—66— #3
My ears still roared, and I could not think clearly, and yet, the world felt wider, brighter, more beautiful. Our hands were tightly woven, a promise. I wanted to touch Tanveer’s head, to kiss Channan’s cheek, to bend as he’d bent, and kiss our laced fingers.
At that moment, the gatekeeper called, “Maharaja Sahib, Colonel Barrington has arrived to see you.”
“What?” Tanveer straightened, and our hands all flew apart.
A white man came into the room, calling out, “Hello, hello. I tried to get here for the durbar, but I see I was too late.” He gave a jovial chuckle. “I’ve been in India so long I’m developing Indian habits. Good to see you, Your Highness.”
Tanveer stood. “Colonel Barrington. Good to see you.” Recovering, he crossed the space to meet him with an outstretched hand. “What brings you to our little world?”
“Oh, this and that, this and that. I heard you had a spot of trouble last week.”
“It was nothing. We managed all right.”
“Of course, of course.”
Channan said smoothly, “We are about to enjoy luncheon, Colonel. Won’t you join us? Very simple, I’m afraid, only rotis and dal. Our cook has been making milder dishes for the palate of our English friend, so it may be to your liking.”
He gave me a sharp look, perhaps registering my presence for the first time. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said. He had ginger hair shot through with white, and a thin mustache. “Colonel Barrington.”
“Elsie Turner,” I said. “Old friend of the family. My father was in the ICS when I was a child.”
“Is that right? Good to meet you.” He held his hat, shifted, thought. “I believe I would love to join you, Maharani. Been a trek out here.”
“We would be honored,” Tanveer said. He gave me a glance over the man’s head. “All of us.”
“Of course,” I said. “Perhaps I should run upstairs and change.”
“Nonsense,” Tanveer said. “We stand on no ceremony for a simple lunch. You don’t mind, do you, Colonel?”
“No, no. As you are.”
We trooped into the courtyard with its deep shade, where a table had been set for three. “Another setting,” Channan said, and the girl scurried off.
The Englishman seemed off-kilter as he looked around, eyeing the cat sleeping in the corner and the splendid table setting.
Tanveer made no move to make him comfortable, only gestured for him to take a seat.
I wondered if it was deliberate that the view was of the crumbling tower, which put him opposite Tanveer, with Channan and me between the men.
The quarters were rather too close, and my knee brushed Tanveer’s thigh below the table.
I looked up, then away, feeling as I had that long ago day when I’d come to the palace and discovered the new Tanveer stirred all manner of things—I was too much in my body, too deeply aware of his physical person.
He nudged me and I looked up. His gaze was serious, direct, and I found myself nodding as if he’d spoken.
The luncheon was interminable. Channan kept up a graceful sort of conversation, and I must have participated, but my eyes dragged on Tanveer’s long hands as they folded a roti and dipped it in dal.
I was aware of the heat of his calf nearby my shin.
My gaze snared on the edge of his ear peeking out beneath his dastaar, the few inches of neck above his collar.
My mind whirled. He might not even wish to accept her offer. He might be angry, even. I could see a scenario where that might be true. My ears burned again, and I had no appetite.
And then I thought of him bending over our clasped hands, and I knew he also wished for the things hanging in the air.
It was painful to want anything so much.
I had wanted and lost this lover more than once.
He was so close I could smell the oil he used in his beard.
His foot grazed mine under the table. My foolish brain remembered the kisses in the tiger enclosure all those years before, that first kiss, right in this very palace.
The servant who minded the table brought out a big bowl of cubed watermelon. “Memsahib,” he said to me, for I’d been eating enormous amounts of the fruit. I loved it madly.
“Thank you,” I said, and it gave me something better to focus on.
“So, Miss Turner,” the colonel said. “It is Miss? Where do you visit from?”
A chill touched my neck. Was he here because Peter had sent him, or sent word? I piled cubes of watermelon on my plate, one at a time, and lied. “South of England. My father was the Earl of Herewich. Are you familiar?”
“No, no. Spent most of my life here in the Punjab in one spot or another.” He frowned a little. “Wait, I’m remembering the ICS officer with an extraordinarily beautiful wife, who went home to take up the title, must be what fourteen, fifteen years ago. Is that your family?”
“Could be.”
“Well, I’ll be. What a small world. I worked with your father in Lucknow for a bit. He was always a bit of a radical. You have the look of your mother, I’d say.”
The story cut too close to truth. Of course Peter knew where I was because my mother had told him, but I seriously doubted he’d storm the palace and try to drag me home. Still. I felt dizzy with everything. I stood, feigning a headache. “I’m so sorry, will you all excuse me?”
I fled.