Silk and Shadows

by Mary Jo Putney

  She tilted her head back to look at him. "Ladies don't have legs, they have limbs. 'Legs' are considered indecent."

  "Indecent?" he said as he set her on her feet at the head of the stairs. Solemnly he lifted the hem of her riding habit a few inches and examined her booted ankles. "I see nothing indecent."

  "Behave yourself, Your Highness." Laughing, she batted the skirt from his hand. "I didn't say that female legs were indecent, but that the word is considered indecent. It is another English absurdity."

  "One of many," he said, offering his arm again. 'But do not think I am ungrateful for your efforts to educate me. One must know the rules before one can properly break them."

  "You, sir, are incorrigible," she said as she took his arm.

  "But never dull."

  Lady Sara gave him a wry half smile. "True. But it s possible that you could give dullness a good name."

  He chuckled. "May I return the compliment by saying that you accomplish the even more formidable task of making respectability seem interesting?"

  In perfect charity, they worked their way through the upper floor. It proved equal to the ground level, with a dozen spacious bedchambers. Bathrooms and water closets needed to be updated, but when that was done, the accommodations for house parties would be ample and luxurious.

  Last they investigated the long gallery that ran across he back of the house. It was an attractive room, with fireplaces at each end and large casement windows with padded, built-in seats overlooking the garden. After studying some of the gloomy portraits, Sara asked, "Are the portraits also part of the sale?"

  "No, the paintings are to be shipped to Canada." After examining one, his mouth quirked up. "I could use some respectable ancestors, but I find these a boring lot. Perhaps I shall commission a painter to do a new set for me."

  He glanced across the gallery, his smile fading. Releasing Sara's arm, he crossed the room for a better view. It took a minute to unlatch the casement. Then he threw the sashes wide and leaned out, bracing his hands on the sill and balancing with one knee on the window seat.

  Below him lay the English countryside in all its aching beauty, the misty hills rolling to forever. He reacted to the sight with the same intensity as when he had first seen Sulgrave. He temporarily forgot his companion, and it was a surprise to hear her voice at his elbow.

  "This house sings to you, doesn't it?" she said softly.

  "I suppose that is as good a way as any of putting it." He tried to understand why, and couldn't. Probably he would not have explained even if he did know the reasons. Instead he said, "You are an English aristocrat, born and raised to this kind of life—the richness, the beauty, the peace, the chance for justice. You can't appreciate how much it means."

  "Probably not." The window-seat cushion shifted as she sat at the other end. "But you were a rich man in your own country, and Ross said that Kafiristan has its own matchless beauty. Does this mean more to you?"

  "Not more, perhaps, but it is different." Peregrine turned and sat on the window seat, only two feet of space separating him from Lady Sara. She was cool and self-possessed, except for the warmth in her grave brown eyes. Sara St. James, as much a woman as she was a lady. She'd left her riding hat downstairs, and the slanting sunbeams touched her hair to molten gold.

  Something twisted deep inside him, and again he experienced the surging, uncontrollable desire he had felt downstairs. It was not just her serene beauty, nor her quiet strength, that aroused him, though he admired both.

  Perhaps it was her Englishness—like Sulgrave, like England itself. She represented a way of living that now, against all probability, lay within his grasp. He did not know if it was a life he wanted, nor would he have the leisure to decide until he had finished with Charles Weldon. But in the meantime, there was no denying Lady Sara's allure.

  It took all his willpower to remain still. He yearned to touch her, to call forth her latent passion, but not yet, not when his own desire threatened to cloud his judgment. Better to talk, to weave a web of words until he was in control again. "Kafiristan is a poor country, unbelievably poor. It is not even really a country, just a collection of related tribes. It didn't take much wealth to be a great man there."

  "But Ross said you were very rich. How... ?" Sara stopped, faint color appearing across her high cheekbones.

