Blood Autumn Read online

  It was teasingly offered, and yet Father Daniel felt as though he had been jolted to his inner core, for at that precise moment he knew why the widow was familiar. It was as though the remark had unlocked the gates to his memory. She was the same woman. He knew this, yet could scarcely credit it, for their acquaintance dated back some thirty years. Over thirty years. It was she: the very woman he had known, who had not aged, who had not changed at all, not as he had.

  How was it that after all those years she remained the same outwardly? Surely, this must be her daughter, a cousin, a sister.

  No. He knew as he looked at her that was the woman he had known.

  The woman's moist lips smiled, as if she sensed his dilemma, and she laughed, a low sound that curled about him, caressing his face, his spine. It sought entrance to him. And found it. He grew aware of a most alien sensation, a tingling in his arms that crept to his chest, withdrew to his midsection, then seeped downward to his groin, and he ached as he had not in all the years since his first difficult days at the seminary.

  Her head was tilted slightly to one side, although not in a particularly coquettish manner but more in the way that a bird cocks its head at a worm. Her eyes were bright and never blinked as she watched him. Father Daniel licked his dry lips, and as he stared into those eyes of dusk he remembered how it had been long ago, in that time in London just after the mutiny in India, and he knew, too, that his lifelong flight had ended.

  August had come to claim her prize.

  PART I

  London, England: 1859

  "Beastly! Whole damned lot of 'em ought to be shot. Bloody ignorant wogs."

  Wyndham Terris tossed the newspaper down and sloshed the brandy around in its snifter, and striving to forget the unhappy memories his words had stirred, stared morosely into flickering flames in the nearby fireplace.

  "Damned right," Henry Montchalmers said calmly. "Thieving rascals, the whole bunch. Can't see that we've done a bit of good over there."

  Lyttleton glanced at the front page of the newspaper to see what had caused Terris' agitation. The first article detailed a journalist's eyewitness account of the execution some five and a half months ago of Tatya Tope, one of the Indian Mutiny's most well-known rebel leaders. A summary of the entire mutiny followed.

  As if anyone had to be reminded, Lyttleton thought wryly, for after all, hadn't everyone followed the dramatic events of the past years, the two years that it took for the British army to quell the rebellious Indians? He scanned the article, and while he found it fairly bloody in description, he couldn't understand why Terris was taking it so to heart until he recalled that Terris had lost a brother in battle there. He glanced sympathetically at Terris, but refrained from saying anything, for he didn't wish to further upset his friend. Instead, he shifted subjects.

  "Oh, that reminds me. This morning I received a note, which I warrant both of you will find of some interest." Lyttleton paused dramatically to light one of the thin cigars he affected. He inhaled, and leaning back in the leather chair, he smoothed the ends of his dark moustache with two fingers. "Tommy's just returned from abroad."

  "Tommy Hamilton? By Jove, now that's welcome news!" Montchalmers exclaimed delightedly. He sipped the amber brandy and cocked an eyebrow at Lyttleton. "Gone to India, hadn't he?"

  "Yes," Lyttleton replied, sitting forward. His cigar had gone out, and he toyed with it for several moments until it was burning once more, then continued. "Made a bloody fortune over there, I hear."

  "Rubies," grunted the third man.

  "What's that, Wyndy?"

  "Said he's made a fortune in rubies, no doubt. The wogs are bloody rich with them, y'know. Practically pave their streets with 'em. Put 'em in their scurvy navels. Dirty heathens."

  "Diamonds, too, I don't doubt, and sapphires. Emeralds, even." Montchalmers ignored Terris' last comments and sighed deeply as he contemplated the vastness of another man's wealth. "Damn, if some fellows don't have the luck."

  Lyttleton smiled slightly, knowing that Montchalmers was far from being destitute. His friend had been left a sizeable fortune by his late father, although most of the money had been put into a trust for Henry. The senior Montchalmers had only been too aware of his scion's spendthrift ways.

  "Diamonds and rubies, sapphires and emeralds might well be part of it, I shouldn't doubt, but there's a tidbit you'll find even more intriguing," Lyttleton said craftily. He sucked wetly at the cigar and blew an ill-formed smoke ring that wavered for a few seconds above Terris' head before it dissolved.

