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

  “Your ears are bright pink,” he said.

  She laughed and shook her head. “And here I thought you were getting ready to say something shockingly romantic.”

  He smiled. “I’m yours to command—but first let’s find your bonnet before your ears get frostbite.”

  They nudged their horses around and retraced their path. After a few minutes of searching they found her bonnet—a beautiful straw confection lined with navy silk and trimmed with a festive sprig of holly—near the base of a group of evergreen trees. Presumably carried by the breeze off the path they’d ridden. Derek dismounted and disentangled the bonnet. He strode to her side and presented it to her with a polite bow.

  Calla reached for it.

  Instead of releasing the bonnet, Derek caught her wrist and pulled her from her mount, catching her against the wall his chest. Calla gave a startled cry, a cry that was immediately captured by Derek’s mouth. He kissed her hungrily, deeply. His tongue delved into her mouth in a kiss of scorching intensity. A kiss that made her weak at the knees. She was sure she would have dissolved into a puddle at his feet had his arm not been locked around her waist to support her.

  His breathing ragged, he dragged his mouth away from hers to kiss his way down her neck, his breath sending waves of heat against her throat. Melting her resistance. He nibbled the sensitive skin at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone. Calla heaved a dramatic sigh. A shiver raced through her as her limbs turned to liquid. She capitulated completely, letting him take her, giving herself over to the pleasure of his touch.

  The balsam scent of the trees mixed with the rich, masculine scent of his skin and the leather of their saddles, an aroma she found thoroughly intoxicating. If she could bottle that scent and sell it, she’d be the richest woman in all of England.

  An exuberant whoop! shattered the morning air. Calla jerked her gaze to a spot over Derek’s head. A group of young men raced one another through the park, releasing their excitement with good-natured jeers and catcalls.

  “Derek—”

  He drew her more deeply into the shelter of the trees. “It’s all right. No one can see us here.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Do you care?”

  “I…actually, no.”

  “Excellent response, Lady Keating. The hell with propriety.”

  With a satisfied smirk, he resumed his sensual exploration of her body. He kissed and nuzzled and nibbled, sending tremors of fiery bliss through her body. Calla threw back her head and clutched his shoulders as a familiar ache began to build in her lower belly. Her blood began to race. Pati. Her husband. What he could do to her with a single touch. A simple caress. She could only surrender. Beg for more.

  Drawing aside her heavy wool cape, he nipped at the lace edge of her décolletage with his teeth. He had not yet had his morning shave. The prickly stubble on his chin grazed against the velvety softness of her breasts, a sensation that was maddeningly erotic. She felt her nipples pucker. The soft cotton of her chemise became unbearably grating on her overly sensitized breasts. She was desperate for the touch of his mouth, the soft swirl of his tongue against her hard, peaked nipples. She wanted him to take her into his mouth and lick and suckle. Yes, she wanted that. Now. She writhed against him and gave a throaty purr of need.

  He freed her blouse from the waistband of her riding skirt and traced his hands up her ribcage.

  Calla yelped and jerked out of his embrace. “Oh! Your hands are like ice.”

  Derek drew back, blinking. “What? Oh. Sorry.” He blew on his hands, then briskly rubbed his palms together. His skin was chapped and red, rough and raw from the cold.

  “Where are your gloves?” she demanded.

  “I recently realized I don’t need the bloody things.”

  “Don’t need them? But it’s freezing!”

  “I found someone who needed them more than I did.”

  “But—”

  “Forget the damn gloves.” He gave a low chuckle and shook his head. “They don’t matter. You matter.”

  “I matter more than gloves?”

  “Yes. You and everything you stand for.”

  Calla studied him with a frown, thoroughly confused. “What do I stand for?”

  His expression—normally so fiercely proud, perhaps even aloof and forbidding to those who didn’t know him—softened as he looked at her. He gently traced one finger along the scar that ran along her jawbone.

  “India,” he murmured. His lips followed the path his finger had taken. “England,” he continued, trailing kisses down the column of her throat. “You’re a veritable paradox, jaanu. Spicy curry and tea sweetened with honey. Blazing summers and icy winters. Fine English porcelain and cheap Delhi trinkets. A steel will hidden within a body softer than velvet.”

  He pressed his hand against the small of her back, drawing her more tightly into his embrace. “Now where were we?”

  Calla lifted her face to his. Her lips parted in invitation. “I think you were about to—”

  Another loud whoop! told them the fine young lords had returned, this time trailing a group of pretty maids running their morning errands. The group swerved closer, throwing curious glances their way. They passed without comment, but their presence could no longer be ignored. With the rising of the sun more hearty souls were venturing into the park. Clearly the magic of the moment had passed.

  Derek released a defeated sigh and stepped back. “Your bonnet, Lady Keating.”

  This time he allowed her to take it from his hand. He watched her secure the ribbons beneath her chin. Then he wrapped his hands around her waist and boosted her effortlessly into her saddle. Calla stifled the idiotic grin that threatened to break across her face at his gesture. She was utterly hopeless. Even that small display of strength had her mind imagining the rippling, corded sinew beneath his coat, had her wicked thoughts remembering the way his muscles flexed and quivered when she ran her fingertips over his skin.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  She gave a mute nod. They rode side-by-side, moving at a leisurely pace through the streets of London toward the Keating estate. When they arrived, however, they found Derek’s normally well-ordered home had been pitched into a state of mild chaos.

