Dancing on the Wind

by Mary Jo Putney

It took all of Sara's training in graciousness not to snatch her hand back. The blasted man must be a mesmerist! Or perhaps the resemblance was to a cobra hypnotizing a rabbit. She took a deep breath, telling herself not to be fanciful, the prince was merely different from what she was used to. Ross had once told her that Asiatics stood closer together than Europeans when they conversed. That was why she was so aware of the man's nearness. Disengaging her hand from his, she took a step back. "Local custom permits kissing a woman's hand, or perhaps shaking it, but the rule is that the hand must be returned promptly.''

  His mobile features fell into lines of profound regret. "A thousand apologies, Lady Sara. I knew that, but forgot. So many things to remember. You will forgive my occasional lapses?"

  "I can see that you are going to be a severe trial, Your Highness." Sara hoped her voice sounded normal. Her hand still tingled where they had touched, and she felt abnormally sensitive, like a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. The flowers smelled sweeter, the music sounded brighter, the air itself pulsed with promise. "Where is my cousin? I can't believe he was so rag-mannered as to leave you to your own devices."

  "On the contrary, his manners are too good. He was waylaid by a tedious fellow who is obsessed with the subject of what prince would be a fit consort for your little Queen Victoria."

  Sarah nodded. "Mr. Macaw. He is very difficult to escape."

  "It is simple to get away from such fellows," the Kafir pronounced. "It is only necessary to be rude. Civilized manners are not at all an asset, you know."

  "You and I could have some truly splendid arguments, Your Highness." Sara tried to look severe, but the corners of her mouth curved up and betrayed her. Though the prince was alarmingly attractive, he was also Ross's friend, and it seemed natural to treat him with informality. "What a pity that I am the hostess of this party, and can't spend the next hour convincing you that manners are essential to smooth the rough edges of life. Shall we find my cousin? Being over-civilized, I can't bring myself to abandon you in the midst of strangers."

  The prince glanced across the crowd. "No need to search, for Lord Ross has finally escaped the dreaded Mr. Macaw."

  A moment later, Ross reached them. "Sorry to have left you stranded, Mikahl."

  "No matter," the prince said. "Your cousin had no trouble identifying me. She has been instructing me in manners, but fears it a hopeless task."

  Ross smiled. "If Sara will consent to be your mentor, you could have no better guide to local customs."

  Peregrine looked hopeful. "Will you mentor me, Lady Sara?"

  She laughed. "Mentor is not a verb, but if you wish, I will be happy to advise you." More seriously, she continued, "Ross said that you saved him from two dangerous situations. I cannot do as much for you, but I will do whatever I can to make your stay in England a rewarding one."

  With equal seriousness, he replied, "I am most grateful for your kindness. May I call on you tomorrow morning? I have many questions that I dare not ask Ross, for he has too little respect for society to give reliable answers."

  "While I, conventional creature that I am, can always be counted on to know what is proper," Sara said wryly. "By all means call on me. After all, how can you enjoy the pleasures of outraging London if you do not know what is considered outrageous? I look forward to furthering our acquaintance."

  Ross broke into their banter. "Sara, Sir Charles has just arrived, and should be with us in a moment."

  She raised her gaze to look for her betrothed, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that the prince was also watching Weldon's approach. Since his face was profoundly still, why did she feel that silent lightning crackled around him?

  "Sorry I'm late, my dear." Weldon bent to kiss Lady Sara's cheek, but Peregrine was interested to note a slight withdrawal on the part of the lady. No, it was not a love match, though the two exchanged easy greetings like a long-married couple.

  Peregrine studied his enemy with hungry eyes. The years had been kind to Weldon, and he looked like what he was: a distinguished man of breeding and wealth. In his youth, charm and good looks had masked his true nature, and on the surface those qualities were still present. It took an astute eye to interpret his face correctly, but as Lady Sara had said, it was experience that made a man, and a lifetime of evil had engraved subtle lines of cruelty in Weldon's countenance.

