The Devil is French: A Whipping Society Novel Page 7

  “Necessary.” Ridley tipped her chin upward. “Conveying my passion is the one thing I swore I would do for you. Unlike too many shackled by convention, I am the sort of paramour who finds the word ‘cunt’ to be as beautifully effective on the tongue as it is on the mind. Especially when spoken in the presence of a beautiful woman who intoxicates my inclinations. What are your thoughts on it?”

  That hotel was going to get razed.

  She moistened her lips, noting he was looking at them. “If it amuses your gentlemanly disposition, who am I to keep an intellectual from exploring the broad usage of the English language?”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “Every breath you take defines me. You are my angustia.”

  She bit back a smile. “That is Latin for trouble. T-R-O-U-B-L-E.”

  His eyes brightened in amusement. “May you never stray from it. Unlike our time in London, I hold nothing back. If it’s in my head, you will be cursed to hear it. If it’s in my body, you will be cursed to feel it. Are you at ease with that?”

  Holy— Jemdanee lifted her still burning feet beneath her rustling skirts, annoyed that the gravel had not lost its heat yet. “I will manage.”

  He paused, glancing past her for a tense moment.

  Stepping toward her, he curved a large hand to the small of her back and prodded her toward a hidden path beyond. “Come.”

  The possessive pressure of his weighing hand spread as his large fingers dug into the fabric of her gown and veered downward toward her rear. He smacked it. “Move.”

  She dragged in an astounded breath, swatting at his hand. “Ridley!”

  He leaned into her ear and bit out, “Move into that grove now. Move.”

  She choked, sensing something had changed, and frantically gathered her skirts, ensuring she didn’t lift them too high lest her bare feet show. Darting further and deeper into the hidden grove, she winced as her skirts dragged and kicked up dust. When her burning feet finally touched the soothing coolness of the shaded grass, a soft breath escaped her.

  The tamarind trees now hovered above and over the winding path that buried them completely from sight, nestling them in silence.

  Smoothing her skirts away from her rear, she glared. “Whatever was that about?”

  “You tell me.” Ridley’s muscled stride rounded her in the silence of the secluded garden, his cane following. Taking her arm in his and molding it against his forearm, he tugged her close and forced her to walk with him, bringing them deeper into the shaded silence.

  He was miffed.

  He wasn’t yelling but he didn’t have to.

  She glanced up at his commanding veneer that demanded obedience. “Should I be concerned?”

  “What sort of man do you take me for?” His gaze remained trained on the grass path before them. “Where are your shoes, mon chou? Why are you not wearing them?”

  Her gaze snapped toward him, knowing full well he couldn’t have seen her feet. She’d kept them well buried beneath her gravel-dragging gown. “Once an inspector, always an inspector.”

  He forced them to walk farther into the overhanging, dense grove. “Shoes make a distinctive sound against gravel and it was fairly obvious by the amount of fidgeting you were doing that your feet were burning.”

  Tightening his hold on her arm until it pulsed, he gave her a pointed look. “Aside from offering us privacy, given there appears to be a particular officer overly keen to watch our interaction, I moved you into the shade to spare your feet.” He searched her face. “Are you always in bare feet? Or are you running from trouble?”

  She almost waved her fan violently against the heat of her face, but knew it would only come across as a sign of nervousness. How was she going to tell him about Bradley without introducing a war?

  “I need you to talk to me.” He bent his head toward her. “What happened to your hand?”

  It was as if he already knew something was amiss. “Ridley?”

  “Yes, Jemdanee?”

  “What sort of man are you?”

  He eyed her. “What sort of a question is that?”

  She eyed him, in turn. “It is a question posed for the safety of everyone involved.”

  Ridley squinted, then released her and stepped back. Dragging his cane across her skirts, he used its end to lift the hem to her knee. “Whose safety are you worried for?”

  She swatted at his cane. “Might you not do that?”

  He searched her face. “Explain.”

