harder.
That nettled me, I confess; I wasn't having this, royalty or not, so I went to work — I'm a strong swordsman, but not too academic — and I pushed her for all I was worth. She was better-muscled than she looked, though, and fast as a cat, and I had to labour to make her break ground, gasping with laughter, until her back was against one of the glass walls. She took to the point, holding me off, and then unaccountably her guard seemed to falter, I jumped in with the old heavy cavalry trick, punching my hilt against the forte of her blade, her foil spun out of her hand — and for a moment we were breast to breast, with me panting within inches of that dusky face and open, laughing mouth — the great dark eyes were wide and waiting — and then my foil was clattering on the floor and I had her in my arms, crushing my lips on hers and tasting the sweetness of her tongue, with that soft body pressed against me, revelling in the feel and fragrance of her. I felt her hands slip up my back to my head, holding my face against hers for a long delicious moment, and then she drew her lips away, sighing, opened her eyes, and said:
'How well do you shoot, colonel?'
And then she had slipped from my arms and was walking quickly towards the door to her private room, with me grunting endearments in pursuit, but as I came after her she just raised a hand, without turning or breaking stride, and said firmly:
'The durbar is finished … for the moment.' The door closed behind her, and I was left with the fallen foils, panting like a bull before business, but thinking, my boy, we're home — the damned little teaser. I hesitated, wondering whether to invade her boudoir, when the little chamberlain came pottering in, eyeing the foils in astonishment, so I took my leave and presently was riding back to the cantonment, full of buck and anticipation — I'd known she'd call 'Play!' in the end, and now there was nothing to do but enjoy the game.
That was why she'd been jumpy earlier, of course, wondering how best to bring me to the boil, the cunning minx. 'How well do you shoot?' forsooth — she'd find out soon enough, when we finished the durbar — tomorrow, no doubt. So by way of celebration I drank a sight more bubbly than was good for me at dinner, and even took a magnum back to my bungalow for luck. It was as well I did, for about ten Ilderim dropped by for a prose — as he'd taken to doing — and there's nobody thirstier than a dry Gilzai — if you think all Muslims abstain, I can tell you of one who didn't. So we popped the cork, and gassed about the old days, and smoked, and I was enjoying myself with carnal thoughts about my Lucky Lakshmibai and thinking about turning in, when there came a scraping on the chick at the back of the bungalow, and the khitmagar*(*Bearer, waiter.) appeared to tell me that there was a bibi* (*Lady.) who insisted on seeing me.
Ilderim grinned and wagged his ugly head, and I cursed, thinking here was some bazaar houri plying her trade where it was least wanted, but I staggered out, and sure enough at the foot of the steps was a veiled woman in a sari, but with a burly-looking escort standing farther back at the gate. She didn't look like a slut, somehow, and when I asked what she wanted she came quickly up the steps, salaamed, and held out a little leather pouch. I took it, wondering; inside there was a handkerchief, and even through the champagne fumes there was no mistaking — it was heavy with my perfume.
'From my mistress,' says the woman, as I goggled at it. 'By God,' says I, and sniffed it again. 'Who the blazes —'
'Name no names,' says she, and it was a well-spoken voice, for a Hindoo. 'My mistress sends it, and bids you come to the river pavilion in an hour.' And with that she salaamed again, and slipped down the steps. I called after her, and took an unsteady step, but she didn't stop, and she and her escort vanished in the dark.
Well, I'm damned, thinks I, surprise giving way to delight — she couldn't wait, by heaven … and of course the river pavilion at night was just the place … far better than the palace, where all sorts of folk were prying. Nice and secluded, very discreet — just the place for a rowdy little Rani to entertain. 'Syce!' I shouted, and strode back inside, a trifle unsteadily, damning the champagne, but chortling as I examined my chin in the glass, decided it would do, and roared for a clean shirt.
'Now where away?' says Ilderim, who was squatting on the rug. 'Not after some trollop from the bazaar, at this time?'
'No, brother,' says I. 'Something much better than a trollop. If you could see this one you'd forswear small boys and melons for good.' By jove, I was feeling prime; I dandied myself up in no time, rinsed my face to clear some of the booze away, and was out champing on the verandah as the syce brought my pony round.
