of it. After I was finally able to hit targets he set up a considerable distance away, he began to teach me how to hit moving targets, gathering small, flat stones and tossing them in the air. I told him it was impossible, but Gordon would have none of that. I was secretly flattered that he was devoting so much time and attention to me, for he was extremely busy, sorting out information, making reports, frequently leaving the post for hours on mysterious trips to villages in the district. Nevertheless, he devoted at least two hours to me every morning. I wondered if Valerie Simpson had as much of his precious time lavished on her.

A week passed, ten days, twelve. Reggie had chosen the men who would accompany us on the forthcoming tiger hunt. In addition to Reggie, Dollie, Sally and I, there would be four other officers and four enlisted men. Sally was delighted that Sergeant Norman had been selected—she had been compaigning toward that end since she first learned about the hunt—and I was pleased that Corporal Burke would also be going along. There had been no word from Michael, and Reggie said it seemed unlikely that he would be back in time to accompany us. We might well run into him, though, he added, as Michael and his men were scouting the very area we'd be going to.

Two days before we were to depart, Robert Gordon and I met at the stables at the usual time and rode away from the garrison. I was wearing the sprigged tan dress again, and in his black knee boots, tight black trousers and thin white shirt with sleeves full gathered at the wrist, Gordon looked like a disreputable gypsy, a bright red scarf tied about his neck, his raven locks blowing wildly as we rode. After thirty minutes or so of hard riding, we finally reached a suitable spot and stopped, dismounting. Gordon tethered the horses to a scrawny tree while I stretched my legs, enjoying the pale blue sky, the bright morning sunshine, the miles and miles of empty land that isolated us from the rest of the world.

He gathered up several small, flat stones and, handing me the pistol, walked away from me, moving in long, lazy strides. He seemed terribly far away when he finally stopped. I indicated that I was ready, and he hurled the first stone up toward the sky. Quickly, I took aim and fired, and the stone kept right on sailing across the blue. I missed the second as well. I could see his expression. It was fierce. I frowned, disappointed in myself, knowing that I had been overconfident and therefore careless. When he hurled the third stone up into the air, I blasted it into tiny pieces that showered down like rain. He threw three more stones. I hit every one of them.