The Mammoth Book of Regency Romance

The Panchamaabhuta Leah Ball

Wells, England — 1817

Francis studied the massive ruby ring that winked on her finger. The Panchamaabhuta had always been her good luck charm. The Indian ring was named for the golden geometrical figures that flanked the square-cut ruby on either side. The symbols represented the forces of nature in the Hindi religion: earth, water, fire, air and ether. According to Hindu beliefs, the five elements combined together to form a powerful force that flowed through all living things. Francis believed in the power of the ruby to protect her from harm. It had been her husband’s gift to her, and now it was the only possession of value that she had left.

Francis darted an anxious glance around her. The dining room of the Horse and Hounds was filled with rough-looking men who had crowded in with her to take refuge from the storm. She cupped a hand over her ring, screening it from view. Her survival depended on delivering it to Bath tomorrow.

Her skin prickled. The man leaning beside her at the counter of the tap seemed to be looking at her hand. He had a bold, well-proportioned face with a strong chin. A tight silk vest clung to his massive chest. His fair hair was clipped short and he was a full head taller than the other men in the room. If she was not mistaken, he had been eyeing the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave him a reproving look, and their eyes met and held. A spark flashed between them. Francis felt a tingling sensation travel down to her belly. She found it difficult to look away from the curious, light green eyes that gleamed in his dark face. His buckskins were still slightly damp, and he carried an earthy scent of animal skin and sandalwood. Francis realized that her hands were trembling. Under the influence of his brazen stare, her skin prickled first hot, then cold. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to will the disturbing sensations away.

“Well, then.” The innkeeper appeared at her elbow. “You look as if you took a right beating in the storm.”

Francis shrugged, scattering droplets of water across the counter. The traveller beside her chuckled, and she supposed she looked a fright. Her soaked hair clung to her forehead and little rivulets of water were trickling down her neck.

The innkeeper waved to a table in the corner of the room that was being cleared. “Can I get you a proper seat? Nothing like a meat pie and a hot tureen of soup to warm you!”

Francis’ stomach churned at his words. She looked longingly at her fellow traveller, who was attacking a plate of country ham. His jade eyes glinted with enjoyment as he chewed and swallowed. Francis swallowed too. Her last hot meal had been two days ago. She felt a little faint at the sight of those translucent slices of ham, slathered with mustard.

“Just hot coffee with cream, please.” Skipping meals had become a habit with her. Francis had lost at least a stone since her husband’s death. She had stopped eating out of grief, and then it had become a necessity. The angles of her wrists now jutted out from her slender hands. Her bosom, which once had been very fine, now seemed to be the only plump part of her. Robert had loved her bosom. It warmed Francis to recall his sigh of contentment when he buried his face between her breasts. She absently ran her fingers over her soft flesh, remembering.

A chuckle sounded in her ears. Francis looked up, startled. Her neighbour’s stare, like a pinprick, had invaded her reverie. The tanned rogue winked, ogling her bosom. She flushed and moved her hand away from her breast, realizing he must have thought her unconscious gesture was a sexual invitation. She looked around the throng of gentlemen, uncomfortably aware that she was the only woman present in the public room. Her stagecoach had broken a wheel in a muddy rut and Francis and her fellow passengers had walked an hour through the rain to take refuge in the Horse and Hounds. The coach would not leave until early in the morning. The price of the inn’s modest room would eat up most of what was left of her meagre resources.

Francis slumped against the counter, feeling a heaviness settle in her limbs. Her breathing turned shallow, and her vision blurred. The voices of the men at the tap dimmed in her ears and she curled into the shell of her own thoughts, blotting out her surroundings. This journey to Bath was just one stop along an endless journey that moved her body from one place to another, while her mind remained rooted in Brussels. Robert had fallen on the battlefield of Waterloo two years before, bayoneted by a French soldier. Francis dwelled in Brussels still, repeating her husband’s parting words in her mind until they had become a daily prayer. The bitter loss at Waterloo had left her with an eerie feeling of detachment towards the scenes that played themselves out around her. Perhaps that was why she had been unable to hold on to any kind of steady employment. She had hired herself out as a governess for the children of one of the colonels in her husband’s regiment, but he had let her go after less than six months. Try as she might, Francis could not like the Burroughs’ pampered girls, who threw tantrums every time she tried to enforce some discipline on them. She had watched their squalling with a cold feeling as if she saw them through a pane of glass. It was as if she were merely marking time, waiting to follow Robert to the other side.

Something brushed her leg, sending a jolt through her. Francis gave a little gasp and jerked her head up. The tanned stranger flashed her a wicked grin, and she realized he had momentarily pressed his muscular thigh against her leg. She glared at him, but then found it difficult to withdraw her gaze. Those brilliant green eyes ensnared her. There was fire in their translucent depths and she stood, as if hypnotized. A surge of energy crackled between them and Francis swayed on her feet, clutching the counter for support. The spell broken, she turned her eyes to his plate of ham, now half empty and furrowed with mustard.

The gentle pressure of fingers on her hand made her jump. He held a fork out to her. “The name’s Jared White.” He nodded at his plate. “I have more than enough food here for two. Go on, help yourself.”

Francis looked from the pink slices of ham, drowning in grease, back to Mr White. The gnawing pain in her stomach almost tempted her to accept his offer. But she mistrusted the rakish gleam in his eyes. Perhaps offering to share his meal was a ploy so he could take advantage of her.

“No, thank you.”

Mr White frowned, but the innkeeper reappeared, saving Francis from further embarrassment. The innkeeper was a stout man with a balding pate who looked to be respectable, in spite of the shabby state of his hostelry. “Your room is ready, Mrs Taylor. If you’d like to go up and get dry, I’ll bring the coffee up to you.”

Francis smiled with real gratitude. The kindly man seemed to understand how vulnerable she felt in this public room, surrounded by strangers.

She turned to follow the innkeeper, but Mr White touched her arm. “You are sure you won’t join me? At least take your coffee here.”

“No, thank you.” Francis’ arm was not entirely steady when she pulled it away.

“Then I wish you pleasant dreams.” Something about the sly way Mr White murmured those words put Francis to the blush. She could feel his intent gaze on her as she jostled her way out of the crowded room.

The innkeeper wheezed as he led Francis up the stairs towards a small room at the end of the hall. Inside was a timbered chamber with a low roof that looked as if it had not been dusted for a long time. Cobwebs encrusted the mirror and windows. Two narrow iron beds, a washstand and a wicker chair were the only furniture. The window fronted a wood-planked balcony that seemed to extend along the backside of the inn. Francis gave a little moan of delight at the sight of the crackling fire in the grate. She ran to the hearth and stretched out her hands.

“I’ve given you as many blankets as I could spare.”

Francis hardly heard the innkeeper, for she had closed her eyes to soak in the blessed warmth. He must have gone, for a few moments later, she heard a knock at the door, and the portly man handed her a tot of hot coffee.

“I am indebted to you,” Francis said, curling her fingers around the hot metal cup.

He gave her a harried look. “I have to be getting back. A new group’s just come in. I don’t know where I will lodge them all!” Throwing up his hands, he rushed from the room.

Francis drank the coffee down in a few scalding gulps. She stripped off her dripping wet clothes and draped them over the mantelpiece to dry. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror. Her bright blue eyes looked unnaturally large in her pointed face, and the golden curls of her braid were tangled into a bird’s nest. Her firm mouth drooped with fatigue. Wrapping herself in a woollen blanket, Francis sank into the wicker chair that stood next to the fire. For the first time in almost a day, she felt her shoulders begin to relax. Perhaps she would be all right after all.