  Bellowes greeted them in the foyer. “I wasn’t certain where your guests should be received,” he said. Obviously flustered, he withdrew a handkerchief and blotted the perspiration from his forehead. “If I had known they were expected…”

  “My guests?” Derek queried.

  Bellowes nodded. “They presented themselves at the servant’s entrance—which was quite proper—but it seemed unlikely you and Lady Keating would want to receive them below stairs.”

  “Receive who?”

  The older man blinked. “Why, the lascars, my lord.”

  Calla looked at Derek. She expected to see confusion on his face—that was certainly what she felt. Instead, an expression of dark satisfaction marked his features.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “The rear parlor,” Bellowes replied. He gave a dignified sniff. “I didn’t know where else to put them. This is all highly irregular. Particularly at this hour. As I said, had I known to expect—”

  “Thank you, Bellowes,” Derek cut him off. He thought for a moment. “We will require tea, and perhaps some sustenance. Oh, and send a runner to Inspector Nevins’ office. I suspect he would like to join us, as well.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Derek waited until Bellowes had retreated and they were alone, then he turned to Calla. “I don’t suppose you would be willing to wait elsewhere until I sort the matter out?”

  “This has to do with Ram?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  Apprehension fluttered through her belly, but she refused to give in to the nerves that assailed her. She lifted her chin, meeting her husband’s eyes. Forcing a note of calm certainty into her voice, she replied, “In that case, I would like very much to be present
.”

  “I suspected as much.” He nodded toward a pair of elegant mahogany Queen Anne style chairs positioned against the wall. “In fact, short of strapping you into one of those chairs and assigning the stoutest maid in my employ the chore of sitting on you to hold you in place, I doubt I’d be able to keep you away.”

  He gave a curt nod. “All right, then.” After a moment’s hesitation, ushered her down the corridor toward the rear parlor. As they drew near, the buzz of murmured Hindi reached her ears. Derek opened the door to reveal a group of Indian sailors, perhaps as many as two dozen, crowded into a room that could comfortably hold half their number.

  The moment she and Derek entered, silence descended. Stark tension filled the air. Calla studied the men. They were a rough lot, dressed in little better than rags. Here and there a clean shirt showed beneath a worn coat. She counted one pair of decent boots among them. It wasn’t their attire that captured her attention, however, but their general stance. They exuded the aggressive air of men who had been pushed too far and were ready to fight.

  With a firm hand, Derek stationed her near the door. He strode to a position in the center of the room, facing the lascars. For what seemed an eternity, he didn’t speak. Instead he simply regarded the sailors, silently establishing his position of authority and control.

  “Welcome,” he said at last, speaking Hindi. “You are guests in my home, and will be received with the honor that position deserves.”

  His meaning was clear: this would be a civil exchange. As if on cue, three parlor maids brushed past Calla, staggering beneath the weight of trays overburdened with tea and refreshments. Derek gestured for them to deposit the trays on a sideboard. They did so, then scurried from the room.

  “Who among you will speak?” Derek asked, returning his attention to the lascars.

  One man stepped forward. He was tall and thin, older than most of the men present, his hands gnarled, his face worn and wrinkled from a life spent on the open seas. Despite his ragged appearance, he carried himself with an air of dignity. “I am Mir Patel,” he said. “I will speak.”

  Derek nodded in silent greeting.

  “You have offered five hundred pounds for the safe return of Ram Daas,” Patel said.

  Shocked surprise surged through Calla. Her gaze shot toward Derek.

  “I did,” he affirmed

  “This is a generous offer,” Patel conceded. “But if we give the boy to you, how can we be sure he will be safe, and not merely handed over to the men of the Custom House?”

  “You have my word on it,” Derek returned flatly. “The boy will have my protection.”

  Mir Patel studied Derek for a long moment, as though silently measuring his words against some inner code of honor. “Very well,” he said at last, seeming to accept the promise. “But before we proceed any further, my men and I have two conditions.”

  Derek folded his arms over his chest and waited..

  “We don’t want your money, sahib.”

  “Oh?”

  “Amit Gupta, the murdered serang, left a wife and five children. We would have the reward you offered go to her.”

  Approval glinted in Derek’s eyes. “Done.”

  Patel nodded. He paused again, carefully weighing his words. “The second will not be as easily agreed, but is even more important.”

  “What is it?”

  Mir Patel glanced at his men, then looked back at Derek. He drew himself up. “For years, you were known to us. But we, your people, were not known to you. You would not recognize us, would not claim us as your own.”

  Derek studied the man in silence, waiting.

  “We need someone to speak for the lascars. We are good men. Hard-working, worthy men who have been used and then cast aside. That must end. You are a powerful man. We ask that you recognize us. Speak for your brothers from India. We need a voice that will be heard by the English.”

  Calla didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She felt the balance of the room shift as the weight of every gaze fell upon Derek. Her heart sank. It was too much. They asked for too much. She looked at her husband.

