Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  "In the course of his duties in Central Asia, he would have found occasional opportunities to make money," Ian said. "Once in Afghanistan I traded a pistol in return for a sizable ruby. The Afghan and I were both pleased with the bargain. I sold the stone and invested the proceeds, and over the years it's become a tidy little nest egg.

  "Multiply that a few dozen times, and it's plausible that Pyotr could have built a sizable fortune, then converted it into jewels as the most portable form of wealth. Since India is the world's great treasure house of gems, he could buy them here for half what they'd sell for in Europe."

  "I like that explanation," Laura decided. "Much nicer than thinking that my uncle robbed a temple."

  Ian smiled a little and touched a huge sapphire with his forefinger. "He did say that if you came to Dharjistan, you'd find it worth the trouble."

  Laura scooped a handful of jewels into her palm, watching the way the lamplight lit them into a gaudy rainbow of colors. "It's certainly an unexpected dowry."

  "Instead of a dowry, it would also have made you a woman of independent means rather than a governess." Ian felt a deep pang when he looked at the jewels. He had been able to comfort himself with the thought that marriage had improved Laura's financial situation even though it had caused her distress in other ways. But now his support was a benefit she no longer needed. Her fortune was probably greater than his.

  Laura glanced up at him, the depths of her Oriental eyes shimmering with sherry-colored light. "If it hadn't been for you, doushenka, I would never have known of this. The casket would have stayed in Rajiv Singh's treasure room indefinitely, and perhaps someday been discarded, jewels and all. Worse than that, with Pyotr's watch inside."

  Her perception was so uncanny that he had a brief desire to duck for cover. One of these days, she might see all the way through to his greatest shame. "How do you manage to read my mind so well, Larishka?"

  "It's a Russian talent," she said loftily. "Designed to strike terror into the hearts of more rational beings."

  "Certainly you strike terror into my heart," he said, only half teasing. He picked up the largest topaz in the collection, an enormous square-cut gem that sparkled amber and gold, and held it below her throat. "Whatever you decide to do with the rest of the stones, this one must be made into a pendant for you. I'll pay for the setting and have earrings made to match."

  "I'd like that," Laura murmured, her gaze holding his. Eyes of gold and amber and sherry, deep enough to mesmerize a man. Lips full and soft and kissable—and wanting to be kissed.

  Ian stared down at Laura, unable to look away. It had been premature to congratulate himself on his control. His wife was capable of riveting the attention of men from across a crowded room; this close, her intense sensuality was devastating.

  Though her mind might think no, her body was shouting a resounding yes. If he kissed her, at first she would quiver, caught between yearning and dismay, but she would not withdraw. Instead her arms would creep slowly around his neck. Then passion would crackle out of control, hot, quick, and fierce as detonated gunpowder.

  Simple and satisfying, right up to the point when lust was satisfied. Then she would despise both him and herself.

  It would be simpler for Ian. He would despise only himself.

  Why did doing the right thing have to be so agonizingly difficult? It took all his discipline to step away and say evenly, "Putting the jewels back is safest for now."

  Wrenching his gaze from his wife, he began burying the bright gems in cotton. A pity that passion could not be as easily obliterated.

  Chapter 24

  The vast plain outside Manpur churned with dust from the feet and hooves of the Dharjistani army, but those who watched the review from elephant back were above the worst of it. Ian's view of the exercises could not have been improved, since he shared the howdah of the Maharajah of Dharjistan.

  Since arriving in Manpur, Ian had spent much of his time with Rajiv Singh, discussing every aspect of military science. In the process a genuine, if slightly wary, friendship had grown between the two men. Mutual respect and liking were tempered by a tacit acknowledgment that their values and loyalties might not always be the same. As a result, their conversations were laced with verbal fencing that was half humorous and half serious.

