After that it was hopeless. He tried. He grasped her breast and her buttock, what there was of them, but all he felt was revolted and hot and ready to kill something with his bare hands. He pushed her off and said, "Never mind."
She stumbled back. For an instant she stared at him blankly. Then chagrin and surly resentment sharpened her thin face even further. "Never mind? I've had a hard day's work; I leave me dinner to come up here at your beck and call, and it's 'never mind,' is it?"
"Yes." He sat down in the single chair and gave her a cold stare. "Tell Mustafa you're to have something for your trouble."
"You're a bleedin' queer bastard, ain't you? I been lookin' forward to it, being bulled by a great handsome jack like you; I been waiting a bleedin' fortnight for you to get the itch, and now here you are lookin' like you got a bleedin' bread loaf in your pants, telling me never mi—"
She broke off, scampering back as he threw himself out of the chair and made a nasty swipe at her. He missed her by a mile, but his fist connected with the empty vase on the bedstand and exploded it where it sat with a smash of splintering glass.
The maid ducked and fled.
Sheridan threw himself facedown on the bed. He had to get away; his carefully planned options were disintegrating in his hands. If he played along with Palmerston and married his princess, he was a marked man. If he delivered her as a royal bride to Claude Nicolas—deflowered, possibly even pregnant, by a common sea captain—he could count his days on one finger. And if he stayed to shepherd her along, stayed to see that delectable body every day, stayed to feel her light touch on his arm as he escorted her to a chair—and worst, worst of all: stayed to endure the knowledge of what she became in his arms—if he stayed and could not have her, he'd go utterly mad.
He had to get shut of her. Somehow.
Olympia had a difficult time keeping her mind on her purpose. Indeed, she had to admit guiltily that in the past two weeks on Madeira she'd almost forgotten it, going about in this daydream that seemed to have more in common with reckless intoxication than happiness. When Mr. Stothard came out into the garden to inform her that Sir Sheridan had finally returned with their palanquin and wished to leave for their dinner engagement immediately, she rose from her reverie with pink cheeks and a shamed start.
She'd been thinking of him and that amazing thing he'd done to her…that intimate touch that had ended in a physical explosion like nothing she'd imagined in her life.
Thank God, he had not touched her like that again. She didn't know what she would have done if he had. But his subsequent conduct—his unerring solicitude, his special thoughtfulness, the covert smiles when no one else was watching: improbably, everything indicated that he'd formed an honorable lover's attachment to her. Those other feelings…they were her flaw, and not a very pretty one, considering that instead of treasuring the polite public proofs of his admiration and regard, in the depth of the night she relived those passionate moments in her bed over and over, imagining his hand on her body, the drift of his dark lashes downward over her skin.
While she'd been idly dreaming of such disgraceful pleasures, Sir Sheridan had been busy all afternoon with business, with her business, taking her jewels to the proper people to have them appraised and to determine what should be sold to finance the remainder of their journey.
He was late returning. Normally that would have made little difference in the informal Madeiran society. But tonight was different. Tonight the two of them were invited to dine out aboard H.M.S. Terrier, at anchor in Funchal's harbor, as special guests of Captain Francis Fitzhugh.
Her heart quickened when she saw Sir Sheridan out in the tiny street, waiting with his foot propped up on one of the wooden runners of the palanquin while their host fussed about settling her with a shawl. Sir Sheridan shook hands and swung up onto the seat beside her. The Portuguese attendants adjusted the rope brake and gave the palanquin a shove. The sled runners began their strange grating passage downward on the cobblestoned street that was too steep and narrow for any carriage to negotiate.
"Here—" Sir Sheridan reached beneath his coat and after a moment's search brought out one of her jewels, a sapphire pendant tinged with a rare heliotrope color and surrounded by diamonds. "This will flatter that gown, don't you think?"
Olympia, who had never cared a thing for what jewel would flatter what, found herself blushing with pleasure and self-consciousness as he fastened the clasp around her neck. He touched the stone, his fingers brushing the skin just above her neckline as he turned the pendant and laid it flat.
"Thank you," she said, and bent her head to cover the blaze of her feelings.
