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57 pages

English

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Was the first man you fell for a brooding desert prince? Or better still, a cruelly handsome feudal lord? Are you a spirited beauty, your fire contained-but only just-by the clinging brocade of your lehenga's choli? A delicious Kama Kahani is sure to strike your fancy. Rani, a radiant Punjabi beauty and the illegitimate daughter of Maharajah Ranjit Singh, is kidnapped by the notorious bandit Ranbir Singh, who decides to use her as a pawn in his revenge against the King. But soon she realizes she cannot ignore her desire for her captor, handsome and mysterious as he is. Torn between passion and loyalty, past and present, Rani must discover what really lies in her heart.

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Historical romance

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Publié par	Random House Publishers India Pvt. Ltd.
Date de parution	02 décembre 2011
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9788184002560
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0360€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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P ASSION IN THE P UNJAB
P ASSION IN THE P UNJAB
Kiran Kohl
Published by Random House India in 2011
Copyright Kiran Kohl 2009
Random House Publishers India Private Limited
Windsor IT Park, 7th Floor, Tower-B,
A-1, Sector-125, Noida-201301, U.P.
Random House Group Limited
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London SW1V 2SA
United Kingdom
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EPUB ISBN 9788184002560
For my Ranbir
PROLOGUE
T HE SUNSET HAD CREATED beautiful havoc in the sky. Purples, blues, yellows and reds swam together, providing a dreamy background to the first stars of the night. The summer of 1822 had been an unusually searing one, and the Punjab had sweltered under an unforgiving sun. The city of Multan, spread along the banks of the sparkling Chenab, was quiet. Almost everyone had retreated indoors to seek respite from the merciless heat. Perched above the city, on the only mound for miles, lay the fort, a magnificent structure framed by a hexagonal wall, almost sixty feet high. Thirty towers had once bordered the fort, enclosing a myriad of alleyways, houses, mosques and the king s palace. But after the 1818 occupation by the Maharajah of Punjab, Ranjit Singh, only half of the towers remained stable. He had invaded Multan, the city of saints, from all sides, battering it with cannons, gunpowder and the outrage of angry men. The Zamzama, the renowned cannon of the Maharajah, had torn a gigantic hole in the sidewall of the fort. Inhabitants from the now relatively peaceful city still gathered to marvel at the size of the wound.
But tonight, all that was forgotten. The Maharajah was in Multan for the night, on his way to Lahore, and a large party was being thrown in his honour. Thousands of lit diyas hung from the walls of the fort and garlands of marigolds flowed over them like orange waterfalls. A low canopy of cream silk hung over the large open air courtyard, the venue for the main festivities. Thousands of rose petals had been scattered along the floor, some falling into the minute canals of flowing water entrenched in the marble to cool the warm summer evening. A lone singer plucked at a sitar, her bold voice resounding through the open air, and drummers beat their instruments louder and faster, as the young, beautiful Rani danced in abandon to the addictive beat. She moved gracefully to the rhythm, her hands in the air and her body swaying as if unfettered by flesh and bone. Her body gleamed against her well-fitted blouse, which was expertly cut to show off her shapely breasts. Yards of red silk were draped around her narrow waist, while a thin green chiffon chunni fell from her shoulders, barely covering her bare midriff, giving her the allure of a fairy escaped from the netherworld. The men feverishly watched her magical performance and tried in vain to hide the glint of lust in their eyes.
Although born to Ranjit Singh s mistress and not to one of his legitimate wives, Rani had always been one of the Maharajah s favourite daughters. Her mother, Bashiran, lovingly referred to as Billo because of her cat-like eyes, had been the leader of the Punjabi Amazons, a valiant and strong troupe of women, who had accompanied the Maharajah to battle. Beautiful as well as brave, the women fought alongside the soldiers and danced for the guests at night, for Ranjit Singh was not just a great warrior but had a love of all things hedonistic. Rani had inherited her love of dance and a strong, indefatigable spirit from her mother.
Rani was lost to the sound of drums, the shehnai, the flute, smiling and laughing till she caught sight of a man watching her from the shadows. As he stepped into the light, their eyes met, and Rani was hypnotized by his intense gaze. As if instinctively, her eyes scanned his perfectly lean physique, then his face; the thick eyebrows, the curls that fell gently around his forehead, and the light stubble that added to his roughly handsome features. He was dressed simply yet elegantly in an ivory blue silk salwar kameez with an ivy green belt. Realizing that he too was staring back at her, she quickly averted her gaze. Then, just as suddenly, he vanished into the crowd.
