Silk and Secrets

by Mary Jo Putney

  Through hot days and restless nights the tension grew like a thunderhead. Partly that was because of uncertainty about the amir's intentions, but the deeper cause was the suffocating frustration that came from being physically close but emotionally separated. It was a time of taut silences and deliberate distance. Something must change soon, for it was impossible to continue like this much longer.

  Tonight Ross returned from his dinner with the nayeb relatively early. As he came in and barred the door, Juliet put down her sewing and stretched her arms over her head. "The amount that you know never ceases to astonish me," she said in the low voice that had become standard for them as a defense against listening ears. "Are you never at a loss for an answer, no matter what they ask you?"

  "My Cambridge education is proving invaluable, but even so, sometimes I have to make things up," Ross said with a wry smile. "I've found it dangerous to admit ignorance, because the amir's questioners will assume that I am deliberately concealing information. It's safer to be wrong than silent."

  "You may be faking, but you do it well. You certainly had me convinced." She looked down to set the last stitches in the shirt she was mending, then knotted the thread and bit it off. "Your shirt is done. I'm running out of things to do. Perhaps I should have let my mother teach me knitting, as she was always trying to do."

  Juliet started to stand, intending to return the garment to Ross's room, only to find that he had stepped up to take it from her. There was a moment of mild collision that knocked her off balance, and Ross automatically reached out and caught her arm to steady her.

  It should have meant nothing, except that everything that happened between them was charged with meaning. As Juliet recovered her footing, Ross's face was only a few inches from hers, close enough to see the texture of his tanned jaw, the precise shape of his mouth. More than anything else on earth, she wanted to lean forward and press her lips to his. Only knowledge of the consequences of intimacy held her in check.

  Juliet raised her head, and for a moment their gazes struck and held. And when they did, she caught her breath at the pain she saw in his eyes. Over the last weeks Ross had been a master of restraint, yet now she saw what his restraint was costing him. The iron control she so admired was drawn to the snapping point, and it terrified her to realize how close they stood to the abyss.

  It would take so little, scarcely anything at all, for them to surrender to passion and fulfillment. And disaster.

  She wrenched her gaze away, hating herself for her cowardice. Ross's hand dropped and he stepped away. "I have trouble imagining you doing something as placid as knitting," he said in a voice that was almost normal. "Perhaps you should take up wood carving. A knife is more your style than a needle." He said good night and retreated to the bedroom.

  The whole encounter was over in seconds, longing buried as if it had never reared its menacing head. Juliet put out the oil lamps and curled up on her pallet. Except for the first night in Bokhara, when she had used Ross's cotton robe, she slept in her Tuareg garments, her tagelmoust ready to cover her face at a moment's notice. At least with a barred door to protect her, she didn't have to sleep with her face veiled as she had when crossing the Kara Kum.

  A lamp stayed lit in the bedroom, and she could hear the faint scratching of a pen. Ever the scholar and observer, Ross continued to make notes of what he was learning in Bokhara; Juliet suspected that was his way of coping with tension. For her part, she merely lay still and bit on her veil until she finally began to relax.

  She had just drifted into a light doze when someone began pounding on the door. Instantly awake, she rolled to her feet, pulled the veil over her face, and opened the door. Half a dozen soldiers shoved their way past, pushing her to one side. At their head was Yawer Shahid Mahmud, the captain of the nayeb's guard.

  As Ross emerged from the bedroom in his shirtsleeves, Shahid barked, "Come with me, ferengi swine. His royal majesty wishes to see you immediately." The yawer's broad face wore a triumphant expression that chilled Juliet's blood. From the beginning he had hated Ross, and now he openly rejoiced in his enemy's downfall.

  Ross went very still with the knowledge of what this summons must mean. "Very well," he said calmly as he unrolled the sleeves that had been pushed up his forearms. "A moment while I put on my coat." As relaxed as if he had just been invited to tea, he turned and went into the bedroom.