For her to be in love, body and soul, with Sheridan Drake was the most natural thing possible. Not to be in love with him would have been absurd. But she'd always assumed her devotion would be unrequited, a silent adoration from afar, as befitted a hero and a pudgy, plain girl with unkempt eyebrows.
But for him to want her, to be attracted to her, to actually return her love…
She didn't believe it. At first she really had thought it a form of mockery, those moments when he'd kissed her and called her beautiful—for no reason, for no logical motive she could fathom, except that he meant it. He'd said he meant it. He wouldn't lie. He'd held her while she cried, and no one had ever done that before.
It was unthinkable. It was a dream.
Sir Sheridan Drake—gallant, courageous and admired, impossibly handsome and fascinating; the greatest naval hero of his generation—Sheridan Drake was in love with Olympia. With her.
It was no wonder she felt intoxicated. She almost felt frightened.
In the last of daylight, their odd conveyance passed beneath the exotic shadows of tall blooming cacti and palms. As the street widened out near the base of the mountain, Sir Sheridan said something in Portuguese and the palanquin halted. He put his hand on her arm. "Shall we walk from here?"
Olympia's heart froze somewhere between delight and terror. They'd had moments alone, temporary instants of privacy in the past two weeks, but never long enough for more than a word or a brief touch—nothing outwardly different from normal sibling affection. It was only in carefully timed whispers and significant glances that he said more.
He was looking at her now. She swallowed and ducked her head and nodded.
He helped her out, dismissed the attendants and took her arm, guiding her toward the gentler slope of one of the side streets while the palanquin was already moving down past them with its peculiar grate of wood on stone.
"If something should happen to me," he said without preamble, "I want you to go directly to Captain Fitzhugh and put yourself under his protection. He will conduct—"
"Happen to you!" she exclaimed, stopping in the street. "What do you mean?"
"He will conduct you to the British consul and represent your situation," he continued calmly. "You must tell him the truth first, of course. Be certain to make it clear that Lord Palmerston himself is concerned that you're properly safeguarded."
Olympia gaped at him in consternation. "But what could happen to you? We shan't even be here in a few days' time! Nothing will happen. Whatever makes you speak that way?"
He looked past her, out over the harbor, where Terrier's decks glittered in welcome, her lanterns shimmering red and green and white on the quiet water and lighting the dour outline of the only other large ship in port—a convict transport on its way to Australia. There was a boat approaching the dock, no doubt to greet them at the quay and take them aboard Terrier. Olympia had been pleased and proud at the attention Captain Fitzhugh had shown to Sir Sheridan while the survey ship paused at Madeira: calling on him at their host's home four separate times and now preparing this special dinner on board in his honor.
Sir Sheridan looked back down at her. "Young Fitzhugh's a bit headstrong, but I reckon he'll be steady enough in a pinch," he said obliquely. "You'd be perfectly safe if you wished to take ship with him, but unfortunately he's bound for Patagonia and the Tierr
a del Fuego."
"Nonsense." There was a shrill note in her voice. "It isn't a very good joke to play upon me, saying such things." She started to walk ahead.
He caught her arm and turned her to face him. Warm light from a distant doorway cast a faint illumination on his features. His face was serious, his beautiful mouth set in moody shadow. "It's not a joke, my princess," he murmured. "There's danger here—for me only. Not for you."
"No." She drew in a breath. "No. If there's some kind of danger, we share it. You won't send me away for my safety and face it alone. I won't go."
He touched her cheek. "Listen to me. I'm afraid the world doesn't revolve around you alone, my dear. I have the utmost concern for your safety, which is why I speak of possibilities." He hesitated and then smiled a little. "Rest assured the only danger to you is the remote chance you might lose your stalwart champion. Let's have no romantic faradiddle about standing together in the face of peril. You do as I tell you. This is a small matter that is out of your scope."
"What is it?"
He shook his head and took her arm again. "Just remember Fitzhugh."
She planted her feet against him. "What is it?"
"Come along, my love. We shall not want to be late."
"Sheridan," she hissed. "Tell me. I have a right to know." She could see the glint of silver as his eyes narrowed.
