The Duke of Shadows (7 page)

Shaken, she slowed the gelding to a walk. Crowds of natives and Britons were swarming the broad, sunlit street, their wan faces lifting every time a blast sounded in the distance. Somewhere in the city, people were dying; they were afraid they would be next. But no one seemed to know in which direction to flee, and the commotion was turning ugly. Already a man had tried to wrest the reins from her. An Englishwoman clutched at her ankles and begged for news. When she shook her head, the lady scurried onward, a baby and a scrapbook clutched to her chest.

A gunshot rang out behind her, greeted by a chorus of high-pitched female screams. Another whizzed by, so close she could hear it pass. Were they shooting at
her?
She spurred her mount into a canter, her lips moving in a silent prayer as she negotiated animals and people.
God,
don't let me hit anyone.
There was no end in sight to the melee, but up ahead, she saw the opening to a small alley. She headed for it.

It was another lane lined with havelis, much like the one she had explored with Usha. A weird quiet encapsulated her as she entered it. Scattered shafts of sunlight fell, illuminating aimless drifts of dust. The horse sneezed, startling her. She pulled him to a trot.

Ahead, a woman stepped into the darkened street, her sari a vivid mélange of purple and gold. She waved at Emma, motioning for her to go back. Emma ignored her. The woman's motions grew more violent as she neared.

"Jaaiye laut jaaiye vo maar daalenge aapko!"

No one else appeared as she thundered down the crooked street. After a minute or so the alley widened, dumping her into another great commotion of people.

By the time she caught sight of the Jama Masjid ahead and realized she had blundered directly into the heart of the OldCity, near the spice market, it was too late. She was penned in by the crowd. Men—mostly Indian, though she saw two or three English faces—were climbing onto whatever heights they could find, screaming words that were completely inaudible. The sweet smell of incense floating out of vegetable stalls was mixing with the acrid tang of gunpowder. Across the plaza, the vibrant paintings of the blue-skinned gods, the paintings she had so admired during her visit, had caught fire. A group of people fought, sobbing and screaming, to put out the flames.

The frantic jostling forced her forward, in the direction of the Jama Masjid. The great striped minarets of the mosque gleamed in the morning light. Around her she began to spot wounded, British and Indians as well, bloody and smoke-stained from battle. Blast it, where were they coming from? Lacking a choice, she speeded her progress toward the mosque, spying as she neared it a sizable group of Englishmen who were sheltering beneath the high sandstone archways.

A man cried out as he sighted her, stumbling down the steps as he clutched his arm. It was the Commissioner. "Mr. Fraser!" Emma hauled back on her reins and threw herself down from the horse, grabbing the man as he stumbled. "What happened to you?"

"I tried," he said wearily. "The first breach was at Daryaganj. We shut the Delhi Gate—but they went around to Raj Ghat. They'll be inside the city at any moment."

Raj Ghat was not fifteen minutes away. "Lord above!" She turned to cast a desperate glance over the chaotic crowd. "We cannot stay here, Mr. Fraser!"

He took her hands, pressing them in his own. "Pray my telegram went through to Ambala," he said, staring into her eyes. "Pray with me for reinforcements."

"I will pray, but you must leave with me. Two can sit my horse. Come." She tried to pull him toward her mount, but he resisted, looking behind her. "You were right!" he panted, and pulled from her grip. She glanced down, shocked to find her hands coated in blood. "You were right, my lord! The troops have turned on us!"

She turned. The Marquess was mounted on a huge black steed, and his face was smeared with soot. He looked astonished to see her. "What in
hell
are you doing here? Why did you not wait for me at the Residency?"

"There's no time for this!" Sir Fraser yelled. "Holdensmoor, they're shooting their own goddamn commanders!"

The Marquess's mount shied, skittish as hordes of people milled around them. He reined the horse in a tight circle, saying as he came back around, "Get out of the city, Fraser. Don't go back for your possessions; just get out!"

The Commissioner drew himself upright. "I need a surgeon," he said bitterly. "Damned blackie near took my arm off. But first I'm going to see the Emperor, and make clear that if he doesn't settle down his people, I'll have them all blown to hell."

