Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  But when she saw the devastation on his face, she knew she could never do that to him. Never. "You're not getting rid of me that easily," she snapped. "I don't want an annulment, I want to murder you, which isn't at all the same thing."

  In a spontaneous gesture swifter than thought, Laura raised her hands, planted them in the middle of Ian's broad chest, and shoved him off the dock into the lake.

  Chapter 15

  Laura's action caught Ian off-guard and he pitched backward into the lake with an enormous splash. As he plummeted below the surface, the water cleared his head as nothing else could have. My God, how could he have said such things to his wife?

  The water was surprisingly deep. Slowed by the tangled waterweed and the weight of his uniform and boots, it took time for him to kick his way to the surface.

  He emerged sputtering for breath. Above him, Laura knelt on the dock, her blue gown spilling unheeded around her as she peered frantically into the dark water. "Ian, are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, thanks," he said as he treaded water. "Sometimes a dunking is the only way to deal with a pigheaded Scot."

  Seeing that he was uninjured, she relaxed back on her haunches. "That will teach you to insult a Russian, laddie," she said, eyes narrowing. "We neither forgive nor forget."

  With her slanting gold eyes and purring voice, Laura looked so outrageously catlike that Ian half expected to see a lashing tail. He began to laugh with a bone-deep mirth that bubbled from a part of his soul that he thought had died. "Lord, what a dangerous little witch you are," he gasped. "It may be a mistake to teach you how to use a gun."

  "I can't believe that I pushed you in," she said in a mortified voice. "I've never done anything like that in my life. But you made me so angry."

  "I was rather angry myself, and with less reason than you had." He raised his hand to Laura and she automatically grasped it with the vague idea of helping him from the water. Instead, with a jerk of his arm Ian yanked her headfirst into the lake.

  Laura's brief, horrified shriek was cut off when she plunged into the water. For a ghastly moment she flailed beneath the surface, constrained by her corset, dragged down by her saturated petticoats, and desperate for air.

  Before panic could take hold, a strong arm caught her around the waist and swept her up until her head was above water. She wrapped herself around Ian like ivy, too thankful for his support to castigate him for his treachery.

  When she had coughed up the water she had swallowed, she said, "You wretch! I can't swim."

  "That will teach you to push your husband into the water," he said in a dulcet tone. "A grave insult to my lordly dignity."

  Laura began to laugh, which set Ian off again. As they clung together, convulsed with amusement, she felt a warmth in her heart that spread through her whole body. Dear heaven, it was good to hear him laugh.

  She looked into his face, where the indomitable eye patch was still in place, and saw that he looked a decade younger and so handsome that her heart twisted. This was how he once had been and, God willing, would be again.

  When his mirth had subsided, he said, "Swimming is something else I'll have to teach you,since you're going to be living on a sea loch." He kept one hand on the dock and the other arm securely around her waist. "I'm sorry for all the beastly things I said, Laura. I've never been prone to jealousy in the past, but seeing you with so many other men who wanted you, and who can give you what I can't..." Amusement gone, his voice trailed off.

  "I simply do not understand why men think sex is so almighty important," she said with exasperation. "Trust me to know my own mind, Ian. I've said it before and I'll say it again—I don't want physical passion."

  Remembering what he had said about her coquettishness, she went on, "I've always been able to feel when men desired me. It's an uncomfortable pressure that's as obvious as heat from a fire. I learned early to maintain my distance so that my behavior could never be misinterpreted. If I seemed flirtatious tonight, it's because for the first time in my life I could relax without worrying about unexpected consequences. As your wife, I felt safe."

  She felt him wince. "From everyone except me," he muttered. "Lord, I insult you and you give me a tribute that is downright humbling. If you wanted to punish me, you've managed it nicely."

  "I don't want to punish you. I just want you to trust me in the future." She looked earnestly into his face. "I swear before God that I would never betray you, Ian. In fact, isn't that exactly what marriage means? I'm not going to break my vows for the dubious pleasures of adultery. Not now, not ever."

