Saving Kitty(Book 3)(The Rescue Series)

By Wayne Tripp

Set at the end of the 19th century, Saving Kitty continues the romantic tale of American Jack Wilde, an officer in the British cavalry, and Kitty O'Keefe, an intrepid newspaper reporter and penny-dreadful writer. Unfortunately, Kitty is being forced to return to England and face the cruel father she has feared for years, while Jack remains behind to hunt down a most dangerous Indian rebel. Will Jack chase after Kitty as she returns to the Yorkshire estate she hasn’t seen since her childhood, or will he fail to be the hero she so desperately loves and needs? If not Jack, who will be Saving Kitty?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Tripp
• Release date: May 13, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310537387

Wayne Tripp

Author Wayne Tripp lives in New England and therein lies his passion for writing. "Allure of Siren's Song" is his first historical adventure novel. In addition to his writing and his long-time avocation as a skilled SCUBA diver, Wayne enjoys spending time with his beloved wife, other family members, and his adorable Siberian Husky. A strong believer in his childhood notion that love always triumphs, he manages to keep the darkness that threatens to crawl out of his creative closet at bay . . . most of the time. Once in a while, something wicked finds a method to claw its way out, and those are the stories that Wayne Tripp enjoys telling.

Book preview

December 18th, 1895 Bombay, India

The Bleakest of Days

I want to die.

Kitty squinted through tear-reddened eyes into the glaring noonday sun at the three familiar silhouettes standing in her bedroom doorway.

Still drowsy from the heavy dose of laudanum she’d been given, she had no difficulty guessing that parochial O’Hara would be frowning, her staunch disapproval at war with her deep concern for her mistress’s well-being. Bubble and Squeak would simply mimic the emotions they observed on their human companions' faces, their glistening brown eyes and little round mouths displaying what passed for worry in the primate world.

Alex, the only member of her family Kitty had an affectionate relationship with, was dead and she was to blame. Jack, her dear Jack, whose insane, vampritic wife had been killed, hadn't hesitated a second to ask for her hand in marriage after her death, and she'd finally been able to accept. I should be dancing with joy. But her beloved brother Alex was dead, and her precious Jack appeared to have deserted her to go play soldier for the queen.

J-Jack's not here? Where's Captain Wilde, O'Hara? So in love, so freshly engaged and yet he'd deserted her in her hour of need. She knew she was being melodramatic, probably putting on a petulant pout like an actress in a Gilbert and Sullivan musical, but she hurt. She hurt like bloody hell. Alex was dead!

He's not here, Miss. Gone to do his regiment’s duty, I'm afraid.

His duty, Kitty almost spit. He knows I'll fall apart without him! I need him, and yet he willingly abandons me to rush off to serve the Empire. She might as well wallow in her misery. Dear God, why was her head pounding so badly? And why wouldn't little Bubble and Squeak come to her. She needed them!

Not willingly, Miss. Kicking and roaring is more likely. He was unconscious when they rode away. Dumped into his saddle like a sack of potatoes by that big Sikh of his.

Unconscious—he's all right, isn't he? He's not hurt, Maud? Kitty lurched upright, her head bursting with pain before she fell woozily back into her rumpled bedclothes. Her furry companions did move then, but instead of snuggling at her sides, they chattered nervously as they fled to higher, safer ground among the bookshelves in the withdrawing room. The sound of crashing porcelain as they toppled one displayed vase after another betrayed the path of their sudden panicked flight.

He's as all right as you, Miss, I imagine, and just as down-hearted. You rest now, and let the doctor's dose of laudanum wear off. I'll just fetch us both a nice cup of tea and then we can have us a nice chat. O'Hara approached the bed, and taking liberties most housekeepers would avoid like the plague, sat down on the sweaty, rumpled sheets, and patted Kitty's forearm with motherly affection before kissing her young mistress's forehead. Yer young man loves you, dearie, don't you be worrying. And he'll come back to ya safe and sound, or that big Indian fellah, Manjeet Singh, will be feeling the sharp edge of me tongue! O'Hara rose awkwardly, the chronic rheumatism in her knees causing her to grimace. You just rest a mite now, Miss O’Keefe. I'll send the little blighters in as soon as I can get a hold of them.