  Out on the plain, the last of the infantry regiments finished their maneuvers and marched away, to be succeeded by a battalion of lancers. Riding at full gallop, the lancers wheeled to their right, their lines dressed in perfect order, a huge cloud of dust rising behind them. The Royal British Household Cavalry could not have done better. Ian said, "Magnificently trained, Your Highness."

  "I thought you would be impressed." The maharajah glanced at him thoughtfully. "Do you think them the equal of your British native lancer companies?"

  "They may well be," Ian replied. "Though I trust that question will never be put to the test."

  "As I do," the maharajah said blandly. Nodding toward the plain, where camels were hauling light artillery pieces into position, he continued, "Drill is vital, for without discipline an army is just a rabble, easily broken by troops who can keep better order, who can stand fast without breaking under the worst assault. Your British Army has proved that again and again. Yet even so, the true test of a warrior is still courage, not drill."

  "Perhaps, yet courage is not a simple thing that one either has or doesn't have," Ian said. "In my experience, I have found that a soldier will almost always prove equal to what is asked of him when he is well trained, well commanded, and surrounded by comrades whom he doesn't want to fail."

  "I have also found that." Rajiv Singh frowned. "My army does not lack courage, training, or weapons, but it will be severely tested if my neighbors decide to march on Dharjistan. The Punjabi army is equally well trained and well armed. It is also, regrettably, much larger than my army, and spoiling for a fight."

  The light artillery discharged into the empty plain, sixty cannon blasting so closely together that the effect was of one monstrous, deafening explosion. Four salvos were fired in a minute, and the last was only slightly more ragged than the first. The gunners had also learned their lessons well.

  The cannon blasts temporarily numbed all listening ears, and Ian waited before replying to Rajiv Singh's last comment. "The treaty you signed with Britain assures that aid will be sent if Dharjistan is attacked."

  "With so many British troops tied up in Afghanistan, your army is stretched very thin. Do you think there would be enough left to help me stop the Punjabis?"

  "Yes," Ian said without hesitation. "Even if regiments have to be pulled from as far as Calcutta and Madras, Britain will honor its commitment to Dharjistan."

  "Doubtless you are right." The Rajput's expression was sardonic. "But even if you are, I have a certain lack of enthusiasm for having British troops enter Dharjistan. It is all very fine when the tiger comes to defend you, but it could be difficult to persuade the tiger to leave later.''

  "I wish I could say that your fears are groundless, but you and I know better than that," Ian said ruefully. "There are men in the Sirkar who would welcome an opportunity to annex Dharjistan. But there are more who believe that a strong, independent state under your rule is British India's best defense against Afghanistan."

  The maharajah raised his brows. "That's a remarkably frank admission for a Britisher. Don't you feel compelled to defend your government?"

  "The English government has done many things that can't be defended," Ian said tersely. "My own people, the Scots, have suffered greatly at English hands."

  "You sound like a man with a grievance that is more personal than political," Rajiv Singh said, eyes bright with interest. "Was your inheritance the only reason you left the army?"

  Like Laura, the maharajah could be uncomfortably acute. "No, it wasn't," Ian said with some reluctance. "I was imprisoned while on an official mission to Bokhara, and held captive for a year and a half. The amir said he would release me if he received a letter f
rom the British queen verifying my status."

  Immediately guessing what was coming, the Rajput said, "And from pride or indifference, your government did nothing."

  "Nothing at all," Ian said, not quite able to suppress his bitterness. "It was easier to think me dead and turn to more pressing matters. I would have died in Central Asia if it were not for the efforts of my family. Even before I learned of the inheritance, I had decided to resign my commission."

  "So your government failed you," Rajiv Singh said pensively. Then his gaze sharpened, "No wonder you no longer wish to serve it. Would you be willing to serve me, Falkirk?"

  "Sir?" Ian said, startled into military terseness.

  "As you said, soldiers need to be well led. Would you like to command my army? You have a fine grasp of strategy and tactics and the ability to lead men." The maharajah gave a charming smile. "It seems a pity to waste such gifts on being a farmer back in your own country."