  "Thank you," he said quietly. He kissed her on the forehead, his lips gliding along a film of water. "I'm sorry you've had to face the only two women in India who have mattered to me. I wouldn't describe my past as particularly rakish, and I will take no responsibility for anything Blanche Baskin might say. I suppose I should have told you about Georgina. Yet there was never a time when it seemed appropriate to say, 'By the way, I was engaged to another woman, but that's ancient history now.'"

  "Is it ancient history, Ian?" she asked softly. "Yes, Georgina married someone else, but that doesn't mean that you're not still in love with her. She's far more beautiful than I, and rather admirable. Up until a fortnight before you met me, you thought you were going to marry her."

  "The man who loved Georgina Whitman died in Bokhara," he said painfully. "Perhaps the ability to love died with him."

  Knowing that his loss was also hers, Laura swallowed and tucked her head against his throat, feeling the beating of his pulse beneath his moist skin. "Didn't you still love Georgina when you returned to Cambay?"

  His arm tightened around her ribs. "While I was in the Black Well, I clung to the thought of Georgina as if she were a talisman, hoping that if and when I saw her again, everything in my broken life would magically become whole. That being the case, I won't deny that it was one hell of a shock to return and find that she'd married one of my best friends."

  He gave a shuddering sigh. "But when I finally saw Georgina, there was no magical mending of what was broken. Even if she had still been single, I couldn't have married her as I am now even if she felt honor bound not to end the engagement. That would have created a ghastly mess. Far better that matters turned out as they have. Gerry always loved Georgina, and they're well suited."

  He kissed Laura again, this time on the lips. A shimmer of droplets fell from his hair to her cheek in a teasing caress. "Actually, you're the only loser by what happened, because now you're stuck with me, against your better judgment."

  "I only remember that I went against my better judgment when I'm furious." She gave a rueful laugh. "I still have trouble believing that I shoved you into the lake. I'm afraid that Larissa Alexandrovna took over for a moment."

  "I hope she doesn't do that too often," he said with amusement. "The water is much colder in Scotland."

  Laura kicked her feet lazily in the water, enjoying the unaccustomed weightlessness of floating, and the way their bodies drifted intimately together. "Has it occurred to you that we're in the lake while a ball in your honor is going on without you?"

  "I do believe you're right," he agreed. "Though by this point in the ball, guests of honor no longer matter. People are making merry for its own sake."

  He shifted his hold from Laura's waist to under her arms. She inhaled sharply as his hand brushed her left breast, leaving slow fire in its wake.

  Not noticing her reaction, Ian let go of the dock and swam on his side toward the shore, effortlessly holding Laura's head above water. She relaxed and enjoyed the feel of his powerful muscles rippling against her.

  A dozen strokes brought them to water shallow enough to stand. Ian scooped Laura into his arms and carried her up onto the bank as sheets of water cascaded from her saturated gown. After he set her on her feet, she did a quick check of her jewelry and was glad to find that earrings, necklace, and rings were all still in place.

  Apart from that, however, she was a wreck. Her sodden skir
ts and petticoats weighed a ton and her slippers and fan were gone, presumably to the bottom of the lake.

  Ian matter-of-factly lifted a swath of her heavy skirts and wrung the fabric until a cascade of water spilled onto the grass. Then he took a step and did the same to the next section of material. His practical actions produced a wholly unexpected side-effect wherever he touched her. The brush of his fingers against her calf as he gathered the heavy silk— the heel of his hand skimming down her abdomen when he released the compressed fabric—the back of his wrist against her knee—every contact ignited more of that teasing fire that Laura had experienced in the lake. She stood breathless and still as a statue while silent flames pulsed through her.

  She felt bereft when Ian finished and began wringing out his scarlet coat. What on earth was happening to her? First fury, and then fire. As she ran stiff fingers through the havoc of her hair to comb out the worst of the tangles, she uttered a sharp mental order for Larissa to go away and leave Laura alone.

