An expression of relief washed over the captain’s lined face and a greedy gleam appeared in his eyes. “Hearty?” he repeated eagerly. “Robust?”
“Oh, yes,” Amanda said. “Padji’s style, I’m afraid, is a deal better suited to keeping a fighting army—or navy—in trim. Plain English food, enlivened with a dash of Indian spice.”
From that point on, the captain was hers. Amanda had only to assure him she’d take charge of Padji when they reached British soil, and the matter was settled. The captain agreed to allow Padji to cook his way to England.
Padji expressed his gratitude in his usual fashion. He dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of Amanda’s frock. “Oh, generous mistress. Oh, kind and wise—”
“Get up,” Amanda snapped. “Don’t grovel. You disgust the captain.”
Padji scrambled to his feet.
“Furthermore,” Amanda went on, “while we are on board this ship, I am not your mistress. Captain Blayton is your master, and you will obey him absolutely, or he will flog you. He has been exceedingly kind to take you on, considering the difficulty you’ve caused him. You will cause no further problems, do you understand?” She could only hope Padji understood that poisoning crew or passengers must be considered a problem.
Padji nodded, all humility, then turned to the captain. “Oh, wise and generous master,” he said, “how may I serve you?”
Amanda stood at the railing, watching Bengal dissolve into the distance, and with it seven years of her life. So had she watched England recede on the grey, late spring day she and her parents had fled financial ruin and humiliation.
Not that they’d been entirely ruined. Roderick had managed to salvage the manor house in Yorkshire at least, and it would be awaiting her. Humiliation, too, was perhaps an exaggeration. Mama was oblivious, as she was to virtually everything. Papa, who’d spent most of his life pretending all was well—regardless what facts loudly contradicted—had evidently come to believe it. At the time, Amanda had felt she alone was aware that her mother was hopelessly ill, her father had just lost a fortune, and she had lost her betrothed in consequence.
Though nothing at all was wrong, in Papa’s view, India and Roderick were expected to set it all right. Papa had made his fortune there, and met his wife. He must have believed he could return to a happier past. He returned, and India killed first his wife, then him, in less than a year.
Though Amanda had mourned them, she could not say she missed them. All the life before their passing seemed too much like a troubled dream. She had simply looked on, always outside, always helpless. When they’d gone at last, the sad dream had ended.
Amanda would miss the rani though, for she was solid and real, the product of a harsh Oriental reality. She’d embraced and welcomed Amanda into her world, where Amanda had found a friend, a sister, even a mother. Padji formed part of that welcoming world. No wonder that, after the first moment’s stunned dismay, Amanda’s heart had soared with relief. In a moment, the huge Indian had become her bulwark, and she no longer felt so alone and vulnerable.
Oh, certainly she had her companion and her maid, Bella. Both were fond of her, but they could never understand how afraid she was of England. She’d needed Padji, and he, needing her, had come. Perhaps it was Fate, as he claimed.
One could only hope the princess would forgive both her friend and her servant. Yet she must. She knew how difficult it was for mere mortals to manage Padji.
The Princess herself had said that once he got an idea into his head, no power on earth could get it out again. He’d seemed uncharacteristically remiss the whole time his mistress had related last night’s story, and very unhappy when she’d given Amanda the Laughing Princess. Or had Amanda only imagined that? She was no longer certain what she imagined, what was part of the story and what was not. The goddess Anumati, the marauders, the vindictive husband, the false lover—layer upon layer the tale had unfolded, like the petals of a lotus. Even at the end, Amanda had felt there must be more.
The robbery brought more. It had seemed another piece, another unfolding petal, opening and drawing Amanda towards the dark centre of its heart... dark, like the passage last night, and dangerous.
She winced, recollecting the strong fingers relentlessly prying hers loose from the figure. Of course the thief must be strong. The masculine form she’d watched through the palanquin shutters had seemed so slender next to Padii’s bulk, yet the robber had felled the muscular servant with a single, well-aimed blow. When he’d fled before the pursuing bearers, the thief had moved with cat grace, leaping lightly into the shadows. Then, out of the shadows he’d leapt upon her, and she had felt his taut, merciless strength.