  Lady Sara's soft voice cut across his thoughts. "Charles, let me introduce you to Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He is newly arrived in England, and is probably the first man of his people ever to visit Europe. Your Highness, Sir Charles Weldon."

  "I hope your visit is an enjoyable one, Your Highness." Weldon offered his hand with unthinking social ease. Then his gaze met Peregrine's and his expression changed, casualness giving way to puzzlement. "This is your first visit to England? I have the feeling we have met before."

  As Peregrine accepted his enemy's hand, for a moment his vision darkened as the bonds that restrained his rage came perilously near to bursting. It would be easy, so easy to pull out his dagger and thrust it between Weldon's ribs. The Englishman's heart blood would surge hotly over Peregrine's hand, crimson retribution for the past. He would live just long enough to be told why he was dying....

  With a fierce internal oath, Peregrine reined back his madness. Yes, executing Weldon now would be easy, but it would be too quick and painless a death. Besides, assassination would send him to the gallows and ruin Lady Sara's party.

  Once more in control, Peregrine shook his enemy's hand with a pressure just short of inflicting pain, then released it. "Have you visited India, Sir Charles? Perhaps we met there, though I do not remember such an occasion."

  At the sound of Peregrine's deep, accented voice, Weldon's expression cleared. "No, I've never been to India, and we have not met before. It is just that your eyes are such a distinctive color. I've only seen eyes so green once or twice before." After a brief hesitation, he added under his breath, "Once."

  "Green eyes are not unusual among my father's people," Peregrine said smoothly. Then he offered the bait that would draw his enemy to him. "I am pleased to meet you, Sir Charles. Your reputation in the City of London is very high. I am interested in investing in this country. Perhaps, if you have the time, you would be so kind as to advise me?"

  Greed overcame any disquiet Weldon might have. "Delighted to be of service. Perhaps we can dine at my club soon?"

  "That would be my greatest pleasure." Peregrine found secret satisfaction in the fact that all his comments were double-edged.

  As they set a date later in the week, the flaxen-haired girl who had been talking to Lady Sara earlier materialized between her ladyship and Weldon, and regarded the foreigner curiously.

  Weldon said, "Prince Peregrine, this is my daughter Eliza."

  "A prince?" The girl's blue eyes rounded with delight.

  "Indeed I am, Miss Weldon." Peregrine's research had included Eliza Weldon. The girl's mother, Jane Clifton, had been the daughter of a rich city banker, and her inheritance had started Weldon on the path to wealth. The heiress had died three years ago, when her daughter was eight. Eliza had her father's good looks, but if she had also inherited his warped nature, that fact was not visible. She was just a pretty, uncomplicated child, impressed at meeting foreign royalty.

  "Eliza, make your curtsy to the prince," Lady Sara said.

  The girl dropped into a painstakingly correct curtsy. As Peregrine returned a deep, formal bow, he wondered idly what would become of her. No doubt Eliza had relatives who would see to her upbringing when her father was gone.

  Lady Sara said, "If you will excuse us, Charles and I must speak with someone who has just arrived. I hope to see you again soon, Your Highness."

  As Lady Sara turned and walked away, Peregrine saw that she walked with a slight hesitation, not quite a limp. Perhaps that had something to do with the ghosts of old pain that he saw in her eyes? He could ask Ross, but it would be more interesting to discover the truth on his own. No man or woman
was civilized all the way through, and it would be intriguing to discover what untamed currents lay beneath the lady's calm surface.

  Excerpt from

  Silk and Secrets

  Book Two

  The Silk Trilogy

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  © 1992, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.

  Prologue

  Autumn 1840

  Night was falling rapidly and a slim crescent moon hung low in the cloudless indigo sky. In the village the muezzin called the faithful to prayers and the haunting notes twined with the tantalizing aroma of baking bread and the more acrid scent of smoke. It was a homey, peaceful scene such as the woman had observed countless times before, yet as she paused by the window, she experienced a curious moment of dislocation, an inability to accept the strange fate that had led her to this alien land.