  The Tiger of the Thames. An English gentleman who exuded wealth and status. A man who had left his days as a barefoot boy in Calcutta long behind him. A man who had devoted years establishing himself as a proper lord of the realm. A man who built a shipping empire, a sterling reputation for financial acumen, and a vast fortress, complete with an army of servants, to call home—

  “I can promise you more than that,” Derek replied, interrupting her thoughts.

  Patel tilted his head. “Oh?”

  “I will do more than give you a voice. I will see to it you receive justice. Justice in an English court for Amit Gupta.”

  Calla’s breath caught. Her heart swelled with pride. She let out a low sigh and shook her head. How foolish she was to think she would only love her husband when they were in bed together.

  “That will be difficult.” Patel said, a troubled frown on his face. “I know the English. If you align yourself with men such as us, it will cost you your reputation. Your business affairs will suffer.”

  “Perhaps.” Derek shrugged. “But I have recently realized that the cost of silence is higher.”

  A keen murmur ran through the group of lascars. Patel gave a low, deferential bow. “My men and I were wise to seek your counsel, sahib.”

  On those words, Patel’s men parted ranks. A figure in the back shrugged off his baggy coat. He removed the turban that hung over his brow, and then the thin linen scarf that covered the lower half of his face.

  Ram Daas.

  Joy, as bright and warm as the Indian sun, flooded through her. Ram moved toward her in his familiar loping gait, a bashful grin on his face. Heedless of propriety, Calla wrapped him in a tight hug, and then drew back to look at him. “You’re not hurt?”

  He shook his head. “No, but…” he paused, looking embarrassed. He cut a glance at the sideboard. “I am hungry.”

  “Of course you are!”

  Laughter spilled from her lips. Taking his arm, she ushered him toward the sideboard and surveyed the foodstuffs the maids had delivered. English tea, scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam, dainty sandwiches filled with an assortment of egg, cucumber, or watercress. Ridiculous fare to serve hungry lascars, she thought. Truly absurd. Another wave of laughter bubbled up inside her. Her head swam with happy resolutions. Now that Ram had been found, she would simply have to hire a cook who was skilled in the art of preparing Indian cuisine.

  In the meantime, she poured tea and filled plates, distributing the elegant finger foods to the rough group of seamen. Once she’d finished, she prepared a bite for Derek and Mir Patel, who were deep in conversation at the other side of the room. She approached and passed them each a plate.

  Patel smiled and nodded his thanks. Speaking to Derek, he said, “Your wife is a good friend to the Hindus.”

  “Yes,” Derek agreed, regarding her warmly. “She is.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Derek glanced across Lady Williston’s crowded ballroom. How many formal English house parties had he suffered through over the years? Too many, he reckoned, not bothering to count. In any case, this one was different. This was the first social event he’d attended with his wife by his side. He glanced at Calla, silently drinking her in, then reluctantly dragged his attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “An English education is both unnecessary and unkind,” Lady Aubreyton declared as the talk drifted—as it so often did—to the problem of what to do with the natives in India. “It only serves to raise their expectations and make them more miserable with their current state.”

  “Here, here, Lady Aubreyton.” Major Kittery nodded in robust agreement.

  “It is enough that we bring the blessings of civilization to the lower orders,” put in Sir Philip Crawley, his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with righteousness. “We have done our Christian duty. Any more than that would be casting pearls before swine.�
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  Derek’s gaze met Calla’s. She rolled her eyes, and there it was—the smile that had entranced him so thoroughly the first time he’d seen it. Her slightly lopsided grin that somehow managed to convey both keen observation and an endless appreciation for life’s absurdities.

  Crawley stopped abruptly and shot an anxious glance at Derek. “That is, I didn’t mean that as an insult to your people…”

  “My people?”

  “Er, not that I meant you are one of them…”

  “Hindu,” Derek supplied. “And that’s quite all right. I am one of them.”

  The group around them shifted uncomfortably. Crawley’s face suffused with color. “But I thought—”

  “Really,” drawled Jonathon Hollinshed, thoroughly enjoying Crawley’s discomfort. “Keep up, man. Of course he’s Hindu. Just look at him.”

  A titter of laughter spread through the group. Understanding he’d once again become the butt of a joke, but not understanding why, Crawly performed a stiff bow. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just spotted an acquaintance.”

  The rest of Crawley’s circle of admirers quickly followed suit, dispersing themselves among the magnificent crowd.

  “I see our friend neglected to bring his monkey this time,” Jonathon observed.

  “Pity. I think my bride would have enjoyed having it as a pet.”

  Calla tilted her head to one side, as though seriously considering the proposition. “Would it shock Society were I to adopt a pet monkey?”

  “It would indeed,” Derek said. If she wanted one, he would turn London inside out until he found her one of the damned things. He would fly her to the moon and back if that was what she desired.

  He watched his bride tap her pretty finger against her chin. “Hmm. Perhaps not.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Screechy little pests. Besides, I’ve always had a fondness for tigers.” She turned to Jonathon and apropos of nothing, inquired, “Do you know my husband’s full name?”