As if to punctuate his words, a mighty explosion rocked the earth beneath them, momentarily casting the world in tones of fire. They all wheeled, and from behind her Fraser gasped, "The magazine! Some fool blew up the Expense magazine! That's all the artillery we have inside the gates!"

"Likely one of your men," the Marquess yelled over the uproar. "It's too close to the river; the troops would have gotten it."

"Holdensmoor, it's
finished
here!"

The Marquess nodded. "Is this your horse?" he said to Emma, as he reached out to grab the gelding's reins. "Get back on it."

"But—the Commissioner—"

"Go with him!" Mr. Fraser bodily lifted her into the saddle. "I must try to speak with the King!"

"No, please, Mr. Fraser—" But Lord Holdensmoor's horse lunged forward, pulling hers along with him. Emma twisted to look back, but the Commissioner had already been swallowed by the throng. She faced front again. Dear God. The fire was not contained to the magazine. Natives with torches were spreading out through the street; before her eyes, the government building went up in flames. The torchbearers' wrath seemed indiscriminate, for even Indians were spilling from the buildings, clutching what valuables they could to their chests as they watched the rest burn.

At the entrance to the Chowree bazaar, Lord Holdensmoor drew up. "I don't think it's safe," he said to Emma, as he stared down the crushed lane.

She pivoted in her saddle, looking behind her. The street was now a virtual wall of flame, and as she turned away she saw from the corner of her eye a turbaned man reach out and grab a British woman by the hair, yanking her from her husband's side to the ground. "Oh my God!" She reached out to clutch the Marquess's arm. "That man—"

"Shah Bahadur ki jay! Shah Bahadur ki jay!"
The chant seemed to grow out of thin air, escalating into a blood-rattling roar. The unruly mess of Britons and natives—who, just moments before, had been consulting each other in mutual terror over the explosion of the magazine—now seemed to coalesce into a sudden horrifying semblance of order. The women in saris and veils shrank to the sides of the street, grabbing their children by the wrists before ducking down the tangled alleys. The British—mostly women who had come to seek their husbands at the Civil Service office, though there were a few men here and there who were screaming in broken Hindustani and English to be calm,
be calm—
froze before the oncoming mass of chanting natives, all of whom were garbed in full military uniform. One of them reached out and smashed a window front. An Englishman stepped forward, gesticulating wildly. The sepoy swung his rifle from his shoulder and drove the bayonet through the man's heart.

Emma screamed as someone dragged her off her horse. Hands spun her roughly, shaking her. It was the Marquess. He dragged her into the shadows of a building, holding her against him as violence seized the crowd.

Some terrible, base instinct compelled her to push away. She had to look.

The sepoys had broken formation, and were scattering with blades upraised. Emma saw a girl roughly her own age viciously gutted by a soldier's knife. Her morbid curiosity died. She shut her eyes again and pressed a fist to her mouth.

"Miss Martin. Emmaline!"

She looked up to find the Marquess crouched before her. In his hand was a knife, offered hilt first. "You
will
use this," he said forcefully.

She drew a shaking breath and took it carefully from his hand. It was larger and sharper than the one Marcus had offered, but it sat well in her palm. She curled her fingers around the hilt, swallowing hard.

The Marquess was loading his revolver. "Five shots," he said, and then glanced back to the street. "We're trapped if we stay here." His eyes met hers, intensely green. "On my mark, run into the bazaar."

The utter calmness of his manner was more jarring than a scream; it made the chaos around them seem like some awful hallucination. She met his eyes, panting, dizzy—and nodded.

They burst out of the alley.

No time to think. She acted on instinct, darting left and right as the mass of bodies clashed and parted around her. The sound of screams and curses and the rasp of her own panicked breath prevented any coherent thought; only her eyes could help her now, straining wide to spot openings in the bloody clash. A matronly woman stumbled into her, blue eyes fixed in shock, her nose dripping blood as she caught Emma's arm. When she collapsed, she nearly dragged Emma with her; only the Marquess's arm around her waist saved her from being trampled. She stumbled back to her feet, nausea knotting her throat as she stepped on something soft and warm. Dear God…

A soldier rose up before her, bloodlust in his eyes. Sobbing, she lashed out with her knife, but he knocked it from her hand with the butt of his rifle, spinning the weapon around in order to thrust the bayonet toward her. She jerked backward at the deafening report of gunfire over her head, thudding directly into the Marquess as the sepoy slumped to the ground.

