Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  It took time to puzzle out the words, and at the end she was still unsure if she had translated correctly. Her best guess was, "May God have mercy on my soul, for in my cruel arrogance I set a fire that may destroy India. I pray that the Lord in His infinite wisdom will send a rain to quench it.''

  She wondered if she should ask Ian if he knew what her uncle had meant by his ominous words. Then she shrugged and set the volume down. There was no point in bothering Ian with something that was probably a product of fever and depression.

  She doused the lantern, settled into her pillows, and drew the sheet up to her shoulders.

  * * *

  The week-long journey had been blessedly uneventful compared to the turbulent days in Nanda. The bullock carts kept the party to a slow pace.

  As they ambled through the lush countryside, Ian proved to be an agreeable traveling companion. Though he had no interest in Laura as a woman, he seemed to enjoy her company. Ian talked little, but when he did, his comments were always to the point and often amusing in a dry, acid-edged fashion.

  When Laura needed it, he was also capable of quiet compassion. One night after they had made camp, she climbed alone to the top of a nearby hill to admire a spectacular sunset. As the sun dropped below the horizon in a flare of scarlet and gold, a wave of paralyzing grief engulfed her.

  Never again would she share such sights with her stepfather. For Laura, beauty was diminished if it wasn't shared, and the pain of loss sent silent tears down her cheeks. She wept not only for Kenneth, but for Uncle Pyotr, for her splendid, outrageous mother, and for her first father, whose death was so painful that even now her mind refused to contemplate it.

  Then a large hand wrapped around hers, the firm clasp drawing her back from despair. She knew that it was Ian without looking, and was profoundly grateful both for his company and for his stillness. As the color faded from the sky, he gave her his handkerchief, then escorted her back to the camp. Neither of them spoke of the incident. There was no need.

  Just as Ian had an uncanny ability to sense Laura's moods, she was equally aware of his. Under his controlled facade he was full of darkness, and often he withdrew into some unreachable mental zone. She worried about how little he ate and slept. Evenings they talked until weariness sent Laura to bed, but Ian was always awake when she retired and when she rose the next morning. It was hard to see how he kept body and soul together.

  Perhaps his insomnia was contagious, for she was also finding it difficult to sleep. She rolled over and punched the pillow with irritation. Though Ian did not find her attractive, the reverse was not true. As the days passed, her interest in him was increasing to near-infatuation. Not only did she crave his company, but the slightest accidental contact between them left her longing for more.

  She despised her weakness. Knowing there was a very real danger that she might do something that would embarrass them both horribly, she tried to keep her distance from him. She mounted and dismounted without his aid, became expert at passing cups without touching fingers, and no longer took his arm when they went exploring on foot.

  Luckily Ian didn't seem to notice that her behavior had changed. She would have been humiliated if he suspected how much she was attracted to him.

  She knew that some of her interest was a result of simple proximity, for her low carnal nature made her susceptible to men. But Ian himself was the real problem; his combination of kindness and mystery acted on her like catnip on a tabby. She wanted to help him become the man he had been before suffering an ordeal that she could only dimly comprehend; she wanted to see him laugh, as Uncle Pyotr had seen him laugh.

  In a burst of vulgarity, she faced the dangerous truth: she wanted him to bed her.

  She spent a moment contemplating his image in her mind's eye. He wasn't precisely handsome, for that was a description better suited to tame men who belonged in drawing rooms.

  She was sure Ian could hold his own in formal society, but he had a larger-than-life quality that belonged more to the world of heroic adventures. If a princess needed rescuing or a dragon needed slaying, she couldn't think of a better man for the task. Though she was no princess, he had done an admirable job with the tiger. She watched him whenever possible, admiring his strength, the smooth, controlled quality of his movements...

  She found herself flushing. There really was far too much of her mother in her.

  Sighing, she rolled over again, trying to convince herself that she was grateful that her association with Ian would soon be over. When he was gone, she would become a well-behaved Englishwoman again. If she tended her infatuation carefully, it might save her from making a fool of herself over another man for years to come.