  "More intriguing than gemstones?" asked Montchalmers, plainly incredulous. "By God, what could that be?"

  "Tommy's brought back a wife," Lyttleton announced triumphantly. He continued stroking his moustache.

  "Good God!" Montchalmers drained his brandy. "You can't mean it! By Jove, I'm uncommonly glad for the ol’ fellow!"

  Terris merely stared, his mouth agape.

  Several other members of the club sitting within the same room frowned deeply at this indecorous outburst, and Montchalmers hastily lowered his voice.

  "Brought back a wife, you say? Old Tommy tied the knot, eh?" Lyttleton nodded vigorously. Montchalmers looked around, then whispered: "Is she a bloody wog?"

  "Don't know a thing about her, or about how they met, old boy. All I know is he's got this wife now." A second smoke ring proved more successful.

  "Can't be a beastly wog woman," declared Terris. "Couldn't hold his head up in society if he brought one back. He'd be cut by everyone. Besides, she'd be some bloody sort of pagan. They worship cows and monkeys, I hear."

  "Hindu," corrected Montchalmers. "Good God, you don't think — I mean, whatever was old Tommy thinking of? He must have been suffering from some sort of a brain fever if he's done this."

  "I suspect we'll find out soon enough." Lyttleton inhaled deeply on the cigar and breathed out. The third ring was perfect. The three men watched as it drifted upward and finally dissolved just short of the plastered ceiling.

  "How's that?" Montchalmers demanded, pouring more brandy.

  "The three of us are invited to dinner tomorrow evening at eight. Formal attire, please, lads," Lyttleton drawled. "At which time we shall have the distinct pleasure of making the acquaintance of the new Mrs. Hamilton."

  The three men arrived at the house in the fashionable street early the following evening, eager to hear Thomas Hamilton's exciting tales of a turbulent India and to view the army officer's bride, although not precisely in that order.

  The elderly butler bade the gentlemen come in at once and ushered them into the front parlor, which he left without further conversation.

  Soft light from the several ornate gas lamps spread across the spacious room which was diminished greatly in size by too many pieces of dark heavy furniture. The jumbled styles displayed Hamilton's eclectic taste, and while several pieces were fairly good, Lyttleton noted that none was of any great value.

  Oval portraits of slender, fair-haired Hamilton ancestors, all bearing a remarkable resemblance to Tommy and in gilt frames of varying sizes, cluttered the tops of tables and cabinets and the wallpapered walls.

  An Oriental carpet of faded maroon and Hessian blue muffled their footsteps, while a painted clock on the mantel opposite ticked briskly in the room's silence. The thick velvet draperies had been drawn against the unusual heat of the early October night and the noises of the street, and Lyttleton found the room airless and altogether too warm, and not a little dusty.

  An unusual odor lingered in the air as well, almost a musky scent, he thought. While he couldn't identify it, he did not find it unpleasant.

  "Such a dismal place." Absently searching through his pockets for a cigar, Lyttleton stared at an ornate china figure on the top shelf of a whatnot. An elaborately dressed shepherdess tended her tiny flock, and the goat god Pan, with pipes to his slyly painted mouth, sprawled at the innocent's feet and stared lewdly up at her. He found it a particularly repulsive piece. "Never have liked the way Tommy
did his place."

  "Done for him, old boy," replied Montchalmers somewhat matter-of-factly. He had known Hamilton the longest of the three men, and had in fact been in school with him from the very first, for they were the same age. Terris and Lyttleton were also long-term friends of Hamilton's, but had met after they had gone on to Oxford. "Inherited it all from his mother, a pretty but tasteless soul. She died about five years ago."

  "Looks it," said Terris dourly. He stared down at the red velvet of the mirror-back parlor sofa. "Maybe she'll redo it, now she's living here."

  She being, of course, Tommy's wife. Lyttleton had to admit that after he had bade his friends good evening the day before, he had returned home and thought much of the impending dinner engagement. What would this woman look like? What sort of woman had married their dashing friend? Speculation had led nowhere, and so he had eagerly waited for this evening and had dressed with particular care, as he knew the others had.

