Free Her Only Desire by Gaelen Foley Page B

an urgency no king or priest could ever have inspired in him.
    Killing for the goddess was his dharma, but serving Queen Sujana of Janpur had long been his occupation: spy, assassin, whatever she required. He drew upon the same skills in both secret lines of endeavor.
    On her orders, he had followed the English diplomat for many miles, ever since the Maharani had first heard through her palace spies that Lord Griffith was coming to Janpur.
    This nocturnal prayer time was for Kali, but soon, he knew, he should report back to his worldly duty.
    A short while later, Firoz rose from his prayers and walked closer, his stealth-trained footfalls silent in the temple’s gloom. He lit some incense at the giant feet of her statue, and waved the smoke up gently to her.
    Like Kali, he was terrible; like every victim he had slain, he was alone.
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    Sunlight streamed through the scalloped arches, illuminating colorful mosaics and bright gilding everywhere. A humid breeze smelling faintly of sandalwood rustled through the potted palms, but with their two empires on the brink of war, the air nearly crackled with distrust as Ian rose to address the royal court.
    A week had passed, and Ian was now knee-deep in negotiations in the Maharajah of Janpur’s sumptuous Throne Room.
    Exuding calm power and cool determination, he swept the gathering with a steely glance. Not for an instant did he forget that countless lives hung in the balance.
    They always did, in his line of work.
    Well aware that this was his final chance to avert the looming war—or at least to curtail it before the first shot was fired—he chose his words with meticulous care.
    â€œLoyalty.” His firm, cultured voice echoed under the ceiling dome. “This, Your Majesty, is what lies at the heart of the controversy.”
    The robed and turbaned viziers stopped their murmurings to heed him. Though interpreters stood at the ready, the British had been in India long enough by now that most of the nobles spoke English.
    Ahead, meanwhile, seated on his cushioned stool-throne, the formidable Hindu king, Johar, Maharajah of Janpur, sat stroking his black beard and listening intently.
    Dressed in Eastern splendor, the maharajah wore a loose, sleeveless, knee-length coat of rich brocade over a white, belted tunic with long sleeves, and leggings of white silk. A sapphire the size of an egg secured his turban, which was also adorned with an aigrette of peacock feathers—a royal prerogative.
    Behind him, various dark-clad attendants and fierce palace guards were arrayed in crescent formation, one holding the fringed
chatri,
or ceremonial umbrella, while others slowly waved huge peacock-feather fans to keep His Majesty cool.
    By his side, his son, Crown Prince Shahu, lounged on his lesser throne, looking bored and malcontent, as if he’d rather be out hunting in the dense surrounding forests with his royal falcons and his entourage of toadies.
    â€œFor hundreds of years,” Ian said, walking out from behind the long teakwood table where the hand-picked members of his delegation were seated, “the six royal houses of the Maratha Empire have held off invaders by your sacred blood-oath of mutual defense. Far and wide it is known that if any one of your kingdoms is attacked, all the others shall rouse their armies and come to the besieged one’s aid. It is enviable in this world to have such stalwart friends.”
    He had brought friends of his own to this fight. Gabriel and Derek Knight sat at the table with the other members of his team, the big braw Scotsman, Major MacDonald, and the old battle-ax, Colonel Montrose, the ranking military member of his party. All four men watched Ian pace slowly across the white marble floor as his speech now took a new twist.
    â€œBut what if one of your brother-kings abuses the great loyalty of the Marathas?” he posed the question. “Makes a grievous error in judgment?