Kitabı oku: «His Runaway Royal Bride», sayfa 2
‘I want answers. Will you tell me why you ran away like this? You had everything a girl wants—a life of comfort, wealth, riches, jewellery, clothes and a titled family! But clearly this wasn’t enough for you—what else did you want?’ he rasped, feeling tightly wound up inside.
Meethi was quiet. He would never understand her reasons. He never had and he never would. On the surface her life had been perfect but she had lived through it and knew how the undercurrents had trapped her and almost drowned her.
‘Why does it matter? I thought you would be relieved to be rid of me—an unwanted burden,’ she said miserably, the words forced out.
‘Did I ever make you feel unwanted or treat you like a burden?’ he demanded disbelievingly.
‘You left that day without speaking to me,’ Meethi whispered, her face white.
Veer stiffened. That last day had been burnt into Veer’s memory. He recalled the events clearly.
It had been two months after she had suffered the miscarriage. When six months pregnant, Meethi had tripped and fallen down the stairs, losing their baby. Two months of coping with gut-wrenching loss and seeing his vibrant wife turn pale and wraithlike, a shadow of herself.
After the miscarriage, Meethi had totally withdrawn into herself and become completely unresponsive. He had been at his wits’ end as to how to cope and had gone to consult a renowned doctor.
On his return he had found Meethi in the arms of his younger cousin, sobbing uncontrollably.
The sight of her wet cheeks and his cousin’s consoling hug had maddened him and something had snapped within him.
He had marched her to their suite of rooms and had turned on her, accusing her of behaving indecently, shunning all propriety and decorum.
Meethi, in turn, had retaliated, accusing him of being insensitive and unfeeling and, before he knew it, he had her in his arms and had begun kissing her hungrily and the fire between them had blazed gloriously as Meethi had kissed him back passionately. After months of abstinence, the feel of her in his arms and her soft encouraging cries had made him lose all control and the doctor’s orders that sex was off-limits had been forgotten by both of them. Tumbling her down onto the bed and egged on by her passionate kisses, he had taken her quickly, furiously.
But afterwards, as he looked at her lying spent in his arms, his shirt askew where she had tugged it off and her clothes torn when in his impatience he had ripped them, he had felt self-disgust overwhelm him.
He had behaved like an animal, intent on slaking his carnal pleasures, not even caring for the well-being of his sick wife. He always lost control whenever she was around and it had happened again.
Overwhelmed with guilt, he had left full of self-castigation for being so weak-willed where she was concerned. And that was the last time he had seen her.
He looked at Meethi now and some of his guilt returned. His behaviour had been despicable.
‘You said that you were going mad and you seemed totally disgusted!’ she said softly, reminding him. Something had died inside her that day when she had seen the disgust on his face. She had never felt so unwanted and useless in her life. She knew then that she would have to leave.
He froze in shock. Had she mistakenly thought that he was disgusted with her?
‘Was that why you ran away?’ he asked grimly.
‘You weren’t happy in our marriage,’ Meethi said, sadness colouring her voice.
She was pretending to have left out of concern for him. Accusing him of being the unhappy one in their marriage. Her duplicity fuelled his anger.
‘So, you are shifting the blame on to me now? You claim to have run away because I was unhappy, but if you really wanted to spare my feelings then why the charade of your death? Did you think I would be happy to hear that my wife had drowned?’ Veer replied.
‘I thought it would be better in the long run…’ Meethi said weakly.
‘Better for whom? You and that old man of yours?’ he said crushingly through bloodless lips. He had had enough of her lies and deception.
‘What old man?’ she asked with a look of incomprehension.
Meethi’s look served like a red rag to his anger. She was an actress beyond compare.
‘Stop acting the innocent! Did you think I wouldn’t come to know? You ran away because you didn’t want to stay married any more. You ran away to your teacher, didn’t you? I had always suspected you were infatuated with him and finally you decided to go to him!’ he said vehemently.
Meethi looked at him, stupefied. Did he really believe that she could have betrayed him with her guru?
As a child, Meethi had loved art and her work had caught the attention of Yogesh Hussein, a renowned artist who had begun tutoring her when she was ten. He’d claimed she had ‘unusual artistic talent’, and Meethi had revered him, looking up to him as another father figure. She was aghast and stunned at Veer’s insinuations.
