Tickles fluttered in her belly. And somewhat lower. She blinked.
The noise and closeness of the bazaar fell away, in its place open street, clean shop fronts, a pair of English officers like those she had traveled with all the way to India, and finally a carriage, her uncle’s servant standing before it.
“Your destination.” In one smooth movement her rescuer dismounted and drew her off the horse. She wavered, gulping breath. He ducked his head to peer beneath her bonnet brim. “Have your bearings now?”
She nodded, mouth dry. His hands slipped away from her waist, and he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted. Taking up the reins, he gestured behind her as his horse’s head swung around.
“Your uncle arrives.”
Uncle George shoved from the crowd into the cross street, his brow taut. He peered at the horseman, frowned, and strode forward.
The young man’s watchful gaze remained upon her.
“Sir.” She sounded oddly breathless. “Thank you for your assistance.”
He bowed from the saddle, his gold-embroidered waistcoat and the hilt of his sword sparkling in the sun falling in slanting rays behind him.
“It was my great honor.” His mouth quirked into a grin and the horse pranced a half circle. “Welcome to India, shalabha.” The beast wheeled away, stirring up a cloud of dusty street. She stared through the cloud. When the dust settled, he was gone.
“Dear lord, niece, I thought I’d lost you.” Uncle George gripped her hands, then cinched her arm under his and drew her toward the carriage. “Why didn’t you keep up? Are you unharmed? What did he want of you?”
“He rescued me. I snagged my dress and a pair of cutpurses accosted me, just as on a London street. It was fantastic.” And terrifying. Momentarily. “But he frightened them off.” Even though he certainly was not much bigger than either of the thieves, although he was quite tall. “He had the horse, however. A very fine horse. And a sword. A sword must count for more than a dagger, after all.”
“A dagger? Good God. Those men were not cutpurses. The bazir is not safe for Englishwomen. You may not go there again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Uncle,” she said, shifting her gaze between him and the servant. The men exchanged peculiar looks. Uncle George handed her up the carriage steps. She settled into the seat, her heartbeat slowing but her limbs suddenly shaky.
“Uncle George, who was that young man?”
“His uncle owns the villa beside your brother-in-law’s house,” he said in short tones.
“Oh.” She was still two years from being out in society, but her sister’s husband, Sir St. John, always said the rules were rather more relaxed in the East Indies than at home. And the community of English traders in this part of India was quite small. If she and her rescuer were neighbors, she would certainly meet him again soon. Her stomach jittered with anticipation.
Uncle George climbed in and closed the door. Beyond the open sash, the bazir teemed with people, vibrancy, and sound. She worried her lip between her teeth and a shiver of delayed relief glistened through her. It would be lovely to return and explore the stands and shops, the next time much more carefully, now that she knew villains lurked about. Fortunately, so did dashing young English gentlemen.
“Uncle, what does shalabha mean?”
Chapter 1
HORIZON. That circle which seems to bound our view, or limit our prospect, either at sea or on land.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine
Madras, 1821
Miss Octavia Pierce came fully into her looks at the advanced age of five-and-twenty, several thousand miles away from England and in the midst of a monsoon.
Lounging in a shadowed parlor, hand wrapped around the stem of a fan in an attempt to stir the moisture laden air, her elder sister, Alethea, noticed the softening of Octavia’s sharp jaw, the gentler curve of lips no doubt due to less biting upon them, and the lengthening of fine, red-gold hair that should never have been cut short to suit fashion. She noted too the elegant, stiff set of her sister’s slender shoulders, the once-wild chestnut brows now plucked into perfect submission, the smooth cheeks and rather too temperate brown eyes.
“Tavy,” Alethea said, “when did you stop laughing aloud?”
Octavia’s gaze remained on the letter in her hand. “What on earth are you talking about? I still laugh aloud.” The sheet of foolscap was crossed and recrossed with their mother’s spindly scrawl. Her brow beetled.
“No, you do not. I wonder when it happened.”
“During some monsoon over the past eight and a half years, I daresay.” Tavy glanced up again. “This is the third time this week you have asked me some silly question like that, Thea. The rain has sunk you into the dismals. Would you like me to fetch a glass of tea for you? Cook made some with mint and fennel this morning.”
“You have become a beauty, Octavia.”
Tavy lowered the letter. “Oh. You’ve gone batty.”
“You have. Look at your elegant gown straight from Paris, your shining hair, your lovely figure. And it is not only your appearance. Everyone in Madras adores you.”
“They pretend to because I am the only one who tells the truth around here, and they are all afraid I will tell the truth about them someday too. Behind my back, they crucify me.” She wrinkled her nose. “Now, you are making me ill with this line of commentary. Cease.” She put a hand to the shuttered window and pressed it open to allow in more light along with a whorl of damp air. Returning her attention to the letter, she took her lower lip between her teeth. “Thea, what did you write to Mama about me most recently?”
Agitated chatter an octave higher than either woman’s voice erupted from the banister along the covered porch. Tavy extended her arm through the open window and a tiny black and brown ball of fur and limbs streaked up it, settling atop her shoulder.
“Hello, Lal. You are back early. Did you find anything tasty in Lady Doreé’s kitchen today?” She stroked the monkey as it curled its spindly arms around her neck, and glanced at her sister again. “What did you write, Thea?”
“She asked me how you were getting along.”
“She asked why I am not yet married.”
Alethea’s fanning slowed. “It is time to go home, sister.”
Tavy stilled, not allowing her reaction to show—the jump in her pulse, the frisson of panic across her shoulders. Her sister was correct in one respect. She had grown nearly expert at hiding her emotions. On the outside.
“Why now? Finally?”
“There is malaria in the old quarter.”
“There has been malaria in the old quarter before, and the new. We did not leave then.”
Alethea’s palm slipped over her abdomen. “This time I have greater reason for caution.”
Tavy’s mouth popped open. Alethea smiled, hazel eyes sparkling. Tavy threw herself across the chamber and her arms about her sister.
“Finally. Oh, finally.” She pulled back, gazing with delight and wonder at Alethea’s lap. “When did you know?”
“March.”
“March?” she exclaimed. “And you did not tell me? But that would explain St. John’s distraction lately. Well, more than his usual distraction.”
“After so many years, it seems too good to be true.”
Tavy grasped her sister’s hands. “I am so, so very happy for you. For St. John. For me! I shall be an aunt. How positively lovely. But you will have this baby on board ship.”