In the Arms of a Marquess(2)

“Sir, I must—”

Her protest died.

Eyes like polished ebony, long-lashed, warm and gently lazy, glinted down at her from beneath straight brows and a careless fall of black hair. His mouth curved up at one corner, a crease forming in his bronzed cheek.

“You must loosen your grip upon my horse’s mane,” he said softly, a hint of music in his gentleman’s perfect English, “or you will come away with a handful of hair, and he with a frightful bald spot.” A flash of white teeth animated a quick, boyish grin.

Why, despite his broad shoulders and splendid mount, he could not be very much older than she, perhaps only by a few years. And he was laughing at her, albeit nicely.

“I—” She pried her fingers open then grabbed at the silver-encased pommel digging into her thigh. The crowd seemed to part before them, but he was not watching their path. He was watching her, from very few inches away. Fewer inches than she had ever been separated from any man.

“I—” Words would not form upon her thick tongue, certainly a first. A whiff of scent tangled in her nostrils, leather and fresh linen and something else. Something subtle, like sandalwood but spicier, and . . . wonderful. Her palms went unaccountably damp.

“You?” His steady gaze gently smiled.

“I— I have torn my dress.”

His glance flickered to her thighs jammed between his knee and the animal’s withers, paused, then slowly traced her legs from hip to foot, and back again. She ceased breathing, every inch of skin beneath her gown tingling where his gaze passed.

He returned his regard to her. His eyes glimmered with laughter, but his shapely mouth slid into a serious line.

“I daresay you have.”

His grip on the reins shifted and he averted his face as he turned the horse’s direction. A glimpse of man’s neck showed above his cravat. She dragged her attention away, fixing on his hand beneath her ribs. It was a man’s hand, large and powerful, grasping the leathers with practiced ease, an enormous gold tiger’s head ring on one finger, ruby eyes flashing.

Perhaps he was rather a bit older than her, after all.

Tickles fluttered in her belly. And somewhat lower. She blinked.

The noise and closeness of the bazaar fell away, in its place open street, clean shop fronts, a pair of English officers like those she had traveled with all the way to India, and finally a carriage, her uncle’s servant standing before it.

“Your destination.” In one smooth movement her rescuer dismounted and drew her off the horse. She wavered, gulping breath. He ducked his head to peer beneath her bonnet brim. “Have your bearings now?”

She nodded, mouth dry. His hands slipped away from her waist, and he put his foot in the stirrup and mounted. Taking up the reins, he gestured behind her as his horse’s head swung around.

“Your uncle arrives.”

Uncle George shoved from the crowd into the cross street, his brow taut. He peered at the horseman, frowned, and strode forward.

The young man’s watchful gaze remained upon her.

“Sir.” She sounded oddly breathless. “Thank you for your assistance.”

He bowed from the saddle, his gold-embroidered waistcoat and the hilt of his sword sparkling in the sun falling in slanting rays behind him.

“It was my great honor.” His mouth quirked into a grin and the horse pranced a half circle. “Welcome to India, shalabha.” The beast wheeled away, stirring up a cloud of dusty street. She stared through the cloud. When the dust settled, he was gone.

“Dear lord, niece, I thought I’d lost you.” Uncle George gripped her hands, then cinched her arm under his and drew her toward the carriage. “Why didn’t you keep up? Are you unharmed? What did he want of you?”

“He rescued me. I snagged my dress and a pair of cutpurses accosted me, just as on a London street. It was fantastic.” And terrifying. Momentarily. “But he frightened them off.” Even though he certainly was not much bigger than either of the thieves, although he was quite tall. “He had the horse, however. A very fine horse. And a sword. A sword must count for more than a dagger, after all.”

“A dagger? Good God. Those men were not cutpurses. The bazir is not safe for Englishwomen. You may not go there again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she said, shifting her gaze between him and the servant. The men exchanged peculiar looks. Uncle George handed her up the carriage steps. She settled into the seat, her heartbeat slowing but her limbs suddenly shaky.

“Uncle George, who was that young man?”

“His uncle owns the villa beside your brother-in-law’s house,” he said in short tones.

“Oh.” She was still two years from being out in society, but her sister’s husband, Sir St. John, always said the rules were rather more relaxed in the East Indies than at home. And the community of English traders in this part of India was quite small. If she and her rescuer were neighbors, she would certainly meet him again soon. Her stomach jittered with anticipation.

Uncle George climbed in and closed the door. Beyond the open sash, the bazir teemed with people, vibrancy, and sound. She worried her lip between her teeth and a shiver of delayed relief glistened through her. It would be lovely to return and explore the stands and shops, the next time much more carefully, now that she knew villains lurked about. Fortunately, so did dashing young English gentlemen.