Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  Ian gave her a half smile. "Be grateful that the powers that be still haven't adopted the new rifle that Pyotr was talking about. Sometimes official sluggishness is a real blessing. In this case, it means that the Sirkar won't have to worry about the sepoys rebelling because they think their faith is being compromised. All we have to do is make sure that the Afghans, Punjabis, and Dharjistanis can't come together."

  "You make it sound so simple." Laura bit her lip. "Ian, what will happen to Rajiv Singh and Kamala?"

  He shook his head, his expression grave. "I'm not sure. If the serpent's fangs can be drawn without bloodshed, Rajiv Singh may be able to keep his throne, though I'm sure the Sirkar will set sharp limits on the size of his army and will use force to ensure that he doesn't exceed them."

  "He's a warrior, a prince of the Rajputs," she said sadly. "Do you think he'll sit tamely by and let his fangs be drawn?"

  Ian sighed. "I don't know. I hope so, not only for his sake but for Kamala and Dharjistan."

  Laura was about to ask another question when they heard footsteps in the drawing room outside. For a second she tensed, wondering if they had been overheard. Then she heard Zafir call, "Major Sahib, are you here?"

  There was a note in his voice that she had not heard before. Ian must have recognized it, because he immediately rose and threw open the bedroom door. "In here. What's wrong?"

  Zafir stepped into the room, Meera beside him. "We must speak to you, huzar.'' The fact that the Pathan used "huzar," the formal equivalent of the English "sir," was uncharacteristic and did not bode well. "On a matter of great significance."

  "Then speak freely."

  "We... happened to be in the royal banyan tree."

  Ian's brows went up. "What on earth were you doing there? No, never mind, I can guess. Did you overhear something?"

  Zafir nodded. "A conversation between the maharajah and an Afghan. They spoke in Persian, which Meera understands. She says they spoke of an invasion of India."

  "Bloody hell!" Ian shared a look with Laura, both of them thinking the same thing: disaster was much closer than they realized. "Meera, tell me exactly what you heard."

  Laura listened, her stomach tight. The girl's report brought Pyotr's scribbled notes from the realm of theory down to gritty reality. Within a matter of days, the Afghans would be invading, joining with tens of thousands of well-armed Dharjistani and Punjabi troops into a fire that would sear India.

  How many Europeans would survive such a holocaust? How many peaceful natives would die once the dogs of war were unleashed?

  Unlike Laura, Ian was growing progressively calmer as the situation worsened. She had never seen him look so dangerous. After telling Zafir and Meera what he and Laura had learned, he said, "Do you know where the Shpola Pass is?"

  The Pathan shook his head. "I have heard the name, but I don't know exactly where it is. Only that it lies somewhere in Afridi territory. That's why I have never been there."

  Ian thought for a moment, his brows drawn together. "Very well. Tomorrow, we'll leave Manpur. Once we're away from the city, you and the women will ride south. For the sake of safety and speed, leave Laura and Meera with your Uncle Habibur. When you get to Cambay, find my brother and give him the report I'll write tonight detailing what we've discovered. I'll go up to the frontier and try to find this Shpola Pass. When troops arrive, I can guide them right to it. A pass that small can be closed by a single company of soldiers.''

  Zafir said, "Very good, huzar." His frivolity was gone and he had become a cold-eyed, deadly warrior.

  Ian continued, "When you leave here, go to the city bazaar and buy tribal clothing for me, the ingredients to make skin stain, native harness for my horse. Go to a number of different shops so no suspicions will be aroused. You know the drill."

  Before the Pathan could acknowledge the order, Laura said explosively, "No!"

  The men turned toward her, Zafir startled, Ian, who knew her better, looking wary. Ignoring the Pathan, Laura fixed her husband with a steely eye. "If you're going to the frontier, Ian, I'm going with you."

  Her words dropped into the room like stones. Voice calm but inexorable, Ian said, "That's out of the question."

  She glared at him, equally inexorable, and much less calm. "No, it isn't. You're not going without me."

  She was about to say more when Ian snapped, "Enough!"

