 
### Escaping Fate

The Rescue Series

Book One

Published by Wayne R. Tripp at Smashwords

### Copyright Page

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever witout written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locals or organizations is entirely coincidental

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An Original work of Wayne R Tripp

Escaping Fate Copyright 2014 by Wayne R Tripp

Cover art created by Ginny Gallagher

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Sneak Peek at Dodging Bullets, Book 2 of The Rescue Series

Books by Wayne R Tripp

#  Chapter One

Mouth of the Ganges River

Calcutta, India 1894

_I'm going to die._ Silent as a crocodile, Jack Wilde eased himself off the deck and pried the Webley out of his lieutenant's cooling fingers. They'd been ambushed as they'd descended the drifting ship's aft companionway. Fraser had been killed while he stood on the ladder's bottom rung, surveying the shadowy, crammed maze surrounding him.

Jack tried not to stare at the neat round hole just starting to ooze blood from Fraser's forehead as he shoved the officer's revolver into the back of his waistband. Then he took the carbine the Sikh constable crouching behind him pushed toward him. One of the best shots in the regiment or not, this had to be handled perfectly, or he _would_ die in this stinking abattoir.

Jack positioned himself in a comfortable sniper's stance, risking ruining his new khaki breeches and settled his Martini-Henry comfortably against his cheek and shoulder. He waited silently for the thug hiding behind the wallowing merchantman's cargo to show himself. The cultist had already shown himself to be a marksman when he'd drilled Fraser in the center of his forehead with his first shot. Jack too was a deadly predator; hopefully, so was the Sikh policeman crouching behind him. But the key to every proficient shooter's success, to his very survival, was patience. The evidence of the murderer's skill lay stiffening at Jack's feet, the corpse of his superior and friend, Lt. Fraser. Jack knew the murderer was well aware of his presence, even as he was aware the cultist was not alone; there were he suspected a swarm of the fanatics aboard the _Liverpool Lass._ Jack would wait, and kill the bloody bastard who'd murdered his friend, Angus Fraser.

_What an odd place for an American to die._ Not that he was any stranger to dangerous situations, catacomb-dark ships, or rescuing damsels-in-distress.

Jack shifted his position ever so slightly, one of his legs cramping up, the half-healed wound in his thigh beginning to throb. _What a strange place was India, and what bizarre circumstances had thrown him up on her exotic shores._

"Sahib, there is movement up ahead," the Sikh policeman said, using the universal Indian title of respect for all Englishmen. "The treacherous viper has just reared his most vile head for a look around. Perhaps now you might kill this disgusting serpent."

Jack had seen; his finger already tightening on the trigger, ready to hurl a .577 brass- jacketed slug into the thug's own forehead. But then he'd seen the flash of a spangled magenta sari and heard the cut-off squeal of an abused woman. The killer had a human shield.

"Sahib, there is a woman. But you can still take the shot. She is but the memsahib's maid, not the major general's daughter herself."

"Singh," Jack hissed, "she is still a woman. I do not kill women. Anglo or Hindi, she's entitled to a decent chance at life, same as you or me. I will wait for a clear shot."

"As you wish, Sahib Jack," Constable Singh replied, beaming approval as though thrilled to discover an Anglo of the ruling Raj who did not view Indian lives as worthless. "Your words do you honor, Sahib. I am proud to know you, Englishman. My given name is Manjeet—call me Jeet please, as I believe we are both likely to perish this night and should die as friends."

"I'm no damned Limey. I'm American. Born and raised in New England."

"Not British Raj. I am seeing. Still, you're a damned good man. Sahib," insisted the Sikh constable.

Jack looked away, embarrassed by his comrade's praise. _Undeserved._ He nailed his attention to his weapon, forcing himself to wait patiently for the right moment to take his shot _. You don't know me, friend. You might not be so free with your praise if you really knew me, Manjeet._ If only the cultist fanatic would foul up, or the Indian maid pass out so he could take the shot. End this and move on. Somewhere on this big monster of a coal-burner, the Major General's daughter was in danger.

"Sahib Jack—your leg—it is bleeding. When Sahib Fraser was killed, were you shot also?"

"No, not shot. Stitches must have let go," Jack whispered. "I went for a little swim last week."

"A swim, Sahib?"

Jack didn't answer the constable, he wasn't eager to explain. There was movement in the shadows between three huge crates. _Soon_. He let himself relax a moment, closing his eyes and loosening his grip before firming up his shooter's stance, ready for the thugee fanatic to make his mistake.

His _swim_ had occurred in Bengal as he walked along an inland tributary of the Ganges. He'd stopped for a moment to watch the local women washing clothes; his artistic nature intrigued by the rich palette of colors created by their vibrant saris fluttering like exotic butterflies as they washed, and beat their laundry at the edge of the river. His shooter's eye zeroed in on one young girl of about six splashing in the river's shallows. Nearby, her jewelry-laden mother watched a maid servant washing the family's clothes. In spite of wearing his only dress uniform, Jack was already in motion before the shrieking began; he'd seen the elongated shadow gliding toward the innocent child while her mother chatted with another richly-attired neighbor. He reached the frantic child just as she started screaming that something had touched her. In moments, mother and neighbor added their own wails of rising hysteria to the girl's cries, yet neither moved to help her. Jack sloughed through the shallows, placing himself between girl and beast before hoisting the terrified child out of the water and starting for shore. As he carried his precious cargo toward the crowded ghat, he noticed most of the terrace's curious onlookers had stopped to watch. Yet oddly, no one moved to offer assistance.

He hadn't long to ponder. Cheated of its meal, the Ganges mugger, luckily a small three-footer, latched onto the back of his thigh with a vengeance, and had to be beaten off by two infantry sepoys who just happened to be walking along the river bank and jumped in to help.

Even though the croc's bite hurt like hell, it was nothing compared to the dressing down he'd received from his troop commander. The woman and child had apparently been Brahmans and somehow in saving the daughter's life, her mother believed he'd fouled her caste forever. The family had thrown the girl out and her entire neighborhood had turned its back on her. After all, had the Ganges crocodile succeeded in killing the child, well that was just her karma, wasn't it? Although he'd meant well, Sergeant Wilde would've been far wiser to look the other way and keep walking. If he had, the little girl wouldn't now be viewed as an untouchable outcast, wrenched from her family and banished forever.

# Chapter Two

_Saving women._ He seemed to be always putting himself in danger to save someone of the fairer sex, whether it proved prudent or not. Just like now. _But really, how could he behave differently?_

From the shelter of the crates stacked around the base of the mainmast, Jack heard voices rise in a gibberish of angry Hindi. The squabble ended abruptly with a resounding slap and a raised male voice full of furious threats.

He was tired of waiting. His thigh throbbed and the back of his breeches lay against his injured flesh, soaked through with his chilled blood. _Damn! God knew what manner of beasties squatting on this filthy deck might invade his wound._

"Constable Singh—Jeet, can you say something . . . in Pashto or Hindi to the maid?"

"Hindi, Sahib."

"Right. Whatever you call your native tongue. Anyway, I'm told Sita—that's the maid's name, is quite intelligent. I suspect she knows several languages. I'd like you to ask her if she understands English, and more importantly if that devil holding her hostage does."

"Oh, I _see,_ Sahib Jack. I shall do as you ask."

"Good," Jack said without looking at the constable, his sole attention now centered on his concealed target. "Make sure you keep your bleedin' head down.

"Yes, Sahib Jack."

Jack didn't need to look at the Sikh to know his white teeth were gleaming in the forest of his glossy black beard. _Handsome bugger's enjoying this. Probably the most action he's seen in a month of police patrols. I know I was bored outta my skull until now._

Reaching into his dead lieutenant's belt pouch, Jack retrieved half dozen extra bullets for Fraser's Webley as Constable Singh began speaking to the woman in Hindi.

After a very brief exchange, Manjeet turned to Sgt. Wilde with his answer.

"She says the ugly mongrel does not know Hindi or English. In fact, she says this barbaric cur stumbles all over his tongue to speak his own native Burmese, Sahib."

"Perfect. Thank you, Jeet. Get ready to move. This ends now." Without waiting for a reply, Jack turned toward the cargo crates and addressed the hostage with a few well-chosen commands.

In a few moments, Jack heard an argument brewing between the Indian maid and the thug. Her voice rising in shrill, outraged fury, the maid suddenly stood up, her abusive captor following her lead. As soon as Jack yelled "now", Sita dropped, her tormentor following her a second later, the center of his sweaty forehead now wearing a scarlet tilak mark drilled by Jack's bullet.

Jack didn't hesitate, but handing the Sikh constable Lt. Fraser's Webley, drew his own Navy Colt and headed toward the dead fanatic. No stranger to the cavernous belly of ships, Jack stalked forward, carefully navigating the winding path through the shadowy cargo, always on the lookout for a thugee ambush. They stalked down the main deck, scattering a cluster of ship's rats as they went. When they reached the cowering Indian maid and dead cultist, Jack shoved another Boxer-Henry cartridge in his breech-loader as he exchanged a few words with the maid, and then turned over the sobbing Sita to one of the constables who'd come below to help Manjeet after the shooting stopped. The policeman helped the maid aft to where they ascended the hatch ladder to the relative safety of the drifting vessel's weather deck. Kicking the thug's discarded carbine aside, Jack turned to his one remaining companion. With a nod, silent predators both, they headed further toward the ship's centralized engine room and hopefully, the memsahib's rescue.

They moved steadily through the ship's innards, dodging around coal bunkers, tribes of defiant vermin and the occasional stiff corpses of murdered crewmen. Sita had given Jack little hope of finding Henrietta Slocum alive. They'd been separated as soon as the cultists dragged them aboard the _Liverpool Lass_ , and with a renewed squall of sobs, Sita confessed the thugs had been most disrespectful of memsahib's station.

They searched the aft section of the main deck, until they reached the engine room. About to enter, they were interrupted by a small nervous policeman who chattered that they should come at once; they'd made a most important discovery topside. Jack and Jeet looked at each other, shrugged and followed the diminutive constable upward to the weather deck. Of Major-General Slocum's daughter, Henrietta, they'd found nothing but a crumpled parasol. What began as voluntary assistance for a distraught father and senior officer in the 14th Bengal Rifles, and had promised a day of adventure for a hussar officer bored with marathon polo matches and his best N.C. O. seemed destined to spiral down into tragedy. Still, Jack was not ready to give up the search.

When the Calcutta police first decided to investigate the double stack steamer adrift in the Bay of Bengal and slowly inching into the mouth of the Ganges River, a second team of constables had searched the top, weather deck while Lt. Fraser, Jack and several other constables went below. Eventually, the team covering the weather deck dared to enter the captain's cabin traversing the _Liverpool Lass's_ stern. Their gruesome discovery prompted the constable to urge Jack and Manjeet to have a look.

Their curiosity peaked; Jack and his Sikh comrade followed their guide into the late captain's domain. At a glance Jack could see the cabin had been the scene of recent and excessive violence. The crimson plush settee was slashed and burned. A chipped marble-topped table showed the remains of a barely touched evening meal, though an elegant crystal liquor decanter lay on its side, smashed, its contents already soaking into the stained Persian rug below. In a far corner, lay an old-fashioned Adams revolver, a scatter of unused bullets showing the captain had been interrupted before he could load. The once elegantly-appointed cabin looked like it'd been subjected to a madman's frenzy; there were smashed and broken personal treasures everywhere. Even a gilded birdcage had been crushed, the exotic scarlet and green finch inside lying drowned in its own blood. Sprawled across the deck, the heavy-set body of Captain Higgins lay next to a dented copper bathtub. Inside laid the partly-clothed body of his gray-haired wife, still clutching her husband's hand in death. Although only Captain Higgins had been shot, both their throats showed severe damage from a rumal, the thugee strangler's knot.

"Looks like we've discovered why the _Lass_ was found adrift; her entire crew's been slaughtered. Judging by some of the ritualistic strangling, it's fairly obvious the thugees did the murdering. Only question seems to be where our Miss Slocum is.

Ignoring the Sikh's statement of the obvious, Jack said, "Well, Manjeet, you've been a damned good comrade as we prowled through the belly of this beast. Do you care to accompany me further and poke around in her bowels?"

"Of course, Sahib," answered the smiling Sikh.

Sharing the smile, Jack motioned him to follow and keep alert as they prepared to descend back to the steamer's main deck, search the engine room, and then move on to the ship's cargo holds.

The engine room held nothing but disappointment and death. The huge Scottish-built engine stood silent watch over more dead, this time a trio of coal-smeared bodies, most likely stokers, and the engine room chief—the ship's black gang. Forward of the engine room and its huge machinery, there'd been nothing on the shadowy deck but endless squadrons of rats, scattered shards of coal and a trashed cargo of jute, tea and stolen statuary. That and a ragged line of silent prisoners; each man executed with the thugee strangler's rumaal. As if to allay any doubt as to the vile perpetrators' identity, _Bhowanee_ , the local thugee's name for Kali, was scrawled in the victims' blood across the bulkhead. It might be near the end of the 19th century; years after the plague of thugee cultists had been officially stamped out, but like most infections, isolated pockets of fanatics still popped up.

Disgusted, they skirted the bodies, passing along the starboard side of the steamship, headed for the main cargo hold. Jack grunted when he opened another hatch covered with bloody handprints. The main deck had been reduced to a catwalk here, someone deciding to keep it narrow and maximize the size and depth of the ship's main hold. From deep within the black depths rose a mob of random lines and chains, rising like thin kraken's tentacles toward the upper deck. Rising too, like a disturbing chorus of croaking, measured chanting and random screaming teased them to come take a look into the yawning pit of hell.

# Chapter Three

Trying to ignore the growing din of guttural voices rising from the hold in a monotonous mantra, vigorously pledging loyalty to Bhowanee and death to all foreigners, Jack began looking for something to aid him in his rescue. A quick glance into the torch-lit cargo hold told him what he needed to know, and as he checked through his weapons he spied a tangle of old line shoved against the base of a ship's cargo hoist.

Instinctively, he addressed his Sikh companion as he checked the load in his Colt.

"Manjeet, bring me three fathoms of strong line from that tangle of sheets and halyards—quickly."

When Constable Singh stood there, the look of a confused Macaque monkey plastered on his face, Jack realized his idiotic mistake and reverted to landsman's terms. "Rope, Jeet. Bring me a stout rope. Eighteen feet should do nicely."

Manjeet brought a strong length of rope and squatted down beside the engrossed hussar sergeant while he quickly secured one end of the rope to the ship.

"What is it you are planning, Sahib Jack?"

Handing Manjeet his carbine and all of its ammunition, Jack smiled as he withdrew his Charay, the wicked-bladed Khyber knife he'd taken from a dead Pathan tribesman, before answering.

"Miss Slocum's down there, Jeet. They've got her suspended in a cage above the mob. In fact, the hold is full of empty animal cages. Looks like the _Liverpool Lass_ was expecting to take on a cargo of local critters, probably bound for the zoos in Europe." He stopped for a moment, shoving Fraser's Webley beneath his belt before continuing. "Looks like the thugs got those cages ringed around the center of the hold, all slammed up against the hull, and they're standing on them, jeering Miss Slocum and whatever it is down below them. I couldn't make it out in the darkness. Appears to be some sort of beast though."

"And so what are we going to do, Sahib?"

" _You_ are going to stay up here with my Martini, and shoot the 'ornery buggers while I descend into the hold and free Miss Slocum."

"This is your plan, Sahib? This is not being a good plan! Not a good plan at all!"

"Well, I expect you to make sure they don't send someone up to cut my rope," Jack countered with a grin as he finished tying the line around his waist with a very seamanlike bowline.

"I am not liking this plan, Sahib. I am thinking it is most unsatisfactory."

"Hogwash. Look, we can stay up here jawing while the lady dies. Or, you can help me."

Without another word, Jack tugged on the rope he'd tied around his waist and leapt into the ship's hold.

In spite of his foolhardy show of bravado, Jack was not a horse-brained idiot. As soon as he dropped below the lip of the cavernous hold, he grew silent, controlling his descent and using the bulk of the memsahib's suspended prison to conceal his unwelcome intrusion.

There was definitely something going on below. The thugs were working themselves up into a proper lather, while further down below something big was weaving through the shadows, coughing as it prowled. _Bloody hell—no!_

He reached the top of the cage and planted both boots firmly on the metal bars, causing the bound and gagged lady imprisoned inside to look up. _Neptune's tail, she had pretty blue eyes, though a tad too small for real beauty._ Seeing him trying to sever the cords locking the top of the cage shut, she grew agitated, mumbling incoherently into her gag but destroying any hope Jack had of remaining undetected. Against his better judgment, he removed the gag, cautioning her to be quiet.

She ignored him.

"How dare they do this to me? My father is a mainstay of the Raj! How dare they do this to one of the ruling class," she hissed. "And will you please hurry, you incompetent lout!"

"Ssssh, Miss Slocum, I'm doing my best to get you out." Down below Jack heard a clamor rising out of the monotonous chanting. A swift glance below confirmed he'd been seen, verified moments later when three of the angry thugs began tugging on a line, setting the cage swinging wildly as it began to descend. Seeing her prison beginning to fall, or perhaps knowing exactly what manner of beast prowled below, Miss Slocum began to scream.

The line holding her imprisoned finally gave, and as Jack wrenched the barred door open and reached for the wailing woman inside, he spied a second cage about twenty yards away, half hidden in shadow. As Henrietta grabbed his extended hand in a grip strengthened by terror, Jack glimpsed a red-haired businessman, still dressed in a torn and filthy suit, watching the chaos below suddenly throw up his hands, and reel backwards to lie in an unmoving heap at the bottom of his cage.

Down below, Jack heard screams and saw several of the cultists fall from the relative safety of their perches to lie motionless or screaming while whatever beast lurked in the bowels of the hold stalked over to them. Manjeet had opened fire with the Martini-Henry. Jack glanced up, noticing with satisfaction that his Sikh friend had been joined by three other constables, all firing into the chaotic thugee mob churning below. _Good. Damned bloody good!_

He'd barely begun to hoist the clinging Henrietta Slocum out of her prison when he noticed the cage was now only a half dozen feet over the heads of the milling thugs. Something had worked them up into frenzy, and seeing the fear mixed with fury on their upturned faces he realized it wasn't just him ruining their fun. Nor did all the dying thugs bear gunshot wounds. Many bore horrid slashes across limbs, faces, and bellies. _What manner of beast—_

Suddenly, all thoughts of the wild beast stalking below were torn apart by the woman forcing her way into his arms. Kneeling in her ruined finery on top of the cage next to her savior, Henrietta had managed to shrug out of her gag completely once Jack's blade had severed her bonds. Grateful hysteria commanding her actions, she threw herself at Jack and seized his face in her hands, planting a wet kiss on his unguarded lips.

Startled, and preoccupied with getting them both out of their situation alive, Jack shoved her away. Henrietta fell backward, grasping the cage bars behind her, her thin chest heaving with er passion as she glowered at her rescuer, momentarily crushed by his rejection.

"How dare you reject me? Y-you're . . . common. A mere sergeant; I should never have allowed _you_ to save me. I'm merely expressing my gratitude, you crude brute."

"I've rescued no one yet, Miss. You're still very much in danger."

"So you _do_ find me attractive!"

For the first time, Jack took a good look at the fair damsel he'd risked life and limb to rescue. Henrietta Slocum was far from a beautiful woman. Her eyes were her most attractive feature. A small up-turned nose displayed nostrils rivaling a pig's and just as full of bristles. Thin, wimpy brown hair framed a pasty white face dominated by her massive lantern jaw. Her lips were average, but barely able to close over choppers rivaling those of Wind, his favorite horse. As for the figure wantonly displayed by her torn clothes, Jack recalled a shanty song sung in the ship's foc'sle by his men about Cape Cod girls being plain and skinny as a codfish's gills. _Good God, what've I gotten myself in to?"_

A bit preoccupied and grumbling to himself, Jack was hesitant to answer the memsahib, choosing his words carefully, lest he offend.

"Well, I suppose you may kiss me," she interrupted him. "You probably feel you've earned it, you ruffian." Her lurching toward him and unattractively pursed lips showed it was what she _expected_ him to do.

Jack was spared any spontaneous diplomacy as a huge bloodied paw cleared the cage and took a swipe at him, missing his face by inches. The thick striped foreleg followed through, slamming into the cage top with enough force to warp the bars and set Henrietta screaming. Fighting for balance atop the wildly swinging cage, Jack couldn't get a bead on the beast with his Colt, so he drew his Khyber blade. _Holy cow! Bloody beast is as big as a whale!_

The beast struck again, smashing bars and driving hysterical Henrietta to thwart Jack's efforts with her clinging embrace. Apparently having grown bored with the ring of dead and dying thugs below, the creature showed an unwavering determination to get at the huddled prey clinging to the top of the cage. It reminded Jack of the sharks he'd seen, just as intent at getting at poor sailors clinging to an overturned boat.

The critter launched itself at them from a different angle. Squealing in fright, Henrietta scrambled all over Jack in an effort to escape the monster. Unable to shoot or strike without endangering the frantic woman, Jack watched as the upper portion of the huge tiger threw itself at the woman's scrambling ankles, hooking one dagger like claw in the lacy edge of her petticoat.

Sensing the tiger would use the tangled unmentionable to drag Miss Slocum toward its slavering jaws, Jack launched himself at her calves, intent on freeing her. Clutching Henrietta's flailing legs to keep her away from his sawing blade; he cut away the ruined petticoat, barely noticing when her wailing turned to girlish giggles. He was suddenly aware the cage had dropped a good eight feet.

Glaring upward at the ring of horrified constables watching them from the lip of the hold, he growled at Manjeet. "Get us out of this damned hell hole! Put your backs into it or the memsahib is going to die down here!"

"I believe my fellows and I shall be doing it now, Sahib. I am thinking you have stumbled into the blackest hold in Calcutta! We shall not fail you!"

"Stop yer jawing and _do_ it!"

At that moment, the tiger struck again, catching Jack off-guard with its closeness and hideous face. Mesmerized, Jack took in the glaring yellow eyes, blood-soaked fur and black lips pulling back from snarling jaws crammed with dagger-sized fangs. He hung motionless as he saw a second, partial head emerging from the monster's right cheek. A third eye, skewed at an odd angle stared off into space, while just below, a second deformed jaw champed up and down with the promise of fresh meat.

When the mutated tiger slammed both front paws down on the top of the cage and began to hoist itself aboard, Jack shoved himself free of his spellbound stupor and clingy Miss Slocum, slashing down at the nearest paw with his blade. The fiendish beast snarled in pain and rage. Jack jerked back his Khyber knife and slashed down again, watching in satisfaction as the wicked blade all but disappeared in the massive foreleg.

He never saw death coming. With both of the tiger's front paws clamped to the bars before him, Jack didn't see the mutated third foreleg until it came swiping down and by then, it was far too late. Jerking back at the last second saved his face, but an outside claw caught his jaw, tearing his flesh open from the base of his ear, along his jawline halfway to his chin. That claw joined its wide-spread brethren in continuing to thunder downward, slashing a deep gash in Jack's right forearm. Jack screamed; yet as the mutant tiger drenched his face with its fetid breath and sprayed drool, he slammed his blade into the beast's nearest eye, burying the Khyber blade to its decorated hilt.

Jack barely remembered the next ten minutes. He vaguely recalled the woman next to him sobbing her gratitude and smothering the unbloodied side of his face with kisses. He felt them both hoisted aloft by the chattering constables, Manjeet's face a mixture of worry and pride that his sahib had killed such a monstrous tiger.

"Surely, that was the biggest of rakshasas there's ever been."

"Rakshasa? Oh, you mean some sort of Hindu demon. Shape-changers, aren't they? No, my friend, that beast is no monster, It's just one huge malformed cat. Nothing supernatural at all. Just nasty."

"I am never seeing a natural beast with so many deformities, Sahib. Are you being most certain it is not a demon?"

"I am. Just a very unfortunate tiger, I'm afraid."

Suddenly, the _Liverpool Lass_ seemed to be awash with a milling mob of Bengal police and soldiers of the14th Infantry, several of which pried Miss Slocum's clasping hands away from Jack and hustled her to shore and safety. Exhausted and in considerable pain, Jack let himself breathe a sigh of relief when he could no longer hear Henrietta promising to see him rewarded and pledging to be his forever.

Only when one of the constables began treating the gushing wound to his forearm with a field dressing, with Manjeet hovering nearby, did Jack remember the second cage and its red-haired occupant.

"Jeet, I know you've men down in the hold checking over the bodies of the thugs and that damned tiger. I'd like the pelt if it can be arranged, and I seem to have dropped my Colt."

"Memsahib's men have already claimed the tiger beast's body for the major general. I shall personally retrieve your most excellent revolver, Sahib."

As the Sikh turned away from him, appearing relieved to have a mission, Jack mentioned the second cage.

"Oh, and Jeet—there's another cage hanging down there. Red-haired gentleman inside, if one of your stray shots didn't take him out. He may be wounded or dead. Please check it out,"

"This shall be done, Sahib. And if _I_ were in the army, instead of stuck as a casteless policeman, with a proper British soldier to tutor my shooting, I'd be of much greater assistance to you next time, Sahib."

"I'm not British, Jeet. American, remember?"

"Yes, a Yankee, as you told me. But _you_ can shoot, Sahib."

#  Chapter Four

Two weeks later, regimental surgeon, Grange, was just finishing inspecting and bandaging Jack's slashed forearm when Lieutenant Smythe stuck his ginger-colored muttonchops into the medical tent and told Jack the troop commander wanted to see him.

_Here we go. Tarnation!_ Jack supposed it was inevitable he'd be sited for promotion or mentioned in dispatches given Henrietta Slocum's over-the-top adoration for her rescuer. He imagined she'd badgered her father, major-general of some damned rifle regiment, into seeing Jack well-rewarded. _Dear god._ All he wanted to do was forget the whole thing. _Remain anonymous. Unnoticed._

Joining the search for the clingy woman had been Fraser's idea anyway. His friend had been bored, and volunteering to help find Henrietta Slocum had offered relieve from endless polo matches, drinking chota pegs and playing at soldiering. Well, Angus had paid for his diversion with his life, and by god, Jack didn't feel right benefiting from his friend's demise. He missed the Scottish bugger's ready smile.

Jack passed the horse lines on his way to the troop commander's bungalow, and stopping at his favorite mount, Wind, produced the expected apple. He noted with satisfaction that his new Sikh horse groom, Manjeet Singh, was taking great pride in keeping the hunter in tip-top condition. It gave Jack a good dollop of satisfaction that he'd been able to reward Singh's unwavering courage by plucking him from a dead-end life of drudgery with the local native police.

Halfway to the troop commander's quarters, Jack found himself stopped by a fresh-faced lieutenant, Fraser's obnoxious replacement.

"Off for a stroll, Sergeant Wilde?"

"Summoned to the TC's quarters . . . sir."

"Yes, I daresay, about time the old man got to you. Been a couple of weeks, hasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"See you're growing a beard. Quite irregular—wouldn't do on an officer. Moustaches are the norm, old chap. Still, it does hide the jawline. It wouldn't do to have your scar frighten the ladies."

"No, sir. I suppose it wouldn't."

"Well, keep it trimmed. Do carry on, and get a move on. Old man does not tolerate tardiness, even from a hero."

* * * *

Feeling smug, Jack entered his superior's quarters, ready to endure what he termed unwarranted praise.

The older man's glowering scowl set him on his ass.

"Bout time you found your way in front of me, Wilde. Damned lack of punctuality smacks of cowardice. I'll warrant you know what's coming."

"No, sir. I don't." Jack managed to keep his spine ramrod straight, though the troop commander's harsh words catapulted him from his high-horse. "Have I—is something _wrong_ , sir?"

"Wrong? I've a good mind to have you shot! But then, I suppose one should never expect sensible behavior from a bloody colonial! Americans!"

"Sir, whatever I stand accused of—whatever it is I've supposedly done—"

"Supposedly! I have here a communication sent to our colonel from Major-General George Slocum of the 14th Bengal Rifles. A revered regiment presently assigned to the protection of Calcutta's government buildings. My god, man, Slocum has the Viceroy's ear!" The captain left the sanctity of his impressive mahogany desk and helped himself to a chota peg of gin from a cut-crystal decanter. Although in the past the troop commander had been moderately generous with sharing his libation, it seemed obvious to Jack he was making a point by not offering him a drink.

"It has come to the attention of Major-General Slocum that you and Lt. Fraser interfered with the search for his daughter, an act of folly culminating in the needless death of Lieutenant Fraser. A search the major-general claims his own men and the local constabulary had well in hand."

"I succeeded in rescuing the Major-General's daughter . . . sir!"

"Don't be impertinent, young man!" Captain Ponsonby's normal florid complexion flushed a good distance toward eggplant. "I daresay you _expected_ to be commended for your foolhardy actions. Indeed, Slocum's impressionable daughter fairly gushes with her praise of your heroic actions."

"Just doing my duty, sir."

"That's just the point, Wilde! It wasn't your duty. Neither you nor Lieutenant Fraser were on duty, nor did you have any business sticking your noses in the major-general's affairs."

Jack bit his tongue. The volunteering to help in the search had been Fraser's idea. Jack would've kept out of it, minded his own business. The last thing he wanted was notoriety. Heaven forbid his picture appeared in one of Calcutta's numerous newspapers.

As if reading his thoughts, Ponsonby charged ahead. "Your good intentions have been noted, Wilde, though I've no doubt it was Fraser who prompted your heroic actions. Good man there. He will be sorely missed."

His optimistic balloon thoroughly deflated, Jack stared at his boots as he replied, "Yes, sir. He definitely is."

Modifying his voice to near normal gruffness, the troop commander droned on, "Now see here, Wilde, I've no doubt you meant well, but in future, try to exercise a small modicum of intelligence. I daresay even you American colonials have a certain degree of primitive horse-sense. After all, you were _once_ British."

"Thank you, sir. I shall, sir. If that is all, sir, I shall take my leave—"

"I have not dismissed you, sergeant! That is most definitely _not_ all! There is the matter of this damned newspaper article."

"Newspaper article, sir?" Jack could feel his churning stomach suddenly fill with a lump of ice cold lead. "With pictures, sir?"

"Engravings. The whole thing has more the ring of a penny dreadful than a newspaper article."

_A damned dime novel, with him as the hero no doubt._ _God help him if an American ship dropped anchor in the Hooghly or Ganges and some alert captain spied a familiar face._

"May I see the article, sir?"

"You're not doubting _me_ , are you, Mr. Wilde?" the commander snarled. But he did slam a folded copy of the _Calcutta Informer_ before his worried sergeant. "I think it's a pretty good likeness."

Jack scooped up the incriminating evidence, his blue eyes darting nervously to the sizeable engraving. _It was a good likeness._ With the Khyber knife clutched in his fist, it even branded him as left handed. Under other circumstances, he'd have enjoyed meeting a fellow artist with such talent.

"Damned thing appears to have been written by a Mr. Sean Kelly, the gentleman in the _other_ cage. The one you didn't rescue. I guess you didn't notice _him_."

"No, sir. I was rather busy with Miss Slocum, sir."

