Once and Always Read online

  “You will find India quite different from England,” he commented, glancing at her, and then away.

  “I daresay I will,” she rejoined.

  “Where are you from?” he asked.

  “England,” she said. He barked with warm laughter.

  “Where, exactly?"

  “London. I lived there with my mother until she passed away."

  “I am sorry,” he interjected, “I did not realize."

  “Why should you?” she said. “It has been three years. I am not dressed in black, by any means. She was ill for a long time. It was God's blessing that she went when she did, and in her sleep."

  The man nodded, slowly, as if her answer had somehow satisfied him. “And so now,” he said, “you have come to join your father. Why did he not bring you out sooner? Was it because your mother was too ill to travel?"

  Roxane said nothing for a moment, and then she answered, shocked by the freedom with which she uttered an untruth, “Yes. Yes, that was it exactly."

  “I see,” he said. She had the feeling that he was not convinced, a feeling heightened by the manner in which he turned his head, running his eyes quickly over her before looking back to the road. His glance had been speculative, but not inquisitive, displaying a degree of withdrawn, courteous concern.

  Roxane watched him sidelong from beneath her lowered lashes, measuring the man in the line of his jaw, the quality of his bearing, the set of his eyes. He had a look about him of good, solid common sense, tempered by humor, which seemed to have created the tiny lines beside his eyes, in the sun-bronzed flesh that lifted beside his mouth when he smiled. Beneath the shade of the hood and the purple shadows of the structures hemming in the streets, the blue-gray of his eyes was deeper, his gaze narrowed, possibly by the habit of squinting in the brilliant sun.

  He shifted suddenly and caught her staring. She looked away with a swift intake of breath that betrayed her discomfort.

  “You trust very easily to strangers, do you not?” he said, without preamble.

  “I beg your pardon?” she responded, her head jerking back around.

  “I said, you are very trusting of those you do not know."

  “If I may take you to mean the crowd at dockside,” Roxane drawled, “they seemed rather harmless."

  The man laughed with a small shake of his dark head. He watched her with a peculiar expression that caused the smile to leave his mouth. “Oh, no, Miss Sheffield,” he said, after a moment. “Frankly, I meant myself."

  Startled, Roxane sat forward, fleetingly contemplating the likelihood of snatching the reins from his hands. If she could stop him here, she would. Abruptly, she sat back, squaring her narrow shoulders. The sun, halfway to the zenith, angled in suddenly under the buggy's sturdy hood, warming her exposed forearm. Feeling the discomfort of her skin, she cast her bonnet over her arm, addressing the captain calmly.

  “Are you suggesting that I should not trust you, sir?"

  “I am suggesting no such thing,” the captain answered. “It only seems to me that you are a very pretty girl, alone in a country halfway around the world from your own—"

  “You exaggerate the distance, sir."

  “Not by much,” said the captain. “In terms of custom and culture, the distance is enormous—"

  “But you, sir,” she said, interrupting him once more, “are British. Why, if I have anything to fear at all, which I doubt, should I concern myself over the fact that you are a stranger? As a fellow countryman, I would expect you to behave with honor and good breeding. True?"

  “Not necessarily,” he said.

  Roxane was silent. A frown deepened between her brows. Steadying herself, she said bluntly, “I took you for a gentleman. That was, I see, a foolish presumption of my own. Would you be so kind as to draw rein and let me out? I shall find my own way."

  “As you were going to do earlier?"

  “I did not then know my exact destination, nor how to convey it to the native driver."

  “And you do now?” he countered.

  She raised her chin. Her profile, though defiant and cold, was a handsome one. “No,” she admitted, “I do not."

  Captain Harrison smiled, turning away. “Honesty becomes a woman,” he said, “more than flustered argument. I am sorry to have upset you, but you seem entirely too naive—"

  “Naive?” repeated Roxane, annoyed. How did he dare to insinuate that she did not know her way about in the world? Even the qualities of an alien country could be either mastered or understood. She had, as she had earlier reflected, managed quite well nearly on her own in the past, and she would doubtless be able to accommodate all that India had to offer without trouble. She began to say as much, as directly as she could.