  For a wild moment Juliet wondered if he would emerge with his pistol and try to fight his way out. Her hand tightened on the hilt of her knife so that she could join in. But Ross had more sense than to take on half a dozen armed men, and when he reentered the sitting room, his hands were empty.

  For a moment his gaze sought Juliet. His face was as impassive as carved marble, but when their eyes met, his held a message.

  The yawer snapped that enough time had been wasted and the moment was over. The soldiers surrounded Ross and escorted him out. As the door closed behind them, Juliet knew that Ross had not just been reminding her of her promise not to do anything foolish. He had also been telling her good-bye.

  For the first time in her life, Juliet was literally paralyzed by fear. She sank to her knees on the floor and folded over, shaking violently at the realization that she might never see Ross again. He might be put in prison. He might be executed this very night.

  It wasn't possible. It wasn't possible!

  But it was. The amir could, and possibly would, order Ross's death in an instant, for no reason at all. His viciousness was so notorious that Bokharans merely shrugged and said, "This is a royal act," when they heard stories of men who were murdered for protesting when Nasrullah took their wives. And the amir was guilty of worse crimes than that.

  Savagely she bit her lip, using pain to combat her panic. She struggled to her feet and barred the door, then went into the bedroom. A lamp still burned and a sheet of paper was half-covered with Ross's neat writing. She felt that if she turned her head, she would catch sight of him. But he was gone, possibly forever.

  During the weeks they had shared these rooms, she had never so much as touched the rope bed because it was Ross's, but now she needed the sense of his presence. She lay down on the mattress and clutched one of the pillows to her stomach, curling around it in a despairing need for comfort.

  What could be done? Nothing tonight, for good citizens did not go out in the streets after the king's drums beat out their curfew. Abdul Samut Khan would be of no use; the fact that Shahid had taken Ross away meant that the nayeb was either helpless or actively working against Ross.

  The Kasems were her best hope, for they had great influence in Bokhara. She would go to them first thing in the morning and ask if they would exercise that influence on Ross's behalf.

  There was also a Persian ambassador in the city. If Juliet revealed herself as Gul-i Sarahi, the ambassador might intervene, for her fortress at Serevan had helped the shah maintain his eastern border.

  She had used the last three weeks well and learned a great deal about the internal workings of Bokhara. As the dark hours passed, she sifted through every possibility she could think of to help Ross, from straightforward to desperate. She refused to consider that all her plans would go for naught if Nasrullah had already impulsively ordered her husband's death.

  It was well after midnight when another knock came on the door. At first she did not notice, for it was much quieter than the earlier one. When she finally heard, she got up and went grimly to find out who had come. If the soldiers had returned for her, they would have a fight on their hands. Ross might have gone quietly so that she would not be endangered, but she had no reason to exercise restraint.

  More likely than soldiers was the nayeb, coming to shed crocodile tears for his guest while he commandeered the dear departed's possessions. Juliet secured the veil over her face and lifted the bar. Then she stepped back and dropped a hand to her knife as the door swung open and a man entered the room. The light from the bedroom was faint, and it took a moment for her to realize th
at the intruder's head glowed like burnished gold.

  It was Ross. At first she just stared, not quite believing that it was really he. Then she swept her arms around him, her heart pounding with relief.

  He welcomed her embrace, one arm going around her while the other efficiently closed the door. Near weeping, Juliet said, "I was sure they had taken you away to prison, or worse."

  For a moment more his cheek rested against her temple. Then he gave an uneven laugh and released her so that he could bar the entrance.

  "That's the impression Shahid wanted to give, and it could well have turned out that way." He peeled off his coat and walked into the bedroom, dropping the garment onto the divan.

  Following on his heels, Juliet asked, "What happened?"