‘I didn’t run off to be with him!’ she said tightly.
‘Why do you persist in lying? You ran from here straight to him. Didn’t you?’ Veer thundered.
His blood had boiled when the detective had reported that she had gone to Hussein’s house in Delhi and from there to his farmhouse, where she had stayed secretly for about three months before she had gone to Kolkata.
‘I went to him because there was no one else I could turn to,’ Meethi said heavily. Her baba had passed away and she had no other relatives she could go to.
Guruji had been shocked but supportive, and she had stayed with him for the first three months but Meethi had been terrified that Veer would trace her and so she had begged him to send her away somewhere else.
Veer felt as if she had slapped him. The unpalatable fact that his wife considered him ‘no one’ and had preferred to turn to another man and betray him stung his formidable pride.
‘So, even knowing that you had run away duplicitously, he abetted your perfidy? What sob story did you tell him? How did you justify your running away? Is this what he teaches his students? Or is it only you? Did he encourage you to run away?’ he said, words flying out of his mouth with ferocious precision.
‘He didn’t encourage me. In fact, he told me to talk to you but…’ Her voice tapered off.
Guruji had tried to convince her to talk to Veer and iron out their problems. He had even offered to talk to Veer himself but she had been so hysterical in her refusal that he had relented.
‘But you didn’t think my reputation was anything to care about. Family honour, propriety, decorum—all these are foreign words to you. They don’t matter to you at all,’ Veer thundered bitterly.
It had been difficult for him to accept that not only was Meethi alive but that she had meticulously planned her escape down to the smallest detail. She had wanted to leave him.
And she would have been successful at staying hidden if he hadn’t come across her painting at the exhibition.
His eyes grew cold and his face turned grim when he recalled how, a year after her supposed accident, he had gone to a painting exhibition organised by one of the charities he supported, featuring the works of Hussein.
As he’d walked around the exhibition one painting had made his blood run cold. He had stood, stunned, in front of the painting of a puppy sitting atop a car. The car was his Jaguar and the puppy was the one that Meethi had once dived to save as it had run in front of his car.
The painting didn’t bear any initials but he knew that no one apart from Meethi could have painted it. But when had she painted it? How could she have painted it? Questions had inundated his mind but a gut feeling bloomed inside him, filling him with the cold clarity that Meethi was alive.
When he’d asked the organisers about the painting they’d said that Hussein had donated the entire collection of paintings to the charity. He had immediately tried to contact Hussein but discovered, to his frustration, that the man was untraceable. He had visited his office, his house and even his farmhouse, but he seemed to have vanished.
The renowned artist had always exhibited a soft spot for Meethi and he had called Veer a couple of times after their wedding, trying to persuade him to send her abroad for her degree. Veer hadn’t liked the other man’s possessive tone when he’d spoken of Meethi and had kept putting off his request. He hadn’t mentioned anything to Meethi because she adored her guruji and blindly followed what he said. And Veer had always felt irritated and, though he didn’t admit it, slightly jealous.
And so, his suspicions thoroughly roused, Veer had hired the services of a private detective to trace Meethi.
As he’d waited for the detective’s report, questions had plagued him. Why had Meethi fooled him? Why had she feigned her death? What had she hoped to gain? Had it been a sign of her wilful immaturity? Or was there a deeper reason behind her disappearance? Was the reason connected to Hussein?
It took the detective more than a year to gather clues and put them together and then some more months to trace Meethi’s exact whereabouts. She had been in hiding for a full three years before the detective ferreted out her current address, a cottage in Santiniketan, near Kolkatta. And his report confirmed Veer’s worst fears. She had run off to Hussein.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ Meethi protested.
‘Then what was the reason for this deception? And if Hussein was so concerned about you, why didn’t he come and talk to me? I tried to contact him and left innumerable messages at his house but he had disappeared!’
‘Why did you try to contact him?’ Meethi asked hesitantly. How had Veer discovered her deception? She knew that Guruji would not have contacted him because he knew how adamant she had been about not returning to Veer. But why hadn’t Guruji mentioned anything to her about Veer trying to contact him?
