She wondered what lurid tales had reached England; probably rumors that she had engaged in mad orgies or some such. Not the truth, but enough to convince Ross that it wasn't worth soiling his hands by coming after her.
Another thing that she had not fully realized until tonight was just how much it must have hurt his pride to have been abandoned by his wife. A private person like Ross would have hated being the subject of gossip. It had been easier for her, for she had left respectable society behind. She had not had to face the stares and whispers of people she knew.
She wondered what he felt about her. Had he wanted to bed her tonight, or had he kissed her merely from curiosity? She suspected that the matter could have gone either way.
Even now, if she went to his room and slid in beside him, he might be willing to tumble her, for it seemed that he still found her attractive. It would not be the same as the passion they had shared when he had loved and trusted her, but it would be profoundly satisfying on a physical level.
A pity that it wasn't possible to disconnect her body from her emotions, for physical intimacy would come at a price of emotional devastation. If she and Ross became lovers again, she would never survive the ending of the affair. And end it surely would, for the underlying problems would not go away.
Juliet realized that she was lying curled up on her side, clutching a pillow to her chest as if it were a life preserver. The corner was damp with tears. Taking a deep breath, she rolled onto her back and forced herself to relax, one muscle at a time, starting with her toes and working her way up her body.
She must take control of herself or this expedition to Bokhara would be catastrophic. To endure the journey, she and Ross would have to work together efficiently, without doubts and recriminations. She couldn't moon over him like a lovestruck milkmaid. She must do whatever was necessary to help Ross, and, if he still lived, Ian.
And when they returned safely to Serevan, she must have the wisdom and dignity to let her husband go once more.
Chapter 6
The next morning Ross awoke from a restless sleep feeling like the survivor of a shipwreck. But he had survived, and confronting the Amir of Bokhara should be easy compared to facing and accepting his own failings.
He had just finished dressing when a servant summoned him to break his fast. Ross followed with some reluctance, wondering if he was being taken to Juliet. To his relief, the only person sitting at the low table in the small sunny dining room was the elderly Uzbek who seemed to be an overseer for Serevan.
The Uzbek wore a white turban and a brilliantly patterned robe of the woven silk material called ikat. When Ross entered the room, he inclined his head politely. "Salaam Aleikum, my lord," he said, offering the traditional greeting that was a wish for peace. "I am Saleh, the most humble servant of Gul-i Sarahi. Pray forgive me for not rising to greet you, but my knees are old and feeble and they protest when they are used too often."
Ross folded down onto a cushion by the table with the ease of long practice. "Aleikum Salaam," he said, returning the wish for peace. "I am greatly honored that you have asked an inconsequential traveler to share bread and salt with you. I would be desolate if your knees were to suffer as a result."
Saleh laughed, his eyes bright and curious above his gray beard. Clearly he had something to discuss, but first he plied his guest with tea, white cheese, and fresh hot bread.
When Ross had finished eating and was sipping another cup of tea, Saleh said, "You speak Persian with great skill, my lord."
"The beauty of the language rewards its study." And, like most Eastern tongues, it encouraged flowery expression. Switching to Uzbek, Ross said, "But if you prefer, we can use another language."
Saleh's expression lit up. "Ah, you speak the tongue of my homeland. That will be most useful in Bokhara."
Ross gave him a sharp glance. "Juliet, or rather Gul-i Sarahi, told you of that?"
"Aye. This morning she told me that her brother was taken prisoner by the amir, and that you will go together to learn his fate." Saleh picked up a peach and used his thin-bladed knife to begin peeling off the skin in a continuous strip. "I have considered the matter and believe that I should accompany you."
Ross raised his brows, wondering if everyone at Serevan was going to decide to come along. Still, a native Bokharan could be useful. "The road is long and hard, and danger lies on all sides. Are you sure you wish to go?"
"In truth, no." The Uzbek finished peeling the peach, then sliced it into pieces. "I am an old man and fond of my comforts. But I owe a considerable debt to Gul-i Sarahi, and going with her to Bokhara may be a small repayment."
