Scandal in the Night (17 page)

And watching her. Always watching. And admiring the way she had with the children—her easy camaraderie and diligent care, her readiness to sacrifice her own wants and needs for theirs. She was devoted to them. Perhaps too much so.

So he conspired to find some acceptable way to get her alone.

Colonel Balfour was not enthusiastic. “You mean to bring the new resident commissioner’s niece here to meet Mina? To visit the
harim
?” he had asked. “What game do you think to play here?”

That afternoon they had been speaking in Arabic—the harsh, throaty inflections of the language itself another reminder to Thomas that he had other, more important responsibilities, that as Tanvir Singh, he ought to be playing a greater and more important game than chasing an
angrezi
girl. And that he needed to be aware that the words they spoke were meant not to be heard or understood by others. It was an old conceit—the colonel had long ago gotten Thomas into the habit of speaking a changing assortment of languages during their private meetings, which they most often undertook while sitting on comfortable cushions in the shade of the courtyard near to the fountain, where the babble of the water would fill the ears of anyone impertinent enough to try and listen to the colonel and his great friend Tanvir Singh.

Thomas met the colonel’s mild reproof with questions of his own. “You can have no objection to the girl herself. You saw her here at your party. She was everything beautiful and charming. And the begum approved of her.”

“Not exactly approved, Tanvir, but yes, the begum spoke of your visit to the garden that night. I must also ask if you think it wise, Tanvir, to be disappearing into gardens with young English girls?”

It was the farthest thing from wise, but he wasn’t prepared to let it stop him. “She’s not English, she’s Scots. And she’s not like them—the other English girls. She’s…”

Perhaps his old friend had recognized the futility of trying to appeal to Thomas’s better senses because the colonel tried a different approach. “And what does the resident commissioner, Lord Summers, have to say about you escorting his niece through dark gardens? And out riding every morning? And inviting her here to visit the
harim
?”

It should have given him pause, that second warning that his comings and goings with Catriona Rowan had already been remarked upon, and reported to the colonel. That Miss Rowan and he had already become the subject of notice and scrutiny. He should have appreciated the irony of the fact that Tanvir Singh, who had built his career on knowing exactly what to make of seemingly idle rumors, was now the subject of such speculative chitchat.

But Thomas did not stop. He did not pause. He did not listen.

Instead he carried on, justifying his risky pursuit of the girl with a careless wave of his hand. “I did not invite the resident commissioner. I invited Miss Rowan. It is for her to convince her uncle, or not.” And he had shrugged to show the colonel that the result was of no difference to him.

“And what does Mina have to say about this invitation? No, don’t answer that. I know my daughter—she will be delighted. But what about the begum? Have you asked
her
if you may invite this English girl into her home? Into her private retreat?”

“I have, Excellency. Of course I have.” He had chosen not to comprehend Balfour’s reticence. “Miss Rowan is not like the other memsabs, whose nostrils pinch up at the thought of spending time amongst the
natives
. She does not want to spend her time shut up in the halls of the residency, or taking sedate rides along the cantonment’s manicured avenues. She wants to see Hind and understand it the way you and I do.”

“Tanvir, listen to yourself, my son. You and I are a dying breed. In this day and age, in this political climate, she is to become like us? You ask the impossible.”

Thomas had known Colonel Balfour was right. But still he had pushed on, twisting his wishes into justification. “I know I may not spend that kind of time with her. That is why I wish to introduce her to the begum and Mina. So she will have friends, and I may wash my hands of her.” Thomas changed the subject quite purposelly to one that was sure to engage the colonel’s attention and approval. “I cannot linger here much longer. Tensions in the court of the Lion of the Punjab, the maharajah, are high. The talk is of another war.”

Colonel Balfour gave his immediate attention to such serious talk. “Ah. And what of the Maharajah Ranjiit Singh’s enemies? What say you of the Khan in Kabul, or his old enemy, the Shah in Peshawar?”

