The Shadow's Kiss - Chapter 1

THE SHADOW’S KISS

Some there be that shadows kiss;

Such have but a shadow’s bliss.

--The Merchant of Venice

 CHAPTER ONE

Delhi, 1857                 

            The garden was not cool, but it was quiet.  Emmaline turned her face into the sultry breeze and let her eyes drift shut, wondering if Mrs. Greeley had been speaking the truth.  Either way, the woman must have been surprised at Emmaline’s impassive reception of the news.  It was unpleasant, of course; one didn’t often learn that one’s betrothed was conducting a torrid affair with a respectably married woman.  But the act seemed entirely in keeping with the person Marcus had become since their engagement.

            Perhaps it was this land that had changed him so.  Emmaline had only been here a few weeks, but she already sensed that India had taken hold of her: loosening her tongue, widening her eyes.  Even now, when her mind should have been racing with the implications of Mrs. Greeley’s revelation, the gentle swaying of the trees and the parrots twittering in the branches above distracted her from all thought, lulling her with the magic of thick, jasmine-scented darkness.  From over the bungalow walls floated the creaks of rickshaws, and in the distance the raucous cries of street vendors seemed to summon images of leaping torchlight, fragrant sandalwood and Oriental mysticism.

            A cow lowed in the distance, and she felt a brief stirring of pity, imagining he was confused at the excess of liberty granted him by the native culture.  As to why the cows were encouraged to wander freely through the streets, Marcus had told her that the Hindus believed them to be some sort of deity, but he hadn’t been able to elaborate.  Marcus was often impatient with details.

            This party, for instance.  He should have told her, given her some warning regarding the people she would meet.  Within five minutes it had become clear that Delhi society was no friend to her, that news of the shipwreck and her “dishonorable” rescue had tainted local opinion.  But instead he’d let her march inside like a lamb to the slaughter, encouraging her to mingle with the sharp-tongued harpies whilst he conferred with the Commissioner.  All this, and then to discover he was having an affair with the hostess!  Well, it was clear that whatever they did when alone together, Marcus had not reviewed Lady Eversham’s wine list for her, since he was possessed of the most impeccable taste in vintages.  With a faint, disgusted scoff she tossed the remnants of her bordeaux into the shrubbery.  “Pig swill,” she muttered.

            The quiet laugh startled her, and she gasped, squinting into the shadows.  “Who’s there?”

            A form emerged from the trees, offering her a toast from a silver flask.  “Pig swill indeed,” he said, lifting the pocket pistol to his lips for a long swallow.

            She relaxed slightly at the Oxford accent, which complemented a deliciously low, rough voice.  “Pray do not relay my sentiments to our hostess, sir.”  Or perhaps do, she added silently. 

            Another step brought him full out of darkness, and she suppressed another gasp, this time at the man’s extraordinary beauty.  She had certainly never seen him before-- or any man like him.  He was taller even than Marcus, a full head over her own considerable height.  His eyes were a luminescent green-gold, cat-like as they reflected the faint light spilling from the bungalow.  They watched her as though he waited for something.

            “Are we acquainted?” she blurted out, knowing very well they were not.

            He gave her a faint smile.  “No.”

            When he said nothing more, she arched a brow, returning rude stare for rude stare.  At least, she hoped it was rude, for she suspected she might be ogling him.  She had never seen such thick, coal-black hair on an Englishman, at least not paired with such flawless, faintly golden skin.  Doubt flickered through her mind, but it was immediately quashed.  Of course he was English.  The long, straight nose, the high cheekbones, the flawlessly sculpted lips and the squared, firm jaw—all spoke of the highest aristocratic background.  The lazy grace with which he held himself made her acutely aware of her own less-than-ladylike slouch.  She straightened, lifting her face towards the stars.

            “A lovely night,” she said politely.

            “Pleasant weather,” he agreed, eliciting a startled laugh from her.

            “You must be joking!” she said, when he tilted his head in question.  “It’s dreadfully hot.”

            He sighed.  “Do you think so?  Then I suggest you withdraw to Almora.  The hill stations are quite the social scene this time of year.”

            His reference to the tradition of retreating to the Himalayan foothills during the hot weather sounded almost contemptuous.  “You don’t plan to go?”

            “Business holds me here.”

