Ryman, Rebecca (15 page)

"Frightened?
Surely you flatter yourself!"

"All
right then, nervous. Let me assure you there is no cause even for that. Neither
of us is likely to inform your distinguished relatives of this encounter! I
have no more messages to send." He made no effort to disguise either his
mockery or his amusement.

"I
am relieved to hear it." Olivia matched mockery with sarcasm, but the
discomfiting facility he seemed to have of dipping into her thoughts produced
further annoyance. "Are you a musician as well?" she asked, pointing
to the instruments in an attempt to change the subject.

"As
well as what?"

"As
well as ... whatever else you might be." She was careful not to say
"tea exporter," since that would certainly inform him that she had
been inquiring about him from others.

"The
current, popular descriptions are unmitigated scoundrel, moral degenerate,
debauch and unscrupulous villain, but they vary with the season."

It
was difficult to suppress a smile; these were near enough the descriptions her
uncle had used the other night. "You take pride in being called those?
They give you pleasure?"

He
shrugged. "Neither pride nor pleasure nor anything else. They don't touch
me."

"What
does touch you then?" The question escaped on impulse and Olivia regretted
it instantly, for it again opened wide the avenues of impertinent
counter-attack. But Raventhorne
showed no reaction one way or the other. He merely
looked away, faintly puzzled, and his eyes became distant.

"Nothing."
His face was like a blank even as the smile returned. "Nothing
they
say
touches me." She too belonged to the world he dismissed with such
contempt, and for an instant Olivia had an insane urge to say something,
anything, that
would
touch him. But she could think of nothing. He spoke
again in an entirely different tone. "I can see that Lady Birkhurst will
approve of her son's choice this time. She at least is a woman of considerable
vigour and vitality even if that is more than can be said of the Honourable
Freddie."

Olivia
struggled between outrage and curiosity—and curiosity won. "Lady
Birkhurst?"

"The
Honourable Freddie's mother. She is due shortly, no doubt to short-list the
finalists for fair Freddie's hand, money and title. I can't see you finding
much competition in the home stretch."

To
fly again into a temper would be to play into his hands; it was what he was
waiting for. "I am obliged for your words of comfort and your vote of
confidence," she said with every sign of pleasantness. "But it
surprises me that you should be so well informed about my affairs even though I
have little knowledge of yours." She added quickly, "Knowledge of or
interest in."

"Oh,
you have interest all right, Miss O'Rourke," he remarked with an easy
laugh. "And if the knowledge is lacking it is certainly not for want of
trying. If there is anything you want to know about me, why don't you just
ask?"

Were
it not for that utterly unlikely charm in one so undeserving of it, Olivia
would have been disgusted at his monumental conceit. "And if I do ask will
you tell me?"

"No,
but you can ask anyway."

She
had to laugh.

Another
diversion occurred, this time startling. A young girl entered bearing a silver
platter, followed by a succession of servants bearing more. With subtle
gestures she issued commands, and a low table was placed in front of Olivia on
which were then arranged an array of bowls, silver plates and European cutlery.
It was a smooth, economical operation, but Olivia's attention was riveted to
the girl. Even by exotic standards she was breathtakingly lovely. Dark satin
eyes were set in a sandalwood-smooth skin; she was tall and moved with the
unconscious grace of a dancer motivated by unheard rhythms. Under a loose tunic
of yellow gauze fringed with tinsel, her breasts thrust outwards in
perfect cones.
Her legs were slender and long with small ankles and voluptuously curved
calves, all encased in fitted pyjamas crinkled at the ankles. As she swept past
Olivia in pursuit of her duties she did not look at her, but she exuded a
strong fragrance reminiscent of roses. Her sculpted fingers—deft and light in
their labours—were patterned with filigreed henna, which looked like deep
orange lace gloves.

A
slight chill travelled up Olivia's body. She knew instinctively that this was
Jai Raventhorne's mistress.

He
offered no introductions. Instead, quite unperturbed, he said, "Sujata is
an excellent cook, as you will shortly see for yourself. It is she who is the
musician."

Hearing
her name spoken, the girl smiled, but only at him. The sidelong glance might
have been coy and coquettish had it not been so full of love and longing. As
she bent down to place the last of the bowls on the table, her flimsy veil
slipped from her head, slid down and settled over a breast. Without
embarrassment or hesitation Raventhorne reached forward to readjust the veil in
its former position. Between them passed a look; his retreating hand lingered
just a shade longer than it needed to on her shoulder. The fleeting gesture,
the shared look, lasted barely a second or two, but to Olivia somehow they
conveyed an impression of such intimacy, such explicit sensuality, that she
felt her cheeks warm and the back of her neck tingle. A smile still playing on
her glistening coral lips. Sujata walked out of the salon. All the while she
had been there she had not looked at Olivia even once.

Placing
small portions into each bowl, Raventhorne started to serve the food. He
offered no explanations for Sujata but merely concentrated on the job at hand
with brief descriptions of each course and its preparation. Olivia listened
abstractedly, shaken by what she had seen. This was the woman who shared
Raventhorne's home and bed; the ravishing image seemed etched into her brain
and it was not an image that brought her any pleasure. Unaccountably, she
disliked it.

"Eat
while it's hot.
Jalebis
cannot be enjoyed when cold." A touch on
her hand jolted Olivia back to reality and she coloured. He was pointing to the
sweets she had fancied in the shop.

With
an effort she smiled. "You should not have gone to all this trouble. I
only wanted to satisfy my curiosity about these." The array of courses
included far more than the modest
jalebis.

"The
trouble was not mine. I only gave the order. Sujata likes to please
visitors."

