Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (23 page)

 
“My husband isn’t here right now!” Devora said, feeling frustration start to build inside her again. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, I think it’s safe to say that we’re friends now. At the very least.”

 
“You fail to understand the intricacies of British-Indian relations,” Rohan replied. “Friendships develop, of this there is no doubt. But not between British women and Indian men. This is not acceptable.”

 
“Since when are you so concerned with what is or isn’t acceptable?” Devora said coldly. “Was it acceptable to do what we did?”

 
“No. That is why it was a mistake.” He turned and started to walk away.

 
“Funny,” Devora called after him. “I was under the impression that mistakes didn’t feel quite that good.”

 
Her words caused him to hesitate for the briefest second, but then he disappeared outside, letting the back door close behind him. Irritation swelled in Devora’s soul as she realized that not even such intimacy could fully break through Rohan’s implacable veneer.

With a sigh, she went to the dining table and began to organize her paintings and drawings. She had already done at least fifty drawings of temple art, both erotic sculptures and statues of gods and goddesses. She looked at the sketch she had done of Rohan, thinking she would love to turn it into a painting.

 
Well, why couldn’t she? Simply because he was choosing to be a right bastard didn’t mean she couldn’t paint him. His attitude didn’t distract from the strong, sculptured planes of his face and the incredible beauty of his eyes. Devora stared at the drawing for a long moment, then placed a small, primed canvas on the easel.

Using a charcoal pencil, she copied the drawing onto the canvas with strong, confident strokes that would combine to form the base of Rohan’s personality. Strength, confidence, and an almost complete inflexibility.

 
Almost. Devora smiled. When a person broke through that shield, what treasures she would find. Devora remembered what Kalindi and Lota had told her about Rohan’s supposed bride-to-be. What if he really had been in love with her, she mused as she stared at his charcoal likeness. What humanity she could instill in his painted expression if she knew that he had locked himself away over a broken heart.

 
Intrigued by the possible romanticism of the story, Devora put down her charcoal pencil and hurried outside to the servants’ quarters. A small, white-washed building stood some distance away from the main bungalow. Gerald had told her that it consisted of two rooms, one of which was used for storage and the other for Rohan’s living quarters. Devora knocked on the door sharply.

 
“Rohan?”

 
He opened the door, looking mildly exasperated by her persistence. “Yes,
memsahib
?”

 
“I want to ask you something. May I come in?”

 
“That would not be—”

 
“Oh, sod propriety,” Devora snapped.

 
She pushed her way past him and went into the room, her gaze sweeping over the neat, clean furnishings. A large bed sat pushed against the wall, draped by a mosquito net. Toiletry items were arranged with meticulous care on the dressing table, and a small desk held writing paper and pens. Thankfully, the air was not coated with the thick, cloying scent of incense, but instead smelled fresh and clean.

 
“Do come in,” Rohan said dryly.

 
Devora gave him a cheeky smile. “Why, thank you. What a nice place.”

 
“Please, sit down.” Sounding resigned to her presence, Rohan pulled the chair away from the desk and gestured towards it. He then sat down on the bed and fixed his gaze on her. “What is your question then,
memsahib
?”

 
Devora realized rather suddenly that it wasn’t exactly polite to start questioning someone about their personal life. Still, she seethed with curiosity to know the truth behind the rumors. She shifted on the chair as she tried to think of a way to voice her thoughts.

 
“Well,” she said, “I don’t know if it’s a question, really, but perhaps more of a curiosity.”

 
Rohan’s eyebrows lifted. “Curiosity about what?”

 
“You. I mean, your past, to be more specific.”

 
“I’ve told you about my past.”

 
“Yes, I know, but you haven’t told me everything.”

 
Rohan frowned. “How do you know what I haven’t told you?”

 
“I’ve heard rumors of a woman.”

 
His expression darkened suddenly. Devora sensed his emotional withdrawal as if he had closed a door between them. She put out a hand to try and assuage him.

 
“Wait. Wait, I don’t mean to be rude. You must know that people have talked about you.”

 
“What people?” Rohan snapped. “Kalindi?”

 
“Don’t be angry with her. She’s simply repeating what others have said.”

 
“As are you, apparently.”

 
“No, I haven’t told anyone,” Devora protested. “I don’t know anything, Rohan. That’s why I’m asking you.”

 
“This is not your business,
memsahib
.”

 
“I know.” Devora could think of no earthly rationale as to why he should tell her anything at all, so she decided to simply ask him. “Did you love her?”

 
He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes still flashing with anger. The silence stretched between them like a taut, rubber band until Devora thought that she had made a serious mistake in coming here. She clutched her hands together and prepared to stand.

 
“I’m sor—” she began.

 
“No,” Rohan interrupted.

 
Startled, Devora met his gaze. “No?”

 
“No, I didn’t love her.”

 
“Oh.” Devora didn’t know what to say, but she was aware of a slight disappointment. For some reason, she was hoping that his stoicism was the result of a bittersweet love story. “I’m sorry.”

 
Rohan shook his head. “There is no need to be sorry. I simply did not love her.”