She looked down at the Panchamaabhuta gleaming in the light of the flames. The refraction of the light created a star-shaped pattern in the ruby’s crimson depths. It was a man’s ring, and it looked enormous on Francis’ slender finger. Her husband’s good-luck charm had seen her home from Brussels. It was the only thing of value that Robert had left her, and now perhaps it would give her a new start. Francis took up her reticule and dug around inside it. Shivering, she extracted the announcement she had cut out of The Times. “Seeking the Pancha-Maabjoota. Will buy it at any price.” A description of the star ruby from Madagascar and its gold setting followed. Francis examined the gem on her finger. Robert had called his ring by that name, and a jeweller had assured her that it was a genuine star ruby. Even its golden setting matched the description in the paper. Francis frowned at the announcement. Who knew how many Indian rubies were to be found in England? But the gentleman in the advertisement, one Mr Davis, had said the ring had once belonged to his family and had been lost at Oxford. Francis thought Robert had said he had won it in college at a game of faro. Her intuition told her that her good-luck charm was the one. According to Hindu superstitions, the Panchamaabhuta could be counted on to protect its wearer from harm. Francis was determined to believe that her talisman had drawn Mr Davis to her when she had exhausted every other avenue of support.

When the fire had dimmed to a dull glow, Francis climbed, shivering, into bed. But she was too cold to sleep. She lay in the darkness, wondering what she would do if the announcement in The Times turned out to be a prank. One trouble after another had followed since Robert’s death. Without him, Francis felt as if the bottom had dropped out of the centre of her life, leaving it as dark and oppressive as her unlit room. In the adventurous years she had spent following the drum, accompanying a ragtag army of men through Spain and France, Francis hadn’t minded lodging in flea-infested quarters and living on scraps. But then she had had Robert at her side. Without him, the dark English winter pressed in on her until she longed for her own release.

“Please come for me,” she whispered into the darkness, running her fingers along the square-cut ruby.

Francis dreamed she was trying to cross a frozen lake. She strained to move her legs, but they had frozen into blocks of ice. Her body was getting colder and colder. Soon the falling blizzard would cover her entirely. “Help!” she shouted, but the words came out in a pathetic whisper.

There was a slight sound, and she felt warm breath on her face. Suddenly, she could move her limbs. She reached up and felt the silken texture of fine hair beneath her fingers. The teasing currents of his breath tickled her face. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

He didn’t move. She looked up, surprised, but the fire had almost died out, making it difficult for her to see Robert’s face. “I need you,” she said, her voice throaty with longing.

He bent towards her, and she could hear his breathing quicken. When their lips met, she let out a moan of surprise. His mouth was warm, his lips surprisingly soft. She opened her mouth to him. The kiss was tender. The velvet tip of his tongue brushed hers. He traced her lips, and then plunged his tongue into her mouth. The intensity of his heated kisses sent a jolt straight to her core. Francis gasped and reached for him, pulling him down on top of her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, devouring her. She panted beneath him, lost in sensation. His heavy body pressed her down into the mattress, his weight solid and arousing. Francis massaged his firm buttocks, and he groaned. When he thrust against her, she felt a hard ridge press into her stomach. His mouth tasted deliciously of brandy. Arching up, Francis bit into his neck. He tasted of curry and sandalwood. Francis shivered, confused. His smell reminded her of something. She tried to speak, but his mouth closed over her nipple, sucking her through the thin muslin of her nightgown. Francis cried out in pleasure, sinking her nails into his back. “Oh, yes, please!” she cried, thrashing underneath this delicious assault.

A door slammed, somewhere down the hall, bringing Francis fully awake. She stiffened, realizing with the suddenness of a lightning bolt that the man in her bed was not her husband. “Who? What … what are you doing?” she cried.

The man jumped up from the bed and darted to the window. She heard a rasping sound, and realized that the intruder was escaping.

“Stop!” Francis jumped out of bed, her mind reeling. The window closed with a rattle, and then she heard a slamming sound farther off. She dived for the candle and ran to light it in the dying embers of the fire. The flickering taper revealed the bare fingers of her right hand. The Panchamaabhuta was gone.

Francis wailed, a low, keening note that seemed to rise up from the depths of her being. The deep, guttural lament went on and on. Iron bands squeezed her lungs. It wasn’t just her hope that had gone; the ring was all she had left of Robert. The finality of her loss struck Francis with full force. “No, no, no, no!” She pounded her fists against the mantelpiece. “Oh, God, Robert, Robert.” She crumpled over, racked with sobs. After some time, the blackness receded. Her stomach growled, forcing her back to the present. If she didn’t get the Panchamaabhuta back, she would starve.

She lifted her head, thinking. What did she know about the man who had stolen her jewel? He had the same smell of buckskin and spices as the stranger from the public room. Mr White had been eyeing her ring, hadn’t he? Francis remembered his teasing look when he had wished her pleasant dreams. Suddenly the words took on a sinister meaning.

Francis ground her teeth. Whoever he was, the thief had leaned over her bed because he was trying to steal her ruby. She was the one who had, inadvertently, offered him another prize. She remembered the intruder’s searing touch, and shivered. It had felt so right, being held in his arms, but he had only been taking advantage of her. She touched her swollen lips, remembering the hungry way Mr White had stared at her mouth when they stood together at the tap. He had pressed his thigh against her leg beneath the counter. It must have been him. The blackguard had misused her and robbed her into the bargain.

Francis’ gaze flew to the window. He had escaped that way, and then she had heard a muffled thud. Her chamber was located in the back corner of the inn, and there was nothing but wood beams to her right. The sound had seemed to come from the chamber to her other side. Perhaps the thief had deliberately taken a room next to hers. There was only one way to find out.

Stumbling in her haste, Francis pulled a thick woollen shawl over her nightgown and slipped on her kid half-boots. She strode to the window and pushed it upwards with a grating sound. Stealthily, she lowered herself on to the balcony on the other side. A board creaked beneath her feet. The wooden planks of the balcony seemed to connect all the rooms along the back of the inn. Moving on tiptoe, Francis crept slowly towards the next room. The window of the chamber was bare of curtains. She stood back, in the shadow of the wall, where she thought she could look through the pane of glass without being seen.

Standing up on tiptoe, Francis craned her neck. The room was glowing with candlelight and a crackling fire. A tall man with clipped blond hair stood barefoot on the rug. Francis drew her breath in on a hiss. There was no mistaking his powerful build — Mr White had dwarfed the other men in the public room. She flattened herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe. She was suddenly aware of how exposed she was, alone on the dark balcony with only a pane of glass separating her from a man who could very well be a dangerous criminal. He stood with his back turned. At first, she thought he was hugging himself. Then he lifted his arms, and pulled the white linen shirt over his head. The broad expanse of his bare back, rippling with muscles, was revealed. Francis bit her lip. Mr White was very well made. His golden-toned body tapered from powerful shoulders to a trim waist, and his tight buckskins were moulded to his firm buttocks. He bent forwards, tugging at his waistband, and Francis realized that he was unfastening his trousers. Embarrassed, she was about to retreat, when she saw a glint of red on his right hand. Was it the Panchamaabhuta?

Francis squinted, but his hands were on his trousers, making it difficult to see. Mr White was inching his buckskins down, revealing a tempting expanse of smooth golden skin. Francis held her breath when the round globes of his buttocks came into view. She felt a tingling sensation in her belly, and she pressed her cheek against the glass, trying to cool her heated face. Mr White had powerful thighs, furred over lightly with golden brown hair. His long, muscular legs revealed his prowess in sporting pursuits. When he turned towards her, she saw his pendulous sex swinging between his legs, cushioned in a nest of dark curls. Francis swallowed convulsively. Heavens, but he was a beautiful man. She felt little prickles along her skin as she looked at the broad expanse of his naked chest. He scratched his mat of golden-brown hair luxuriously, and Francis’ teeth clicked together. She had seen the glint of red on his right hand. She couldn’t mistake the golden setting of the ring. It was the Panchamaabhuta. Francis gave a fierce snort, and the sound seemed to catch his ears. Mr White looked up towards the window.

