Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  He followed her gaze. "Definitely exaggerated," he said dryly. "Come along. I'd better get you outside before you faint."

  With Ian's firm hand on her arm, Laura made her way out to the small open area in front of the cave. The blaze of sunshine blinded her and she swayed unsteadily.

  Ian caught her arms and lowered her into the shade of a boulder. "Put your head down," he said, kneeling beside her.

  Laura bent forward and buried her face in her hands. The dizziness receded, but closing her eyes did not eliminate the vivid images from her mind.

  One couple had particularly caught her attention. They stood upright, the man supporting the woman as she wrapped her legs around his. Their naked loins were pressed together and his hand rested on her round buttock. Utterly obscene, of course—yet their faces had shown such joy.

  But there was no joy in Laura. The experience proved that she was as depraved as she had always suspected, for blood throbbed hotly in secret places of her body for which she had no name. Grimly she fought the shameful, pleasurable sensations, until she was able to raise her gaze and say with creditable calm, "I'm fine. Sorry to act like such a ninny."

  "You're entitled to be shocked," he said. "One wouldn't find anything like that in an Anglican church in a village in upper Surrey."

  She gave an unsteady chuckle. "Or in any Christian church. Why do Indians put such things in their sacred places?"

  "I'm no theologian, but I think it's fair to say that westerners try to rise above the limitations of the body, to deny the needs of the flesh and become as close to pure spirit as possible," Ian said thoughtfully. "But many Hindus celebrate the body, believing that erotic energies are one way of seeking the divine—the joining of male and female is a symbol of the union of man and God. It's very different from the western religious tradition, but makes sense its own terms."

  Laura nodded slowly. "The carvings were exquisite, and there was a... a sweetness about them, a sense of peace. Though I still can't imagine them in Surrey." Her brows drew together. "Yet some Hindu practices, like burning widows, are appalling. Do they also make sense in their own terms?"

  Ian shrugged. "I wouldn't want to try to explain that. But I've observed a pervasive sense of spirituality in Indian life that is stronger than anything I've seen in Europe."

  "How did you come to learn so much about Indian religion?"

  "I made a conscious study of it. As an officer, I had to command troops of all the major Indian religious groups, and I don't think it's possible to lead men well without understanding what they believe in, and what they value."

  "Are all British army officers like you?"

  "The good ones are. Unfortunately, there are some who look upon all natives as ignorant blackamoors." Ian frowned. "When I was a griffin, fresh off the boat, an old major told me that things were better in the old days. Officers and men spent more time together, which led to better understanding. But more and more, the British are withdrawing into private enclaves. The major predicted that if things don't change, the Sirkar will live to regret it. Indians will loyally serve men they respect, but they have too much pride to let fools treat them as inferiors."

  "The major may have had a point," Laura admitted. "But then, old men always think things were better when they were young. The Company puts a great deal of thought into training administrators—making sure they speak the languages, know the law and customs. That's why my father spent years teaching in Haileybury. And don't army officers have to pass language exams before they can command native troops?"

  "True, but language is only the beginning of understanding." Ian smiled reminiscently. "When I took the examination for Persian, they thought I'd cheated because I didn't make any errors. I was almost thrown out of Addiscombe before I could explain that I'd lived in Persia as a boy." He got to his feet and picked up one of the lanterns. "I'll go retrieve your shotgun. Do you want to go with me so you can see more of the temple?"

  Laura shook her head. "I think I've had enough adventure for one day.''The Lord of the Dance was an image she would never forget; she had no need to see him again.

  She leaned back against the boulder and fanned herself with her topi while her husband was gone. The mere thought of her response to the erotic sculptures made her face hot. If she had any refinement at all, she would have swooned instead of staring. And how could she have been so lost to propriety as to ask Ian about the size of male organs? Thank heaven he was unshockable.

  She should have known that the size was exaggerated, for she had seen other statues of naked males, in both Italy and India. The reproductive organs had always been much smaller than what was depicted in the temple. She was grateful that her stepfather had thought it more important to show her great art than to shield her from improper sights. A pity that her wits had been so disordered that she had blurted out her embarrassing question.