Why had he not knocked her unconscious as well? Surely that would have been simpler than wrestling with her for a piece of wood. Moreover, he would have ensured her silence — and oblivion.
Smoke and the scent of agarwood ... rough muslin and the crushing trap of hard muscle ... a long body pressed to her back… and the confusion, black and hot. Amanda shuddered at the recollection. Turning from the hypnotic sea, she found an intent, blue-eyed gaze upon her.
The man looked away to the ocean.
In his hair gleamed the golden light of the sun and in his eyes the glistening sea. Amanda smiled. The rani’s description of her English lover would aptly describe a considerable portion of the British male population. In any case, this man’s eyes were not the shifting, unreliable colour of the sea, but deep, deep blue. Even at a distance of several yards, Amanda had not mistaken that. He wore no hat, and the ocean breeze tumbled and tossed his thick, dark gold hair.
His profile ought to have been sculpted, she thought with critical appraisal: the high forehead and clear ridge of brow, the aquiline nose, the firm, well-shaped jaw. She sensed a slight movement then, and hastily withdrew her gaze.
He was undoubtedly handsome, but that was no excuse for staring at him as though she was a cobra intent upon her next meal. Furthermore, any man so splendidly attractive must surely be vain, accepting as his due the admiring gazes of scores of stunning women, which Amanda most assuredly was not. Not to mention it was silly at her age... Lud, she must be overtired.
Without sparing him another glance, Amanda made her way back to her cabin.
***
Bloody hell. Over a million square miles of subcontinent, vessels swarming up and down the coasts, and the curst Indian was aboard this ship.
Not until early afternoon, when the Evelina had sailed out into the Bay of Bengal, had word trickled down from crew to passengers about the cook’s replacement. Not until very late in the day had Philip discovered who the new cook was.
Philip had, wisely, he’d thought, kept within the cabin until they’d sailed well beyond reach of Calcutta. He knew the rani’s spies must be mingling among the crowds at the docks. He knew better than to let them catch a glimpse of him in daylight
Escaping the cramped cabin at last, he’d come above for a preliminary scout of the deck. He’d scarcely taken in his surroundings when his gaze lit upon a turbaned giant, standing by the ship’s bell. The massive brown being gravely listened to a mate, who explained the six four-hour watches and pointed out the inadvisability of tardiness in producing the daily ration of grog. The few words the giant spoke merely confirmed his identity. Philip never mistook a voice.
Luckily, he’d been staring at the Indian’s broad back, and Padji hadn’t seen him. Philip had slipped away to the stern to weigh his options. He considered stealing a lifeboat, but instantly discarded that notion. He couldn’t leave Jessup behind, and he certainly couldn’t take him along. They were trapped.
Philip glanced about him. The woman had left. She must be Miss Cavencourt. The Bullerhams and their staff had boarded shortly after he had, and he’d helped their servants with the trunks. That left three female passengers, and the one standing by the rail seemed far too young to be the widowed companion Randall had described. She was also, obviously, not a servant. Her dress would have told h
im so, even if Philip hadn’t noted unmistakable signs of breeding in her profile and carriage.
He’d sensed something else, though, and he’d stared at her overlong, trying to determine what it was. Some nagging recollection. He swore again. If it nagged, it must be attended to, whatever it was. As if he hadn’t enough to cope with already.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Gales, “Bella is perfectly capable of seeing to your frocks. You’d do better to nap. This morning you looked as though you hadn’t slept a wink, and our interview with the captain cannot have been restful. Padji was most thoughtless to oblige us to tell falsehoods. My conscience is most troubled.” Troubled or no, Mrs. Gales continued steadily with her needlework.
Amanda was bent over her trunk. She’d been examining her frocks, trying to decide what she’d wear for her first dinner at the captain’s table. The blue was more fashionable, but the rose was more becoming... She flushed and pulled herself out of her fantasies. “You weren’t the one that told all the fibs, Leticia.”
“I didn’t contradict you, though, did I? And poor Captain Blayton. Such a dreadful morning he must have had.” She sighed.
Amanda looked up. “He seemed happy enough about replacing his cook so speedily. Nor did he seem remotely displeased to be talking with you near a whole hour after,” she added slyly.