  When his gaze went to the Pathan, Laura realized that to quarrel with Ian in front of a subordinate was bad policy. Since her chance of changing his mind was much better in private, she held her tongue as he said to Zafir, "I'll get money for the bazaar so you can be off."

  Laura used the next few moments to marshal her arguments. As soon as Ian said that she was to be sent to safety while he went north alone, she had been struck by violent anxiety. Though she refused to think about Srinivasa's nonsense, her own emotional, irrational nature was shouting that her husband would be safer if she stayed with him.

  And maybe camels had wings and could fly like eagles. Insane to think that she could make a difference if the hand of fate was on Ian, and insane to even think of accompanying her husband to the frontier.

  So be it. She might be insane, but she was damned well going with him.

  Zafir left and Ian turned to her. Seeing her determination, his face became implacable. "I appreciate your loyalty, Laura, but this sort of mission is no place for a woman."

  "How dangerous will it be?"

  "Not very," he said. "I used to find straight military duty a little boring, so sometimes I got myself seconded to the political service. I've been over the frontier a number of times, and I can pass as a native reasonably well."

  "With your coloring?" she said dubiously.

  His mouth quirked. "You'd be surprised how convincing I am with my skin dyed and a turban over my hair. My beard even grows out the same red as the henna dye some Muslims use on their beards. More important, I know the languages and customs. But I'm not going to be in any danger, Laura. This is simply a short reconnaissance to locate the Shpola Pass. Then, when British troops arrive, they'll be able to bottle up the Shpola and the Khyber and send reinforcements to the fort at Jallalabad."

  "If it's so safe, why can't I go?"

  "You'll slow me down. Also, I'll worry about you, which will diminish my effectiveness," he said, beginning to show impatience. "There's no good reason for you to go, and dozens of good reasons not to. Why the devil are you so determined?"

  Laura didn't think he would be impressed if she said she hoped to prevent him from being killed. Ignoring the question of why she wanted to go, she said, "I won't slow you down. I've crossed half of India with you, and I can ride as well as most men. Thanks to your foresight I can also shoot, not brilliantly, but well enough to be of help in a tight spot. I speak Persian and several dialects of Urdu. With skin dye and the right clothes, I should be able to pass for a native at least as well as you—my eyes are brown and Oriental, not Highlander blue."

  His gaze went over her. "Even loose native clothing isn't going to make you look like a boy," he said dryly. "And your eyes aren't brown, they're a highly distinctive amber."

  "Then I'll wear a burqa like the Pathan women do when they leave the compound," she retorted. "You could disguise a water buffalo under one of those."

  He shook his head, unmoved. "No, Laura. This isn't subject to discussion. I'm not taking you to the frontier."

  Trying a different tack, she suggested, "Wouldn't it make more sense to send Zafir instead of going yourself? That's Pathan country, so he should be able to locate the pass more easily than you. You're also the best person to explain the danger to the authorities in Cambay. Zafir won't be taken as seriously, even though he's carrying a message from you."

  "With David's backing, he'll be believed," Ian said. "And I can't send Zafir to look for the Shpola Pass. It's controlled by the Afridi tribe, which has a blood feud with Zafir's tribe, the Mohmands. Asking Zafir to go in alone would be sending him to his death. Besides, I have
a better eye for the tactical possibilities than he does."

  Appalled, she said, "But won't it be death for you?"

  "No, because I'll go dressed as a Punjabi tribesman. Since the Afridis have no feud with me, I won't be shot on sight."

  "Then why can't Zafir go dressed like a Punjabi?"

  "He would consider going into Afridi territory disguised as an act of cowardice," Ian explained. "He'd much rather be shot."

  Men! They didn't have the sense to cross the street without female help. Curbing her exasperation, she said, "Ian, you know the territory and the tribes, you're the best shot I've ever seen, and it's only a little reconnaissance mission. Surely I'll be as safe with you as I would be going south with Zafir. After all, that road also goes through fairly wild country, and with only one man to protect two women, I'd be better off with you."