  "I gather that it is rude and un-English to ask about a man's money? No matter, I am not easily offended," he said, amused. "The source of my fortune was not in Kafiristan. Have you ever heard of the Silk Road, the ancient trade route from China to the Mediterranean?"

  "I've heard of it, but no more than that."

  "For perhaps two thousand years, caravans carried goods between the East and West, from ancient Cathay to imperial Rome. Silk and jade, spices, gold, and amber, and a thousand other things passed through many different hands, and were carried by every kind of beast used by man." Unconsciously his voice took on the compelling rhythms of the storyteller.

  "Traders risked bandits and disease, but far worse were the natural hazards of mountains and deserts. Perhaps the most dangerous part of the journey was Chinese Turkestan. There, in the fiery, blasted heart of Asia, lies a desert called the Takla Makan, a wasteland of shifting, treacherous dunes three hundred feet high, surrounded by the tallest mountains in the world. It is a desert that makes Arabia seem tame by comparison, a place where the kara-buran, the black hurricane, can bury whole caravans with no trace of man or beast ever seen again."

  "You speak as one who has been there and survived."

  He nodded. "The Silk Road skirted the southern edge of the Takla Makan, and cities grew up at the scattered oases. Once they shimmered with wealth and power, but several centuries back, most of the cities died, and the sands of the desert reclaimed them. I am not sure why, though the development of sea routes must have had much to do with it. There are many legends about the lost cities—tales of how heaven destroyed them for their wickedness, warnings of the demons that guard the buried riches."

  Her eyes widened as she guessed where his story was leading. "You found one of the lost cities?"

  He nodded again. "Yes, a city called Katak by a Kirghiz herder who told me a tale that had been passed from father to son for many generations. Katak lies amid the salt marshes of Lop Nor. Finding it was hard, locating its lost riches harder yet, but the greatest dangers lay in taking the treasure away across the sands and mountains."

  "I gather that you did not fear the demons?" She shifted position, unconsciously drawing a little nearer to him.

  "They were not the demons of my people, and hence had no power over me." Peregrine's gaze drifted, remembering. "Luckily I was also able to convince my friends of that. We made three journeys from Kafiristan to the lost city of Katak, each time bringing back gold, silver, and works of art. As the leader, mine was the largest share, and that became the basis of my fortune. I came down from the mountains into India and learned the ways of the merchant, investing and trading until I had great wealth even in European terms."

  Lady Sara's head was tilted to one side, her expression dreamy with imagination. "A fascinating and romantic tale."

  "Only in retrospect," he said dryly. "At the time it was exhausting work and appalling discomfort, punctuated by occasional spells of heart-stopping danger.

  "Ross has said the same thing about his travels. Real adventurers like you and him must think drawing-room romantics like me are rather silly." A trace of wistfulness showed. "Listening to travelers' tales is the closest I shall ever come to such exploits."

  "There are people who want only to be titillated or confirmed in their prejudices. I do not waste my time on them. But I would never think you silly, for you listen with your spirit as well as your ears." He gave her a conspiratorial, self-mocking smile. "Don't tell others how I made my fortune, though. I prefer to be mysterious."

  "You are very good at that," she said with demure mischief.

  Peregrine caught her gaze with his. The tension of pa
in was gone, and Lady Sara was rapt and receptive. The time had come to woo her. He concentrated with all the strength of his will, using his power to attract, spinning an invisible net to draw her to him. Her lips parted, uncertain, expectant, as she felt the increasing force between them.

  "What drives you, Mikahl?" she asked softly, using his name for the first time. "What makes you different from the rest of your people? Why have you mastered so many skills, why have you crossed the world to come to this small, damp island where most men are too narrow to appreciate all you have achieved?"

  "Ever since I was a child, I have known that my destiny lies in England." It was the truth, though not a truth Lady Sara was in a position to interpret. More than that he would not, could not, reveal. Continuing with another half-truth, he said, "Perhaps you are part of the reason I am here."

