Scandal in the Night (15 page)

“You were afraid of him—the lieutenant.” The thought was something of a revelation to Thomas. He hadn’t seen it in India, the way her eyes went dark and her breath shortened almost imperceptibly. Or if he had seen the signs, he had mistaken it for something more flattering to himself. He had seen only what he wanted to see.

In India, she had seemed too filled with surety and moral conviction for anything so pedestrian as fear. She certainly hadn’t appeared afraid, especially when she had coolly pulled the gun on the lieutenant like a seasoned veteran.

But clearly she was afraid now. Clever girl, to understand so quickly. But she was trying to mask it, trying to keep her emotions in check behind the cool, collected cloak of Miss Anne Cates’s identity. But he could see it all—the subtle flare of her nostrils, the tension along the line of her jaw and neck, and the tight whiteness at the corners of her mouth. If he were closer to her, he would be able to feel the cold heat of fear emanating from her body. But Cassandra was still guarding the way.

“Afraid of whom?” his sister-in-law demanded.

“Lieutenant Jonathan Birkstead.”

“And who is Lieutenant Jonathan Birkstead?” The name held no meaning for Cassandra.

But Catriona had closed her eyes at the mere mention of the man’s name, as if she would try to shut out the very thought of the lieutenant. “No one,” she answered.

“An officer of the East India Company regiment,” Thomas countered. “And her suitor.”

“Oh.” Cassandra looked at Cat and then back at Thomas. “I had rather assumed
you
were her suitor.”

“I was.” It was past time he admitted it. Past time she understood. “I am.”

His words penetrated the cool veneer of Cat’s composure more effectively than the mention of Birkstead. Her mouth dropped open in complete startlement for a moment before she could find enough presence of mind to speak. “You were not,” Catriona contradicted, her cheeks white and her eyes blazing with the truth of her conviction. “Or if you were, then you changed your mind rather emphatically.”

“
I
changed my mind?” Thomas took another step closer. “I’m not the one—”

“Thomas. Miss Cates. Please.” Cassandra stayed calmly but firmly rooted between them. “Can you not explain what happened without raising your voices like ill-behaved schoolchildren?”

Thomas pulled a deep breath into his lungs and let it out slowly. He
was
acting like a lovelorn lad—on a hair trigger of stupidity. “My apologies. By my recollection, the lieutenant was rather single-minded in his pursuit of Miss Cates. And Miss Cates was not at all receptive to his repeated overtures. Or was I wrong about that?”

“No.” Catriona shook her head and looked at him with eyes that were a hundred years old. “You were not wrong. He was relentless. I
was
afraid of him. I’d have been a fool not to be. He never gave up. Never.”

Thomas had seen her that morning in the Farahat-Baksh. He had held his
sa’is
back, watching and waiting, not wanting to intrude upon her conversation with Birkstead if he were not wanted. But everything about her—her rigid posture, her sharp tone, and her repeated attempts to back away—spoke of opposition. And the moment she had pulled that gun in open hostility, Thomas had had more than enough.

And it had been for the poor fool’s protection as much as for Cat’s. The lieutenant hadn’t seen that Miss Rowan—she of the blazing hair and equally colorful temper—was, if not quite ready to shoot him, then ready enough to bash him over the head with the heavy butt of her ancient pistol. Her hand had already made the necessary adjustment to do just that, if the bastard attempted to touch her again. Thomas had seen her intent—that cold burning surety—in the sharp clear gray of her eyes.

And Thomas had been happy—damn, bloody, fucking happy—of any excuse to put paid to Birkstead’s absurd ambitions for Miss Rowan. It was juvenile and purely male, the fierce anticipatory satisfaction speeding through his veins. But undeniably great, great fun. The best game of them all.

Thomas had spurred his tall mount forward, glad that he had taken the precaution of bringing two of his Balti
sa’is
with him. He had thought their dark, hulking presence riding ahead and behind the party at a discreet distance would ensure both the party’s privacy and their safety, so he might be able to spend his time more pleasurably in talking to Miss Rowan, but now their imposing presence also served to give greater weight to his.

Birkstead had been so intent upon his own little game of intimidation with Miss Rowan that he did not see the three men until they were nearly upon him.