  Amusement showed on his face. "Flattery won't work, Laura. I could be the best shot in the history of mankind, but that won't save you if we're ambushed by fifty bloody-minded bandits. The answer is still no."

  She glared at him, furious but undiscouraged. She was sure in her Slavic bones that going with him would make a crucial difference.

  Then she realized that the trump card was in her hand. "The directions to the Shpola Pass are written in Russian, and I won't translate them for you." She held up the sheet of notes and tried not to sound smug. "If you want to find it, you'll have to take me along."

  Exploding with the forcefulness for which redheads are known, Ian roared, "Then I'll find it without you! Hell and damnation, this isn't a game, you idiot female!"

  "You're damned right it isn't," she yelled back, as furious as he. "It's life and death, and I'm going with you!"

  As he stepped toward her, Laura wondered if she was about to find out how Tatyana felt when her husband hit her.

  But Ian was not Laura's father. He put his arms around her, tilted her head back, and kissed her. Her wildfire response made her shockingly aware of how thin the line was between fury and passion.

  Laura kissed him back, aching with protective tenderness. She wanted to love him, not fight with him. Then, as his hand moved expertly down her body, she realized what he was doing.

  With a gasp of outrage, she turned her face away from his. "Do you really think you can seduce me into obedience?" she snapped. "That's a double-edged sword, you pigheaded Scot."

  She fumbled with his trousers. He was already partially aroused. As she undid the buttons and slipped her hand inside, he went rock-hard, his whole body stiffening.

  He began to laugh. No, Ian was not like her father. "You little witch. I knew you were dangerous, but I hadn't realized quite how much so."

  Sobering, he lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. "Laura, why are you so hell-bent on going with me? You're not usually an unreasonable woman."

  "I'm worried about letting you out of my sight," she said. "I know I'm being ridiculous, but I feel as if nothing too terrible can happen to you as long as I'm there."

  He studied her face. "I know what you mean. Part of me—the stupid part—wants to keep you nearby."

  Sensing victory, she said persuasively, "If this trip really isn't that dangerous, where's the harm in my going?"

  "Anytime one travels into wild country, there's an element of unpredictability. Ninety-nine chances out of hundred, we'd be able to go up there, locate the Shpola Pass, and come back without a problem." He grimaced. "It's the hundredth chance that bothers me."

  "Ninety-nine out of a hundred isn't bad. And the hundredth could happen even if I went with Zafir.'' She was about to say more, but decided it would be more effective to hold her tongue and let Ian analyze the odds on his own.

  Finally he sighed. "Very well. This really shouldn't be dangerous, so you can go if it's that important to you." His face hardened, "But there's one condition. You're going to have to promise to follow orders like a subaltern. If something goes wrong, arguing could cost us our lives. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, sir," she said with a surge of relief so strong that it weakened her. "You're the commander of this expedition." For a moment she rested her head on his shoulder. With fear out of the way, other emotions began to manifest. She began stroking him mischievously. "Now that we've settled that, can we finish what we started, only with no hidden motives?"

  He laughed again, then took her hand and led her over to the bed. "Since you're going to be doing a lot of riding in the next few weeks..."—he lay on his back and drew her down on top of him—"you might as well practice."

  What followed proved to be as enjoyable as it was educational. Laura decided that it didn't really matter whether she finished reading the Kama Sutra or not. She was learning everything she needed to know from her husband.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, Laura made a farewell call on Kamala. She was worried that knowledge of Rajiv Singh's plot would make it hard for her to act naturally, but the maharani made the visit easy. After dismissing her women, Kamala pulled Laura down to the cushion beside her. "Even if you hadn't sent a note," she smiled, "I would know that you have found your heart's desire."

  Blushing, Laura nodded. "The suggestions you and my servant Meera made were wonderful. In particular, the rose petals were an inspiration."

  The maharani waved her hand grandly. "What's a garden for, if not to provide pleasure for one's friends?"

  Caught between laughter and tears, Laura said, "I'm going to miss you, Kamala."

  "And I you." Shyly the maharani added, "Will you write me?"

