1823, a walled house north of London
An hour later, when Michael was well into his second glass of brandy,
Nageena Kaur brought saucers of olives, chupatti, dal paste, and dried
apricots into the room where he was to contend with Miss Holcombe. "The
young woman will be here soon," she said, placing the dishes on a sideboard.
"Is there more I can do for you?"
"See to it we are not disturbed, if you will. No matter what you hear." He
smiled at Birindar's wife, who was practically vibrating with curiosity. "I
will not dishonor her. You know that. But I'll probably make her angry."
"She is angry now, Syr. But she has not shown it to the family, and she has
been kind to the children. We are pleased to have her in our home."
It was Miranda Holcombe who needed kindness, he was thinking as Nageena Kaur
left the room. But she wouldn't be getting any from him. His intentions were
precisely the opposite, and telling himself he would be cauterizing a wound
made it no easier. Hell, he wasn't at all sure what to do, except that the
other possibilities seemed even worse than the course he had chosen.
First he meant to rouse her temper, the one she pretended not to have, and
prod her into a fight. He was rather looking forward to that. Then, with her
too angry at him to notice, he would draw in the net, a little at a time,
until she was irrevocably trapped.
He took his bottle and glass to a low cushioned bench, where he settled
himself cross-legged with the fire at his back. The loose muslin trousers
Birindar had provided were too short for his legs, the tunic fit snug across
his shoulders, and his feet were bare, but the wine-colored banyon
embroidered with gold thread made him look marginally civilized . . . so
long as you ignored a day's growth of beard. He hadn't thought his hand
steady enough to shave.
Holding out his glass, he watched the brandy undulate. Focused his mind.
Willed himself to grow calm.
After a while, the surface of the liquid became smooth and still, like a
mountain lake. The lake at Naini Tal, at the end of the tiger's path, where
the goddess had come to live.
He reached to the deepest part of him, to where things he must not reveal
huddled in silence, and drew them out. One by one he consigned them to the
lake, giving each what time it needed to sink into the black water, for some
flaws were more difficult than others to release. Small rituals.
Preparations for battle. Hari had taught him how to let go of all but his
purpose, to count neither the cost nor the punishment, to be at peace with
what he must do.
Empty at last of what he feared and what would make him weak, he raised the
glass and tipped the brandy down his throat. Drowning the monsters, he'd
used to call it, until he acknowledged the monsters that could never be
extinguished. After that, he gave up the name, but could never hit upon a
good reason to give up the drinking.
Miranda would disapprove, he supposed. Was there anything about him that she
would approve? And why ask, when he bloody well knew the answer?
She arrived just as he was refilling his glass, entering so silently that
he, who had been watching for her with every nerve end on edge, missed the
opening and closing of the door. When he glanced up, expecting to see
nothing, there she was. The goddess of the lake.
In an instant, he drank in the whole of her. Gloved hands held motionless at
her sides, she stood demure as a nun in her unadorned sage-green gown.
Demure except for that wanton tumble of silver-gilt hair over her shoulders,
and the fierce passion held barely in check, and the blue eyes fixed on him
like a pair of bayonets. If a glacier could go on fire, it would look
exactly as she looked at this moment.
His hands started shaking again.
"You summoned me, Your Grace?"
It always amazed him how much expression she could put into that whispery
voice. With no perceptible increase in sound, she could shout at you, or
rebuke you, or curl your toes with her sarcasm. He'd once confronted, alone
and unarmed, a band of Thugees with less trepidation than he felt at this
moment.
"You'd have come after me anyway," he said. "Drink?"
"I expect you'll drink enough for the both of us. You recanted your
confession, I gather."
"It stands, except I have to refine it a little, to account for my absence
from London at the time of the murder. A simple matter, and I'll get around
to it shortly. In the meantime, there's your confession to deal with."
"But you've done that already, by preventing me from delivering it. For the
time being. You can't hold me here indefinitely."