 
Devora eyed him cautiously. “Yet you were supposed to marry her?”

 
“Yes. I was working for a British family near Delhi. They knew of another British family who had an entire family of servants working for them. They were seeking a husband for their daughter, and so they asked to meet me.”

 
“And what happened?”

 
“We met and agreed to marry,” Rohan replied. “I wanted a son just like any other man.”

 
A horrific thought struck Devora. “Did she die?”

 
“No, nothing quite so dramatic,” Rohan said. “I heard five years ago that she was living in Delhi.”

 
“Well?” Devora said, unable to keep the impatient note out of her voice. “What happened? Why didn’t you marry her?”

 
“I learned she was pregnant,” Rohan replied.

 
“Oh my.”

 
“With a British man’s child. Unfortunately, the British man happened to be the master of the household in which I worked.”

 
“What did you do?”

 
Rohan lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I thought it was best if I terminated my service with them. I could no longer respect the
sahib
, so I decided to leave and seek employment elsewhere. I soon found that it was not so easy.”

 
“Why not?”

 
“One of the British daughters had developed an attachment to me. She told me I couldn’t possibly leave, and that she would seek revenge on me if I did.”

 
“What did you do?”

“I left. I cannot abide by a threat.”

 
“But did she carry through with it?” Devora asked.

 
“Yes. She accused me of raping her.”

 
Devora gasped in shock. “No.”

 
“It became a scandal. I did go to trial, but of course there was no evidence to substantiate the accusation. The city magistrate, who was Indian, dismissed the case, but I had to leave town. All of the British were against me. None would have hired me.”

 
“I expect that was also because of the Indian magistrate.”

 
“Probably.”

 
Devora was quiet for a long moment. So much for romance and love. A nagging thought occurred to her, creating an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach. She glanced at Rohan almost hesitantly.

 
“You don’t like the British very much, then,” she said.

 
“I have reason not to,” Rohan replied.

 
“You also have reason to use a British woman for your own type of revenge, don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

 
Devora waited for him to deny her implication, but he didn’t. A tremble went through her body with the force of a lightening bolt. She hadn’t particularly cared about the motivations behind the maharaja’s interest in her, but Rohan was different. Devora didn’t know why, but he was.

 
“I see,” she said stiffly. “I hadn’t realized you were capable of that. I’ve thought you were cold, but I also thought that you had integrity.”

 
“If you want to know if I’m using you for revenge, the answer is no,” Rohan said.

 
“But you just said—”

 
“I said I have reason to use a British woman,” Rohan replied. “That is not, however, what I am doing.”

 
Devora stood slowly. She looked at him for a moment, thinking she had come here in the hopes of clarifying things. And now she was leaving more confused than ever.

 
“Well, I suppose that’s good to know,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”

 
“I assume that your own motivations are also less than crystal clear,” Rohan said. “Is it for your own revenge? Or the desire to rebel against convention and conformity?”

 
His words slammed into her like a physical blow. “None of those things,” she answered, her voice icy. “But you’d like it if I had those kinds of motivations, wouldn’t you? It would confirm all the negative things you think about British
memsahibs
.”

 
“I have told you that you are different.”

 
“You’re not exactly doing a wonderful job convincing me of that,” Devora snapped. “If I’m so different, why do you still say we can’t be friends because it’s not acceptable? Acceptable according to what standards? Some ridiculous convention that allowed an entire community to turn against you on a false charge? Is that the convention you want to live by?”

 
“These things only serve to remind me that British and Indian relations cannot be successful ones,” Rohan said. “There are too many differences of perception.”

 
“God, you are so inflexible!” Devora retorted angrily. “And you’re a hypocrite. You hate the fact that all the British turned on you because you were Indian, and yet you can make a sweeping statement like that and expect me to sympathize with you?”

 
His eyes hardened. “I did not ask for your sympathy or even for your understanding,
memsahib
. If I recall, it was you who came here.”

 
“I came here because I wanted to know the truth behind a rumor!” Devora said. “Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend?
I’m
not going to accuse you of rape, if that’s what you’re thinking. Simply because one British woman falsely accused you does not mean you can’t be friends with a different British woman.”

 
Rohan stood, leveling a gaze on her. “I would not have told you what I just did if I did not believe that.”

 
His words silenced her. She should have known that. His unyielding nature would prevent him from revealing such a personal matter if he did not, at the very least, trust her. She nodded.

 
“Yes. I realize that. I apologize.” Devora approached him almost hesitantly, afraid that he had had too much time to think about what they had done. She paused in front of him and reached up to trace her fingers over his sensual mouth.

 
“You know, even if you think friendships are difficult between British and Indians,” she said, “lust can obviously be quite easy.”

 
Amusement flashed in Rohan’s eyes. “Yes. That I have discovered.”

 
He cupped her chin in his hand and bent to brush his lips against hers. Warmth bloomed in Devora’s soul like a fresh rose, spilling over with color and luscious scents. She slipped her arms around his waist and allowed herself to sink against his chest. The urgency of their first time together was replaced by a slow, deliberate pace that seemed to break through so many weeks of restraint.