  It was a breathtaking offer, and couldn't have been made made as casually as it appeared. No wonder Rajiv Singh had spent so much time talking to Ian over the last days; it had been an undeclared job interview.

  Ian considered the possibility. He would have wealth, power, and the chance to use his hard-won military skills fully.

  But for what purpose? In peacetime, a soldier's challenge was to maintain razor-edge readiness in the face of endless, boring drill. In war, his task was to deal the maximum in death and destruction. Neither of those things were what Ian wanted for his future.

  Having seen the abyss, he craved a loving marriage and the chance to sink roots deep in the land of his ancestors. And if life became too peaceful, he could use his seat in the House of Lords to chastise the British government when it became too overbearing. Commanding an army wasn't on his list.

  "It's a great honor you are offering. Your Highness," he said formally. "But I must decline."

  "The offer remains open, Falkirk," the maharajah said, unperturbed. "Either way, I would like you to accompany me on a short tour of my frontier fortresses. The journey will give you time to consider the advantages of becoming my commander."

  "I'll be happy to come with you, but don't expect me to change my mind."

  The Rajput fixed Ian with a dark, hypnotic gaze. "You would have power, Falkirk. The ability to mold and lead men, to make your mark on history. Can you honestly say that the prospect is entirely unappealing?"

  Ian smiled. "The real power is yours. I would be but a servant. My estate in Scotland is tiny compared to Dharjistan, but it is my kingdom, and there I will be the ruler."

  Rajiv Singh laughed. "That is hard to argue with. Yet there is also much to be said for taking my salt and serving me. Unlike the Sirkar, I have never betrayed a man who served me well."

  He gestured at the nearest elephant, whose howdah was screened with a curtain to protect Kamala and Laura from the eyes of the world. "Talk it over with your wife. She seems happy here and the maharani loves her. If you become commander of the army, Lady Falkirk will also benefit by your position. All women like jewels. You can deck her in diamonds if you like."

  "I'll discuss the matter with her," Ian promised, "but she is not a woman who can be persuaded by diamonds."

  On the plain, the light camel-guns had been replaced by heavy cannon drawn by elephants. When they had been lined up, they fired one after another at one-second intervals. Ian automatically began counting and came up with a hundred shots. Enough artillery to blast a major city to dust in a day.

  When his hearing had recovered, he repeated what he had said to Laura several days earlier. "Your army seems to incorporate European science with the best of the Rajput warrior tradition, Your Highness. The results are formidable."

  "That is perceptive of you, Falkirk." Rajiv Singh's expression became reflective. "India is the great mother. Her strength is her ability to accept all that comes, and to make it part of herself. Every invader, every religion that has ever reached this land still remains, absorbed by Mother India."

  Ian nodded. "The result is probably the most complex society in the world."

  "What makes it possible is the caste system, which so many of the English sneer at. Here there is a place for everyone, even those who are not Hindus, like the Parsis and the Muslims." The maharajah gave Ian a challenging glance. "Though the English rule, there are too few of you to have much effect on a land so large and dynamic as this one. You will have your brief day of power and then be gone, leaving little mark of your passing."

  "But we will leave some traces." Ian indicated the army in front of them. "Discipline, justice."

  The maharajah snorted. "Discipline has its uses, but your British justice is a narrow, small-minded concept, best suited to tillers of the soil."

  "Which is as it should be," Ian said tartly, "for they need it most. Your country has never been kind to the weak. They are preyed on by landlords, bandits, priests, and princes. In British India, life is far less hazardous, taxes are more fair, and every peasant can have his day in court and receive justice."

  Rajiv Singh's eyes narrowed. "I won't deny that such things have value, or that most of your administrators are men of integrity. But taxes, thieves, litigation about whose bullock has eaten whose garden—those are trivial issues. What matters is the richness of Indian culture, the diversity of her society. No matter how hard the Sirkar tries, it can never eliminate that."