For
devilish reasons of his own he seemed set on thrusting
his mistress
down her throat, perhaps because Olivia's discomfiture was obvious and it gave
him some impious pleasure. She was again annoyed, not only by his lack of
delicacy but by her own irritation; what business was it of hers whom he chose
to have in his bed? She found herself again regretting her rash decision to
stay, but it was too late to do anything about it now. In any case the food was
delicious.

"To
where does your ship sail this afternoon?" she inquired to fill the gaping
silences. "Canton?"

"No.
I no longer involve myself in the China trade."

She
had heard that already, of course. "But isn't the China trade the
commercial arena that holds most promise of riches?"

"I
already have riches. I have no need for more."

"In
business, surely, there is always need for more!"

"Well
then, let us accept that in my needs I choose to be different. To me money is
only a means, not an end in itself."

"And
the end?" She threw him an oblique glance and saw that he too was suddenly
not at ease. The compacted tension she had sensed that night by the river was
making him restless. He rose and walked to the window, the expanse of his
shoulders forming a dark silhouette against the light.

"To
ensure survival in an environment that is essentially hostile."

Olivia
sat up slowly, food forgotten for the moment. She wondered again about those
"obsessions" the Maharaja had refused to amplify or even disclose,
perhaps rightly so. "But is not the environment hostile because you
yourself encourage it to be so through your own wilfulness?"

He
walked back to sit down again, still restive. "Wilfulness is a privilege I
have earned for myself, Miss O'Rourke. It is a very small reward for very hard
labour. Surely you will not deny me such meagre pickings?" Then with a
mercurial shift of mood his eyes narrowed. "Tell me, what bribes is your
uncle offering Arvind Singh for his coal?"

The
sudden question startled her, but she answered calmly enough, "None that I
know of. Even if I did know, it is hardly likely that I would tell you.
Besides, why should he have to bribe to get the coal?"

"He
will not get the coal with or without bribes." A cutting edge sharpened
his tone. "Everyone is aware of that except your uncle."

Olivia's
mind went back to her aunt's remark of not so many hours ago. How odd that she
should share even this thought with
a man whose very name had made her
faint! "You mean you will use your friendship with the Maharaja to block
the sale? Because you want to monopolise the coal for your own steamship?"

"Ah,
you
are
better informed about me this time!" The realisation seemed
to afford him unconcealed satisfaction. "Sir Joshua's words?"

"Hardly!"
Olivia retorted. "One doesn't need a complicated espionage system or
secret briefing to learn what the entire business community is up in arms
about." But she had no desire to expand this particular dispute. What
intrigued her about Raventhorne was not his professional ethics or otherwise,
it was the essential contradiction inherent in the man. She had never met
anyone so paradoxical, so cussed, so uncaring of opinion. She wanted to ask a
hundred, a thousand questions, but then a servant entered to place before her a
finger-bowl of warm water with a slice of lime and to clear away the table. In
the lost opportunity all she could think of saying was, "You did not join
me for breakfast."

"I
have already eaten. I rise early so that, like you, I can ride and exercise in
peace. It appears we share this habit," a fractional pause, "among
others."

The
pause, minimal but heavy with thoughts unsaid, made Olivia's mouth again run
dry. "What . . . others?"

He
did not reply immediately. His brows met in a frown that indicated perplexity
as he gazed beyond her out of the window. "Let's say excessive mutual
curiosity and the . . . curse of being different from the herd." He sprang
to his feet and stretched a hand in her direction. "Come, we must be away
or my ship will miss the tide and I will have given my rivals something to be
happy about. She is on charter to a jute manufacturer who wants her in Dundee
on time or he will cancel my contract."

Olivia
rose too but quickly detached her hand from his. Even the trivial physical
contact had accelerated her pulse in a manner that was unsettling. She bent
down and quickly laced up her riding boots. "Thank you for breakfast. I
enjoyed it very much."

"Perhaps
you might have enjoyed it more had your thoughts not been elsewhere!"

Even
after so brief an acquaintanceship—if it could even be called that!—he had
learned to pin-point her passing contemplations with an accuracy that dismayed
Olivia. "They were as much here as I was," she corrected sharply.
"I tasted and enjoyed every morsel. You must extend my thanks and appreciation
to . . . Sujata."

"She
does not expect to be thanked. It is her pleasure." He turned and strode
impatiently out of the room.

Olivia
followed but more slowly. Through a perfect arch, one of many that lined the
verandah, she observed the tall, erect figure call for their horses. How old
was he? Thirty-five? Forty-five? A hundred and five! It was impossible to tell.
His body, lithe, healthy with an abundance of energy, gave indication of a
youthful prime, of a male at the peak of his manhood. But it was what Olivia had
glimpsed lurking in his eyes, or behind them, that puzzled her. Dark, looming
shadows barely concealed a world weariness that gave an odd impression of
agelessness, as if he had lived long beyond his years. It was yet another of
the maddening contradictions in which Jai Raventhorne abounded.

In
the court-yard together with Olivia's own mare, Jasmine, awaited a midnight at
least sixteen hands tall with fiery red eyes and a fiercely swishing tail. As
Olivia approached with caution, he snorted and his nostrils flared. Knowing
horses well, she stood rapt with admiration, for he was an extraordinarily
perfect specimen of horseflesh. Glaring at her, he kicked his back legs and
sent the attendants skittering. Olivia laughed. "I see that he too is
trained to guard you with his life!"

"Since
my head is greatly in demand, yes!" Raventhorne fondled the midnight's
forehead with surprising gentleness and, pulling down his head, whispered
something in his ear. The animal seemed to listen intently, eyes barely moving.
Then he neighed softly, pawed the ground and rubbed his nose in the palm of his
master's hand. There were men Olivia had known in her own country, where a
horse was more often than not a meal ticket, who could establish almost human
rapport with their steeds. Raventhorne obviously was one of those. The horse
trusted him implicitly.