Interested, Ross said encouragingly, "Indeed?"
"I came of a good Bokharan family and was considered a promising young scholar," Saleh explained. "But the amir took a dislike to me. Not the present amir, Nasrullah, but his father, whom Nasrullah killed. In fact, Nasrullah murdered his brothers as well, just in case one might have wished to displace him. A difficult man, the amir, but such is the way of royalty.
"Would you like some peach? It is the first of the season and very fine." He pierced a slice of fruit with the tip of his knife, then gracefully offered the tidbit to Ross. "For the benefit of my health, I decided to leave my native land. I made the pilgrimage to Mecca, visited Constantinople and Teheran, and saw much of the world. Eventually I took a wife and settled here in Serevan, which was a thriving community then. Then Allah the merciful, who works in mysterious ways, withdrew his blessings. There were plagues and drought and Turkoman raids. The village was dying until Gul-i Sarahi came. It was she who put the heart and health and strength back in Serevan."
Ross accepted the peach slice. "She is a remarkable woman."
"Aye, she is." Saleh's hands stilled, his eyes becoming distant. "And it was not only the village that was dying. When Gul-i Sarahi first came, my only son, Ramin, lay near death from fever. She gave him English medicine and nursed him with her own hands until the fever passed. She said it was the grace of Allah that healed the lad, not her, but my wife and I knew Allah had sent her." Returning to the present, he offered Ross another piece of peach. "And so I will go with her to Bokhara."
Ross refused the fruit, thinking that Saleh would be loyal to Juliet, if not necessarily her husband. "You know the city and its ways. What do you think of our chances for success?"
The Uzbek shrugged. "It will be difficult. Crossing the Kara Kum desert is very dangerous now, for the Turkomans recently killed the governor that the Amir of Khiva had put over them. The Turkoman tribes have split, some for Khiva, some for Bokhara, many only for themselves. If we survive the crossing of the desert, we shall likely find that your British officer is dead. Even if he lives, the amir will not release him. But with Allah's mercy, it should be possible to learn the officer's fate and return here safely." He sighed. "And then, I fear, you shall take our desert flower away from us."
Instantly wary, Ross said, "Why would I do that?"
"Are you not her husband?"
Surprised that Juliet had told Saleh, Ross replied, "Under English law only. There is no true marriage between us. Serevan is the home she has chosen, and here, I am sure, she will stay."
Saleh regarded the other man shrewdly but said nothing. He had wondered what response his statement would elicit. The way the English lord had blanked his face and voice was interesting, most interesting. Gul-i Sarahi and her handsome husband might deny that there was anything between them, but their reactions said otherwise.
The English lord continued, "Though I think that I need not say this, I will anyhow. The woman I knew as Juliet Cameron was headstrong and brave to the point of madness. I trust that you will watch over her, and use your influence to prevent her from throwing her life away unnecessarily?"
More and more interesting, Saleh thought. "You are correct that you need not ask. I will do whatever I can to protect her. And after her, you." With a secret smile, he poured more tea. He had always thought that Gul-i Sarahi should have a man. It appeared th
at she did, one that was well worth keeping.
* * *
After taking care of the day's most pressing tasks, Juliet decided to use the discipline of target shooting to calm her tightly strung nerves. A brisk walk brought her to the deep ravine she and her men used for rifle practice. It was an excellent natural range, for the configuration of the hills muffled sound to the point where the shots could hardly be heard in the nearby fortress and village.
She pinned palm-size green leaves to the earthen embankment for targets, then began shooting. For the next half-hour Juliet used ammunition extravagantly, rationalizing that the dangerous journey ahead required her marksmanship to be at its best.
Yet in spite of her concentration and the distorted echoes of rifle fire, she was instantly aware when someone began a soft-footed descent of the steep path behind her. Just as quickly, she identified who it was, both from the gait and the subtly different sound of European-made boots on stone and gravel.