Francis ducked down, huddling in the shadows. She waited in fear for some time, scolding herself for her carelessness. A vault of darkness and silence enclosed her. When the tumult of her beating heart slowed, she straightened up and looked through the window again. Mr White had walked over to his bed. The light in the room dimmed, as if the candles had been blown out, one after the other.

Francis chewed her lip, twisting the ends of her shawl in her hands. Her fingers clenched around a tassel, and she tugged at it so hard that it broke off. The gloating look on Mr White’s face had incited her beyond bearing. Robert had left her the ring as his parting gift. She would rather die than let his precious keepsake end in the hands of a cutpurse.

Francis waited, crouching in the shadows, until she thought she heard the sound of snoring. Her joints were stiff when she stood upright again. Moving out of the shadows, she peered into the darkened room. The fire was still blazing in the grate, and she saw Mr White lying, with his eyes closed, in his bed. She trembled at the thought of what she would have to do. She was going to break into the room of a strange gentleman, risking her reputation, even her safety, to steal back her jewel. But Mr White had left her no choice. Francis dug her nails into her palms. She wasn’t going to let the Panchamaabhuta go without a fight.

She tugged at the window, which gave with a rasping sound. Did none of the windows have locks in this forsaken inn? Holding her breath, Francis pushed the window up and hoisted herself through it. It was a struggle, but years of arduous travel had put a fair amount of strength in her wiry arms. She lowered herself to the floor. She had done it. She was actually inside.

The crackling fire shed a dim light around the room. She darted an anxious glance at the man on the bed, wondering if all her noise had woken him. All she heard was the steady sound of snoring. Chuckling to herself, she crept towards him, imagining his look of chagrin when he woke and discovered his booty was gone. He lay under a white coverlet, and she looked him over with cautious interest. In sleep, he looked more like a boy than a man. The strong planes of his face had relaxed. His tousled blond hair gave him an innocent look. Mr White stirred, muttering to himself. Francis knew she had to act now, and quickly.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she tugged down his coverlet to reveal his right hand. She was trembling when she reached out for the ring. He stirred, moving his hand out of reach. With a deep breath, Francis seized it in hers. His fingers were warm and the hair on the back of his hands felt rough against her palm. A flutter ran through her at the contact. Francis pulled at the ruby, and then sucked in her breath. The Panchamaabhuta seemed to be glued to Mr White’s index finger. She would have to use all her strength to take it off. Little goosebumps stood out on Francis’ arms. The smallest touch or sound might waken him. She darted a glance at Mr White’s face, but his expression was as peaceful as before. Francis curled her nails around the square-cut ruby, trying to advance it towards the tip of his finger. Suddenly, Mr White turned his head. His catlike eyes, awake and fiery, stared into hers.

“So you’ve come back for more.” Throwing off his bedclothes, he dived for her.

Francis scampered away with a frightened squeak. Moving with a speed born of sheer terror, she raced to the window.

He reached it at the same time. Blocking her escape, he seized her wrist in a firm clasp. “We have a score to settle, you and I.” He loomed over her, and Francis stared at his hairy chest. He was standing before her, naked as God made him.

Francis’ heart seemed to be jumping out of her bosom, but she was still able to think. Bringing her foot up, she came down with all her weight, crushing his bare toes beneath her boot. He let go of her with an agonized grunt. She leaped to the window, and pushed up on the pane of glass. As she started to hoist herself up, strong arms seized her from behind. She kicked at him, trying to free herself, but an irresistible force pulled her down to the floor. Francis writhed, kicking and panting, as they rolled across the floor. She landed on top and scratched viciously at his face. He cursed and slapped her. Francis hardly felt the stinging pain on her cheek. Her heart was pounding, and a surge of fierce triumph shot through her. After two years of slow, burning rage at Robert’s death, now she had a human target to wreak her vengeance on. It wasn’t some nameless French soldier who had taken Robert from her. It was Mr White, who had violated her bond with her husband by stealing the ring.

“You bloody thieving bastard!” She hammered blows at his face. “How dare you? You miserable, mercenary wretch!” This time, her nail nicked the corner of his eye, drawing blood.

Cursing, he seized her wrists together in one hand, gripping her so hard that she cried out in pain. She wriggled, but he held her arms fast and pinned her writhing body against his chest with his other hand.

“Let me go!”

His grip tightened on her. Francis panted against his naked chest, feeling a hard button press into her cheek. Turning her head, she bit viciously into his nipple.

He gasped, and then seized her in an iron grip. A punishing hand pushed her head down, burying her face in his warm, muscular shoulder. Francis couldn’t move. She realized with a sinking feeling that she was in his power. She went limp against him, as the truth sank in. He wasn’t a French soldier; he was a common thief in a roadside inn. Even if she got the Panchamaabhuta back, Robert was lost for ever. Exhausted, she collapsed on to Mr White. Immediately, the painful pressure eased. He tilted her chin up, so that his luminous eyes bored into hers.

“You fight like a Bengal tiger,” he said. To her surprise, there was a chuckle in his voice.

“Give me my ruby,” Francis said.

“If you want it, you’ll have to give me something in return.” He gave her a hot look.

Francis was suddenly aware that although she was wearing a shawl over her nightgown, she had nothing on underneath. She could feel the heat of his limbs coiled beneath hers.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He flicked his hand at her, showing off the ruby. “I’m not asking for much. Just one kiss, willingly given.” His smouldering gaze raked her, and Francis realized that the position he held her in, sprawled on top of him, had been deliberate. He had let her take the superior position, giving him access to the most vulnerable parts of her.

“Why should I trust you?”

His lips stretched in a devilish grin. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.” He moved so she could feel his breath against her cheek, ruffling her hair. The gentle caress made her shiver.

He must have felt it, for he chuckled again. The low, purring sound, so close to her ear, only added to her giddy sense of danger.

“You’re actually enjoying this.” She glared at him.

In answer, he pushed down her hips, shifting her until she felt his erection press between her thighs. Trembling with a mixture of arousal and fear, Francis sat motionless astride him. His hungry jade eyes bored into hers with hypnotizing effect. Some part of her began to give in to his silent invitation, and then she forced herself to look away. She struggled to lift herself off his body, but he only let her move so far away before he pulled her astride him again. Their rocking motion, as she wriggled back and forth against his erection was highly arousing. Francis felt a betraying moisture dampen her nightgown, even as she struggled to get away. This time, when he thrust her down on top of him, he nipped at her ear, and then sucked her ear lobe into his mouth. It sent a tingle straight to her belly. Panting, Francis scratched his naked chest. He gave a deep moan. Then his mouth was on hers, fierce and hot. He plunged his tongue inside, sending currents of giddying sensation through her belly. Giving in to the pleasure, Francis surrendered to the hard pressure of his embrace. His heady taste, a mixture of man and brandy, made her senses swim.

He grunted, a low, guttural noise, then tangled his tongue with hers. Unwilling to relinquish all of her power, Francis pulled back and then stabbed her tongue between his lips, ravishing him as he had ravished her. She plundered his mouth until he twisted and panted beneath her. Enjoying her new sense of power, Francis scratched the buds of his nipples with her fingernails. He shuddered and she could feel the urgency of his arousal. He pushed her off him, panting, and then took her by surprise by flipping her on to her back. Before she knew what was happening, he had removed her shawl and then he ripped her nightgown, exposing her round, firm breasts to the cold. She gasped, and her nipples puckered in the slap of frigid air. He knelt over her, and she felt his hot breath on her sensitive skin.

“Say yes.” His voice was harsh against her ear.

Francis nodded, and he just barely touched her nipple with the tip of his tongue. She whimpered, but he hovered over her, teasing.