  Before she could berate herself further, Ian returned. As he helped Laura to her feet, he said, "Shall we report the location of the temple to the authorities?"

  She regarded him thoughtfully. "You wouldn't ask that unless you didn't want to report it."

  "The temple has kept its mystery for centuries," he said obliquely. "It seems a pity to betray it to the modern world. But you're the one who found it, so it's your decision."

  Laura bit her lip as she gazed back toward the temple. Even though she was within a dozen feet, the entrance was invisible. Remembering the sense of holiness inside, she said, "Without priests and worshipers, this temple might turn into nothing more than a sight for curiosity seekers. Let's leave it to its peace. If the Lord of the Dance wishes to be rediscovered, he'll lead someone else here."

  As they made their way back to their horses, Laura smiled to herself. While she could accept that erotic sculptures might be spiritual symbols, there had been nothing at all spiritual about her reaction. But the experience had been—educational. Even if the sculptor had exaggerated.

  * * *

  In deference to the shock Laura had experienced in the temple, Ian dropped the subject of rifle practice for the rest of that day. The next morning, however, she seemed fully recovered, so as they were finishing lunch he said, "This is a perfect time for a bit of target practice." He got to his feet and offered his wife a hand up. "Half an hour a day and you'll be a sharpshooter in no time."

  Ignoring his hand, Laura drew up her knees and linked her arms around them, her golden eyes narrowed like a suspicious cat. "I'm impressed at your natural caution, but I truly can't see why it's necessary for me to learn how to shoot well."

  "I'm not naturally cautious, and that lack very nearly got me killed more than once during my first year in India," he said dryly. "This is definitely not Surrey. As your husband I'm responsible for your safety. Though I'll do my best to protect you, there is no substitute for having some capability to protect yourself."

  Her eyes narrowed still further, calculation showing in their depths. "If you're responsible for my safety, as your wife I'm responsible for your health. I'll do my best with a rifle if you'll promise to eat more."

  Taken aback, Ian said, "I eat as much as I want. Why should I force-feed myself?"

  Uncoiling with feline grace, Laura got to her feet. "Because you're too thin and you don't eat enough to keep a marmot alive." She poked a none-too-gentle finger into his ribs. "Judging by the looseness of your clothing, you used to have a little flesh on your bones instead of looking like a scarecrow. Your appearance does me no credit. People will think either that I'm a terrible housekeeper, or that marriage is making you waste away from sheer misery.''

  "If you think I'm thin now, you should have seen me when I was just out of prison," he said with some irritation. "I'm in perfectly good health."

  Dropping her teasing manner, Laura said earnestly, "Ian, if my grandfather was any guide, lack of appetite is another effect of melancholia. At the beginning of one of his spells he would stop eating, and I'm convinced that being half starved made his melancholy worse. If
you feed yourself decently, your body will be grateful, which might help leaven your black moods."

  Ian curbed his irritation and considered Laura's theory. It was true that he was eating far less than he used to,. Food was one of many things that he no longer enjoyed. Perhaps his wife was right and better nourishment might contribute to greater well-being. "Very well, it's a bargain. I'll eat more and you'll work on improving your marksmanship."

  Laura knelt and picked up a chapati, covered it with the last of the curried rice mixture they had had for lunch, then rolled it up and gave it to Ian. "Here's the rest of your meal. Now where do you want to give me my first lesson?"

  "There's a good spot just off the road. Shade from the sun and a large earth bluff to absorb stray bullets." He bit into the chapati unenthusiastically. "Do you want to use my rifle, which is a breechloader, or your father's muzzleloader?"

  "My father's, since I'm familiar with it."

  Ian collected both rifles and ammunition, then led the way to the spot he had chosen, still munching on the chapati. Straw would have tasted equally exciting, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt him to eat more. After swallowing the last bite, he said, "Do I really look that dreadful?"