‘Because I saw your painting of the puppy,’ he said searingly.
So that was what led him to her. But how could he have seen the painting? It was with Guruji. After she went to live at his farmhouse, Guruji had compelled her to begin painting again. And, once she began, it had been the only thing that had kept her sane and afloat, saving her from drowning in a morass of despair. She had poured out her anguish on canvas and it had helped her achieve a sense of closure. But she had painted mostly abstracts or figures that in no way revealed her identity. The painting of the puppy was, in fact, the only one that was in any way connected to her past and she had left it with Guruji because it was too painful to face the memories it roused.
‘How did you find it?’ she asked.
‘He donated it to a charity I patronise. He must’ve been ecstatic when you ran to him. It is, after all, what he always wanted. He always had a vested interest in you,’ Veer said condemningly.
Meethi looked at him with dismay. ‘How can you even think such thoughts about Guruji? He has always been unselfish in his support and encouragement.’
After high school, Guruji had helped Meethi win a scholarship to a prestigious art college in London, and she had been thoroughly excited at the prospect.
But, to her dismay, her ever-supportive father had put his foot down, saying he wouldn’t let her stay abroad alone. She had been trying to convince him to let her go to college when her marriage to Veer had come about.
Veer had promised he would let her go to art college but she’d gradually realised that he hadn’t wanted her to go either. He had spoken to the college authorities and they had agreed to hold her place for a year but, as the months rolled by, there was always some excuse why she could not take her place. And her duties would keep her so busy that she found no time during the day to paint.
A few times when, late at night, she painted at home Veer would find ways of distracting her. Low heat coiled deep down inside when she remembered how he had often carried her off to bed in the midst of painting.
Guruji had been disappointed at her inability to go but he would bracingly tell her to continue painting. He had, in fact, been the only one who had supported her passion unstintingly.
Veer looked at Meethi with dark scorn. ‘His support was never unselfish. He wanted the fame of being known as your teacher, the one who spotted your talent and trained you. He encouraged you to the extent of ignoring your responsibilities and vows of marriage. And so you spun your web of lies and ran away. How you must have laughed at fooling me! I have never in my whole life come across such a duplicitous person. You have besmirched my honour and the family name!’ he castigated her.
Meethi listened to his diatribe, and bitterness filled her. He hadn’t once mentioned his feelings on losing her. It was only about his loss of face, his honour, his reputation. It would always be the same.
Family name and honour were the only codes he lived by and that still remained unchanged. He simply considered her another of his possessions, an object he owned that would be relegated to a back corner the moment she outlived her usefulness.
And she had proved a failure. She couldn’t provide the heir that he wanted. A heart-rending cry almost left her throat as painful memories of her miscarriage threatened to inundate her, but she ruthlessly pushed the door shut on them.
There was no point trying to sort out the convoluted mess of their relationship. Let him rave and rant and say what he wanted to, but when the time came she would run away again. She let his acrimony wash over her, wiped all expression from her face and turned away slightly.
She was dismissing him. She had run off. Fooled him. Her betrayal had blown a hole in his soul. And she didn’t care! The heartless manner in which she had tricked him by concocting the story of her fatal accident slammed into his memory and his fury reached mammoth proportions.
Veer wanted to demand further answers but he didn’t trust himself around her any more. He walked out of the room, leaving her alone. He had always been clear-sighted and decisive but Meethi managed to disturb his cool and left his thought processes completely tangled and in disarray. His formidable control always deserted him when she was around and she had managed to do what no one else had ever managed to do—hurt him where it mattered most. His head was spinning and he needed to put things in perspective.
CHAPTER TWO
MEETHI CURLED UP on her side, utterly drained and trying to stifle the sobs rising in her throat. She had been so happy when they got married. It had seemed as if she had found her sapno ka rajkumar—the prince of her dreams.
She remembered their first meeting, when she had saved a puppy from being run over by his car.
When he’d alighted from the car, his dark, smouldering looks had taken her breath away. He’d stood there, broad-shouldered and so tall that she had to crane her neck to look into the midnight-black eyes staring out of a chiselled face. He had been the most handsome man she had ever seen and, for a moment, her voice had threatened to desert her.
