“No,” he said.

“Good morning to you, too,” Penelope said coolly, bringing her horse into step with his. “Going somewhere?”

Alex pulled abruptly to the side, far enough in the shadow of the walls to put them out of range of the sentries’ incurious gaze. He reined up, turning to face her. “You know very well where.”

“You were going to leave without me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” He had meant to leave it at that, but found he couldn’t. He caught himself groping after explanations, excuses. He shouldn’t need them. They had been over all this the night before. Even if they hadn’t agreed. With an exasperated sigh, Alex rubbed a hand over his bloodshot eyes. “We discussed this.”

“We clearly came to different resolutions.” Penelope leaned back in her saddle. “Let me make this clear. I don’t care about traveling rough or riding hard or any of those things. I would far rather be in the saddle than in the Residency drawing room.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about,” Alex said reluctantly. “Although I don’t think you’ll like the saddle sores after the second day of continuous riding.”

“Then what? My reputation?” Seeing the confirmation in his face, Penelope laughed, a laugh like cut glass, all brilliant glitter and jagged edges. “Darling Alex. Darling, innocent Alex, I haven’t any reputation left to lose. I divested myself of that a long time ago. Why do you think Fiske and that lot dare to treat me as they do? If I’m to have the opprobrium, I might at least have the freedom.”

It made Alex’s teeth grit to think of Fiske or any of his dissolute companions daring to sit in judgment of Penelope. Including her husband.

“Fiske treats most women as fair game,” he said sharply. “Not just you. If it is discovered that we were traveling alone together, it will be a very great deal of opprobrium — for a very small space of freedom. Are you sure you want to make that trade?”

“It is my trade to make.” Her face lit with a sudden, irresistible smile. Like the sun coming out from beyond the clouds, thought a dazzled Alex unoriginally, as she turned the full force of her considerable charm in his direction, saying deliberately, wheedlingly, “What can possibly be wrong with a lady hastening to join her husband, escorted by a dour and reliable member of the Residency staff? I think it’s terribly romantic, don’t you?”

He smiled reluctantly. “Is that what you told your ayah?”

“Yes, with strict orders not to tell anyone at all. Which means she will tell absolutely everyone. By dawn, the story will be all around the Residency. So you see, if I return now, it will cause more talk than if I go.”

Alex wasn’t quite sure he agreed with that logic, but he let it go. “And if I leave without you?”

“I will follow,” she said without hesitation. “Loudly. Conspicuously. Embarrassingly.”

She wouldn’t, really. If she followed, it would be silently and purposefully. But she would follow.

The devil of it was, he wanted her there. Which was, in his fatigue-fuddled brain, all the more reason why she shouldn’t be there. It was several days’ ride to Berar, days of riding together, foraging together, bunking together. It wasn’t the riding or foraging he was worried about.

As if reading his mind, Penelope said caustically, “You needn’t be afraid for your virtue. Who is Sir Galahad to be swayed by such a minor siren as I?”

“I’m not Sir Galahad,” said Alex tiredly, seizing on the least of the points. “And I don’t remember him having much trouble with sirens.”

Was Sir Galahad the one who slept with the king’s wife? Or was that another one? Either way, he wasn’t a knight of any table, round or otherwise.

“Odysseus, then,” said Penelope carelessly. “Whoever you imagine yourself to be, you needn’t fear that I’ll force my attentions upon you. You made your feelings on that score quite clear.” As if suddenly impatient with the whole discussion, she set her heels to Buttercup’s sides. “Are you coming? Or am I going without you?”

He had done the right thing by refusing her offers the night before. He had done it for her own good, to save her misery and regret. Then why did he feel like such a heel?

Alex hastened to catch up with her. “You don’t know where you’re going.”

It was only a pro forma protest and she knew it. He was not going to leave her to wander the countryside of Hyderabad by herself. Alex’s stomach experienced a sinking feeling, like a rock cake settling to the bottom of his gut. Bunk mates it was going to be. In separate bedrolls.