"Anyway, sergeant, Mr. Kelly's article is an embarrassment to the army and this regiment in particular. Damned cheek if you ask me; his implying that we sit on our arses while you, an upstart _American_ sergeant, rescued Miss Slocum." The troop commander's face had reached the color of an eggplant. "Colonel Paget informs me the letter from Major-General Slocum goes on to say the article describes his daughter in, shall we say, _less_ than favorable terms. All gushy clinginess and horse faced adoration."

Whoever this damned reporter was, he'd hit the nail on the head.

"What is it you want me to do, sir?"

"I want you to find this bloody Irish rumor-monger and get this disgusting filth expunged, Wilde. Do that and I'll overlook your hare-brained heroics. This time. Now, get out of my sight."

#  Chapter Five

As Jack entered the brick building housing _The Calcutta Informer,_ two dark, impressively-mustachioed employees with ink-stained hands descended on him, nervously blocking his entrance.

"Afternoon, gentlemen. Name's Jack Wilde. I'm hoping you can help me out. I'm here looking for a reporter, name of Kelly. I'm told he's Irish with red hair."

The two Bengali printers retreated a few feet, conferring with each other before telling Jack they were very sorry, but the only Mr. Kelly working there was a typesetter, fifty and quite lacking any hair whatsoever.

As if sensing the cavalry sergeant would not be deterred, the two printers conferred a second time with greatly animated hands and raised Hindi voices.

Finally, one of Mr. Edison's new light bulbs seemed to flare in the mind of the taller printer and he dared approach the glowering hussar a second time.

"I believe I am knowing who it is you are looking for, Mr. Wilde. If you'll be so kind as to follow me, Sahib."

Chuckling softly to himself as though enjoying a private joke, Babul Patel led Jack on a weaving path through a maze of throbbing printing presses and yammering clusters of newspaper employees until he stopped at the biggest gathering, and with an amused face pointed to a person at the center of the engrossed people gathered before him.

"Sahib. I am thinking _this_ is the gentleman you are wanting."

Jack looked where Mr. Patel pointed; glowering at the Anglo gentleman bending over a desk with four Hindu colleagues, noticing at once the unruly auburn hair, the man's ample behind pointed straight at him _. Odd._ _There, was definitely something wrong here._

Not to be deterred, Jack cleared his throat and charged straight into the fray.

"Mr. Kelly, may I have but a moment of your time, I wish to discuss your article concerning the rescue on the _Liverpool Lass_."

The smaller man started at the hostile tone of Jack's voice and turned around in a twirl of unbuttoned suit coat and loosened curls.

Jack could see at once he'd made a huge mistake. Mr. Kelly was a _woman_. A _beautiful_ woman.

"I-I'm Katherine O'Keefe. Sean Kelly's actually my nom d'plume. Makes it a mite easier for me to get away with being a _woman_ reporter. How may I help you Mr.—wait, I _know_ you!"

"I don't believe so." _She has such beautiful eyes—such a rich, shimmering emerald green. "_ There was just Miss Slocum and . . . . Oh, you're—"

"I'm sorry I didn't recognize you at once, sir. The beard—it's quite becoming by the way. Anyway, I was in the other cage. The one you chose to ignore and sent one of the constables to open."

"Didn't ignore it—I had no chance to give it more than a glance. I had no idea who was in the other cage. I was a bit busy with Miss Slocum I'm afraid. I'm sorry—had I known, I would've made certain you were all right, Miss O'Keefe?"

"Yes, as I recall Henrietta Slocum seemed to be demanding your complete attention at the moment. There are no apologies needed—I owe you my _life,_ Sergeant Wilde."

"How so, Miss O'Keefe?"

"Why for slaying the monster, of course, sir. I shudder to think what those thugees intended for me once they'd finished with Miss Slocum. The beast had already wounded you and yet you still managed to kill it and save both of us. To my mind, that makes you a hero."

"It's that I want to talk to you about. I'm no hero, Miss. And we both know the monster in your fanciful tale was nothing more than a freak of nature. No evil rakshasa demon as you described it in your tale, but a poor, mal-formed creature goaded and tormented by his handlers until he finally turned in crazed fury and slaughtered them."

"Yes, but you saved my life. You shot this mutant creature, _you_ , Sgt. Wilde. I'm sorry if my article embarrasses you, but to me, you are most definitely a hero."

"Yes, well your fanciful article has proven an embarrassment to the regiment and to me. I've been ordered by my captain to see that you retract it. As you can see, for starters, I'm no officer."

"Ah, so the elite and privileged officers of the 7th Queen's Own Hussars are so bored with their polo they immediately pounce when one of their N.C.O.s does something of note. I made you a captain in my article, Sergeant, merely because our lady readers like to envision a dashing, young officer doing the derring-do. Trust me, Mr. Wilde; I know who really takes the risks."

"My officer _died_ on that hulk, Miss."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know, being stuck at the time in that swinging cage with the blood-thirsty beast rampaging below."

"There seems to be rather a lot you didn't know, Miss O'Keefe. It appears you just made it up as you went along. You never gave any consideration as to whose reputation your lies ruined, or who you hurt."

* * * *

_Bloody hell! How typical of you, Kitty._ She stopped fiddling with the rebellious russet curl brushing her forehead and began twisting her ever-present pearls. Sergeant Wilde was scowling. _Would she never learn? A particularly attractive man walks through her door and the first thing she does is make him mad._

"Oh dear, I've made you angry, haven't I?" She forced herself to let go of her pearls, lest she snap them in her frustration. With great effort she folded her fidgety hands in front of her. "Well, why don't you set the record straight, Sgt. Wilde of the 'Saucy Seventh'? This particular penny dreadful as you call it has become most popular with our readers, and very lucrative for this paper. You've become quite a bit of a local hero." Suddenly she was very conscious of the printers' ink smudges on her cheek, hands and white bodice. _Blast and darn!_ She was certain her cheeks were as flaming red as her hair.

"I'm nothing of the sort, Miss."

You are to my readers. Disturbingly handsome too, I might add.

"Just doing my duty, something any red-blooded British soldier worth his salt would do."

"Your accent—I don't recognize it. You're not from Britain are you?"

"American. I'm from the New England part of the United States, actually. From Massachusetts."

"I've heard of Massachusetts, Sgt. Wilde. Your pilgrims landed there, and your war of rebellion began there. I may appear to you as a mere silly woman making a dubious living embroidering the truth for her rag of a newspaper, but I assure you, I'm an _educated_ woman. Father saw that I had plenty of schooling." She hesitated, fluttering her high collar against her throat before daring to continue. _She didn't want to appear to pry, but she was deuced curious. It was after all, a prerequisite of her occupation._

"My question then, is why did you join _our_ army?"

"Bit of a long story there."

"I'd love to hear it." _She could feel rivulets of sweat blossoming beneath her arms and between her breasts. Her father was fond of saying that even in India; young ladies didn't sweat, but merely dampened. Well, sorry Father but I'm sweating._

"Maybe you'd do me the honor of letting me take you out to dinner then, Miss."

"Not dinner. I may write about gossip—I'm not prepared to _be_ the object of local scandal. We've barely met. I don't really know you, Mr. Wilde."

"A late tiffin then? Tea and those tiny sandwiches?"

"Chai. And perhaps some sugared dates. I know the perfect little place. But only if you tell me your story. And you agree to pay."

"Of course. I wouldn't hear of it any other way, Miss O'Keefe."

"Well, then. Now would be a good time." Kitty smoothed down her skirt, decided the ink smudged across her snowy bosom would not embarrass her unduly as long as she retained her suit jacket. Raising one neatly arched eyebrow to show she would brook no challenge, she gave her gawking coworkers a haughty dismissal as she began pinning her auburn hair into something resembling a proper lady's coiffure. Buttoning up her jacket in spite of the heat, she donned a pair of kid gloves. As she set her feather trimmed bowler atop her hair, she smiled at the handsome cavalry sergeant waiting patiently in his dress uniform. "Well, I believe I'm all set to go. I'm all yours, Sgt. Wilde."

Blushing at the boldness of her words, Kitty dared glance at the cavalryman before her. As she looked up into his twinkling blue eyes, Katherine O'Keefe found Sergeant Wilde's sunlit smile particularly attractive and promising.

* * * *

_All yours, she'd said. I'd never presume, Miss_ , Jack thought. _But it might be something nice to work towards._ As Jack held the door open for Miss O'Keefe he realized his moment of bravery might've brought him something far more precious than glory or medals. _Miss O'Keefe really was lovely._ He hoped it'd take numerous evenings working closely together to convince her to withdraw her newspaper story.

#  Chapter Six

Two months later

Somewhere in Madras

He'd expected the events of his life to be flashing before him as he lay there. At least that's what he'd read somewhere; when you were about to die, your mind did a magic-lantern review of the major occurrences in your life. As it was, he was rather hung up on just two images from the past two months, both fairly life-changing moments.

He'd concentrate on the woman; envision her lovely eyes, the way they twinkled whenever she looked at him, warming his heart and other things. _Think of her lips, Jack._ They'd only shared the one chaste kiss, but she'd let it linger longer than particularly proper, drifting toward something more meaningful. He'd glimpsed his own rising desire mirrored in her large emerald eyes.

God, it hurts!

He grasped the poorly feathered arrow close to the wound and snapped it off, his action chasing the lovely woman's face from his thoughts, driven away by the disapproving visage of his scowling troop commander, Captain Ponsonby _. God, I don't have enough problems—why am I thinking of him?_ He dropped the free end of the arrow, and moved to shove the remainder out the other side of his skewered calf muscle. _Bloody hell, this really hurts._ He missed the shaft, his vision growing blurred from the intense pain. _The crude arrow is filthy; has it been coated with something as well? Poison?_ He tried again and locked onto the ragged broken end. Grunting to prevent a scream, he shoved the arrow through his muscle to the other side, his mind dancing with flickering images and harsh words spoken by his commander before he'd sent him on this wild goose-chase.

Even though their one-sided conversation was almost two months in the past, Jack could still hear it in his mind as though the commander was still ranting. "Incompetent Glory hound! Should've had you drummed out of the regiment. Instead, our Colonel sees your penny dreadful heroics as a boon to the rank and file. Says it's already bolstered recruitments and initiative among the ranks. Bah! Colonel Paget's growing soft if you ask me! Well, you're to remain in the regiment, Wilde, with no promotion and no medals." Captain Ponsonby had paused at that point, glaring at his sergeant while his fingers jingled the pair of lucky quid he always carried. "I'm seeing to it you have detached duties—out there where you can do no harm to the rest of us real soldiers. Not able to scour ourselves clean of you yet, more's the pity. I'm sending you down south to hunt for that damned pair of railway dacoits. The Ghost and Peacock. Sure even you've heard of them. Even appeared in that rag O'Keefe writes for. An infernal newspaper woman, by god!"

Jack recalled wanting to punch his commander at that moment, effectively ending his military career. He should have.

The commander had just been getting started. "World's going to hell in a hand basket! Kitty O'Keefe probably fancies herself one of those _new_ women. Liberal claptrap and Poppycock! Anyway, it seems our chaps down in Madras just can't nail the train robbers down. Gloryhound like you ought to be able to sniff 'em out in a jiffy. You'll find plenty of opportunity for your hare-brained heroics there, I shouldn't wonder. Should've expected it from a damned colonial. American by god! You're a real death or glory boy, Wilde."

_This_ was that opportunity the commander had talked about. Jack had spent the last two months in the south at a little blotch of a place called Bhalpur. The surrounding countryside had seen at least eight train robberies within the last six months, allegedly the work of this Ghost and Peacock. At least two of them had been trains carrying military supplies and a dozen armed soldiers. It hadn't stopped the thieves. The local constabulary and troops had been unable to stop the raids or catch the dacoits. Now, it was his turn. He'd even been whisked away without a chance to get a message to Miss O'Keefe explaining his sudden disappearance. _What must she think of him?_

Jack threw his commander's harsh words away, bound to the tainted arrow as though it was a poisonous snake. Moving to rise; his wooziness overcame him, forcing him back down, his head spinning like a child's top. He nearly blacked out.

As he lay there trying to focus, a menacing shadow seemed to drift over him. Although extremely dizzy, he tried to rise, sensing its hostile intent. Instantly, a soft leather boot with an up-curled, pointed toe and an unforgiving heel ground into his chest, pinning him to the marshy soil. Silent as a cobra, a tightly fitting black glove emerged from the phantomlike figure's shroud-like covering of black and turquoise, and drove a long blade through Jack's tunic, across his ribs and deep into the mud. When Jack began to struggle, the figure squatted, almost on top of him, and twisted the knife, making sure it scored his flesh.

"Be still, Englishman. I could've killed you."

"I'm an American, dammit. Not one of your bloody Raj!" Jack continued to try to free himself, until his assailant grasped his wounded lower leg and began to squeeze. In spite of himself, he cried out. The barrels of five rifles suddenly appeared from the thick underbrush, all aimed at his chest. _Of course he's not alone, you fool!_ The rifles were old, the kind that'd sparked the mutiny back in 'fifty-seven, but Jack had no doubt a well-placed shot would kill him just the same.

"Ah, a Yankee. This isn't even your fight then. You of all people should understand a people trying to throw off the oppressive yoke of this Raj—this pompous ruling class. Still, you wear their uniform, Sergeant. I'm flattered—they've mustered a competent American to hunt down a few mere dacoits. A few more like you, and I might start to worry."

Jack grunted and clamped his mouth shut, refusing to give in to the agony searing through his calf. Gradually, he stopped resisting, and his tormentor eased up on his leg.

"You're no mere railway robber now. The last two were _white_ passenger trains. Civilians. Three passengers died in your last debacle. Two of those were young English children."

"That was unintentional, and sadly, unnecessary. I do not make war on children. That idiot of a train guard should've accepted his karma instead of opening fire on us. My friends and I merely defended ourselves. Sometimes my Peacock gets a little carried away."

The Ghost, for who else could this be but the bandit, shoved aside a midnight robe long enough for Jack to make note of a narrow waist, and opened a small jeweled reticule attached to an ornate belt. Withdrawing a small jar, the bandit drew off one glove, revealing a decidedly feminine hand as she uncorked the jar and dipped two fingers inside.

A woman! By god, the Ghost is a woman!

When the train robber bent closer, grabbing hold of his leg, he made certain of his discovery; noting large dark eyes lined with a heavy border of black kohl just visible between shimmering her green cowl and turquoise face veil. The heady scent of Frangipani and Hibiscus engulfed his senses, underscoring his discovery.

"I suppose I should be insulted, Sergeant. I see no other troops at all—you come alone. Am I such a small threat to the mighty Raj they send only one cavalry sergeant to hunt me down? Is it because I am a mere woman—though I suspect you didn't know that? Sent alone as you are, I'd surmise you must be a great warrior but, it is _you_ who are at my mercy here." As she talked, the bandit crushed Jack's lower leg firmly in her grasp. "Although you did get closer than any of the bumbling policemen they sent, you still blundered into Btanzi's ambush. Lucky for you he was never a good shot."

At the mention of his name, a small, agile man with a nut-brown face and thick lips unable to contain his huge grin of betel-nut stained choppers appeared from the underbrush brandishing a particularly wicked looking knife and making his obscene intentions overly-clear.

"Damn it, woman—ease up a bit, won't you. Your friend—he doesn't appear to be a Tamil, or like any of the local primitives lurking about."

"He comes from the land of the rakshasa. The place across the small sea, the isle of demons. I've heard it called Ceylon. We have two from as far away as New Guinea, but the rest of us call India home. My Peacock and I share the blood of Bhalpur. The others may come from all over, but their loyalty to me is fanatical, so they're far less likely to become corrupted by your British gold or threats. They've nothing in common but their hatred of the British: hate enflamed by cruel slave masters on the plantations, Raj gentlemen who shoot at them for sport; even one well-meaning missionary who brought them the pox along with his god. They are united by this one thing; they all seek English blood. Oceans of it. The jewels and gold we take, my Peacock and I keep, to be handed out to the true people of India. One day soon, all Indians will unite and drive the British from our land."

"We fought a war in my land to rid ourselves of the same stink of slavery. I may sympathize with you; but I have my duty."

"Your duty," she spit into the heavy, humid air. Clamping Jack's calf in a crushing grip again, she rammed one finger coated with the substance she'd taken from her jar deep inside the hole in his leg and with a brief circular motion, scoured his wound with the sticky goop. Unable to stifle his scream, Jack writhed across the muck; unaware he'd tossed aside his tormentor, so great was the burning agony searing through his leg. In so much pain he almost passed out, he barely heard the thief's parting words. "Do not follow me Yankee English. Go home. Today was your lucky day—there will not be another. Leave my India."

As she slipped away, he mumbled "I can't" to the uncaring jungle before passing out.

#  Chapter Seven

"Blast Him! That man is so vexing I have a good mind to kowtow to Father just this once and have him removed!"

Miss Kitty O'Keefe stormed into the vestibule of her spacious bungalow, jabbing her furled parasol into the scooped-out elephant foot stand with such force the sunshade's ferrule struck bottom with the shocking crack of a woman's slap. The two small forms waiting expectantly by the front door squeaked in startled terror, instantly abandoning their posts and fleeing to the safety of higher ground. Once there, they chanced an occasional peek out of their hideaway, scowling with flashing eyes and chirping angrily at their protector's betrayal.

"Oh dear. Do quiet down, you two chatterboxes. Mummy is sorry for upsetting you. I promise I'll make it up to you later. God, I've such a headache!"

"Shall I fetch your headache powders, Miss?"

As if by a poof of magic, Ivy O'Hara, Miss O'Keefe's indomitable housekeeper suddenly appeared at Kitty's side, her burly dock worker's arms ready to help her wobbly employer to her bed for a quiet lie down.

"Yes, please, Ivy. And a nice cup of your wonderful honeyed chai, if you please."

* * * *

Jack didn't catch a glimpse of either the Ghost or the Peacock for another two months. While keeping abreast of their recent robberies, he denied his wound a relaxed recovery, pushing himself relentlessly. Besides practicing his stalking prowess and honing his marksmanship and hand combat skills, he utilized the local cavalry post's telegraph to communicate with his troop commander. After admitting he'd been unable to catch the train robbers yet, he revealed the Ghost's surprising gender and asked for more troops. He'd been shadowing the railroad line for weeks, hoping to catch his quarry in the act, but there were just so many miles of unguarded tracks winding through endless jungle. It seemed that whenever he ran across them, he was only able to eliminate one or two of the ragtag gang members. Never the damned Ghost or Peacock themselves.

* * * *

Finally, he got his chance. The Ghost and her gang had finished robbing the train and were mounting their horses, ready to escape. Jack could see three bodies sprawled outside the train as he dismounted and drew his Martini-Henry from its leather horse scabbard. One of the dead was a child. He'd dropped into his sniper's stance and settled his aim on the Ghost as she sat in her saddle arguing with the flamboyantly dressed Peacock, her second-in-command. _Damn single shot carbines. He'd never get the chance to reload._ As he squeezed the trigger, the other dacoit's horse whickered, spooking slightly and throwing his rider into the path of Jack's bullet. Growling a seaman's curse, Jack watched as the hollow-point slug took the man between his shoulders, exiting through his chest and drenching the startled Ghost in hot blood.

#  Chapter Eight

The woman Jack had met, the one who tended his wound, seemed to be intent on robbing and harassing the well-heeled British Raj with as little violence as possible. With the death of her lover—for that is who'd taken the bullet Jack had intended for her—the Ghost's train robberies turned vicious. Word reached Bhalpur that hysterical survivors were clamoring their train had been overrun by great murderous monkeys, charging from train car to train car across their roofs, intent on slaughtering everyone in a fit of yammering glee. Among the few survivors, the ancient Hindi word, rakshasa, was being murmured. The constabulary and local troops were unable to stop them; they disappeared so quickly after striking. Many believed they were demons, demons intent on murdering everyone. Those long in Indian service likened them to a warped version of Hanuman, the monkey god, claiming the dacoits resembled a vast mob of black-faced Langur monkeys, their eyes blazing with murderous intent, their black fists clutching the very blades needed to do the vile deed. Jack didn't believe they were twisted gods or demons, but he knew he'd need help from somewhere if he was ever going to take down the Ghost's gang.

At first, the local constabulary and Madras regiment stationed in the area resented his interference. Because he was _British_ army, and they merely the Indian army, even the European officers were required to assist him, lowly sergeant or not. They gave him what material assistance he required, yet balked at volunteering manpower or even conversation. Yet, as the Ghost's gang grew bigger and bolder, their deeds ever more vicious, the cavalry troopers were only too happy to let Jack shoulder the task of bringing the brigands to a hangman's rope. Aid was given more freely, conversations sparked and one or two friendships begun. Still, Jack always returned to Bhalpur and the robbers' hunting grounds alone.

Ponsonby continued refusing to send additional men, even forbidding Jack to cull support from the local regiment twiddling their thumbs around him. He mustn't prove a further embarrassment to the Seventh; bringing this Ghost person to heel was solely Jack's responsibility. The bloody hero of that penny dreadful newspaper article, _he_ shouldn't need help. Ponsonby even forbade Jack to enlist the aid of Manjeet, his languishing Sikh groom stuck back in Calcutta.

Still, something else bothered Jack more. He'd heard nothing from Miss O'Keefe. Although they'd only seen each other three times since their initial confrontation, Jack felt a growing attraction to the auburn-haired reporter. He'd dared believe it was returned. He'd sent her a dozen messages, by post and telegraph, trying to explain his sudden departure and admitting he missed her. All went unanswered.

Either his messages were being intercepted and stopped, a distinct possibility given his commander's vile nature, or Kitty O'Keefe had decided they had no future together.

On their third meeting, she'd cooked him dinner in her elegant home. He'd immediately realized that the manicured lawns, exotic pets and gorgeously appointed dwelling went far beyond anything a mere rag reporter could hope to own. Even with the increasing popularity of her "special" penny-dreadful supplements, she wouldn't have been able to afford such luxury on her own. When she confessed it had belonged to her late older brother, Sebastian, Jack realized she was accustomed to a life a mere hussar sergeant could never afford. Apparently, she'd reached the same conclusion.

Burying his depressed feelings of rejection, Jack forced himself to shove any romantic notions aside and concentrate on completing his mission. The Ghost had struck again; as always, on a train filled largely with members of the British Raj. Families, off on a holiday. Women and small children as well as their men. And with a growing regularity, many of them were now dead.

* * * *

Miss O'Keefe's housekeeper smoothed a stray lock of iron grey hair back into her prim chignon, her faded blue eyes crinkling up in delight at Kitty's complement. She'd had her doubts when Miss Kitty stayed on after her brother Sebastian was swept away in an outbreak of cholera, but working for the young mistress had proved to be a pleasant surprise. Not only was the young woman warm, fair and compassionate toward her own kind, she'd proven she cared just as deeply for native Indians, small animals and people like herself rendered less fortunate by an accident of birth. Though Ivy knew she possessed the bristling exterior of a disapproving nanny, she had to admit with respect to Miss O'Keefe, she often felt the loving concern of a fairy godmother.

Ivy helped her mistress unfasten her corset, and while Miss O'Keefe slipped into the frilly nightdress she'd provided, she disappeared back through the main living area of the bungalow, repositioning a couple of scattered pillows as she went, before passing into the well-scrubbed kitchen to fetch Miss O'Keefe's tea. She returned with a plate full of Miss O'Keefe's favorite mango and ginger cookies and a cup of steaming hot chai just as her mistress was buttoning up some of the tiny pearl buttons marching down her bodice. She placed the tea tray on the carved Burmese mahogany and marble nightstand and stood up, unable to keep the mild disapproval off her weathered Celtic face. _What had happened with the younger generation that they wanted to show so much naked flesh? She knew Miss O'Keefe had proper morals to spare; why abandon them in such a wanton display of herself?_

Miss O'Keefe appeared to hesitate in her dressing, biting her full bottom lip before speaking. "Did-did you check the cookie plate this time, Ivy?"

Noticing the slight tremble in her employer's voice, Ivy quickly assured her there were no spiders lurking among her sweets.

"You must think me very silly, but I really do find them quite revolting."

"Not at all, Miss. With my mum it was always the bloody snakes. Seeing one would set her to shrieking something fierce."

"With me, it's the spiders and tight places. Anyway, Ivy, if it's possible, would you mind bringing Bubble and Squeak to me? I fear I owe them both an apology." Miss O'Keefe dabbed warm tea from her moist lips and tentatively chose a small cookie. "I've been so distraught lately. I'm afraid I was only thinking of myself."

"I've brought your headache powders, Miss. They're on the tray next to the mail."

"Thank you, Ivy. You're far too kind to me. But I fear the powders will do nothing to ease my pain this time."

She paused, took another sip of her tea, and patted a spot next to her on the bed, indicating Ivy might sit.

True to her salt, Ivy O'Hara chose to remain standing.

"Oh, that detestable man! Troop commander Ponsonby kept me waiting a good forty-five minutes, and then he would not tell me a thing about Sergeant Wilde's location or situation. Rather, I felt his beady eyes pawing all over me as though I were there for his evening's enjoyment . . . like some poor soiled dove. He made my skin crawl." She paused, took a small bite of cookie, washing it down with a sip of hot tea before continuing. "That, and his incessant jingling of his handful of coins like Ebenezer Scrooge. I suppose I should be grateful—at least it kept his sweaty hands occupied."

"You really shouldn't have gone, Miss. Certainly not alone. What would your brother, Sebastian, have said? Or your father?"

"Yes, Father." What was left unsaid and the look on Ivy's employer's face spoke volumes. "I know it was unwise, Ivy. But I must _know_!"

"Unfortunately, my dear, it is often a lady's lot to merely wait . . . and hope."

"I thought . . . I _believed_ we were getting on famously."

Ivy was about to offer some motherly advice her mistress wouldn't want to hear when a ruckus erupted from the other room, demanding her immediate attention. _The monkeys! Devilish little buggers!_

Both women left the quiet bedchamber as quickly as age and clinging nightdress allowed. Bubble and Squeak were nine-month old siblings, South American white-faced capuchins, brought to India by Kitty's late brother, fresh from his last post in the Americas. Too adorable for words, the juvenile monkeys had all the energy of her father's hunting hounds; plus never-empty hands. They could get into all sorts of mischief as easily as any local two-year old child. But there the comparison ended; their capacity for getting into trouble expanding exponentially because of two things. They had absolutely no fear of heights; in fact, they found it very satisfying teasing potential captors and tormentors from on high. And of course, they were incredibly fast and took great delight in causing endless mischief.

"We're in luck, Miss O'Keefe—they've just broken two vases. Oh dear, your brother's Ming."

"Where do you suppose our two little trouble-makers are?"

The two women searched in silence. Ivy noticed her mistress seemed to have forgotten both her headache, and for the moment, the missing young man who had caused it. _Good. Though she liked what she'd observed of Miss O'Keefe's sergeant, he was a most inappropriate choice for her love. Though she might insist on "making her own way" in the world and living modestly in her deceased brother's leavings, Miss O'Keefe was far from ordinary. With her looks and the prospect of her father's position and wealth should she ever come to her senses and cease defying her destiny, she could soon have any man wrapped around her little finger. Any man._

"Ivy—do you see them? I don't see them anywhere. You don't suppose they've slipped outside, do you?"

There was a speck of panic in Miss O'Keefe's voice now, and Ivy rushed to her rescue.

"Doors are all locked for the night. Did you search under your bed, Miss?"

"No. I-I'd rather not. There might be—"

"Don't worry, Miss. I'll check there next."

They'd searched around huge potted fan palms. _In_ the palms. They'd scrutinized the library's extensive bookshelves, three suits of ancient Moghul armor, the modern kitchen, elegant formal dining room, three wicker lounges and beneath two window seats. No mischievous monkeys. They found scraps of half-eaten fruit and three of Sebastian's hanging butterfly collections were badly skewed; but no monkeys.

"Where can they be?"

Ivy detected a stronger note of panic in her mistress's voice and caught a small glint of tears in her eyes. Miss O'Keefe had unwisely given her heart to these two little beggars as well, just like her unfortunate young man. She bit her cracked bottom lip, about to dispense soothing words, when she heard a door creak open behind her. Both women turned; the white ventilated door of a linen closet was slowly seeping open behind them. In the dim flickering gaslight, Miss O'Keefe gasped, one hand splayed across her chest, while Ivy remained stalwart. She'd seen one of the two culprit's tiny clasping hands, outlined against the freshly painted wood slats.

Sure enough, the door opened wider and two wide-eyed, innocent-looking monkeys popped out, holding onto each other's hands and chattering nervously.

"Where have you little devils been? You gave Mummy such a scare."

Ivy followed her mistress back into the bedroom. Having scooped up the primate youngsters, Miss O'Keefe strolled ahead of her, talking lovingly to the two little imps curled around her arms, each one chirping back at her, their eyes huge and innocent. Ivy shook her head at the folly of youth, but kept her lips clamped shut; sensing a temporary easing to her mistress's pain. There definitely seemed to be more spring in her step, and she detected a ghost of girlish giggling. Maybe Bubble and Squeak were good for the mistress after all. Thoughts of Sergeant Wilde certainly were not.

As she drew her conclusions, Ivy spied the letter.

#  Chapter Nine

Madras cavalry cantonment

Start of the Summer Monsoon

The weather turned sour. Like a pack of baying hounds racing before a trailing mob of fox hunters, the soaking rain seemed to herald the approach of the summer monsoon. Everything slowed. Trains ceased to run on time, if at all, and the beefed-up Madras cavalry patrols stopped altogether, rightly suspecting the bloodthirsty train robbers might take a breather as well.

Jack didn't mind the rain. It gave him a chance to head north to the nearest cavalry post, restock his dwindling ammunition and refresh himself with a day or two of comradeship among other horse soldiers. He sent off two more wires, wondering at the reception each would get. One to Miss O'Keefe; and one to his superior, requesting an end to his banishment, or more men to aid him in completing his mission.

While he waited for an answer, he took out his sketch pad and began drawing the cavalry troopers going about their daily camp routines. Bored with those after an hour of waiting, he began sketching his last ship's captain as he remembered him that day off Fiji when his life changed forever. Another hour inched by. Starting with the eyes, he tried sketching the Ghost, using his imagination to rapidly fill in features she'd kept shrouded. Stopping as he saw the telegraph operator come to his door and wave frantically for him to come in, Jack glanced at the face he'd drawn. It was _her_. Not the bloody Ghost, not even poor Lavinia back in England, but Miss O'Keefe. _Tarnation and horse feathers._

There was only the one reply. From the lady, there came nothing. From Ponsonby, a scathing refusal of any assistance and a reaffirmation that Jack's duties would continue detached, far from his regiment and Ponsonby's sight.

Jack had to admit, neither result to his telegrams was unexpected.

His mood as dark as the sullen skies, Jack gathered his supplies, mumbled his goodbyes to his few friends, and mounted Wind for the long trek south. Five minutes beyond the lancers' picket lines, his luck turned foul. Growling a mariner's salty curse, he urged trotting Wind into a cantor, and then a devil-may-care gallop. He really didn't care that the steadily worsening weather urged caution. The darkening sky opened up as man and horse flew along the rutted road to Bhalpur in drenched misery. The storm chased them south, Wind's thundering hooves striking the rock-pitted road like flashing lightning and marking their passage to Bhalpur with muddy explosions.

