The Passions of Dr. Darcy by Sharon Lathan

Author:Sharon Lathan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Published: 2013-03-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Junnar

April 1803

George pulled on the reins and murmured a gentle whoa. The horse obeyed reluctantly, sidestepping and tossing his head impatiently. “I understand, Rathore,” he soothed, bending to rub the silky, white neck of his faithful mount. “You can smell the fresh water and grains from here. Bear with me for a minute, vafadar, and I promise we will be home soon.”

Rathore snorted, conveying his displeasure with waiting but did lean into the firm caress of his human friend. George had named the Marwari stallion gifted to him by Jharna’s father after the rulers of the Marwar region of India who were the first to breed the exquisite animals in the twelfth century. Together the two had traversed the length and breadth of Maharashtra and the Deccan Plain, growing in their mutual respect with each passing month. George was a Darcy, and thus a man who loved horses as if a kinship was buried inside the fabric of his bones and muscles. It had taken no time at all for him to bond with his new mount and vice versa, Rathore sensing that this man was a worthy one to allow the privilege of sitting on his back. Therefore, trust was an aspect of the partnership forged, so Rathore relaxed in the shadows of the overhanging trees and waited.

George continued to rub Rathore’s neck, but his attention was on the sprawling house nestled in the verdant valley below the hillock they stood on. Designed as a rectangular structure encompassing an open central courtyard of stone, the large, two-level building was impressive, even in the half light of dusk. The receding illumination from the sun muted the effect of high noon but was adequate enough to discern the elegant architecture and geometric designs of stones painted in vibrant colors. Lamps glowed welcomingly from the windows above the cusped arched of the main entrance and strategic niches carved into the outer walls. From his vantage point, George could see the entire house and most of the outbuildings where the animals were lodged and supplies stored. A few servants milled about, tending to late afternoon tasks before the light was gone. A brisk breeze caused the tall trees to sway, adding a pleasant play of shadows to the tableau and lifting the natural smells of flowers, grass, river water, and moist earth upward into the air.

Inhaling, George closed his eyes to greater appreciate the aromas. Individually they were common to any dwelling place in India. Combined, they were unique to the residence of Jharna, Nimesh, and Sasi Ullas in Junnar. The place George called home.

Home.

Since arriving in India, he had never stayed anywhere long enough to think of it as home. If asked, he would have answered that Pemberley in Derbyshire was his home, yet the truth was that his ancestral estate hadn’t felt like home for decades, even before leaving England. Another truth was that George, for all his sentimental nature, hadn’t cared all that much. The itinerant life was what

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