  Captain Harrison waved his hand in a placating gesture. “There is no need, Miss Sheffield,” he said, “for explanations. I must say, I admire your spunk. Few women, in a similar situation as you found yourself in earlier, alone and unable to communicate your needs, would have displayed such humor as did you. It was quite splendid, actually. But I am afraid that you will, in time, find certain aspects of this country, and the people who inhabit it, undeniably cruel."

  “Indeed?” responded the young woman, “How so?"

  But the officer obviously had no answer for her, as he stared steadily ahead without speaking.

  “How long have you been here, that you know India so well?” she asked, sarcasm creeping into her tone.

  “Five years, serving the East India Company,” he said.

  “Five years?” Roxane echoed, as she formulated a particularly cutting remark. By chance, it went unspoken, for suddenly the captain called out to a crowd who had blocked the road. Skillfully, he maneuvered the buggy about the milling assemblage. In the center of the group, a single native, shabbily dressed in a long, lean coat and turban, was haranguing the men gathered about him in a loud, shrill voice. Without pausing in his speech, the native turned to watch the passing vehicle and its occupants. Roxane was startled by the glittering light of hatred in the man's black eyes, especially as they alighted on Captain Harrison.

  “How unpleasant,” she murmured. “Who was that man? Do you know him?"

  Her companion looked at her sharply. With a gentle word of encouragement, he urged his horse to more speed on the open road.

  “He was a fakir," he said. “A religious mendicant, of sorts. And yes, I know of him, and he of me."

  “What was he saying?"

  The officer grunted. “If I am not mistaken, he was preaching the merits of a holy war."

  “A holy war? Against whom?"

  “Foreigners, of course. Christians. Which includes, my dear Miss Sheffield, both you and me. If you had not been along, I might have taken a chance on dispersing that crowd. As it is, the damage is done."

  “Do all Indians believe as that one man?” Roxane could scarcely countenance such an outrage.

  “No. Not yet. I doubt that there will ever be a concerted effort against the British government, though it will not be for want of trying. There is a certain amount of discontent, and not entirely unfounded, especially among the sepoy, the native troops. Yet there is no common cause to bind these discontented factions together."

  For a few moments, Roxane was thoughtful. “My father mentioned nothing of this in his letters,” she said at last. “He dotes on his men, and they on him.” She could not help the slight edge of bitterness that appeared in her voice. Fortunately, the officer seemed not to notice.

  “Who is your father?” he asked.

  “He is Colonel Maxwell Sheffield, in Delhi."

  “Delhi, you say?” responded Harrison. He made a small noise of disapproval and derision. Freeing one hand from the leather strap, he ran his fingers through his hair. Sweeping his helmet from his head, he placed the headgear on the seat between them. Off-center on his forehead, his black hair grew from a point into an unruly widow's peak, dark and oddly appealing. She turned her eyes away, staring instead at the froth-flecked rump
of the roan in the traces.

  Uncharacteristically, Roxane felt a bristling impulse to defend the man who was her father, no matter how little she knew of him. Breathing deeply, she responded to the captain's implied disapproval with heat.

  “And you know best, I would suppose? Interesting. I certainly would expect a captain in India for five years to have a deeper understanding of the native populace than his superior officers, stationed in the country for twice that duration."

  “There is no need for sarcasm, Miss Sheffield,” replied the captain. “You do not understand."

  Roxane was not to be deterred. “What is there to understand, Captain Harrison? Have you, in your five years of service, come to despise India so very much?” she asked coolly.

  Surprisingly, the man laughed, hunching forward over the reins on his knees as he rescued his helmet, which had rolled from the seat onto the floor. He turned his dark head, eyeing Roxane over his shoulder. After a moment, he looked away.

  “Not at all,” he said.