            “Business!”  Now thoroughly intrigued, she stepped forward.  “Then you’re not in the ICS?”  Everyone she had met so far was in the ICS or the army.

            He laughed, flashing strong white teeth.  “The Indian Civil Service?  Dear God, no.  I see my reputation does not precede me.”

            “Oh, is it very bad?”  The question was out of her mouth before she could reconsider, and she blushed as he laughed again.

            “It’s even worse.”

            When she realized he wasn’t going to elaborate, she ventured to continue.  “You’ll have to tell me about it yourself; I’ve only just arrived in Delhi, you see.”

            “Really?”  He sounded intrigued.  “I didn’t know they raised chits like you in England.”

            “Chits like me?” she repeated, frowning.  “Are you being insulting?”

            He smiled.  “I meant you seem to have some spirit.”

            “I think you are being insulting,” she decided on a sniff, raising her chin.  “To both England and myself.”

            “Well then,” he drawled, rolling his shoulders in a panther-like stretch.  “Now you’ve discovered the first part of my reputation: I am considered terribly ill-mannered.”

            “I knew that the moment I saw you,” she rejoined smartly.  “The polite gentleman would refrain from drinking spirits in the presence of a lady.”

            His brows rose.  “And a lady would not call her hostess’s champagne-- what was it?  Pig swill, I believe?”

            Her laughter was reluctant, but genuine.  “You have found me out.  I am a black sheep as well.  Really, it’s a wonder my fiance will have me.”

            “Paragon of virtue, is he?”

            “Not quite,” she said dryly.  “But they’ll forgive him just about anything.”  While she realized this conversation was utterly inappropriate, it was the most fun Emmaline had had since she’d arrived in Bombay six months ago.  “They call him the Darling of Delhi.”

            “He sounds dreadfully dull.  Do I know him?”

            “Oh, you must.  This party is in honor of us, you know-- of our engagement.”  His sudden stillness made her frown, and she searched his face, concerned she might have embarrassed him.  “If you don’t know who the party’s for, I promise not to tell,” she teased.

            “Oh, I know.”  His voice was very soft now.  “That would make you Miss Martin.” 

            “Indeed,” she said brightly.  “And now you must tell me your name, so I won’t be at a disadvantage.”

            His cat’s eyes moved over her shoulder, and he smiled again, this time rather unpleasantly.  “Here comes your betrothed,” he said, and took a deep swig from the flask.

            “Emmaline!  There you are!”

            She turned back towards the doors, shielding her eyes from the light.  “Marcus!”  He was yanking his cravat in place, and she wondered acidly if he hadn’t been waylaid by their hostess somewhere between the Commissioner and the garden.  “I was taking some air.  These petticoats are horribly ill-suited to the climate.”

            Marcus stepped out into the yard.  “I hardly think that’s appropriate for public discussion,” he said severely.  “And I did warn you about the weather, but you insisted--”  His voice died away as he stared at her companion.  “What in blazes are you doing here?”

            “I told you, I just--”  She halted as she realized he was not addressing her.  “Oh, this gentleman?  He--”

            “Lindley,” the man said curtly.  “A pleasure, as always.”

            Marcus made a rude noise.  “I’m sure I can’t say the same.  I had no idea Lady Eversham was so indiscriminate with her guest list.”

            Emmaline gasped, shocked.  Having a bit of fun at the expense of propriety, as she had been doing, was one thing-- but Marcus was being a boor!  “Marcus, really.  This gentleman--”

            “Knows he is not welcome,” Marcus finished coldly.  “Not anywhere I am, and certainly nowhere near my future wife.  I would suggest you leave now, Holdensmoor.”

            The man bowed, slipping the flask inside his jacket.  “Of course.  Accept my congratulations on your betrothal, Lindley.  Miss Martin is utterly charming."

            “You soil her by speaking of her,” Marcus snapped.  “Beware lest I call you out for your impudence.”

            Now she was truly alarmed.  Something about this dark, mysterious man made her think that he would be more than Marcus’s match.  “This is insane, Marcus!”

            “Come with me.”  His hand tightening cruelly into her forearm, Marcus all but dragged her back into the bungalow.

            “I cannot believe your behavior!”  Emmaline whispered furiously, wincing at the sudden brightness of numerous gas lamps and candelabras.  “How could you behave so boorishly!”
            “How could I?” Marcus growled, pulling her around to face him.  “Do you know who that man is?  Do you know?”

