The Wedding Bed (The Sun Never Sets, Book One) Read online

  She battled a nearly overwhelming impulse to lay her hand on his broad chest and soak up his heat, his masculine strength, right there, in the middle of the sordid lane in which they stood. She wanted to feel his lips against her skin. She wanted to continue what they’d begun in the breakfast room.

  He was right. She was a reckless woman.

  He released his grip on her elbow and tilted his head toward the tea shop to his left. “I thought we’d start our search for Ram here.”

  Calla blinked, jerking her thoughts back to the task at hand. “Of course.”

  Their search carried them from the coffeehouses on High Street, to the lodging houses on Commercial Road, and the churches of Brick Lane. They ducked into shops, chatted up grocers, put in a friendly word with local couriers, bakers, cobblers, and smiths. They didn’t enter any pubs—Derek firmly refused to allow her entrance to those establishments—but everywhere they went the result was the same. No one had heard of a boy named Ram Daas. By the time the late afternoon shadows stretched across the muddy streets, Calla reluctantly acknowledged they’d done as much as they could for one day.

  She said as much to Derek. He nodded in agreement, but instead of leading her back to their carriage, he turned and directed her through a set of brightly painted green doors. If the crowded streets, raised voices, crude tenement buildings, and poorly clothed beggars reminded her of the worst blight of India, the Shah Jalal was a veritable oasis, the other side of the same coin. Calla was instantly transported to colonial India, for it was very much the sort of welcoming establishment she might have visited with her mother and sisters.

  She took the room in with a brief, sweeping glance. Bamboo chairs, highly polished teak tables, vibrant rugs, and finely draped mosquito netting at the windows. A British flag hung behind a makeshift bar, flanked on both sides by paintings of various Hindu gods and goddesses. The tables were empty, it being too late for a midday meal and too early for supper.

  A squat Indian man came out from behind a set of doors that presumably led to the kitchens. Upon seeing Derek, he broke into a smile nearly as broad as his belly. The two men exchanged warm greetings in Hindi, then the proprietor showed them to a table.

  Calla sunk gratefully into her chair. She hadn’t realized until that moment just how badly she needed a respite. They had taken tea in every coffeehouse they’d entered. Now she felt waterlogged and jittery. Her feet were sore, her body chilled, and her head pounded from breathing in the sickly-sweet tobacco fumes from the omnipresent hookahs. She needed a bite to eat to settle her stomach before the long carriage ride that would take them back to Derek’s estate.

  She removed her gloves and settled them in her lap, listening without comment as the discussion moved to suggestions for their meal. Once the proprietor left, Derek turned toward her, his expression both amused and curious.

  “I didn’t realize you were capable of that.”

  “Of what?”

  “Relinquishing control to someone else.”

  She managed a small smile. “A rare lapse. Once I’ve rested and eaten, I’ll no doubt return to my high-handed ways.”

  A pretty native girl emerged from the kitchen and placed two tall, frosted glasses of lassi before them. Outside the temperature was rapidly dropping, but somehow the thick, chilled drink was incredibly soothing, a welcome alternative to tea, and just the thing to restore her rattled nerves. A steady stream of savory dishes followed, all meant to be eaten in the traditional Indian style, using only their fingers. They did, without the least bit of embarrassment.

  “Earlier this morning,” Calla said as they ate, “Inspector Nevins used two terms that were somewhat confusing. I wonder if you could clarify them for me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “A lascar refers to any Asian seaman, but particularly those recruited from India.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the inspector called Amit Gupta, the man who was murdered, a serang. What’s the difference?”

  “Essentially, a he’s the head lascar. He acts as intermediary between the British officers and the Indian crewmen. I suppose one could call the ship’s serang a boss or a foreman. He’s responsible for recruiting the natives who serve on the ship, monitoring their duties, seeing to their well-being, and collecting their pay, among other things.”