  "Good evening, gentlemen."

  Lyttleton hadn't heard the door open, and neither had the others. As one, they turned, and gaped as they beheld Tommy Hamilton's bride.

  She was not an Indian woman, as they had almost begun to anticipate, even though she spoke with a slight trace of accent. What her nationality was, they could not tell; indeed, they could only stare.

  Her jet-black hair was neither drawn loosely into a chignon, nor was it primly pinned under a frilly cap as was the current fashion, but rather the gleaming tresses hung loose. The sleek hair shifted as she walked toward them, almost as if it had a life of its own. Her chin was slightly pointed, her cheekbones wide, and her high forehead bespoke of intelligence. Her flawless skin was a delicate shade of alabaster-white. Her rich mouth possessed a full lower lip, the upper slightly pouted, and her lips glistened as if she had licked them just a moment before. Elegant dark eyebrows arched over her black eyes which sparkled like the brilliants set in a ring. Thick lush lashes fringed those eyes, which had been outlined with a deft hand, and Lyttleton was reminded of the kohl used by the ancient Egyptian queens.

  She wore a puff-sleeved gown of black muslin. The wide skirt, draped over a crinoline, was decorated with dozens of tiny flounces, and ribbon bows tied back the overskirt. The gown only served to emphasize her hourglass figure. The off-the-shoulder neckline was cut very low and wide over flawless full breasts. On her feet were silk slippers.

  The only color that broke the sombreness of her costume was the strand of highly polished rubies clasped around her throat. Rubies as red as her full lips.

  Montchalmers stared hungrily at her ripe breasts, so white and soft-looking and inviting, and envied his old friend for being able to pillow his head between their fragrant warmth. At his side his fingers convulsively curled and uncurled as he envisioned kneading the pliant flesh. He wanted to kiss them, fondle them tenderly, lick their rosy buds that would stiffen with the pleasure he gave her.

  Terris thought her waist was the tiniest he'd ever seen, and knew no corset had bound it ever. He wondered if his hands could encircle it. Below, her hips curved out, hips that guarded the secret gate to this woman, and he could feel her warm thighs clasping him so tightly. White thighs that promised incredible passion, a passion he would never receive from this woman, a passion that only Hamilton would savor, and at that moment Terris, because of his loss, hated his friend.

  Mesmerized by her eyes, Lyttleton found himself in those darkly glittering depths that promised sultry secrets; he ached for the mysterious and wonderful shadows that beckoned to him and to his soul, for the wonder that waited for him and his love, and the cigar in his hand, which he had located just before the woman had entered, dropped, forgotten, on the carpet.

  "I am August Hamilton." Her low voice sent a thrill through the three men, and she stepped toward them, offering her slim hand. The friends crowded forward immediately, bumped into one another in their confusion as each tried to reach her first.

  Lyttleton won, and clasped her hand in his, and pronounced his name. Her hand was cool to the touch, almost icy. He bent from the waist, and the heat in his lips more than made up for that cold skin as he dropped a kiss upon the top of her hand. He was reluctant to release it; he wanted to keep holding it, to keep touching her, to keep in contact with her. Her fingers lay limply in his.

  Finally Lyttleton remembered his manners and stepped back, allowing his two friends to have their chance to introduce themselves. Terris muttered his name, while Montchalmers continued grinning inanely at her.

  Her long lashes swept down as she studied them each in turn.

  "My husband will be along in a moment, gentlemen, and until that time I am commanded to entertain you. I have heard so much about the three of you and your exploits, but I wish to hear all of these tales from your lips as well."

  Wonderful lips, Lyttleton thought wildly, beautifully formed lips, so very kissable, so wet and glistening, and he wanted to seize those alabaster shoulders so that he could cover her mouth with his and gently blow the warmth of his body into her. Acutely aware that his body was responding eagerly, he glanced down and blushed.

  None of the men spoke, but rather, grown shy and tongue-tied, they shifted from one foot to another and continued to gaze at her. Lyttleton had so many questions poised on his tongue, and yet he couldn't speak, couldn't tell her what he wanted to tell her.

  "Wine?" she asked, moving away with a faint whisper of her skirts.