  Usually she kept herself so busy that there was no time to think of the past, but now a wave of piercing sorrow swept through her. She missed the wild green hills of her childhood, and though she had made new friends and would soon dine with a surrogate family that she loved, she missed her own blood kin and the friends who were now forever lost to her.

  Most of all, she missed the man who had been more than a friend. She wondered if he ever thought of her, and if he did, whether it was with hatred, anger, or cool indifference. For his sake, she hoped it was indifference.

  It would be easier if she felt nothing, yet she could not regret the pain that was still, even after so many years, a silent undercurrent to her daily life. Pain was the last vestige of love and she was not yet willing to forget love; she doubted that she would ever be.

  Her life could, and should, have been so different. She had had so much, more than most women ever dreamed of. If only she had been wiser, or at least less impulsive. If only she had not succumbed to despair. If only...

  Realizing that her mind was sliding into a familiar, futile litany of regrets, she took a deep breath and forced herself to think of the responsibilities that gave her life meaning. The first lesson of survival that she had learned was that nothing could change the past.

  For just a moment she touched the pendant that hung suspended around her neck, under her robe. Then she turned her back on the empty window and the darkening sky. She had made her bed and now she must lie in it. Alone.

  Chapter 1

  London October 1840

  Lord Ross Carlisle sipped his brandy, thinking with amusement that watching two lovebirds bill and coo was enough to drive a man to the far corners of the earth, which was exactly where Ross was about to go. It did not make it easier that the happy lovers were his best friends. Perhaps that made it harder.

  His gaze drifted over the comfortable lamplit drawing room where they were enjoying an after-dinner drink; brandy for the two men, lemonade for Lady Sara, who was in the early stages of pregnancy and had lost her taste for alcohol. The three of them had spent many similar evenings together, and Ross would greatly miss the conversation and companionship.

  Finally remembering his obligations, Ross's host broke away from the silent communion he had been sharing with his wife and lifted the decanter. "Care for some more brandy, Ross?"

  "A little, please. Not too much, or I'll have no head for traveling in the morning."

  Mikahl Connery poured a small measure of amber spirits into both of their crystal goblets. Lifting his goblet, he said, "May you have an exciting and productive journey."

  His wife, Lady Sara Connery, raised her glass and added, "And after all the excitement, may you have a safe return home."

  "I will cheerfully drink to both of those goals." Ross gave Sara a fond glance, thinking how well marriage suited her. She was his cousin and the two of them shared the unusual combination of brown eyes and burnished gold hair, but Sara had a quiet inner serenity that Ross had never known. For many years the only peace he had found had been in travel, in challenging himself in ways that engaged all his mind and strength. "Don't fret while I'm gone, Sara. The Levant is less hazardous than many of the other places I've been. Certainly it's safer than the wild mountains where I met your alarming husband."

  Mikahl drank the toast, then set his glass down. "Perhaps it's time to give up your restless wandering and settle down, Ross," he said, lazy humor in his intensely green eyes. He laid a large hand over Sara's. "A wife is far more exciting than a desert or a ruined city."

  Ross smiled. "There is no zealot greater than a convert. When you came to England a year and a half ago, you would have laughed at the idea of marriage."

  "But I am so much wiser now." Mikahl put an arm around his wife's shoulders and drew her closer. "Of course, there is only one Sara, but somewhere in England you should be able to find a satisfactory bride."

  Perhaps it was the brandy, or perhaps it was pure mischief on Ross's part. "Doubtless you're right," he replied, "but such a paragon would be of no value to me. Didn't I ever mention that I already have a wife?" With immense satisfaction Ross saw that for once he had managed to surprise his friend.

  "You know damned well that you never told me any such thing," Mikahl said, his black brows drawing together. Not quite believing, he looked questioningly at his wife.

  Sara nodded confirmation. "It's quite true, my dear. In fact, I was maid of honor at the wedding." Transferring her grave regard to her cousin, she added, "A dozen years ago."

  "Fascinating." Mikahl's gaze became unfocused for a moment, as if reviewing the past from a different perspective. Then, since he was totally lacking in polite British restraint, he said with vivid interest, "You've certainly done a good job of hiding the woman. What is the story, or shouldn't I ask?"

