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Bernard immediately agreed to accompany the two sepoys who carried dispatches between Colombo and Government House. The horse he bought for the journey took the last of his money and he was obliged to rely upon the sepoys’ hospitality.
Bernard Lamb hated everything about the tropics with a vengeance. He hated the heat, the insects, the food, the smells, but mostly he hated the natives. The sepoys’ food and drink he was forced to consume were hard enough to swallow, but the thing he found almost intolerable was sharing their drinking cups and utensils. The men sensed his repugnance toward their color. They remained impeccably polite, but they silently marked him as another white bigot.
When Government House came into view on the third day, it was debatable who was more relieved, Bernard Lamb or the sepoys. They bade him good-bye once they passed through the front gates. As his covetous eyes took in the pale pink palatial house a seething resentment gripped him. Why was it some were born to luxury while others had to conspire with the devil himself for every crumb that fell from his table?
As he stood gazing at the splendor he was suddenly filled with a sense of destiny. He knew that his fate lay before him; all he had to do was seize the moment and take it into his own hands. It had been predestined that he come halfway across the world to confront his enemies and forge his future. Bernard Lamb felt fortune take his hand.
A groom came forward to take his horse. A servant bowed low and carried his new traveling bag up the steps. A guard on the front entrance opened the door for him. The turbaned majordomo inquired whom he wished to see.
“I am Lady Lamb’s nephew.” The words were like magic. He was ushered into an opulent receiving room. Two young wallahs in native dress entered the room. One offered a cool drink, the other worked the punkah fan. Both servants lowered their eyes, then bowed their heads in abject obeisance. Like clockwork, the moment he finished his drink, an inner door swung open to admit a small blond woman. She had a cool elegance that easily made her the most self-possessed female he had ever encountered.
A trick of the light filtering through the jalousies prevented Eve from seeing the young man’s features until she was directly in front of him. Suddenly her coolness evaporated. “You must be Robert’s son. You are the image of your father!”
Bernard experienced a surge of power. For an unguarded moment her emotions had been transparent. Lady Lamb had clearly loved his father. He took immediate advantage. He stepped close, raised her elegant hand to his lips, and said huskily, “My father was madly in love with you until the day he died. Now I know the reason why.”
“Flatterer!” she reprimanded him playfully, but Bernard knew he held her in the palm of his hand. He felt potent enough to step into his sire’s shoes and resume Robert’s relationship with this woman where it had left off.
“My name is Bernard.”
For Eve the years fell away; she was sixteen again. She linked her arm through his intimately, as if they had known each other forever, and drew him into the inner sanctum. “It’s almost time for luncheon and I know how partial men are to food.”
A wallah appeared as if summoned by thought alone. “Put the sahib in the peacock suite.”
Bernard Lamb saw that the luxurious suite had got its name from the cool tiled floor decorated with a magnificent peacock in full display. Three more servants appeared. One drew his bath in the adjoining bathing room, another began to unpack his clothes, a young native girl brought a silver tray with a wine decanter and a crystal goblet. The manservant who had brought him upstairs made obeisance, murmuring, “If there is anything more you are desiring, sahib, please use the bellpull.”
Bernard pointed a finger at the female. “Her,” he said with authority. The men withdrew, the girl stood motionless with downcast eyes.
“Look at me,” he ordered.
Slowly she raised her eyes. They were liquid with apprehension. Bernard licked his lips. She fulfilled a longtime fantasy. She was a slave girl to do his bidding.
“Take off the sari.”
With reluctant hands the girl obeyed. His gaze slid over the slim body, noting the budding breasts, the tiny mons. She was only just coming into pubescence. He beckoned her with an all-powerful finger.
The look of dread upon her face increased with each slow step. When she was directly in front of him, he lifted her long black hair and wrapped it once about his hand. Too late she realized she was trapped. The fear in her eyes turned to terror as his hand went to his belt and he withdrew his gun. He did not touch her directly, but used the gun as if it were his hand to trace along her cheek and down her throat. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably as he circled her budding breasts with the pistol barrel. When he trailed it down her belly, she pulled away from him in desperation, but he wrenched her back by her hair. She opened her mouth to scream, but the look he gave her made stark fear wedge in her throat, paralyzing her vocal cords.
Her mons was the gun’s final resting place. Bernard inserted the tip. Her eyes went glassy. He pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. It took an endless minute before she realized the gun was not loaded. Bernard began to laugh. When he removed his hand from her hair, she collapsed onto her knees in a huddled heap.
He looked down at her with glittering eyes and took the bullets from his pocket. “Little wog, I wouldn’t soil my prick with you, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy fun and games.”
Eve gave instructions that luncheon must not be served until her guest came downstairs. Anthony arrived in the dining room at lunchtime and sat scribbling notes in a journal he had begun. The plantation’s crops fascinated him to the point where he had begun their serious study. Almost an hour elapsed before it dawned on him that no food had been served. He arose from the table to seek out his mother.
“There you are, Anthony. I have a wonderful surprise.”
At that moment their guest descended the stairs, heard Eve’s voice, and came into the salon.
“Your cousin Bernard has just arrived from England. Bernard, this is my son, Lord Anthony.”
Bernard’s eyes smiled at the familiar face before him. Everything about the tall young man was acutely familiar, from the clubbed-back dark curls to the wide green eyes, yet Bernard knew he had never set eyes on him before in his life.
Anthony stuck out a welcoming hand. “This is an unexpected pleasure. How ironic we meet halfway around the world.”
“It must be destiny,” Bernard replied smoothly. He was fascinated. Even the husky drawl was the same, yet not the same. “Forgive me for staring. Do you have a brother?”
“A sister,” Anthony replied, “a twin sister. People insist they can’t tell us apart.” It was a family joke, of course.
Bernard shared in mother and son’s friendly laughter, but his mind flashed about like quicksilver. Was it possible that the Lord Lamb he had stalked with the nine lives was a bitch impersonating her twin? He could only conclude that it was a distinct possibility. Women were devious enough for any deception. He added another name to the growing list of enemies he would take pleasure in eliminating.