"You make too much of it. I wished only to be certain you're prepared to act sensibly should the worst happen. I have no intention of allowing it to occur."
"But there is some danger."
"Life at best is always a hazard, madam."
"I wish you would not call me 'madam' in that odious way! Or play games with words. If you won't admit me as a companion in arms, then respect my own honor, at least! Am I to stand by while this unnamed threat strikes you down and then go merrily on my way, after you have done so much for me?" She stared up at him, gripping his arms. "Tell me what's wrong. I'll do nothing without your leave, I swear it. But I should know."
For a long moment he said nothing. The chilly night breeze ruffled his hair. Olympia felt her heart fill up with adoration and fear for him.
"Sthaga," he said simply, at last.
Eight
* * *
Her fingers tightened. "My God," she breathed. She looked compulsively over her shoulder into the waiting dark. "The Stranglers!"
"Not just here, actually."
There was an undertone of dryness in his voice. He gently pried her hands off his arms and turned her again to walk downhill. He seemed easy and unconcerned, but to Olympia, the night had suddenly taken on eyes.
"Are you certain? How do you know?" she whispered.
"I know," he said in a normal voice. "I told you about them, don't you recall?"
She recalled. How he had been leading a shore party to fort somewhere in India, carrying gold for the paymaster, when he and the marines had been struck down in the jungle by cholera. How a young, wealthy Brahman boy and his servants had found Sheridan between delirium and unconsciousness, the sole survivor, and stayed to nurse him: forcing him to take water and salt, carrying him on the boy's own pony when Sheridan could not walk, showing him how they'd kept the government gold locked up safely when he was out of his wits and too weak to care. Feringheea was the boy's name. He'd been no older than fourteen, traveling to visit his uncle. Like many high-caste Indians, Sir Sheridan had said, young Feringheea spoke English perfectly, warning of bandits and urging Sheridan to stay with their well-armed party until they reached the English garrison at Calcutta. Oh, yes, Olympia remembered. Sir Sheridan had a quiet, composed way of telling his stories that was chilling in its effectiveness. She could vividly imagine how Feringheea had helped Sheridan onto the pony and walked beside him all the way to each campsite, through the rotting, steaming jungle with parakeets and monkeys shrieking above; she could see him clinging weakly to the beast, feel how it must have felt when he passed out on the pony's neck and woke to find Feringheea holding onto him so that he would not fall. She could taste the charred flavor of the chapati the Hindus shared with him, smell the open fire, sense the way his strength grew as the days passed and he recovered.
At that point in the narrative, he'd drawn a yellow scarf from his pocket and begun to toy with it. Sipping occasionally at his wine, he'd seemed distantly thoughtful, almost bored, while his listeners—including Olympia seated next to him—had been leaning forward in their chairs, waiting for the shouts and howls of the murdering thugs who were sure to attack the little party in the jungle at any moment.
"But you don't wish to be wearied by this long tale," he'd said. "Let's talk of something else."
Everyone protested vigorously. He smiled and shrugged, drawing a Portuguese escudo from his pocket and examining the large coin absently, turning it over and over in his hand. The yellow scarf dripped like a banner from his fist. "Perhaps Mrs. Stothard would play the pianoforte instead," he suggested, rising. He leaned on the windowsill just behind Olympia, adjusting the shutters to let in more breeze.
"Absolutely not," their host's aunt said resolutely. "At dinner you promised me thugs in the drawing room, and I shall have them."
From the corner of her eye Olympia could just see him, still playing with the yellow silk. He dropped the escudo inside a knotted fold and tightened the scarf around it. "Very well," he said. "Where was I?"