# Chapter Ten

"It wasn't there earlier, Miss. I swear it wasn't." She would've noticed as Miss O'Keefe had her brand new copy of H. S. Smith's _Savage World_ sitting squarely on her nightstand. That horrid book! Illustrated page after page of savage beasts, but Miss O'Keefe had bookmarked, the pages devoted to really large disgusting spiders. No wonder the poor dear had nightmares! That and what she'd confessed one particularly bad night full of homesick sobbing. When she'd glimpsed the thick volume of Natural History earlier she'd been tempted to remove it. There'd been no letter sitting on its blue cover then.

* * * *

"I'm not doubting you, Ivy, but how did it get on my book? We were just in the other room."

Both women seemed to grow nervous, each wondering if someone had snuck into the bungalow while they were hunting for Bubble and Squeak, and more importantly, if the intruder was still inside. Determined to _behave_ like the mistress of the house and not to show any of her fear that whoever had invaded her home might still be there and mean them bodily harm, Kitty shucked the two clinging monkeys from her arms and scooted Ivy into the other room to deposit them in their cage while she tore open the sealed envelope.

_Let's see what's so all-fire important you couldn't have come in by the front door and regular post._ Glancing toward her bedroom's balcony she noticed the wood and glass door was slightly ajar; obviously unlocked. _So much for how you got in; now let's see why._

It might've occurred to her that an intruder using the balcony door would've had to use the old Banyan tree outside her window and show a surprising amount of agility. Only another monkey or one of the thousands of young street urchins she saw following her every day on her way to the _Informer_ would fit the bill. As it was, the taunting puzzle remained unsolved, what she read in the poorly written letter seizing her entire attention.

* * * *

The night was horrid. It was filled with the blinding flash of slashing lightning, the cannon roar of thunder, and billions of tiny explosions caused by wind-driven rain. A mile outside Bhalpur, Jack almost collided with the twisted wreckage of a native dogcart. Jerking hard on Wind's reins, he narrowly missed adding himself to the accident's carnage.

Apparently trying to dodge around a fallen roadside shrine dedicated to the elephant god, Ganesha, the cart had slipped off the mud-slick road into a newly-engorged streambed, drowning both of the elderly adults. A third victim, presumably the deceased couple's grandchild, lay pinned beneath the broken wagon wheel shrieking loudly as he stared alternately between the six-inch spoke splinter sticking through his forearm and the rapidly rising flood water.

Adding his own muscles to Wind's pulling power, Jack dragged the small child free of the broken wheel just as the boy's quivering lips began to fill with filthy stream water. The wound to his arm was a more serious matter. Jack could remove the splinter; but the child could not afford to lose more blood and it was quite obvious he would require a number of stitches to close the jagged wound.

So with the loving gentleness of a concerned parent, he hoisted the child onto Wind's back, jumped up behind his drooping charge and sped off toward the small settlement in search of a doctor.

* * * *

The note was from Sgt. Wilde's Sikh. He described himself as the sergeant's groom, servant and friend. He called himself Manjeet and insisted they'd met. He had been the one lowered into the _Liverpool Lass's_ hold to free her from the beast's cage. Kitty shuddered at the memory of her horrid ordeal, yet had no recollection of the man except a large well-kept beard and a grin full of big, white teeth.

Yet this stranger's next words sent her spirits soaring and her heart crashing. Jack—she refused to think of him any other way although Ivy would not miss the opportunity to point out using his Christian name after less than a half dozen meetings branded her as an easy woman—Jack, had been ordered away on indefinite orders by troop commander Ponsonby and hadn't had a chance to make the reason for his abrupt disappearance known. Ponsonby—the very man she'd sought an audience with—the one who had made her feel as though he could see through all her clothes. So, Jack _hadn't_ thrown her over. He _hadn't_ tired of her; found her ideas and sharp tongue too abrasive, her womanly endeavors boring. If anything, judging by the other scrap of paper Manjeet had slipped in with the note, Jack felt as she did.

Jack would've called the scrap of paper included with the note "useless doodling". In reality, it was a well-rendered portrait, and incredibly accurate if slightly romanticized likeness of _her_. He'd drawn her from memory, dressing her in the lacy, beribboned dress she'd worn on last evening together. It emphasized her bosom, and yet, Jack had proven himself to be the one man among her beaus who looked into her eyes as much as at her bosom. She felt quite flattered by the artwork, and impressed by Jack Wilde's talent. If there was any fantasy to the artwork, he'd made her appear sweeter than she ever was. But what really set her heart singing was the ornate heart he'd drawn in the corner of the paper, and the initials contained within it.

Where the beginning of the letter and the portrait made her spirits soar, the rest of the message in the letter sent her crashing.

My most honorable friend, Sergeant Wilde, has been shot by a most primitive arrow. I have it on most excellent authority; he was wounded in the leg only and shall most hopefully recover. I dare not confide in this letter whom it is he is being in pursuit of. Suffice it to say, he is hunting a pair of most notorious and devious devils. I am leaving the cavalry lines in two days and taking a train south to offer my assistance. Through much dogged persistence and the expenditure of countless rupees, I've learned where Sgt. Wilde is. If memsahib would care to meet me in a most well-lit and public place, I am most willing to impart this most costly knowledge to you as well.

Your most humble rescuer,

Manjeet Balram Singh

#  Chapter Eleven

Bhalpur had one doctor, living completely on the other side of town, not far from the rented room Jack called home. Dr. Kurapati. As he flung himself into the driver's seat of the railway station's borrowed four-wheeled wagon, and prayed the doctor hadn't retired early, unable to hear pounding on his door over the hammering of the rain on his roof.

Five minutes later, he was banging on the doctor's door.

"Doctor Kurapati. Open up, please. I need your help!"

The flickering glow of a lantern bobbed toward the door and an irritated female voice insisted, "Go away! I am not letting anyone in.," an irritated feminine voice hissed in pretty good English. "Go away, Englishman. Be coming back in the morning!"

"Fetch the doctor, woman; I have an injured child here!"

Jack heard multiple bolts drawn and seconds later the door opened, revealing an Indian woman still in her nightdress.

"Bring him in at once," she said with concern, the musical lilt in her voice still quite evident. "First door on the left, Sgt. Wilde." She lurched out of the way, and once he'd passed by her, closed the door, and followed him. As Jack reached the doorway, it occurred to him the woman had referred to him by name. He turned, noticing the woman limping toward him, favoring her left leg. _Was she injured or lame?_ Realizing he was staring, he quickly asked his question.

"You seem to know me?"

"Your being present in our tiny village has not gone unnoticed, Sahib."

There was no shortage of music in the young woman's voice now, mixed with her concern for the small boy. As she stepped out of the shadows, turning up several gas lamps to take a better look at the child, Jack noticed she was extremely pleasant to look at.

"I know little Jai too, Sgt." As she spoke, the woman moved awkwardly about the sparsely furnished room, gathering a few supplies from a shadowy medical cabinet. Exhausted, yet entranced, Jack watched her intently as she worked, barely managing to help her when she maneuvered Jai out of his arms and onto the examination table. She sat the boy up, caressing his face and murmuring some soothing Hindi words as she washed her hands in a bowl she'd brought to the table. When she began a serious examination of the splinter still sticking from Jai's arm, Jack spoke up.

"I don't mean to offend, Miss, but shouldn't we be waiting for Dr. Kurapati? Shouldn't you be waking _him_ about now?"

"It would be most difficult to wake my poor departed father, Sgt. Wilde. As for Dr. Kurapati—you have been staring at her these last five minutes. Now, if you are done with your inspection and quite ready, I could use your help."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare . . . or to imply—I'm really rather tired, you see."

"Yes, sergeant, I do. My name is Neeli, by the way. Dr. Neeli Kurapati. I'm afraid I don't possess the fancy papers of your excellent London surgeons, but I learned by craft at my father's knee. And I am here."

"Jack Wilde, sergeant of the—"

"I know who you are, Jack. And why you are here. We all do. And some of us are glad."

They worked together for an hour, extracting the splinter, utilizing what meager medical supplies Neeli had to cleanse and medicate the wound, and then wrapping it in bandages torn from the hem of her white nightdress. At the end of their ordeal, when Jai was finally sleeping peacefully, Jack let himself slump back against the wall, exhausted.

"I have an extra cot. You can sleep on that if you like, Jack. You're obviously completely wrung-out."

He shook his head, arguing they were neighbors; he'd be home in five minutes, even as he sagged back against the wall and began to slide down its cool surface.

"That clinches it. You're staying." She moved closer, limping toward a doorway leading deeper into her home. "Those are my doctor's orders. And let's get you out of those soaking clothes as well."

"My horse—"

"I have a boy and his grandfather who care for my nag and carriage. I'm sure your Wind and the donga you brought Jai in have already been put in my stable."

"How do you know my mount's name?"

"As I've said, this is a very small village. And you, Jack Wilde, are not the quietest of men. I've heard you talking to your horse. Now, follow me. It is time you were in bed."

Grabbing his wrist, she dragged him after her, not to the promised cot, but to her own bedroom.

Exhausted soldier and lame physician lurched down a shadowy hallway into a cozy woman's bedroom decorated in a pleasing blend of classic Victorian and traditional Hindu. Placing his pith helmet on a small teak table inlaid with mother of pearl, Jack let his marksman's eyes sweep around the doctor's bedroom, counting no less than five candlelit displays paying homage to a sampling of Hindu deities.

"You're shivering—it's no wonder—you're soaked to the skin!" Dr. Kurapati held out her hand as she continued scolding her guest. "Get out of that drenched uniform jacket at once, Sgt. Wilde, before your death is catching up to you."

Shrugging out of his sopping tunic, Jack raised an eyebrow and mustered a grin when Neeli indicated his soaked white shirt should follow the jacket.

"Bit bossy, aren't you, Doc. I'm not one of your patients. There's nothing wrong with me."

Placing one cool palm on Jack's broad naked chest, Dr. Kurapati smiled up into his eyes before releasing her judgment in a husky whisper.

"There certainly isn't," she cooed, one hand caressing his hairy chest while her other waltzed him toward the bed. Suddenly, she stopped.

"What is this?" she asked; her fingers lightly dancing across the four raised scars stretching across one forearm, a gift from the beast trapped aboard the _Liverpool Lass._

"Disagreement with a tiger over his intended meal. There's another scar beneath this beard I'm afraid." Panning his hand across his scars, he adopted a crooked grin and asked, "Do these put you off? You want me to leave?"

"Not at all. I wondered why you favored a full beard when so many of your officers wear a moustache only." Stroking it lightly, she was quick to add, "It becomes you."

"I'm no officer. I've no use for most of those pompous bastards."

"Sorry—I meant no offense. Still—what if," she teased, removing her blood-spattered apron and beginning to undo the buttons marching down her nightdress bodice, "I ordered you to remove those muddy boots, and . . . slip out of those soaked breeches?"

"I may be no gentleman, but I'd never get in bed with my boots on."

Jack began hopping around on one boot, trying to remove the other. Neeli disappeared for a moment, returning with a couple of towels. Once Jack had both boots off and lined up parade ground straight, he draped his weapons belt across the back of a chair and began unfastening his breeches.

In moments he stood completely nude before the doctor, his manhood betraying his emotions as it rose to a rigid attention even Ponsonby would be hard pressed to criticize. Although Dr. Kurapati's nightgown was unbuttoned and he could admire the swell of her full breasts, she preserved her modesty by keeping everything below her navel a mystery. Still, as she smiled up at Jack, placed both palms on his chest and began to push him onto her bed, the thin gown gaped, and he caught a glimpse of a nasty scar beginning at her right hip and disappearing downward into the shadows protecting her inner thighs.

The cause of her limp? Who'd given this woman such a wound, and why?

Jack felt the back of his knees bump into the bed before he sat down. _What was she up to? They'd just met, yet obviously she wanted sex. Should he resist, or follow his own desires? Damn, he'd barely kissed Miss O'Keefe._ He had to remind himself many of the Indian women he'd met were far less inhibited than the primly starched memsahibs. Yet, Miss O'Keefe's image began to emerge—damn it, man; she didn't even answer one message. _Should be obvious even to a common blockhead like you, she's cut you loose. Carpe Diem—seize the day, as his friend, Kipling, would say._

She took the choice away from Jack. Neeli shoved him back on the bed, but then instead of lying next to him, she embraced him. He meant to protest, but then her nightdress slid upward and his words died stillborn as he feasted on the sight of her naked hips and thighs. When he mentioned that they'd just met and she needn't do this, she kissed him and caressed the side of his face, insisting he not worry, and for once, enjoy letting India conquer Britain. A fleeting correction that he was an American died on his lips as she pressed her dusky body into him, crushing his lips with her own.

Only later, as Neeli rolled off of him and they lay side by side, each drenched in sweat and trying to catch their breath, did his mind focus to stark clarity. It brazenly insisted on presenting him with a daguerreotype of pouting Miss O'Keefe, her auburn hair backlit, looking as though it was on fire. He knew he should regret what he'd just done. _Why?_ She'd rejected him. Refusing to soil the moment, he turned to his partner and blurted out his first question standing in a steadily growing queue.

"Neeli, you mentioned some of the villagers are glad I'm hunting the Ghost. Are you one of them? How would you feel if I captured her, or if she were killed? Would that turn you against me?"

"My sister was the first one this Ghost destroyed. So, no, Jack; it would not drive me from your bed." She giggled like a school girl and rolled toward him, seizing one of his hands and placing it on her breast. "Again, Sahib?"

"Tell me about your scar," he managed, tracing the puckered white line that burned from high on her hip to bury itself on the inside of her knee. "How did—"

"You ask too many questions, Yankee. Now is not a time of words." She laughed, her girlish giggles chasing away the somber moment, as she drew him into her. "Shall we ride again, my brave hussar?"

#  Chapter Twelve

Removing the hatpins from her small veiled derby, Kitty plucked the hat from her auburn curls, and settled back into the worn leather seat, desperately hoping the swaying motion and monotonous clickity-clack of the train's wheels would lull her to sleep. Her nerves were as frayed and frazzled as her split ends. Ivy's constant complaining and harping on her foolishness in pursuing a ruffian with such limited prospects chaffed like a raw blister. Kitty _knew_ she was taking a foolish chance. Throwing up her washerwoman's hands in frustration, Ivy had only ceased her motherly scolding when they'd actually boarded the train. _Trains._ Kitty hated them, well, specifically traveling in them. Noisy, stinking, spewing steam, smoke and filthy cinders everywhere. And trains were usually overcrowded with men who thought ogling young women, even escorted ones like she, perfectly acceptable. She took off her reading spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling her infant headache begin banging pots and pans around the inside of her skull. _Damn it! Why was it so hot in here? The stench of unwashed bodies was overwhelming!_

She took another look at the tattered photograph she treasured of herself and Jack Wilde together. The one photographed as they strolled arm in arm along the promenade before dinner at that posh Indian restaurant. He looked so dashing in his dress uniform, Sergeant Wilde of the 7th Queen's Own Hussars. _God, where are you now, dearest?_ She let the photo drop into her lap on top of her reticule, thinking of the other, the one her friend Melody took of her, dressed only in a brief corset and chemise. The costume she'd intended to wear the night she gave him the portrait, along with herself. A night that had never come. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold the headache and sting of unborn tears at bay. _Oh, Jack—I miss you so darned much._

* * * *

Taking a break in their lovemaking, Neeli shrugged into her nightdress, slipped away from her guest's sleepy form and ventured down the hall to check on her young patient. _Besides being a rather fine-looking specimen of manhood, Jack had proven himself a more than capable lover. Good._ Seeing Jai was slumbering peacefully, she took a peek out the nearest window at the dark night. It was still storming outside. The rain had done nothing to quell the oppressive humidity. Even her thin nightgown felt too clammy and confining. She padded into her modest kitchen, fixed them both a refreshing iced squash drink and headed back to Jack.

He was up on one elbow, watching the door for her return. Because he was still nude, she noticed with a certain smug satisfaction that his eyes weren't the only attentive body part reacting to her. Setting her drink on the nightstand, she handed him the other, and sat just out of reach at the end of the bed.

"So, my curious Yankee man, you want to know about my scar."

Jack took a tentative drink of cool juice, and then indulged in a healthy slug, obviously using the time to gather his thoughts.

"It looks like a wound from a slashing sword. I only hope it wasn't delivered by one of our troopers."

As Neeli picked up her own drink, hesitant to tell him the truth, Jack charged into the momentary breach.

"But what I really want to know is—why _me_? Why _us_ —this night? You barely know me."

With a throaty laugh, Neeli set her drink down and leaned forward, snaring both of Jack's hands in her own before answering.

"You're a most handsome man, Jack Wilde. As my neighbor, I've had a good month to enjoy your goings and coming." She hesitated a second before continuing, her voice filled with music. "You frequently return home from your hunting quite dirty, both horse and man. And you bathe outside." She watched his tan face color up before she carried on. "I have seen you—before—as you bathed."

"You were spying on me? Our dwellings aren't that close."

"I saw you as I drove to the market, and again as I returned from attending a villager with a broken ankle." She hesitated, amused at the control she had over him, and enjoying the twinkle of naughty arousal she saw in his eyes. "Besides after you brought me young Jai, I realized you are a most often a _good_ man too."

"You're dodging my question, Doc."

Giggling, Neeli decided to be honest. "Shouldn't a woman be able to make love to a man she finds attractive with no binding strings being attached, much as any man does?"

* * * *

Taken off-guard, Jack stumbled over his answer. Y-yeah. I guess so. Sure. Of course she should."

"No strings are being attached, then. This shall be a one-time deal."

"No strings. Of course." Jack bumbled over his reply, not really thinking, his mind engulfed by another fleeting vision of Miss O'Keefe, her enticing lips forming a disapproving pout.

Obviously aware of his stuttering answers, Neeli cocked one eyebrow and coyly asked, "You haven't a wife hidden around here somewhere, have you, Jack?"

"No. No—of course not." His mind flooded with the memory of blonde Lavinia, sobs racking her modest chest, reddened eyes wild with misery, her hands—oh god, _her hands_. . . . He hadn't won the regimental lottery; the wives of the winners accompanying their husbands overseas to a foreign service station. She couldn't join his troop in India. _Seven years._ Wed just a few months and torn apart by the army and his duty. Seven long years apart—what vibrant young woman could wait _that_ long?

"Well, then, what are we waiting for? We've had our drinks and a nice chat. The night is having almost as many hours left as the Kama Sutra has positions. Shall we try a few more?"

"Your saber wound—who gave it to you?"

"Oh, my Jack, you are being such a curious little Hanuman monkey. Very well, I shall tell the tale, but only if you promise when we shall ride again afterwards, I shall hold the reins."

* * * *

Ivy and Manjeet Singh were finally asleep. Kitty drooped against the train coach window, letting her forehead caress the cool glass. She finally let herself cry, the hot tears burning down her face mimicked by the rain streaking down outside her window. She couldn't sleep. Emotionally drained, she tried thinking of more mundane things: home, Bubble and Squeak, and father. _What would he think of all this?_ She could see the deep frown furrowing his aristocratic brow now, as he looked up from the huge desk heaped high with barristers' briefs and shot her a searing ray of disapproval before diving back into his all-consuming work. . For a moment, she missed him and the ordered comfortable life she'd deserted back home. Everything had been laid out for her there, dictated by society; gowns, elegant dinners, social events, even a list of eligible beaus, every one of them prosperous and titled; her father's choice. There were no decisions for _her_ to make. But then she recalled her fiery departure. _Why did her current torment make her feel so much worse?_

_What if Jack's wound had gotten worse, turning septic? What if he'd died? This was India, after all, mother of all diseases. What if he'd tired of her and didn't want to see her again?_ It'd been so long. Of course he wanted to see her; she'd seen the love blazing in his eyes that last night. But it had been months! What if the fire had gone out? Her mind chased itself in frenzied circles, spurred by _what ifs._ And what would she do if he _did_ want her after all this time. _What was she prepared to offer?_ Her love, of course, he already had that. _There,_ _she'd finally admitted it_. _But what if he wanted more and promised nothing in return? Was she prepared to surrender everything to this rough rogue of a man she really knew so little about?_

What Kitty really knew about Jack Wilde would barely fill a teacup. _Oh, he'd been willing to share things, tit for tat as it were, but could she really believe him?_ One of their evenings together he'd admitted he'd been a Yankee mariner. It was obvious from the start, by his accent, manner and butchery of the English language that he was an American, but that night he'd confessed to being involved in something that kept him barred from his native soil forever. Jack Wilde was a wanted man.

* * * *

"You can rest easy; my injury was not caused by a sword stroke from your precious Raj troopers. It's really quite simple. The over-dressed one your people labeled the Peacock, was trying to befoul my sister. I rushed to Aarini's aid; I believed I could feel her agony, see my sister fading away before me. I tried to pull the brute off her; how was I to know she'd invited his advances. The Ghost seized control; blocked my help. She would have no interference in their tangle. It is _she_ who gave me the slash with the brigand's tulwar."

"I'm so sorry, Neeli. I wish I'd been there to protect you."

"You have already . . . comforted me. The Peacock, the one it is said you shot—the Ghost's lover, was the one who corrupted my sister."

# Chapter Thirteen

Sleep still eluding her, Kitty's thoughts drifted back to the quiet moments they'd shared on her wide verandah after a good meal, sitting much closer together than was strictly proper. The night Jack had finally told her why the Americans considered him a fugitive.

Tired of the stench and inhumanity of whaling, Jack said he'd found a berth aboard a decrepit inter-island schooner bound for Queensland. Only after he'd signed the ship's articles and begun to serve, did he realize the spiky old skipper had turned _Hula Princess_ into a slave ship for this voyage. As with African slaves, many Pacific islanders were seized or sold to do the back-breaking work for white men in far-flung lands far from their homes. Although finding the practice extremely offensive, Jack kept quiet, vowing he'd do this one voyage, collect his pay and desert the hell ship without a backward glance. Whether he could wash the vile taste of slavery out of his mouth so easily remained doubtful.

"The parents of many Americans fought a war back in 1861 to free our Black slaves, but life in the Pacific was a far different matter. To this day, the people of Fiji and many of the other islands are seized as slaves to work the cane fields of Queensland and other Crown possessions. In Suva, I watched in silence as the crew ushered fifty downcast kanakas below decks," he'd said. It was obvious as he told her the lurid tale; he was disgusted with his own inaction at the deplorable treatment of black Fijians. "A damned mix of men, women and kids all crammed together in a filthy hold still stinking of rotting fish. Paid cane workers, the skipper said, but in truth, they were no different than the Negro slaves working the cotton fields back home before the Civil War." He'd paused then, staring through Kitty, his blue eyes blind with the bitter taste of remembrance.

Of course there'd been atrocities committed aboard; Kitty wasn't so naïve as to be shocked by that. The usual fights rose between Fijians from hostile villages, single males strutting before the married men, looking for a chance to take their women. Kitty chose to believe Jack when he told her he'd opposed it, one white man standing against nine others. She was still shocked and disgusted when he related the scene that had turned him into a fugitive.

"I knew I'd have to stand up to Captain Winthrop when he started forcing young Fijian women into his cabin. It's a fairly common practice among the island skippers, but still pretty damned disgusting. It was made all the worse by the fact the Captain was a diseased cretin and he was well on his way to corrupting our supercargo, a young man named Perkins." As Jack told her the story, he'd paused, a look of sheer misery on his face. Kitty remembered reaching out, and gently caressing his hand as he forced himself to finish.

"I was in for a shock when I stormed into his cabin. The _woman_ he'd seized was a twelve year old boy, and young Master Perkins was beating him raw. Captain Winthrop placed himself between us, intent on preventing my interference. Like an idiot, I already had my Colt in my hand. We scuffled, and the weapon went off. I guess young Perkins had ceased whipping and turned toward the struggle he heard going on behind him. The shot went wild, and took him right in the face. He was dead before he hit the deck. Later, I heard Winthrop got rid of the evidence overboard; still-warm corpse and shrieking child both. By then he'd clapped me in irons and locked me in the ship's brig."

"By the time we returned to American waters, Captain Winthrop and the crew concocted a cast-iron case branding me as a cold-blooded murderer. With a maniacal look of glee, Winthrop accused me of murdering Stanley Perkins, a New Jersey senator's son, and once he'd been informed of his son's murder, the senator vowed to see that I felt the gallows' kiss. I escaped during a prisoner transfer in New York and shipped out on the first packet I could find, bound for London."

_And then you joined the army, and came out here to me_ , Kitty thought as she finally slumped down asleep, her auburn tresses losing hairpins, her limp hand dropping Jack's photo to the floor.

#  Chapter Fourteen

The raging storm thundered away during the night, grumbling like a grouchy old man as it stomped off. Morning dawned sunny and bright; the raindrops on the steaming trees glistening like shimmering jewels, the drowned earth beneath awash with iridescent puddles and thick, sticky mud. Although it was fairly early, it was already hot and humid, promising a day of clammy clothing and bodies running with sweat.

After returning the railway's borrowed donga and sharing a quick breakfast of iced-chai, fruit and Indian pastries at Bhalpur's open-air market, Jack and Dr. Kurapati strolled arm in arm toward the doctor's waiting carriage.

Further down the muddy road, at the far end of the small railway platform, a memsahib in white detached herself from a tall Sikh and an older memsahib and began moving toward Jack and Neeli. With his trained marksman's eye, it was immediately obvious to Jack she was hurrying.

Twenty yards away she suddenly slowed, whether from a desire to maintain a graceful, ladylike decorum or from the hesitancy of deserting courage, he couldn't guess. He noticed the familiar silky, white blouse festooned with lace and bows, and the well-pinned auburn hair, its rebellious curls already damp with the humidity. He recognized her, of course. He was unaware that he'd stopped, staring, just as he was unaware when Neeli released his hand and walked away. _Why was she here?_ It was far too dangerous for her here; he didn't want her exposed to such filth and savagery. His mind tortured him with the gristly imagery of the murdered women he'd found butchered in the Ghost's latest blood-drenched train robberies. His heart was thrilled to see her of course, but how and _why_ had she come? My god, she'd come by _rail_!

"Jack! Oh dear Jack, I've found you—at last," she said, dropping her dainty parasol and standing on her tiptoes to kiss him. When he didn't respond by embracing her, she stepped down and back, obviously confused.

"Miss O'Keefe—why are you here?" he blurted out before he realized the cold brutality of the words, sensing the frigid tone to his own voice.

"Have we been apart so long you've already forgotten my name, Jack?"

He forced a smile to warm his eyes, very aware the choked tears in Kitty's voice betrayed her feelings of rejection and nervous fear.

"Of course not, Kitty. It's just that it's far too dangerous with these damned killers about. You shouldn't have risked coming."

"I convinced my boss at the _Informer_ to let me do a story on the man who's going to catch these bothersome train robbers, the hero of my last big article. You, Jack. I thought it'd be worth enduring a hot and horrid night on a smelly, noisy train coming down here just to see you. Please don't tell me I was wrong." She paused, moved closer, awkwardly clasping one of his hands in her own and staring up into his blue eyes. "Jack, it took so long to find out where you'd gone. I had dared hope you'd missed me and would be glad to see me."

Jack noticed Kitty's emerald eyes widen as she stared behind him. He followed her wide-eyed gaze, catching Neeli taking a final forlorn look at him as her carriage turned a corner and she gave her nag its head.

"Oh, oh dear god—I've been such a fool. I see you've already forgotten me and found yourself someone else. I'm so sorry—I thought. . . . "

Noticing her sudden look of panic, he realized his reply might change both their lives forever. Instead of talking, he clasped her hand and led her out of the direct sun into the shade provided by a small grove of coconut palms. Once out of the intense heat, he led her to a worn bench, only sitting a respectable distance away after she'd made herself comfortable.

Still trying to pick his words with care, he shouldn't have been surprised when she jumped in first.

"I feel like such an idiot. I should've realized when you didn't answer my letters, you were making it clear you didn.t care for me. You'd already moved on."

She paused, dabbing at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, the gleam of hot tears glazing her eyes. When she resumed speaking, she defended her actions. "I'd convinced myself that your loathsome superior, Ponsonby was intercepting our letters to each other, but I see I've been overly—optimistic."

"Kitty, I—"

"No, Jack. You needn't explain anything. I may be a foolish romantic, but I'm not stupid. You've obviously found someone else. I _saw_ her." She paused briefly to swipe at brazen tears that insisted on dragging the kohl outlining her eyes in dark streaks down her blazing cheeks. "She's quite lovely." When Jack tried to speak, she angrily cut him off.

"Actually, you've done me a favor. To think I was about to make an even bigger fool of myself, and-and confess . . . .

Good bye, Jack. I'll not trouble you again! I'll just collect my traveling companion and head home. I'm sure Bubble and Squeak will be glad to see me. Oh—for some reason, Manjeet Singh wants to stay here with you. He's more than welcome to your company."

"Kitty, please—"

"No! No. I came here ready to bear my soul to you—to offer you everything. But I can see you've already thrown me away! I _hate_ you, Jack Wilde!"

"For god's sake, Kitty, just listen—wait a minute! Where are you going?"

* * * *

_The time for waiting and listening was done! She hated him!_ Kitty raced out of the shade and into the brilliant sunlight, nearly colliding with a trio of strolling soldiers. She didn't know or care what regiment they were from; outside of Jack, she'd had no interest in anything military. Had she been in her right mind and using her reporter's observing eye, she might've noticed none of their uniforms matched and their expressions were anything but proper.

"Is that ruffian in there bothering you, Miss?"

"What?" She looked at the closest, a scrawny reed of a man, with coppery brown eyes and more limp blonde hair in his mustache than on his head. A heavily decorated officer, by god, though he looked barely thirty.

"Is he bothering—why, yes. Yes. He was bothering me. H-he's behaved most abominably—I-I feel so humiliated." For good measure, she let the tears flow, not at all a difficult task considering her breaking heart.

"Well, then. Get yourself to safety, Miss, and think no more on this bounder. I'd say he's earned himself a good thrashing."

"Y-yes. I suppose h-he has." Kitty felt dizzy. _This was all too much._ Her corset was so tight and constricting. Suddenly she couldn't breathe. She'd never endured such heat. _How was she ever to bear Jack's heart-breaking betrayal?_

"Don't worry your pretty little head, Miss. We shall teach him a good lesson." Turning to the two hulking sepoys with him, he pointed toward the trees Kitty had just quit. "Come on, lads. It's time we taught this bastard what it means to be British in these parts!"

"But—wait—I didn't mean—please don't hurt him!" Kitty cried. "He doesn't deserve that!"

She found she was talking to empty humid air. The three soldiers disappeared into the shadowy palm grove, and as she listened, she began to hear the sounds of a scuffle. _She should chase after them. Stop this._ She hated Jack for breaking her heart, but she didn't want him beaten.

"Miss O'Keefe! Miss O'Keefe! Where is Sgt. Wilde being, Memsahib?"

Mercifully, the choice had been made for her.

"Thank god you're here, Manjeet. Some men followed him into that grove over there. I think they mean him harm—I'm sure he'd appreciate your help." She paused; trying to calm the quiver in her voice and lifting her chin to a defiant angle before continuing. "Sgt. Wilde and I have concluded our . . . business. I'm going to collect Memsahib O'Hara and board the train back to Calcutta. You may join us if you wish . . . ."

