"One needn't understand to love," he said affectionately. "There's an intense Russian side of you that I'll never understand, but I don't love you any the less because of that."
"I'm not Russian—I'm a civilized Englishwoman." To prove it, she poured herself more tea and added a large dollop of milk. "I just happened to be born in Russia."
"And lived there until you were nine. No number of years in England will change that." Kenneth smiled. "When you look at me with those slanting gold eyes, you're the very image of your mother, and no one was more Russian than Tatyana."
"But I'm not like her," Laura said uneasily, "except on the outside."
He shook his head but didn't pursue the point. Catching Laura's gaze with his, he said, "If something happens to me, promise that you won't mourn too long, my dear, and that you'll seriously consider marriage."
Alarmed, Laura set down her teacup and stared at her stepfather. "This is a very strange conversation. Is there something you aren't telling me? Have you been feeling poorly?"
"No, nothing like that." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's just that a Brahmin priest once cast my horoscope and said that I'd die soon after my sixtieth birthday."
And his birthday had been the week before. Feeling as if an icy draft had touched her neck, she exclaimed, "That's nonsense, Father! How could a superstitious heathen know when you'll die?"
"Perhaps the priest was wrong. Then again, perhaps he was right. I've seen many things in India that are inexplicable in western terms," Kenneth said calmly. "I've also acquired some of the fatalism of the East, I think, for the thought of death doesn't bother me. I've taken stock of my life and on balance I'm satisfied with what I've done." He sighed. "But I worry about what will happen to you. I should have paid more attention to money matters, for I haven't much to leave you."
"You've given me everything that matters," she said in a low voice. "You needn't worry. I'll survive very well on my own."
"I know you can manage, but life is more than mere survival," he said gently. "It's also companionship, friendship, love. I worry that you'll choose to spend the rest of your life alone, and miss the chance to have so much more."
Laura bit her lip, unhappily aware that her stepfather had divined her aversion to marriage. It was not a subject she would discuss, even with him, for nothing would change her mind.
But she was willing to fib if an untruth would give him peace of mind. "Life is uncertain, especially in India—you could outlive me by twenty years." She gave an exaggerated shudder. "But I promise that if something happens to you, I'll look for a husband. A woman needs a man, if only to kill all the really big bugs. You know how much I hate centipedes."
Kenneth chuckled, his expression easing. "When you marry, I'm sure you'll find other uses for a husband besides killing bugs. When you haven't got me to fuss over, you'll find that you enjoy the company of young men."
Perhaps she would, but she still wouldn't marry. Not ever.
Chapter 2
Cambay Station
Northern India
In a fever to return to his regiment, Ian Cameron spent only two days in Bombay. After visiting his banker and a tailor, he bought the best available horse, rifle, and revolver, then set off on the long ride to Cambay. He didn't bother to send word ahead, for he would arrive almost as soon as a message would.
He rode northeast through the vast green plains that swept across India from the Arabian Sea to the Bay of Bengal, but he found little pleasure in the familiar scenes of cheerful people, gaudy temples, and patient water buffalo. During the endless months of darkness in the Black Well of Bokhara, he had believed that if he were set free, if he could once more stand in the sunlight, his life would return to normal.
Instead, the darkness of prison seemed to have entered his soul. Day and night—especially night—he was haunted by fears that the darkness was on the verge of engulfing him. Only Georgina could chase the shadows away, and the need to see her drove him at the fastest pace his horse could maintain.
He had little interest in food or rest. In fact, he preferred to avoid sleep because of his appalling dreams. Usually the nightmares were of the Black Well, and he woke up feeling suffocated and agonizingly alone.
Less often, he had mysterious, inexplicable dreams of fire—of a raging holocaust that blazed across the land, destroying everything in its path. Then he awoke shaking with anxiety, convinced that there was something he must do to stop the fire, but he could never remember what.
On the whole, it was better not to sleep.