  "You shouldn't ask," Sara said, aiming a stern wifely glance at her husband.

  Ross smiled faintly. "You needn't scowl at Mikahl like that, Sara. It's not a secret, merely very old news." Feeling the need for more brandy, he poured himself another glass. "I was just down from Cambridge when I met Juliet Cameron. She was a schoolfriend of Sara's, a tall red-headed vixen quite unlike any other female I'd ever met. As the daughter of a Scottish diplomat, Juliet had spent much of her youth in exotic places like Persia and Tripoli, and since I was a budding orientalist, I found her quite irresistible. We married in a blinding haze of mutual lust. Everyone said that it would never work, and for once, everyone was right."

  Ross's casual tone must have been unconvincing, for Mikahl narrowed his eyes with an uncomfortable degree of perception. However, he asked only, "Where is your Juliet now?"

  "She is no longer my Juliet, and I haven't the remotest idea where she is." Ross downed his brandy in one swallow. "After six months of marriage, she ran away, leaving a note saying that she had no desire to see either me or England again. According to her lawyer, she is prospering, but I have no idea where or how. Knowing Juliet, she probably set up as a pasha in the Sahara and has the world's only male harem." He stood. "It's getting late. Time for me to go home if I want to be off before dawn tomorrow."

  Sara rose and crossed the room to enfold him in a heartfelt embrace. "I'll miss you, Ross," she said softly. "Be careful."

  "I'm always careful." Ross kissed her forehead, then turned to his friend.

  He had intended to shake hands, but Mikahl, once more un-English, gave him a quick, powerful hug. "And if being careful isn't enough, be dangerous. You're rather good at that, for an English gentleman."

  Ross smiled and clapped the other man on the shoulder. "I've had good teachers."

  They were all laughing as Ross left. He always preferred leaving with laughter rather than tears.

  * * *

  Constantinople

  January 1841

  The British ambassador to the Sublime Porte lived a dozen miles from Constantinople, in a large village on the Strait of Bosphorous. As Ross entered the embassy to pay a courtesy call, he was amused to find an interior that would not have looked out of place in Mayfair. As a bastion of Englishness, the ambassador's residence could not be faulted, even t
hough on the outside it looked like the home of any wealthy Turk.

  A servant had taken Ross's card in, and only a few moments passed before the ambassador himself, Sir Stratford Canning, came out to greet the distinguished visitor.

  "Lord Ross Carlisle!" The ambassador offered his hand. "It's a great pleasure to finally meet you. I've read both of your books. Can't say that I always agree with your conclusions, but they were most interesting and informative."

  Ross smiled and shook Canning's hand. "To a writer, it is enough to be read, Sir Stratford. Being agreed with would be too much to hope for. I recently finished another book, so soon you will have more things to disagree with."

  The ambassador laughed. "Will you be in Constantinople for long, Lord Ross?"

  "Just a fortnight or so, until I've made arrangements to go south into the Lebanon. After that, I intend to visit northern Arabia. I'd like to travel with the Bedouins."

  Canning gave an elaborate shudder. "Better you than me. My fondest wish is to spend all of my time in England, but the Foreign Office persists in sending me abroad. This is my third posting in Constantinople. Flattery, you know; they keep telling me that no one else can fill the position as well."

  Knowing Canning's formidable reputation, Ross smiled. "Very likely the Foreign Office is right."

  "I was about to have some tea in my study. Would you care to join me?" After Ross nodded, Canning led the way down a hall and into a neat office with book-lined walls. "There have been letters waiting here for you for several weeks."

  "Originally I had planned to reach Constantinople at the beginning of December," Ross explained as he took a seat. "But I decided to stay for a few weeks in Athens. That is the advantage of traveling purely for my own pleasure."

  Canning rang for tea, then crossed the room and opened a drawer in a cabinet. After a moment of rummaging, he brought out a packet of letters tied with ribbon and brought it to Ross. His face suddenly sober, he said, "I'm afraid that one of the letters may contain bad news, for it is black-bordered."