  Calla swallowed a bite of fried cod and nodded thoughtfully. “That’s why the serang was the one the Custom House agents targeted. He held the lascar’s pay.”

  “In all likelihood, yes, that’s why.”

  “There’s one other thing I don’t understand,” she said. “Anyone raised in India has seen poverty, so I’m not shocked by it. But it doesn’t make sense here. If boys like Ram were encouraged to leave India and serve on British ships, how did they end up living in conditions like we saw today, reduced to threadbare clothes, sweeping the streets for a few pence and begging for food?”

  “They’re natives,” Derek answered with an indifferent shrug. “They mean nothing in London. Less than nothing. Captains hire them en masse in India because they’ll accept wages at a rate of one-fifth of what a British sailor would demand. They’re cheaper to feed, cheaper to clothe, and can be worked mercilessly during a voyage. Once they reach British shores they can be turned off the ship without any recourse, simply disposed of as the captain sees fit.”

  “Only to have any pay they might have earned forcibly taken by the Custom House men,” Calla murmured softly. “How dreadful.”

  “As I said, they’re natives. In England, they rank just slightly below women and dogs.”

  Calla shot him a withering glare. “Thank you for that highly edifying remark.”

  “There it is—the fire I was hoping to see.” Derek gave an approving nod and settled back in his chair. “My apologies, jaanu, but that conversation was veering dangerously close to maudlin for my taste.”

  “You feel no sympathy for those men? No pity?”

  “Pity?” Derek released a harsh laugh. “What good would pity do them?” Pushing away his plate, he turned and conveyed an order to a serving boy. Then he focused again on Calla. “Rarely is anything taken from a man that he’s not willing to give up. Men make choices—what they’ll accept, what they won’t. A man either fights for the life he wants, or accepts the life he’s given. There’s no in-between.”

  “That’s a rather stark view.”

  “Merely a realistic one.”

  She hesitated, studying him curiously. “Has the Custom House ever targeted your ships?”

  “Once.”

  “What happened?”

  “What do you think?”

  Her gaze traveled slowly over his features, taking in his broad intelligent brow, chiseled cheekbones, square chin, imperious nose, and the masculine line of his lips. He had loosened the knot of his neck cloth, allowing her a glimpse of the rich mahogany skin at his throat. His ebony hair looked tousled and windswept, an effect that came naturally to him, but Calla could easily imagine many a dandy spending hours in front of a looking-glass in a vain attempt to mimic the style. Even now, sitting in a coffeehouse in London’s worst slum, wearing an unremarkable charcoal wool suit, he emanated wealth, power, and an unstoppable force of will.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “they regretted testing you.”

  Derek inclined his head. “I protect what’s mine.” It wasn’t a boast, just a simple statement of fact.

  She made a noncommittal sound. “Perhaps,” she allowed. “On the other hand, it seems you’ve known for years that the lascars were being abused, yet unless it occurred on your ship, you let it continue.”

  One dark brow arched toward the ceiling. “You would hold me responsible for the fate of every Indian who lands on these shores?”

  “You are in a unique position of power. You could use your influence to benefit those around you.”

  “It’s not my battle to fight.”

  “Of course it is.” When that didn’t seem to impress him, she pushed on
, “You do business with the Dalit. The untouchables. You admitted it freely.”

  “Yes. So?”

  “So it seems you only fight injustice when it serves your interest.”

  She braced herself for an angry rebuttal. Instead, he merely gave an indifferent shrug.

  “Consider it one of my many faults.” A sardonic smirk played about his lips. “Not all of us want to play the part of avenging angel, battling cobras and hornets, rescuing tigers…”

  If there was a suitable reply she could make to that, Calla couldn’t determine what it was. Yet a vague sense of dissatisfaction washed over her. She thought of his enormous estate and the iron bars that surrounded it. A veritable fortress. Meant to keep London out, or himself locked away from anything he didn’t want to see?