But his haughty, disdainful expression and regal air had angered her. She had sensed he was royalty by the way he carried himself and by the subservient attitude of the three men who had jumped out of the car with him. She had dismissed him as a typical royal, full of swagger and self-importance. And, not being kindly disposed towards royals in general, despite her thudding heart she had lambasted him.
Later, when she’d encountered him at a wedding she had gone to, she had felt his eyes following her and had tried her best to ignore him, feeling breathless and nervous. Inexperienced though she was with men, her senses had been aware of his dark sex appeal and the charged heat which seemed to shimmer whenever their glances met.
He had approached her the next morning when she was out early jogging and, striking up a conversation, had apologised for the car incident. Floored by his sincere apology, she had acquiesced to his invitation for breakfast and, before she knew it, they had driven down to a nearby heritage resort.
He had proved an interesting conversationalist and, over a sumptuous breakfast, they had talked about a variety of subjects. Though there was a difference of nine years between them, they had discovered a common love of music and cricket and there had been humorous bickering over favourites.
She had so thoroughly enjoyed herself that time had flown and she had been aghast to realise that it was already afternoon when they returned.
On their return, Veer had met her father and asked for her hand in marriage.
Her father had been ecstatic. Veer’s impeccable lineage and spotless reputation had bowled him over. He had approved wholeheartedly of the match.
But Meethi had felt piqued at what she considered Veer’s high-handed, archaic behaviour. The entire morning, he hadn’t given a single hint of any such interest and then he had suddenly gone behind her back to talk to her father.
She was also upset because she didn’t want to get married at nineteen.
Since she’d been seventeen her father had been inundated with proposals from well-meaning relatives. But her father had withstood the pressure from family and relatives and remained firm that she would complete her studies first.
Meethi had wanted to go to college and graduate with a degree in Fine Arts and Baba had always supported her desire but, worryingly, he had recently started hinting at finding a suitable match for her. And now he was serious about Veer’s proposal.
Though his dark good looks had mesmerised her and her heart beat loudly when he was around, she was deeply scared of giving up her life as she knew it. She knew life changed for a girl when she married. She had seen her friends married off young, freedom curtailed, circumscribed within the four walls of their sasural—their marital homes. Their lives revolved around their husband, in-laws and huge joint families and they had no independence or say in the running of their own lives.
And, most of all, she hadn’t want to leave her father alone. So she had refused, even though her father was being stubborn and adamant that she agree to Veer’s proposal.
Then Veer had stepped in.
With her father’s permission, he had taken her out for a drive and stopped the car in a quiet copse across the main road. He’d opened her door and held out his hand to help her step out.
Meethi had looked at him with beating heart and stepped out.
‘Why don’t you want to marry me?’ he asked her gently.
‘Why do you want to marry me?’ she asked through thundering beats of her heart.
His eyes crinkling at the corners, Veer smiled in amusement. ‘Life with you will never be dull, I guarantee! Well, I want to marry you because I think you’re extremely suitable for me,’ he said with gentle mockery.
Meethi saw red. ‘Don’t be patronising! Aren’t there any other suitable girls? Surely parents must be queuing up at your door in hordes!’ she hissed angrily.
Veer couldn’t contain his amusement and burst out laughing. ‘My dear girl, much as I hate to disappoint you, there is no horde or even a queue at my door. You are the girl I want to marry, and I think we’ll be very happy together,’ he added softly.
‘What about what I want? I don’t want to get married!’ she snapped, angry at his domineering attitude.
‘You don’t want to get married at all or you don’t want to marry me?’ he asked, suddenly serious.
‘I don’t want to get married right now,’ Meethi said truculently.
‘Why?’ Veer asked tautly.
Meethi remained silent.
‘Is there someone else?’ he asked with a strange expression on his face. ‘A boy you study with, perhaps? Does your father know?’ he asked with cold suspicion.
‘Of course not! What do you think I am? I wouldn’t go behind Baba’s back and do something underhand!’ Meethi was aghast at his fertile imagination.
Veer prodded her. ‘At least let me know the reason for your refusal.’
‘Well, sorry to let down your wild imaginings, but I don’t want to get married because, firstly, I want to go to art college and, secondly, I don’t want to leave my father alone,’ Meethi said stiffly, the words forced out of her.