“I want to hear the words.”

The flickering movement of his warm breath against her skin made her wild. “Yes,” she whispered.

He lifted her up into him so that his knee was pressed into her groin. Francis gave a choked cry and dug her nails into his shoulders. Supporting her in his arms, he buried his face in her bosom. She moaned as he caressed her soft flesh with the fan of his cropped hair. Then, with a hungry look, he took one of her nipples into his mouth.

Francis cried out. He suckled her, his tongue circling the tight bud. She whimpered and moaned, waves of intense pleasure engulfing her. His tongue was warm and its teasing pressure sent shock waves to her core. Quivering, Francis tossed her head from side to side, giving in to the white-hot sensations building in her groin. The fire exploded and she bucked against him, screaming.

“Oh, God, yes, please. Oh, God,” she moaned. Her sex contracted against his knee, swamping her in blinding volleys of sensation. Then she collapsed, panting, against him.

“The name’s Jared,” he murmured in her ear, “but you can call me anything you like.”

Francis blinked at him, as if she were waking from a long sleep. Her entire body felt intensely alive. She saw Jared in sharp focus now: the beads of sweat on his upper lip, his leaf-coloured pupils, rimmed by darker green, the tawny hair of his clipped sideburns that framed his face. The intent look in his eyes was almost too much for her to bear. She rested her head against his chest, and the muffled sound of his heartbeat tugged at her senses. Absently, she put her hand on her bosom, and felt her heart contract beneath her palm. Something powerful had taken possession of her. Francis opened her mouth to ask him why he had stolen the Panchamaabhuta, but the words came out in a sob.

“Shhh.” He stroked her hair, and, at his gentle touch, Francis buried her face in his chest. Sobs racked her as if a dam of pent-up grief had broken open. She wept and wept, feeling a leaden weight in her chest pressing her down, overwhelming her. Little by little, as she cried herself out, the heavy feeling began to fade. For the first time in two years, the black time in Brussels had receded. Francis hiccoughed and coughed, then raised her head, suddenly aware of how much time had passed.

“That’s better.” He had been rocking her gently against his shoulder, his voice a soothing murmur. Francis felt delicious warmth spread through her at his gentle touch. He lifted her in his arms and carried her, a limp armful, to his bed. She collapsed like a rag doll, looking up at him, wide-eyed. Suddenly she felt painfully exposed. Her stolen encounter had borne in on her that her bitter loss in Brussels hadn’t happened at all as she had imagined. She had thought that Robert’s death had taken everything from her. Instead, she had discovered a passionate, living force inside that she had never known until now. Francis straightened up, feeling strangely light and yet filled with wanting. And what she wanted, most of all now, was the stranger who stood naked before her.

For the first time, Francis smiled at him. His answering grin was brilliant even in the semi-darkness. He strode towards her and pulled her nightgown, which had pooled at her waist, down over her feet and threw it on to the floor. Then he took a step backwards. She watched him stand there motionless, his hands on his hips, studying her. His pupils were so dilated that his irises looked black. Francis lay trembling on the bed, waiting for him to come to her. But he stayed still.

She felt a surge of anxiety. She had never felt such raw desire for a man before. The carnal need to taste his hot mouth, to feel him deep inside her, was overwhelming. What if he didn’t feel the same way? “Jared.” She held out her hand.

He didn’t move. Francis frowned and sat up against the pillows, covering herself with her crossed arms.

“No, don’t,” he said in a husky voice. “Let me look at you.” His heated gaze assuaged a little of her uncertainty. He took a branch of candles to the fire, lit them, and then placed the light on the table next to the bed. He moved to stand at the foot of the bed. “Let me look at you,” he repeated, his voice harsh with command.

As if under a spell, Francis let her arms fall to her side, and then she relaxed against the coverlet, exposing her naked body to him.

He made a low, rumbling noise in his throat. “Put your arms behind your head.”

She did as he commanded, aware that she was thrusting her breasts forwards for his hungry gaze.

Jared licked his lips. The question of whether he wanted her was more than answered by the angle of his rigid sex, jutting out from his body. “For ten years I’ve been away from England, keeping company with women different from my kind. You are more beautiful than I could have imagined.”

His heated examination of her sent little shivers travelling up and down her spine. She knew that her arms and legs were too thin, but somehow he found her beautiful. The realization sent a fluttering sensation into her core. “Come.”

He didn’t move. “This is too good to be true,” he murmured, a rapt look in his eyes. He seemed to devour every bit of her white skin and long, wheat-coloured hair. Francis felt a stirring of pride at his evident admiration of her slender body. His eyes lingered on her flat belly, and the pink tips of her nipples, which jutted in response to the cold air. His possessive gaze was only feeding the flames of her impatience. He licked his lips again, and she realized he was examining the golden patch of curls above her sex. Inspired with a naughty idea, Francis spread her legs apart. He made a low, guttural noise in his throat. Encouraged, Francis raised a hand to her breast and traced lazy circles around her nipple. He sucked in his breath. She let her other hand drift down between her legs. Fixing him with a wanton look, she traced her folds with one fingertip.

Jared surged forwards, as if he could no longer contain himself. Climbing on to the bed, he lowered himself on top of her and entered her in one thrust. They both cried out when he sank into her. Francis thrashed beneath him, meeting his every thrust with fierce energy. He possessed her. But the more she surrendered to the sweet invasion, the more pleasure she felt. The warmth of his mouth, the fullness inside her, took her to a state entirely out of herself. His fingers, teasing her at the place of their joining, sent waves of heat through her. He stiffened, increasing his movements, and she felt the tingling sensation of a violent climax approaching. She arched up, lifting her hips to take him deeper inside her, and then she shattered against him with a breathless sob. He bit into her shoulder, muffling the hoarse sound of his own release.

He collapsed on top of her. Francis held on to him for dear life, hugging him so close that she could hardly breathe. Her nails dug into his back, as she felt his heavy weight squeeze the air out of her lungs. She couldn’t bear to let go of him, of the radiant sense of pleasure and release Jared had given her. He claimed her mouth in a fierce kiss, and then rolled off on to his side. He pulled her into his chest, and Francis rested her cheek against the soft mat of curls on his chest. It felt strangely, terrifyingly right, lying in his arms. His fingers tangled in her hair, and she sighed at his soothing touch. Soon she fell into a deep sleep.

Francis was aware of an elbow digging into her side. She winced, and tried to push it away. A loud snore resonated in her ears. Her eyes blinked open to find the early morning light streaming through the bare window. Jared was tangled in the coverlet, asleep, his back to her. She looked in admiration at the taut muscles of his back. Feeling rather shy, she traced her fingers along his smooth, golden skin. It was warm and silky to the touch. She felt a stir of desire at the sight of his naked body, lying so temptingly close to her. She was free of shame about the unexpected night she had spent with Jared. Making love to him had been entirely different to her decorous couplings with her husband. She had discovered some hidden part of herself, passionate and alive, which made her see everything in a different light. Francis had discovered that she had invested all that had been good of herself in Robert, and believed that it had died with him. Now, she seemed to have taken some of it back. Looking at her lover’s sleeping form, she spied the dull red glow of the Panchamaabhuta on his finger.

Francis wriggled out of bed and stood up, careful not to make any noise. Jared’s long, muscular limbs were intertwined with the white coverlet, and, in her fancy, he resembled a sculpture of Apollo. His arm was crossed over his chest, elevating the ruby into a ray of morning light. Francis knew her only chance to steal it back was while Jared was defenceless in sleep. His body was limp, his chest rising and falling with the sounds of his hearty snores. She bent over him. “Jared?” she murmured in his ear, testing him.

He didn’t move. His breathing was deep and regular.