* * * *

By the time O'Hara was back with the spiced chai tea, Kitty had scrubbed her face clean of tears, and smeared cosmetics, and changed into a clean chemise. She felt marginally better, though her spirits bumped along at an all-time low, save for the times her father had locked her in the closet full of spiders.

Here we go, dearie, O'Hara said, handing her a cup of tea while scowling with disapproval at her young mistress's scandalous dishabille. "If you don’t mind me speaking me mind, you'll catch yer death wearing so little, Miss. This New Woman nonsense or not, you oughta put something else on afore we talk; it ain't proper ladylike, you being dressed in so little."

Taking a sip of her favorite tea, Kitty placed the cup on her small nightstand and leant forward, scooping up her two timid monkeys. With her primates snuggled close to her chest, she looked up at her housekeeper confidant and shoved a weak smile on her face. We're in India, O’Hara, and it's beastly hot. Besides, whether you approve or not, times are changing. Women will get the vote soon—just you wait and see. Now, tell me what's going on.

Well, as I said, Captain Wilde is away on his mission. I overheard one of his troopers say they expected to be gone a month or more, until they stamp out this uprising up in Agra. And there's been another visit from a Chaplin and officer of the Fourth Poona Horse. They informed me young Lt. Pennington's remains are to be shipped back to Britain for a proper burial.

Black Yew, no doubt. My father's English estate up near Whitby in Northeastern Yorkshire. Dear God—I was afraid of this.

Why, Miss? I understand yer brother was heir to yer father's fortune. Why shouldn't he be buried in the family plot? The officer told me he'll be accorded full military honors. His lordship, yer father, is paying all the expenses. I thought you'd be pleased, Miss.

I am, O’Hara, but this means I shall have to return to England, and face my father, without Jack's presence to bolster my courage. The very thought turns my knees to jelly. But I must go. It seems we all have our distasteful duties to endure. She finished her chai with a final swallow, gently eased herself away from her cuddly monkeys and rose from her rumpled bed with a bit more steadiness and determined purpose.

Send the maid up with some hot water. I shall bathe and dress appropriately. See to it that all the mirrors are covered, clocks stopped, and windows covered with heavy drapery. I want a wreath of laurel leaves tied with a black velvet ribbon . . . .

Already done, Miss. I'm staunch Irish Catholic, remember. And no one’s more superstitious than we Irish when it comes to the dead, Miss.

Fine. Then be so kind as to take a carriage to the Poona Horse cantonment and find out when my brother's remains will be leaving and what ship he'll be on. We'll have to book passage on the same steamer. I'm assuming they'll be going in to London. We’ll be required to take a train north to Yorkshire from there.

Are you sure, Miss—that you'll be going?

I have to, O’Hara, Kitty snapped, regretting her harsh words immediately, and laying her slender hand on Maud's thick forearm. Maud, dearest Maud, would you consider going with me?

Of course, Miss. I intended to all along. And the wee furry buggers? she said, snatching up one of the complaining monkeys. Will these wee ones be going as well?

"I'm being forced to do this without Jack. I must have the little ones with me or I shall never prevail! So yes, definitely, they must go. We’ll use the gilded cage, of course."

Of course, Miss. I'll send up Emily, and then go find out about the steamship. Can you manage a while?

At O'Hara's display of motherly compassion, Kitty allowed herself a small smile full of genuine warmth for her companion, while reaching out again to caress Maud's hand. I guess I'll just have to carry on somehow, O’Hara. Keep calm, stiff upper lip, and all. Please don’t tarry over long, Maud.

Chapter Two

December 21, 1895

On the road to Agra, India

Duffadar Manjeet Singh shot a wary glance at the sullen, silent officer riding at his side. Still silent, Captain Wilde glared back at him, his tired face a chaotic mix of anger and morose sadness. He hadn't spoken a word beyond the occasional curse to his concerned Sikh sergeant during the entire train journey north to Gwalior, though it was well known the two were the best of friends.