            “Stop shaking me!” she snapped, yanking away.  “What has come over you?”

            “That is my cousin,” he managed, his face purple.  “That is the half-breed who would have the dukedom instead of me.”

            “That--”  She stopped, understanding.  “That man is Julian Sinclair?”

            "One and the same,” he said with bitter satisfaction.

            She turned away, staring blindly towards the dancers.  Marcus had written to her of his second cousin, Julian Sinclair.  Sinclair’s father Jeremy had married an Anglo-Indian-- a woman of mixed British and native descent-- when he had thought his brother the Marquis would have the dukedom.  But then the Marquis had died in a hunting accident, leaving Jeremy to inherit.  Tragically, Jeremy had died shortly thereafter of complications arising from cholera.  That left his young son Julian as heir to the dukedom—Julian, whose blood was one-quarter native.

            Now Julian Sinclair was grown, and his grandfather, the current Duke, had made sure through every legal means that his grandson would follow him in the succession.  But Marcus could not accept the idea that a man of mixed blood might be the next duke, when Marcus, pure-blooded English and in line after Sinclair to inherit, might himself wear the strawberry leaves so well.

            “But he didn’t seem Indian,” she whispered to herself.

            “Of course he didn’t!”  Marcus exploded.  “The Duke has done everything in his power to make Sinclair seem British.  Eton, Oxford, even a seat in the House of Lords, for heaven’s sake.  But while a man can ape his betters, he can’t change his blood.  Oh, no!  And the proudest title in England is soon to go to a half-breed mongrel, if I don’t do something to stop it!”
            She looked back to him, stunned.  “Marcus, you sound so… so hateful.”

            He stared at her, his mouth thinning into a grim line. “Is that so?” he finally sneered.  “Think, you’ve only been here for five days, and already you’re starting to pant after the natives.  What would your parents say?”

            She winced, snaring a glass of champagne from a passing footman.  “That is cruel.”

            “But true,” he said coldly.  “Even in death, they knew the honor of being Martins.” 

            She took a deep swallow of the fizz, shutting her eyes against the image of her parents’ faces as the massive ocean closed over them.  The pain of their deaths was still fresh; even after five months, she often awoke panting from nightmares of drowning with them.  Only a miracle had guided her to the piece of wood on which she had floated for a day and a half; only God had given her the strength to cling to it as the hot sun beat down and she despaired of ever being found.

            “You think it would have been more honorable to let myself drown?” she asked quietly, setting the empty glass on a sideboard and looking directly at him.

            His face softened, and he reached for her hands.  “No, my  dear, of course not,”  he murmured. 

            But she wondered.  After all, he could play with his precious honor all he liked, risking it with his conspicuous philandering, his exorbitant gambling debts.  But to have that honor tarnished by a woman!  Surely it must irk him, to risk being made a laughing-stock by upholding a betrothal with a woman of questionable reputation—a woman who had arrived in India sheltered not under the watchful gaze of her mother and father, but by a crew of rough-and-ready sailors.  Those sailors had saved her life, but the entire Raj was wondering if they hadn’t robbed her of something even more important: her virtue.

            Naturally, the fact that her betrothed’s virtue was completely and publicly compromised was of no import at all.

            She lifted her chin.  “Oh, I was only speaking with him, Marcus.  There’s no need to look so grim.”

            Marcus exhaled, his eyes searching the crowd beyond her shoulder.  “I’m wondering why he hasn’t been thrown out by now.”

            “Perhaps because he’s the Marquis of Holdensmoor?” she said wryly.

            He slanted her a sharp glance.  “I’m not in the mood for your cheek, Emmaline.  And for your information, the man’s a threat to the Crown.  He’s been stirring up talk of a possible insurrection, trying to goad us into abandoning Delhi.  Thinks our native troops might turn on us.”

            She blinked.  “Might they?”

            “It’s treason to even think it,” he said curtly.  “Of course they won’t.  We give them the bread their families eat in the morning.  Just because of some silly nonsense at Barrackpore--”

            Yes, she remembered that.  It had been all the talk in Bombay three months before, when a sepoy, a native soldier, had turned on his British officers.  He had shot two of them before he was stopped by his superiors; what had been so alarming, if she recalled correctly, was that none of the other natives had even attempted to disarm him.