  The thought was not much comfort.

  Tired from a day of riding, she finally dozed off, only to have her slumber disturbed by a choking sound outside her tent. She came awake instantly, thinking it might be a leopard. The noise was repeated, and she realized it came from a human throat. After donning her robe and slippers, she went outside to investigate.

  There she discovered that the sounds emanated from the tent next to hers, which Ian was using because rain had driven him from his preferred spot under the open sky. Seeing that there was a light inside, Laura scratched on the canvas door panel. "Ian, are you all right?"

  There was no answer, so she set maidenly modesty aside, opened the flap, and ducked into the tent. The dim light showed Ian sprawled on the cot, his face haggard, his torso bare and shining with sweat. She was bemused to see that even in bed he wore his black leather eye patch.

  His condition was terrifyingly reminiscent of her stepfather's last illness. Swiftly she crossed the tent and put one hand on his forehead, but his temperature was normal.

  Ian flinched from her touch and his eye opened. For an instant, she saw a frantic light in the blue depths. Then he recognized her and instantly shuttered his expression.

  "I heard strange sounds and thought you might be ill, especially since the lamp was lit," Laura explained soothingly. Removing her hand, she added, "You don't seem feverish."

  The skin over his cheekbones tightened. "I'm not. It was nothing, just a bad dream. Endless dark, suffocation, dread, pain, cowardice. And fire. Mustn't forget fire." He shuddered. "All the usual things."

  His gaze went to the oil lamp on the table. "Spending several months in total darkness increased my affection for light. That's why I sleep with a lamp or candle when I'm indoors."

  Laura guessed that Ian was still shaken by his nightmare, or he would not have said so much. Briefly she wondered at the coincidence of his mentioning fire since she had just read that strange entry in Pyotr's journal. Perhaps later she would talk to Ian about that.

  She set the thought aside. Far more important was Ian's state of mind right now.

  Perching on the edge of his cot, she took hold of his wrist. His whole body vibrated with tension, and, as she expected, his pulse was hammering. "Care to tell me more? I'm something of an expert on bad dreams."

  He exhaled raggedly. "In prison I welcomed sleep, for it was the only way of escape. I dreamed of my childhood in Scotland and Persia, of my family, my friends. The hard part was waking to reality, which was more beastly than any nightmare could be, particularity after Pyotr Andreyovich was taken."

  He ran shaky fingers through his hair, which sweat had darkened from auburn to chestnut. "Ironic. Now that I'm free, I dream of captivity. Of death and decay and betrayal..." His voice trailed off.

  "I see why you prefer not to sleep," Laura said briskly. "But the nightmares will abate in time."

  He gave her a sardonic glance. "Have yours? You did say that you are an expert on bad dreams."

  She hesitated, unable to give him glib reassurances. "I don't have them very often now.''

  "I suppose that's something to look forward to," he murmured, unimpressed. His gaze narrowed. "What haunts your nights, Larissa Alexandrovna?"

  She drew in a sharp breath, for his use of the patronymic hit uncomfort
ably close to the Russian setting of her nightmares. "Nothing very interesting," she said evasively. "Just some of the less pleasant memories of my childhood."

  Ian accepted that. They might be friends, but that didn't mean they were close enough to share nightmares.

  Changing the subject, he said, "It belatedly occurs to me that an unmarried girl should not be sitting on a man's bed. Not unless social custom has liberalized considerably in the last couple of years."

  Laura became uncomfortably aware of the impropriety of their situation. Her glance fell to Ian's bare chest, with its mat of dark hair and taut, well-defined muscles, then darted away. She sensed no carnal thoughts from him, but suddenly her own emotions were scalding.

  Hands clenching nervously, she got to her feet. "I imagine London is as rigid as ever, but one of the wonderful things about being in the Indian countryside is the way rules are more relaxed here. Propriety can take a back seat to common sense. You're not going to assault me just because we're alone in your tent, and I'm not going to have an attack of vapors merely because your shirt is off."

