Authors: Iris Johansen
He picked up the bottle on the table and poured wine into a goblet. “Would you like a glass?”
“No.”
He lifted the glass to his lips. “Who are you afraid of? Is it your lover?” She didn’t answer.
An object lying on the table caught his attention, and a faint smile touched his lips as he picked it up. “This must have been meant for you.”
The object was an extravagant mask of brown, black, and turquoise peacock feathers. “Pretty thing. I’d like to
see you in it.” He held up the mask to his own eyes. “Would you care to oblige me?”
The exotic mask covered the entire top of his face, and a spray of sable peacock feathers jutted out on either side. His blue eyes shimmered through the almond-shaped holes, and the close fit of the mask enhanced the beautiful molding of his cheekbones. The tawny feathers of the mask were the identical shade as the triangle of hair on his chest and surrounding his manhood, and he looked wild, wicked, and completely male, a rare, splendid creature from an alien land. “No, I’d look foolish in it.”
“What a shame.” He tossed the mask down and half leaned against the table, his mocking gaze fixed on her face. “Now, who could be pursuing you? A husband? Let’s see if I can guess. An aging husband who can’t please you so you’re forced to come here for satisfaction.” He lifted the back of his hand melodramatically to his forehead. “But, alas, the husband follows you and hence—”
“Nonsense. I have no husband.” She frowned. “And if I did, I would not betray him. Promises should be kept.”
“Agreed.” He sipped the wine. “Then we’re back to the lover.” He straightened away from the table and moved over to the bed. “What’s his name?”
How long had she been in this room? she wondered desperately. The air seemed thick and hard to breathe and the situation unbearably intimate. Surely Zabrie would come for her soon.
He lay down on the bed and settled himself comfortably against the headboard. “Talk to me. Since it seems we’re to be imprisoned together for a while, the least we can do is pass the time as pleasantly as possible.”
“I don’t have to entertain you.”
“Ah, yes, the knife.” He smiled as he lifted the wine to his lips. “But I’m strong and quick, and why risk failure when I can be appeased with a little conversation?” He waved at the chair across the room. “Sit down. My name is Ruel MacClaren.”
“Ruel. That’s a strange name.”
“Not in Scotland. It’s a very old name. Sit down,” he repeated. “Aren’t you going to return the courtesy? What’s your name?”
She crossed the room and sat down gingerly on the chair he had indicated. “Jane.”
“Jane what?”
She didn’t reply.
“You’re right, of course. Under the circumstances, last names are a formality that are a bit bizarre, but I find myself wanting to know more about you.” His brow creased in concentration. “Jane …” The frown vanished and he snapped his fingers. “Jane Barnaby. Patrick Reilly. The railroad.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
He chuckled. “You didn’t think I’d make the connection? Your accent is neither English nor Scottish and, though Reilly’s never brought you to the Officers’ Club, there’re not that many Americans in Kasanpore. You’d be surprised how much gossip is floating about town about Reilly and his ‘ward.’”
She flinched. “You’re wrong, I’m not surprised.”
“Is it Reilly you’re hiding from?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you—”
“And why are you in Kasanpore, Mr. MacClaren?”
“Ah, the offensive,” he murmured. “I was expecting that move earlier.” He took another sip of his wine. “I’m trying to get an appointment with the maharajah. I’ve had little luck as yet.”
“Why do you want to see him?”
“He has something I want.” He paused. “Perhaps you could intercede for me. I hear he comes often to examine your progress on the railroad.”
“Which never pleases him.” Her hands clasped together on her lap. “I’d be the last one to influence him.”
“Too bad.” He casually lifted one leg, and the sole of his foot began to rub back and forth on the flat surface of the mattress. “I suppose I’ll just have to look for help elsewhere.”
Her stare was drawn by the motion of his foot, the flexing calf muscles, the contrast of warm, golden skin against the white of the sheet. She quickly shifted her glance up to the bandage she had noticed earlier. “How did you hurt your shoulder?”
“I allowed myself to become distracted and received a severe lesson for my carelessness. It won’t happen again.” He suddenly set the glass on the table by the bed and swung his legs to the floor. “I’m becoming restless, aren’t you? Let’s get out of here.”
“We have to wait for Zabrie.”