"About to be strangled," Mr. Stothard said cheerfully. Sir Sheridan smiled. "Ah. The night of the thug attack, then. We'd eaten; we were sitting around the fire while Feringheea played the sitar and sang. Have you heard the sitar? No? No one?" He paused and then said quietly, "I suppose I'm something of a musical enthusiast. I found it wonderful; indescribable, the harmonies they use, but I won't prose on about that. I was well enough to ask him to teach me something of the instrument. It's a pleasant memory, when I think of it—sitting on the strongbox with that great tall thing they play across my lap. There was a little owl chirping up above us…and one of Feringheea servants standing by, on watch and armed to the teeth. We were feeling pretty safe. I confess I was just glad to be alive, grateful as a groveling peasant to that amazing boy." Sheridan shook his head. "I'll never forget him; he was nobility personified, courteous and patient, leaning right over my shoulder so he could show me how to place my fingers on the strings. He'd just called for tobacco to share between us." He stopped and looked up. "Mrs. Stothard, I should close this window, I'm afraid a bat has got in."
Olympia followed everyone else's glance, looking up into the shadows above.
And suddenly she was strangling; a band of fire gripped her neck and stopped her air, a terrible clutching sensation swelled in her chest, demanding air that could not come.
She grabbed desperately at the silken noose that had flashed around her throat. Strong fingers caught her wrists and dragged them away. She writhed in instinctive convulsion for air, unable to break free, panicking as her vision clouded—but then abruptly the pressure loosened and she could breathe again.
Sir Sheridan chuckled behind her amid a shocked flurry of exclamations. "Can't manage it myself. I'd need a shumseea—a hand-holder—to keep her trapped until she died. That's what the servants were for. He had two, not including his instructor who stood guard, because he was still young and I was to be his first murder for his goddess." The scarf slithered away from her neck, leaving her trembling. "An object lesson," be said calmly. "Never trust a Good Samaritan on the road in India."
"Good God." Mrs. Stothard hurried to Olympia's side. "My dear Miss Drake, are you quite all right? Sir Sheridan, your poor sister is in no case for such—such— Oh, dear! I must say I believe that was a most dangerous and completely specious demonstration!"
"I understood that you wished for thugs in the drawing room," he said innocently.
Olympia laughed, still shaky, rubbing her throat and trying to brush Mrs. Stothard away. "Yes—I'm perfectly well—it was nothing. I was only startled. Please, don't scold him. I think it was a very good demon
stration."
"Certainly graphic," their host said. "You don't mean to have us believe it was this Feringheea—this child who befriended and nursed you—who was a murderer?"
"Sthaga. It means deceiver." Sir Sheridan sat down again, giving Olympia a brotherly hand-squeeze. "Was I too much a villain, dear? You really are all right?"
"Perfectly," she repeated, even though her heart was still pounding in her ears. That instant of strangulation when she couldn't break free of his hands had been horribly frightening, but she wasn't about to admit it aloud. Besides, it had indeed given her a true idea of what Sir Sheridan must have experienced, alone and undefended in an Indian jungle instead of in a polite drawing room. "Did the helpers seize your hands like that?" she asked weakly. "How did you get away?"
He shrugged. "I'm a sadly suspicious brute, I'm afraid. The whole situation puzzled me." He wrapped the scarf around his fist. "I found out later that an initiate always chooses someone old or weak as his first victim. They aren't allowed to kill someone who is ill, so they had to wait until just the right moment, for an omen to show when I was well but still feeble. The little owl told them." His mouth curved slyly. "I suppose I had it fooled, too."
"You knew they were thugs?" Mr. Stothard demanded.
"No. It was—Lord, a decade ago, at least. The Company barely even knew the thug fraternity existed, and I'd never head of 'em. I just thought it was dashed queer, all that sympathy and friendship."
"But they saved your life, did they not? And cared for you so well," Mrs. Stothard protested. "You must be cynical indeed, to have mistrusted them after that."
He looked at her for a moment. After a little silence, he said merely, "We've lived in different worlds, ma'am."
"So you fought them off, did you?" their host said. "Good show. Four at once?"
Sheridan spread his hands. "Nothing so stirring as that, I fear. I'd not be here now but that all of a sudden they let go of me and jumped back like I'd burned 'em. We all stood there staring at each other while that little owl flew past, hooting softly." He cocked his head, looking down at the yellow silk. "I had a lucky inspiration then. I don't know why, but I guessed their problem had something to do with the owl. I pointed up at it, and by God, if just at that moment it didn't land on a branch and stop its cry. The poor fellows were terrified."