  Puzzling over his reply, Roxane turned her green gaze to the road ahead. The wind of passage tugged at her dark hair and at the hat in her lap, so that she had to hold the bonnet down with both hands; the silk ribbons tangled about her wrists. As she sat, steadying herself with her feet on the floorboards and dwelling on the more annoying aspects of Captain Harrison's character, she realized, with a start, that the much slower cart that had been sent on ahead bearing her goods was nowhere to be seen. They had not passed it, she knew. Swinging about on the seat, she glanced back in the direction they had come. Her hair whipped into her eyes, stinging them to tears. All along the road, the dust thrown up behind the lightweight carriage blotted out any sight of fellow travelers—and of the narrow, twisting lanes they had left behind. The captain's words concerning trust sprang, with uncanny timing, to mind.

  Flouncing back around, Roxane demanded in a voice that was meant to be imperious, but which left her companion unmoved:

  “Captain Harrison, I demand to know this very minute where it is that you are taking me? Where is the cart with my belongings? It seems to me that we should have overtaken it long ago."

  “Indeed we should have,” replied the captain, with amiable nerve. Roxane gasped. The officer glanced at her, grinning with infuriating humor. “If you are entertaining the notion that I have kidnapped you, trust that I would have cast you out of this vehicle the moment you began to insult me. I could not abide a sarcastic hostage, you know. Too much trouble, by far."

  At her expression of bewildered horror—an expression swiftly giving way to anger—the captain laughed outright. His blue-gray eyes sparkled, crinkling at the sunburnt corners.

  “Ah, Miss Sheffield,” he cried, “you are a dramatic sort! Do you truly believe me capable of such a crime? Oh, but then,” he said, “we are strangers, are we not? And India is, to a young woman, a romantic, exotic land, capable of summoning all flights of fancy imaginable to the mind! I suppose,” he added, quite winded with laughter, “that you subscribe to the Ladies Lending Library?"

  “And what if I do?” Roxane retorted. “There is no shame in that. At least I can claim to be well-read on many subjects, and not only those which are considered proper for young ladies."

  Dramatic? she thought, gazing hard at the man. Romantic? No one had ever referred to her as such before. How could he come to such a drastic, and misguided, conclusion, after so short an acquaintance? She frowned again. “Answer my questions, won't you?"

  Sighing, Collier wiped at the tears that clung to his thick lashes. “Very well,” he said, sobering, “if you must know. I instructed the driver to take your things straight to the house, but my intent was, from the beginning, to take you by the scenic route. I entertained my own notions, mind you, that it might be singularly pleasant to spend some time in your company, and to show you the sights. I wonder now if I was possibly in error?"

  Roxane, who had been about to offer a hasty reply, sat back on the ribbed upholstering of the seat, silent instead. She toyed with the taffeta silk of her bonnet ribbons, detaching them from about her wrists to thread the smooth, stiff material through her fingers. Two spots of bright color appeared on her cheeks which had little, if anything, to do with the heat. Her tongue slipped out, to moisten wind-dried lips. She tasted the dust she had been scenting in her nostrils.

  “Dear me,” she said, very quietly.

  “Excuse me, Miss Sheffield?” said the captain.

  “Nothing. What a mess I must look,” said she, pulling out a lace-edged handkerchief to scrub, self-consciously, at her face.

  “A charming mess, to be sure,” said the captain.

  Remarkably, Roxane's blush deepened.

  “What a terrible impression I will make upon my hosts,” she added, in confusion.

  “I doubt that."

  “How can you doubt that, of all people? I have been horribly rude to you,” she said, staring pointedly ahead at the narrow track of road. Beside her, Captain Harrison glanced sidelong in surprise.

  “Not horribly,” he said.

  Roxane was silent.

  “Actually,” he continued, with a smile, “I rather enjoyed it."

  “Enjoyed my rudeness? How so?"