  "Of course," Laura said warmly. "It will be good for me to practice my Persian. And perhaps someday Ian and I will come back for a visit. Every year, the trip becomes swifter." Then she fell silent A year from now, it was possible that the British would be gone from India. Or Rajiv Singh and even Kamala might be dead, or exiled. The friendship between two women could become just another victim of the cataclysm that was forming.

  Not understanding the reason for her guest's sadness, Kamala said, "I, too, weep in my heart. A queen has many subjects but few friends." She gnawed on her lip, then said in a rush of words, "I shouldn't speak of this until I'm absolutely certain, but I must confide in someone, so I will tell you."

  Good Lord, did Kamala know of her husband's plan and want to discuss it? Tom between friendship and patriotism, Laura said uncertainly, "If it's a state secret, I shouldn't know it."

  Kamala gave her a luminous smile. "It isn't a state secret, it's my heart's desire." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Laura, I think I am with child. Srinivasa said sometime back that it might happen, but I have been afraid to hope."

  It took a moment for Laura to shift mental gars. Then she gasped, "Oh, Kamala, after so many years? That's wonderful!"

  "I daren't speak of it yet to anyone, for it would break Rajiv Singh's heart if I'm wrong. There is a young cousin he has been thinking of adopting as his heir, but he has held off, still hoping." The maharani smiled bashfully. "I am an old woman, but not so old that I cannot still give him a son."

  "Old—you?" Laura laughed. "You are the embodiment of womanly beauty. Once you have discovered the knack of childbearing, perhaps you shall have more. Does Srinivasa have anything to say about the possibility?"

  Kama's face became grave. "He said—and this is most unusual—that the issue is clouded and could have more than one outcome. In fact, I also asked him to look again at the charts of you and your husband, since you were so concerned." She caught her visitor's hand. "There is a cloud over all of our futures," she said earnestly. "Be careful, Laura."

  "And you also, Kamala," Laura said, her voice choked. She rose and gave the maharani a hug, then a deep "Namaste. I will pray for both of us, my friend."

  There were tears in her eyes when she left. She hoped to God that the events that were shaping up would not make it impossible for both of them to have their hearts' desires.

  Chapter 31

  Meera clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "It isn't proper for a memsahib
to dress like an Indian boy."

  "Let's hope that no one will suspect that a memsahib would even think of such a thing," Laura responded. Having already donned baggy pants and light boots, she layered two enormous shirts over each other and tied them around her waist with a sash. Even with her breasts flattened by a close-fitting undershirt, she was beginning to appreciate Ian's remark that she didn't have the sort of body that was easily disguised as a boy's. Luckily it was late autumn; by the time she added a couple of loose coats to her costume, she would be thoroughly sexless.

  Shivering in the chilly air, Laura put on the last coat. They had left the royal palace before dawn that morning and ridden south toward Bombay. Five miles from the city, they had veered off the main road and ridden into this dense thicket, where she and Ian were to change their identities. Meera had helped her apply stain to every visible bit of skin, then had braided her hair and tucked it around her head in a coronet.

  Tying the turban proved tricky; it required a knack that she didn't have. A good thing she also had an all-encompassing burqa to wear when passing through towns. It would be more prudent to wear it all the time, but a burqa was a suffocating garment, with only a small square of mesh to see through, so she intended to avoid it whenever possible.

  Laura thrust a scabbarded knife in her sash, then slung her rifle over her shoulder. "How do I look, Meera?"

  Meera clicked her tongue again, her head shaking back and forth. Laura thought that meant failure until the girl said, "I would not know you for a ferengi, memsahib, nor a woman. Here, look at yourself in the mirror."

  Laura caught her breath when she saw her image in the hand mirror. With her slanting eyes and stained skin, she looked like a genuine Asiatic. The skin dye even had the effect of making her eyes look darker, more brown than amber. From what Mongol ancestor had she inherited her eyes? Probably a Tartar warrior who had casually raped a Slavic woman. Europe and Asia met in Russia, and in Laura. For the next fortnight or so, she must draw on that ancestry and think like an Asiatic.