it?"
He shook his head and took her hand. "This entire area seems to be in an uproar."
"Then where will we go?"
"Sapnagar is still the plan." He looked down to where her hand rested in his, and smiled in some private amusement. Twining his fingers in hers, he overturned their hands, and studied the paleness of her palm. "Some believe your fate is written here," he said, tracing the long line from her middle finger to her wrist. The touch had a disproportionately strong affect; a bolt of heat shot through her stomach. His fingers moved to bracket her wrist, rubbing lightly over the creases that ringed the base of her palm. "These, here, signify great good fortune. And here"—his caress shifted back to the long line dividing her palm—"is your life line. You'll live a long, healthy time."
What poppycock. And yet—she supposed that the fact she still lived might be considered good fortune. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself, old and bent, battered but still surviving. Everyone she had known, gone. No one and nothing remaining but herself. It seemed a ridiculous thing to wish for. She did not like to hear that it might be inevitable.
She withdrew her palm. "A bath," she said. "Please."
* * *
The pond stood within a grove of peepul trees at a slight remove from the village. Peacocks roamed the fragrant bushes of tuberose and jasmine, and the surface of the water formed a perfect mirror for the violet dusk above. Julian had noticed that she had an eye for beauty, but she stiffened as she came into the clearing. When she reached out to catch his arm, he realized he had expected this. Had been waiting for it.
"I thought—" Her fingers worked convulsively into his skin. "I don't know what I thought." She let go of him and sank onto a rock, fingering her braid. "Go ahead. I'll wait here."
He lowered himself to her side. She had no talent for hiding her thoughts; her eyes always gave her away. They lingered now, anxious, on the pond. "I wish I had my sketchbook," she said. When he did not reply, she turned to him inquiringly.
He made a pointed survey of her, toes to head. Ah, and there came the color back into her cheeks. He was developing a rather perverse taste for making her blush; no doubt it was related to his curiosity about how far down the blush actually traveled.
"What?" she said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You said you wanted to bathe. This is where the villagers come for it. I had to make a special request that we be left alone for a bit." He leaned forward, placing a hand on her knee; her breath audibly caught as he slid a finger down her soft calf. It occurred to him that his motivations might not be as noble as he told himself. A great deal of him simply wanted to get her down to her shift.
Ah, well. He'd made no bids for sainthood. "You would not believe how many villagers are curious to know what a memsahib looks like out of her skirts." He felt terribly in sympathy with them on that account. "There's a rumor that English mems must be deformed. Why else would they need to disguise their limbs with such strange conical contraptions?"
She shot him a laughing look, evidently trying to determine whether or not he was serious. The crests of her cheeks were scattered with new freckles. It was not a look generally sought by Englishwomen; he wondered if they would change their minds if they knew how tempting such sunspots could be. Like a map bidding a man to trace them with his lips, his tongue.
He pressed forward. "Emma, you do realize that if you want to return to England, you'll have to travel by ship?"
Her laughter faded. He felt the loss of it physically, like a muscle pulled in his chest, as she turned away. She ripped a flower from the ground and began to pluck away the petals. "I have nightmares. I admit that. And I would not feel at peace in the water any longer. But it doesn't mean I can't board a ship."
"It's your choice to swim or not," he said. "But better to face it here than
He shook his head and took her hand. "This entire area seems to be in an uproar."
"Then where will we go?"
"Sapnagar is still the plan." He looked down to where her hand rested in his, and smiled in some private amusement. Twining his fingers in hers, he overturned their hands, and studied the paleness of her palm. "Some believe your fate is written here," he said, tracing the long line from her middle finger to her wrist. The touch had a disproportionately strong affect; a bolt of heat shot through her stomach. His fingers moved to bracket her wrist, rubbing lightly over the creases that ringed the base of her palm. "These, here, signify great good fortune. And here"—his caress shifted back to the long line dividing her palm—"is your life line. You'll live a long, healthy time."
What poppycock. And yet—she supposed that the fact she still lived might be considered good fortune. She had a fleeting glimpse of herself, old and bent, battered but still surviving. Everyone she had known, gone. No one and nothing remaining but herself. It seemed a ridiculous thing to wish for. She did not like to hear that it might be inevitable.
She withdrew her palm. "A bath," she said. "Please."
* * *
The pond stood within a grove of peepul trees at a slight remove from the village. Peacocks roamed the fragrant bushes of tuberose and jasmine, and the surface of the water formed a perfect mirror for the violet dusk above. Julian had noticed that she had an eye for beauty, but she stiffened as she came into the clearing. When she reached out to catch his arm, he realized he had expected this. Had been waiting for it.
"I thought—" Her fingers worked convulsively into his skin. "I don't know what I thought." She let go of him and sank onto a rock, fingering her braid. "Go ahead. I'll wait here."
He lowered himself to her side. She had no talent for hiding her thoughts; her eyes always gave her away. They lingered now, anxious, on the pond. "I wish I had my sketchbook," she said. When he did not reply, she turned to him inquiringly.
He made a pointed survey of her, toes to head. Ah, and there came the color back into her cheeks. He was developing a rather perverse taste for making her blush; no doubt it was related to his curiosity about how far down the blush actually traveled.
"What?" she said. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You said you wanted to bathe. This is where the villagers come for it. I had to make a special request that we be left alone for a bit." He leaned forward, placing a hand on her knee; her breath audibly caught as he slid a finger down her soft calf. It occurred to him that his motivations might not be as noble as he told himself. A great deal of him simply wanted to get her down to her shift.
Ah, well. He'd made no bids for sainthood. "You would not believe how many villagers are curious to know what a memsahib looks like out of her skirts." He felt terribly in sympathy with them on that account. "There's a rumor that English mems must be deformed. Why else would they need to disguise their limbs with such strange conical contraptions?"
She shot him a laughing look, evidently trying to determine whether or not he was serious. The crests of her cheeks were scattered with new freckles. It was not a look generally sought by Englishwomen; he wondered if they would change their minds if they knew how tempting such sunspots could be. Like a map bidding a man to trace them with his lips, his tongue.
He pressed forward. "Emma, you do realize that if you want to return to England, you'll have to travel by ship?"
Her laughter faded. He felt the loss of it physically, like a muscle pulled in his chest, as she turned away. She ripped a flower from the ground and began to pluck away the petals. "I have nightmares. I admit that. And I would not feel at peace in the water any longer. But it doesn't mean I can't board a ship."
"It's your choice to swim or not," he said. "But better to face it here than
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