I'm sorry, Sahib Jack, about binding your wrists during the first part of our journey, Jeet dared, the emotion in his voice conveying the honest regret of his words. You know I had to do that, Sahib Jack, or you would've taken the first chance to bolt and fly back to Memsahib O'Keefe. You know I am being right, Jack!

It's where I should be! I can't believe you don't see that, Jeet! She needs me, now more than ever! Jack snapped, finally breaking his brooding silence.

Again, I am most sorry for doing this, but I am not liking the picture of you punished for desertion by Colonel Drake. We are brothers, you and I—you have often said this yourself, Sahib.

"Yes—brothers. Why can't you understand . . . brother? Miss O’Keefe’s brother is dead! The one person in her family she loved and felt loved by. And she'll feel at least partly to blame for his death. I know her, Jeet!"

I know this, Sahib, as I know you blame yourself for Lt. Pennington's death as well. But I could not let you follow your heart this time, Sahib; I am not liking the picture of you being executed for desertion, my brother. We're almost to Agra. Let us find this heartless doctor quickly and then you can return to Memsahib O'Keefe with the greatest of speed.

* * * *

The journey north to the outskirts of Agra took Jack's cavalry troopers several more days. Intelligence provided by their own scouts and several local informants told them that Neeli Kurapati's band of cutthroats had fled north beyond Agra, cutting a bloody swathe of slaughter wherever they went. The Anglo populace of the Raj seemed to be their primary targets, but anyone who showed the British citizenry the slightest civility became fair prey as well.

Passing directly by the long reflection pool in front of the famous Taj Mahal just after dawn, Jack's troop swept north out of Agra following the Yamuna River toward the sprawling city of Delhi. Taking a lingering look at the magnificent architectural marvel known world-wide as a testament to undying love, Jack felt a bittersweet pang realizing he was deserting his sweetheart in her hour of greatest need. This chase after Neeli was stretching on far too long. With a sinking heart, Jack realized his chance to put a quick end to this damned mission was growing slimmer by the second. God, help them if Kurapati's thugs reached the seething chaotic maze of Delhi—they'd never find them among the teeming, churning millions, and this fiasco would turn out to be just another wild goose chase. Tarnation! He had to catch her before she reached Delhi! Putting his spurs to Scimitar’s flanks, he urged his big cantering bay into a gallop, certain Manjeet and the other troops would follow. They had to find Kurapati! Now!

Fifteen miles outside of Delhi, Kurapati's thugs ceased to follow the Yamuna's northwesterly course and made a dash due north, straight toward the northern Ganges River and Meerut, the original tinderbox site of the infamous Indian Mutiny of 1857. Leading his troopers in hot pursuit, Jack wondered if perhaps Kurapati felt that one-time hotbed of anti-Raj hatred would provide a sympathetic haven for her brutal gang of butchers.

A half hour’s further hard riding and Jack slowed his troopers to a cautious trot. They were following a rough dirt road that led down through a deep ravine, an old abandoned fort perched high above them. Was it truly deserted–what a perfect spot it would make for an ambush.

Slowing Scimitar to a near standstill, Jack removed his khaki pith helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow, all the while looking around at the rocky crags and crumbling sandstone ramparts surrounding them. Was he being over-cautious? Running one hand through his sweat-drenched hair, he let his gaze sweep around one last time before replacing his helmet. There! High on a yellow ochre ridge high above his mounted troopers he caught a sudden glint of a poorly concealed rifle barrel. Placing his helmet back on his head to offer some shade for his watering blue eyes, Jack scoured the rocky cliffs and abandoned fort with a more intense scrutiny. At the same time he realized as the sole Anglo officer he'd be the primary target, so he purposely put some distance between himself and Manjeet.

