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‘Excellent,’ he said, but he did not sound very relieved. ‘Your father...’
‘He only wants me back because of these foolish politics, because I am a nuisance to the wretched Company if I stay in Kalatwah. He does not want me, I do not want him.’
Nick’s lips compressed, but he did not lecture her for speaking disrespectfully. It was as though he was thinking about something else entirely.
Anusha lifted a hand to his shoulder, craving the comfort of touch. Under her palm his skin was hot, smooth. He did not try to dislodge her hand. ‘Nick, it will be as Mata used to say, will it not? She said English women did as they pleased and no one forced their daughters to get married. That is right, is it not?’
She felt the deep breath he took, as if bracing himself for something. Then he smiled. ‘Of course. You will be a wealthy young lady with all the freedom you could wish for.’
‘Yes? I will be free. I can choose. ‘You prom—’
Nick caught her against his chest and kissed her. The suddenness was shocking, liberating. She melted against him, her arms around his neck, her breasts so tight against his bare skin that she could feel his nipples hardening through the thin cotton shift she wore.
Under the demands of his mouth her lips parted without hesitation, her tongue meeting his to explore and stroke. He tasted of tea and spice and something dangerous and male.
His hands slid down from her shoulders, down past her waist to the curve of her hips as she sat on the bed, and he lifted her so she sat across his thighs. Anusha gasped against his lips as she felt the hard ridge of his desire. He wants me that much. He needs me. I need him. This is meant, this is right...
Nick turned her to cup the weight of her breast. She had always thought them too small, but she filled his palm as he teased the tight bud until she was gasping into his mouth. This was arousal, she realised, she could feel her own moist heat, smell the heady musk of their mutual desire.
Nick lifted his head and set his hands to her waist as if to lift her away. Anusha opened her eyes and looked into his face. He had released something in her: a passion, a feminine understanding that had not been there before. He had told her she did not have to marry. This adventure had given her the courage to be free, to make her own world. And she knew what she wanted: this strong man who shielded his own hurt as well as he shielded her. She could not have him for long, she understood that, but...
‘Nick, please—lie with me.’
‘What?’ Nick recoiled. It felt as though he had slapped her. He doesn’t want me. That was just a few moments’ dalliance for him. ‘Anusha, I am sorry, I should never have touched you.’ She saw his struggle for the kind words, the right tone to save her pride. ‘You see why ladies must be chaperoned? You cannot trust men.’
He was allowing her to pretend she had not understood what she was asking, giving her a way to salvage her pride. She would not take it. ‘I can trust you. I am not saving myself for a husband, so why should I not make love to a man if I want him?’
‘Because it would be dishonourable of me to take your virginity. I should not even have kissed you, or touched you like that.’ His eyes had become dark, the colour she had learned to associate with pain, mental or physical.
‘It would be dishonourable if I did not want it,’ she countered.
‘I could get you with child.’ He said it as if snatching desperately at an excuse.
‘No, it is the wrong time of the moon,’ she said with calm practicality. ‘And besides, I have the means to stop it happening.’ She nodded towards the pack of medicines. She had alum in there. It worked for stopping bleeding, and sweating, but it also helped prevent conception, although she did not know how.
‘Your father—’
‘Am I his slave?’
‘No, but I am his man.’ She opened her mouth to protest, but he pushed on. ‘You say you trust me—he trusts me also. Would you have me betray both of you?’
‘No,’ she said after a moment. ‘No, I would not ask you to break your trust. Maf kijiye.’
‘Do not be sorry, Anusha,’ Nick answered her in Hindi. ‘You do me much honour, but it is a gift I cannot take.’
So, he salves my pride by pretending he is sorry. My protector. She managed to smile as he took his shirt and slid from the bed. She could pretend, too. Perhaps he was right, not for the reasons the gave, but because there was something fragile and tentative between them she could not put a name to, and that intimacy, with guilt on his side and something like desperation on hers, would have shattered it.