“I don’t like waiting.” He strolled over to a chair in a shadowy corner of the room and picked up a white linen shirt. “I don’t like locks.” He was dressing quickly as he spoke. “And I particularly don’t like the idea of a vengeful lover rushing in to skewer me. Under the circumstances, I believe we should both leave the premises.” He sat down on the bed and pulled on his left boot. “Pity. It’s not at all what I had in mind for the evening.”
“How are we supposed to get out? Both doors are locked.”
“We still have a window.”
“We’re on the second floor.”
He drew on his right boot. “A circumstance which can be overcome.”
“I have no intention of breaking a leg trying to jump to the ground.”
“I would have expected you to be more determined.”
“I’m determined to get the railroad built, and I can’t do that by becoming a cripple.”
“The railroad.” He smiled as he rose to his feet. “I forgot about your railroad.” He moved toward the window. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t injure yourself irretrievably.” He sat down on the windowsill and swung his legs out the window. “As far as I can make out, this room must face to the rear. There seems to be an alley below.” He wrinkled his nose. “Yes, definitely an alley. The odor is the same the world over.”
She followed him and peered over his shoulder. Moonlight revealed the narrow alley he had mentioned,
but it seemed very far down. “Are you mad? How are you—”
He jumped to the ground, landing with knees bent and immediately went into a somersault and roll. Then he was springing lithely to his feet and moving to stand beneath the window. “Jump.”
She stared at him with open mouth. “How did you do that?”
“Never mind that now. Jump. I’ll catch you.”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“You won’t be hurt. Trust me.” When she still hesitated, he explained impatiently, “When I was a lad in London I earned my living as a street acrobat for a while.”
The agility she had just witnessed certainly bore testament to his claim. She hesitated, but with freedom in sight she had no desire to sit and wait for Zabrie or be discovered by Pachtal. She sat on the windowsill, her legs dangling over the edge as he had done.
“Good,” he said. He held up his arms. “Now come to me.”
The ground was looking farther away every second.
“What are you waiting for? Just remember to push away from the windowsill when you jump so you won’t hit the wall.”
She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed away from the sill.
For an endless moment she was falling through space.
Ruel plucked her from the air. “Got you.” Then he staggered, cursed, and fell in a heap to the ground.
“Ouch,” he grunted. “Damn, that hurt.”
It took a moment for her to get her breath back. Then she rolled off him and struggled to her knees. “I thought you said you were an acrobat.”
He scowled. “I didn’t say I was a
good
acrobat. That was when I was fifteen and I never could catch worth a tuppence.” He rose painfully to his knees. “That was
why I quit after six months and became a running patterer.”
She glared at him. “You bloody fool. I could have broken my neck!”
“But you didn’t.” He grimaced. “I’m the one who fell on my nether parts into a pile of Lord knows what.”
“How could you take such a—” She broke off and started to laugh helplessly at the foolish sight they must have presented, kneeling there facing each other among the garbage and dung. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her and she realized for the first time how intimidated she had been by the man. She had never before met anyone quite so splendid or enigmatic as Ruel MacClaren and it was a relief to see the human side of him.
He tilted his head, and a slow smile lit his face. “I’ve never heard you laugh before.”
“That shouldn’t surprise you since we’ve known each other less than thirty minutes.”
He got up and helped her to her feet. “I don’t think you laugh over-frequently.” He turned away and moved down the alley toward the corner of the building. “Let’s get away from here before your lover appears. I have no desire to incur any more bruises on your behalf.”
She was immediately jarred back to reality by his words. Sweet Mary, how could she have forgotten the danger Pachtal posed? Yet, for an instant she had forgotten it. She had felt young and happy … and strangely safe.
“I told you I wasn’t hiding from a lover.” She quickly followed Ruel down the alley, rounding the corner just behind him. “You didn’t listen to— Look out!”
A knife descended out of the shadows, arching toward Ruel’s unprotected back.
No time to think. Instinctively she threw herself between Ruel and the dagger, trying to push him aside.
Agony took her breath away as the dagger sliced through her upper arm. As she staggered to the side she caught a blurred glimpse of the assassin. Tall, thin …
the white folds of a turban. Pachtal, she thought dazedly, it had to be Pachtal.