Sahib Jack, there is no need to hide your face or move away. Showing your feelings for Memsahib O'Keefe is perfectly understandable. I myself—

Manjeet, Jack hissed, Shut up! Pass the word, ready weapons. We're about to be ambushed!

In mute testimony to the trust and closeness of their friendship as well as the easy professionalism of their well-trained troopers, Manjeet obeyed without a further word. Looking around casually, Jack was pleased to see that each of his chosen-men now had a weapon close at hand. He was not pleased when Manjeet urged his own horse up beside Scimitar, placing himself in imminent danger.

Jeet, fall back and pass the word to make it look like we haven't a care in the world. Have the men spread out and head for those rocks just ahead, to your right. They'll provide some cover, though I think we are well and truly buggered. Make it look like we're just another patrol led by another idiotic British fool.

"It shall be done, Sahib. Even though you are really one sly American fox."

Get outta here, Jeet. Do as I command!

No, Sahib. I am your only hope—if I move away, Kurapati's vermin will see a lone officer of the Raj, and even one of those scum may kill you with a lucky shot. I am your only hope.

Jeet—

See, Sahib. Our men are moving apart on their own. They are not needing our orders. I am thinking they see the rocks ahead as their only salvation as well. Someone trained them very well, Jeet finished, his gleaming smile almost blinding as it emerged from his thick black beard. I am thinking we ride close together and slowly head for these rocks I am seeing just ahead, though I am believing we would have a better chance of survival hiding behind my flat-chested cousin's bosom.

They made it to within thirty yards of the small cluster of fallen boulders before the first ragged volley of shots rang out. Stolen British rifles—single shot Martini-Henrys judging by the sound and sporadic timing of their second shots. Jack didn't waste time listening. Urging Scimitar into a gallop, he, Manjeet and their surviving troopers raced toward their dubious sanctuary. Behind them, three of their native troopers writhed in the dirt or lay dead.

Nine men reached the safety of the rocks. They dismounted before their mounts had stopped, and opened fire with their Lee-Metford carbines. Only their American officer possessed the coveted Lee Enfield, which he immediately put to good use. Now that their ruse was up, Kurapati’s thugs did little to conceal themselves, and very quickly the dusty ground ran red with their blood.

Still, the Empress Hussars were greatly out-numbered, and though their shots more often than not found shrieking targets, the steady, sporadic gunfire of the cutthroats began to whittle away at their numbers. Four minutes into the firefight, three more troopers lay dead.

Jeet, behind us—you see that doorway?

Doorway—where Sahib? I am seeing nothing! Manjeet shouted over the din of weapons' fire. I am being a trifle too busy right now to look, Sahib Jack! he growled as he drew a bead on an incautious ruffian in a filthy green turban, and cut short the vermin's miserable existence.

Behind us, to your left. Cut into the sandstone where those two boulders lean together. The space appears to have been enlarged—far too regular to be natural. Big enough for a dismounted horse to pass through.

Ammo dump? Jeet asked, digging a fresh magazine out of his ammunition pouch. For the fort across the way—that’s obviously the beggars’ lair.

I don't think so. I'm guessing this isn't at all their permanent hide-out. They just stopped to swat at the flies buzzing up their asses. No, I think they kept their ammunition with them, intending a fast getaway. This is something else. Take a look inside—I'm guessing there are probably unlit torches just inside the opening. Go quickly, Jeet, and report back what you find.

Most likely, it's a one-way trap, Sahib.

Could be, but I don't think so. I’m thinking there may be a safe exit on the other side. Give it a gander. We can't stay here, he shouted, his gaze realizing one more trooper had fallen. Go! We’ll manage without you for a few minutes. Your aim with the Lee-Medford has not improved that much. Go!"

Without another word, Duffadar Singh disappeared in between the two huge boulders. Shoving a fresh ten-shot magazine into the base of his Enfield, Jack glanced behind him and saw the flickering light of a lit torch. So he had been right about the torches; please God, he'd be right about an escape route as well. They were dying like flies out here!

Manjeet was back inside of three minutes with a tentative smile