Free Danger at Dahlkari by Jennifer Wilde Page B

suddenly grabbed my arm, her brown eyes wide with excitement.
    â€œSoldiers!” she exclaimed.
    â€œWh—what? Where?”
    â€œOver there, riding across that slope. Look at the uniforms! They’re British, Miss Lauren. Glory be, they’re British!”
    Sally began to shout and wave her arms like someone demented, and the band of riders changed their course and came riding toward us, pulling up a few feet away. There were six of them, the blond lieutenant on his large white horse obviously in charge. He was excessively handsome, extraordinarily impressive, undeniably British with those deep blue eyes.
    Sally and I both began talking at once, almost hysterically, and the lieutenant raised his arm, silencing us, then, stern, severe, a professional soldier, ordered two of his men to dismount. He dismounted himself, and I saw that he must have been at least six feet two, a radiant creature in his dark, polished boots, clinging white doeskin breeches and the tailored scarlet jacket with swinging gold epaulettes. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Michael Stephens and said he was at our service.
    â€œWe’re on our way to Dahlkari,” I told him. “We were with a caravan. It was attacked by Thugs. We—we were the only survivors. I’m Lauren Gray, and Lieutenant Colonel McAllister is my guardian and—”
    â€œYou can explain later. I’m sure you want to see your guardian as soon as possible.”
    â€œYou—you’re with the garrison, then?”
    â€œIndeed I am. I’m your guardian’s aide.”
    â€œThank God,” I said. “You have no idea what we’ve—”
    â€œLater,” he said gently.
    Then he took my hand and helped me mount one of the horses, his sergeant performing a similar service for Sally. Lieutenant Stephens swung back into the saddle with graceful ease and, turning to the two men whose horses we had taken, told them they could walk back to the garrison. In a matter of moments we were riding east at a comfortable gallop, the lieutenant and his sergeant in the lead, Sally and I directly behind them, the other two men bringing up the rear. I was dazed now, and I felt weaker and more vulnerable than I had felt since the ordeal began, perhaps because it had come to an end and I could at last let down my guard.
    The sun had started to go down now, and a faint haze had settled over everything as though the air itself had been stained with a soft violet-blue, long purple-black shadows spreading ahead of us as we rode, passing more fields, more wooded sections. The haze had thickened considerably by the time we reached the village, and it was clothed in shadow, lamps making warm golden squares. It was larger than I had imagined it to be, more small town than village and, because of the proximity of the British, far more prosperous than most. A river ran sluggishly alongside the village, and as we reached the outskirts I saw women with pitchers moving langourously toward it. There were water buffalo as well.
    Beyond the village, the ground began to rise in a gradual slope, and there, dominating the hillside, stood the English garrison, larger even than the village with tall, shady trees and large white houses washed with pale blue shadows, their windows ablaze with dark orange reflections as the last sun rays faded in the west. The barracks and military buildings were white, too, and as we drew nearer I could see the parade ground and the polo field. I heard hearty male laughter and the sound of children playing and, as we reached the top of the slope, India seemed to recede. We were in England again with English sights, English sounds. When I saw the Union Jack waving proudly atop a tall silver pole in the center of the main green, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
    Lieutenant Stephens helped us dismount. Men came to lead our horses away, and the lieutenant led us on foot past barracks, past club house and