  He raised one hand and traced the elegant bones of her cheek and jaw with his fingertips. She stared at him, her lips parted and great eyes helpless with question and longing. Moving closer, he gave her the lightest of kisses, touching only her face, feathering across her forehead and the fragile skin around her eyes until their lips met.

  At first it was a still, gentle kiss like the one they had shared at the ball. Then he opened his mouth and instinctively she mirrored his movement. Though a small shock of surprise ran through her as the kiss deepened, she did not withdraw. Instead she responded with innocent, questing enthusiasm.

  Peregrine had thought that his desire was safely banked, but the taste of her tentative, yearning mouth made passion flare with white heat, needy and demanding. If Sara had been a woman of experience, he would have stopped at nothing to sweep her along with him into a fast, furious, heedless mating.

  But she was not experienced, and he retained just enough control to refrain from doing what might frighten her. Wrapping his arms around her slim waist, he drew her close, needing to feel her body against his. Sara came willingly, her restless hands sliding under his coat, her mouth as hungry as his.

  He leaned back against the wall, drawing her along so that she lay half-sprawled across him, breast to breast, her thighs bracketing one of his in a simulation of lovemaking that made him want more. Cradling the soft curves of her buttocks, he pulled her tight against his groin. Her hips pulsed against him, and he responded with frustrated pleasure, mentally cursing the layers of heavy fabric between them.

  Over the years, Peregrine had survived and prospered by learning to seize what fortune offered, and now he discarded his earlier plan of limiting what happened today. Sara might be inexperienced, but she was a woman grown, well past the age of consent. Teaching her the joys of the flesh would not only be deeply pleasurable, but would serve his larger goals as well.

  "Sweet Sara," he whispered, caressing her slender form as if his hands could meld them into one flesh, "you are as rare and lovely as the treasures of the Silk Road."

  Unbuttoning her jacket, he slipped his hand inside, mentally cursing the blouse, petticoat, and corset that still separated them. Gently he squeezed the soft, fluid weight of her breast. "You are like gold and silk and ivory that have been warmed to wondrous life."

  Sara gasped as his words dissolved the intoxicated delight that held her in thrall. Though not unaware of what she was doing, all normal constraints had vanished when she discovered the headlong urgency of desire. As she yielded to that urgency, shy acceptance had changed to fierce response, and in the tumult of her senses, she had been shameless.

  But now passion no longer clouded her judgment, though it still burned in her blood. She broke the kiss and made herself focus on Peregrine's dark, craggy face. His green eyes were misty with passion, and this time there was nothing enigmatic about him. He wanted her. And, heaven help her, she wanted him.

  She pushed herself off his lap and slid across the window seat so they were no longer touching. "No," she said, her voice raw. "I'm sorry, this is wrong, I can't do it."

  After a startled moment, he sat up and wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close again while he lifted her face to his. Murmuring, "But of course you can do this. See how easy and right it is?" He drew her into another drugging kiss.

  For a moment her resolve thinned to snapping point. Then she jerked away and stood, almost falling in her awkward haste to put distance between them.

  "It may be easy," Sara said unevenly, "but it isn't right, because I am promised to another man." She backed half a dozen feet along the wall, using it to steady her precarious balance. "I have dishonored both him and myself."

  Peregrine's wavy black hair had fallen across his forehead, and his chest was heaving, as if he had been running. As Sara looked at the harsh planes of his face, for a moment she was frightened. They were alone in the house, and she was completely at his mercy. Even an English gentleman, raised to the same notions of honor as Sara, might be dangerous under these circumstances. A man from an alien culture might decide that Sara deserved whatever he chose to do to her.

  "My behavior gives you every reason to be angry, but please..." Her voice broke. Even more than fear, she felt shame.

  He looked away for a moment, a faint shudder running through his powerful frame as his fingers tightened on the edge of the window seat. When he turned to her again, his eyes were clear and the sense of danger had passed.

  But as Sara began to relax, she recognized a subtler danger. Once more she felt his mysterious, potent attraction, as if an invisible current was reaching out to draw her back to him.