“Lieutenant Sahib.” Thomas had pitched his voice low with all the dark gravity he had learned from Tanvir Singh’s years upon the road, and directed his mount so that he drew up beside Miss Rowan, and cut off any of Birkstead’s further attempts to come beside her. “The memsahib has spoken her wishes most clearly.”

Birkstead had been both completely flummoxed and suddenly furious to find himself outflanked by the dark-eyed warriors. “By God,” he fumed, looking first one way and then the other to find the view was much the same—blocked by narrow-eyed Balti warriors who looked as if they would slit his throat as easily as a goat’s. “Who the devil do you think you are?”

Thomas had almost smiled at the impotent frustration seething out of the lieutenant, but he kept his countenance grave and sharply inquiring. As if the lieutenant were the greenest recruit. “Thou knowest I am Tanvir Singh, sahib, as thou seest. Thou wast at my tents these few past days buying my horses.”

“I don’t care who you are. You’re not needed here, you
boxwallah
.” He tossed the casual insult at Tanvir Singh. “Go.”

Though they could not speak much Hindi, his Baltis had known enough bazaar talk to take instant umbrage at the lieutenant’s dishonorable slight in calling Tanvir Singh a lowly itinerant peddler, and their answer had been to make aggressively guttural sounds of menacing disdain.

Thomas calmed them with a quiet raised hand, but not until the lieutenant finally had the sense to drop Miss Rowan’s rein.

“Lieutenant Sahib.” Thomas had made his tone mildly chiding, almost patronizing, and shook his head gently, just once, to tell the scarlet-clad officer his posturing was unnecessary, and entirely ineffective. Then he had simply turned to Miss Rowan, ignoring Birkstead completely. “Memsahib, doest thou wish to proceed?”

“Yes, thank you,
huzoor
.” She had kept her eyes on Birkstead as she carefully uncocked her pistol, but then turned away to stow the weapon in the pocket beneath her riding habit. “We’ll be on our way.”

“Huzoor?”
Birkstead’s sneer was scathing. “This devil has imposed upon your trust, Miss Rowan, if you think him worthy of such an honorific. He’s no prince to be called Highness. He’s no more than an itinerant horse trader. And worse.” He glared at Tanvir Singh, as if to show his disdain for the very information that the company relied upon to ensure its wealth.

His clever goddess had leveled Birkstead with a look of severe instruction. “You think not? I know very well
sawar
Tanvir Singh’s profession—which is the same as that of my esteemed grandfather, the brother of his grace the Duke of Hamilton—just as I know yours, Lieutenant. But I also know how to be polite.”

It no longer shocked Thomas, the fine-tempered steel that ran through such a deceptively soft, feminine package. The lieutenant would have done well to respect the sharp blade of Miss Catriona Rowan’s resolve. It might have helped restore his equanimity, for as it was, the man’s face had grown nearly as red as his tunic.

“Good day, Lieutenant Sahib.” Thomas had inclined his head and wheeled his mount, and naturally, Miss Rowan and her intelligent mare moved with him in smooth unison. “Let us talk more of the mare, memsahib.” Thomas kept his ears tuned backward as he and his steely goddess walked their mounts forward. “Thy handling of my little tigress is impressive. A Rajput princess could not have done better. Where didst thou learn the way of horses so well?”

Oh, her smile had been all canny, triumphant delight as she raised her voice just enough to make sure her words carried. “Scotland,
huzoor
. We savages know our horses.”

If Birkstead registered her hit, he did not let it stop him. He refused to be warned. “Don’t turn your back on me, horse trader,” he snarled. “Have a care with this lowborn ruffian, my dear. I’ve heard it said that he killed a man in Ranpur—slit his throat from side to side just so he might watch him bleed to death.”

Miss Catriona Rowan gasped in shock, as much for the children as for herself.

Thomas turned back with one aggressive pivot of the animal beneath him. “Lieutenant Sahib.” He employed the calm, low, commanding tone he had learned from his older brother, Captain William Jellicoe, while his
sa’is
closed ranks against the lieutenant. “I am perfectly willing to treat with thee at any time, as a man treats with another man—thou knows the way to my tents—but thou art frightening the Lord Summers sahib’s children with thy careless, angry talk. It is to no one’s benefit that children should carry tales home to their father, His Excellency, the lord resident commissioner sahib, or to their mother, the lady memsahib.”