She stopped and let her words dissolve into nothing. Manjeet had deserted her to help his undeserving friend. Kitty wiped the last trace of tears from her cheeks and stomped off to retrieve Ivy. It was time to admit everything had gone to hell and go home.

#  Chapter Fifteen

Jack was furious. At himself. At Miss O'Keefe, for not giving him a chance to explain; to show her how very much he had missed her. He was about to march after her and demand that she hear him out when three thugs entered the grove and blocked his way.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, I've a lady to catch. I'd appreciate it if you'll just let me pass."

"She don't want to see you, mate. Fact is, it was _her_ what sent us to teach you a lesson in manners."

Jack noticed at once the three men were from different regiments. Unusual perhaps, but not impossible. It was stranger that a British cavalry officer would be treating two infantry sepoys as equals. A man far too young to be a real major, his scrawny chest covered with medals, who'd hid behind the two thugs in front of him. When the man reached for his weapon, he bumped aside two Afghan war medals, revealing a neat round hole surrounded by powder burns ruining the breast of his tunic.

Oh shite! So that's the way of this. This could get messy.

It was pretty obvious they were thugs doing the Ghost's bidding, dressed in uniforms looted from dead soldiers, and sent to do worse than beat him. He still might've won the fight if one of them hadn't brought a razor to a fist fight and there'd only been the original three. In reality, the Ghost had sent five.

By the time Manjeet Singh arrived to lend a hand, two of the brutes were holding Jack down while two others were taking turns kicking him. The fifth man, the sole Anglo, was bent close to Jack's face, making it perfectly clear who'd sent them before he slit Jack's throat.

"Just so you know who's done this to you, Yank, and why—we come by order of the new Peacock, and his mate, the Ghost. They want you dead. You've become a regular thorn in their arses, so they decided it's time to pluck you out."

Manjeet hit the scrawny man in the ill-fitting major's uniform just as he prepared to draw a gleaming straight-edged razor across Jack's throat. The man cursed, whirled around to face the much bigger Sikh. When Manjeet hit him a second time, he cried out like a girl, dropped the razor, and scrambled out of sight quicker than a cockroach caught in sunlight. Seeing their leader take to his heels, the other four thugs traded a few more blows before disappearing as quickly as phantoms at dawn.

* * * *

_I am English. The daughter of an earl. I will not cry._ Though she felt betrayed, her heart shattered, she would maintain a calm exterior in front of Ivy, and carry on. She made herself look preoccupied, finding meaningless little things to occupy her quivering gloved hands, shove her screaming mind toward sedation. Anything not to lock eyes with O'Hara. She couldn't hide anything from her companion; Ivy was the only one she'd ever told about fearing spiders. Even mummy had never known that.

She smoothed her rumpled cream skirt, scowling at the mud-spattered hem in disgust. Next she haphazardly pinned up her hair; she must have done a bad job as Ivy scowled and emitted her signature cluck of disapproval.

"What is it, child? Is everything all right, milady?"

"Fine," she snapped, making it perfectly clear Ivy had trod on forbidden ground. She busied herself tucking in her blouse, smoothing down the lace panels and satiny ribbons, wondering if Jack had even noticed it. She'd bought it special for him. Well, that's never going to happen. She shot a glance at her companion. Ivy was still watching her. She made a show of looking through her turquoise and pearl beaded reticule, shoving aside her reading spectacles, money and partly written article on the latest suffragist meeting she'd attended in her search for her make up.

As she found her kohl and lip paint, she stumbled on a tattered photograph as well. Jack Wilde's rumpled image stared back at her as if accusing her of murdering their budding romance with her impulsive dramatics. Feeling the threat of tears grow uncontrollable, she crumpled up the picture just as the man had crushed her heart, and fled to the coach's WC, no longer caring what Ivy thought.

* * * *

"You're very lucky, Sahib," Dr. Kurapati emphasized as she drove the needle through Jack's flesh again, completing the final stitch in her suturing. "One of them might have brought a gun."

Jack stared at her with his one good eye, trying to blink away the salty sweat that trickled from beneath his bloody head bandage. Neeli sounded as if she almost wished somebody had chosen to use a gun instead of the blade that gave him the wicked slash she'd just finished stitching. He knew she was angry, disappointed and hurt that he'd deserted her for Kitty O'Keefe, but did she really want him dead? _She'd_ been the one who'd insisted their tryst was for one night only.

He really had been lucky. Then why did he feel like shite? He had bruises and scrapes all over, a nasty black eye and ribs that felt as if an elephant sat on them. That and a slashing stab low on his side that seemed to miss anything vital but hurt like searing hell. Yet, by far the greatest pain came from inside. _Kitty._ _He'd smashed everything to bits!_ She'd dared to come all the way down here to find him—well, damn it that should've put to sleep any suspicions that she didn't care. And I show up laughing, with another woman on my arm. _Idiot._ To make matters worse, I say all the wrong things and she storms outta my life. Shite! She's going home by the damned _train_!

"I've got to go to her!"

A pair of slender hands pushed Jack back to the table with far more strength than he thought possible. "You are going nowhere, Jack. You are most badly hurt, and that most foolish young woman is not worth another drop of your blood!"

"But she's on the train! She's in danger!" He paused as a wave of pain and nausea surged through him. Cringing with the stinging pain gnawing at his side, he took a moment before addressing Dr. Kurapati. "Neeli—you don't know her. She's —important to me, and I've been such a stupid ass." He paused again, as the pain in his side took a sharp, agonizing bite. Picking his next words carefully, he hoarsely rasped, "Neeli, what we had—"

"Had no strings attached. I know, Jack Wilde. That is being the way of it. Still, perhaps _one_ string has formed . . ." She paused and crossed the small room to turn around suddenly and lean against her battered medicine cabinet. She did not talk right away, as though considering which words would hurt and which would help heal. Squinting at her, Jack noticed something odd about the supplies she had on hand that had completely escaped his notice before.

"The one smart thing that foolish woman has done, Sahib, is depart from where she is not welcome. The truth has always been that we Hindus always got on well with you sahibs until your memsahibs arrived. You men were always content with a little love-making and never sought to change everything. You just build better roads, sturdy government buildings, and brought better medicine to fight disease. Some of the baser members of your kind stole every bit of gold and jewels you could seize. But your women . . . your memsahibs, wanted to change _everything_. They couldn't wait to turn all of India into an extension of England. Little white rose-covered cottages, hedgerows and picket fences—the whole Anglo bit." She stuttered to a stop, looking embarrassed. Beginning to gather up the bloody cloths and medical supplies she'd used, she turned to place them in a bowl. "I'm sorry for standing on my soapbox and ranting." She paused, as though wanting to say more, but deciding against it. When she did speak, it was obvious she'd changed direction. "You are right; I do not know _this_ memsahib. But she is a fool, for you are not one of the stuffy English and are to my eyes, a most excellent man. If it were my kismet to gain your affection, I would not throw you away, as she has done."

Jack moved to speak, feeling he must say something to soothe Neeli's ruffled feathers as well as defend Kitty. Neeli seemed to sense this, and cut him off. "Do not worry, my Jack. She will make it back to her most comfortable hole. The Ghost has never attacked a train leaving our land in the morning. The English memsahib will be back to her silly little life by evening. Without you, I am thanking Vishnu."

Feeling very woozy, Jack struggled up on his elbows, determined to answer the need for action. He felt a wave of sudden dizziness as razor-sharp pain bit into his side forcing him to realize _he_ would not be the one springing into action.

"Jeet—you must go! These bastards are unpredictable and Miss O'Keefe is in danger. I will not have her hurt!"

"Foolish man! She does not care for you!" Neeli choked off her outburst, and made a point of turning her back on Jack as she banged around through her medical supplies.

Momentarily closing his eyes and gritting his teeth to stop from crying out, he turned to face Manjeet.

"Jeet, please. Go to the telegraph office and contact Lieutenant Jameson of the local Madras Lancers. Tell him my suspicions and get an armed escort aboard that train." Jack paused, his mouth suddenly feeling as hot and dry as the Sahara. "Then take my weapons and Wind. Ride as fast as you can. You must see that Miss O'Keefe gets back to Calcutta safely."

"Jack–do not stress yourself so. Rest. The memsahib will be fine. Let Neeli—"

"She will _not_ be fine!" His simmering frustration beginning to boil, he turned away from the doctor and addressed his Sikh friend again. "Jeet, you must do as I ask! Please."

"The telegraph operator will not be found. He visits his brother in the next village on this day every week. There will be no telegraph, Sahib," Dr. Kurapati said, her musical voice dripping with no small amount of irritation and venom.

"Then take Wind, and go, Jeet! Please!"

The big Sikh rose swiftly from his friend's side, fixing the small Hindu doctor with a suspicious glare. "I shall ride like one of your wild American Indians, Sahib, as though all the devils of your country are after me! Miss O'Keefe is as good as saved."

Jack tried to muster a smile, failing miserably. When he blinked and looked again, Manjeet was gone. With a groan, he fell back on the table and let waves of pain and exhaustion drive him into unconsciousness. His last uneasy thought was that for the moment he was completely at the mercy of Dr. Kurapati.

#  Chapter Sixteen

"I'm going back. I was a fool to ever leave!" Kitty paused, chewing her bottom lip in indecision. "He might be badly hurt—and it's all my fault. I didn't even give him a chance to explain."

"W-what miss?" Ivy sat up like a trooper roused from an erotic dream to find his regiment under attack. "What d-did you say?"

"Ivy, I'm getting off at the next station and catching a train back to that Bhalpur. I want you to continue on home and make sure Mrs. Pepperton isn't turning Bubble and Squeak into fat little piggies. You know how those two can wrap her around their tails and get her to do anything their little black hearts desire and still come off looking innocent."

"But why, Miss O'Keefe? Why would you go back to that worthless philandering scum?"

"Because, Ivy, my dear, he was merely walking and talking with the woman." _Because he sets my body tingling from my lips to my toes and my heart thumping like a big kettle drum._ "I let my foolish imagination fill in the rest of the scandalous details." She stopped for a moment, staring out of the train car before turning back to Ivy and continuing. "And, if he was shagging her as you so crudely put it earlier, well, he's a man. I know father loved my mum, but he loved his whores at least as much. And dear brother Sebastian saw nothing wrong with keeping a mistress while he was courting Miss Carstairs." Realizing her nervous fingers were playing with her pearls, Kitty forced herself to fold the twitchy digits in her lap before continuing. "I suspect being closer to beasts in nature, males feel the, um . . . primal urge much more frequently than we women." _That certainly wasn't completely true. That last night with Jack, her body had made her aware of feelings she'd never felt before. Just the thought of his touch was making her skin tingle down to her toes. They'd only shared the one kiss; her lips so yearned for more._

"That may be true of men, Miss, but it doesn't make it proper." Ivy frowned, and reached into one of the pockets of her floral print dress and withdrew a tattered envelope. "I hadn't wanted to show you this, Miss. Thought you'd come round to your good sense on yer own. But as that doesn't appear to be happening, and now you seem real desperate like—"

"Chalk it up to my wild Irish blood. I'm just a silly woman in love with a heartless rogue—for that's at the root of this, Ivy. Much as I hate admitting it, I'm hopelessly, madly in love with the brute."

"That may be, Miss," Ivy said, thrusting an envelope toward her distraught employer, "but I fear it's time you read this. In your interest, I had Mr. Jenkins at your paper do a little digging. Begging yer pardon, but I took the liberty of finding out what it says. I'm fairly certain it will put an end to this foolishness over this Mr. Wilde."

Although Kitty scrunched up her face at the memory of Hiram's sweaty hands, she allowed Ivy to shove the envelope onto her lap.

As she took the envelope, they heard a loud screeching outside their train car window. Both women felt the jerk of grinding metal on metal, the horrid sound assaulting their ears like a bag full of angry, wet cats.

"What is that, Ivy? Why is the train slowing? What is that horrible sound?"

"The brakes, Miss. I believe we're stopping."

Putting the unopened envelope in her beaded reticule, Kitty asked "Are we coming into the station then?"

"No, Miss O'Keefe. We're not."

* * * *

Jack felt like he'd been run over by a herd of rampaging elephants. His black eye blind with painful waterworks, he made sure he kept the good one hooded as he took a cautious look at his surroundings. Though slightly out of focus, he recognized Neeli, her back toward him as she prepared something on one of her wicker tables. To the side of her, he noticed the white medicine cabinet was open, its contents oddly depleted. _Had he been that badly injured, bled that much they'd used most of her supplies?_

As quietly as a phantom, he raised one arm and carefully let it drift upward, his battered fingers exploring his face. The thugs might have punched and battered him, splitting his lip and blackening one eye, but miraculously, they hadn't broken his nose. He felt an unfamiliar cool breeze across the bottom of his face. _Damn_. Neeli had shaved him, removing the full beard he'd grown to hide the scar along his jawline. Remembering the feel as the mutated tiger's claws ripped into his chin, he cringed, bringing instant gnawing pain to his side. Looking downward, he saw clean bandages wrapped around his belly and ribs. His right thigh was wrapped as well; the white bandage still bearing the stamped broad arrow of the British army. _Odd and disturbing, that. Stolen military supplies._ In spite of taking a pretty good drubbing, as he let himself drift back to the cot, he realized she didn't use enough of her supplies on him to account for all the missing bandages, gauze, and other things he'd seen. When he'd been brought in, he'd noticed her medicine cabinet held very little in the way of medicines, but seemed well equipped to deal with gunshot or saber wounds, almost as if violence was a more common problem than disease here. Now, it was virtually empty.

"So, you're awake." Torn from his musings, Jack looked up. Neeli stood over him, looking like a concerned angel as she studied him.

"I imagine you feel like hell, Jack. This should help."

For the first time, Jack noticed the huge syringe in her hand. As she bent over him, she grasped one hairy forearm tightly, and puckered his bruised skin with the needle's sharp tip.

"No!" he croaked as his free arm shot across his body, swatting the needle from her hand, its tip scoring a shallow cut in his flesh. "No more drugs!"

"It's only laudanum with a little something extra—a local herb— my father showed me to help you heal quicker. You've been very badly hurt. Let me help you."

"You've helped enough, Neeli. But Kitty is the woman I—god, I've buggered this up—I've got to get to her!"

"The memsahib's gone back where she belongs, Jack. Your injuries and perhaps the first drugs I injected have clouded your mind, Jack. Don't you remember?"

"The train—she's on the train! The Ghost—"

"Do not be distressing yourself so," Neeli cooed as she turned around with a fresh syringe. "The Ghost is headed far away from here. She's gone somewhere far from the mettlesome Raj and _your_ bullets." Neeli paused, slumping back against the wall as though deeply saddened, the unused syringe dangling limply from her hand. "She is gone, my Jack. Gone forever!"

"You can't know that." Yet the look Dr. Kurapati flashed back at him shouted that she did know. "How can you be sure that she won't attack the train?"

"Because, my dear man, she was here earlier and I asked her not to."

"You _know_ her?"

"Of course. She's my sister."

#  Chapter Seventeen

Three shots rang out, followed by a terrified woman's scream. Another shot, closer, and something thumped heavily against their train car. Then, just as suddenly it was quiet again. Ghostly quiet.

Clinging to each other like two frightened children, Kitty and Ivy jumped when the door to their train carriage banged open and the light from the open doorway disappeared behind three big grinning thugs.

A fourth man, swathed from head to toe in rich leather and satin garments as varied in hue as the colors of a peacock, hung behind the brigand trio a moment and then made his grand entrance. He entered, flaunting his flamboyant Narcissist strut until he stood directly behind his wall of thugs.

"Good morning, my friends. Ten thousand pardons for interrupting your most important of journeys."

As she heard his loud words, Kitty detected the sneer behind them. Beneath the swaths of multi-colored headgear, she saw dark, piercing eyes set in an arrogantly handsome face. Yet, those glittering black eyes bore the cold, mirthless leer of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain.

"As you may have guessed," the imposing man in the pink and marigold turban heavily festooned with an extravagant collection of ladies' jeweled brooches declared, "I am by the grace of almighty Allah the one your people have branded the Peacock." He paused, seeming to wait while the passengers stared at his outrageous attire and considered his deadly threat.

A subtle murmur wound its way through the passengers, observing that _this_ Peacock appeared to be a Muslim, unlike the first robber to claim the moniker.

"There is no need to delay your train any longer than necessary," he crooned. "I seek but one among you. The merest of women. Perhaps there is a Miss Katherine O'Keefe among you? Please expose yourself so your most unfortunate companions may be on their way."

No one spoke up. No one moved. As they waited, the Peacock's thugs began moving through the coach, intimidating the passengers into surrendering their money and jewels, and taunting one of the Englishwomen, brazenly daring their men folk to intervene. When one did, he was promptly pistol-whipped by at least two of the laughing brutes.

"Enough! We are not barbarous jackals! By Allah, do not bother any of the others, my brothers." Grumbling at having their fun forbidden, his men left the passengers alone and thumped back to his side, several lugging canvas bags already bulging with stolen treasures.

"I assure you, Miss O'Keefe, whichever lady you are being—we do not mean you or any of these fine folk any harm."

Kitty felt the man's burning gaze sweep over her and then return with a searing glare. She tore her eyes away from his unnerving leer, noticing his henchmen's' bristling weaponry and brutish actions making a mockery of his words about meaning no harm.

Taking a stolen Webley from one of his thugs, he tore apart Kitty's thoughts when he casually aimed the revolver at the well-dressed, middle-aged gentleman closest to him and pulled the trigger.

"Oh, a thousand pardons. Did I forget to mention I shall kill one of you every few minutes until Miss O'Keefe reveals herself?"

In spite of her fear, Kitty began to rise, barely aware when Ivy's hand closed iron hard around her wrist, and yanked her down.

"Don't you dare, Miss. These ruffians mean _you_ far more harm than death, I'm sure of it."

"Ivy," Kitty hissed, "I can't let any more of these people pay for my cowardice!" Thrusting Ivy's hand away from her wrist, Kitty shot to her feet and declared, "I am Miss O'Keefe. Please–leave these good people alone and tell me what I can do for you."

"Good. I knew it was you, of course. You will come with me now, and as I've promised in sight of all-seeing Allah, no harm will come to you." The scathing look he swept over her shouted otherwise; Kitty felt as if her clothes had been torn away by his lecherous glare. She'd felt mens' eyes undress her many times before, but none had held such promise that he actually intended to do it.

"I'm going nowhere with you until you promise me you'll leave my companions unmolested."

"It shall be as you wish. You've nothing to fear. Now come, Miss O'Keefe. We've wasted enough time."

The arrogant sneer on his face made it seem likely he was lying, yet Kitty felt she had little choice but to hope him more honorable than he appeared. He might still do vile things to her, but at least away from the train he'd have no reason to harm the others.

Lifting the hem of her skirts, she tilted her face at a defiant, don't-mess-with-me angle before glowering at the man. "Then I shall come with you," she heard herself say.

"Over my dead body!" Ivy shrieked from behind her. In the blinking of an eye, she shoved her mistress aside and launched herself at the brigand, a six-inch steel hatpin poised in her upraised hand.

"Then so be it." The Peacock stepped gracefully to one side and calmly shot Ivy O'Hara in the throat. Lowering his revolver as Kitty screamed and scuttled toward Ivy, he huffed and told his nearest accomplice, "These English can be so tiresome. I grow weary of this game."

Kitty fell to her knees, clutching at her friend and trying desperately to staunch the rich blood pumping furiously from the huge hole in Ivy's throat. In seconds, she was covered in O'Hara's blood. There'd be no final loving glances or trembling blood-soaked fingers caressing Kitty's cheek. No gems of advice or final well wishing. Ivy was dead, stone dead before she hit the coach's floor.

Before Kitty could react to the overwhelming grief and fury swelling in her breast, she felt herself wrenched skyward by Ivy's fiendish murderer.

"Enough! I have been more than patient, Miss O'Keefe! You're coming with me now, you troublesome English harlot!" As the brigand dragged Kitty to the train carriage door, he stopped to address one of his grinning thugs. "Fetch all of the Memsahib's things. It would not do to present her to my love covered in that unclean servant's blood." As the first man moved to obey him, he turned to the remaining robbers. Sending the first to fetch their horses, he addressed the remaining thug and pointed to the remaining passengers.

"Once Akbar has the woman's possessions, clean this coach of vermin. Close the door so none escape. Kill them all, Malik. Then burn this infidel filth. Join us when you've finished."

Waiting for Malik's rotten-toothed grin, the Peacock turned with a flurry of orange, purple and lime green robes and strode from the train car, shoving Kitty before him.

* * * *

Neeli knew the charade was over. If she were to have any chance at earning this sahib's trust, she'd have to surrender at least some of the truth. Aarini and this damned new Peacock of hers should be out of reach by now. She might as well begin with one of the first things he was bound to ask.

"Before you ask; yes, it was my sister Aarini who slashed me with her sword for interfering. What I mistook for rape was but their form of lovemaking."

"It appears you've forgiven her."

"Yes . . . not only forgiven, but I joined her cause. I dare tell you this because even though you wear the uniform, you are not one of them. As an American, you can understand the feelings of a nation where more than half her people are in bondage. I believe we Indians must be freeing all of India from the British rule. We are deserving to be free." Neeli paused, reaching out for Jack's hand. At first, he withdrew it, as if her touch would burn. "As you may have guessed, I'd hoped to keep you with me, distracted from your duty. It was only a matter of time before you caught my sister in your sights, and I love my sister, Jack Wilde. I would not want you killing her." She took a chance and reached out for him again. This time he didn't recoil as though bitten by a cobra, but let his fingers linger. _There is still a chance I can sway him._

"I know my sister has turned violent of late, and you hope to capture her or put her down like a mad dog. She has found herself a new Peacock, a Muslim, and I have heard he is more evil than the first. Even so, she _is_ my sister' I must support her, Jack. Perhaps you will arrest me now, or beat me bloody for helping her; I will try to understand if you do." She reached out to him with both hands now, purposely making sure one plump breast brushed against his fingertips. "There is one thing I want you to know." Slowly, she drifted closer, gently fusing her body into his. "When you walked through my door, I intended to seduce you solely to aid my sister. Unfortunately—for me at least, from this no-strings pact we made, has sprung a most vibrant string quite unplanned for. I fear I do care for you, Jack Wilde."

Grimacing with pain, he gently pushed her away, staring long into her tear-bright eyes before speaking.

"I'm not some cold-hearted warrior, Neeli. I understand your loyalty to your sister, I do. But you must know I'm bound to see she pays for the misery she's wrought. I'm afraid your mutual cause, no matter how noble you think it, has become lost. She's forgotten her quest to save your people from greedy Rajahs and the unjust British. She's become a butcher! Help me dress—my mind's made up. She's going after that train, and I aim to stop her!"

Neeli moved close again, forcefully winding her arms around him, pushing him down onto the cot. "I have told you—Aarini's not going after the train. You _must_ believe me, Jack. She's gone far away." He barely felt the sharp prick of the needle as she slipped it beneath his skin. "Besides, you're in no shape to be chasing after her."

"Damn you, Neeli—I m-must try-y-y," he managed before his limbs grew leaden and his eyes refused to open.

Gently, she eased his unconscious form into a more comfortable position before caressing his battered face. "Then I fear she'd be killing you, dear Jack, and I'd not like that at all."

* * * *

Usually his words danced over his tongue like joyous music, but at the moment Manjeet Singh had no idea what to say. He'd better decide fast; he suspected Sahib Jack would want to ride hell bent for leather as soon as possible. He'd been gone the better part of a day and a half. That the sahib would insist on leading the hunt was a given. Exchanging a few terse words with his waiting companions, he secured his mount and that of Sgt. Wilde before walking up the well-swept walk to the doctor's modest house and thumping on her door.

Receiving no immediate answer, he tried the door, found it unlocked, and let himself in, something he would normally never consider doing. Unfortunately, the news he bore, hanging around his neck like an accursed albatross, would not wait.

"Dr. Kurapati, do not be alarmed. It's Manjeet Singh. Are you and Sgt. Wilde here?"

"In here, Manjeet. Do come in, please."

When Manjeet walked into the room where Dr. Kurapati sat feeding a groggy-looking Sgt. Wilde soup, he barely recognized his friend. Although his face still bore half-healed cuts, bruises and the colorful remnants of a black eye, Jack Wilde looked much better. Except for his full Sikh-like beard. It was gone. Now, he looked just like most of the other British soldiers. Except for the scar along his jawline. Even that wasn't so bad, simply a stark white line with a starburst at the end where the beast's claw had entered, not the shiny pink puckered flesh Manjeet had expected.

Manjeet wrenched himself back to the moment; now was not the time for idle musing. It was unfortunately, a time for breaking hearts.

* * * *

"Come in Jeet. Christ—you look like shite, man! What is it? What has happened?" Shoving the empty bowl of dal soup aside, Jack sat up straight, poised on the edge of the cot, as though ready to spring into the saddle.

"I fear the train was attacked, Sahib Jack."

"Miss O'Keefe—is she—"

"Gone. I searched through the bodies scattered around the train and the cars themselves. They appear to have slaughtered everybody this time. I found her housekeeper, the one called O'Hara, but of Miss O'Keefe herself, there is being no sign."

Jack surged to his feet, swaying slightly, and lurched to the wicker chair next to his boots. Sitting down, he questioned Jeet further as he tugged on his brown leather cavalry boots.

Abandoned and forgotten, Neeli slumped down on the cot still holding heat from Jack's body, mumbling a sad mantra of broken promises, her dignity dissolving into trickling tears.

"I'm afraid I need your aid a mite longer, Jeet," Jack said as he picked up his weapons and a belt of ammunition pouches which he immediately draped across his chest. "As soon as we can I want to get away and pick up the robbers' trail. I intend to rescue Miss O'Keefe . . . or avenge her demise."

"Sahib, these are extremely bad men. I would not hold out much hope that you'll find her unharmed."

"I know Jeet, but I have to try. I have to hope."

"I am going with you, Jack," Neeli declared, hands on her hips, the haughty tilt to her head announcing she'd accept no refusal.

"Neeli, you know how I feel about Miss O'Keefe. Because of me, she put herself in danger and I've probably lost her. I'd not lose you too."

"Jack, I'm not yet yours to lose. Besides, it's _my_ sister who's caused this horror. My sister has lied to me for the last time. She promised to leave this area. She promised me she'd stop causing all this pain and misery. This must end—now!"

"Sahib, if we recover Miss O'Keefe alive, it might be good to have the doctor along in case she is unwell. Come–please, we must move quickly. I am fearing the others outside grow impatient."

"Others? What others, Jeet?"

"I've gathered us a small force, Sahib Jack. Trustworthy men I know who've served the British Raj or lost loved ones to the Ghost. Also, two lancers returning from a tiger hunt. Friends of yours, Sahib."

"Macgregor and Burton. Good. Let's get to it then."

"And me?" Neeli challenged, one arched eyebrow raised to show she would brook no refusal.

Jack paused, readying his refusal, but another look at Neeli decided his words. "I never refuse a lady. Let's ride."

# Chapter Eighteen

"Move, you worthless cow!"

Kitty cried out as the Peacock shoved her roughly through the train coach doorway and into the platform railing. She'd barely managed to hook one finger through the golden chain around her neck before she slammed into the steel rail, the sudden impact snapping her thin necklace and wrenching it from her throat. At the very last second, she clutched the small pendant, hiding it in her clenched fist. Stumbling off the coach's stairway, she fell to her knees.

"Get up, you English sow! If it were not to please my Ghost, I would slit your throat now. Anger me more and I still may."

Her hands filthy from fumbling in the soggy muck alongside the railroad roadbed, Kitty began to rise slowly from her knees. Halfway up, she hid her hands in the folds of her skirt and tore two pearly buttons from her sleeve. When she dared look up, the Peacock was watching her.

"I'm half Irish, you lying murderer," she snapped, hoping to deflect his gaze to her face. "The Irish that hate the English."

"Do you think to trick _me_ , you troublesome woman?" One heavily tattooed hand pointed to the pair of glittering round buttons standing out like beacons from the dark mud surrounding them.

Yes. A little sleight of hand, you arrogant monster.

"If you dare this in hope your Sgt. Wilde will rescue you, it is my pleasure to tell you his corpse must stink by now. My friends back in Bhalpur will have made certain that he is quite dead."

"Nooo! He can't be! You're lying again!"

_Jack dead._ By the hands of the same thugs who'd promised to give him a good thrashing? And _she'd_ encouraged them! _Oh dear mother of God._

A single horseman approached rapidly from the south, and the Peacock turned his attention to the rider. Stunned, Kitty drifted away, barely reacting when the horse thief warned of approaching British soldiers from the nearest garrison. She wasn't aware she'd wandered a good twenty yards along the dead train, until she stopped, surrounded by five of the Peacock's gang like a mewling kitten trapped in the midst of snarling, slum dogs. By the time their harsh words, and pawing and tearing at her clothes aroused her spirit, it was almost too late. With her skirt torn away at one hip, and her blouse gaping open, the leering thieves made it blatantly obvious they liked what they saw and wanted more. In seconds, they would take by force what she would've willingly given Jack Wilde in a heartbeat. But Jack was _dead,_ and barring a miracle, she was about to be gang raped.

* * * *

Off to one side, the fiend who called himself the Peacock watched his murderous scum taunting the Englishwoman. He could've stopped it with a word, but was perfectly content to fold his brawny arms across his wide, tattooed chest and pleasure himself watching. Let them have their fun. His Ghost had said to bring her back alive; she said nothing about "untouched". And she wasn't here. Besides, for all her haughty beauty, Memsahib O'Keefe was just a woman. Let his men have their fun.

* * * *

Kitty felt certain she was going to die.

"You smell good, Englishwoman. Come closer; I would taste you."

_Death might prove a blessing after all._ There were five big leering brutes drooling over her.

The one nearest her wore a ratty lavender turban, half hiding his straggly, greasy hair. He oozed closer. Like a pack of quarrelsome jackals, the others urged Akbar on, daring him to be the first to partake of their helpless feast. The hook-nosed brigand with the pock-marked cheeks flashed a wolf's smile at her, revealing a snaggle of crooked teeth, long past a pleasant shade of yellow. He sidled closer, and yanked Kitty toward him. So over-powering was his unwashed body stench, she felt nauseous and faint. When he opened his smirking maw and licked the side of her face, the stink of decay from his mouth grew far worse.

In spite of herself, she cried out, begging him to stop, ashamed that she should be reduced to groveling. As she'd informed Sgt. Wilde with a slice of her sharp tongue, she was not some vaporous, brainless heroine from a penny dreadful but a well-educated woman. Father had seen to that; seeing she got the best education his money could provide in Ireland. Yet here she was, mewling like a frightened kitten surrounded by slavering wolves; a plaything for thugs who probably couldn't urinate without wetting themselves. She shoved her useless shame aside, lifted her Anglo chin to a defiant angle and began to fight.

Kitty had taken a ladies' self-defense class offered by the Anglican Church in Calcutta. Falling awkwardly into the defensive pose they'd taught her, she tried feverishly to recall the progression of moves one used to remove the unwanted groping of a persistent masher. Dear God, she'd never thought she'd ever have to actually _use_ them! Father had always preached the best way to avoid trouble was to never place one's self in its vicinity. Of course, that'd been before she'd turned her back on his dictatorial ways, her pampered lifestyle and fled Northern Ireland. Now she was stuck in India, trying to eke out life as a reporter and penny dreadful writer for the local rag and expected to waltz right through trouble. _Well, damn it all; she was terrified!_ Crikey, what was that next step? She'd raked her nails across the ruffian's face, tried kicking him in his nethers, and still he was managing to grope her in a most painful and inappropriate manner. Finally, she managed to twist and squirm her way free of Akbar. Unfortunately, he was left with some of her torn blouse clutched in his fists.