  A gleam of amusement showed in his wife's eyes. "For a scarecrow, you're fairly attractive." She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. "Put on a couple of stone more weight and you'll be devastating."

  He smiled, then pulled a piece of paper from his pocket because they had reached the impromptu shooting range. After impaling the paper on a stubby branch that projected from a dead tree, he stepped off twenty paces. "If you hit the paper on your first try, this lesson will be over before it starts."

  Lips tight, she wiped her palms on her skirt. Then she took the rifle from Ian, loaded it with clumsy hands, and cocked the hammer. Under his appraising gaze, she raised the gun and fired, the sharp crack of sound echoing through the woods and sending a squawking crowd of alarmed birds into the air.

  As Ian watched the shot go wild, he was glad that he'd found such a large earthen backstop. Anything smaller and the bullet might have missed the bluff and gone into the forest. But it was a start. "Very good. Now reload and take firing position again, but don't shoot yet. I want to show you some points of technique."

  As she obeyed, he saw how pale her face was, but with grim determination she reloaded, then raised the rifle and sighted along it. The barrel wavered back and forth.

  Ian stepped directly behind Laura and put his arms around her so that his hands were over hers. He guided her aim, trying to demonstrate by example. "Easy now—try to relax. You're strung so tightly that you can't hold the rifle steady."

  Her death grip on the weapon eased some, but Ian frowned when he realized that within the circle of his arms, her whole body was trembling. Keeping his voice low and soothing, he continued, "We're in no hurry, so take your time aiming."

  He let go of the rifle and stepped away from Laura. "You closed both eyes when you shot before, so this time try to keep them open. Do you have the paper in your sights?"

  As she nodded, the rifle swayed to one side. Ian said, "Don't shoot until you're ready. When you pull the trigger, don't jerk it but squeeze it v-e-r-y slowly so that the barrel won't move and spoil your aim."

  It was vain advice. Her whole body spasmed when she shot, and again the bullet went into the bluff. Without looking at Ian, Laura rammed in another charge and tried again, with no better result. If anything, it was worse.

  After another futile attempt, Ian said, "Perhaps the rifle is too heavy for you." He unholstered his revolver. "Try this—it's much lighter. When you're comfortable with a handgun, you can try the rifle again."

  Laura swung around with such fury in her eyes that if the rifle had been loaded, Ian would not have been surprised if she had fired it at him. Instead, she hurled her weapon to the ground. "I'm not touching that filthy thing," she snapped. "You can bully me into shooting a rifle, but there's no way in hell you can make me fire a pistol!"

  Her reaction was so intense that Ian rocked back on his heels. "Laura, what's wrong?" He kept his voice even, trying to conceal how disturbed he was. "This is far more than a ladylike distaste for weapons. Why do handguns bother you so much?"

  Hissing like the furious cat she resembled, she said, "If you'd seen your father's brains spattered across a wall, you'd hate pistols, too!"

  "Dear God!" Ian breathed, suddenly guessing what lay behind her reaction. "Your father committed suicide?"

  "Yes," she said starkly. Her anger was draining away, leaving her pale as ashes. "And I was the one who found him."

  The shock she had shown in the temple was nothing compared to the devastation in her face now. Ian jammed his revolver into its holster, then wrapped his arms around his wife, trying to physically shield her from the anguish of her past.

  As he rocked her back and forth, she began to cry as if she would never stop. She felt as small and fragile as a fawn.

  In a low, furious voice, Ian swore, "Damnation, how could he do such a thing? How could any man shoot himself when his own child was nearby and might find him? How could he?"

  If Laura's father had not put himself beyond human justice, Ian would have gladly wrung the man's neck with his bare hands. To hell with dashing and romantic; no wonder Tatyana and Laura had both loved Kenneth Stephenson for his kind, steady nature.

  Though his words had not been meant for her, Laura responded by raising her head and looking at him in confusion. "You're angry with my father for shooting himself?"