  "I was taken to a small audience chamber, where Nasrullah was pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. If he had a tail, he would have been switching it," Ross said wearily as he sat down and pulled off his boots. "After I performed the salaam, he snarled that he had considered my request to take Ian's body back to England and decided against it because 'Major Cameron was a traitor and an apostate and death was not enough to cleanse the stain of his dishonor.'"

  "That's a great pity." With a sigh, Juliet settled on the divan several feet away from Ross and pulled the veil from her face. "But it's less important than whether we can leave."

  Ross unwound his cravat and tossed it toward his coat. As he did, his white shirt gaped open at the throat, exposing curling sandy hair. Catching an unexpected glimpse of what was usually covered was disquietingly erotic, and Juliet had trouble wrenching her gaze away. The tumult she had experienced when her husband was taken had left her emotions raw. It would take very little to fracture what was left of her control.

  Unaware of her reaction, Ross subsided into the cushions, his expression fine-drawn as a medieval painting of a suffering saint. "The amir did say rather jovially that while he would not release Ian's bones, he was willing to send my bones instead."

  She shuddered. "His sense of humor is as revolting as the rest of him."

  "I can't say that I found his jest very amusing myself. He is a most exhausting gentleman to visit," Ross remarked. "Since my mission to discover Ian's fate has now been accomplished, I asked permission to leave Bokhara. That set Nasrullah off on another tirade, the gist of which was his wanting to know why I disdained his hospitality after all he had done for me. Three ambassadors had come from Herat saying he should execute me, yet he had not listened to them. How could I demand to leave when he had treated me like a brother?"

  "As I recall," Juliet said tartly, "he slaughtered four of his own brothers. Or was it five?"

  "The number varies depending on whom you ask." Ross rested his head against the whitewashed wall. "In my most tactful manner—Mother would have been proud of me—I said that I was deeply grateful for his generosity but that my father is old and frail and if I am absent too long, I might not see him on this earth again."

  "That at least is true."

  Ross cocked an amused eyebrow at her. "I am not averse to using the truth if it will serve. At any rate, my statement mollified the amir a little, which is surprising in light of the general belief that he poisoned his own father. After allowing that aged parents should be respected, he asked in a hurt voice if I would rather leave Bokhara without honor and in disgrace, or with honor and filled with favor.

  "Naturally, I expressed a preference for leaving with his majesty's favor—it seemed the politic thing to do. Nasrullah said that if I was patient, I would soon be free to go with his blessing. Then he spun on his heel and disappeared through the curtains and my audience was over. Shahid was most disappointed to have to escort me back here."

  Juliet buried her face in her hands, her body shaking with chill even though the night was warm. Ross had been lucky tonight, but it sounded as though Nasrullah might just as easily have ordered his execution. Luck never lasted forever. "Do you think the amir will grant you permission to leave?"

  There was a long pause before Ross said in a neutral voice, "He has nothing to gain by keeping me prisoner."

  That was true. But since the British had suffered setbacks in Afghanistan, Nasrullah might equally decide that he also had nothing to lose by executing his "guest"—and it was well known that he despised Europeans.

  Raising her head, she said in a choked voice, "Tell me the truth, Ross. You think we're going to die here, don't you?"

  He met her gaze without flinching, and in his stark eyes she saw that he had accepted the likelihood of his own death. "I almost certainly will," he said quietly, "but you and the rest of our party won't be stopped if you try to leave. I think you should all go with the next westbound caravan."

  Perhaps Saleh and Murad should, but Juliet could not imagine abandoning her husband while he was alive. She looked at him hopelessly, her throat tight.

  Ever since they had met in Persia, she had held herself away because she could not bear to become intimate while knowing that he would inevitably leave her. There could be no future for them, for if by some chance Ross did want her back as a wife, she would be forced to make an impossible choice between living a lie or revealing an appalling truth that Ross would never forgive her for.

  But now they truly had no future. The shadow of death had narrowed time down to this instant, this infinitely precious shower of moments. What did consequences matter when life could be measured in hours or days? "Time is running out, Ross," she said, her voice laced with anguish. "Let's not waste what little we have left."