Thomas was glad of the noise of the fountain covering their conversation from curious ears. “Not enough of Kabul, but it is said in Lahore that Shuja Shah Durrani is a puppet who will act only as the Lion of the Punjab bids him.” But Thomas could not sustain his own attention. His gaze kept straying to the closed gate to the palace grounds in anticipation. “But let me see Miss Rowan introduced to the ladies of the
harim,
and then we will talk more of Kashmir and Peshawar.”

“Will we?” The colonel proved not to be so easily diverted after all. “And when will we talk of Lord Summers? And of the talk
you
keep postponing with him?”

“His Excellency has been fully apprised of the situation in the Punjab, and the ramifications to his company.”

“Tanvir.” His mentor had fixed a gentle, penetrating eye upon him to let him know that Thomas was fooling no one with his doublespeak. “And does he understand the
pedigree
of this information you bring him?”

It was so like the colonel to be circumspect even though they were assured of privacy, to leave nothing to chance should a stray word appear on the wrong lips. But Thomas had been diverted himself by the sound of the great carved outer door swinging open. “We will talk more later, for I see our guest at your gates.”

“Your guest, not mine. Go, then, for I will get nothing more out of you until you’ve satisfied yourself with her. I will go inform my ladies of their guest. But heed me well, Tanvir. Leave her to the women and concern yourself no more with the resident commissioner’s household. It is nothing but a dangerous game you play.”

But Thomas had not heeded well. He had barely listened. He had hastened—no, he hadn’t hastened. He had
wanted
to hasten. He had wanted to rush across the space between them until he was with her. But he had disciplined himself—or so he thought—and had risen slowly, and with grace, and bowed to his host graciously before he strolled to meet Miss Catriona Rowan in the middle of the courtyard. It was she, he had noted with some pleasure, who had hastened toward him.

“Tanvir Singh.” Her eyes were shining in the pale oval of her face. “Thank you for arranging for my visit here today.”

“Memsahib.” He took her hand in greeting. “Thou art most welcome here.” And before he could think better of the impulse, he gave way to the force of his attraction to her. He lowered his head to press a kiss upon her hand—a simple touch of his lips to the soft, silken skin at the turn of her wrist, no more. But her flesh was subtly perfumed with the delicate scent of lemons, and his eyes slid shut while he inhaled her essence. His head swam as if he had drunk forbidden alcoholic spirits. Smitten.

Foolishly, dangerously, increasingly smitten. So smitten he wanted to slide his cheek along the lemony appeal of her soft skin. He wanted to turn her wrist and do away with the buttons guarding the tight barrier of her sleeve. He wanted to touch his tongue and his teeth to the sensitive tendons there. He wanted to fall into the soft surety of her, this flame-bright warrior goddess of his dreams.

But he did not. He was a gentleman. He straightened up.

Her freckled cheeks flushed with high color. “Thank you,
huzoor
. I’m rather excited myself.” Her voice had been soft and breathless with the first awakening of pleasure, and she had looked at him with fresh regard, her eyes searching his face, before she turned away to look around the nearly empty courtyard while she regained her composure. “Is no one else here? I thought I was to meet the ladies of the house? The place seems rather deserted.”

He had rather it were deserted so he might keep her to himself. But they were undoubtedly already under the watchful eyes of the curious
zenana.
“Thy Scots hardiness lets thee travel out in the heat of the afternoon when others nod comfortably on their divans.”

“Oh, no. Have I come at the wrong time, when everyone is resting? I could not come any sooner, until I could leave the children safely occupied or taking their naps.”

“It is no matter.” He smiled over her worries. “It is always rest time in the
zenana
, and Mina has been looking forward to meeting thee. As has the begum.”

“Mina? That is her name? How enchanting. But what is her title that I may address her correctly?”

“Mina will do, whilst she is here among her family. I have known the colonel since the day in my youth when I rode into Saharanpur with a few horses to sell. He took me under his wing. He has been like a father to me, and his family, his children, are like brothers and sisters to me as well. I could not enter the
zenana
otherwise. But now that Mina is married to the son of the Nawab of Ranpur, I see but very little of her.”

“But she must be very fine, then, the princess? I’ve never been introduced to one before—a princess. Will I do?”