  "Yes," they answered as one voice, the spell of silence broken.

  She tugged at a velvet bellpull. When the elderly servant answered, she ordered wine for all of them; he bowed and left.

  "Do you mind if I sit, gentlemen?"

  "No, please!"

  "Please allow me!"

  "Here, Mrs. Hamilton."

  August Hamilton bestowed a gracious smile upon them, but managed to dodge each -man's zealous attempt to have her sit next to him. Instead, she chose a high-backed ebony chair, sat and clasped her hands in her lap, and leaned forward a little. Light from the gas lamps gleamed on the smooth skin of her breasts. Montchalmers licked his lips. Lyttleton dropped his eyes. She waved to them to sit, and they did so, bringing their chairs close to make a ring around her.

  The butler returned with a teakwood tray laden with a decanter and four glasses. He set it down and bowed out, while August Hamilton poured wine. Lyttleton was the first to receive his; as he took it, their fingers brushed briefly and he nearly dropped the glass.

  Quickly Lyttleton brought the wine to his lips and took a long swallow. The liquor burned all the way down his throat, yet it felt good, steadying the dizziness he had been experiencing ever since August Hamilton had entered the room. He blinked and passed a hand across his face. What had happened to him? To his friends? They still stared silently at the woman, while she was in turn gazing at him. Once more he looked into her dark eyes, and saw . . . Saw what? He frowned, and sipped his wine, and listened to her speak.

  "... said he so enjoyed your summers together, Mr. Montchalmers. He told me often how you two would sneak out of the house to go fishing in the pond on your uncle's estate."

  "Ah yes, the pond." Montchalmers laughed, an embarrassed sound as he recalled boyhood memories. He grinned foolishly at her.

  "And you, Mr. Terris," she said, lowering her lashes, "Tommy had so much to tell me about you as well that I feel as though I know you, too."

  Terris beamed as though she'd said the most wondrous thing about him. Again August was watching Lyttleton, and he was waiting for her to speak to him, and in that moment the others fell away, leaving them alone, just Lyttleton and the beautiful woman, the two in the golden light, and once again he could smell that odd yet compelling odor, and the scent wafted around him, caressing him, beguiling him, and he lost himself within the depths of her dark eyes as he kissed her lips and breasts, her warm flesh against his, and it was warm, warmer, warming —

  "Lyttleton, Terris, Montchalmers — how good it is to see you chaps again."

  The
tremulous voice cut through the warm darkness and jerked Lyttleton back into the room. Momentarily unsettled, Lyttleton shook himself and prepared to greet his longtime friend. He turned, and the cheerful words died in his throat as he stared in shock at what he saw.

  *

  Thomas Hamilton huddled in a cane-back wheelchair, a plaid rug laid across his knees.

  Prior to his being sent to India two years earlier, Hamilton, a tall and vigorous man in his mid-twenties, had enjoyed excellent health. Now he looked like an old man, a man faded into his seventies. Or even older, Lyttleton thought, horrified.

  Hamilton's once-muscular body was wasted, the flesh hanging loosely upon him, and he shook constantly, as though in the throes of some tropical fever. His guinea-gold hair was shot through with streaks of white and grey and was long and unkempt. Deep ugly lines ravaged his once-boyish face, and his hand — claw, Lyttleton thought wildly — trembled as he held it out. Its back was mottled, us though the man suffered from some skin disease.

  The eyes were the worst, for despite all the other changes in the man, they were just as blue — though somewhat rheumy — as Lyttleton remembered, but no longer were they youthful eyes filled with good humor. Hamilton's eyes darted wildly, never lingering long on any single object. From time to time he closed them momentarily as he stifled a moan. He acts trapped, Lyttleton thought, and shuddered at this unbelievable transformation.

  Swallowing quickly, he forced himself to bury his shock for the moment, and in the stunned silence that seemed to echo through the room, Lyttleton leaped to his feet and hurried forward.

  "Good to see you, old man," he declared jauntily, not feeling particularly lighthearted and wishing that he could be anywhere but here now. He vigorously pumped Hamilton's hand, then released it, reluctant to touch the skin any longer than necessary, for it was hot, and dry, unhealthy, and he was totally repelled.