"Go!" he screamed, pushing her forward again as he primed his pistol. But from the periphery of her vision, Emmaline spied another soldier hauling his rifle to his shoulder, taking Lord Holdensmoor in his aim. A scream burst from her as she hurled herself forward, her hand stretching out to knock the rifle away. It discharged over their heads, and the sepoy drew his saber, slicing it down toward her. Time slowed as she watched it descend.

Lord Holdensmoor seized the man's wrist. The saber shot up. A brief struggle. The Marquess yanked the man into his body—belly first into the pistol. The gun barked. The man's eyes shot wide; blood bubbled up at his mouth. He thudded to the ground.

She turned to the Marquess in disbelief. His eyes met hers in the split second before a great weight slammed into her temple, and the world went black as pitch.

She gasped and hauled herself upright. An exquisitely brutal pain lanced through her head. With a groan, she fell back to the ground.

"Miss Martin, you cannot fall asleep again. Miss Martin.
Emmaline.
Answer me, damn it!"

"What?" Was that really her voice? She sounded intoxicated. Licking her dry lips, she tried again. "What? Who's there?"

The voice sounded distinctly alarmed. "Now, Emmaline. Open your eyes
now."

His hands slid down to her shoulders, gently forbidding her to rise. "Shh, easy. You've had a knock to the head."

Of course. It all came back to her in a nauseating rush. Cautiously, mindful of the throbbing in her skull, she turned her head to take in their location. Not Delhi. Someplace else. Safety? A river flowed musically not five yards away. The sun was low to the ground, reddening the waters and limning the squat trees atop the riverbank. Hours had gone by, then. "Where are we?"

"A few miles outside Delhi. Opposite direction of Kurnaul. No other options. The troops started closing the gates."

She shuddered involuntarily. A chorus of aches and twinges answered. Gingerly she catalogued them, stretching out each limb with measured care. Her arms—that would be from gripping the pommel. Her shins and ribs—jostling amidst the crowd. Her head pounded like the dickens. Any number of possible reasons for that. Obviously she had committed some terrible sin to deserve all this abuse, but what it might have been was a puzzle.

As she sat up, the throb of her jaw demanded special note. She touched it. Definitely a fresher insult than the one Marcus had delivered. "Someone hit me."

"He regrets it."

The cold, flat tone caught her attention. The Marquess did not look so well either. Raffish, in fact. His black hair was tangled, and an oncoming beard shadowed his jaw. Somewhere along the way he had acquired a bloody slash from cheekbone to chin. But it was his eyes that gave her pause. They were feverishly bright—at once alert and exhausted. He looked as if he were burning up from within.

The chaos of Chowree Lane flashed back over her. She wondered what he had done to get them out of the city. "You saved my life."

The line of his throat moved as he swallowed. His face turned away. She did not know how to read his mood—whether he was in shock, or struggling to master himself, or simply impatient with formalities at such a time. But when he turned back to her, his lips moved in the barest of smiles. "No thanks between us," he said, and lifted his hand to her cheek. "You saved mine as well."

His touch conjured another image—his hand smashing away a blade, wrapping around another man's wrist. Making a shield for her of his flesh and bone. She swallowed hard, and her hand rose to cover his.

Then a rustle from above them had him pressing down against her, his palm firm against her lips for silence. As she strained to detect any other noise, she became aware of the feel of his body. He was a solid wall of coiled muscle, but fine, passing tremors racked him, as if something inside him were fighting to break out. It came to her of a sudden that he was as dangerous as anything else she had faced today. She drew herself as small as possible, and held very still beneath him.

"No," he said. "I don't think it's anything. I'll go check." He lifted himself off her and moved up the bank, silent as a shadow.

She lay there, staring upward. Long crimson clouds stretched across the lavender sky, as though giant claws had laid open the innards of heaven. A new moon wavered and blurred at the corner of her vision. Ah, God. If there was one thing these last few months had taught her, it was that tears were utterly useless. Strength and courage were the qualities that mattered, and she had enough
—yes,
she did—to see this through. She was no chit fresh from leading strings, to whimper at the prospect of being left alone in this empty place as a bullock lowed mournfully in the distance. She had braved greater loneliness when she had faced the sea. She would make herself stand up now and climb the bank. She would learn whether their hiding place had been discovered.