Thomas allowed himself the pleasure of pretending to judge the suitability of her slate-blue riding habit—a color he disapproved of as being too like gray for his tastes—while he more particularly admired the cut of the bodice and the way the jacket fit so snugly, accentuating her small waist and her firm upturning …

Damn him for a jackal.

“Do not be uneasy, mem. Mina may be a princess, but she is still just a woman like you.”

“Hardly.” Her answering smile was accompanied by a wry tone. “I think you may be too often in the sole company of your men to understand. My aunt is only married to the third son of a duke, and she depreciates my ancestry to a considerable extent—my father’s ancestry in particular, since I share her ancestral relation to the Duke of Hamilton on the other side of the family. But if even Lady Summers is so nice about caste, I can only imagine what the wife of a prince will think of my lowly antecedents.”

He tried to smile kindly to reassure her—to try and repair such a hurt as the Lettice Summerses of this world could inflict with their carefully cutting words. “A prince is still a man. In the Sikh way of thinking, all men are equal in the eyes of God. As are all women—in my religion, both men and woman are equal in the eyes of God.”

If he had hoped to astonish or impress her, he fell short. She thought about his revolutionary pronouncement for a long moment, before she answered, her eyes twinkling with sharp intelligence. “An admirably enlightened philosophy,
huzoor,
to be sure. An
ideal
philosophy. Which I share. I, too, think all men and women must be equal in the eyes of God, but I also think that they can never be equal in the eyes of other men, and certainly not in the eyes of other women. Nor do I think all women are equal in the eyes of most men.” She turned that deliciously sparkling gaze upon him. “Do you not make a distinction between people based upon their beauty? You are a handsome man. Do you not use this to your advantage? Do you not aspire to take an equally handsome wife?”

“You flatter me, mem.” And he was flattered. Deeply so. Her regard was like a sharp inhalation of hashish, sending him into raptures, encouraging him to return her regard even more openly. At last she was seeing him as a man.

“Is that wrong?” she asked quietly. “And I hope I don’t give offense. I realize I don’t know much about your philosophy, or your religion. I don’t mean to make fun of you, but as my mother always said, ‘handsome is as handsome does.’ Which I took to mean that handsome people will always look for other handsome people to have and hold. Not to do so would go against all human nature.”

His own mother, the Countess Sanderson, herself an extraordinarily handsome woman, had always said much the same thing, but with different intent. “Ah. Perhaps I mistake thy English idiom, but I would think thy honored mother’s adage means that a person is only as handsome on the surface as they are prepared to act. If their actions and especially their thoughts are not as handsome as their face, then they are ugly in the eyes of God.”

She drew to a stop, and reached toward him, all solemn, grave intent. “No one can be ugly in the eyes of God. Of nothing else am I confident, but of this, I am sure.”

Everything about her—her very soul—spoke to him. “Thou couldst give no offense. Never. Because thou speakest the truth.”

She did touch him then. She reached for his hand and took it with a gentle squeeze, as if she did not trust her feelings to words. The warm pressure of her touch was as fleeting as his kiss had been, and yet he felt it just as strongly, like warm honey poured over his skin.

He took hold of her hand before she could withdraw it. “Thou art as intelligent as a princess. And beautiful.”

“Now you
are
flattering me. I think we shall dance on in this fashion—back and forth, and forth and back—without answers, until we are all out of compliments for each other.”

“Impossible.” It had taken days, and lashings of charm, but at last she was warming to flirtation, and to the intimate rapport between them. “But perhaps thou wilt be so kind as to defer thy compliments for another day, because I can see from the flutter of silk behind the screened windows above that thy arrival is most eagerly awaited within, and I will be roundly scolded for keeping thee to myself.”

She glanced up at the walls without seeing beyond the surface. “I cannot imagine anyone scolding you, Tanvir Singh. Nor you accepting a scolding like a schoolboy.”

Thomas laughed. “You have not yet met the begum, Miss Rowan. Just as the colonel has been like a father to me, so too the begum has been a most honored mother. So pray, let us not keep the honored lady waiting. Nor her daughter, who will be more voluble with her insults to me if thou art not delivered to her in good time.”