Penelope cast him a superior look. “How hard can it be?”

Harder than she knew.

“Without map, compass, or more than a rudimentary knowledge of the language? Just as a broad guess, I would say very.”

Penelope ducked her chin and looked up at him from under her lashes. “I like a challenge.”

And then she was away ahead, deliberately leaving him in her dust.

Stifling a cough, Alex shook his head, smiled wryly, and followed along behind, prepared to head her off should she take the wrong pass. She deserved to be allowed to make her point. Up to a point, that was.

She put on a good show, but he could see from the tension of her shoulders that she was still geared for battle. That was his Penelope, always ready with a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, prepared to come out swinging. Swinging, shooting, jumping into a river. The memory made him grin, despite his fatigue. Watching her plunge into the river had taken a good year off his life, but he couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer, brash courage of it. It wasn’t many women who would plunge into a river in full spate after a drowning man or shoot down a cobra by candlelight. The woman he had first met, in a drawing room in Calcutta, might have been an entirely different creature, a construct of his own preconceptions and prejudices.

Yet, beneath all that bravado, there were times when she seemed as fragile as glass, protected from shattering only by that thick layer of nonchalance she cast up around her like a shield. You needn’t fear that I’ll force my attentions upon you , she had said, as though it weren’t entirely the other way around. He recalled the bleak expression on her face last night, in the garden, when he had come upon her on her way back from her bungalow. Bleak and lost, lost in a way that had nothing to do with maps or compasses or geographical terrain.

It hadn’t been a love match, she had said. Even so, he remembered the way she had followed after Lord Frederick that night after the river, watching his shadow through the wall of the tent like a beggar at a lighted window. He had never seen anyone look quite so alone as Penelope had that night.

What had they been to each other back in London? Had she thought she loved him then? Alex supposed Lord Frederick was charming enough, if one didn’t know him well. He was titled, polished, not entirely dull-witted. Even a clever woman could make the mistake of falling in love with a handsome face.

He hated the thought of her with Lord Frederick; he hated the thought that Lord Frederick still held the power to wound her so. For all that Penelope had tried to banish the topic, Lord Frederick had been all around them the night before: his house, his room, his bed. In that room, at that moment, it had been impossible to know whether Penelope’s attentions, physical and otherwise, had been truly for him, or whether he was merely a weapon wielded in a rearguard action against her husband, gouging out the memory of her husband’s mistress by bringing another man into her husband’s bed. It was not a particularly flattering thought.

He had hurt her, too, he realized, in turning her down. Just how much, he hadn’t suspected until that moment by the gate, when she had spurred her way forward ahead of him.

How to explain that it wasn’t the lack of wanting that was the problem? It wasn’t just physical desire, even though that was the sole currency by which Penelope appeared to measure her own worth. It would be easier if it were. The reality was much more complicated and much more worrisome. He appreciated her as a companion; he admired her as a comrade; he wanted her as a lover.

All innocuous enough each on its own. Put together . . . Christ. What a coil. His father couldn’t have done better. She was the wife of a man who was technically his superior, a visitor to his province, a lady under his protection. It was the devil of a time to finally discover just what it was that had made James decide to risk his job and his neck for the love of Khair-un-Nissa, or his father’s Rajput concubine to put knife to chest when his father had strayed, this fierce, possessive, overwhelming something.

Oh, hell. Not just something. He might as well call it by its name. Love. Such a mild term for such a destructive force.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had decided long, long ago that when he fell in love, it was going to be appropriate. Orderly.

He had had it all figured out. Once he had established himself in the political service, settled in his own district with a reasonable sufficiency with which to support a wife, he was going to set about looking among the daughters of his father’s peers for a pleasant, sensible sort of girl, preferably one raised in India, who knew the land, the language, and the people, who wouldn’t cherish any false expectations about the sort of life he would be able to provide for her. Simple as that. They would marry, raise a family, and that would be that, all open, above-board, and legitimate. Legitimate was very important.

The only one of those qualifications Penelope fit was that she was female.