  "You're damned right I am." Feeling helpless, he brushed at the tears that glimmered on her cheeks, wishing that he could do more. "And you should be, too. I don't care how mad or sad or melancholic your father was—to do something like that to his family was unforgivable. Especially to do that to a child. If he found life unbearable, he could have found a better way to kill himself so that no one would ever suspect."

  Laura's brows drew together. "It sounds like you've given some thought to the etiquette of suicide."

  "I have," he said tersely. "That makes me qualified to say that it's unforgivable for a man to subject his loved ones to what you and your mother suffered."

  Laura was silent as various emotions chased across her face. Finally she said with a note of wonder, "I am angry with my father."

  Blindly she balled her hand into a fist and slammed it into Ian's shoulder. "What he did to Mama and me was despicable." She struck him again, crying out, "It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault!"

  She had a very decent right hook. Ian caught her fist before she could use it again. "Of course it wasn't your fault," he said quietly. "For God's sake, why didn't you tell me before? I would never have asked you to touch a gun if I'd known."

  "I've never spoken of it to anyone, not even Kenneth, though my mother must have told him." She closed her eyes for a moment, and her face showed the fierce effort she was making to control her emotions.

  More calmly, she continued, "It was mid afternoon, a Saturday just before Easter. My parents had a huge fight, and Mama stormed out." She wiped her eyes with the back of her left hand. "Later I heard a shot from my father's study and raced downstairs. At first I was afraid to open the door. When I finally did..." Her voice broke. "He... he was so handsome. But ever since then, I can't think of him without remembering what he looked like that day. I began screaming. I didn't stop for two days."

  "Is this why your mother decided to leave St. Petersburg?"

  Laura nodded. "She wanted to get us away since St. Petersburg had too many memories. She was right, too. Going to another country gave us other things to think about." For the first time she noticed that Ian was holding her fist. "Lord, Ian, I'm sorry," she said ruefully. "I hit you?"

  "Nothing to signify." He let go of her hand. "Shall we resume our journey? From now until we're on a British ship heading home, I'll make sure I'm no more than six feet away from you at any time so you won't ever have to defend yourself."

  Her eye
s flashed. "No! The lesson isn't over yet." She picked up her discarded rifle and began to reload.

  Not quite believing what he saw, Ian said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

  Face set, she replied, "I'm going to hit that damned target if I have to keep trying all night." She raised the rifle and fired. She didn't hit the paper, but this time she kept her eyes open and pulled the trigger more smoothly.

  Again Laura reloaded and aimed. Eyes straight ahead, she said softly, "If I didn't love him so much, I wouldn't have hated him so much for what he did." The gun blazed. This time bark chipped from the tree trunk six inches from the target.

  Ian stood by, silent except for an occasional terse suggestion. Laura wielded the rifle with a fierce concentration that told him as much about the woman he had married as she had revealed by her anguished tears.

  The session seemed to last an eternity. Finally one of her shots struck the target dead center. The paper spun into the air, then drifted to the ground, a hole clearly visible in the middle.

  Drained but satisfied, Laura slung the rifle over her shoulder and turned to Ian. Hands on hips, she said, "Tomorrow the revolver."

  He gave her a slow smile. "Has anyone ever mentioned what a formidable woman you are?"

  "I am a Russian," she said with self-mocking humor, as if that fact were sufficient explanation.

  Perhaps it was.

  * * *

  When they reached the dak bungalow that night, Laura went to bed as soon as they had eaten. She was exhausted, though not so far gone that she couldn't appreciate the fact that Ian upheld his end of the bargain by eating far more than usual at dinner.

  At first she slept deeply, but later the old nightmare returned. The beginning was exactly the same. She was Lara, six years old and frightened by her parents' incomprehensible wildness.

  As hysteria mounted, the dream abruptly shifted three years later in time. Once again she stood in front of the study, terrified to enter but knowing that she had no choice. Her small hand reached up to the cold brass knob and turned. The heavy door swung open with a screech, revealing her father's shattered body sprawled across his blood-drenched desk.