"Damn her! Seize the infidel bitch!" Putting one filthy hand to his torn cheek, he stalked in close again, his disgusting stench reinforced by a heavy dose of arousal.

The thug called Malik seized both her arms and wrenched them behind her. His action and the natural rigidness of her corset thrust her chest outward, virtually offering them to Akbar's hands. With her flimsy chemise flaunting every intimate inch of her breasts, Kitty felt such embarrassment mingling with her dread. _Dear God—what was he going to do? What do you think, you silly goose!_

"Hold her steady, Malik. I like the taste of this bitch, but the teasing sight of her pale flesh I find more delightful. I would see more," he said, loosening his weapon belt and working free of his urine-stained pajamas. "I would take all this English slut has to offer before I share her!"

Oh, No! Not all of them! Oh dear god—NO!

"Stop! Let the woman be!" The one called the Peacock stomped over to his clustered men. In spite of her tears, Kitty saw his aristocratic visage possessed a disturbing magnetic charisma. Yet his sneering leer repulsed her. He'd called off his thugs, but his grin revealed not only how much he'd enjoyed the drama, but that he desired to lead the attack. He looked more demon than man, and yet, it seemed he was the one who'd save her from this brutality.

"Malik, fetch her a clean shirt from her belongings. It's time we brought her to the mistress." He turned to face the thug wiping at his bloodied cheek with a piece of Kitty's torn blouse. "You. Idiot. Get rid of that rag," he said indicating the piece of lacy blouse Akbar still clutched in his frustration. "Bring her. And she's not to be damaged."

"Yes, Mustafa. It shall be as you command."

"Mustafa—your name is Mustafa?"

"Yes Miss O'Keefe. Ah, the ever-inquisitive reporter surfaces. I am called Mustafa Hassan, the Magnificent. It is the timid British who would brand me the Peacock. It is not mattering; you shall never return to your _Calcutta Informer_ to report this."

# Chapter Nineteen

The train stood silent and ominous like the graveyard it'd become. Like carrion crows a squad of Madras infantry soldiers moved among the dead, rousing a black rash of ravens into protesting flight as the sepoys searched among the passengers' bodies for any yet alive. Off to one side, Jack spied a brace of British officers purposely turning their attention from their men as the sepoys searched the corpses for abandoned treasures as well as signs of life.

Further down the line, Manjeet led Jack to a partly burnt first class coach. Dismounting, they climbed the short metal stairs and went inside the car while Neeli and the rest of their party sat astride their horses and waited. Macgregor and Burton, Jack's lancer friends, sat astride their hunters, conversing pleasantly while shooting looks of disgust as the native soldiers looted the British dead.

Once inside the coach, Jack had little trouble finding Ivy O'Hara. Luckily, the poorly lit fire hadn't touched Miss O'Keefe's poor old housekeeper. She lay crumpled near the coach's door, a large puddle of dried blood spread out beneath the garish gunshot wound to her throat. It was quite obvious she'd approached someone near the doorway and paid for her challenge with her life. Jack searched the car further while Manjeet covered the Irish woman with a horse blanket.

Jack found what he sought almost immediately: here was where the two women had sat. Poor Ivy's carpet bag was still stuffed under the seat. Beside it, a battered photo of him lay crumpled on the floor. Of Miss O'Keefe's other belongings, there was no sign.

Leaving the coach, Jack spied a golden glitter shimmering among stones beside the train tracks. "There," he grunted as he knelt by twin depressions in the soft mud. She fell to her knees here. _Alive. She was alive._ His gaze swept over the ground until he found the faint glimmer of gold again. Reaching carefully into the mucky leaf mold, he wiggled out a small brass monkey, encrusted with bits of glass. _Hanuman._ The last time he'd seen this cheap bauble, he'd just bought it from a vendor in Calcutta's endless outdoor marketplace and Kitty O'Keefe had insisted he place it around her throat. His last jealous glimpse of the monkey god had been when it slipped beneath her blouse and disappeared somewhere between her breasts. He had no doubt that she'd left the cheap trinket as a sign just for him. _Bright woman._ Before he stood with the little monkey clutched in his fist, he allowed himself the faintest smile of relief. _Not only was she alive and working to survive, but she'd mustered enough faith in him to believe he would come for her. Perhaps, all was not lost after all._

"Sahib Jack—over here, please."

Jack walked over to where Manjeet stood with the two lancers staring at a churned up patch of ground. "What is it, Jeet?"

His Sikh groom pointed to the trampled earth beneath their feet before explaining that he felt there'd been some sort of scuffle there. "Looks to me like four or five men surrounding someone smaller, possibly Miss O'Keefe."

"At least there's no blood, Wilde," offered the lancer called Macgregor. "Doesn't look like they dragged her body off either."

"Gentlemen," Dr. Kurapati tried to interject from behind.

"Your man says the tracks indicate a dozen horses. Assuming there were ten or eleven thugs including the Peacock," explained Corporal Burton, "the twelfth horse must be for a hostage. It seems likely they knew your Miss O'Keefe was aboard and seized her on purpose."

As Jack silently admitted to himself he wished she was still _his_ Miss O'Keefe, Jeet discreetly handed him a blood-stained rag. It was part of the blouse he'd last seen on Kitty.

"Gentlemen, do please excuse me," Neeli forcefully interjected. "Times wasting. If you really wish to rescue this woman and catch the Ghost, I believe I may know where she's hiding."

* * * *

Kitty felt like she'd been riding for weeks. Denied a chance to ride proper side-saddle, Kitty was forced to sit astride a horse whose back was covered in filth and sharp burrs. An hour in the saddle, a pastime she'd always enjoyed in the past, became sixty minutes of agony. Her inner thighs burned as though they'd been skinned. Her head lolled from side to side as she swayed in the native saddle, struggling to stay awake and ignore the biting sting of bound wrists chafed raw. Ahead of her, the Peacock grumbled and gave a sudden pull on the rope secured to her wrists, yanking her awake.

"Wake up, English cow. Take your last look on the sun. You're about to learn the sun _does_ set on _your_ bloody British Empire."

_Sun? What sun?_ Kitty struggled to sit up straight in the saddle, her back screaming at the outrage. Blowing damp wisps of red hair from her eyes, she looked around. Everything was gray. There was no sun. Roiling monsoon-heavy clouds scudding across a gravestone gray sky as dark and threatening as the overwhelming despair in Kitty's heart. Trees, massive, gnarled and ancient standing guard over a weed-strangled graveyard. Transplanted English oaks, arrogantly prim and disapproving, their foliage and lives taken in some long forgotten plight, stood silent sentinel over a rash of headstones and a small stone church. The oaks raised tortured branches to the indifferent sky as though begging mercy from some vile curse. The stone church itself looked much like any of a thousand village kirks and vicarages throughout Britain. Kitty had attended a well-kept Anglican version outside of Belfast with her father and siblings. The only obvious difference was the stove-in thatch roof, the smothering tangle of jungle vegetation, and the glaring fact that someone had blown the front door in.

A glance at the lichen and mold smothered headstones confirmed this had been a European cemetery and church. Probably a small missionary station and settlement, swept away by natives, disease or wild beasts. There, that one read Reverend Swampscott—she saw the stones of the missionary's family clustered all together beneath a bush of flowering brambles. Three of the headstones were very small and bore the sculpted bodies of weeping cherubs half covered in scabrous yellow lichen. Obviously carved back in Britain and shipped out here at considerable expense. Or, perhaps their pragmatic parents had brought them out in the steamer that carried them, secreted deep within the ship's hold, just in case. A posting in far away Hindustan was such a dicey thing. Sadly, their worst fears had borne fruit. Kitty could imagine the parents' overwhelming grief as child after child slipped away. She'd felt such agony when she'd walked away from her family and when her brother, Sebastian, died of cholera. _Was she soon to join him?"_

"Admiring the view, Miss O'Keefe?" said the gang's one scrawny renegade Englishman riding past her; the one she'd met back in Bhalpur, who'd vowed to give Jack a good thrashing. "Move it, woman. We're almost there."

Kitty bolted upright. She felt a wrenching tug on the rope, and let her mount follow the Peacock's lead toward the desecrated church, but that wasn't what seized her attention.

There were things moving in the graveyard. Small vermin and serpents were to be expected, as was the constantly growing murder of crows she saw perched on many of the dead branches and headstones. But there were other things too. Bigger, agile things that flitted from shadow to shadow, making no sound above an occasional snarl or grunt. _Dear God, what is this place?_

"Get off my horse, you bothersome sow."

"What? What did you say—oh—I can't. Give me a minute please. I'm stuck. The ride tore my . . ." She blushed; she would not mention her underthings in the presence of this . . . barbarian! "Ahhh!"

His face showing all the compassion of a headstone, the Peacock tore her from the saddle and burst into a fit of sadistic laughter.

"You still can _fall_ , can't you, English whore. Now get up and come with me. It's time you met the Ghost."

"My god –that hurts! Y-you Moslem bastard—you like to hurt defenseless women, don't you! Why are you even with the Ghost? She's a Hindu and as near as I can tell, you're all Islamic . . . except for your disgusting East London cur over there."

"Ah, so even in the face of death, the curious lady reporter emerges with demands to know everything." He stopped in the midst of his gathered men and horses, and rested both of his tattooed palms on her shoulders, almost driving Kitty to her knees. "Why not? It's not like your precious _Calcutta_ _Informer_ will ever get to publish your story and give away our hiding place."

He shoved Kitty up against the nearest stone wall, and placed one huge palm against the damp wall on either side of her head, imprisoning her. "It is true, my men and I are Muslims, not evil _Moslems_ as you ignorant English insist. Only our mistress and one or two survivors from her old gang are Hindus." He moved closer, his face so close to hers she felt engulfed by the heady scent of betel nut and cloves; she could see the detail of carved gold and jewels encrusting his eye teeth. His stained lips oozed closer to hers; for a second, she thought he was going to kiss her, or bite a chunk out of her lips. "We are united, English, in our desire to rid our land of your foul stench." Like a lover, his fingers went roaming, first playing with her hair and then moving down her blouse, touching her in places only a true lover would ever be allowed. Noticing his leering men had moved closer, ringing her like hungry sharks, Kitty endured the Peacock's fondling, terrified of instigating a feeding frenzy.

The fiend darted in closer, sliming her cheek with his slithering tongue before standing away from her, placing both hands on his hips and braying that of course they were united with the Ghost—they all wanted the English gone.

"I and my men just feel entitled to help ourselves to your riches," he sneered as he flashed Kitty a particularly lascivious glare, "and strip you naked before we kick you on your way to the grave."

"Oh." Momentarily stunned by the boldness of his statement, Kitty forced herself to flush away the film of fear she felt washing across her face, and muster a look and voice of defiance. "Well, you'll find our stout British lads—" Kitty began, summoning her courage and hoping to muster some brave and heroic words to fling in the Peacock's face. Unconsciously, an image of Jack's face popped into her mind. _Oh God, don't let him be dead._

"Enough of this useless English chit-chat. Move!"

"Where exactly are you taking me," Kitty protested, looking around at the watching horses and leering men and realizing for the first time they were actually inside the desecrated church.

"I take you to meet my mistress, the one you English call the Ghost."

He moved away, deeper into the abandoned church. He didn't look back, as though it was expected Kitty would follow him. When she did not, he paused and slowly turned around. Behind him, the woman had disappeared; but he saw the wall his men had formed, imprisoning her inside. He heard her protesting squeals as they taunted her. Stomping three steps backwards, he chose a name at random.

"Akbar—leave her be! She is not to be . . . abused until after the Ghost has dealt with her. Then, we all may have her." Glaring at Kitty, he seized her bound hands and dragged her toward the church's altar.

"Come, you irritating little mouse, it is time you met my Cat."

#  Chapter Twenty

Jack waited until his men broke off into small clusters to decide who'd continue with the pursuit and whose family or regimental obligations would force them to leave, before pulling his hunter, Wind, alongside Neeli's mount.

"I see they're squabbling over who's got the balls to continue and who's going home with their tail between their legs," Neeli offered, her normally sweet voice filled with sour scorn. "Just a bunch of little boys waving their swords around, but when push comes to shove—"

Taken a little aback by the vehemence of her words, Jack finally managed to draw his own sword of sharp words and charge straight at the puzzle troubling him.

"What puzzles me is why _you're_ here? You freely admit the Ghost is your sister, whom you've helped freely, I might add. You must know it's likely she'll be killed. You've got to know I'm determined to end her reign of terror. And as for . . ."

"Miss O'Keefe."

"Yes, Miss O'Keefe. You admit knowing what I feel for you can't ever approach what I've felt . . . what I _feel_ for her." He hesitated, picking his next words carefully as he watched four of Jeet's friends and Corporal Burton ride away. _Eight. There were just eight of them left to take on the Ghost's gang and rescue Kitty. God help them._

"I know in spite of our no strings policy, you claim feelings grew. When Kitty—Miss O'Keefe showed up, you made it pretty obvious how disappointed you were . . . how much you disliked her. God's teeth, why would you want to aid in her rescue?"

"To me, my sister died a long time ago. I grieve for her, not the thing she's become. Yes, I've helped her, but it was always to further what I believed was our mutual goal. It seems I was misguided. In spite of my desire for a free India, I chose to follow our father's path; I am a healer, not a butcher. When you catch this Ghost, this nightmare of misery she began will end. I'd like to think you can take her prisoner, Jack, but I know my sister. All I ask is that you make it quick." She paused, lowering her head so that a loose cloud of raven hair swept across her face, helping to hide her tears.

"As for Miss O'Keefe, I believe you think you love her. Perhaps, you do. I am praying it is not so, but if I do not let you try to find her, dead or alive, her ghost will haunt you all your life. I would not want you being like that, Jack. I will help find her. If she is being alive, and you do love her, perhaps you'll grow tired of each other. If that is proving my good fortune, I shall be waiting for you. Now, should we not be on our way? I believe I know where my sister hides."

#  Chapter Twenty-One

Grumbling an Islamic curse, the Peacock reached beneath the altar as if hunting for something. Kitty heard some gears begin to mesh and something large beneath them grumbled its protest and started to move. The huge stone altar they faced began to separate; the top and front slowly grinding backward to hang over the rear wall. Kitty saw a well-worn stone ramp leading down. By the time the altar's top jerked to a halt; there was an opening large enough to allow a man leading a horse to descend with ease.

"After you, Miss O'Keefe," Mustafa said, roughly shoving her before him. "Your kismet—your fate— waits beneath us."

#  Chapter Twenty-Two

"A church? A bloody church?"

"The church and the stone garden behind it, Jack. Years ago, father and the missionary family buried here became friends. They visited one another often, and as our mother perished when I was born, father usually brought us along. When the missionary's family and his parish got sick, we virtually lived here." Neeli leant forward over her mount, running her palm gently along the mare's mane and chiseled face. "There were three of us then, running around with all the Anglo kids." Hearing the catch in her voice, Jack took his eyes off the distant ruined church and stared at Neeli. She was barely holding back tears.

"My father, the physician, did all he could, but my older sister, Maya, joined the English families lying here. I suppose she caught the fever from the other children. One day she was running and giggling with the rest of us, two days later, she died." She stopped, shooting Jack a look of remembered misery. "The missionary had convinced her to convert to Christianity, so when she passed, father buried her here." Swiping at her tears, Neeli pointed a wavering finger off to their left. "She's over there in that cluster of stones, less than thirty yards away."

"Sahib Jack, I am being sorry to interrupt, but we are ready," said Manjeet. "Our men are all in position, surrounding the church," he continued, drawing the worn, treasured carbine Jack had given him from the horse scabbard. "None of these vermin shall be escaping."

"Good, Jeet," said Jack, breaking off his conversation with Neeli to ready his own weapons. Shoving a fresh cartridge into the breach of his own Martini-Henry, Jack checked that MacGregor and the other Sikh had joined them beginning their stealthy approach.

"Okay, gentlemen, let's flush these bastards out!" he hissed.

* * * *

Kitty started down the stone ramp with grave misgivings; Mustafa had made it crystal clear she'd never see another sunrise. _Did she care?_ With Jack and O'Hara murdered, she wondered. Yet her Anglo Celtic blood refused to go down without a fight. She took another hesitant step downward; wondering if _now_ might not be the moment to bolt.

The thick cobwebbing should've set off alarm bells; it did jerk her to a flailing halt. Tottering backward, she almost stumbled into the grinning Peacock.

"Why my little Memsahib, I did not know you cared. We shall have to wait until my Ghost makes her wishes known, but after this I'm sure I can satisfy you."

Kitty caught herself, and scooted to the other side of the ramp, noticing thick waving cobwebs there as well. Each with waiting spiders. Big, fat ones. Cringing, she drifted back to the center of the ramp, her eyes now as big as coach lamps.

"No, no, you misunderstand. I-it's the spiders–oh, let's just bloody get this over with!"

Furious, she spun on her booted heel and stomped to the bottom of the ramp, trying not to care that the Peacock's raucous laughter chased after her; trying not to care about anything.

She thumped off the ramp and around the corner, storming toward the glow of flickering torchlight. A large room opened up before her, more than likely a subterranean cavern dug years ago beneath the church above. Used mostly for storage, Kitty glimpsed supplies for the robbers and their horses, racks of stolen weaponry, and a half dozen battered steamer trunks filled with the Ghost's loot surrounded by gravedigger tools and a stack of rotting coffins. Stranger yet was an empty, packed-earth arena, set up like a bizarre mockery of a maharajah's throne room. Had not its sole occupant held Kitty's gaze welded to her own, Kitty might've noticed the rich Persian rugs and beautiful Tiger skins tossed haphazardly across the filthy dirt. She would've marveled at the elegant sculptures and massive golden idols and been repulsed by the stuffed animals and gruesome mementos of the Ghost's barbarous robberies

Instead, she stared in open-mouthed wonder at the Hindu woman before her. Attired in a most elegant turquoise silk sari, the Ghost was turned away, yet in profile, she was the spitting image of the beautiful Indian woman Kitty had seen on Jack Wilde's arm! Obviously sisters, they might've been twins.

"Y-you're the one they call the Ghost?"

"Of course."

"What do you intend to do with me?"

"Spoken like a true news reporter—straight to the point." The Ghost turned toward Kitty and leaned into the light, and there the similarity to Jack's woman friend ended. A series of horrible scars disfigured one side of the Ghost's face, as though she'd been struck by bursting shrapnel.

"Ah, Miss O'Keefe. At last we meet. But perhaps I should call you _Lady_ Katherine?"

"That's a title I no longer have claim to. I walked away from all that three years—why am I telling _you_ this? How do you know who _I_ am, anyway?"

"So, _Lady_ O'Keefe, your father shall no longer care what happens to you in our barbaric land?" The Ghost left her throne and slowly stalked around Kitty, letting her fingers trace an embarrassing, infuriating path across her body. "He won't mind that you've fallen into the hands of a band of murderous heathens intent on subjecting his precious daughter to the most humiliating sexual perversities?" She stopped, her fingers slithering forward serpent-like to glide across the long line of buttons to Kitty's blouse. "Your father, the infamous magistrate general, won't shed a tear or spend a shilling to save his wayward daughter from being ravished. Make no mistake; after I'm done with you, my men _will_ have you. Many times."

"Stop that!" Kitty insisted, wrenching the Ghost's fingers away from her bosom. "How do you know all this about me? How do you know who my father is?"

"Ah, the stinging question. That most annoying scorpion, Sgt. Wilde."

"Jack? Jack doesn't know about me—about my past."

"If my men have the right of it, he knows _nothing_ anymore. No, actually I have my knowledge from Captain Nigel Smythe. The Bengal lancer; I forget what regiment. No matter—he knows of you and Sir Harold O'Keefe."

"Nigel? Here?"

"Captain Smythe was my guest here for a while, yes. He had much to say about you, your father and this Sgt. Wilde."

Kitty could feel the tears welling behind her eyes, her heart sagging with lead. She dare not think on Jack Wilde so the words tumbling from her lips spoke of Nigel Smythe, a spurned suitor.

"Captain Smythe—you let him go?"

"He's still here."

"May I—would it be possible for me to talk with him?"

"I think not. He's already in front of you."

"Where?"

"Here," Aarini said as she thrust forth a small ammunition box with the silver emblem of Nigel's regiment upon its flap. Inside was a severed finger with a golden ring bearing a family crest Lady O'Keefe instantly recognized.

She stepped aside as Kitty took her look, and flashed a wicked grin as the woman crumpled in a faint. Lady O'Keefe's torment had begun.

#  Chapter Twenty-Three

"Mustafa, stop lurking in the shadows and join us."

The large man stalked from the murk and stood hungrily staring down at the graceless heap of unconscious womanhood.

"You desire her, don't you? I can see it in your eyes."

"What man wouldn't? You never told me she'd be beautiful."

"You can't have her. I've already heard from her wealthy father. He's most anxious to get her back in his hands."

Mustafa's face morphed to something less than human, his feelings of cheated lust blazing in his eyes. He bent next to the unconscious Miss O'Keefe, and brushed a cloud of loosened auburn hair away from her face. Then he let one sharp-nailed finger drift down her cheek as he answered Aarini without turning. "I promised this one to my men. After _we'd_ grown tired of her of course." His fingers continued their wandering, touching intimate places that would've set their captive screaming had she been aware.

"You will prevent that, Mustafa, or answer to me! His lordship has offered a great deal of money—she's not to be harmed." The Ghost moved directly under one of the flickering torches, the harsh light picking out the peppering of scars disfiguring the side of her face. "Oh, perhaps we shall torment her and drive her to the brink of madness, but nothing that will sour the deal!"

"Yes," growled the Peacock.

"Hmmm. Perhaps I _shall_ let you play with Miss O'Keefe so long as you restrain your baser desires. There must be no lasting _visible_ marks, you understand. We do not want this English lord seeking revenge because we sent his daughter home as damaged goods."

"Where is the fun in that?"

"I shall watch as you torment this spoiled English brat."

Aarini crossed the chamber and knelt beside Miss O'Keefe. The woman was moaning, coming out of her swoon. Letting her fingers caress the side of her own ravaged face, Aarini's mind filled with rage. Aarini grinned. Poor Miss O'Keefe. She'd leave her clad in only her silly white underthings; then the English cow would be ready. She would have the lady's arrogant father's money, but first, she would take her revenge on Sgt. Wilde through his woman! _Her remembrance of the nightmare demanded it! She recalled every detail!_ By vengeful Kali, she wished she didn't! But then, she was reminded every time she gazed in a looking glass.

_She could still picture the day it happened._ Laughing and talking with Sanjeer as they sat astride their mounts outside the train they'd just robbed. The single shot. And then, the side of Sanjeer's face exploding outward in a shower of bone and brain, drenching her with his hot blood and piercing her flesh with shards from his broken skull. She wrenched their captive up into a sitting position and began slapping her awake. _If only she'd thought to keep Sgt. Wilde alive instead of having him beaten to death. Lure him here—Neeli could've done that for her. And make him pay for murdering her Sanjeer and what he'd done to her. Instead, his woman would have to do._

"Wake up, Lady O'Keefe. Wake up."

"Aarini, you want to torment her, huh?" Mustafa sneered, obviously pleased with what he'd just remembered. "Perhaps I can help, my love. I think our little Miss Muffet is afraid of spiders."

#  Chapter Twenty-Four

There weren't enough of them. Only eight foolhardy men, out to rescue a memsahib most of them didn't know, and hopefully kill a monster most of them wished they didn't.

Only two wore uniforms; Wilde and MacGregor, though Jack had been on the hunt so long his uniform was mostly mismatched remnants and "improvements". He wore dress blue cavalry breeches with tattered, twin yellow stripes running up the outside seam beneath battered brown boots and a light khaki tunic, its only identifying mark his once white sergeants' chevrons. He'd replaced his usual helmet with the soft wide-awake slouch hat of the Australian light horse, one side of its brim pinned up. His bayonet and brown leather ammunition belt he'd left with Wind, his loaded carbine still in its bucket scabbard. Instead, he carried his Navy Colt, extra ammo crammed into double pouches around his waist, and a wicked Khyber knife in his left hand. He carried no more weapons than his comrades, but fury blazed in his eyes and murder filled his heart.

They were all determined military men, yet it was Jack who sped ahead of all the others and dispatched three of the guards with a sharp blade and the cold stare of an assassin. As Gordon MacGregor slid behind a fallen log for cover, he nursed a barked shin and hissed to the grim-faced Sikh lying next to him.

"Damned fool's mad! Or in love with this wee lass we're after rescuing!"

Manjeet turned toward the lancer, letting the teeth in his smile sparkle before answering. "He is mad. Madly in love, Sahib." He paused, and readied his own weapons, his smile evaporating like snowflakes in a hot desert wind. "I am hoping it doesn't get him killed. Or the rest of us!"

* * * *

Making sure each of his Colt's six cylinders bore a bullet and his ammo pouches were bulging with more, Jack dodged from mold-shrouded gravestone to gravestone. He'd left his Martini-Henry back in its saddle bucket. He missed his worn single-shot carbine, but it would be next to useless in the upcoming fight. It'd probably get him killed.

There was another guard up ahead. He waited until the man turned away and began pacing toward the other side of the desecrated church before moving forward. Bringing the Navy Colt to half cock and getting a firmer grip on his knife, Jack glided across the ground like a shadow. Deftly sidestepping a hook-like tree root, he came face to face with one of the primitives he'd glimpsed hovering in the shadows.

He and the others had seen the silent figures lurking in the shadowy underbrush when they'd first arrived, and assumed they were a scraggly band of survivors from the tribe that once inhabited the surrounding jungle. Perhaps their tribe had lived here before the ill-fated missionary's party arrived; perhaps he'd been a little too zealous in his attempts at conversion. More likely they'd moved out of the abandoned church when the Ghost and her gang arrived, bristling with modern weapons.

The scrawny native squinted at Jack with suspicious black eyes, half-shuttered behind tattooed lids and eclipsed by a broad, sweaty nose of deepest mahogany, his flared nostrils pierced by a five-inch length of sharpened bone. His brief breechclout did nothing to hide an emaciated body covered in ritualistic scarring. For weapons, he carried a long metal tube looking suspiciously like a rifle barrel and a quintet of feathered darts in a braided baldric slung across his chest. A half dozen more flashed bright feathering and a glint of coated bone from their leathery nest strapped to his upper arm. Jack couldn't help but wonder if he had a poisoned dart already in the blow tube.

Jack eased back the hammer on his revolver and let both arms fall to his side, dropping his weapons out of sight. The primitive kept his blow tube poised just below his chin a moment longer and then he lowered it as well. He flashed a grin full of rotten stumps, as if to defuse the threat further, so Jack ventured a few phrases in basic Hindi and Urdu, hoping to make it clear he intended the man and his comrades no harm. The man seemed to pick up a word or two or some of Jack's frustrated sign language; he smiled again, pointed toward the church and made the unmistakable sign of a straightened forefinger drawn across someone's throat. _Good. Sharing a_ _common enemy makes us allies._ Taking a chance, Jack turned to face the church and hefting his weapons began stalking forward. He was not overly surprised to see Jeet and MacGregor off to his left. Nor did he show surprise when the native silently joined him. He _was_ pleased when other primitive tribesmen joined in as well.

* * * *

For months afterwards, when the heat of the day had gone and Manjeet sat around the campfire with other Sikh cavalrymen, sharing tobacco, good drink and stories of women and war, he would sing the praises of his sahib, Jack Wilde, during the attack. Even while it was going on and he was busy trying to stay alive, he realized what a wondrous tale it would make for Memsahib O'Keefe to write if they should be fortunate enough to rescue her.

When an alert guard discovered them, the fighting grew fast and furious. The Ghost's gang of bloodthirsty dacoits had swelled far bigger than they'd feared. Even with the welcome addition of the primitive tribesmen, Manjeet knew they'd have a hard fight just staying alive. Chances were Miss O'Keefe's corpse would be quite cold before they fought their way to it.

Yet Sahib Jack was determined. He fought like a man possessed of demons. Manjeet caught his gaze as he emptied his revolver—six shots with as many murderous thieves robbed of life. Sahib Jack flashed him a wild look just before he used his Khyber knife to slash open the face of the another snarling robber. Jack's agonized glare was of a crazed man teetering on the edge of the abyss, a mere two steps from hell, but whether the look belonged to a lost soul or a raging demon Manjeet couldn't decide.

Using his blade one second like an officer's slashing saber and the next, punching and pounding with the knife's stout brass pommel, using the brutality of a waterfront thug, he slowly carved himself a bloody path through the remaining murderers and charged into the church. A few straggling friends followed him. The surviving tribesmen did not; content to grin at their new comrades and fade back into the jungle.

With the need for stealth gone, Jack began to bellow two women's names as soon as he stormed past the first nervous horse. Kitty, the woman he hoped to save, and Aarini, the one he'd come to kill.

* * * *

Busy trying to dodge the crazy Englishwoman's pummeling fists and shrieked curses as he attempted to subdue her, Mustafa did not hear the shouting madman above. Aarini did.

Suddenly, a broken humerus bone descended on the back of the frantic captive's skull with a definite thunk.

"You killed her," he protested. "Aarini, you killed our prisoner!"

"Mustafa, don't you hear that mad Englishman stomping around up there, bellowing like an escapee from a madhouse?"

"You killed Miss O'Keefe! You've been yelling at me not to touch her and you go and kill her! I thought—you _said_ – she was worth a fortune!"

"She's not dead. you idiot. Apparently, neither is Sergeant Wilde. He's supposed to be–you told me your men had killed him!" Hearing the very-much-alive British hussar storming around overhead bellowing Miss O'Keefe's name stuck a pin in the Ghost's rump. "Never mind. Help me get Miss O'Keefe in this box over here. We'll hide it among the others. The English have a fear of things dealing with the grave, much as they revere their dead. Come on, Mustafa! Hurry! It's only a matter of time before he finds his way down here."

Picking up Kitty's limp body with one brawny arm, Mustafa hefted her on his shoulder, crossed to the long box in question and dropped her senseless body inside. About to comment that it was already occupied, he smirked with satisfaction when the unconscious captive crunched through a ribcage of brittle bone, making the coffin fit.

"Quick, let's tack down the lid," Aarini ordered. "Come on, move!"

They secured the lid encrusted with grave dust to the coffin and dragged it down a long tunnel to lie hidden among a pile of others. As they returned down the winding tunnel that ran far under the cemetery, they extinguished the wall torches, hoping to snuff out all sign of life behind them as they plunged the tunnel into total darkness. Almost as soon as they returned to the main vault beneath the church they heard the grinding of the altar's heavy lid overhead accompanied by the grunting of determined men.

"Quick–before Wilde comes down here, we'll retrieve Miss O'Keefe, ride out our escape tunnel and disappear in the night."