  “I was amused?” he suggested. She looked at him, dubious of his answer. He laughed, showing fine, white teeth. His smile, she thought, was not quite so irksome as she had first perceived it. Indeed, it could be considered a pleasant addition to a remarkably handsome countenance. As she looked, his smile faltered, revealed now only in the light and angle of his eyes. Roxane dipped her head down quickly and began fumbling with her bonnet. Holding the hat in both hands, she attempted to return the garment to her head, but the wind kept filling the straw crown, whipping it from her grasp so that she found herself, more than once, clinging to the headgear by the ribbon alone.

  “Here, let me make that easier for you."

  Hauling on the reins, Captain Harrison brought the laboring roan to a halt on the edge of the road. Thanking him, Roxane situated the bonnet upon her dark hair, but before she could stop him, he had taken the ribbons in hand and begun to tie them beneath her chin. He ignored her protests, which soon, for lack of effectiveness, and a sound of singular idiocy, died. She tilted her chin back, almost like a child, complacently accepting his marginal ministrations. His fingers, grazing her chin and throat, were pleasantly cool, gentle in their touch ... lingering, perhaps, a little too long?

  The sun, a nimbus of light shining through the feathery foliage of the trees that lined the road, was glaringly bright. Roxane closed her eyes.

  An instant later, she sat bolt upright, eyes flying open. The color in her cheeks burned high, as did the sensation of the man's lips upon her own. Breathing rapidly, she pulled back across the seat, as far as her wide skirts would accommodate in the narrow confines of the buggy. She raised her hand to her mouth, touching her fingertips to the soft flesh that had so recently betrayed her in unaccountable acceptance of a stranger's caress.

  “You should not have done that,” she said.

  For a long moment, Collier stared at her wordlessly. The last traces of his smile fled his countenance, hardening his features. He shifted on the seat, bringing down the leg that had been angled before him, so that his foot fell firmly against the floorboard.

  “You are quite right,” he said, snapping the reins over the roan's sleek rump, “I should not have."

  Roxane remained mute as the carriage pulled away into the sparse traffic of the road. In annoyance, she felt the beat of her blood still swift in her veins. She hid her face from his view in a feigned regard for the passing scenery. What nonsense, she thought, what unforgivable, pathetic foolishness. She should have known better, and yet, could she deny that, as she had closed her eyes, she had almost expected him to do exactly as he had done? Perhaps her thoughts had shown in her expression. If so, the man could hardly be condemned for responding to what he must surely have viewed as an invitation.

  And no
w, he, too, regretted it. That much was obvious, in the way he held himself, of a sudden, in the determined line of his jaw and the way his handsome eyes studiously avoided hers, even when she had sufficiently regained her composure to look at him again.

  “We will soon be at the bungalow of the colonel and his family,” he commented, after several minutes. Was that relief she heard in his voice?

  Roxane nodded. There seemed little point in conversation. Yet, from the corner of her eye, she watched him, observing the grace of motion as he arched the muscles of his back between his shoulder blades to ease some unaccountable stiffness. He pushed his fingers through his black hair, allowing the wind to dry the perspiration on his brow.

  “That's better,” he muttered to himself. For a minute or two longer, he said nothing more, concentrating on the reins in his hands, the flat, straight road, and his private thoughts. Then, with an upward inclination of his chin, he indicated a large building off to their right. “Look there, Miss Sheffield. Government House—Lord Canning's residence. By outward appearances very fine, wouldn't you say?"

  Roxane turned her head to follow his direction. She saw a stately, three-storied structure, earth-colored, shaded about the lower floor by a columned verandah. It was surrounded by gardens; green parakeets flew beneath the colonnade. An impressive building, in a classical style of Western culture that took one by surprise in the midst of Eastern architecture. She said as much. Collier smiled.

  “I agree. The place was designed by a nephew of James Wyatt. However, when Canning took over, it was not even comfortably furnished, and there was not a single water-closet—excuse me,” he said, recalling himself. “I was not thinking. I don't suppose water-closets are something a young lady cares to hear discussed."