‘Well, you can go to college even after marriage. No one will stop you. These are not the Dark Ages, you know! And, as for leaving your father, one day, sooner or later, you will have to get married. Do you think your father would be happy if you never married or if you stayed with him for ever? It is every father’s dream to see his daughter well settled. And your father is so happy with the idea of our marriage!’ Veer was all persuasion.
‘But he will be all alone!’ Meethi said through the lump in her throat.
‘I will ask him if he would like to come and live with us. And if he doesn’t I will take you to meet him as often as you want!’ Veer said easily.
Meethi looked at him in surprise. He was making short work of all her objections. Why was he so keen to marry her? He could have his pick of any girl. So why her?
‘But why me…?’ she began, but the words died in her throat at the look in his dark eyes. She felt feverish and chilled at the same time and couldn’t tear her gaze from him.
She stared at him, mesmerised, as he tugged at a lock of her hair, pulling her towards him, and lowered his head, capturing her mouth gently.
Meethi closed her eyes in shock and felt his lips move over hers tenderly, softening them, caressing them and coaxing them open.
Despite her sheltered and protected upbringing, Meethi had a fair idea of the physical intimacy between men and women, thanks to the knowledge passed on amidst giggles by her married friends. But the actual reality of being kissed blew her mind.
His lips slid over hers, nipping her lower lip gently, pushing and prodding seductively and then deepened as he kissed her possessively. One hand moved to clasp her head closer while his other hand slid over her waist, cupping her bottom and pulling her into a snug fit.
Meethi went up in flames. All thought was erased from her mind, her body became a mass of dizzying sensations and she began trembling and shaking in his arms.
Feeling her tremble, Veer broke off the burning kiss and, placing a tender kiss on her forehead, said, ‘Now you know how suitable we are for each other.’
Meethi was red with embarrassment and couldn’t meet his eyes.
But her heart did a strange flip-flop when he pulled her close in a tight embrace and said softly, ‘Don’t worry! I will always ensure your and your father’s happiness. You will never regret marrying me.’
Meethi stilled in his embrace, held in the thrall of inexplicable, mysterious emotions. She felt as if she were walking on air.
They returned to her home, and her father’s ecstatic expression was Meethi’s undoing. She stifled her fears and accepted his proposal.
But her fears had eventually come to roost, and Veer had come to resent their hasty marriage.
She had thought that by running away she would set them both free.
She slid into an uneasy slumber but woke all of a sudden, catapulted up, perspiring heavily, her breath coming in gasps.
Her eyes alighted on unfamiliar surroundings and then it all came back. Veer had found her and brought her back to Samogpur.
A sudden movement beside her, she saw the maid, a young girl, hovering solicitously, bowing down low in greeting. ‘Namaskar, Maharani Saheba!’
Her breath sticking in her throat, Meethi asked her, ‘Maharaj Saheb?’
‘He has gone riding, Maharani Saheba,’ she replied deferentially.
Some things never change, Meethi thought, feeling old wounds buried deep down begin to tauten. He had always preferred the company of his beloved horses to her. She recalled numerous occasions when, after a disagreement, he would simply storm off to the stables and go for a long wild ride.
‘And Maaji Saheb! Where is she?’ Meethi asked haltingly, dreading the answer.
‘Maaji Saheb is at the haveli in Haridwar. She has been living there for the past two years,’ the girl said confidingly.
Meethi looked at her incredulously. Maaji Saheb was no longer at the Mahal! How was this possible?
Seeing Meethi’s confusion, she said in a low voice, ‘Maharaj Saheb had a huge row with her and he ordered her to go to Haridwar!’
Meethi felt a slight easing of the clenched-up feeling inside. She wouldn’t have to face Maaji Saheb. Though one part of her mind clamoured to know the details, a nameless dread, familiar and omnipresent, kept her silent.
What would happen now? she thought dispiritedly. Where did she go from here? She couldn’t relive the terrible ordeal that their married life had been.
What did Veer want? Questions clamoured in her brain till it felt as if her head would burst.
Meethi tried to pull herself together. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked the maid.
‘Simran,’ the girl answered with a shy smile.