The road to the cantonment of the 46th Native Infantry ran over a ridge. At the top he halted and stared hungrily at the plain below. Nothing appeared to have changed in the two years he had been gone. In the distance troops were drilling on the maidan, the parade ground, their crisp marching and turns stirring up a cloud of dust that floated down the wind. Closer to hand, barracks, supply depots, and bungalows were laid out with military precision along a sprawling grid of roads.
Finally he allowed his gaze to go to Colonel Whitman's spacious bungalow. It was late afternoon, so Georgina should be home, dressing for dinner. If not—well, she wouldn't be far away. Within the next hour or two, she would be in his arms, and then the long nightmare would finally be over.
Impatiently he rode down into the bustling streets, where a scattering of soldiers and civilians were going about their usual business. Curious eyes followed his progress and once or twice he thought he heard his name spoken incredulously, but he didn't stop to talk. There would be time for that later.
When he reached his destination, he dismounted and tethered his horse, then took the bungalow steps two at a time. It would be more considerate to find a place to stay so he could clean up and send a message to inform Georgina of his arrival. But his mother always said that no one died of good news, and he didn't want to wait a moment longer than necessary to see his fiancée.
Ian's knock was answered by the colonel's bearer, Ahmed, who performed the functions of a butler. Unfazed by the visitor's travel-worn appearance, he said politely, "May I help you, sahib?"
"Don't you recognize me, Ahmed?" Ian said, removing his topi, the wide-brimmed pith hat that all Europeans wore to protect themselves from the blazing Indian sun.
The bearer's jaw dropped. "Major Cameron?"
"In the flesh. A little older and probably no wiser, but basically sound. Is Miss Georgina in?"
Ahmed said, "She is in the garden room, sahib, but..."
Ian cut off the rest of the bearer's sentence. "Don't announce me—I want to surprise her." Then he strode through the bungalow's main room, heart hammering at the knowledge that salvation was just a few feet away.
The garden room was an agreeably shaded section of the veranda that overlooked Mrs. Whitman's spectacular flower beds. And there, like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, was Georgina. She hadn't heard Ian's footsteps, so he paused in the doorway to savor the sight of her perched on the wicker sofa, intently working on her embroidery.
Over the months of his captivity her image had blurred in his mind. Now he marveled that he could ever have forgotten her delicate features, the angle of her head, the way her bright ringlets shone like spun gold. In her flowing pink gown, she was sweet and clean and utterly feminine, everything he had longed for during the black months of imprisonment.
To see her was to feel that sanity was within his grasp. Softly he said, "Georgina?"
She looked up, then gasped and dropped her embroidery hoop. Her expression was more than surprised. She was horror-struck.
Her reaction made Ian painfully aware of what a sight he must present: bone-thin, dust-covered, wearing a too-loose uniform and a piratical black eye patch. He'd been a fool to come straight here. Georgina might not even recognize him. Striving for lightness, he said, "I admit that I look like a bandit, but surely I haven't changed out of recognition."
"Ian!" She started to rise, then swooned back onto the sofa.
Cursing himself f
or a thousand kinds of idiot, Ian went to the sofa and adjusted her crumpled figure so that she was lying comfortably with her feet a little higher than her head. She was perfumed and soft and round, exactly as a woman should be.
Her pale gold lashes fluttered open and she stared at him as he knelt beside her. "Ian." She raised an uncertain hand to his cheek. "Merciful heaven, it really is you."
He started to reply, then stopped, feeling as if he had just been stabbed in the stomach. The hand Georgina had raised was her left, and on the third finger she wore a gold band.
He caught her hand and stared at the ring. It was a wedding ring, it couldn't be anything else, and it was paired with a diamond engagement ring that was not the one he had given her.
His vision blurred, going black around the edges. He dropped her hand and stood up, still not quite believing. Then he realized that some of Georgina's roundness was a result of being in the middle months of pregnancy. In a grating voice that he didn't recognize as his own, he said, "I had hoped that absence would make the heart grow fonder, but obviously for you out of sight was out of mind. Is the lucky man anyone I know?"