Holding her breath, Francis took his hand in hers. This time the ring gave when she tugged it. Her heart was pounding in her chest when she slid the Panchamaabhuta off his finger. Slipping it on, she snatched up her woollen shawl and then struggled into her boots. The window groaned when she eased it open, and Jared stirred. Francis waited, her heart in her mouth, but he didn’t move. The sonorous sound of his snoring began again. Francis clambered through the window and hurried across the balcony to her room. She dressed in frantic haste and then ran down the stairs. Collaring the innkeeper Francis paid for her room, looking over her shoulder all the while. Her fellow travellers from the stagecoach had already gathered on the front step.

Francis ran out to them. She found the burly farmer with the woollen vest who had sat next to her in the coach the day before. He was shifting from foot to foot, balancing two great baskets of apples on his meaty hips. “How long until the coach comes?” Francis asked. “It’s just on for seven. It should be any minute now,” he said, creasing his round face into a friendly smile.

“If it ever comes at all. Look over there,” said the slender curate, pulling a long face.

The driver was riding towards them on one of the horses from the carriage.

“That’s not a good sign,” the farmer murmured. The coachman pulled his horse up in front of them and said, “Look here, now. I’ve just spoken to the carter, and the wheel is split more badly then he thought. It’s going to have to be replaced, and that won’t be until tomorrow.”

An angry babble broke out from the assembled travellers. Francis shot a nervous glance around her. At any moment now, Jared might wake up. What was she going to do?

She confronted the coachman. “You can’t just leave us stranded here!”

He looked down his nose at her. “You’ll have to hire a convenience yourself, or spend another night at the inn. The coach isn’t going anywhere today.”

Francis wrung her hands. “What can I do?”

The curate looked as if he had tasted something sour. “There won’t be anything in this forsaken spot. I suppose we’ll have to walk into Wells proper and see if we can hire a gig or cart or whatever they have on hand.” He pulled out his watch fob and shook his head. “The rector was expecting me yesterday. He’ll be right put out if I don’t show my face this morning.”

Francis thought the rector’s feelings were nothing to how put out Jared would be when he woke to discover the Panchamaabhuta was gone. The other gentlemen talked over their plans. A few of the travellers elected to stay another night at the Horse and Hounds. But the curate, Mr Pickering, and the farmer, who introduced himself simply as Samuel, decided to walk to Wells in search of a convenience. Francis ran after them, fairly twitching with anxiety. Her fear of what Jared would do if he caught her gave her a burst of strength she hadn’t known she had. She ploughed down the winding country path, striding through the long grasses until she was in the lead of the two other gentlemen.

But by the time they reached Wells, her legs felt like rubber. Panting, she collapsed on to a bench at the Stag Hostelry and ordered a cup of coffee while the two men went to look for a carriage.

Mr Pickering appeared in the doorway just after she had gulped down her hot brew.

“Did you find anything?”

He gave her a disgusted look. “Nothing for a lady to ride in, I’m afraid. The smithy offered a gig that looked to be on its last legs, and in the end we settled for a wagon.” Francis went to the doorway, and he waved his hand at a sturdy-looking four-wheeled vehicle. There was no top to the wagon, and only two seats in front.

“You’d better wait for the stagecoach,” Samuel said, lifting up his baskets of apples and heaving them into the back of the cart.

Francis swallowed and shot an apprehensive glance down the road she had come. “I must get to Bath without delay. If you don’t mind taking me with you, I will ride in the back.”

“Nonsense,” Samuel said. “It’s a mucky farm wagon.”

Francis peered inside. “I see nothing but straw at the bottom,” she said.

Samuel shook his head and made for the back of the carriage, but Francis took his arm. “Please,” she said rather breathlessly. “I hardly have any money, and I have to get out of town right away. I don’t mind.” Ignoring Mr Pickering’s outraged hiss, Francis clambered up the wooden side of the wagon. The skirt of her dress snagged on the iron fastenings of the carriage and the gentlemen averted their eyes as she tugged it free. Years of travel in all kinds of conditions had inured Francis to superficial proprieties. She squatted down Indian style next to the basket of apples. “I’ll keep an eye on your fruit baskets. Likely, if the road is as rough as it was back there, the apples might fall out and get bruised.”

The farmer gave her a shrewd look. “Help yourself to a few, if you like. Happen you didn’t have time for breakfast this morning.”

Mr Pickering pinched his lips together, but apparently he was too much the gentleman to voice his thoughts about Francis’ hoydenish behaviour. He climbed into the wagon next to Samuel, who took up the reigns and whipped the phlegmatic horses forwards.

Francis seized one of the rosy apples from the basket and sank her teeth into it. The sweet juice exploded against her tongue. It had now been three days since she had had a solid meal, and her stomach was burning with acid from the cup of coffee she had drunk. She ate every bit of the apple, including the core. Then she leaned her swimming head against the baskets. The gruelling run to Wells, on top of her exertions of the past two days, had left her in a stupor. She closed her eyes, trying to ease the stabbing pain in her head, and then she knew nothing more.

“Miss?” Francis awoke to the sound of an anxious voice. “Miss, can you hear me?” She cracked her eyes open to find a man in livery standing over her. She blinked at him, aware of the sounds of hooves and men’s voices. She was lying sprawled in the straw at the bottom of the wagon. She struggled upright, but there was no sign of Samuel or Mr Pickering. The wagon was standing in the stable yard of what looked to be a large inn.

“Where am I?” she asked the liveried man who seemed to be a groom.

“In Bath. Your friends tried to wake you. Eh, you did give them a fright. One of them went to see a rector or somelike, but the other went for a doctor.”

“Doctor?” Francis repeated, dazed.

“Samuel asked me to keep watch. Pale as a ghost, you were. I thought for a minute you weren’t going to wake up. But that blond fellow who felt your pulse said you was all right.”

“Blond fellow?” Francis struggled upright, and winced. There was a cramp in her leg, and her head was throbbing. She ran her hand across her eyes, and then froze. She had missed the cold pressure of the Panchamaabhuta. “My ring!” Francis looked wildly down at her hand. “The ruby! It’s gone.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered.” The groom let out a low whistle. “That gent who felt your pulse must have been cutting a sham.”

“He was blond, you said?” Francis whipped around to face the groom. “Was he very tanned?”

“That’s right. Looked like a traveller from foreign parts. Dressed like a nob, with buckskins and all.”

Francis drew her breath in a hiss. “Where did he go?”

The groom gestured at the inn. “He went in there. Said he was getting himself a bite.”

Francis didn’t hear the rest. She was running to the doorway of the inn, and then she burst into the dining room, her heart hammering in her chest.

Jared sat at a table by the window, sipping at a mug of ale. He was freshly shaven and he looked disgustingly handsome in a grey silk waistcoat and white linen shirt. A smug smile played over his lips as he leafed through The Times.

Francis clenched her jaw. “I’ll serve him trick or tie for this.” She charged towards his table. “So!”

At the fierce sound of her voice, Jared’s head jerked up. But if he was shocked to see her, he gave no sign. He waved at the bench across from him. “Dinner should be here any moment.”

Francis stamped her foot. “I don’t give a fig about dinner. I want the ring.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer.

“My ring was just stolen and, by a strange coincidence, I find you here!” Francis shot an accusing glance at Jared’s right hand, and then froze. The Panchamaabhuta was not on his finger. She looked at his other hand, puzzled, but there was nothing there. Was it possible that she had been mistaken, and some other man had taken her jewel? She looked around the room, but Jared was the only tanned man present. This was not surprising, considering that it was the dead of winter in England. It must be the very reason the groom had remembered Jared so well. The thought made Francis look him up and down suspiciously.