‘I haven’t seen you before,’ Meethi said thoughtfully. The girl seemed very young and sweet.
‘Maharaj Saheb appointed me a year back. He said that I was to look after you when you came back,’ Simran offered tentatively.
Meethi was stunned to learn that Veer had been completely sure of finding her a year ago and bringing her back.
‘I think I’ll have a bath,’ she said. Simran’s revelations had confirmed her dread that Veer wouldn’t let her go. Maybe her brain would start functioning better and find a way out of the current predicament.
Simran brightened up and said with a smile, ‘Ji, I will show you the dressing area.’
She went into the adjoining room and Meethi followed. It was a huge double dressing room divided by a thin wooden partition.
‘Maharaj Saheb’s dressing area is on that side,’ Simran pointed out. ‘All your clothes are neatly arranged in the wardrobe,’ she said.
‘My clothes! Where did they come from?’ Meethi asked, stupefied.
‘Maharaj Saheb had them moved here from the old mahal. And I was given the responsibility of arranging them,’ she added with a note of pride.
Meethi opened her wardrobe. It contained all her old clothes. Since she had feigned her death, to avoid any suspicion, she had left all her belongings behind and taken just a couple of old churidaar kameezes, a pair of jeans and some tunics. Memories came rushing in when she looked at the rows and rows of opulent and expensive banarsi saris, antique brocade lehangas and elaborate anarkali churidaar kameezes. The best designers had put together her trousseau, as befitting her position as the Maharani of Samogpur.
Simran bent and took out a silver chest from the bottom of the wardrobe. It contained jewellery—necklaces, earrings, bangles, nose pins, toe rings and anklets that she was supposed to wear every day. There were several heavy jewellery sets that were kept under lock and key but which she had to wear periodically.
As the wife of Maharajah of Samogpur she had to always remain dressed to the hilt in a nine-yard saree or a lehenga, dripping with jewellery, her head demurely covered. She couldn’t leave her chambers dressed otherwise.
She had no say in choosing her clothes. And she hated her wardrobe down to the last piece. The clothes were gaudy, elaborate and cumbersome and she had always felt trussed up in the heavy fabrics.
There were no jeans, trousers or skirts in her wardrobe except for the ones she had owned before marriage. And once or twice when she had tried to wear clothes of her own choice, her mother-in-law had frowned and looked askance before acerbically humiliating her so that she had given in and changed.
Turning away from torturous memories, she rushed to the bathroom in desperation.
Veer was galloping furiously. For a Rajput, pride was paramount, and his wife had insulted him in the worst possible way.
She had played on his weakness for her.
She had seemed so sweet and innocent… Unbidden, his mind went back to the first time their paths had crossed.
He had driven down to Jaipur to attend the wedding of his school friend, Gauravendra Singh. Itching to drive his new Jaguar at full throttle, the Delhi-Jaipur highway had seemed perfect, and he had set off with his driver and bodyguards.
He was enjoying driving the powerful car at a breakneck speed when suddenly a puppy appeared from nowhere. He had braked frantically.
To his utter shock, a wisp of a girl appeared as well and she dived in front of his car to save the puppy. He almost lost control, and the car swerved, but he managed to bring it to a screeching stop.
Aghast and furious, he had jumped out of the car and shouted, ‘Are you blind?’
‘No! You are!’ she retorted immediately, militantly.
He was taken aback. No one had ever dared to answer him back. Even his driver and bodyguards, who had leapt out urgently, were shocked into silence.
The chit of a girl continued her tirade. ‘Fancy car owners don’t own the road, you know! This puppy has as much right to this road as you have! Big car, small heart!’
Veer looked at her, stupefied. She barely reached his chin and she was staggeringly beautiful.
She had a heart-shaped face, almond-shaped eyes with impossibly long eyelashes and a rosebud mouth. A thick long braid that seemed almost too heavy for her swanlike neck lay sideways on her ample bosom.
His stupefaction wore off when he realised that the ample bosom that he was admiring was heaving with indignation. She was spitting fire, hurling insults and berating him.
He held up his hand to silence her. ‘Enough! You could have been terribly injured if I hadn’t braked in time! Have you no sense?’ he asked.
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