  Ian had never seen the Rajput so intense. Wanting to ease the situation, he said, "Nor do we wish to. Like the Romans, we rule without trying to change people's ways." He thought of suttee and child sacrifice and amended, "At least, not usually."

  Rajiv Singh snorted. "You are tolerant, Falkirk. Because of men like you, the English yoke weighed lightly for many years. But more and more of your countrymen seek to 'improve' us, to change our heathen ways. They despise the gods and customs that make us what we are. The more such Britishers there are, the more Mother India will chafe at the harness."

  "I agree," Ian said. "The best of my countrymen know that our time here is limited. I hope that when the time comes for the British to leave, we will do it in peace, not anger. India and England have learned much from each other. It would be a great pity if that legacy were to be marred by violence."

  On the plain, two battalions of cavalry were making a spectacular charge through each other's ranks, but the maharajah kept his penetrating gaze on Ian. "You are among the best of your race, Falkirk. That is why I want you by my side." He returned his attention to the spectacle in front of him.

  Ian did the same, but his mind was not on the quality of the Dharjistani troops, nor Rajiv Singh's blandishments. It was becoming increasingly clear that the maharajah was not a man who was overly fond of the Sirkar.

  * * *

  The day of the military review was a holiday for many of the palace servants, and the atmosphere was festive. Meera had found the review a grand and thrilling sight. Afterward she was still excited, not ready to return to the women's quarters, so her expression brightened when she saw Zafir approaching through the chattering crowd. Meera hadn't seen him since they arrived in Manpur, and she rather missed scolding him.

  The tall Pathan looked as always: arrogant, bold, and barbaric. He was also, when he smiled, quite sinfully handsome. "Greetings, little dove. Since we are both at liberty, would you care to walk with me in the park?"

  She debated a moment. She and Zafir were both members of Falkirk Sahib's household, which was rather like being family. Besides, she wanted to go.

  In a tone of carefully cultivated indifference, she said, "Very well, I've nothing better to do just now, but I must be back by the time darkness falls."

  The palace grounds were enormous, with seven formal gardens representing the different sectors of paradise, as well as kitchen gardens and a more casually landscaped park. While the formal gardens were reserved for the use of the royal family and their court, servants were free to enjoy the park. Many were doing just that, but the farther they strolled fr
om the palace, the fewer people they saw.

  Meera suspected that her companion had explored the area earlier to find a place of relative privacy. Though the Pathan might hope to seduce her, she knew that in his company she would be as safe as she wanted to be.

  As the two wound their way through lush flowering shrubs, they exchanged news of what they had done since arriving in Manpur. Meera found that she had a gift for verbal caricature that kept her companion laughing. He seemed to enjoy her tart tongue, which was a pleasure after the restraint of her years in Mohan's household. Her husband had preferred her demure.

  When the sun began dipping to the horizon, Meera said regretfully, "It will be dark soon, so it is time to turn back. Has Falkirk Sahib told you when we will leave Manpur?"

  "Tomorrow he goes on a tour with the maharajah and I go with him," Zafir said. "The major said we would be absent for five or six days. We leave for Bombay a few days after that."

  "So tomorrow you are off again," she said, unable to conceal a note of disappointment.

  He grinned. "Have you missed me, little dove?"

  "Miss such a great, rude lout? Of course not," she scoffed.

  Meera should have known the dangers of teasing the Pathan, for he immediately swept her up in his arms. As she squealed, he deposited her on the branch of a tree that stretched parallel to the ground at a height that put her face level with his. She grabbed the limb for balance, which left her with no hands free to fend off Zafir. He leaned forward to kiss her, murmuring, "I shall remind you what you have been missing."

  By the time he had finished reminding her, she had lost all desire to push him away. As she relaxed, he moved forward against the branch so that her knees were straddling him. Meera found the position wickedly exciting in spite of all the clothing that separated them.

  She gave a long sigh of pleasure when he caressed her breast, but when his exploring hand moved below her waist, she jerked her head back. "Stop! You mustn't do that."