  The serving boy edged between them. With his tongue caught between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration, he placed a glass of rich amber liquid in front of Derek without spilling a drop. He broke into a beaming smile at his accomplishment. Derek tossed the boy a coin and reached for the glass. He took a deep sip. Assuming a posture of lordly ease, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his index finger in idle circles over the rim of his glass.

  “The truth is, it doesn’t matter what I do. Men can only be subjugated for so long before they rise up in protest. It’ll happen here, and it’ll happen in India.”

  Calla’s breath caught. The lascars’ plight was temporarily driven from her thoughts. Had he really just said what she thought he said? Was he suggesting a native uprising? Good Lord. There’d been talk of it, of course, and minor skirmishes along the border towns and in the outer provinces. But surely those were just rumblings of discontent. Nothing to suggest that England would one day lose control of India.

  The jewel in the British crown. Her thoughts turned to the politicians who ruled the far continent, the East India Company men and their ilk. She considered their staid complacency and sense of entitlement. Their ever-present greed and corruption. Was Derek right? Would there be a native uprising? And if there was, what would that mean for her mother and sisters?

  “Look at you,” Derek said, interrupting her swirling thoughts. “You refused to be subjugated.”

  “Me?”

  “You fought back. You wouldn’t meekly accept a life of poverty and deprivation because of your father’s indiscretion, nor would you allow that fate to befall your sisters. Your friend Ram may not be a man just yet, but if he’s got half the balls you do, he’ll be just fine.”

  She blinked. A heated blush traveled up her throat and scorched her cheeks. That was, simultaneously, the worst and the best compliment she’d ever received.

  “Did you save many souls today, memsahib?”

  Calla started at the intrusion. She’d been so intent on their conversation, so caught up in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the proprietor approach their table. He gathered up their plates, then employed a small brush to whisk the tablecloth clean.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are a missionary, no?” His hand swept over her austere, navy blue cloak and gown. It had been her best traveling ensemble, and seemed appropriate attire for their task. Now, however, she simply felt dowdy and plain.

  Grinning broadly at the man’s mistake, Derek let him know that Lady Keating, neé Calla Lily Staunton, had come to Shadwell in search of her good friend, Ram Daas. Uttering effusive congratulations on their marriage and promises to help look for Ram, the man took his leave.

  Her pride stung, she glared at Derek. “Why didn’t you tell me my attire was so offensive?”

  “It suited our purposes today,” he replied coolly. His gaze traveled over her form. “In any event, it’s far less offensive now that I know what’s beneath it.”

  Her pulse leapt and her heart gave a small flutter at his offhand comment, but she was determined not to succumb so easily to his charm. It was a losing battle and she knew it. Never had she met a man who affected her so deeply.

  The serving boy returned and lit a small fire in the grate. Then he moved from table to table, clipping the wicks on lamps before lighting them. A soft, intimate glow filled the room. Their meal was finished, yet neither Calla nor Derek was anxious to leave. In the lull that followed, a satisfied contentedness stretched between them. She shrugged off her unflattering cloak to reveal a crisp blouse of pale blue linen edged in lace.

  His mouth tightened into a grim line as he took in the creamy skin of her throat and modest décolletage. “You shouldn’t have come here today,” he said. “Something could have happened.”

  “Something did happen. We let it be known that we’re looking for Ram, we ate marvelous food, and I was treated to a glimpse of my husband’s radical political views. All in all, a successful afternoon.”

  He looked unconvinced.

  “Tell me, then,” she said brightly, determined to steer their conversation back to safer ground, “Exactly what does a gently bred young woman do in London?”

  “Shop, I suppose,” he replied. He waved his hand through the air in a vague, indifferent gesture. “Do whatever other women do. Attend teas, luncheons, musicales, poetry recitations, gardening exhibitions, join a knitting club…that sort of thing.”

  “I see.”

  “Do I detect a note of dissatisfaction in that reply?”