  Sara's willpower almost broke. She wanted to walk straight into his arms and surrender to passion, and she knew that if he embraced her, she would yield utterly. But to her infinite relief, he did not move from the window seat. She offered a swift inward prayer of thanks that he did not know how much power he had over her.

  "You have not married Weldon yet, and perhaps you should not do so," he said coolly. "Do you react that way to his kisses?"

  "That is none of your business." Sara flushed. "Besides, marriage is not about passion. It is about trust, about mutual values and respect.'

  "Don't forget mutual property," he said, his tone ironic. "You are a considerable heiress, and Weldon's businesses are less prosperous than they appear."

  She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself amid a maelstrom of emotions. "Charles is no fortune hunter, but even if he were, it would not alter the fact that I am pledged to him. By my actions, I have already betrayed him unforgivably."

  His expression became even more satiric. "If you think that the modest kisses we just exchanged are unforgivable, why not finish what you have begun? Not only would you enjoy the experience, but you would also have something worth feeling guilty about."

  Modest kisses, indeed! Her flush deepened as she remembered the wanton way she had twined around him. Thank heaven for complicated clothing; if she had been wearing one of the flimsy dresses of the previous generation, they would have been coupling before she had had time to realize what was happening.

  "I behaved badly to you as well as disgracing myself, and you have every reason to be angry," she said, raising her chin, "but don't mock me. It is unworthy of you."

  His expression changed. "I was not mocking you," he said gently. "But I do think you are making too much of a momentary lapse. You are a lovely woman, I kissed you, and you enjoyed it. That is not such a great sin."

  "Perhaps that was trivial to you, but it was not to me." Merciful heaven, what had been a "momentary lapse" to him had been one of the most shattering experiences of Sara's life. She rubbed her damp palms on her skirt, then leaned against the wall, needing the support because her leg was throbbing badly again.

  Remembering something Charles had told her, she said, "Englishwomen have great freedom compared to women elsewhere, so I suppose it's natural for you to suppose we are immoral. But that isn't true."

  He raised his dark brows. "No? I have seen considerable evidence to the contrary."

  "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Englishwomen are
neither more nor less virtuous than those of any other race," she said, recalling uncomfortably the women who had fluttered around him. "Certainly chaste behavior is valued."

  "But your countrywomen do have more opportunities to be unchaste than women in most societies." He stood and in two steps closed the distance between them, stopping so near that she felt warmth radiating from his body.

  "However, fascinating though this discussion is, we are going rather far afield. It never occurred to me that your morals are deficient. You radiate integrity, Lady Sara. It is one of the things I find attractive about you." He reached out and cupped her face in both hands, his long fingers gentle and sensual along her too-sensitive skin.

  She knew he was about to kiss her again, and when he did, she would yield, for her whole body yearned for him. Physically she was ripe for the plucking, and they both knew it. But honor was not yet dead, not quite. Her voice breaking, she pleaded, "You know I cannot resist you, but please... please stop. Don't ruin me for the fleeting pleasure of conquest."

  He became utterly still. "Is that what you think? No, Sara, my motive is not simple conquest." His hands dropped away. "Nor do I want to ruin you. You deserve better than that."

  "Then what do you want?" she asked, flattening herself back against the wall when he reached out to her again.

  This time he did not caress her, just tucked a loose wisp of her hair behind her ear with a curiously intimate gesture. "The answer is very simple. It is you, yourself, that I want. No other woman will do."

  She shook her head, feeling helpless and confused. With an Englishman, such words might have been a prelude to a declaration of love, perhaps even an offer of marriage, but she was sure that that was not what Peregrine meant. Despairingly she said, "I don't understand you at all."

  Before he could reply, a loud knocking echoed through the house. They both tensed at the sound. "That must be the driver with the carriage," the Kafir said after listening a moment. "He is in front of the house. I will tell him to come around to the rear, since that is the only door for which I have a key."