"Gerry Phelps," she faltered, pressing a hand to her throat.
Of course. The Honorable Gerald Phelps, who had been Ian's friend and rival since they were cadets together at the military academy at Addiscombe, and who had been the most determined of Georgina's other suitors. Ian's face twisted. "I should have guessed. Gerry always wanted you. Why didn't you accept him in the first place instead of pretending to be in love with me?"
Her light voice breaking, Georgina cried, "I wasn't pretending, Ian, but they said you were dead! I cried for a week when the news came."
"Then dried your tears and married Gerry," Ian said bitterly. He glanced again at her swelling waist. "You certainly didn't waste much time in mourning."
She began to cry. Tears didn't diminish her beauty; Georgina had always been able to weep very prettily.
As Ian stared at his former fiancée, he felt something tearing deep inside him, ripping away the mask of normality that he had laboriously maintained ever since he was rescued. Fearing that if he stayed he might lay violent hands on Georgina, Ian spun on his heel and stalked out.
She wailed his name as he left, but he didn't look back. After reclaiming his topi from Ahmed, he flung open the front door with a force that made the bungalow walls shake.
He found himself face to face with Gerald Phelps.
Gerry stopped in mid-stride, his expression a mixture of gladness and guilt. "My God, Ian, you really are alive! Someone told me you'd just ridden in, but I had trouble believing it. It's been so long." He started to raise his hand, as if to shake Ian's, then dropped it. "We all thought you were dead."
"So I have discovered." Ian considered smashing a fist into Gerry's handsome jaw; it might relieve some of his desperate fury. But if he gave in to violence, in his present mood he might do murder; Gerry had never been able to best him in a fight. "Congratulations on your marriage," he said viciously. "I don't know if the best man won, but isn't winning all that counts?"
Without waiting for a response, Ian pushed by the other man and swung onto his mount. Then he set off at the fastest speed the weary horse could manage.
Gerry Phelps watched him go, then went inside to find his wife. Georgina was leaning on the door frame of the garden room, hands knotted together, her face chalky. Gerry wanted to go to her and soothe the distress from her face. Even more, he wanted to hear her say that she was glad she had married him, but her distraught expression stopped him.
Husband and wife simply stared at each other, separated by more than the width of a room. Between them stood the ghost of a man who wasn't dead.
* * *
Ian was a quarter of a mile down the road before he realized that he had no idea where he was going. After pulling his horse to a stop, he sagged forward over its neck, no longer able to hold himself upright. The physical exhaustion he had been ignoring now pounded mind and body like the hammers of hell and his breath came in deep, ragged gasps. Far worse than his physical distress was the emotional pain, and a bitter piece of knowledge that he could neither accept nor deny.
Ever since he had been rescued, he had clung to the thought that Georgina would be his redemption. Instead, he had found ashes. The darkness in his soul had finally broken free and even the blazing Asiatic sun wasn't enough to dissipate the black mists that swirled through him in waves of suffocating anguish.
Ian had just enough sanity left to know that he was falling to pieces, and he didn't have the faintest damned idea how to stop it. Like a wounded animal, he craved a burrow where he could suffer alone, but the club was too public, there were no hotels, and he would never be able to find a friend's home before he broke down in public.
Rapid hoof beats sounded on the road behind and a voice shouted his name. Ian went rigid, wondering if Gerry Phelps was fool enough to come after him. The other horse galloped up on the right and was hauled to a sharp stop. Then a man's hand touched Ian's right wrist.
The fact that he was being accosted on his blind side snapped the last thread of Ian's self-restraint. As he twisted in the saddle, he swung his fist in a wild, furious blow, wanting to strike and not caring who or where he hit.