  Calla hesitated, considering her words. She did not want to appear a petulant young wife, or an impatient houseguest demanding to be entertained, but really. He couldn’t possibly expect her to spend the remainder of her days engaged in such vapid, empty-headed pursuits. What cruel irony. To have committed the boldest act of her life—traveling a continent away to marry a virtual stranger—only to be snared by the trap of wifely expectations.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking,” she ventured cautiously, “that if intelligent, able-bodied men were ordered to spend the remainder of their days engaged in endless rounds of luncheons, shopping, musicales, knitting clubs and the like, you would see rioting in the streets.”

  His lips crooked in a small, bemused smile. “I suspect you’re right.”

  “Yet it’s perfectly acceptable to foist those mindless pursuits on intelligent, able-bodied women?”

  He shrugged. “Some wives are content to assist with the management of the household. Oversee the servants and all that.”

  “Really?” Calla arched one slender, dark brow. “Supervise the polishing of the silver and the pressing of the linen? How very stirring.” She sighed. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind even that, if my presence were necessary. But your household staff doesn’t need my interference. They’re a ruthlessly efficient bunch.”

  “I understand there’s a circus in town. Perhaps I could arrange an elephant stampede through Kensington Gardens. That might liven up your afternoon.”

  “Oh, for at least a full fifteen minutes,” she agreed with a soft smile.

  A boisterous group entered the room, bringing with them the cold and the noise, along with an unwelcome reminder of the world that existed beyond the two of them.

  Calla toyed with her gloves. Derek had given her rare insight into his own views, radical as they might be. It seemed imperative now, for the sake of their married life, that he understand her as well. She looked up, her gaze locking on his.

  “Women make choices, too. What they’ll accept, what they won’t. Perhaps it’s just hubris on my part, but I can’t bear the thought of living some quiet, inconsequential life—just watching the world pass me by, meekly attending luncheons and poetry recitals, only because that’s what someone else thinks I should do.”

  A thoughtful frown curved his lips. “It won’t be easy for you then, not in London.”

  “I suspect London isn’t always easy for you, either,” she replied. “Dancing monkeys and all that.”

  Derek went still. He studied her over the rim of his glass, which was arrested in mid-air. Calla would have given everything she owned—which admittedly wasn’t
very much—to know what he was thinking. Silence, thick and heavy, reverberated between them. He set down his drink.

  “You have a bold tongue.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “But if you wish to allude to that unfortunate event, do recollect it correctly.”

  “Oh?”

  “The monkey wasn’t dancing, jaanu. It was marching.”

  A startled laugh escaped her lips. Their eyes met and Calla felt a rich current of understanding course between. Emboldened by his humor, she softly confessed, “I don’t want life to be easy. I want it to be full. I may live contrary to Society’s rules, but I’d rather dare to say what I think and reach for I want, even if it does occasionally land me in the East End.”

  “Or in a stranger’s bed.”

  Her breath caught. Strange, that. Amazing how attraction could be such a powerful force. How his words could affect her as strongly as a physical caress. How a sideways quirk of his mouth could cause her heart to flutter, and a warm glint in his eyes could cause a rush of heat to pool between her thighs.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Or in a stranger’s bed.”

  Derek’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, looking out the window toward the street. When he spoke his voice was low and husky, laden with sexual promise.

  “Then you’re in luck, Lady Keating. My driver’s just arrived. We’re going home.”

  Chapter Ten

  All she had to do, she reminded herself, was not fall in love with her husband. Protect her heart and save her pride. A ridiculously simple task. She, Calla Lily Staunton, was nothing like her sisters. She did not spend endless hours preening in front of a mirror in hopes of drawing some silly compliment from a man. She did not bury her intellect beneath stacks of fashion magazines and society pages. Her entire body did not tingle if a man accidentally brushed her arm while assisting her into a carriage. Her heart did not ricochet wildly in her chest if an attractive man happened to glance her way.