  "Very true." His mouth twisted with surprising bitterness. "You're perfectly safe with me."

  She knew that—and she resented the fact as much as she was grateful for it. Keeping her voice gentle, she said, "Try to get some sleep. You look tired."

  He shook his head. "I'll get up now. I've had enough dreaming for one night."

  She nodded and crossed the tent, but before she could raise the flap, he said, "Tomorrow we'll reach Baipur. I just want to say... thank you for being someone whose company I can bear."

  Laura gave him the ghost of a smile. "I must thank you, too, for doing so much for someone who was a stranger to you. You've been a godsend this last week." Her smile deepened. "Not to mention the fact that you saved me from becoming tiffin for a tiger.''

  She turned and was about to leave, but his voice stopped her again. "If I write, would you answer?" he said uncertainly. "I—I'll want to know that you're all right."

  Her fingers tightened on the folds of canvas. "Of course I would. I'd like to hear from you." Then she slipped out into the night.

  * * *

  Notice of Kenneth's death had been sent ahead, so when they arrived in Baipur the small British community immediately drew Laura into its warm embrace—literally so in the case of Emily McKittrick, the judge's wife.

  After a long hug, Emily suggested that Laura stay with her and her husband rather than be atone in the Stephensons' bungalow. Laura refused. As she explained to Emily, she had a great deal of packing to do and decisions to make, so she might as well get on with it.

  Another, unmentioned, factor was that Ian would be spending the night at the McKittricks' before heading west to Bombay. Being under the same roof with him would prolong the pain of separation and increase the risk that Laura would do something foolish. Better to make the break now.

  She said a quick, formal good-bye to Ian, for they had made their true farewell the night before. Then she went to the bungalow she had shared with her stepfather. Greeting the servants who had been left behind and directing the unpacking kept Laura busy for the rest of the day.

  It was an emotional afternoon, for every object in the bungalow had associations with her stepfather: the Indian chess set that they had used; his favorite upholstered chair, which had taken on the contour of his body; the rose bushes that she had carefully nurtured in a hostile climate because he had loved the blossoms; the books they had discussed.

  There was no end to the memories. Soon Laura stopped trying to suppress her tears and just let them flow, changing to handkerchiefs as needed. The more she wept, the sooner she would heal.

  The only member of the British community who had not been available to offer his condolences earlier was Emery Walford, who had been visiting an outlying village. He remedied his earlier absence by calling on Laura as soon as he returned to Baipur.

  Glad of an interruption, she went to the drawing room and greeted him warmly.

  Clasping her hand, he said, "You have my deepest sympathy, Laura. Your father will be greatly missed."

  His sincerity almost brought on fresh tears, but she managed a smile instead. "He told me once that there might be cleverer men in the world, but none more honorable than his colleagues in the civil service. He knew the future would be secure in hands like yours. He thought highly of your work, you know."

  "I'm honored. Your father was a model of the kind of official I want to be—wise, kind, and honest to the backbone." When Emery's eyes adjusted to the indoor light, he said with concern, "You've been crying. Is there anything I can do?"

  She shook her head. "Thank you, Emery, but I imagine I'll be crying on and off for some time to come. Everywhere I look, there are memories of him." To alleviate his worried expression, she said lightly, "I must look a fright. Weeping elegantly is one of those ladylike skills I've never acquired."

  "You look beautiful," he said intensely. "You always do."

  "You flatter me," she said, touched. Knowing that he would want to be of assistance, she continued, "Later, after I've decided what I'm going to do, perhaps you can help me arrange for shipping the things I want to keep."

  "Of course." After a long pause, Emery said, "Laura, I know that it's inappropriate to speak of this when your father has only just died, but I'm concerned for your future." He swallowed hard. "You must know how I feel about you. I intended to wait until I was promoted, but now your father's death has left you alone in the world." He took a step closer. "Give me the right to support you, Laura. I love you, and I want you to be my wife."