            “He does have a point,” she said.  “It is a bit alarming.”

            “It was one isolated incident,” Marcus shot back.  “In over two hundred years on this continent.  And the man was directly hanged.  We’ll be having no more trouble along those lines, I assure you.”

            “But if Lord Holdensmoor is part native, perhaps he knows something--”

            “Emmaline!”  Marcus wheeled to face her.  “Yes, the man is part native, and for all I know, he’s trying to scare us out of Delhi so the natives can take it back!  In fact, I believe that is exactly what he is up to, and I have told the Commissioner so!  So cease your ignorant speculations and make yourself pleasant for your host and hostess.”

            “My host,” Emmaline repeated incredulously.  “Do you mean the one you’re cuckolding?”

            All color bleached from his face.  Really, blonde hair didn’t work so well on skin that particular shade of green.  “What did you just say?” he asked slowly.

            “So it’s true.”  She stiffened against the pain, realizing she hadn’t fully believed the tale after all.  “Well.  I suppose you’re going to tell me you still love me anyhow.”

            His eyes, a daunting, guileless shade of blue, searched her face.  “I do.”

            She managed a smile.  “Yes.  Well.  We have loved each other quite a long time, haven’t we?  Since we were born, I believe.”

            “Yes,” he said, with an admirable display of sincerity.  “And whatever rumors you hear to the contrary, Emma, there is no woman in the world for me but you.  Some people are jealous, you see, and they would spread vicious gossip in order to harm me--”

            “I know,” she interrupted softly, saddened to realize she could no longer believe a word he said, though she wanted to so very desperately.  “Marcus, I think I’d like to go home now.”

            He considered her for a moment, and then gave a short nod.  “I agree; it’s time for you to retire.  But I will call on you tomorrow, and thoroughly dispel these evil lies from your mind.”

            “Naturally,” she murmured.  “If you’ll find Mrs. Hampstead for me?”

            She leaned back against the wall, watching him push his way through the smiling, congratulatory crowd as he went in search of her chaperone.  Even though his back was turned to her, she knew every gesture that he made, sensed every smile that crossed his face.  Such was the familiarity of twenty long years: decades of their families plotting to bring them together, arranging their future marriage, choosing the names of their yet-unborn children.  And all this had been done in ignorance.  The Martins and Lindleys had never known that the only two who would live to fulfill their dream would be the very two who had never been quite as enthusiastic as the rest: the bride and the groom themselves.

            She closed her eyes, turning her head to press her cheek against the cool bungalow wall.  The windows rattled in a strong gust of wind, and the candles flickered with the inrush of jasmine and darkness.  Strange, how the night called to her so sweetly, promising a lovelier, more innocent place.  Yes, India seemed to draw out her very soul.  Perhaps that was why she felt so bruised inside-- as though her defenses had been laid bare, allowing a terrible melancholy to settle in her core.

            But what reason had she to be sad?  Surely she wasn’t grieving over Marcus.  She had abandoned her childish dreams of romantic love three years ago, the first time she’d learned of one of his many paramours.  It had broken her heart then, but her mother had explained the situation quickly enough: marriage was not about something as illusory and fleeting as love.  It was about alliances, partnerships, the continuation of the family line.  Marcus’s grand and crumbling estates would be consolidated with the vast Martin wealth, and the two of them would create a dynasty to compensate for her mother’s failure to produce male issue.

            So what, then, could account for this sudden sense of foreboding?  It slid like a shadow between her and the brightly lit room, leaving her with the odd conviction that she stood apart, watching a great panorama like those they sometimes displayed in the British Museum.  This room seemed like Pompeii before the volcano eruption, or Rome before the fall: a civilization on the edge of disaster.

            A shiver slid over her, and she glanced away, starting as she found herself locked in a vibrant emerald gaze: Lord Holdensmoor, coming in from the gardens.  His face was expressionless as he stared at her.  In defiance of both Marcus and her own gloomy reverie, she offered him a smile.

            His own was rakish and swift, the effect of it on his aloof, aristocratic features dazzling to behold.  And then he too was gone, his tall, broad form swallowed up by the crowd in a cloud of crushed silk and waving peacock feather fans.