Peshwa Bajirao has met her, seen her ride and fight a battle. He's almost killed her when she was trying to save his ass. And now he has to cauterize her wound. As Mastani passes out with pain, he has to face some harsh realities while falling in lo...
Moments of stillness came seldom in a soldier's life. A decade of wars, and he was beginning to feel like a grizzled veteran. He'd seen too much, killed too many and gotten dispassionately efficient at what he did. As the shadow of saffron flags grew over India, so did his reputation. It was said that Shrimant Peshwa Bajirao Ballal had a vision of the Devi proffering him a dagger when he was 11, and the gift of invincibility in battle. He certainly fought like it, and had never been defeated yet.
It was a seismic silence, like the vibration of an arrow that just might have thwacked into his heart. The moment the scalding dagger pressed into her wound, Mastani had slumped and fainted in his arms. He curled around her protectively. His fingers skimmed the charred edge of the gash in her back. He could never unsee the wound nor the blisters, never forget the scorched-flesh smell. He had branded her forever, first a savage slash with his daandpatta, and just had to cauterize it with his kataar.
His fingertips, sensitized against her bare skin, felt a tracery of ridges. Nicks from whatever training she went through, he realized, badges of glory. An unhappy childhood, then, he thought, not the pampered life of a spoiled princess. Just one more brat among the many illegitimate ones running about the place, you would be seen as easy prey, unless you learned to defend yourself. And the Muslim concubine mother meant she probably had to learn early – and viciously. She was not a blossom thing woven out of delicate moonbeams, appearance notwithstanding, but a flashing talwar. Reach for a candle and you'd find a blazing torch.
From the moment she made her epic leap into his tent, she had shocked him. With her fierceness. With her prowess. She had the audacity to draw her sword at him. At him! And she drew blood. He had not imagined it possible that anyone could outpace him on the plains of war. And here she was, keeping abreast, and then outstripping him, windswept mane of hair lashing against his face, until his belly flared with the urge to twist it around his fist like a rein.
His hands stilled on her flesh as he felt her callused fingers clutch his back. The pain must have been excruciating, but she hadn't more than gasped. His hands felt intimately acquainted with her, the network of scars imprinted in his mind like a cartographer who had measured every slope and curve of an undiscovered country. He felt a shock of recognition go through him. They were a foil to each other; two warriors locked in a duel. She meshed and clashed with him at every turn, meeting thrust with parry. She matched his gait of a tiger with the sinuousness of a cobra; his arrogance with pride. He was a rock of strength amid her river of fluidity. He was a hero, and she was his muse. She was his soul's yearning for perfection. A warrior packaged in a princesses' body, and for him, irresistible.
He longed to soothe her with his lips but knew the kiss would brand her more deeply than mere weapons could.
"I have seen your wounds, my lady Mastani. You are no longer a Rajput," he murmured into her hair.
Her hands knotted into his angrakha, unwilling to let go. Her eyes were luminous with unshed tears and spoke to him in a language he never suspected he understood, yet clearly found himself eloquent in.
"What you see is merely a mark of your sword," she whispered. "It is the heart that bleeds."
Her truth mirrored his steel grey eyes. She was deadly beyond any foe he had ever confronted, and the Peshwa had no lack of enemies in court. His life was already forfeit on every field of battle. His family would sooner let a dog lick their thali before her shadow darkened the threshold in Shanivarwada. Brahmin society would shun him. Ma Saheb would kill him. He was the champion of the Maratha empire, spearheading resistance against a thousand years of Muslim colonization. A liaison with Mastani would take him down: his reputation, his standing, his office as Shrimant Peshwa, his ambition, his moral high ground, his marriage... everything. Her religion alone ensured he would go down in ignominy and scandal.
He resolved to leave Bundelkhand as soon as decency permitted. To go back to the campaign trail, dozing fitfully on horseback, munching stale chapatis with his battle hardened troops. Back to the tedium of the Chatrapati's court politics, even. Away from the pull of Mastani, flashing and beckoning like a naked Afghan talwar in the liquid sunlight pouring from her windows, and back to the matronly charms of his Peshwin bai. His neck prickled abominably, the graze from her sword still oozing. He wished he had bathed and shaved before dashing in to check on her. He should bolt.
He leaned into her instead. His heart thrummed, and he could feel her awareness of him under her fingertips. There was the matter of lives saved and debts of honor and blood that could not be repaid.
"Then the Peshwa has a heart," he said simply, surrendering his dagger.
She accepted his dagger with more than just the reverence of a newly-minted recruit awed by the famous general.
He stood up and strode away deliberately.
***
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