Jared stood up from the bench and moved close to her so that their bodies were almost touching. His masculine scent, mixed with smells of exotic spices, set her pulse racing. He brushed his hip against hers, sending a crackling current between them. “I, too, lost something valuable this morning. When I woke up, I discovered she was gone.” There was a sincere note of regret in his baritone voice.

Francis bit her lip. Jared had actually missed her. And the intent look he was giving her now told her that he wanted her still. When he slipped an arm around her waist, she forgot about the ruby. His hypnotic jade eyes and the gentle touch of his hand cupping her cheek made her sway a little on her feet. She reached out to steady herself, resting her palm against his chest.

“You didn’t even leave me your name,” he murmured in her ear. The low purr of his voice and the heat from his body were stirring Francis into a state of heightened arousal. The pressure of her hand against his chest increased, and she stiffened. There was a small, hard lump beneath her palm. Francis’ breath caught, and she darted a glance at her hand. The lump beneath it felt suspiciously like a ring in the inner pocket of Jared’s silk waistcoat.

“Come, have dinner with me.”

“Very well.” Francis forced her lips into a smile. She would play his little game, matching guile with guile. Jared didn’t know yet that she had discovered his treachery. She settled herself on the bench across from him. “I won’t say no to a hot meal.”

“I took the liberty of ordering you some ham. I got the impression last night that you had a taste for it.” There was a devilish glint in Jared’s eyes.

A portly server bustled over with a plate of hot rolls. Jared thanked the ruddy gentleman and held the basket out to her. “May I tempt you with a roll, Angelica?”

“What?” Francis had already closed her hands over a warm roll, but she stopped with it halfway to her mouth, giving him a startled look.

“No, that is not exactly right. I think Theodora suits you better.” He waved the butter plate at her.

She snatched the plate from him. “My name is Francis,” she said crossly, slathering the roll with butter and practically stuffing it into her mouth. It had been almost a week since she had eaten freshly baked bread, and it was more delicious than she could have imagined. Jared chuckled, but Francis didn’t mind, lost only to the blissful sensation of the hot, buttered roll melting against her tongue.

“Mmmmm,” she moaned, dispatching it in a matter of a few bites. Some of the butter had dripped on to her hand, and she swiped at it with her tongue, forgetting her surroundings.

Jared made a strangled noise in his throat. Francis looked up to see an expression of pure lust in his eyes. So his seduction of her had not been feigned, after all. She was struck suddenly with an idea for getting the Panchamaabhuta back. Watching Jared, she slowly, deliberately, dabbed her tongue against the base of her wrist, as if there were still butter there.

Jared stiffened against the bench, and she noticed his face had flushed, the red sheen visible even beneath his tan. Francis straightened up, flexing her shoulders in a catlike gesture, and he shifted restlessly in his seat. She smiled to herself. She had found Jared’s weakness, and she would use it to her advantage.

“I’m glad to see you’re all right.” Samuel appeared at her elbow, startling her.

Francis rose to her feet, feeling embarrassed by all the trouble she had caused the kindly man. “I’m so sorry. The stable man told me you had gone in search of a doctor. I should have sent word to you right away.”

Samuel beamed. “Doesn’t look as if you’re in need of one now.”

Jared was studying Samuel from under furrowed brows. “Will you join us, Mr … er …” There was a sharp note in Jared’s voice that startled Francis. She gave him a sideways look. He had moved to stand between her and the other man. Francis could almost have sworn he was jealous.

“Samuel.” The two men stared at each other, as if they were taking each other’s measure. “Thank you, but I’d best be getting along.” Samuel tipped his hat to Francis and turned away.

“Thank you for everything. What do I owe you for the ride?” she asked.

He chuckled. “It wasn’t nothing.”

“Please, I insist.”

But the kindly farmer had already reached the door. Francis sank reluctantly back on to the bench.

“A friend of yours?” Jared sat down across from her, and this time she was sure she had not mistaken the harsh timbre of his voice.

“We met on the stagecoach,” she said.

The furrow on Jared’s brow had grown more apparent. “You shouldn’t be so trusting of strangers.” He took a swig of ale.

Francis gave him an ironic look. “How true.”

Jared choked on his drink. His dancing eyes met hers, and suddenly the two of them were shaking with laughter. Francis collapsed against the bench, wiping her streaming cheeks. The last thing she should be doing was laughing with the rogue who had stolen the Panchamaabhuta, but somehow she couldn’t help it.

His white teeth flashed in a devastating grin. “When I stayed in Calcutta, an old woman told me a story about the hazards of meeting strangers on the road.”

“Indeed?” Francis said, crossing her arms. So Jared had been living in India.

He leaned his broad shoulders back against the bench. “The story is that the beautiful Kamalakshi journeyed to Shimla, where she was to marry a wealthy merchant. But she was waylaid by a road bandit who plundered her dowry jewels.”

Francis stiffened. There was a mischievous gleam in Jared’s eyes that told her there was more to his story than a simple diversion.

“Harmendra stole the ruby comb Kamalakshi wore in her hair. It was a priceless heirloom, each of the rubies as large as a cashew fruit. Kamalakshi couldn’t bear to part with the comb, and she resolved to steal it back.” Jared pressed his knee against Francis’ beneath the table and gave her a sly look. “But Kamalakshi’s schemes led her into Harmendra’s bed.

The story reminded Francis all too much of her encounter with Jared. She realized that her palms were sweating. “What happened then?” There was a husky note in her voice.

“Three times the ornament was stolen back and forth between the lovers. Kamalakshi’s nights of passion with Harmendra led her to break her betrothal vows. She pledged herself to Harmendra instead, and gave him the ruby comb as her bridal gift.” Jared entrapped Francis’ hand. He lifted it to his lips, pressing an ardent kiss into her palm.

Francis gave a panting breath. The ruddy tinge was back in Jared’s face, and the pupils of his green eyes had darkened to the colour of coal. The morning light cast a golden glow over his chiselled face, and the sensuous movement of his lips on her fingers was reducing her to a quivering bundle of nerves. Was Jared making her an offer? The exotic syllables of the Indian names had spilled effortlessly from his tongue. India was his country, Francis was sure of it. Would Jared take her back with him as his consort, to share his life of banditry and adventure? Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Francis realized she would almost be willing to abandon her principles to be with him.

The server dropped a plate nearby, and the harsh clatter shattered her daydream. Francis shook her head. The truth was that Jared was nothing but a tavern thief, trading on his good looks and charm to prey on unsuspecting female travellers. Perhaps even his tales of India were a hoax, invented to cast an air of exoticism around him that women would find appealing. She pulled her hand away. “I’m afraid I’m not in a position to give the Panchamaabhuta to anyone. It was a gift from my husband.”

Jared sat up. His face was suffused with crimson. “You’re married?”

His outraged expression surprised the truth from Francis. “I was. Robert died at Waterloo, along with most of his friends.”

Jared sank bank on to his seat. “He was a military man?” His face was still red, his voice not entirely steady.

Francis found it impossible to meet Jared’s eyes. She might have shared his bed, but talking about Robert made her feel achingly vulnerable. “He was a rifleman with the 95th.”

“The Light Division?”

She nodded, relaxing a little.

“I never heard of a Robert Taylor in the 95th.”

“Not Taylor, Spencer.”

Jared jerked his hand, almost upsetting his mug of ale. He gave her a perplexed look. “You gave your name as Taylor at the Horse and Hounds inn. Why?”

Francis was uncomfortably aware of Jared’s curious eyes boring into her. She opened her lips to tell him it was none of his concern, but blurted out something else instead. “That was my family name. Robert’s parents live nearby. I don’t want them to know I am here.”

“Why not?”