  She didn’t want this ending in a Bradley/Ridley brawl/duel. The Field Marshal was known to hang his own for less.

  She picked at her fan, twisting it. “Ridley?”

  He released a breath through nostrils and adjusted his leather belt that hosted his weapons, still holding her gaze. “Turning my name into a question isn’t easing the tension, dearest.”

  That belt and low tone unnerved her.

  He eyed her. “If we say everything right now, there won’t be enough for later.”

  She cringed. “Given what every military man on the compound has been saying about you since you arrived into Bombay, I fear telling you anything. One would think the cultivated gentleman I met back in London was a contrived form of camouflage. Was it?”

  A muscled flicked in his jaw. “Nothing you say or do will make me raise a hand to you. Do you understand? My voice…maybe. My hand? Never. Even if you did the things I hope you didn’t do, I will be what you need me to be. Calm. Barely, but I will be. Fair warning: I may pummel everyone else.”

  “I do not want you pummeling anyone. I have seen enough of it being surrounded by military men who think violence is a solution to the world’s problems.”

  Except the rustling of trees that shaded them from sight, everything grew quiet.

  He sighed. “Give me your hand.”

  Ridley positioned the head of the black iron cane shaped into a raven between them. Gripping her fingers, he set them around the heat of the iron his hand had warmed. “Animals know the true nature of any man and Chaucer never once feared me despite being less than twenty-five inches in height. Take his lead and trust that I would never hurt you. Not even if you hurt me.”

  Jemdanee lowered her gaze to the head of the raven, her throat tightening.

  Ridley used her fingers to unfasten the beak, dragging back the iron to nudge it open.

  Tucked in its narrow hidden cavern was the lone black feather of a raven. Chaucer. Her fingers grazed it delicately, tears blurring her eyes. She had somehow become his raven given Chaucer was no more. She had sobbed when he had written about the loss he had felt responsible for.

  And now, Ridley was silently asking her to be on his shoulder at all times.

  Blinking back the burn of too many tears she had cried well before his arrival, Jemdanee fastened the downturned beak back into place with a click and gripped the weight of the handle.

  Holding his gaze, so he might know she felt his pain, she drew up the black iron raven toward her lips and kissed it. “He will come back to you in another form. He will make himself known when he is ready to be yours again. Believe it. Until he does, I am at your side and on your shoulder.”

  His brows flickered but he conveyed no other emotion. “Are you?”

  She grazed his full masculine lips with her fingers, entranced that she was touching him and that he was letting her. It was surreal. “Never doubt what we shared in London.”

  Ridley lowered the cane, and broke the contact of her fingers against his mouth, no longer meeting her gaze. “Who was the officer watching? The one sketching? Who is he to you?”

  She swallowed. He knew. Scotland Yard pounded on his door for a reason. “Knock any thought of infidelity out of your head. Would I be standing here subjecting myself to your level of intensity if I had given myself to another?”

  Lingering, he nodded but still didn’t meet her gaze.

  Turning, he intently scanned the path and beyond it into its gardens. “I’ve read quite a bit about your culture i
n my attempt to better understand you before coming to India. In that enquiry, I found myself drawn to the Aghori Sadhu. I had an incredible opportunity to meet a few of that sect whilst traveling into Bombay. They belong to no one family, live on cremation grounds, meditate whilst coating themselves with the ashes of the dead, and consider nothing to be malevolent. I found their mindset fearless and wish to explore that mindset as it relates to us.”

  She tried not to twitch at the sentiment, especially given he had veered so very, very far off the topic. She sensed he was gauging her. “They are also known to drink from human skulls and eat human flesh,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “Are you wanting that for us, as well, o Morbid King? Or are you insinuating you intend to drink from my skull?”

  He gave her a withering look. “I merely consider it refreshing that they live without taboo. I want that for us. That you can be who you are and I can be who I am without either of us harboring a distaste. To the Aghori Sadhu sect, nothing is unholy. They believe God lives within each of us and therefore everything we do is sacred and nothing ever defiles us.”