Knowing that Ross was coming made the back of her neck prickle with self-consciousness. Since she had no idea what to say to him today, she continued firing until she had discharged the handful of cartridges she had been holding. By the time she finished, half of her leaf target had been ripped away.
As a cloud of dust rose from the point of impact, Ross said from behind her, "Impressive. I don't believe I've ever seen anyone shoot so quickly without losing accuracy."
"This breechloader makes speed easy." Juliet gratefully accepted the neutral topic. As she turned and handed Ross the rifle, she remembered that one of the things she had always liked about her husband was his calm acceptance of her expertise at traditionally "male" skills. Most men acted as if her riding and shooting were a personal attack on their cherished masculinity.
He expertly broke the rifle down and inspected it. "Lovely. Custom-made by a British gunsmith, I think?"
"Yes, it's a refinement of the Ferguson design, and it shoots very true. In this part of the world a good gun is essential. Care to try it?"
When he nodded, Juliet scooped half a dozen cartridges from her ammunition pouch and handed them to him. Wordlessly they managed the transfer without their fingers touching each other. It was ironic what perfect teamwork they could exhibit in avoiding contact. Even more ironically, offering him her rifle was a kind of intimacy that she had not allowed any other man.
Ross spent a moment more familiarizing himself with the weapon, then aimed at one of the remaining leaf targets. When he began shooting, Juliet started mentally counting the time. He fired all six shots in a little under a minute, which was not quite as fast as she had done—but the whole of the leaf had been obliterated, ripped to infinitesimal green fragments.
"I may be a bit faster," she said judiciously, "but you have the edge in accuracy."
"Perhaps." He returned the weapon. "The real trick is to be able to shoot that well when it counts. My rifle didn't do me any good yesterday when it was on my horse and I was not."
In some subtle way, Ross had changed overnight. As Juliet studied his face, she realized that the day before, there had been a questioning, tentative air about him, an openness to possibilities. Now that openness had vanished. He had made up his mind about his errant wife, and whatever he felt about her was locked behind a barrier of control as impervious as volcanic glass. His brown eyes showed neither warmth nor anger, just the impersonal politeness he would give any chance acquaintance.
Juliet resolved to try to match his detachment since that would be easier for both of them. Unfortunately, she was doubtful how successful she would be, for controlling her emotions was not one of her strengths.
Ross leaned casually back against a boulder and folded his arms across his chest. "Do I look that strange? Or are you hoping that if you glare long enough, I'll vanish?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to stare." Juliet felt her face coloring; she had blushed more in the last day than the whole previous year. She was tempted to retreat into generalities, but stopped herself. Control might not be one of her strong points, but directness was, so she should exercise some now. "I don't know how to act with you, Ross. You are both familiar and a stranger at the same time. Do you have any suggestions?"
Though he did not move, she had the impression that he stiffened before he replied. "Familiarity is an illusion. We knew each other very briefly a dozen years ago, in a relationship that was intense but basically superficial. We've lived most of our adult lives apart, doing different things in vastly different cultures. We are strangers, Juliet, though for the next couple of months we will share a common goal. I suppose we should act like distant relatives who have nothing in common but who are amiably disposed to each other."
Her lips twisted with painful amusement. For better and for worse, her love for Ross had shaped and defined her life, yet he could dismiss their marriage as "basically superficial." But having asked him what he felt, she deserved whatever answer he gave. "Very well," she said, making her tone light. "I'll think of you as a second cousin."
"A second cousin, long since removed," he said with dry humor. "Once we begin our journey, it would be appropriate if you show a groveling desire to please your employer."
Juliet raised her eyebrows loftily. "I was planning on being the sort of servant who is erratic and unreliable, but who won't let you be cheated by anyone other than myself."
"That does sound more your style than groveling," he said with a hint of a smile. "Speaking of servants, I've decided to dismiss the two I hired in Teheran. Having spent the night in your fortress, they will have heard about the mysterious Gul-i Sarahi by now, and once they know that a tall ferengi woman is the chief of Serevan, there's a good chance they'll guess who my new veiled servant is. That could be dangerous."