Francis looked down at her hands. “The Spencers threw us off after we married. My father was a small-time lawyer in London, with no connections.” Francis’ hands clenched. She had never been good enough for Robert’s parents and, as a result, he had been forced to choose between her and his family. It had been a devil’s bargain. Francis had never reproached Robert for his love of gaming in the years that followed, for she understood it was driven by his need to recapture the inheritance he had lost. In the end, Robert’s debts of honour had swallowed up what was left of his military pay, leaving her with nothing but the ruby.

The server provided a welcome interruption by arriving with a tray of food. Francis busied herself with a piece of mutton pie, and the heavy food exercised a calming effect on her. By the time she had made short work of the pie, the rigid tension of her body had relaxed.

“Have some ham,” Jared said, heaping her plate with thick slices of the roast pink flesh.

Francis sighed, inhaling the savoury aroma of the pork, and then she attacked her plate. Halfway through her second piece of meat, she looked up to see Jared frowning at her.

“When’s the last time you had a decent meal?”

Francis shrugged. There was an angry look on Jared’s face that warned her not to answer his question.

He crossed his arms. “Spencer seems to have done a poor job of providing for you.”

Francis fired up. “Don’t you dare criticize Robert! He left me the Panchamaabhuta.”

“What about his arrears of pay?”

Francis toyed with a slice of ham, her appetite suddenly deserting her. “He had a run of bad luck before he died. He would have come round again if it hadn’t been for Brussels.” Francis closed her eyes and leaned back against the bench, trying to block out the picture of the French troops cutting her husband to ribbons on the battlefield. It was an image she had pieced together in her mind from the stories of the survivors. Her breathing went shallow as she battled the disturbing vision, forcing herself to come back to the present.

Jared’s breath against her cheek startled her. “You look unwell.” He chafed her wrists. “Your pulse is rapid. Let me take you upstairs, so you can rest.”

Francis opened her mouth to protest that she was fine, when it occurred to her that Jared was offering her the perfect opportunity. “If you think that’s best.” She gave Jared what she hoped was a sickly smile.

When he went to see the innkeeper, she thought through the details of her scheme and ate every remaining morsel of ham. When Jared returned to the dining room, Francis was ready. He led the way up the stairs to a chamber on the second floor, and she leaned heavily on his arm.

When the innkeeper unlocked the door for them, Jared startled her by taking her up in his arms. The innkeeper stumped away, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

Francis wriggled in his arms, trying to get down. “For heaven’s sake, what will he think of us?”

He winked at her. “Nothing to concern yourself with, Mrs White.” Giving her a teasing smile, he slung Francis on to the narrow bed. Then he strode to the door and closed it. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.”

Jared leaned over her to unfasten the top clasps at the back of her gown, and then he loosened her hair. “Now you should be more comfortable.” He straightened up. “I’ll go now, and let you sleep a while.”

Francis stiffened. Jared’s plan must be to escape with the ruby while she was feeling weak, unable to summon any help. She caught his hand. “Oh, no, please stay with me.”

He gave her a quizzical look. “You need to rest.”

She mustered the most pitiful expression she could. “I’m scared.” She gave a little shiver, and blinked at him. “Please stay.”

Jared sank back down on to the bed. “Shhh,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.

Francis sighed and nestled against his firm chest, flooded with a delicious sense of well-being. Scoundrel that he was, Jared’s gentle touch had an immediate soothing effect on her. Cuddling closer, Francis felt her cheek brush against a lump in the pocket of his vest. It was time to put her plan into action. She tugged at his shoulders, pulling herself up so her face was level with his. Jared’s sleepy eyes flickered. Encouraged, she brushed the tip of her finger across his lower lip. “Kiss me,” she said.

He barely touched his mouth to hers, the movement so tender that Francis melted against him.

“I want you.” Her words came out in a husky whisper.

Suddenly, they were tangled together on the bed, his hot kisses depriving her of breath. Francis gave in to the wild pleasure of tasting him, letting her senses swim. Jared drew away and gave her a long, serious look. Francis stiffened, remembering her purpose. Whatever it was that Jared seemed to want to say, it could wait.

“Come, darling,” she murmured, drawing closer and toying with his cravat.

Jared’s breath came in a hot burst against her cheek. She felt for the buttons of his waistcoat and the top button gave, and then the next. Francis slipped her hand inside, moving her palms in a slow circle against Jared’s chest. He moaned. His nipples were highly sensitive, she had learned. When she continued the sensuous massage of his chest, Jared arched his back. Fighting the impulse to plunder him in a different way, Francis claimed his attention with a kiss. At the same time, her fingers probed the inner pocket of his waistcoat. She moved her lips to his neck, and Jared closed his eyes. Quick as a flash, she curled her fingers around the Panchamaabhuta. Retracting it from his inner pocket, she sealed his mouth with a last, hot kiss, and slipped the ring into her décolletage. Then she levelled an assessing glance at him. Jared’s eyes were still closed, his lashes fluttering against his cheek. A pang of longing shot through her at the sight of his golden beauty. His firm chin, full sensuous lips and dark tan were in stark relief to his tousled blond hair, giving him the look of a dark angel. Francis stared at him for a moment, as if she were memorizing him. Then she refastened the buttons of his waistcoat and pulled away.

Jared blinked his eyes open.

“Good heavens, I left my wrap downstairs,” Francis said, wringing her hands.

“What?” There was a glassy expression in Jared’s wide green eyes as if she had pulled him from a pleasant dream.

“The woollen wrap, with red flowers on it.”

Jared’s brow was furrowed. “You don’t have it now?”

“No. When I was feeling dizzy before, I must have left it on the bench. Do please go down and get it for me.” Francis took his hand and pressed it to her cheek.

“Later.” Jared lunged forwards, claiming her mouth in a deep, possessive kiss.

She pulled away from him, breaking the kiss. “Someone might steal it. First my ring, and then my wrap. I couldn’t bear it.”

Her words seemed to have pricked Jared’s guilty conscience, for he let go of her and rose to his feet. “Very well. But I’ll expect a reward for it when I get back.” His roguish grin flashed at her, then he slipped out of the room. The door closed shut behind him.

Francis waited for a moment, her heart pounding, and then she cracked the door open and looked out cautiously. The hall was empty. Gathering her courage, she darted to the stairs. She took the stairs two at a time on her way down. It would take Jared time to find the shawl she had hidden beneath the bench in the dining room, but there was always the possibility that he would catch her on the stairs. The thought made her pulse race. Francis breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the foot of the stairs and saw no one at the bottom save a maid carrying a stack of linens. Jared must still be in the dining room. The server had revealed there was a back entrance out of the inn, and Francis scurried towards the back passage of the hostelry. She gave a silent cry of thanks when she reached the wooden door at the end of the hall. It pushed open and she darted through it.

She took one wild look around her to get her bearings, and then she plunged into the street. It wasn’t until she reached an intersection that she paused to catch her breath. Francis knew Bath fairly well; for it was there that she had met Robert. She had a fair idea of where she was and, looking up, she used the distant clerestory of the Bath Abbey Church as her guide. Anxious to put as much distance between herself and Jared as possible, she plunged down the cobblestone street in the direction of the abbey. The office of Mr Davis was located on York Street, not far from the ancient cloister. Every footfall and call behind Francis seemed to be Jared running after her in hot pursuit, and she pounded down the web of narrow cobbled paths as if her life depended on it.

A small building on York Street had Mr Davis’ name on the door in gold lettering. Francis burst through the door, panting. A severe-looking man with greying hair rose from his desk, giving her a startled look. Francis knew she must look a sight with her hair half undone and a gap in the back of her dress where Jared had unfastened it. She took a gasping breath. “I read the advertisement in The Times. I am here to sell the Panchamaabhuta.”

The gentleman gave a curt nod. “Then you have come to the right place.”

“Thank heavens for that. Are you Mr Davis?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“Mrs Spencer.”

A slow smile spread over Mr Davis’ face. “Where is the ring?”