  The atmosphere changed, becoming as charged as the wind before a storm. Ross became utterly still, his brown eyes shocked and wary.

  For a moment Juliet thought he did not understand her oblique words, or, infinitely worse, that he was rejecting what she offered. Burying all her pride, she said, "You have every right to despise me. But if for tonight you can pretend to forget the past... if you still want me, for passion or solace or even anger..." knowing that she was doing this as much for herself as for him, she stretched out a pleading hand. "I am yours to do with as you will."

  She did not know whether she could bear it if he refused her—but he did not. Face taut, he wordlessly reached out and caught her hand in his.

  As soon as their fingers touched, all the passion that simmered between them flared to stunning life. They came together with fierce inevitability, mouth to mouth and body to body, with none of the hesitation of new lovers.

  It had been mad to speak of forgetting the past, for recognition of Ross's touch was imprinted on every fiber of Juliet's being. She would know his kiss anywhere, in the darkest night, the most distant land. Dizzy with reunion, she felt as though they had stepped off a precipice and were falling out of control into some strange new land.

  An instant later she realized that they were literally falling, tumbling the short distance from the divan to the Turkoman carpet, with Ross absorbing most of the impact when they hit. They stayed locked together as they rolled across the floor in a flurry of fabric and tangled limbs, coming to a halt at the foot of the bed.

  Neither would interrupt the embrace, for bruises were unimportant compared to the overwhelming need to meld into one space, one flesh. Violent emotions demanded violent expression, and they kissed feverishly, their bodies grinding together in a frenzied attempt to unite.

  They were tearing at each other's clothing when Ross abruptly went still, then pressed his face against Juliet's neck while he inhaled in ragged gulps. When his breathing had slowed a little, he pulled away and stood. "I've waited a dozen years for this. We're going to do it right." Bending over, he grasped her hands and effortlessly lifted her to her feet.

  All that mattered to Juliet was that finally they were together again, and details of technique seemed irrelevant, but as she opened her mouth to protest, he drew her into his embrace. "Slow down, my lovely vixen."

  Holding her motionless against him with one arm, he stroked a gentling hand down her head and back.
"You're like an armful of lightning—exciting, but moving too fast for full appreciation. Though we may not have much time, at least we will have tonight. As you said, let's not waste it."

  For an instant she resisted, for her body ached to join with his. But Ross was right: their reunion demanded something more caring and more memorable than a frantic coupling that would be over in minutes. She had always loved the fact that he had the strength of wisdom and patience, so different from her own reckless temperament.

  Forcing herself to relax, Juliet melted into his embrace. "If I am lightning, you are the rod that brings me back to earth and saves me from self-destruction." She pressed her lips to his throat, taking the time to savor the salt flavor of his skin, the intimate pressure of his beating pulse. With her tongue she felt the rate increase; it was gratifying to know that his control was neither effortless nor unlimited.

  He gave a long sigh of pleasure before reluctantly stepping away. "The first thing to do is remove all these clothes." Deftly he unwound her tagelmoust and dropped it on the floor, then pulled the sheathed dagger from her sash. "You won't be needing this." Knife and sash joined the pile on the carpet.

  Lifting her braid, he untied the ribbon at the end and ran his fingers through the bright tresses until they spilled freely across her shoulders. "This is how I thought of you most often," he said softly. "With your hair blazing across the pillow like fire. Gul-i Sarahi, the flower of the desert." He buried his face in the heavy silken mass, his warm breath caressing her throat.

  "I hated my hair until I met you," she whispered. And because Ross had loved the outrageous color and uncontrollable curls, she had never cut it since they met.

  He submerged his hands in her thick locks and began massaging her scalp with his fingertips. Juliet let her head fall forward onto his shoulder while sensual pleasure rippled through her. There wasn't a single part of her body that didn't love Ross's touch, and he knew it.