"No. I'm not running. This English dog has been a problem for too long. He has been a constant thorn in our side and I intend to pluck out this festering annoyance once and for all." Drawing all his hidden blades and checking the load on three stolen Army pistols, Mustafa spread his stance, squared his shoulders and glared at his traitorous lover. "I'm done running."

"Then you're a fool!" The Ghost wasted no more words or time, but turned on her heel and raced down a long tunnel toward three horses, already saddled and ready, just in case.

#  Chapter Twenty-Five

Kitty awoke to a world of pain and blindness. Her head felt like the snare drummer of the Royal Irish Fusiliers was banging away, practicing, while the rest of the regiment were continually giving the back of her skull painful jabs with their bayonets. Both her wrists were stinging and raw, and her arms and soft flesh bore the bruising of rough handling. Thank God Jack had shown up before the brute could violate her _. But where was he? Where was_ _she_ _? And why couldn't she see?_

Bending her elbow, Kitty lifted her arm upward, intending to examine the back of her head. Her matted hair felt sticky with something; she vaguely remembered a hard blow to the back of her head as she struggled with the Peacock. As soon as her fingers rose above her nose, she thumped into an unyielding, hard surface _,_ foul-smelling dust raining down to invade her eyes. _She was in something!_ They'd stuck her inside something, very dark and very tight! _Oh God!_ She tried again, letting her hand skim over her face and then down as she craned her neck forward. Two things. Whatever she was in, ended just a few inches behind her head. And the stickiness she felt at the back of her head–when she smelt her fingertips they smelled coppery. _Blood._ She was bleeding.

_Where the hell was she?_ She refused to acknowledge her growing fear that she knew exactly where. When she felt something hard prick her in the back, she shifted, hearing the definitive crunch of brittle bone beneath her. There was no use denying it; she was in a coffin. One with a body already inside. Determined not to panic, she reached up with both bruised forearms and tried to remove the lid. No dice, it was sealed as tight as her father's purse. _I won't panic. I won't!_ It was so dark and silent—had they had time to bury her too? _I won't panic. Jack will come!_

She lay still for a few minutes, listening to her heart begin to race. _I will not panic!_ As she lifted her arms again to try and force open the coffin lid, something scuttled across her bare shoulder. Something multi-legged and hairy. _Oh Dear God! No!_ Dark. Tight. Trapped. And now, one of _them._ It didn't really matter if it was a huntsman or wandering spider. A jumper or a tarantula–they all terrified her. She'd readily admit to having arachnophobia. _Just get me out of_ _here!_ Oh God, she felt another one. On her leg. And yet another crawling up her thigh. _It's so tight and dark in here–and they're everywhere!_ As her heart began to thud like grumbling cannon fire, and a flood of tears seared her cheeks like boiling oil, she panicked and began to scream. _Jack!!_

* * * *

Spattered head to toe in other peoples' blood, Jack felt like crazed butcher. Having worked himself into a fighting frenzy as he battled his way into the church; he launched himself at the puffed-up Peacock without missing a step. A half dozen steps into the dance, Mustafa tossed aside two spent repeating pistols. He'd tried three separate blades. Yet, _he_ bore three serious wounds; the mad Englishman slashing at him with one wicked Khyber knife carried but a single shallow graze across one upper arm from a badly aimed bullet.

The Peacock threw away his weapons and fell to his knees squawking like a child for mercy. Jack might've spared the sniveling vermin had he not spied the bloodied silk bow the Peacock wore pinned to his turban. The last time Jack had seen it, the ribbon had been pinned to Kitty's bosom as she confronted him at the train station.

"Where is she, you piece of shite?"

"Ah, you mush mean sweet little Misth Kitty," Mustafa hissed through lips beginning to bubble with frothy blood. "Ah'll never forget er dancing on ta end of ma —"

With the flat, cold stare of a cobra, Jack shot the Peacock in the chest and walked away. He'd just entered the tunnel with the suspicious drag marks smeared through the dust when he heard movement behind him and someone calling his name.

"Sahib Jack, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Jeet. You okay? Where are the others?"

"You don't look all right, Sahib Jack. Not much better than this guy here." Manjeet was staring back and forth between the dying Peacock and his blood-drenched friend.

"Not my blood," explained Jack. "Well, not much of it. Where are the others? Where's Neeli?"

"MacGregor took a bad slice to the calf. There's nothing quite as violent as a pissed-off Scot. And Neeli took off—claimed she knows where her sister will go if she bolts. I sent Hakim with her."

Grunting his dismissal, Jack turned and headed back into the tunnel as soon as he heard Neeli was all right, stopping only for a moment to tell Manjeet to go protect her as well. Jack grimaced as the fighting frenzy drained away and he became acutely aware of a dozen nagging pains.

"And where will you be, Sahib Jack," Jeet said as he noticed the one called the Peacock shuddering his last.

"Doing something I haven't done in a very long time," came the fleeing answer as Jack seized a charred wall torch, lit it and began racing into the tunnel. "Praying."

* * * *

_He isn't coming._ Kitty shuddered as another spider skittered beneath her chemise. There were at least a dozen of them crawling around on her now, some big and hairy, some very small but invading places she'd never let a man. Though she was terrified, she was determined not to scream again. She couldn't do anything about the tears. She didn't want to die in a box. She didn't want to accept she might never see Jack's smile again, or have a chance to hold him.

_No!_ She wouldn't just give up, be a silly ninny. She wouldn't! _They'd lied_ — _Jack was alive! He had to be!_ He'd come for _her._ He would find her. He'd cared enough that he'd left his Hindu beauty to come rescue her one more time. _Then where the hell is he? Must you always be such a foolish romantic—he's not coming to save you!_ She'd thought she'd heard him in the ruined church above, and later, just outside the tunnel yelling her name. He _is_ here. I _heard_ him! A small jumping spider landed on her thigh. She managed to swat it, smearing spider innards across her skin. Eeck! _So where is he?_

She took a chance and shouted his name, though even to her ears it sounded more like a muffled scream. She tried again, louder, with more force. More desperation. "Jack!"

Her movement seemed to excite the arachnids. She cringed as a dozen scuttled all over her body, probing . . . pinching . . . biting. Teetering on the razor edge of hysteria, she screamed, loud and agonized.

_Damn it, Daddy, why the hell did you do this to me?_ She knew she'd just uttered an extremely foul word, something she'd been bred never to utter, but she was in agony here and it was all her father's fault.

She'd been just five the first time. He'd been working in his office behind his huge desk when she came in, busy going over decrees and testimonies that would probably condemn some poor Irish sod to prison, transportation to Australia, or the gallows. She'd known none of that then, she just wanted to be near her daddy, play quietly in the corner with her dolly and the little tiger-striped kitten that followed her everywhere.

She supposed her giggling or the high-pitched little girl voice she used talking to her doll and kitten set him off. His sudden hot anger struck her like the wrath of a vengeful god, bringing her instantly to shrieking tears. Lying trapped in the coffin, she relived horrid snatches of the nightmare that followed. Didn't she realize he was trying to work? He was one of the queen's chosen magistrates for all of Belfast; all the responsibilities of his royal appointment weighed heavy on his shoulders. Couldn't she see the amount of work he had and go play elsewhere? She remembered barely managing to squeak out a feeble, terrified _Yes_. Then, why couldn't she go play somewhere else and leave him alone? Sobbing, she'd stammered the wrong thing; that she missed her mummy. Her Irish, _Catholic_ mummy. The one whose surname—O'Keefe—she now claimed as her own. The one who'd left shrieking like a crazed banshee when she'd learned her husband had condemned five Irish rebels to the gallows, her favorite cousin among them.

He'd scooped her up then, tearing her precious dolly from her grip, flinging it aside and stepping on the kitten's tail as he stomped from his sanctuary down a long cold passage and deposited her in a tight, dark steamer trunk.

"You miss your mother so damned much, Kitty, I'll pack you off to Dublin or wherever else that traitorous woman has gone! I am British and Protestant, and by god, so are you! It's the Queen who puts a roof over our heads and food in your belly! Think on that awhile, young lady, and let me work!"

He'd slammed the lid down on the trunk then, locked it and stormed back to his library, grumbling to himself about ungrateful little ragamuffins.

She'd been alone then; in the dark, sobbing as though it might mend her broken heart. She'd been so shattered, so frightened, she'd wet herself, adding embarrassment to her miseries. She cried all the harder and pounded on the trunk lid, her small balled fists turning red with her blood. After a while, exhausted, she stopped; praying she'd hear her father coming back to save her. She waited quietly, her small body racked by an occasional sob. He didn't come. She waited in her dark, silent hell. Until she felt the first of the spiders.

In the end, one of the parlor maids had heard her whimpering, and rescued her. Her father, exhausted by his drinking and his work, had quite forgotten about her and gone to bed.

Now she was stuck in this coffin with a pile of moldering bones, Bones that like her, had once been a living person with dreams, needs, hopes, and fears. What had this person feared? Had they been in love—had it all gone to shite? _Would she die here too, just another pile of grave dust and brittle bones?_ She brushed a spider off her cheek and blew away one just beginning to explore her lips. She should be used to waiting, used to abandonment. The first time in the steamer trunk had not been the last. Discovering her fear, her father had exploited it to gain her obedience. As she grew older, his burden of power grew as well. He rose to become Belfast's chief magistrate, receiving a lofty title and an extensive estate from the Crown to balance his constant commitment to duty. For his rebellious, red-haired daughter, he had no time, unless it was to lock her in a closet for daring to demand a scrap of his precious time. That, and the fact he believed she was the spitting image of her long, escaped mother.

He'd never laid a hand on her; just imprisoned her in the closets, or a cold, dark wine cellar. And they were all full of spiders.

_Oh God–where was Jack?_ Maybe the Peacock or Ghost had killed him. Maybe he'd grown discouraged and given up.

Overflowing with frustrated anger and fear, she screamed once more. No name this time–just the mindless shriek of a poor creature hopelessly trapped and finally driven out of its mind with desperation.

#  Chapter Twenty-Six

Jack prayed for another scream. Anything to help him find her. He thought he'd heard her first shriek for help, but at the time, he was a little busy fighting for his life. Moments later he thought he heard his name, drenched in desperation, bouncing off the subterranean walls. He couldn't be sure where it came from, as the pleading cry seemed to reverberate from every surface and come at him from a dozen directions at once. That and the fact the Peacock had just grazed his upper arm with a hastily fired shot. Yet, the scream renewed his hope she was still alive.

Knowing that alone infused him with more determination and fury. He fought like a madman from that moment on, heedless of injury, his purpose, his _sole_ purpose, to rescue Kitty and make it perfectly clear that he loved her alone.

The scum called the Peacock lay dead at his feet, and he'd sent Manjeet topside to aid Neeli in catching or killing the Ghost. _Now, where the hell was that infernal woman?_

He'd heard her cry out several times, but now she was silent. He followed the marks of something heavy being dragged through the dust and dirt down a long tunnel buried beneath the church's cellar floor, He lit the tunnel's wall torches as he hurried along with the flame from his own. _Where the hell are you, Kitty?_

* * * *

Kitty barely felt the first spider bite. It'd somehow gotten itself trapped in the crease between her breasts as she squirmed in her coffin. Most likely feeling threatened, it jabbed bristly fangs into her soft flesh. She felt nothing at first other than a slight tingly stinging. But then her arms began to go numb and she couldn't keep her eyelids open, though there'd never been anything to see in the pitch-black darkness anyway. She never felt the second spider chewing at her wrist.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

"Going somewhere, Sister?"

Caught in the act of shoving a satchel full of blood money in her saddlebags, Aarini whirled around, a stolen Adams revolver clutched in her fist.

"Neeli—what the hell are you doing here?" she said.

The woman before her made Neeli feel like she was looking in a mirror. "Stopping you!" she threw back in angry Hindi.

A nod from Neeli to the Sikh waiting behind her confirmed her seriousness as the heavily bearded man raised an old Snider rifle and aimed at the Ghost. She seemed to ignore him and riveted her attention on Neeli.

"Don't be a fool, Sister. There's still time—come with me. We'll drive these damned English from our land together."

As Neeli watched, Aarini reached behind her and withdrew something from her saddlebag, slipping it down by her side. Speaking in animated Hindi she stalked toward Neeli, her gaze never wavering.

When she was less than twenty yards away, she raised her left arm and shot the Sikh between the eyes without breaking stride.

Watching as her sister dropped her pistol by her side, Neeli stood her ground. "Why, Rini, _why_?"

Seeming to ignore the question and the shocked look on her sister's face, Aarini closed the distance between them and made her offer again.

"Why not? Join me, sister. Help me drive these devils from our lands! Together we could be unstoppable!"

"I _did_ help you, Rini! Shame on me, but I did. I even rode in your place a number of times. But I never killed anyone! You betrayed me! You've forgotten why we started. You've become a murderer, a monster! Children, Rini–you murder children!"

"They are British brats. They grow up to be just like their parents, sister." Aarini sneered, her shrill Hindi sounding quite sour.

"They are _children_ , Aarini. This stops _now_!" Without another word, Neeli raised her own pistol, intent on turning her murderous sister over to Jack.

Suddenly, she felt its cold barrel grasped by her sister.

"No, sister, it does not. Not until the last of these foreign devils is driven into the sea!" Aarini shrieked as she began wrestling the pistol out of Neeli's hand.

"You're the devil here, Aarini!"

Almost evenly matched in size and strength, their brief struggle for the weapon was cut short as the pistol went off, the cool barrel now drenched in hot blood. As one sister collapsed to the ground bleeding badly, the other sank to the ground next to her, almost wishing she could follow her twin into the peace of the grave.

#  Chapter Twenty-Eight

Jack reached the end of the tunnel and swung his torch around, lighting up the walls in a brief swirling flash. There was nothing. Although the tunnel terminated in a slightly wider chamber, there was nothing there but a pile of musty old barrels, grave digging tools and a small pile of paupers' coffins shoved back into the shadows and half buried beneath moldering hymnals and dust. The path of disturbed filth he'd been following vanished, disappearing in a smeared maze leading nowhere.

Somehow, he must've taken the wrong path. Worried and depressed, he turned around, planning to retrace his path and try searching another tunnel. _He had heard her. She was down here somewhere._ "Shite, Kitty, where the hell are you?" he said aloud, letting his frustration peek out as he kicked at the dirt floor in a fit of frustration.

"Damn it, Kitty, I can't lose you!"

* * * *

_She heard her name._ Muffled and spoken like a curse, but it was her name. _If she could hear, then she was still alive._ Kitty flexed her fingers and slid one arm across her chest, fingertips almost immediately touching the dusty inside of the coffin. Something sharp jabbed her; she shifted and felt something beneath her snap like a brittle bone. The spider's venom hadn't killed her, but she didn't feel quite herself. She felt woozy; the way she imagined someone addicted to opium or laudanum must feel. _It's so hot and hard to breathe in here. The voice . . . if it was Jack, why didn't he speak again? Maybe he'd changed his mind; gone away?_ She started to squirm, realizing if he'd stormed away; she'd just have to find a way out on her own. He'd called her name–she'd _heard_ it. Maybe she needed to answer. If he was close by, maybe he'd let her out. Tears streaking down her dust-coated cheeks, Kitty called him. When there was no answer, she realized he might not hear her voice coming from this tight, sealed box. She had to make an opening so he would hear. Bending her arm, she drew it across her body and up to the opposing shoulder before swinging it with all the power she could muster into the coffin's side. It thudded and hurt like hell, but didn't break the ancient boards. Repeating the maneuver, she clenched her teeth and tried to summon all the power within her body to the tip of her elbow. Some of her Hindu coworkers at the _Informer_ insisted a strong soul could channel strength to certain parts of the body if the need was great enough.

Her elbow slammed into the planked side of the wooden coffin like a dull spade. Kitty screamed as it rebounded from the springy wood, stinging and bloody. Reality blurred as lack of breathable air, spider venom and rising hysteria began to smother her. _Why had Daddy locked her in the trunk this time? What had she done?_ Hot tears splashed searing tracks down her cheeks, washing most of her face clean. Still, when she looked, one of the boards had cracked; she could see dull flickering torchlight teasingly close by. Wriggling her face as close as she could to the crack of light, she cried out, "Daddy, I'm in here. Please let me out. I promise to be good. PLEASE LET ME OUT!"

Instantly she heard movement outside, and a man's tired grunting as he began ripping the coffin lid apart. Kitty began to giggle, the odd image of a determined badger tearing apart an ant hill popping into her head. _Hurry, oh do hurry, Daddy._

When the last board was wrenched away from the coffin, Kitty flinched and tried to shrink into a dark corner, fearful of the big man's voice that bellowed her name and the big hand that snaked downward to seize her.

"Please daddy, don't punish me—I'll be good," she mewled.

"Kitty, Sweetheart . . . it's me, Jack. Let me help you."

_Jack?_ Not her stern unforgiving father? _Jack?_ He'd called her sweetheart. Daddy had never done that. Timidly, she raised one pale, bloodied hand, ready to snatch it back if this proved a trick. He'd called her _sweetheart_. It was Jack! _Her_ Jack. Thoughts of spider venom and brutal fathers fell away like dead skin as she launched herself out of the coffin and into his arms. She saw him start and almost stumble backwards. She must look such a fright: her hair all in disarray, bloodied body and clothes disheveled to the point where her breasts almost tumbled free of her torn chemise. He didn't seem to mind that much. He held her in an embrace that would do a hugging bear proud; his kisses were washing away much of the dust and tears from her face. As for his hands, well, they were behaving most improperly, but true be told, she rather liked it, All right, be truthful now, brazen hussy that she was—she _loved_ it. _Oh Jack . . . ._

"Sergeant Wilde, cease touching Miss O'Keefe this instant! You remove your filthy paws from her person and stand away from her ladyship at once! Such disgraceful conduct will not be tolerated in this Queen's army! Desist at once—do you hear me? At once!"

Kitty noticed Jack stiffening as though rigor mortis had set in, the heat from their passionate embrace bleeding away with his officer's irate outburst.

"Captain—sir—the lady and I— Why are you here, sir?" Jack blanched and released Kitty, pushing himself away as though she were a bag of hot coals. He stood at attention and faced his commander, his body bloodied and his uniform torn, a classic artist's study of a warrior hero of a fierce battle. Kitty looked at Jack's face as the room filled with a squad of British troopers, expecting a look of defiance or resentment. _When had he shaved his beard?_ He still looked damned handsome to her, the scar along his jawline a thin, insignificant, pale worm; hardly noticeable. Watching his eyes, she saw only extreme fatigue and a look that said he expected to receive a severe reprimand or worse. Never a word of praise from Ponsonby, though he'd rescued her and killed the robbers.

She remembered Captain Ponsonby, of course. India was riddled with self-centered men like him, like some loathsome, ever-spreading rash.. _Prancing tin gods prone to tantrums._

"Prescott, you and Corporal Rowe remain. Rowe—pick two troopers you can trust to keep their mouths sealed." Captain Ponsonby growled.

"Yes sir," the brawny corporal with the mean look answered at once. He turned toward the troopers and almost immediately picked two of his cronies. Hard men with a nasty streak by the look of them, Kitty thought. The rest of the uneasy troopers he dismissed and sent to guard the outside of the small church. Seeming satisfied, Ponsonby flicked a speck of dust from his impeccable uniform and narrowed his gaze on Jack.

"I couldn't let you seize all the glory yourself this time, Wilde. Heard the train was attacked and Miss O'Keefe seized. Her father made it quite clear to the colonel that he expected her returned to him . . . unsullied. I appear to have arrived just in the nick of time. I don't suppose you realize what kind of weight Sir Harold can bring to bear, do you, Wilde?"

"No, sir, I don't. I was not aware of Miss O'Keefe's parentage," Jack snapped.

"Careful, Wilde. I'll have you up on charges. It appears to me you were definitely about to take advantage of Miss O'Keefe's rather distressed circumstances."

"Sir, I must protest—"

"Be silent, Mr. Wilde! Lieutenant Prescott—kindly give Miss O'Keefe your tunic and escort her topside to safety."

Watching Lt. Prescott smirking at her with a disgusted leer as he removed his tunic and stood waiting, obviously reluctant to hand it over to a woman covered in filth, Kitty glared defiantly at Captain Ponsonby before protesting. She'd have to choose her words carefully; say the wrong thing, she'd come off sounding like a tart, and yet she couldn't see Jack punished for expressing the very emotions she'd prayed he'd feel. Besides, she was _not_ going back to Father or Ireland. Ever.

She'd swept her hair and most of the muck from her face while Ponsonby yelled at Jack, but it was with a feeling of passionate gratitude that she felt his strong hands place his own torn tunic across her shoulders. Gratefully snuggling into the bloody jacket, she pulled it tight, buttoned the two remaining dull brass buttons and finally regained a small modicum of modesty.

Still wobbly on her legs, Kitty squared her shoulders, shoved a wayward cloud of burnished hair out of her eyes and launched into Ponsonby.

"Captain, you're obviously impressed with my father's position and power. Probably believe if you return me to him intact, there'll be a hefty reward coming your way." Glancing to her side, she noticed Jack seemed distracted, staring at the flickering shadows on the wall. _A little help here! It's your arse I'm trying to save as well as my own._ Irritated that he wasn't actively supporting her, Kitty bit into the captain with more venom than she needed.

"You are wrong, captain. My father never rewards anyone. He's a taker, sir, never a giver. In his Belfast courtroom, he finds the greatest delight in taking away some poor sod's freedom or life. My father will give you nothing, Captain. Absolutely nothing. Especially for _me_."

Captain Ponsonby smirked and glided closer, his gaze staring straight into her emerald eyes. "You have no idea what your father has promised me, Miss O'Keefe." He drifted right up to her, his searing stare shouting he was already counting her weight in gold. "Of course, he expects you to be delivered right to his doorstep. Apparently you've been a very naughty girl, Kitty."

How dare he be so familiar! He'd addressed her by her Christian name—as though they were friends!

Kitty glanced at Jack for assistance; he'd actually turned and moved several feet away from her side. She did notice his big Colt held tightly against his trousers, half hidden in the creases. _Damn, don't shoot him, Jack, cad that he is. We're in enough trouble here._

"You've failed to realize, Captain, as a journalist, the power I can wield myself." Moving closer to the captain, she clutched Jack's tunic tighter as she forced herself to move toward his superior. _Damn you, Jack._ "You mention your unwillingness to let Sgt. Wilde reap all the glory this time. Well, Captain, as a reporter for the _Calcutta Informer_ with a huge following eager for news, I can bear witness that your Sergeant rescued me and killed the robbers by himself. The true stuff of heroes if you ask me." She gently pushed the obnoxious man away, barely hiding a sigh of relief as he stalked back closer to his men. "Can you imagine how it will look if my readers learn you've reprimanded their _hero_ instead of rewarding him, Captain?" Kitty forced herself to smile sweetly at the blighter and pour a pint of honey into her voice before continuing. "Of course, if you were to act properly, and assist Sgt. Wilde and myself to safety, awarding him with a medal, promotion or something, perhaps I could be persuaded to let my readers believe _you_ were instrumental in both my rescue and the robbers' demise."

"Well, Miss O'Keefe . . . I-I suppose if you wrote it so that I was the sole hero I might have to reconsider."

"Oh, and of course you'd have to inform my father you never found me. Those are _my_ conditions, sir."

She waited a minute to see what the creepy captain would do, shooting a quick glance Jack's way. He wasn't even looking at her. _So much for her knight in shining armor._

"Well, aren't you the smart arse, young lady? I think I'll just teach—"

Blam! Blam! Two shots rang out almost in Kitty's ear, sending everybody looking for cover and one corpse tumbling from its hidden perch in the discarded pulpit.

Jack moved to stand next to the woman's corpse and picked up the stolen army rifle she'd been about to use.

_My god, the dead woman did look like the one she'd seen walking arm in arm with Jack at the train station._ Kitty thought _. Dr. Kurapati, someone had called her._

With the corpse's face hidden in shadows, Kitty couldn't tell if it bore the rash of hideous shrapnel wounds or not.

Watching Jack approaching the corpse, she saw him kneel and turn the woman's corpse over to face him. After a brief hesitation, Jack rose and holstered his Colt. Pointing the rifle at the dead woman, Jack turned to face his commanding officer. "This, sir, is the Ghost. I killed her lover, the Peacock, earlier while trying to help Miss O'Keefe. She was going to kill you, sir. Luckily, I saw her shadow on the wall behind the crates. Luckily, I was able to stop her, but I couldn't have done it without your help, sir."

_As bait,_ Kitty thought. _Flattery, Jack? You are learning._ She smiled, already thinking of the story she'd write for the _Informer_ , making sure to flatter Captain Ponsonby, but leaving no doubt as to who was the real hero.

Jack said the woman had been hiding in the damaged pulpit. She must've snuck in while everyone was moving up from the crypt below. Yet, if she wanted to kill Captain Ponsonby, why hide in the pulpit, when he presented such a difficult target for her from there? She'd only see his back, and much of the time that was obscured by his troops. The only clear target was . . . _Me!_ _My god, Jack saved me again._

_Why would she want to kill me? No, the captain must've been her target._ She'd obviously lain in ambush, and seeing the clutch of uniformed troopers surrounding the captain, had been waiting for a clear shot. Perhaps, she _knew_ Ponsonby for the lecherous serpent he was. _God, I almost wish Jack had missed!_

The tension in the chamber seemed to grow as thick as London fog. Ponsonby smirked, and started stalking toward Kitty as he spoke. Startled, she stumbled backward, accidently moving away from Jack's protection.

"You know, Miss O'Keefe, pretending I never found you and lying to your father is going to cost me a great deal of his money. I believe I'm entitled to a little something for my silence. I'm sure you left home with your jewels. Make me the hero of all your silly tales, but I want money too. There's nothing quite like good old coin of the realm to make a man change his mind. Perhaps you should talk to "papa"—get him to give me a boost in rank. I'm sure he has plenty of influence, even out here. The sound of Major Ponsonby has a nice ring to it. No? Well, there's always one other thing." His leering glare left little doubt what he had in mind.

Jack's sudden upper-cut caught Ponsonby under the chin and lifted him in the air. The captain lost his footing and slammed hard into the filthy floor. Next to him, his toady, Prescott, took up the Captain's fallen banner.

"Striking an officer, Wilde. I'll see you strung up on the parade ground for this. Two dozen lashes stretched over the hot barrel of the gunner's daughter ought to lay your backbone bare!" Prescott spit.

"And, I'll see you hung!" chimed in Ponsonby, floundering upward from the floor and rubbing his jaw. "The boys and I will take it upon ourselves to escort Miss O'Keefe here—what? Why are you men coming back inside?"

Several troopers led by an apologetic-looking, very junior officer and a Sikh scout, traipsed back into the church. Seeing their captain rising from the floor, rubbing his chin while two of his toadies held a bloodied Sgt. Wilde, did not seem to unnerve them as much as seeing a disheveled young lady.

"Well, Richardson, what is it?" asked Lt. Prescott. "Oh do find your tongue, man! Why are you interrupting affairs that don't concern you?"

"Yes, do find your backbone, Richardson," interrupted Captain Ponsonby, still rubbing his bruised jaw and glowering at the defiant woman. "Why are you no longer outside, as you were ordered?"

"S-sir, I beg to inform you that the men have located an additional five brigands," the young lieutenant stuttered, "They appear to be loading saddlebags with gold and jewels and preparing for a hasty departure. One of the thieves appears to be a woman, sir."

"Indian woman, you say. Attractive too?"

"Y-yes sir. I thought you'd appreciate the opportunity to catch and punish these brigands yourself, sir."

"Yes, quite, quite." Looking sharply at the young ginger-haired officer, he clapped him on one shoulder with a filthy hand before saying, "You might fit in with this troop after all, Richardson. Dismal start, falling for the advice of that one," he said, glaring at Jack. "Made a right hash of things, trying to befriend every local you met, but I have high hopes for you, my boy. You might do after all. Now, buck up, and do as you're told." Turning to his gathered troops, he seemed to inflate his chest before speaking. "Gentlemen, we shall proceed and apprehend these savages at once." Turning to Kitty, he offered her a nasty leering glare before adding, "I expect I'll be the sole hero of your next penny dreadful adventure, Miss O'Keefe. And do send along those bags bulging with cash. Do so, and I believe I might forget your father's address after all." Turning to his men and checking his weapons as they prepared to leave, he ordered Prescott to bring Wilde along. "Make sure he has a long and uncomfortable ride back to the cantonment." Turning around and favoring Kitty with one last greedy look, he said, "Leave the woman. Miss O'Keefe is resourceful. I'm sure she'll find her own way back to Calcutta or some savage's bed. To your mounts, gentlemen!"

* * * *

After he'd shared several quiet words cleverly disguised as insults, with Sahib Jack, Manjeet quickly approached Miss O'Keefe. The poor memsahib appeared about to "do something" in spite of her scandalous lack of attire.

"Memsahib O'Keefe, calm yourself," he commanded gently, as he supposed an English father might. He noticed how near to hysteria she hovered; she seemed barely self-conscious of her near nakedness before all these men. "I mean you no harm, Miss. I'm here to help you."

"I know you don't intend to harm me, Manjeet. We must help _him_! We mustn't let them just ride away! They intend to kill Jack!"

"I have recovered your reticule and a carpet bag full of clothes for you. The robbers were keeping these things. As soon as the last of these devils rides off, you must dress and we will be gone from this vile place."

"Manjeet—we must help _Jack_!"

Reaching into her carpet bag and removing the first piece of clothing his rough hands touched, he thrust it into hers gently and said, "Sahib Jack is much stronger than you know, Miss O'Keefe, and Lieutenant Richardson is on his side. He will be all right . . . as long as _you_ are safe."

That seemed to send the poor memsahib toppling over the edge of the abyss she'd been tottering on. She burst into tears. _Had he not meant to lift her spirits? Had Sahib Jack not made it imperative that she know he loved her? Why then, so many tears?_ Shaking his turbaned head, Jeet reached into the bag for more clothes, mumbling to himself that he'd never understand women.

Watching as Miss O'Keefe selected an unadorned rose-colored skirt and a pleated white blouse, he handed her the bag with her underthings and waited until she hid herself behind the pulpit to dress before going outside. He noticed her glancing where the Ghost's body had lain. Luckily one of the men had wisely covered it with a horse blanket before carting it away. They should be able to leave unseen now—luckily, all the other troopers had left in pursuit of the fictitious bandits. They were quite alone.

Returning inside the church he was surprised to find Miss O'Keefe fully attired and waiting for him.

"Are you all right, Memsahib?" Jeet asked as he handed her a canteen full of cool water. "We might rest a few moments before beginning our journey back to Calcutta."

Pinning up the last of her wayward tresses, Miss O'Keefe shoved them under her ridiculously small, floral covered hat before looking at Jeet and asking, "Shouldn't we hurry? Isn't there a chance the Captain and his thugs might double back after catching the robbers?"

"It'd be a miracle if they caught these robbers. I'm sure they'll just slip away like ghosts since they exist only in our imaginations. They did do the trick, though did they not, Memsahib?"

Her brittle laugh reminded him of the music of tinkling glass chimes. She admitted the ruse had probably saved them all. Gathering up her belongings she began heading toward the door, her steps only slightly wobbly. "Let's get going then."

"Are you being able to ride, Memsahib? We must be traveling by horseback until we reach the train station."