Francis looked down at her hand, but there was nothing there. She remembered that the ring was still in her décolletage.

Mr Davis was looking at her expectantly.

Francis shifted from one foot to the other. “It is hidden on my person. Please avert your eyes while I retrieve it.”

Mr Davis raised his eyebrows but obligingly turned his back.

Her cheeks burning, Francis extracted the ruby from her undergarments. Then she straightened her dress. “Here it is.” Mr Davis had turned round to face her, and she held the Panchamaabhuta out to him. “Is it the ring you were looking for?”

Mr Davis lifted the star ruby up to the light. He examined it for a long time as Francis watched, her heart in her throat. At length, he handed it back to her. “I believe this is the one. The inscription and the gem are just as my client described. But he will have to judge for himself.”

“Your client?” Francis gave Mr Davis a bewildered look.

“I am a solicitor, Mrs Spencer. My client commissioned me to find the ring for him.”

“Who is this gentleman?”

Before Mr Davis could answer her question, the door of his office opened, and Jared burst into the room.

Francis gave a frightened squeak. Jared’s hair was dishevelled, and he was panting. There was a wild look in his eyes. When he caught sight of her, he gave a little cry of triumph. “There you are. What the devil happened to you?”

Francis backed away from him, trembling.

Jared strode forwards. “Why did you run away? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” He sounded furious.

Francis darted an appealing look at Mr Davis, but he stood passively watching her and Jared, a bemused expression on his face.

Francis gathered her courage and turned to look Jared squarely in the face. “I couldn’t let you keep my ring. I came to Bath to sell it to Mr Davis.”

Jared’s eyebrows shot up. A snort of incredulity escaped him. Then he hunched over, his shoulders shaking. As Francis watched, perplexed, Jared collapsed in a paroxysm of laughter. His mirth went on for some time.

Mr Davis cleared his throat. “I was about to send you word that your ring had been found, but it seems you already learned that for yourself.”

Jared chuckled. “Thank you, Davis. It seems your work is done.”

The familiar tone of Jared’s voice registered. Francis looked from him to Mr Davis as it dawned on her that the two men were acquainted with each other. Her teeth clicked together, the pieces of the puzzle forming together in her mind. Jared was Mr Davis’ client. Her perilous quest to Bath had been all for nothing. It was Jared who had put the announcement in The Times in the first place and, all this while, he had been making a May-game of her.

Francis gave a little sob, and rushed to the door.

“Francis!”

Heedless of Jared’s cry, Francis plunged into the street, narrowly missing a collision with a hackney. The driver shouted insults at her, but she ran on. It wasn’t until she almost barrelled into a tall gentleman in the square that she realized Jared had overtaken her.

He grasped her shoulder. “Francis, please.”

“All right!” Francis pulled the ruby ring off her finger and held it out to him. “Go ahead, take it. Just promise you will leave me alone!”

But Jared didn’t take the ring. All traces of his former mirth were gone. He stood staring at her, his eyes dark with emotion. “It’s not the Panchamaabhuta I want. It’s you.”

Francis stiffened. “I don’t believe you.”

Jared shuffled from one foot to the other. “You make it deuced difficult on a fellow. Every time I try to declare myself, you run away.” He looked down at the ground. His confidence seemed to have deserted him. Francis examined his averted face, suffused with red, and realized with a chill that Jared was in earnest.

“You want to marry me?” Her voice squeaked in surprise.

Jared scuffed his shoe on the cobbles. “I’ve made a right mull of this. I don’t blame you for telling me to go hang.” He darted a quick glance at her, and a shudder ran through Francis. Jared’s heart was in his eyes.

“I thought you only wanted the ruby.”

“That was true at first.” Jared frowned. “It’s a family heirloom. It drove a wedge between my father and me, when I foolishly let go of it, years ago. Father’s sick now, and I promised him that I would go back to England and try to get the Panchamaabhuta back.”

Francis crossed her arms. “What do you mean, get it back? Robert didn’t steal it from anyone.”

“I know that.” Jared grinned. “We roomed together at Oxford. I lost the ring to Robbie in a game of faro. Then I went back to Calcutta to join in my father’s business, and we lost touch.” His grin faded. “I looked Robbie up as soon as I got back here, and learned he had been killed. I tried to see you, but your friends gave out that you had disappeared.” Francis nodded. After her dismissal by Colonel Burroughs, she had been too proud to seem to be begging from her old friends, and had moved from one cheap lodging to another, trying to find employment. Jared pressed her hand. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”

“Not so sorry that you didn’t try to take advantage of me,” Francis flared up. “You snuck into my room, and stole the ring from me when I was sleeping!”

Jared shrugged. “I couldn’t get a word out of you at the tap. And there was something furtive about the way you kept looking around, and covering up the ring. You gave your name out as Taylor. I thought you had stolen the ring from Robert, or his widow.”

Francis glared at him. “You only suspected me of stealing the Panchamaabhuta because that’s what you would have done yourself. I haven’t forgotten your story about the road bandit!”

Jared gave her a mischievous smile. “Harmendra is my great-uncle, and he was a bandit, as I told you. Kamalakshi scandalized the family by taking on an Indian name when she married him. In return, Harmendra got into a more honourable line of work. In time, my father went out to join him in the business, and then I followed.” Jared’s eyes glittered with amusement. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m merely a spice importer for a medium-sized British-Indian enterprise. I have to travel a great deal, and the climate where I live is oppressive and unhealthy to say the least.” A wistful look came over his face. “Most British women wilt over there, after a few years, and have to go back home. They can’t take the heat and the strangeness of India.”

Francis tilted up her chin. “I’m not afraid of a little heat. I climbed the Pyrenees on horseback when we marched on France. And I don’t mind living abroad either. What I don’t like is deceit.”

“Indeed?” Jared raised his eyebrows, and Francis flushed, remembering how deceitful she had been herself when she stole the ruby back from him earlier. She bit her lip. “I wouldn’t have had to trick you if you hadn’t stolen my ruby again. Why did you do it?”

Jared fiddled with his cravat. “Because it was the only way I could keep you at my side. I seemed to be incapable of making an impression on you, but the ring drew you to me like a magnet!”

Francis couldn’t help giggling at this. “You must have realized at least that I was attracted to you. Why didn’t you just tell me what you were about?”

Jared groaned. “Because I lost my head every time I was with you. Instead of getting out the words, I made love to you, and then you disappeared.” His intent green gaze captured hers. “It cut me to the quick when I woke up this morning and found you had gone. You went off with that farmer, and left me flat.” Jared frowned. “Then I remembered Kamalakshi’s story. When I came of age, she gave me one of the rubies from her comb, telling me that the Panchamaabhuta would lead me to my heart’s desire. It’s a kind of myth in our family.” Jared shrugged. “I thought it was all a load of moonshine until last night.”

“Now what do you think?” Francis asked, aware that her mouth was suddenly dry.

Jared drew closer. “I think the Panchamaabhuta brought me a daring, adventurous woman to share my life in India. I want you, Francis.”

Francis nodded, speechless with emotion. Jared crushed her against his chest. He kissed her for a long, breathless moment, and then let go. A catcall had sounded behind them.

Francis was suddenly blushingly aware that they were standing in a crowded square. She pulled away from Jared.

His grip only tightened on her. “Promise me you won’t run away again.”

“I promise,” Francis removed the ring and slipped it on to Jared’s finger. The square ruby looked perfectly at home there on his firm hand, bronzed by the heat of India.

He grinned. “Father will be pleased.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting Aunt Kamalakshi.”

He groaned. “She’ll be insufferable now. Before I left Calcutta, she told me that when I found the Panchamaabhuta, I’d find my bride.”

“The ring called you to me, answering my heart’s desire,” Francis said.

Jared gave her an impish smile. “Well, thank heavens for that.”