  Oyo. “Why do I feel as if you are trying to rationalize whatever bad behavior you intend to display?”

  Ridley lowered his chin. “Jemdanee. I am attempting to have an intelligent and productive conversation with you about your culture despite wanting to rip another man’s throat out. Would you rather we discuss something else? Like why you’re wearing non-prescriptive spectacles?”

  She awkwardly adjusted her glasses. “I hardly wish to bore you with my newfound tastes.”

  Given his height, he glanced down toward her. “If I had wanted to be bored, I would have remained with the officers. Did you know Officer Barker, despite his name, owns four cats?”

  A startled laugh escaped her at the unexpected jab at Barker.

  “Ah. There she is.” Reaching out, he skimmed her exposed shoulder, dragging the material downward. “The girl I first met.” He dragged her gown down hard and harder. “The girl who once told me I was worth the pain when she pleasured herself in my name.”

  Those words and the rigid skimming of his weighing large fingers against her exposed skin made her body tingle in too many places. Her chest tightened as she dragged up the lacing on her shoulder knowing the mess that lay ahead. “Ridley—”

  “I have heard my name said enough times to think I was thrusting.” He squinted. “Tell me about your officer.” His voice grew strained. “I have two questions. When you first met him, when your pale blue eyes captured his in that half-breath of an introduction, did you find him attractive? And did I, the one who wrote you over seven hundred letters dripping with devotion, disappear from your thoughts?”

  Her face burned.

  Krishna save her from leaving Calcutta and disappearing into the jungle. For yes, her first few interactions with Bradley three years earlier were not as chaste as they should have been. She had overly smiled and even flirted.

  Until she got to know him.

  She had been so livid and detached from Ridley after what he had done she hadn’t read any of the first dozen letters he’d sent. Instead, she had forcibly flirted with Bradley to spite Ridley and herself, and perhaps that was what had ultimately led Bradley to think he ever had a chance.

  She had unhinged a grimy padlocked door.

  Her throat burned. “For a small while your raven flew to another window, but she never once wedged her beak past the ledge. Once I set aside my anger, which took time, I finally started reading your letters and that was when…” Her voice cracked with the emotion she had felt even then. “I became yours again.”

  He said nothing.

  Adjusting the weight of the black diamond ring on her finger, she set her hand out, wanting to change the subject for the sake of peace between them. “I thank you. ’Tis truly beautiful.”

  Ridley gripped her hand, until their fingers entwined and directed them toward a bench. “The black diamond represents eternal commitment, even in dark times.”

  How fitting.

  Her fingers wove into his large fingers, needing assurance. She peered up at him. “You broke my heart and a vile part of me wanted to break yours, but I did stay true to what we once shared.”

  “What did we share?”

  “More than most.”

  Ridley turned toward her without breaking his limping stride or their grip on each other’s hands. He started walking backwards, so he could get a better view of her face.

  Tugging her to a halt, he jerked her into his muscled arms, tilting her forcefully back. “Look at me.”

  She stilled, every inch of her skin turning to his and fire, as the bulking hardness of his shifting biceps tightened around her.

  He surveyed her, pressing the cane against the fullness of her skirts. “You got what you wanted from me: everything. You, who once crawled into my bed one night as if it were you right, insisting on a man who then poured himself into being yours for three years. Only there is something you aren’t telling me…” He dipped his head downward and slid a rigid, hot tongue across the pressed rounds of her breasts, tingling them to the nipples.

  Her chest quaked in disbelief as she attempted to draw in breaths she couldn’t.

  His fingers dug into her arms to burning as he lifted his head, staring her down. “Apple brandy.” His amber eyes grew lethal. “An officer’s drink. I can smell it on your skin. Why is it all over your breasts?”

  Blood pounded into her brain, leapt from her heart and made her very knees tremble knowing there was no burying anything from him. Not even if she wanted to.