She dimly heard Ruel mutter a curse as he whirled on the man, one hand darting out to grasp the wrist holding the knife, the other closing on the man’s throat.
Darkness. She could no longer see Ruel’s face.
She was slipping down the wall. No, she must stay on her feet and help Ruel. The knife … Pachtal would …
She was being lifted.
Her lids flew open to see Ruel’s grim face above her. “Are you … hurt?” she asked faintly.
“Why should I be hurt?” he said roughly. “I didn’t take the knife.”
“I thought Pachtal … where—” She broke off as she saw their attacker on the ground a few feet away. His mouth was stretched wide in a silent scream; his eyes were open and bulging from their sockets, staring straight ahead. She had never seen him before. “It’s not Pachtal,” she whispered. “Is he dead?”
“Very.” He started to move quickly across the street. “But not in time to help you. Now, be quiet until I get you away from here.”
Something warm and wet was flowing down her arm. “Bleeding.”
“I know you’re bleeding, dammit. I’ll fix it as soon as I can, but I—”
“Good God, what did you do to her?” Another voice with the same Scottish brogue. The owner of the voice stepped out of an alcove and looked down at her.
Abraham Lincoln, she thought hazily as a long, homely face swam into focus. No, this face was cleanshaven, not the bearded visage she had seen in pictures in the newspaper. Besides, Lincoln had been shot, hadn’t he?
“I didn’t do anything to her,” Ruel said curtly. “She took a dagger in the arm meant for me.”
“Dear me, another Mila? You do seem to inspire self-sacrifice in the female gender.”
“I’m glad the situation amuses you, Ian. Are you going to continue to chuckle while she bleeds to death?”
All amusement instantly vanished from the expression of the man Ruel had addressed as Ian. “Is she seriously injured? Put the lass down and let me take a look.”
“She says someone else is after her and I want to get her away from here. Tie your handkerchief around her arm above the wound to lessen the bleeding.”
“Aye.” Ian obeyed, his gaze fixed on her face. “It’s going to hurt a bit, lass.”
It hurt more than a bit. She gasped as he tightened the bandage carefully about her arm.
“Tighter,” Ruel said. “Now isn’t the time to be gentle. The blood’s still flowing, dammit.”
Ian tightened the bandage. She bit her lower lip to keep back the cry of pain, but Ruel must have heard her sudden intake of breath, for his gaze flew to her face. “I know,” he said hoarsely. “But we have to stop it. I’m not going to let you die.” He turned to the other man. “Let’s get her away from here.”
“I’ll carry her,” Ian offered.
“No.” Ruel’s arms tightened possessively around her. “I’ll take care of her. You watch the rear.”
She opened her eyes to see Abraham Lincoln sitting beside her bed.
No, that was wrong, she thought hazily, she had made that mistake before.
“You’re going to be fine, lass. It’s hardly a pinprick, though you bled quite a bit.” He smiled. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I’m Ian MacClaren, Earl of Glenclaren. Ruel’s my brother.”
She glanced down at her arm. She was still fully dressed, but the sleeve of her shirt had been cut away and a neat clean bandage encircled her upper arm. Her gaze flew around the room. “Where—”
“The Nayala Hotel. This is Ruel’s room. When you fainted we decided to bring you here. Ruel said it was closer than your bungalow.”
“I never faint,” she protested.
“Of course not,” he said gravely. “Let’s just say, then, that you were sleeping very hard indeed.”
“Where is Ruel?”
“He was a trifle bloody from carrying you and smelled atrociously, so I sent him next door to my room to change. I was afraid you might be alarmed if you woke and saw him.”
He spoke of sending Ruel off as if he were a naughty little boy, and yet she could not imagine the man she had met at Zabrie’s tamely going off at anyone’s command. Her gaze flew to the darkness beyond the window across the room. “What time is it?”
“Almost one o’clock in the morning. As I said, you had yourself a bit of a nap.”
She struggled to a sitting position. “I have to get back to the bungalow.”
“You can stay here tonight. I’ll bunk in with Ian.” Ruel stood in the doorway. He had changed his clothes and was wearing tan breeches, brown boots, and a crisp white linen shirt. He strolled toward her and she was again aware of that lithe grace of movement she had noticed at Zabrie’s. “I’ll send a message to tell Reilly where you are.”