Asking to borrow his knife, Miss O'Keefe slashed her skirt open from knee to hem before assuring Manjeet she could ride.

"I grew up in Ireland and in spite of my father's view that it was quite an unladylike activity, I managed to sneak away with my older brother to go riding. So, lead the way to our mounts, and I shall prove it to you." She paused, her lovely face allowing a hesitant smile to blossom.

No wonder Sahib Jack finds himself entranced by this woman.

She looked up at Jeet as she led the way out of the church, her smile beginning to falter. "Jeet, the horses?" When he pointed to the only two horses still grazing outside, and indicated her mount, she hastened to the horse and let the dappled mare nuzzle her.

Once mounted, she turned to Jeet before urging her mount to motion. "I assume you're ready, Manjeet. Do try to keep up."

Within an hour of hard riding, they reached the railhead and followed it north to the nearest station in a village only slightly bigger than Bhalpur named Doolhai. A hot, noisy train ride put them within Calcutta by dusk. Manjeet escorted her to her front door before taking his leave and speeding off to the regiment's horse lines. He promised to let her know as soon as possible how Sahib Jack was getting on.

* * * *

For two weeks Kitty teetered on razor blades. She heard nothing from Jeet or Jack. She busied herself with the thousand and one things a woman living alone could do; cleaning her house, dressing and feeding herself, writing three well received articles for the _Informer_ and playing with her pet monkeys. But she did it with the enthusiasm of the undead; all the life bled out of her. Amidst teary-eyed sniffles, she wrote to O'Hara's family, living just outside Fort William in southern Calcutta, and expressed her deepest sympathy. When a note came explaining a family member would call round to collect Ivy's things, it elicited no reaction beyond fresh tears. Even when she attended the latest suffrage meeting, sitting surrounded by acquaintances and friends of like mind, it sparked none of her usual fiery spirit.

Of the lucrative penny dreadful segment featuring Sgt. Wilde's latest adventure she'd promised the _Informer_ , she couldn't get beyond writing his name without bursting into tears.

#  Chapter Twenty-Nine

As soon as she unlocked her front door and stepped inside she realized everything was about to change. There was a single plain envelope sitting square in the center of the elegant cherry wood and jade receiving table she used expressly for her mail. All of her other mail lay scattered on the floor or nervously clutched in her gloved hand. Immediately recalling another letter that had set in motion gears that would change her life forever, she knew at once who'd sent the letter. She needn't see the familiar, neat cursive script with the simple words _Miss O'Keefe_ branded across the envelope's pristine surface; who else would see to it the missive was delivered inside her home, away from prying eyes.

Dropping all her other correspondence and ignoring her two chattering monkeys, she crossed her vestibule in three quick strides, scooped up the letter and tore it open.

As with its predecessor, the message inside contained both good and bad news. Jack Wilde was alive. His commander, Captain Ponsonby had made good on his threat to have him whipped before his entire regiment, a barbaric measure stopped by Lieutenant-Colonel Paget as soon as he learned of it. Unfortunately, Jack had received a dozen harsh lashes by then, the last three opening up a half-healed wound in his side. He was presently in the hospital, but not doing well.

The letter went on to say how Captain Ponsonby had been severely reprimanded and forced to resign his commission. Jack's rank had been reinstated and he was to be awarded a medal for bringing to an end the Ghost's reign of terror. Manjeet himself had been officially taken into the regiment as a native scout. Unfortunately, he was either in the field or confined to the base. This had been his first opportunity to communicate.

Kitty digested none of this beyond Jack's not doing well. Instead, she leaned against the back of the door and slumped to the floor, blindly watching the letter flutter to the floor beside her through another squall of tears. Bubble and Squeak boldly moved to her side, chattering expectantly and letting their small hands touch and pull at her clothing, urging her to play. When she continued to sit in a heap, sobbing out her heart, the capuchin monkeys grew silent, and huddled next to her, folding their little hands in their laps and occasionally darting a worried glance up at her.

* * * *

For three weeks she tried to see him. Neither flashing monetary bribes nor playing the part of an annoyingly persistent journalist worked. Even a distraught woman's tears failed; she never got beyond the sentries.

Of Jack's condition, she was told nothing. She did learn the regiment was being transferred to the west.

That evening when she returned home after an endless, hot day at the paper, Squeak scampered toward her as she opened the front door and thrust a new letter into her hands.

Like the first, it was from Manjeet Singh. Jack was out of danger, mending nicely. Unfortunately, they were being transferred to a cantonment in Bombay along with the rest of the hussar regiment. Manjeet would try to keep in touch.

She was about to crumple up the upsetting note when she spied another piece of paper stuck inside the envelope. It was a self-portrait. She hardly noticed he'd regrown his beard, or that all the cuts and scrapes he'd borne were missing. Across the bottom he'd written in a shaky round hand, _Ordered on another mission. I had hoped to see you first. Not sure when or if I'll ever be back to Calcutta._ _I had hoped . . . ._

There was a piece missing–a whole corner of the message that would've revealed _what_ Jack had hoped—there! Kitty looked across the room to see Squeak scampering down the hallway in his new clothes; a torn piece of paper clutched in his tiny hand. As she watched, he turned, grimaced and chirped and shoved the entire fragment of paper into his mouth.

By the time she caught hold of him and pried the balled-up glob from his sharp little teeth, the fragment was just a soggy, sticky, unreadable mess.

Later that night, Kitty's heart-rending sobs terrified both monkeys and drove them scampering into hiding, under the bed.

Two days later Kitty had a visitor.

#  Chapter Thirty

"Good Day to ya, Miss."

"Y-y-yes? May I help you?"

Maud blinked and narrowed her gaze, examining the disheveled young woman before her as though she was a new, disappointing specimen on display in a museum exhibition. Thin, the young woman needed some fattening up.. Pretty as a button, with the refined look of a beautiful Irish lady in spite of her dishabille. Looked tired, and obviously under the weather. Strong drink, though Maud smelled none? Poppy then and a definite lack of sleep. Red eyes and nose indicated she'd been sobbing recently, and for rather a long time.

"Maud Irons, Miss. Ivy O'Hara's sister. I've come for her things."

"Oh . . . Ivy. I'm so s-sorry." The young woman tottered sideways, swaying dangerously as she made room for Maud to enter while trying to maintain her precarious balance. "Please come in, Miss Irons."

"Mrs. Irons was my married name. I'm still an O'Hara at heart though, just like my sister."

Maud followed Miss O'Keefe as she wove her way through an impressive front parlor, swaying like a battered sailing ship wallowing its way through a storm. As Miss O'Keefe moved deeper into her home like a woman half-asleep, Maud noticed the well-maintained elegance of the lavishly furnished English home appeared to be in sharp contrast to its disheveled, grief-stricken owner, still clad in her sweat-stained nightdress. _My God, I'm the one whose sister was murdered! Saving_ _her_ _! She hardly looks worth the effort._

"I've gathered Ivy's things in there," Miss O'Keefe said, her wavering finger indicating an unlit sitting room. "There's a sizeable portmanteau and her flowered valise—I could order a carriage and have them brought round if you'll just give me your address." She scooped her reticule from the nearest chair, hunting through it until she located a pen and pad. When she turned around with the writing gear, Maud thought she looked even more miserable. "I-I'm so sorry—I never thought—I never meant to _endanger_ Ivy," she paused; obviously fighting an emotional threat of tears. "I'm making a total muddle of this, aren't I? M-may I offer you some tea. I'm so sorry. I've been so distraught, you see, but I can't believe I haven't even offered you a cup o' tea. You must think me a terribly dreadful woman."

"I don't think anything of the kind, dearie. You've obviously suffered through a terrible ordeal yourself, and . . . ."

Maud's words died on her tongue as two small furry rascals thundered into the parlor and took up guard duty on either side of their scandalized mistress, flashing huge brown eyes and sharp fangs as they scolded the intruder.

"Squeak! Bubble—stop this! Behave yourselves!" Looking up from her tiny bodyguards, Miss O'Keefe threw up helpless hands and addressed Maud. "I'm so sorry. I'm afraid these little hellions think of me as their mummy and they've vowed to protect me. They can really be quite charming when they want to."

Seeing how each monkey alternately clutched and hid behind their mistress's nightdress, Maud was tempted to question who was protecting whom, but decided to do what she could to soothe this obviously troubled young woman.

"Monkeys don't bother me a bit, Miss. My husband, Bert, god rest his soul, was a corporal in the Tillingshire Fusiliers. Well, when he came out to India following the drum, I won the regimental lottery, so I come out here with him. That must have been fifteen years ago—Bert got hisself killed fighting the Afghans. Point is, I've seen and dealt with a whole barrel or two of monkeys. These two appear to be little charmers. Darlin' little things." Maud stopped, not wanting to overstep her bounds, she hesitated before marching ahead. "Why don't I fix _you_ a nice cuppa, dearie? Ivy described her happy life here so well, I think I can find my own way to your kitchen, Miss."

Brooking no refusal, Maud was halfway out of the parlor before her startled hostess stammered, "That'd be delightful."

"Good, Luv. Consider it done. And when I come back, you can tell me all about this dashing young man standing next to you in this photograph," she said, indicated the tattered photo of Miss O'Keefe and a handsome young cavalry sergeant holding hands in an ornate gilded frame, "and why he's gone and broken yer heart."

"Here we are, dear. A nice hot cup of Earl Grey for me, and honeyed chai for you, just the way Ivy told me you liked it."

As Maud handed the delicate porcelain teacup to her hostess, she took the opportunity to study her young hostess. Miss O'Keefe had obviously used her absence to tidy herself up a bit; for starters, her smoothed and pinned hair no longer resembled that of a Bedlamite escapee. Her stained nightgown had disappeared. She now wore an exquisitely beautiful turquoise kimono featuring dueling pheasants in gold, ruby and emerald. She appeared soberly awake now; her face scrubbed of tear-streaked makeup and composed. Maud was inclined to believe her sister's gossip that Miss O'Keefe was indeed the runaway daughter of a cold-hearted English lord. She'd even tamed the two little furry rapscallions. They sat at her feet like matching bookends, all innocence and outward calm, though she suspected they were like two over-wound, brass springs, ready to spring into mischief the moment their mistress's back was turned.

Maud took a few sips of her soothing tea and waited for Miss O'Keefe to do the same before she began administering her first aid. First, one had to gently cleanse the wound.

"You appear a mite better, Miss O'Keefe. Tea's just the thing to put a bit of the rose back in your cheeks. Don't worry, dear, you're far from the only one I've seen under the poppy's influence. Did _he_ cause it, Miss O'Keefe?" Maud ventured, pointing to the image of the handsome cavalry sergeant.

"Y-yes. Sgt, Wilde. He's gone, you see. Maybe forever. I miss him so much. I haven't slept for days, so I took a little tincture of opium. I'd never used the stuff before, so I believe I went a bit overboard with it."

"With the laudanum, Miss O'Keefe?"

"Yes, and please call me Kitty. You're so much like your sister—I'd like it very much if we could become friends."

"I certainly hope so, Miss O'Keefe."

"Kitty."

"Ain't proper. Miss O'Keefe. Anyway, as I mentioned, I was a young woman when Bert and I came out here to India with them Fusiliers. Every time he marched out following the drum, I thought my heart would break. Lot of the wives and lovers following their men felt the same. Some of us found temporary solace in the poppy. The day I found out my Bert had been killed in an ambush outside Chital I wanted to drown myself in the stuff. But it's you we should be talking about. Soldier boy in the picture—he more than a passing fancy? I take it you've got a real fondness for him, dear?"

"Very much so. With all my heart. It's just he's received orders that send him far away—I miss him so much already."

Maud reached out one raw-boned hand sheathed in her cheap cotton glove to sooth the distressed young woman. It was quite obvious a shower of fresh tears hovered on the horizon.

"I-it's just he's gone—and-and I don't know if I'll ever see him again!"

And then, the tears did come. The young woman fought them bravely, but in seconds she slumped forward, completely overwhelmed.

"Ah, a soldier's lady woes. You'll just have to bear up, my dear. At least you're _here, already_ in India. Pity the women stuck back in Britain, waiting on their men to return after seven years. Damned few make it through, Miss."

"After he rescued me f-from the coffin full of spiders, we held each other and, w-we kissed. We were still embracing when his commanding officer found us. Even though Jack was hurt, they took him away for punishment." She stuttered to a stop and Maud saw she was blinking away tears. "I-I heard they were going to whip him before his whole regiment. When I didn't hear anything, I was afraid he'd been killed." She finished her tea and let each of her pets climb up into her lap before continuing. "I tried to see him, but they'd never let me in, or tell me how he was. Finally, I found out he was alive, but they still wouldn't let me see him. Now he's gone and-and we never even—"

"He rescued you from . . . spiders, and got himself marched onto the parade ground for punishment? Sounds like he's got a devil of a commander." Maud took a brace of slurping sips from her rapidly dwindling Earl Grey and settled back into richly brocaded cushions. "Oh tell me everything, sweetheart. I do so love a good story."

By the time Miss O'Keefe ordered a hansom cab, they'd spent most of the day together, drunk a gallon of tea and shared a dozen cries and stories. Maud had even agreed to attend an upcoming suffrage meeting with the progressive thinking young lady. Miss O'Keefe had prepared a light luncheon for them that they'd shared out on a magnificent veranda overlooking an extensive yard secured behind a high wrought iron fence. Its rolling lawn was sprinkled with lush, well-tended flower gardens and strolling peacocks. The two furry rapscallions loved it; finally free to be mischievous primates, they wasted no time in untwining themselves from Miss O'Keefe's arms and racing across the lawn to terrorize the peafowl.

Maud hoped her presence had eased Miss O'Keefe's pain somewhat. In her time, she'd felt that same sense of desperation in the face of overwhelming loss. It was so easy to grow fond of this sweet, compassionate young woman and wish her only the best. Her pets, cute as they were, would take a little longer to love.

Waving good-bye and riding away, she realized they'd started down the path to what she hoped would become a staunch friendship. Trying to keep her maternal instincts in check, she admitted her heart was overflowing with new respect and compassion for the plucky, spirited Miss O'Keefe. As it turned out, she wouldn't be fetching her poor, deceased sister's effects after all; but happily moving her own in.

#  Chapter Thirty-One

Kitty was struggling with the exact wording of an article she was doing for the _Informer_ and trying desperately to keep Bubble from shoving herself into her lap when she heard the knock at the front door. The housemaid, Tai, made it to the door and intercepted the postman's package seconds before Squeak. She stepped toward Kitty seconds before the chattering monkey, and handed her mistress the small, elegantly wrapped box as Kitty rose, smoothed down her worn skirt and removed her typewriting spectacles.

Apparently, the heavy rains in Bhalpur that seemed to promise the arrival of the wet summer monsoon had been a tease. It hadn't rained since, and everything was shriveling up in this heat or drowning in the humidity. As the day insisted on growing hotter and stickier than most, Kitty wore an old skirt and mostly unbuttoned blouse she'd be scandalized in had she been expecting any guests. Though she'd dispensed with wearing a corset in the humid heat, her thin, lacy chemise clung to her mounded breasts like an ardent lover. She felt like a tributary of the Ganges had taken up residence flowing between them.

The package appeared to be a box from one of Calcutta's best jewelry stores; one that catered almost exclusively to rich memsahibs and native royalty. As she found the attached card, she realized she'd only seen its like once or twice from infatuated suitors stationed at Fort William. Wondering which one of those might've squandered his monthly allowance on another futile bid to bed her, she looked up to see Tai hovering in the doorway, as well as her new housekeeper, Maud O'Hara.

"I can't imagine who'd be sending me a gift," she stammered, feeling her cheeks grow hot and red.

"Why don't you open it, dearie, and find out?" Maud suggested, wiping her hands on a towel and handing the two monkeys each a slice of freshly cut Papaya. "The suspense is killing me."

"Yes, mistress, please do," added Tai, curious as any primate.

"With you two always acting like my mettlesome monkeys, I might as well give up any hope of _privacy_." Still, she sat down on a plush fainting divan, tearing away the wrappings and opening the upscale store's box. Inside, she found a beautifully carved teakwood box, and in that. . . .

Her eyes stung with the threat of tears. _I can't help it. No matter who it's from, it's absolutely gorgeous._ Inside she found the most elegant, beautiful pin she'd ever seen. Fashioned like a small, highly detailed peacock with his fan fully extended, the jeweled brooch contained exquisitely cut malachite, amethyst, and moonstone jewels held securely in place by the buttery yellow gold truly skilled Indian craftsmen were so clever with. Purple, green and white stones; the women's suffrage movement colors. _But from whom?_ When she turned it over, she surrendered to her tears; there could be no doubt who'd spent his last rupee to purchase the jeweled brooch. _Jack._

Engraved on its golden back was the inscription that set her sobbing: _We're equal in every way. Equally in love. Forever._

"Miss, sorry miss, but this fell out when you opened the package," Tai said sheepishly as she proffered her mistress a small scrap of paper.

Kitty read it, and collapsed in tears again. Tears of joy this time. Jack was coming to see her.

#  Chapter Thirty-Two

She knew she was being an ogre. But she hadn't seen him in almost six weeks. She couldn't help it. The first time he'd seen her, her hair had looked a wreck, she wore an old blouse under ratty sleeve guards and she'd ink stains on her face. _No, that isn't quite true._ The first time he saw her, she was suspended in a cage and he thought she was a _man._ She was determined that wouldn't happen this time. She wanted everything to go smoothly. _She_ had to be perfect.

He had a forty-eight hour furlough before he had to catch the troop train. She was determined to seize him and keep him prisoner for the whole time just as he'd captured her heart. But how to _do_ it? _What to wear?_

She had just three days to prepare.

Not for the first time, Kitty wished she hadn't lost contact with her Irish mother. _Oh, mummy, if only you were here to advise me. Father mustn't have been so cold always; you bore four children. However did you warm up that block of ice?_

It boiled down to a lacy, white shirtwaist and sea green hobble skirt or her elegant Sunday best frock. _Which would mummy choose? Or O'Hara?_

She called Maud in. Shortly after moving in and picking up the fallen reins of housekeeper, Maud Irons had decided to revert to her maiden name of O'Hara. It was as though poor, murdered Ivy had returned home from the grave in the form of her kind sister. Oddly, it was comforting.

O'Hara listened attentively to her mistress's dilemma, nodding her approval when Kitty told her due to the excessive heat; she'd be leaving off her constricting corset. The refreshing monsoon rains might be flooding the southern part of India, but they had yet to make an appearance at twenty-three Kensington Park in Calcutta.

When she showed O'Hara her choice of lacy blouse and skirt, or fancy frock, O'Hara quickly answered that it didn't matter. She'd look absolutely stunning in either, and if her horse soldier was anything like her Bert had been, his mind would be set on getting her out of her clothes as quickly as possible anyway.

"O'Hara—whatever do you mean?" she giggled. "In any event, there's no need to be quite so vulgar . . . I'm sure Sergeant Wilde will be a perfect gentleman."

"Not if he's normal, Miss," mumbled O'Hara.

Kitty blushed. Secretly, she wanted to spend most of her time with Jack in her bed. That was why she was giving the maid and O'Hara time off. Why she'd be shipping Bubble and Squeak to Mrs. Pepperton, their usual surrogate mum.

In the end, she went with the fancy frock. Make him work at it a bit. All those buttons and ribbons. She half-hoped he'd rip it off her. _Well, maybe a bit more than half. She felt such a naughty schoolgirl!_

The remainder of her "battledress" as she began to think of it, was simple. She already knew which of her perfumes Jack seemed to prefer, and which was her most flattering corset, there were just stockings, shoes and her chemise to consider. Perhaps she'd add a bustle. She'd heard they ceased being the "in" thing in London or Paris, but here in Calcutta, many refined ladies still wore them. She intended to make sure he didn't dwell on her feet, so her better high-heeled shoes would stand duty since he stood a good six inches taller than she, and perhaps the scandalous smoky silk stockings. As for her chemise, she'd purchased something brand new; something lacy in virginal white that'd offer her mounded breasts like two irresistible scoops of vanilla ice cream. Dear god—she felt like such a wicked harlot! _She loved it._

Luckily, she'd always made friends easily, and once it became known she'd stayed on at Kensington Park after her brother's death, she'd formed alliances with her neighbors her brother the foreign diplomat would never have achieved. One Hindu lady introduced her to a fine native seamstress, and so Kitty turned to her for some last minute wardrobe adjustments and new clothes for Bubble and Squeak. Although the new maid would deliver them to Mrs. Pepperton when she left, Jack and her monkeys had got on famously. He would see them; they must not embarrass her. She felt certain she'd do that herself.

* * * *

On the day Jack Wilde was due to walk back into her life, Kitty waited until fifteen minutes before his scheduled arrival before beginning her preparations. If they were being given a second chance, she wanted his enduring remembrance of the moment to leave a most pleasant impression.

As she dressed, she heard a commotion at the front door; one of her chattering little imps exchanging outraged scolding with her Hindu maid. Finally, O'Hara's booming voice took charge; the squirming monkey was whisked away, and her harried ladies' maid was able to open the front door. _Was it Jack? Was it time already?_ A sing-song dialog in flirtatious Hindi followed; surely it couldn't be Jack the maid was flirting with.

Forcing herself to remain calm, though her heart was banging away like a snare drum at a call to arms, Kitty continued to dress. When at last she'd surveyed her image in her full length mirror from every angle and decided she'd do, she moved purposely toward the stairway. _Grand entrance, Kitty, a_ _dignified_ _grand entrance. Remember, you were born a lady._ She would not hurry, and make a display of herself. _Like hell she wouldn't._

As she neared the bottom of the elegant white and mahogany stairway, Kitty heard Jack and O'Hara conversing in the front parlor. They must've heard the swish of her satin skirts or caught a glimpse of movement, for they terminated their conversation as she swept toward them, Maud congenially said how nice it had been to meet and talk with the sergeant, and finished with a stern admonishment to be gentle with her mistress. Jack replied that the pleasure of their meeting had been all his, but his answer to the second, more important bit of conversation was lost when burbling Bubble scampered by with the scolding maid in hot pursuit.

And then, she was there. The moment had come. Her devoutly Catholic mum would have crossed herself. Kitty just plunged ahead.

"Hello, Sergeant Wilde. Welcome back to my home." She swept into the plush room in a welter of swishing crinoline and satin skirts, standing in the doorway for a moment as she struck her best portrayal of an aristocratic lady. Still, a small smile of pleasure at finally breathing the same air as this adorable man wriggled past her proper pout and escaped. Jack had risen to his feet, his open-mouthed stare turning to a delighted smile as his blue eyes began to sparkle.

"The officers in my regiment would fall all over themselves to call you a stunner, Miss O'Keefe."

"So, will I do? What do _you_ think, Sergeant Wilde?"

"If you'll pardon my rough Yankee ways, I thought you were beautiful when your clothes and face were filthy, Kitty. You clean up real well," he said beaming as he made it quite obvious he was enjoying ogling her. "I think you're absolutely gorgeous."

"Oh. W-why, thank you," she stammered, certain her cheeks were as red as her hair. "You _clean-up_ really well too, Sgt. Wilde."

She held forth her gloved right hand that he might kiss her curled fingers, and turned toward O'Hara, totally missing the resigned scowl stealing onto Jack's face.

When he failed to kiss her proffered hand, she looked at her hussar, her own face flooding with concern at his look.

"W-what is it? Am I unbuttoned, do I have a smudge on my face . . . or have I grown a wart?" she teased. "Jack, what's wrong?" she demanded, panic replacing unease.

"Seeing you here, in this elegant home, dressed to the nines, I realize how much you fit into your role of elegant, refined _lady_. You belong here, Kitty. I don't. I could never fit in—was a fool to think I had any right to hope—" He stopped, turned, as if determined to leave. "You deserve far better than me, Lady Katherine."

"Jack! None of that matters!"

"It _does_ to me! Seeing you—like this; I realize I'm not right for you. I never was. I'm a mere cavalryman. Not even an officer. A rough, common soldier and a killer."

"My killer _Angel_. You're always saving people."

"You read too many of your own damned penny-dreadfuls. This was a mistake, coming here. I should go."

"No! Please! Don't you _dare_ think of leaving!" She tried not to stamp her foot in irritation, and failed. "That's an order, Sgt. Wilde." She said, pouring honey into her nervous voice.

She should throw decorum to the wind, and just kiss the man!

"Well, maybe for just a few minutes," Jack said, looking very uncomfortable. "Then i should go."

Tingling to her toes with frustration, Kitty barely clung to her plan and politely dismissed Maud, requesting that she gather up her monkeys and send in the maid with refreshments before she left.

"Let's go into the conservatory, Jack. We'll have some privacy there and we can talk. O'Hara and Tai are leaving in a few minutes. Please, Jack—just give us a chance. Please."

"Your servants—we'll be alone? Kitty, I don't think that's a good idea. What'll your neighbors think?"

"I don't care. Besides, we're just going to share a drink and talk."

"Talk."

At least in the beginning.

To Kitty's mind, her conservatory was her favorite room in the entire house. With elegant curved glass on four sides stretching thirty feet in the air toward the warm Indian sun, the lush tropical flowers, trees and birds inside let Kitty bathe in a world of tame exotic beauty without ever being beyond reach of a cooling drink, her chattering pets or obedient servants. She'd always found it a soothing retreat to write, read her novels or simply play with Bubble and Squeak after a grueling day at the _Informer_.

Today, it would serve double duty, for sheltered within the sanctuary of its glass walls she and Sergeant Wilde would be observed by the neighbors and a squad of groundskeepers, assuring a certain amount of proper decorum would be observed. Otherwise, she admitted to herself, she mightn't have been able to prevent herself from leaping into his arms.

_Jack was gorgeous_. Walking beside her, seeming at nervous attention, she gave him an appraising look as she allowed a shy smile to emerge and reached for his hand.

From the tips of his highly polished brown cavalry boots to the crisp raised collar of his new khaki tunic with just a hint of the white shirt beneath, he was all professional soldier. His form-fitting navy breeches with the twin yellow stripes running down the outside leg seemed to emphasize tense, well-muscled legs beneath just waiting to ride . . . something. Ignoring his shiny saber, familiar holstered Colt and the clean helmet with its crisply pleated puggaree held clasped close to his arm pit, she noticed he yet wore sergeant's chevrons, though there was now a circular bit of silver metal beneath a green and crimson ribbon pinned to his broad chest. _Is that all they gave you my love? Is that all rescuing me and stopping those butchers was worth to her majesty's empire?_

Finishing their walk to the conservatory, she pointed to a white wicker chair supplied with comfortable-looking cushions and took a seat herself across from him. No sooner had she sat than they were joined by young, giggling Tai pushing an elaborate, well-stocked tea dolly. She served them both tall glasses of cool lemonade before departing; giggling and batting her eyes at Jack Wilde the whole time.

Kitty waited until Tai retreated toward the kitchen before addressing one of the two elephants sharing the room with them. "Jack, it seems like you've let Ponsonby's lies poison your feelings for me. I'm just a news reporter, remember?"

"Yeah, whose father just happens to be a very wealthy British earl and a chief magistrate in Northern Ireland?"

Jack, my father hates me! He's resented me from birth—I remind him too much of my mother. I ran away from his version of the _privileged_ life. I can assure you, I'm a very ordinary woman!"

"Excuse me, Miss O'Keefe," O'Hara interrupted as she suddenly materialized at Kitty's elbow. "Your two wee pets have been bundled off to Mrs. Pepperton with Tai, and I'm ready to depart. Is there anything I can do for you before I depart, miss?"

"Please tell the gardeners to move to the front of the house, and lock the front door as you leave. I'll see you on Tuesday, Maud—try to enjoy yourself at your friend's home."

"Thank you, miss. I shall." Maud shot a meaningful, knowing glance at Sgt. Wilde before leaving. "Good luck to you, sergeant. Remember what you promised, Sergeant."

Kitty cast Jack a quizzical look before seizing his hand.

"What would O'Hara ask you to promise?"

"That I wouldn't break your heart."

"Oh . . . I see. Well, then you'd better cease this nonsense about not being worthy of me and kiss me right now before my poor breaking heart shatters, Jack Wilde."

Ever the gallant cavalry trooper, he did as he was ordered. For long moments, though no word was uttered, their passionate kisses spoke volumes.

When they both surfaced for air, Kitty smoothed down the rumpled skirt to her elegant dress. When she gazed up into the blue eyes of the man steadily watching her, her emerald green eyes were alight with mischief.

"Did you notice my maid, Tai, as she fluttered about the room? She couldn't keep her eyes off you, Jack."

"Hadn't noticed." Reaching out to draw Kitty into his arms, his lips smiled in invitation before he added, "I've only room for one woman in my life."

Kitty sensed the dark cloud sweeping across her face, forcing her to acknowledge the lone elephant still squatting in the room. _Not yet_ , she thought as she forced her eyes to sparkle, her lips to smile.

"Well, I see your mere presence is still enough to give silly, young women the vapors, Sgt. Wilde."

"But not _you_ , Miss O'Keefe?" Jack asked; one masculine brow rose as he waited for his answer.

"Oh, I became entranced by you the day you came to the _Informer_ looking for Mr. Kelly. The delighted twinkle in your eye when you realized your quarry was in fact a woman and me, began my downfall. I've been yours ever since."

"And I, yours."

"Are you, Jack, darling?" she whispered, mostly to herself. Jack either didn't hear, or chose not to deal with this second, more deadly elephant squatting between them.

Fearful of dealing with that massive pachyderm herself just then, Kitty took a sip of her lemonade before channeling their conversation to less volatile subjects.

"Manjeet Singh told me that Ponsonby made good on his threat and had you whipped."

"Yep, paraded me in front of the whole regiment and got off a dozen good lashes before Colonel Paget showed up and stopped the whole show. After that, I was confined to hospital for almost a month." He stopped and took a long sip of lemonade, his gaze flitting from bright orchids to palm to chirping finches; anywhere but settling on her own shocked tearful eyes. "I wanted to see you, Kitty. I need . . . to explain myself. Things will never be right between us until I do."

"C-couldn't you get away after the hospital? Come see me? _Write_ to me, at least? Jack—it's been almost six weeks! I was so worried! I've been in hell not knowing, Jack."

He explained to her there'd been a trial; troop commander Ponsonby had been court-martialed and was on his way to a military prison. Jack had been one of the major witnesses against Ponsonby, sworn to silence and confined to the cantonment. Even Manjeet had been forbidden to leave.

"So that monster Ponsonby is gone. And what did they give you—I see you've still nothing but your sergeant's stripes. That medal on your chest—is that it?" she said, pointing to the silver disk suspended from a red and green striped ribbon.

"This hunk of tin? The India service medal. Paget offered me a lieutenant's commission in an Indian regiment bound for the frontier. I declined; I wanted a chance to be near _you._ Ironically, the seventh got marching orders five days later."

"That's all they gave you? After stopping those murderous robbers and rescuing me?"

"The colonel presented me with a new rifle."

"A gun! He gave you a gun?"

Loosening up, Jack chuckled, and explained that his new cavalry carbine was a brand new Lee Enfield. It replaced his worn-out rifle. He seemed to realize he was preaching about a world she knew nothing about, and changed tactics, pointing out his Martini-Henry was a single shot, breech-loader while the Enfield had a ten-shot clip. Seeming to realize Kitty was still confused by his enthusiasm, he cut to the chase. "With ten shots, there's a much better chance for me to survive a shootout."