The intruder wasn't Gerald Phelps. As his fist smashed into the other man's chest, Ian realized that he was assaulting his younger brother David, who wore the uniform of a captain in the 46th Native Infantry.
David managed to stay in his saddle, though only just. For an endless moment, the two men stared at each other. Then a wry smile crossed David's tanned face. "I haven't forgotten that I owe you ten pounds, Ian, but you don't have to beat it out of me. I would have paid long since if you hadn't gone and got yourself killed in Turkestan."
Ian said helplessly, "Christ, David, what are you doing here? When I left India, you were in the Bengal Engineers."
"Calcutta was dull so I exchanged to the 46th three months after you left for Bokhara. I thought life in the north would be more exciting." With fierceness that belied his casual words, David reached out and gripped Ian's hand. The third of the four Cameron offspring, David had the steadiest disposition and the greatest share of common sense. He was also one of the few people whose company Ian might be able to endure at the moment.
Releasing Ian's hand, David said, "What the devil happened to you in Bokhara?"
Ian shook his head, incapable of answering.
David frowned as he studied his older brother's drawn face. "Where are you staying?"
"Nowhere. I just got back." Ian's voice cracked for a moment. "I went directly to Colonel Whitman's."
There was a moment's silence. Then David said flatly, "I see. Come with me. My bungalow is nearby. The man who shares it is away for a couple of months, so there's plenty of room."
Mutely Ian turned his horse and rode after his brother. Just a few minutes more. He could manage that long. Just a few minutes more.
Chapter 3
Confused, Ian rolled over and blinked dazedly when he awoke. Then he remembered. Cambay. The disastrous meeting with Georgina. Finally, thank God, David.
When they reached the bungalow, his brother had suggested that Ian rest and guided him to one of the bedrooms. Ian hadn't even bothered to undress before sprawling facedown on the bed. Within seconds he had fallen into exhausted unconsciousness.
Slanting rays of ruddy late-afternoon sunshine sifted through the shutters, but what day was it? Perhaps he had slept for a full twenty-four hours, as when he had arrived at Juliet's fortress after the wild flight across the Kara-Kum Desert. On both occasions, his rest had been more like coma than sleep.
He was still groggy with fatigue but doubted that he would sleep any more, for the black mists still tormented him. Gravely he considered the image. Mists sounded too benign; the shadows were more like snarling black dogs that circled around him, obscuring his mind, snapping and slavering as they waited for the kill. Wolves, perhaps?
D
eciding that it would have been wiser to stick with mists, he got shakily to his feet and walked to the washstand. The mirror over the basin showed a filthy, bewhiskered visage that was enough to frighten anyone. Certainly it had frightened Georgina.
Mouth tight, he turned away and opened the door to the bungalow's main room. David sat at the desk, writing a letter.
Ian asked, "How long was I asleep?"
His brother looked up. "Less than two hours. I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow morning."
No wonder Ian didn't feel rested.
David continued, "How about a bath? Then we can dine and you can tell me what's happened during the last two years."
The suggestion was a good one, for after shaving, bathing, and changing to fresh clothing, Ian felt as close to human as he was likely to get. By mutual agreement, neither of the brothers asked questions until they had eaten. Or rather, until David had eaten; Ian consumed only a few mouthfuls, then used his fork to push the remaining food around his plate.
When David finished, he signaled for the table to be cleared. "Care for some brandy?"
Ian considered the decanter. "I think I will, though it's probably a mistake—after two years in Islamic countries where there was no alcohol, a drink might put me flat on my back."
David filled two glasses and pushed one down the gleaming table. "Apart from exchanging to the 46th, not much has happened to me in the last couple of years. But how did you escape from Bokhara? It was reported that you were imprisoned shortly after arriving in the city, then executed about a year later.''
Ian shrugged. "The report was half right—I was imprisoned but not executed—not quite. After a year and a half in the filthiest hole imaginable, I was rescued by Juliet and her long-lost husband. We escaped to Persia, and here I am."
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