Thomas had no idea if it was the mention of Lord or Lady Summers that worked upon the lieutenant, but however it was, the red-coated and red-faced young devil finally gave in to the inevitable. Birkstead reined his mount sharply, yanking at the poor animal’s mouth, and took his hasty leave like the sulking, resentful schoolyard bully he had no doubt once been.

But Thomas had not made the mistake of thinking Birkstead would learn from his lesson, or be prudent enough to put Tanvir Singh and Miss Catriona Rowan from his mind. By no means. The officer would merely nurse his grievances until his sense of wounded pride goaded him to his next imprudent act.

But when he did, both Tanvir Singh and Thomas Jellicoe would be ready.

And it was worth making such an enemy for the look of relief and gratitude on Miss Catriona Rowan’s fair face.

“Thank you very much, Tanvir Singh.” She blew out a long breath, as if she were trying to clear all traces of the confrontation with Lieutenant Birkstead from her lungs, before she turned to the children. “Is everyone to rights?” At their nodding and settling back into the business of their ride, she returned her gaze to him. “That was very kind of you.”

There was that word again—kind.

Tanvir Singh was not supposed to be kind. He was supposed to be ruthless and cunning and slippery. Perhaps he had been too soft on the lieutenant? Perhaps he should have given himself the infinite pleasure of rearranging the lieutenant’s all-too-pretty face? But no, there had been the children present. To discompose them would be to discompose and distress Miss Rowan. He would have to postpone the satisfaction of driving his fist through the lieutenant’s nose for a different day.

He let the children move ahead with the
sa’is
, while he fell in with the object of his obsession. “Think no more of it, Miss Rowan, memsahib. I am most glad to be of assistance to thee.”

“So am I.” She gave him a tight, constrained smile. “I don’t know what I might have done if you have not intervened.”

“I think thou might have bashed the
Badmash
over his very thick head with your pistol. And I think he would have deserved the blow to both his head and to his very great pride.”

“Oh, the gun.” A lovely flush stole across her pale cheeks, though she shook her head slightly, as if she might rid herself of the weapon by not thinking about it. “I loathe guns. I loathe this gun. I can’t think of why I even had it with me.”

She was likely thinking she was in charge of younger children, in a place she did not know very well, and meeting a man she knew even less. And he applauded her for her foresight. The world was not always a benevolent place.

“I fear the lieutenant sahib’s conversation was very shocking to you.”

She smiled her small composed smile and shook her head, all at the same time. The effect was bittersweet. “No, not at all.”

She surprised him. She ought to be shocked. She ought not be sitting so composedly with a man of his rather dubious talents. And it made him want to penetrate that armor of composed self-possession. “It did not shock and repulse you to learn that I have killed a man? I would have thought such a thing must change your good opinion of me.”

Her answer was as quiet as it was unexpected. “Did he speak any part of the truth? Did you kill him just to watch him bleed to death? Did you enjoy the killing of another man?” she asked, her solemn gaze level and unflinching.

She could not have surprised him any more if
she
had slit
his
throat. He took a long moment to breathe the fair morning air into his tight lungs. “No. I did not slit his throat. But I did kill a man. It was a necessity, to stay alive myself. It gave me no pleasure.”

She nodded and looked away. “I understand.”

“Do you? Truly?” She was his remorseful angel, forgiving even as she reminded him of something better, something cleaner and free of deceit.

“We all have our darker shadows, Mr. Singh.”

Impossible. He could not imagine her, his angel, his goddess, burning with anything but bright, untarnished light. But he thought less of himself for testing her so. “Let us talk and think of other, more pleasant things. Thou art all very good riders”—he raised his voice to include the two children in his compliment—“to keep control of your mounts while the lieutenant’s horse was charging about so.”

“Thank you,
huzoor
.” Young Arthur was polite enough, and smart enough, to copy his older cousin’s manners.

As they moved down the lane, Thomas took special care to keep a respectful, careful, and courteous distance between himself and Miss Rowan. If the dung beetle of a lieutenant thought to make trouble for Miss Rowan, any casual observer, and indeed, even those with sharper eyes, would see only that the
sawar
Tanvir Singh was making sure the red-gold goddess of the north knew her business with his extraordinary mare.