"I hadn't thought of that." Juliet frowned. "My people are unlikely to have said much about me to strangers, but you're right, it is wiser to dismiss your servants. Though I usually dress as a man, I've never tried to masquerade as one for a long period of time, and it might prove difficult to conceal my identity from people I am with constantly. Better to pay your servants off now." Mentally she reviewed other issues that needed to be discussed. "Did Saleh speak with you?"
"Yes. He will be an asset in Bokhara, and I assume that he can be trusted not to betray your identity. Can you and Saleh be ready to leave for Sarakhs by noon? We can be there by nightfall, and with luck we'll catch the caravan I missed in Meshed."
Juliet was momentarily startled by his haste, but managed to conceal it. Ross was right; if there was any chance that Ian was still alive, speed was vital. Glancing at the sun, she estimated that it was two hours until noon. "We'll be ready."
"Good. We'll need camels for crossing the Kara Kum desert. I assume we can get some in Sarakhs?"
She nodded. "I know a man there who will sell us decent camels for an only mildly extortionate price. Some of my men can ride with us to Sarakhs, then bring our horses back here."
That settled, Juliet scanned her husband's well-tailored European coat and trousers, her brow furrowed. After years of seeing only loose, multilayered Eastern clothing, it was strange to see a man in garments that followed the form. Finding herself disturbingly aware of the contours of his lean, muscular body, she took a deep, slow breath. There were other, less personal reasons to be concerned about his mode of dress. "I think it is a mistake for you to wear Western clothes."
"Dressing like this is a calculated risk on my part," he explained. "Whatever status I might have in Bokhara is as a ferengi who has traveled a great distance to plead on behalf of my countryman, so I thought I should look the part. Also, I was afraid that wearing Asiatic clothing would leave me open to charges of being a spy, since it's unlikely that I can convincingly pass as a native."
"Those are valid points," she agreed, "but I think we will all be safer if you wear local dress until within a day's ride of Bokhara. Though it would have been hard to conceal your foreignness when traveling with just your servants, it's much easier to be inconspic
uous in a caravan. All you have to do is dress like everyone else and cover your hair with a turban. I can get you local clothing if you're willing to wear it."
"English dress worked well enough at first, but since it almost got me killed yesterday, I suppose it's time to change my strategy." His glance fell on Juliet's dark blue veil. To take advantage of the spring sunshine, she had loosened it to lie in coils around her neck. "Since we're on the subject of clothing, I'm curious about your tagelmoust. How do you prevent the indigo dye from staining your skin?"
How like Ross to think of such a thing. "You've found me out: this is not a genuine Tuareg tagelmoust. To avoid stains, I use a European fabric of the same color and texture."
"I'm glad to hear that vanity is not entirely dead."
"One needn't be very vain to dislike having blue skin," Juliet retorted, glad to hear a teasing note in his voice. "Speaking of skin, it helps that yours is sun-browned. Allow it to get dirty, and no one will guess that you are a ferengi."
"You're in no position to throw stones," he pointed out. "I never saw a Targui who was remotely as clean as you."
"That doesn't matter, since I probably won't meet anyone in Turkestan who has ever seen one of the Tuareg." She looked down at her black robe. "Still, in the interests of accuracy ..." She handed him the rifle, then lay full-length on the ground and began rolling in the earth.
To her delight, Ross began to laugh. "You're absurd."
When Juliet had rolled over several times, she stood and began brushing off the surface dust. The result of her labors was a robe with a nicely mellow amount of ground-in dirt.
There was a gleam of amusement in her husband's eyes, and he had lost some of his coolness. "It's fortunate that no one will know what the Tuareg look like, since every one I ever met had brown eyes. However, gray eyes are not unknown in Central Asia, so yours shouldn't attract too much unwelcome attention. I think you'll need a new name, though. Since Gul-i Sarahi is Persian, someone might think it an odd choice for a North African male."
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