The beat of the drums became her pulse—the pulse of desire and the need to dance for Nick, a thing she must not do, a thing only fit for a courtesan or a nautch-girl.
* * *
The laughter of the women was clear over the drumbeats. One of them was singing, a song without words, to mark the raga, the melody, of the music. Nick glanced across, careful not to stare or cause offence, but they were hidden behind the huts, only their shadows, thrown by the firelight, danced against the walls.
Anusha was dancing with them—he heard her laugh and take up a snatch of the song. How he knew it was her voice he could not have said. He had never heard her sing, or, he realised with a shock, laugh out loud. But she was there, happy for a short while. She had never known poverty or simplicity like this before and yet she was at home here. Would she ever laugh like that after George had her turned into an English lady?
He almost missed a beat and caught himself, focused on the taut skin under his fingertips. She was an unmarried woman and her place was with her father, and then her husband. The Indian world she had known for twelve years was no longer safe for her.
Then why was there this nagging uncertainty at the back of his mind? He lost track and threw up a hand in apology as the dancer shot him a reproachful look. He was feeling sorry for the girl, that was all. She would settle soon enough with a husband and babies. Someone began to sing, a love song, yearning and sensual. Nick let his hands follow the new, subtle, rhythm running beneath the tala. The beat echoed his pulse, the pulse became a need, an uncomfortably insistent physical demand.
Damn the woman. She was doing nothing overt to tease him sexually—she was too inexperienced for that, whatever her theoretical knowledge, and yet he could feel her as though she sat next to him running those long cool fingers down his back, down his legs— With a cry from the singer the dance ended. Nick fought for control, thankful for the tabla in his lap, hiding his embarrassing state of arousal.
‘Aye!’ the man sitting next to him exclaimed. ‘You will dance now?’
‘No.’ Nick shook his head. ‘No, I cannot dance.’ What he wanted now was his bed, a flask of raki and oblivion, but he was not going to get it, he knew. It would be poor return for the villagers’ hospitality if he left now.
‘Sing, then,’ the man urged.
None of the songs he knew in Hindi were fit to be sung within women’s hearing—they were camp songs, marching songs. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will sing in English for you.’
That provoked a buzz of interest. Nick tapped out the tune on the little drum then,
Our ’prentice Tom may now refuse
To wipe his scoundrel master’s shoes,
For now he’s free to sing and play
Over the hills and far away...
Chapter Eight
The queen commands and we’ll obey,
Over the hills and far away.
We all shall lead more happy lives
By getting rid of brats and wives
That scold and bawl both night and day
—over the hills and far away.
At dawn the words of the song still ran around Anusha’s head as she dressed in her riding gear and folded the borrowed clothes carefully into her pack.
So that was what Nick thought of wives and children, was it? She should have guessed, instead of feeling sorry for him that his wife was dead. Probably he had been grateful for the freedom, if he would but admit it.
As she came out of the hut he was whistling the same tune. Anusha marched over to the horses and dumped her pack at his feet. ‘Is that what the angrezi call music?’
‘Yes.’ He had washed his hair and it was still wet, clinging to his head in the sunlight as it dried patchily into fairness again. ‘What is the matter with you this morning? Did you get out of the wrong side of the bed or have you been drinking raki with your new friends all night and have a hangover?’
He was talking incomprehensible rubbish. What difference did it make what side of the bed she got out of? And what would she be hanging over?
‘Neither. And that is not proper music.’
‘It is soldiers’ music.’ Nick strapped the pack onto the saddle. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I have.’ She turned her back on him and frowned at the huts, the villagers going about their morning business. ‘This is a poor village.’
‘I am sorry I could not find you a better one, Princess.’
‘I do not mean that!’ Anusha swung round and stumbled over her own feet. Nick steadied her with a hand on each arm and raised an eyebrow in a particularly infuriating manner. ‘I mean that we have taken food they can ill afford.’