"Why not?" He rested his hands on his knees, trying to look relaxed and in
control of the situation. "Besides, it won't be all that long. Once the
murderer is executed, no one will care what you have to say. The authorities
sure as hell won't admit they hanged the wrong culprit, and they won't rush
out and hang you as well, just because you insist on it. They'll rule you
mad, Miss Holcombe, and put you away where madwomen are put."
She paled. "The truth should be told, sir."
"Maybe. But it won't come from either of us, will it? The only question is,
which lie will win the day? And since I've answered that by having you
brought here, what have we left to talk about?"
"Nothing whatever." She came a little forward, the fingers curled against
her skirts betraying more than she realized. "If you won't listen to
reason."
"I'm all ears, Miranda. Have at me." The use of her first name was
deliberate, and the flash in her eyes told him she recognized the opening
move of an aggressive campaign.
"I mean to," she said with undisguised scorn. "By what authority do you
interfere with where I go or what I do? You have no right, none, to meddle
in my affairs."
"I don't deny it." How could he? That very morning, he'd said much the same
to a meddling Archangel. "But what is that to the point? I've done what was
necessary, and I'll get away with it because you cannot prevent me."
The next he knew, a missile was sailing in the direction of his head. He
jerked aside just in time. The object whizzed past his ear, shattering
against the fireplace. Shortly after, he heard a sizzling noise and smelled
burning olives.
Miranda, eyes round as the saucer she'd thrown at him, looked shocked.
He clicked his tongue. "Is that the best you can do?"
"Is it your habit to ride roughshod over helpless females? Abduct them.
Imprison them?" She had clasped her hands behind her back, as if to keep
them from misbehaving.
He wanted her to misbehave, to do worse than that. The habit of discipline
was too strong in her. "Helpless? I very much doubt it. And you are the one
resolved to dive into a prison cell. I merely changed the venue from Newgate
to this house. Resign yourself, Miss Holcombe. From here on out, you will do
as I say."
This time he was ready. He saw her quiver, as if she'd break apart and fly
off in all directions. And then she directed her fury to a single action. In
a flash, another saucer was skimming toward his head.
It struck his cheekbone hard, ricocheted off, and bounced across the carpet.
Its contents, a stack of flat chupatti bread, landed on his lap.
The blow hurt, undeniably, and must have cut open his cheek. He felt a warm
trickle of blood making its way down his face.
Miranda, another saucer in her hand, gazed at him with astonishment. "You
didn't duck," she said. It was an accusation.
He shrugged. "Nothing you can say or do will stop me, but you have every
right to be angry. Go ahead. Throw all of them. I promise to hold still."
"That . . . rather removes the incentive." She looked down at the saucer she
was holding. After a moment, she laid it gently on the side table and picked
up a napkin. "Your face is bleeding, sir. Shall I tend to it?"
The prospect of being so close to her, of being touched by her . . . But it
was an indulgence he couldn't afford. They had too far to go on this
journey, and for much of the way, she must continue to despise him. "That's
not necessary," he said. "But I'll take the napkin."
Flushing slightly, she brought it over to him and then backed away, but not
so far as she had been standing before.
Progress of a sort, he supposed, pouring a little brandy over the napkin
before pressing it to his cheekbone. The cut burned like the devil.
Reckoning that it would please her, he produced an exaggerated wince.
"Explain to me," she said, "because truly, I do not understand. Why will you
not permit me to make my own decisions? What is it to you if I accept
responsibility for my crime? I am perfectly willing to do so. And why do you
refuse to accept that I killed the duke?"
"In order, then," he said amiably. "You are making bad decisions, and I
suspect you rarely do. I've made it my business to obstruct your plans
because mine are better. And as for you killing-"
"Don't tell me it's because you did it." The anger was back in her eyes. "I
know how you look at me, how everyone has always looked at me. You see a . .
. a plaster statue in a church. A fresco on a convent wall. And because I
appear gentle and virtuous, you think me incapable of hatred. Of devious
schemes and murderous intentions. Of vengeance."
He regarded her for a time, considering. "As a matter of fact, I think you
more than capable of plotting a murder and carrying it out. But not, my
dear, for the sake of stolen property."