  Her stomach knotted with sharp anxiety as she recognized the hot pressure of desire emanating from Emery. She should have seen this coming, but she had been so absorbed by thoughts of her stepfather that the proposal caught her off balance. As she groped for a kind refusal, he stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders, then bent and gave her a tentative kiss.

  For an instant Laura responded, her lips moving against his. He was young and strong and his ardor enfolded her like a goosedown comforter. How lovely it would be if she dared marry, if she had a husband who would hold her like this, who would care for her as she would care for him....

  Her momentary yielding was all the encouragement Emery needed. His arms came hard around her. As his kiss became more demanding, Laura was jolted back to reality. She could never marry, not this handsome young man, not anyone.

  She tried to pull away, but Emery was too absorbed in sensation to notice that her response had changed. Sharply she turned her face away from his. "Please, Emery, let me go."

  Instead of complying, he pulled her tighter. "I've loved you ever since I met you, Laura," he whispered. "You're everything I've ever dreamed of finding in a woman. Beautiful, kind, understanding..."

  Laura began to struggle in earnest, but Emery's sporting pursuits had given him muscles she couldn't match. She gasped, "Emery, stop this!"

  She shoved against his chest and drew her breath so that she could call the servants. Before she could, the front door opened. Then a familiar deep voice swore, "Damnation!"

  An instant later Ian wrenched Emery away from Laura. Expression savage, he spun the younger man around and struck him with devastating power, first in the jaw, then in the stomach. Emery made a strangled sound as he crashed into the wicker sofa, then pitched to the floor.

  Ian hauled the magistrate to his feet and was preparing to hit him again when Laura cried out, "No, Ian, don't hurt him!"

  For a moment she feared Ian hadn't heard and that he might kill Emery. Barely in time he checked his next blow.

  Instead of striking, he shoved the younger man back to sprawl across the sofa. "You despicable young swine," he snapped, "How dare you assault Miss Stephenson! I should stake you out as tiger bait."

  "It was mostly a misunderstanding, Ian," Laura said unsteadily. "Emery proposed, and I guess I didn't make it clear enough that I wasn't interested."

  Emery sat up, arm
s folded over his injured stomach, his face ashen. "I'm sorry, Laura," he gasped. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I was overcome by the force of my feelings." He lifted his gaze to Ian. "You have every right to chastise me, sir, for my conduct was unpardonable."

  "Yes, it was," Ian agreed caustically. "Infatuation is no excuse for assault."

  Laura intervened again. Emery had given her a few bad moments, but his feelings were genuine and his intentions honorable.

  She knelt by the sofa. "You've paid me a great compliment, Emery, but I can't marry you. I should have said so sooner, but I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship."

  "Can you forgive the insult I offered you?" he asked, his expression wretched.

  "It was not meant as an insult, so no forgiveness is needed.'' She stood, sorry that he was hurting. Though his love for her might be rooted in the fact that she was the only eligible European female in the district, she would not demean his feelings by saying that. "We'll forget what happened today. I won't speak of it, and neither will Major Cameron."

  With a feeble attempt at humor, Emery said, "My stomach won't forget in a hurry. You have a punch like a mule, Major Cameron." After a pause, he stammered, "Thank you for stopping me. For as long as I live, I'll never forgive myself for frightening Miss Stephenson."

  "Let's not have an orgy of guilt," Ian said dryly. "Just don't forget yourself like this with another girl."

  With what dignity he could muster, Emery left the bungalow. As soon as he was gone, Ian moved toward Laura, concern on his face. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." Though she longed to go into his arms for comfort, in her present state, she didn't dare. Sinking onto the sofa, she buried her face in her hands. Dear God, how could she have enjoyed the embrace of a man she didn't love, especially when she had spent the last week mooning over Ian Cameron? She really was shameless.