She stifled a groan as she rolled onto her knees, panting in determination as she grabbed at roots and rocks to haul herself upward. As she crested the rise she bumped into the Marquess, who caught her by her wrists to steady her.

"Did you tire of the vista?" he asked.

Strange, that his humorous tone could give her as great a shock as anything that had come before it today. After a soundless moment, her lips finally managed to spit out the words. "What was it, then?" She glanced beyond him, seeing only an endless expanse of scrub.

"Likely a monkey." He drew her back down the bank, to the water's edge. She thought to sit, but her knees gave way. She made a controlled collapse into the dust.

His small sound of mirth drew a sharp glance from her—and the resulting pain was stupendous. With two trembling fingers, she touched her temple, where small, rhythmic daggers seemed to be stabbing a tattoo. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Christ—nothing at all."

"Then what?"

"Oh…" He lay back against the bank, folding his arms behind his head. "You never fail to surprise me."

She could not follow his line of thought. But in these circumstances, she supposed that surprise must be accounted a good thing. Certainly she was surprised to be alive still.

He seemed content to lie there, so she let the silence settle. After a few moments of watching the current, she dipped her fingers into it—and immediately withdrew them, shuddering. The river felt warm and viscous, as though clotted with some foreign substance. She did not like to think of what it reminded her of. She backed away a little.

"You don't like water."

She cut him a speaking glance. Nor would he like it, had he come to know it so intimately.

From across the bank came the whirring of a lone cicada. Then, as if on a signal, a chorus of them started up. Dusk was deepening. She readjusted her skirt over her ankles. "Shouldn't we … do something?"

"Not until full dark," he said. "That's the Grand Trunk Road up there. Main corridor to Delhi. There's bound to be dacoits and stray sepoys along it."

"And then what?"

"I don't know." At her answering expression, he sighed. "I'll deliver you to a safe place. Sapnagar, I think. I have friends there."

"You'll
deliver
me."

"Yes."

She took a deep breath. "And where will you go?"

"Back to Delhi."

"Delhi!" He still wore the blood he'd shed during their escape! "Have you run mad? You can't mean to go back. Not until it's recaptured!"

"If
it's recaptured," he said softly.

"If?" His insinuation astonished her. "You actually think we'll let the natives keep it? One of the largest stations in the raj?"

He rolled onto one arm to face her. "I am not sure
we
will have any say in the matter. The Indians appear to have already taken
back
their imperial city."

She felt unaccountably embarrassed—and then angry for it. Here they sat in the middle of the wilderness, bruised and beaten and cowering at the sound of monkeys in the brush, and he took her to task for wishing it were otherwise? "Am I to understand that you're upbraiding me for espousing the English view? Pray tell, my
lord,
after what we have been through today, do you still take some other position?"

He sat up in one fluid motion, and instinct had her lurching away. The reaction seemed to startle him as much as it did her. He went very still. Then, in curiously formal tones, he said, "Forgive me, Miss Martin. I can see I have upset you. I fear my mood is … uncertain."

She had backed toward the river, and dampness was creeping up her skirts, trickling over her ankles. The sensation set all her nerves on edge, but advancing seemed equally dangerous. "And your loyalties—are they uncertain as well?"

"You are safe with me," he said. "Can you doubt it?"

"That is not an answer."

"No." He exhaled. "Come out of the water, Emmaline. Please. It was not my intent to frighten you, and I'm very sorry for it."

Never looking away from him, she pushed herself forward just enough to clear the current. "You do not frighten me. You
alarm
me."

A hint of humor flickered across his face. "An interesting distinction. Perhaps you would like to explain it."

"I am more interested in your explanation," she said stiffly.

"Fair enough." He paused. "My mother's family lives in Delhi. I can only assume they remained in the city today. They would have thought it safer than fleeing."

"Your mother's…" She realized he must be speaking of his Indian kin. "But—surely the rebels will not harm them? They are not English."