"Oh. I'm all for that. Jack, but you deserve so much more." She paused, glided closer, taking both his hands and placing them around her waist. Then she let one of her own hands reach up and gently stroke the spot in his beard where she knew his scar hid, and smiled into his eyes. "I suppose one might bestow a reward of her own on her gallant hero," she said, leaning closer until her honeyed lips brushed across his and she swept herself away before he could claim more. With a teasing twinkling in her dark eyes, she walked toward the farthest glass wall. In the distance, somewhere near Fort William, she saw the flash of heat lightning and heard the low growl of thunder. The heat lightning raced across the sky chased by an angry growl; closer this time.

_It was time_. Before things went any further, it was time to face the elephant.

"I've heard that woman I saw you walking with is still alive."

"Dr. Kurapati. Yes, I've heard the rumors as well. If she is, she's disappeared."

Feeling her body begin to tremble beneath her layers of protective clothes, Kitty stared out at the rolling lawn and watched the approaching storm. When the thunder rolled again, it seemed to match her thudding heart. Idly, it occurred to her that the peacocks and invasive Macaques were already seeking shelter, their meandering strolls cut short by the approaching rain. Now they'd cower in the trees until the monster passed, much as she knew she'd rather do than face the monstrous elephant squatting between her and Jack.

"Did you care for her? This Dr. Kurapati?" She turned to look at him, her anxious heart thudding in her throat.

"Yes. Yes, a little. At the time, I thought you'd thrown me over."

Not the answer she'd hoped for, given too quickly with too much certainty. But, she believed, an honest answer. She moved between two beautiful potted fan palms, and leaned heavily against the cool stone wall, unable to stand on legs gone suddenly quite wobbly.

"And you bedded her?"

A slight hesitation and then a mumbled yes. _Was there a hint of regret flavoring his_ _words? Was she prepared to forgive him—overlook his indiscretion?_ He'd said he believed she'd chucked him away. _Did she believe him?_ The lightning flashed again, much closer now, momentarily blinding her, and followed immediately by an angry snarl of thunder. The elephant between them was standing now, perhaps enraged; Kitty quivered, and gulped. In seconds she had to face its charge and perhaps be trampled. Crushed forever.

"D-did you— _do_ you love her, Jack?" There, it was out. Now she'd stand her ground with a stiff upper lip and chin held high in true British fashion. In seconds, she'd most likely be trampled underfoot for her trouble.

Jack was smiling as he got up and moved toward her. Oh God, he was enjoying this! He was going to smash her heart and he was savoring every minute of it, the heartless bastard!

"I think you've much more fiery Celtic passion than is properly English, Miss O'Keefe."

He was up to her now; she could feel the heat of his body as he drew near and placed each hand gently on her shoulders. Her knees had already gone to mush.

"Typical charming Irish thief too," he whispered as he brought his face close to hers and kissed the tip of her nose.

"A thief?" She tottered forward, immediately in his arms, puzzled by his words. _He was so close . . . so desirable_.

"Yes, a thief, Miss O'Keefe. You stole my heart the moment I met you. It's you, and you _alone_ I adore."

The elephant seemed much smaller now, fidgeting in time with the butterflies in her stomach, as though he was eager to leave. But she had to be sure.

"Nice, fancy words, Sergeant, but do you love _her_ , this Dr. Kurapati?"

"No, I never could. Even when I thought you'd thrown me over, thoughts of you, of winning you back, kept getting in the way. It's you I love, Katherine O'Keefe."

And, poof, just like that, the elephant in the room vanished. Kitty couldn't help beaming like a bloody Bedlam fool.

"Well, Kitty, the servants are gone and unless I miss my guess this thunder is going to make it quite loud out here. Got a feeling it's not bringing much rain though. Still, we'll be unable to hear any further words, and I've quite a few left. Let's go inside, shall we? I'd like a chance to demonstrate my affection."

"Sir, you're _most_ improper, to take advantage of a poor helpless lady," Kitty scolded, her voice singing with delight. "Follow me," she giggled, picking up her step.

# Chapter Thirty-Three

The lush, cozy bedroom they entered was decidedly feminine. Tastefully done, it showed an artist's eye for complimentary colors and shapes in Kitty's choice of décor. Done primarily in pink and robin's egg blue with splashes of white in her lacy curtains, it was quite obviously the inner sanctum of a young woman. Only in one corner did he see a jarring green, white and purple display; her suffrage straw boater, sash and placard demanding women's' rights—proof of her brash, spirited nature.

Glancing around the cluttered Victorian bedroom as Kitty closed the slatted blinds, Jack picked out three large photographs. The first appeared to be of some smiling young gentleman, dressed for fox-hunting, sitting astride a big red horse surrounded by his milling hounds. Beneath his topper, his face was hidden in shadow. _A former Beau?_ The second was of an older gentleman, some sort of elevated civil servant no doubt, bearing a striking resemblance to Kitty in his coloring and auburn hair. The other, was of an austere older looking Patriarch. Some sort of stern-looking lord or something; the only resemblance to Kitty at all was his intense emerald green eyes. Her father, the Earl? The ornate frame's glass was cracked, the photo inside showed harsh treatment, patched and hurriedly taped back together. There were three other, smaller photographs as well, all taken around the same time, all grouped together on top of her dresser. He saw a fourth, nestled amidst the feminine clutter atop her fancy nightstand. They were of him.

"Why Jack Wilde, you're blushing," Kitty teased. "Haven't you ever been in a lady's boudoir before?"

"Not a lady I cared about, and wanted to do right by, Katherine. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Jack—about _this._ In this last year at least three very unsavory men have tried to force their attentions on me and seize my . . . well, what I had no desire to give. You know I adore you, so please, if you don't feel it too improper and unladylike of me, let's not waste a moment of what little time we've got together."

Jack was as eager as a raw recruit waving his big sword about, and chaffing to charge at anything helter-skelter. That wouldn't do here. He loved Kitty; he'd better be gentle, get it right from the start. Give her memories to comfort her when he was gone.

He watched Kitty sit on her flounced canopied brass bed, kick off her pumps and begin fumbling with the buttons closing the back of her fancy frock. Her squirming set her breasts jiggling in an enticing manner inches Jack found hard to resist.

"Aaah—a little help . . . please. And this frock was expensive—please don't tear it. Unless you want to," Kitty giggled.

Jack fell to the task right away, filling the role of lady's maid as he undid the long line of tiny buttons.

When she sat before him in nothing but gartered stockings and a thin, lacy chemise, slow to snag her slipping straps or modestly hide the full, pale mounds inviting his touch, she smiled coyly up at him and pointed to a spot on her lush Persian rug squarely before her. "You are most inconsiderate of me, Sgt. Wilde. _You,_ sir, are still dressed."

Jack smiled as he unbuckled his leather weapons belt and placed it on an elegant wicker chair, He kept his Colt within easy reach. Katherine lived in a quiet, cultivated European neighborhood, but this was _India_ ; one never knew. Next he removed his medal, shoving the gong unceremoniously into his breeches pocket. His crisp, new Khaki tunic was next; once the brass buttons were undone, he shrugged out of it, and positioned it within easy reach on the chair, the red and white sergeant's stripes clearly visible. He glanced at Kitty; she seemed to track him with the unwavering stare of a sniper. Clearly, she was enjoying this.

"Once the train reaches Bombay, scuttlebutt has it the Seventh will be joining up with several other units for a push up into Kandahar. Couple of warlords up there are stirring up the tribesmen again, from what I hear. Colonel Paget indicated I might be staying in Bombay."

"You mean if I took the train, I might be able to see you? That's wonderful, Jack—isn't it?"

He'd sat on the chair with his gear and removed one tall boot. As he began on the other one, he shook his head, a resigned look to his face.

"Probably not a good idea. The lieutenant-colonel has me organizing a small strike force of hand-picked troopers. Manjeet, of course, and four other stout lads so far." He succeeded in removing the other boot, and stood up. "I think the colonel wants a squad of horse soldiers he can count on to quell any problems fast." As he began unbuttoning the collarless white shirt he wore under his tunic, he explained. "The whole area north and west of Bombay has become a hotbed of unrest. He's going to call us his flying squad with some clever name like Paget's Horse."

"And he's got you heading up this group of men. That's wonderful Jack–I mean, not for _us_ , but for your advancement in the regiment."

Jack finished with his shirt and tossed it at the chair. When he spoke, it was obvious Kitty had hit a nerve. "I'm not in charge. Command went to Lt. Richardson. A nice enough young chap, but totally unsuited to dealing with the locals and handling combat situations when they arise. Still, I have hopes I can whip the lad into decent shape before somebody puts a bullet in his back."

"Jack–I'm so sorry. Command should've been yours. After all you've done for this regiment. It's so unfair!"

"I'm not destined to command, Kitty. Ever. I wasn't born on the right side of the blanket, and most of these officers still look at me as a semi-barbaric colonial from the land of red Indians."

Jack had completely removed his shirt and stood before Kitty with one hand firmly on his hip, waiting on her pleasure. He was acutely aware she was giving him a long scrutiny, her gaze returning again and again to his muscular arms and broad chest.

"You got those because of me, didn't you?"

Jack knew instinctively which half-healed wounds she was referring to. Wounds he'd received in the fight at the desecrated church and the vicious stripes across his back he'd taken before the entire regiment.

"I've had worse." Seeing the tears welling in her eyes, he was quick to add, "I'd do it all again if it gave me a chance to be here, with you."

"Oh Jack—" Losing it, she threw herself into his arms, and began kissing him with reckless unladylike abandon. "Don't go–please! Talk to this Colonel Paget, Lt. Richardson or whoever, and convince him to assign you duties here! Please, Jack—I'll die if I lose you again!"

"You won't. Unfortunately, I can't change my orders," he managed between some very impassioned kissing. Gradually, Jack was able to steer her back to her most inviting bed. Once she allowed herself to recline, he removed his dark blue breeches with a flourish and slipped into bed beside her. "As soon as I can, I'll send word. I'll either telegraph you, or jump on the first train headed east if I've enough of a furlough. I promise. You _know_ there's nowhere I want to be but with you, Kitty."

Instead of answering him, she kissed him again, and seizing one of his hands, placed it on her bared breast. "Make love to me, Sergeant," she said. "I need you so very much right now, Jack."

They spent the rest of the warm evening in bed, beneath the steady beat of the overhead fan's whirring blades, entwined limbs clinging to each other in an entangled embrace, totally immersed in bringing pleasure to each other. Moist lips and gently touching fingers began their romantic exploration, touching almost shyly at first, but moving steadily forward, blending their coupled needs until together, they surged toward delighted discovery. When at last he entered Katherine, Jack remained gentle; his thoughts so much more about bringing her joy and bathing her with his love, than feeding his own manly desires.

Whether due to the resilient eagerness of their youth or the hovering dark cloud of imminent separation, they only left their tousled bed for a light repast, and then eagerly sought sanctuary and intimacy in each other's arms again.

It was well into the sultry blackness of night before they forced themselves from each other's arms again.

They lay together in Kitty's bed. She was lying with her head on his broad chest, her fingers idly playing with his chest hairs or fussing with her own loosened auburn tendrils. Jack, beneath her, was completely nude, whereas Kitty was enough of a lady that she'd put her lacy knickers back on. Jack's hands moved across Kitty's naked bosom, his fingers gently massaging her, moving over her soft breasts, tracing slow circles around her rosy tips until they stood as stiffly at attention as the troopers in his new flying squad.

Although she hated destroying the magic of the moment, she had an inquisitive soul, and as a reporter was used to cutting right to the heart of things.

"Jack; sweetheart, how long do we have? When do you leave?"

Exhausted, Jack was beginning to drift off even as a certain part of his anatomy experienced a slow but steady resurrection, so he was slow to understand the question. "Leave? You want me to leave?"

"No, silly—of course not!" Kitty giggled, and elbowed his rock-hard chest. "I asked when your regiment leaves for Bombay. More importantly, for how long do I have you?"

"Four days," he surrendered with obvious reluctance. "I'm expected to spend the last day in the cantonment and horse lines. No ladies allowed, I'm afraid." Looking at Kitty, he hesitated, suddenly realizing he was seeing tears forming ranks in the corners of her glimmering eyes. "Kitty, if there was any way, you know I'd stay." The fingers of one hand deserted her breast and traced the line of hot tears beginning to charge down her cheeks. Kitty fought to hold back the flood; to force a smile, to be British. _Keep calm._ _Carry on_ , her father would insist. _It was impossible._ _He was going away again. Maybe, for good._

"I had hoped," he began, turning her tear-streaked face toward him and bending to kiss her quivering, pouty lips, "you could manage to come down to the troop train and see me off."

She twisted around so she could throw her arms around his strong neck and draw herself deeper into his protective arms, pressing her soft breasts against his chest.

"I know you're not big on parades, but they'd decided to give the regiment a rousing send off. Personally, I think they're just tired of the Saucy Seventh winning their polo matches. Anyway, I thought it might be the kind of thing your paper would want you attend. Manjeet will be there, and some dashing young sergeant of hussars riding his splendid hunter off to glory."

She poked him in the chest, and burst into tears, burying her face in his shoulder. "Of-of c-course I'll b-be there. Damn you, Jack! Why does being in love have to hurt so damned bloody much?"

#  Chapter Thirty-Four

Kitty made it to the regimental parade in time to watch Jack ride by, looking heroically handsome in his new field uniform as he rode with his men toward the troop train. At the last minute, she'd managed to get Maud to do her hair in the latest style and help her slip into her best silk and lace frock so she could stand waving her ridiculous little British flag as the troops paraded by and her heart began to break. Unseen to the mass of patriotic, well-wishing parade-goers surrounding her, she clenched her gloved hand behind her back with its fingers crossed. Kitty hadn't been idle. As soon as Jack had torn himself from her embrace, she'd set to work; writing, telephoning and meeting with the necessary people needed to set her daring plan in motion. She'd never felt so brazenly unladylike, or so determined. Like all the men of his regiment, Jack was bound for a duty station in faraway Bombay, but unlike many of the women they left behind, Kitty had no intention of remaining in Calcutta, wringing her hands and sobbing out her heart like a dutiful sweetheart.

* * * *

"Maud—are you about ready?" Kitty picked up the last bag, one of the carpet bags she'd had on the train the day Ivy, Maud's sister had been murdered. Manjeet had returned it to her some time ago She'd left it unopened until now, telling herself she was too busy; unready to admit she felt it'd be like opening Pandora's box, releasing all the horrible phantoms of that nightmare to plague her yet again. . She began putting a few last minute items inside while making a face at her restless pets, Bubble and Squeak, already fidgeting in their travel cage and watching her every move with bright intelligent eyes.

She was a little surprised when her fingers found the unopened envelope Ivy O'Hara had given her on the train. She'd claimed it was from Hiram Jenkins; Hiram of the sweaty face, bad teeth, and wandering fingers. "Something she must read; something to turn her away from Sgt. Wilde," Ivy had said. _Sorry, no chance of that, Ivy_ , Kitty declared to the empty bedroom. _She was well and truly in love with the man._ Anyway, how reliable and important could it be if Hiram Jenkins had done the research; Hiram who'd tried to bed her from the moment she smiled back at him the day she'd been hired. Whatever it was, it'd have to keep. They were already running late.

"Miss, I've been biting my tongue, but I have to say it; do you really think we should be doing this?" Maud wandered into the room, trudging across her thoughts. "I mean, selling the house, uprooting yourself, the wee tiny monkeys and everything to traipse across all of Hindustan after a _soldier_?" Me, I could picture, Miss, but you're a lady. _Ladies_ , don't follow the drum."

Kitty had been expecting this. Biting her bottom lip, she realized she'd have to handle her hard-as-nails housekeeper just right or she'd shatter the companionable relationship they'd been cementing together. "Maud, are you saying you don't want to go? I-I'd hate to lose you, but if you've ties here, or you feel uncomfortable. . . ."

"Oh no, Miss; I'd follow you to the ends of the earth. I'm just concerned that you're setting yourself up for a broken heart. Sergeant Wilde is a fine man, he is, but he's only a little over halfway through his enlistment, and the army has a way of pulling the rug out from under ya. He might be reassigned to a duty station back in ol' Blighty. Would you be following the man, _there,_ if it happened?"

"Yes. I'd follow him onto my father's estate if I had to. I love Jack Wilde, and I believe he loves me. I'm hoping when the next three years are over, he'll want to share the rest of his life with me. Until then, I want to be close at hand in case he has a free hour or two between patrols or whatever duties they assign him. Does this make me his mistress or a disgraceful fallen woman?" Kitty looked across at Maud to catch her reaction. Outside of a little twist to her thin lips as though she'd bitten into something bitter, there was nothing alarming. Maud's eyes still twinkled with warm compassion. "I'm hoping you understand, O'Hara, and don't think me a complete fool or a common strumpet."

"Of course not, Miss. I'm merely concerned for your happiness."

" _This_ man is my happiness. As for our future, I've secured us a modest dwelling in a good neighborhood near the cantonment, and the _Bombay Courier_ has agreed to employ me as a journalist as long as I submit at least one penny dreadful a month. With the type of hazardous missions Jack seems to be assigned, I suspect I'll never run out of material for heroic adventures."

"Well, I suppose I'd better see to the workmen getting our luggage out to the hired gharries, Miss."

"Yes, we've got to be on our way in ten minutes, O'Hara." Kitty turned, intent on finishing her own packing, but paused and plastering a warm smile on her face, turned and addressed O'Hara one more time. "Thank you, Maud. For listening . . . and coming with me. I need you with me in this." She turned back to her luggage, afraid her housekeeper would see the tears welling in her eyes.

"Don't mention it, Miss. I'd never leave you to face this alone."

Before Kitty could answer, her housekeeper turned and walked from the room.

Ten minutes. Kitty had to bundle Maud and the monkeys into one of their hired carriages and be on their way to the train station within ten minutes. They had the Bombay Express to catch. Wouldn't dear Jack be surprised when he saw her? She could already imagine the feel of his strong arms about her, the sweet taste of his lips crushing her own. _Oh dear god, she couldn't wait._

#  Chapter Thirty-Five

Once again, Kitty stopped her quivering hand from twisting the damp, wrinkled envelope she'd discovered lurking in the shadows of her beaded reticule. Leaning back against the railway car's cracked leather seat, she nervously tapped the edge of the battered envelope, its printed return address branding it as official business from her former _Calcutta Informer_ newspaper office against her chin, half-afraid to rip it open, but curious as hell.

Why not open it. Admit it—you're as curious as a monkey trying to get a treat out of a trap.

She gazed affectionately across the aisle at the cage containing her diminutive traveling companions, Bubble and Squeak, and then up into the homely face of Maud O'Hara, her dear new companion, who immediately favored her with a maternal smile. Maud, her new savior, whose sister had died protecting her moments after thrusting this very envelope in her hands. And little Bubble and Squeak, her two mischievous primate companions. _They'd_ caused this dilemma. Discovered by a couple of excited Indian children, word had rapidly spread. Almost instantly, the primates' cage had been mobbed by bored children thrilled to learn there were real monkeys onboard their over-crowded second-class coach. Swept up in their chattering joy, Kitty had gaily reached into her reticule for the seed and berry treats cook had prepared, and discovered Hiram's letter where she'd shoved it.

Why don't you open it? Open it, or throw the damned thing away. You've got Jack. You know he loves you—that he's a good man. A wonderful man. Tear up the darned letter.

In spite of its promise of astounding speed and luxurious comfort, traveling from east to west across the Indian subcontinent in one of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway's stifling second class coaches was far from enjoyable. Of course, she had only herself to blame. She could've sat with the other memsahibs in First Class, by simply relegating O'Hara and her furry companion to the noisy, smelly, sweat-drenched coach of the common man. After all, she'd been born of the British aristocracy. But _no_ , she was right where she intended to be. If second class coaches were for hard-working, ordinary folk, then that's where she should be. Hadn't she insisted to Jack she was just an ordinary modern woman? Besides, she'd never ask O'Hara to endure anything she wasn't prepared to face herself. And, they were less than two hours away from Bombay.

So open the damned letter! Coward. It's from Hiram Jenkins, silly. Why do you care what he's written? You'll see your Jack by afternoon tea! Hopefully she'd be in his arms by nightfall!

#  Did you enjoy reading Escaping Fate? You can continue Kitty and Jack's story in Dodging Bullets, Book 2 of the Rescue Series. Coming Soon!!

Dodging Bullets will be available February 2014!

Please enjoy a sneak peek at Dodging Bullets

### Chapter One

Bombay, India 1895

"So, you'll board the military train for Karachi at dawn. From there, you'll travel north to Peshawar. Under cover of darkness, you'll sneak into the foothills at the southern end of Khyber Pass. Wilde's Sikh will act as native scout. Alright, gentlemen, you have your duties. Tomorrow then, I'll expect you to have your men saddled, provisioned, and ready to ride by first light. Any questions?"

Jack waited a second for Lt. Richardson to shoot him the usual nervous glance for assistance, before answering Lieutenant-Colonel Paget for his inexperienced superior. "No, sir. We'll do our duty, and pluck these troublemakers out of the mob before anyone realizes they've let wolves into the henhouse."

"Ah, Wilde, another of your delightful American witticisms. Over here, it's _foxes_ in the henhouse."

"Foxes don't come as well-armed as we . . . wolves . . . sir."

"Ah, yes. This constant putting out of rebellious fires does get damnably irritating. You'd think by 1895, the damned Wogs would've figured out we're here to stay, and cease brewing these ridiculous tempests in teapots. Oh well, as long as the empire has enemies, the army serves a purpose, gentlemen, and we all fill an important need. We have purpose. Remember those poor surviving bastards survived the charge of the Light Brigade in fifty-four. Damned ungrateful nation couldn't forget them fast enough after the Crimea ended. Well, gentlemen, enough bemoaning a soldier's unhappy lot. You have your orders, I suppose that'll be all. Dismissed." Colonel Paget turned away, examining some papers on his huge teakwood desk, playing with his spotted terrier his as he waited for his junior officer and pet colonial to leave. At the last second, he spied the small clutch of letters his aide had put in the center of his desk just before the meeting.

"Ah—Sgt. Wilde! A moment, if you please!"

Jack stopped and turned, automatically snapping to attention, as his superior thrust a small packet of letters into his hand.

"The letter on top's been kicking around the country for a good six months, I'm afraid. Doesn't say much for India's postal system. One hopes things run better in the Americas."

When Jack realized the top letter was from Bethlem Hospital in London, he answered without his usual guarded caution. "Not so long ago, we had the pony express carrying mail cross-country out west. Sometimes delivery tended to be rather dodgy."

"Ah, yes—I've heard of that. Pursued by wild red Indians, no doubt." Seeming to realize Jack was only half-listening, Lieutenant Colonel Harold Paget paused and took several puffs of his Cuban cigar and patted his small spotted terrier before continuing. "Well, my boy, _here_ we have wild dacoits. I wouldn't be surprised if those train robbers you disposed of last winter weren't responsible for the delay in your mail."

"Yes, sir," Jack replied by rote, his mind devoured by dread as he wondered what the letter from "Bedlam" contained. "Good thing we stopped them, sir."

" _You_ stopped them, lad. _You._ Almost single-handedly, I might add. Jolly good show. Make a success of this mission, keep your people safe, and I'll see to your advance, my lad."

"Thank you, sir."

"Poppycock! I know whose broad shoulders the success of this special squad really sit on. Do well, my boy—I'll see you obtain a lieutenancy yet."

### Chapter Two

"Miss. Miss O'Keefe—do wake up, please. We've arrived, dearie."

Kitty roused herself from a particularly steamy dream in the arms of Jack Wilde, and groggily looked up at O'Hara's concerned face. "W-where? Where are we?"

"Train terminal, Miss. In Bombay. We're here!" As if sensing her traveling companion wasn't totally in the real world yet, Maud O'Hara let the joviality drain from her voice and pasted on her concerned motherly demeanor. "I let you sleep, Miss. You looked so hot and uncomfortable. No way for a proper lady to travel, if you don't mind my saying so." Maud chewed her lip as if waiting for her still sleepy employer to take it all in. "I took the liberty of having the luggage and yer pets loaded on a hired rig. There's another for you and me to travel in some comfort. It's a wee smidge cooler outside too, Miss. Just a smidge."

Acutely aware that her traveling clothes were drenched in sweat and quite rumpled, Kitty rose on wobbly legs to leave the railway carriage. It _was_ beastly hot! Her clothes clung to her body like wet rags. She must look quite a fright.

Letting O'Hara steady her as they walked the short distance to the waiting carriages, at first Kitty was totally unaware of heads turning in the wake of her swishing skirts.

Bombay's train terminal was full of bustling passengers, many of them soldiers, and all of those male. Kitty blushed as she walked along, embarrassed when so many young gentlemens' faces smiled at her, and turned to follow her every move.

Pausing briefly at the hired wagon carrying her two furry companions, she cooed endearments and scratched playful Squeak for a few moments before moving on to her own carriage, totally unaware that while she fawned over one monkey, his companion in crime, Bubble, was deftly wheedling the still unopened letter out of her grasp.

"I've given the drivers our new address, Miss, and sent word ahead to 18 Gladstone Square that we've arrived and will be there shortly." Maud paused again, waiting while her mistress was handed up into the waiting open carriage and she'd hoisted herself into a seat opposite. Once comfortably seated, she leant forward, grasping each of Kitty's gloved hands.

"I took the liberty, Miss, of sending word to yer young man's cantonment. I know you wanted to surprise him, but I felt he should know you're here. It's only proper. My Bert—well, them soldier boys don't like surprises, Miss."

"Yes, well it's done then, isn't it?" Kitty replied, still struggling to deal with the oppressive heat, and quite unable to keep a slight taint of irritation out of her voice. "T-thank you, Maud."

* * * *

Standing out of the way as the hired native workmen and O'Hara bustled about moving her into her newly leased house, Kitty was not only the one closest to the entryway, but also the only one with nothing to do, when two bold knocks thudded into the front door.

Perhaps for the second time in her adult life, Kitty opened her own front door. A young major in an unfamiliar uniform stood at ease just outside the front door of Eighteen Gladstone Square, an all too-familiar envelope clasped in his spotless white glove.

The observant newswoman in Kitty immediately took in the stylish, well-waxed ginger moustache glued to a pale face with precisely-trimmed hair already deserting the top of his shiny dome. Watery blue eyes, too small and close together twinkled at her expectantly, separated by a fine patrician nose, its nostrils covered with broken blood vessels, a sure sign of over-indulgent drinking. Full, almost femininely-shaped lips twisted in a decidedly self-important sneer, above a chin rapidly disappearing into a well-tailored, bright yellow uniform collar loaded with extravagant gilt lace.

"Miss O'Keefe? Miss Katherine O'Keefe? I believe this correspondence belongs to you," he said, thrusting the wrinkled envelope into her quivering hand.

Kitty was not so naive as to believe the major just happened to follow her all the way from the train station to return a rumpled letter. Most likely he'd seen her passage from train to carriage and decided to seize the moment, follow her home, and try his luck. _How had he gotten Hiram's letter? Where had she_ _dropped it?_ _What did he want? Perhaps he was a brazen masher._ _She mustn't say anything that might be construed as encouragement. Thank him and send him on his way._

"Thank you, sir," she replied coolly, taking the letter and placing it on the Burmese mahogany calling-card table. Luckily, the workmen had just put the elephant-shaped table richly decorated with mother of pearl into the hallway.

"Major Byron Colbert Pilkington, Ma'am. At your service. If there's any other way I may be of service—"

"Well, actually, Major, I'm expecting my fiancée any moment," Kitty said, praying her face displayed sweet innocence. "He's in the army too—perhaps you know him? Sergeant John Wilde of the 7th Queen's Own Hussars?"

"Cavalry bloke. _Sergeant_ , you say?" Byron said with an unguarded sneer. "God Lord, that's most unfortunate. There's no unwashed rank and file allowed here, Miss O'Keefe. This square—these precious homes—this is _officer_ country, my good woman. Someone should've mentioned that before they let you lease the property. Your man show's his face here, he'll likely be shot, or at the very least, brought up on charges. Good day to you!"

As if insulted that he'd been forced to waste his time on a common woman, no matter how pretty her face or delightful her figure, the major marched away indignantly, his angry flight more of a rout than an orderly retreat. Behind him, Kitty crossed her arms beneath her breasts, instantly aware of her constricting corset, yet satisfied that she'd at least been able to put one unwanted bounder in his place. Oh Jack; if only _you_ were here. Closing the door, she walked deeper into her new home, hoping to be of _some_ use, totally forgetting the envelope on the small card table.

* * * *

Had Miss O'Keefe known the truth of how he'd gotten the letter, she probably would've been quite upset. The major had observed the little monkey plucking the envelope from its unsuspecting mistress's grasp. When he'd approached and tried to pry the letter from the obnoxious little beast's clasping fingers, it had tried to bite him, refusing to let go. A sharp rap across its knuckles with stout hickory wood hadn't worked; it was only when he poked the little Blighter in the face with the end of his officer's baton that the hairy bugger let go of the envelope. _And all for nothing._ The pretty tart was freely giving herself to some lowly sergeant. In the _cavalry_ , no less. _What a bloody waste. Well, no bother._ Byron let his full lips curl upward in a nasty smile. He might be a mere major in the Army Pay Corps, but he had friends. _He had friends in very high places._

* * * *

_Couldn't she do anything right?_ 'Officer Country' only—dear god, she hadn't realized that when she'd signed the lease. _Well, she'd just have to go see Jack herself then; find a common meeting ground._

She lay in the main withdrawing room, lounging on her plush, but uncomfortable fainting couch, her soiled traveling dress and corset long removed. Clad only in a partly buttoned white nightdress, she tried to ignore the pained chirps and cries coming from the kitchen where O'Hara and the newly-hired Hindu parlormaid administered first aid to poor Bubble's black eye. Feeling less than useless in the situation, she'd fled from the room, and now lay pouting as she twirled the battered envelope from Hiram once again.

Open the damned thing!

As her slender fingers ceased their trembling and tore the envelope open, she frowned, realizing her long awaited day had already gone to hell. _How could Hiram's venomous letter_ _make it worse?_ She'd leased a house in an area her lover was forbidden to approach, some unknown assailant had abused one of her monkeys, and though he'd been notified of her arrival, Jack hadn't come. He hadn't even acknowledged he'd gotten the message.

Open the damned letter!

Addressed to Ivy O'Hara, Maud's deceased sister, Hiram Jenkins's message was brief. He'd discovered the American, Jack Wilde, was a fugitive. Suspected of murdering an American senator's son aboard some ship, no less. _Old news. She'd known that. Jack had told her._ It was the second revelation that caused her to cry out in agony louder than little wounded Bubble, and prove the fainting couch was well-named.

No! Oh dear God—No!

Jack was married!

#  Books by Wayne R Tripp

Are you looking for more books by Wayne Tripp? Check out his other series and novels out there today!

### Series:

The Legacy of Terror Series – Paranormal Romance

Grim Island Book 1

The Blackest Heart Book 2

Slaying Monsters Book 3

### Standalone Novels:

Allure of Siren's Song – Historical Romance

Like Clockwork – Steampunk Romance

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