'You're mad,' growls Ilderim. 'Do you go alone — where to?'
'I'm not sharing her, if that's what you mean. I'll take the syce.' For I wasn't too sure of the way at night, and it was pitch black. I must have been drunker than I felt, for it took me three shots to mount, and then, with a wave to Ilderim, who was glowering doubtfully from the verandah, I trotted off, with the syce scrambling up behind.
Now, I'll admit I was woozy, and say at the same time that I'd have gone if I'd been cold sober. I don't know when I've been pawing the ground quite so hard for a woman — probably the two weeks' spooning had worked me up, and I couldn't cover the two miles to the pavilion fast enough. Fortunately the syce was a handy lad, for he not only guided us but held me from tumbling out of the saddle; I don't remember much of the journey except that it lasted for ages, and then we were among trees, with the hooves padding on grass, the syce was shaking my arm, and there ahead was the pavilion, half-hidden by the foliage.
I didn't want the syce spying, so I slid down and told him to wait, and then I pushed on. In spite of the night air, the booze seemed to have increased its grip, but I navigated well enough, leaning on a trunk every now and then. I surveyed the pavilion; there were dim lights on the ground floor, and in one room upstairs, and by George, there was even the sound of music on the slight breeze. I beamed into the dark — what these Indians don't know about the refinements of romping isn't worth knowing. An orchestra underneath, privacy and soft lights upstairs, and no doubt refreshments to boot — I rubbed my face and hurried forward through the garden to the outside staircase leading to the upper rooms, staggering quietly so as not to disturb the hidden musicians, who were fluting sweetly away behind the screens.
I mounted the staircase, holding on tight, and reached the little landing. There was a small passage, and a slatted door at the end, with light filtering through it. I paused, to struggle out of my loose trousers — at least I wasn't so tight that I'd been fool enough to come out in boots — took a great lusty breath, padded unsteadily forward, and felt the door give at my touch. The air was heavy with perfume as I stepped in, stumbled into a muslin curtain, swore softly as I disentangled myself, took hold of a wooden pillar for support, and gazed round into the half-gloom.
There were dim pink lamps burning, on the floor against the walls, giving just enough light to show the broad couch, shrouded in mosquito net, against the far wall. And there she was, silhouetted against the glow, sitting back among the cushions, one leg stretched out, the other with knee raised; there was a soft tinkle of bangles, and I leaned against my pillar and croaked:
'Lakshmibai? Lucky? — it's me, darling … chabeli*(*Sweetheart.) … I'm here!'
She turned her head, and then in one movement raised the net and slipped out, standing motionless by the couch, like a bronze statue. She was wearing bangles, all right, and a little gold girdle round her hips, and some kind of metal headdress from which a flimsy veil descended from just beneath her eyes to her chin — not another stitch. I let out an astonishing noise, and was trying to steady myself for a plunge, but she checked me with a lifted hand, slid one foot forward, crooked her arms like a nautch-dancer, and came gliding slowly towards me, swaying that splendid golden nakedness in time to the throbbing of the music beneath our feet.
I could only gape; whether it was the drink or admiration or what, I don't know, but I seemed paralysed in every limb but one. She came writhing up to me, bangles tinkling and dark eyes gleaming enormously in the soft light; I couldn't see her face for the veil, but I wasn't trying to; she retreated, turning and swaying her rump, and then approached again, reaching forward to brush me teasingly with her fingertips; I grabbed, gasping, but she slid away, faster now as the tempo of the music increased, and then back again, hissing at me through the veil, lifting those splendid breasts in her hands, and this time I had the wit to seize a tit and a buttock, fairly hooting with lust as she writhed against me and lifted the veil just enough to bring her mouth up to mine. Her right foot was slipping up the outside of my left leg, past the knee, up to the hip, and round so that her heel was in the small of my back — God knows how they do it, double joints or something — and then she was thrusting up and down like a demented monkey on a stick, raking me with her nails and giving little shrieks into my mouth, until the torchlight procession which was marching through my loins suddenly exploded, she went limp in my arms, and I thought, oh Lord, now Iettest thou thy servant depart in peace, as I slid gently to the floor in ecstatic exhaustion with that delightful