  Her pulse roared. “Before you think the worst, understand that he and I—”

  Releasing her with the flick of hands, he tossed the cane away from himself with a thud as if he didn’t trust himself not to use it. His rugged features wavered, then stilled. “Keep it to one word. Willingly or unwillingly?”

  Yet again, he returned to being that jaguar after a meal, casually cleaning his teeth with his tongue whilst every gazelle in the field watched. She knew the intelligence of his mind was going to turn every argument into a chess game she never wanted to play.

  That intensity unnerved her.

  Knowing she and she alone had been responsible for sending him to what had almost been another death, she choked out, “I did not invite what he did.”

  His eyes widened. Tugging her savagely into the bulk of his arms, he thudded her into his muscled chest. “Breathe,” he rasped against her hair, his hands jumping frantically to her face. “I am here with you. Always.” He cradled her harder. “What was the extent of the assault?”

  She cringed against his waistcoat, realizing he thought she’d been assaulted.

  And…yes…but…no.

  She quickly leaned back, her hands quaking against the shifting, tensing mass of muscle beneath her fingers. “I was not— I am fine. All that matters is that you survived.”

  “That I survived?” His brows came together as he intently searched her eyes. “Did he hurt you? Did he fucking hurt you?”

  She shook her head violently. “No. No, no, he—”

  “Jemdanee.” Ridley grabbed her hand and held it up, turning it toward her face. “Did he hurt you?” His tone indicated he already knew but didn’t want another lie. “Did he do this?”

  Why did she have to fall in love with an inspector? She could never tell a lie. “No! It was the pin on his sash when I…” This was horrific. “He kissed me and then he…told me about you and your assignment and I…”

  “My assignment?” He gently rattled her, setting his nose to hers. “You aren’t making sense. I cannot understand or help unless you tell me everything. What happened?”

  This was going to be her life.

  No thoughts left untouched.

  His nose to her nose and everything open to speculation as the inspector ticked through every scenario like an emporium list that required all shelves be stocked. They weren’t even on the subject of her heart or her bod
y.

  She tried to remain calm and lay out each moment like a row of seeds she was planting for harvest. “He offered me brandy, only I shoved it away and it spilled everywhere.” She gestured toward her own chest. “He then…kissed me. Only I shoved him away, which gouged my hand against the pin of his sash after which he felt guilt-ridden enough to confess that he had signed off on your assignment.” She tugged him close, knowing how it could have ended: tragically.

  He leaned back out of her embrace. “Where did this happen?”

  “In the Council Room of the Government House.”

  Easing out a long audible breath between straight white teeth, his expression became a mask of stone. “I want a name. Who is it?”

  If she didn’t take precautions, this would end in blood. Eight pints of blood judging by Ridley’s intensity. And whilst, yes, Bradley deserved it to lose every drop of blood in his biblical body, the last thing she wanted was for Ridley to get arrested and/or hanged.

  She smoothed his hair adoringly, attempting to steady her own breaths. “I suggest you put that stone face away. There is no need for you to get involved in this.”

  He gave her a dark long look, edging away from her touch. “Name. Now.”

  It was Armageddon.

  It was as if everything would always be Armageddon.

  She sensed retribution and the Field Marshal would be what he always was: unforgiving. “I do not want you getting hurt or arrested, Ridley. Leave it be. Let it go.”

  “Kumar.” Dipping his head toward her so that they were eyes to eye, he spaced out each syllable between teeth. “Protecting a man who didn’t protect you from himself is wrong. Name.”

  She pointed at his head as if she were about to poke a hole through it. “I am not at all protecting him. I am protecting you!”

  He tapped his chiseled cheek. “Might you set your hands against my face, please?”

  She blinked. “My…? What?”

  “Your hands. My face.” He snapped toward them and pointed to his jaw. “Up here.”

  Bewildered, her hands jumped to his smoothly shaven but taunt face. The flicking muscle of his strained jaw beneath her fingertips made her feel the pulse of the ticking tension of his cheek.