The Maharajah was seated in the elaborately carved royal marble verandah overlooking the courtyard, and Rani swallowed hard, overcome with emotion for a few seconds. She was still in awe of her father: the man who had established the first Sikh empire in the subcontinent and earned the title of Sher-e-Punjab on account of his bravery and heroism. He was deeply involved in a discussion with the Wazir, his hands gesticulating wildly as his lips moved at an equally fast pace. The Wazir leant forward, his whole body engaged listening, absorbing. She wondered what they were discussing. Just then the Maharajah looked up and, upon catching sight of her almond eyes, long, curly hair and thoughtful, deep mouth, so like her mother s, he smiled widely.
Rani saw a well-built man dressed in a long, saffron coloured robe studded with tiger-eye gemstones approaching the two men and slapping the Wazir on the back. This brought the conversation to an end, and her father and the Wazir once again gave their attention to the festivities. All three men sat on the raised royal verandah, sandwiched between an array of elaborately arranged cushions and three opium pipes. Kashmiri beauties knelt behind the trio and turned fans made of intricate peacock feathers in their pretty hands; before them danced girls shimmering in blue, green, red and orange.
Exhausted after her performance, Rani climbed down the steps onto the edge of the rose garden, yearning for some fresh air. This was her favourite part of the fort, where she retreated to often. Her face flushed, neck hot and sweaty from her dance, she closed her eyes and leaned against a silk tree to absorb some of its coolness. Somehow the stranger s image kept flashing in her mind although she couldn t fathom why.
Just then, she felt a tap on the shoulder and opened her eyes to find him standing right by her side. Who was this man? His eyes, up close, seemed greener than the jade in the floral murals of the palace.
Beautiful night, isn t it? he remarked his accent distinct and unlike anything she had heard before.
Yes, she answered softly, her face flushed.
He smiled back at her.
Do I know you? she asked. She took the opportunity of conversation to take him in properly: his chiselled, riveting face, his broad chest, his manly stance.
Well, we haven t met before, if that is what you mean, he said. I am a guest of the Wazir. He brushed a wayward curl away from his face. The dance well, it was splendid, he added, running his eyes over her body unabashedly.
He had noticed her descend the steps, sparkling in her lehenga; how she had danced, what passionate abandon she had shown. He had also noticed the way the Maharajah looked at her, his eyes glowing with pride and affection while she danced. He had watched her all night, his plans maturing by the minute. But he had also found himself unaccountably disturbed by her presence, aroused just by thinking of what it might be like to touch that swanlike neck, kiss those virginal ear lobes, caress those tender breasts
Rani was at a loss for what to say to this man. For some reason he made her feel so self-conscious.
What s your name?
Rani.
Ahh, a beautiful name befitting a queen. Now, tell me, Rani, are you just visiting Multan or do you live here? he said, reaching forward and startling her by touching the lobe of her ear ever so lightly. She was too shocked to respond immediately, although her body had responded all on its own; the delicate brush of his fingers against her ear sent a wave of fire through her. She could breathe in his musky scent, so close was he; she could see the dark hair on his muscular chest.
Sorry, he mumbled, realizing the brazenness of his unbidden gesture. Your earring it was about to fall off. He handed her the small silver bell. Rani knew her face was flushed; embarrassed and irritated by this, she wanted to run away from this mysterious stranger.
You were saying? Do you live in Multan? he said, breaking the awkward silence.
Yes, I live here with my mother, she mumbled.
Have you recently arrived here?
Yes. We were in Lahore before this.
Must be nice to move around, live in the greatest palaces and forts this state has.
Did she detect a note of bitterness in his voice?
It s quite beautiful. Isn t it, Multan Fort? he continued.
Yes, Rani replied. My favourite spot is the rose garden. It seems to be ever in bloom, no matter what season we re in.
I would love to see it. Perhaps you might take me around it sometime? It does seem to exceed all descriptions I have heard of it. Despite visiting Multan several times, this is the first time I have been allowed inside the fort, he said, a glint in his eye. He stressed the word allowed and this made her uncomfortable.
You want me to show you the rose garden? she asked boldly.
Yes, if you don t mind of course, he replied with a wry smile. And does the Maharajah stay here often? he continued.
No, only a few months every year.
So, these many guards, this much artillery is only because he is here, he said, sweeping his glance across the festivities to indicate the countless men stationed in every nook and cranny of the courtyard.
Oh yes, I mean, most of the time we have only Khushal Singh s men and, of course, Khushal Chacha himself, Rani replied, growing irritated at h