  When she had regained command of herself, she wriggled the engagement ring from her right hand and handed it to her husband. "Here, this is yours. And don't you dare ask me if I want it."

  Ian smiled wryly. "That wouldn't be very tactful, would it?"

  As he tucked the ring into a pocket, Laura said hesitantly, "Perhaps you should tell Georgina what you told me tonight, about how you think it's better that the two of you didn't marry. She's miserable. I think your return from the dead has driven a wedge between her and her husband that will be very hard to heal. It might help if you made her feel less guilty. Unless, of course, you prefer that she and her husband continue to suffer."

  From Ian's silence, she feared that she had gone too far, but at length he said, "No, I don't want that. I was too busy thinking of my own problems to consider how my return affected Georgina's marriage. I'll call on her tomorrow and see if I can do something to mitigate the damage I've caused."

  "That's very honorable of you."

  His mouth made a quick, bitter twist. "Not honor but the illusion of honor." His expression smoothed out and he put his arm around Laura's shoulders. As they walked squashily toward the club, he said, "I'd rather not drip my way across the ballroom. Let's sneak around the building and find a servant to call a carriage and let David know that we've left."

  They cut across an expanse of moonlit grass surrounded by flowering shrubs. Laura glanced over toward the ballroom. The bright notes of a waltz shimmered through the air, twining with the rich scent of blossoms. "I never did dance with you," she said wistfully. "I guess I'll have to wait until Scotland now.''

  Ian chuckled. "No need to do that." He stepped back and made a low bow. "Lady Falkirk, may I have the pleasure of this waltz?"

  After a surprised moment, she gave a slow smile and offered him her hand. "Oh, yes, my lord."

  He drew her into his arms and they began to waltz, making slow circles through the moonlight. Though Ian must not have danced since going to Bokhara, he moved with the sureness and grace of a natural athlete.

  Laura tilted her head back and gave herself up to the music as she had with no one else that night. She enjoyed the strength of Ian's hand on her waist, the firm clasp of his fingers on hers, the knowledge that their bodies moved only inches apart. Though the future might bring a thousand nights of dancing, she knew she would never forget the magic of this first enchanted waltz, performed by the light of the silvery moon with the grass soft beneath her stockinged feet.

  As the music ended, Ian said softly, "I told you how I felt about Georgina, but not how I feel about you. I care a great deal for you, Laura, and you suit me far better than Georgina would. A pity that you're getting the battered, patched version of me, a lot less useful and amusing than the old one.

  She smiled dreamily. "I'm not sorry, because if you weren't battered and patched, we never would have married."

  He smiled back, then bent his head and kissed her. Though his words were far short of a declaration of love, his embrace made up for the deficiency. Perhaps it was Ian's rediscovery of laughter that added a new dimension to his kissing.

  Laura closed her eyes and reveled in the flowing warmth that started deep inside and rendered her languid with delight. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed against him, feeling the trickle of moisture as damp clothing molded between them.

  She didn't want Ian to release her. When he did, she opened her eyes to see him regarding her with a dark, enigmatic gaze. Her warm glow cooled as she realized that tonight had changed things between them in ways she did not yet understand.

  Before her self-questioning could go any further, David's familiar voice broke the intense silence. "There you are. I was beginning to wonder if a leopard got you." He gave a low whistle as he got close enough to see them clearly. "You both look like drowned kittens. I know you've always headed for water with the passion of an otter, Ian, but in the middle of a ball?"

  Ian laughed. "It wasn't a leopard that threatened but a crocodile. After a fierce underwater battle, the beast was vanquished."

  On hearing the laughter, David's face lit up, as delighted as Laura earlier. But he didn't comment, merely took a closer look at his sister-in-law, his eyes widening. "Laura doesn't look like any kitten I've ever seen."

  "If you don't stop staring at my wife like a tiger eyeing a choice tidbit," Ian said pleasantly, "I'll break your arm."

  Laura looked down at herself guiltily. If her silk gown had been daring before, soaked it was downright indecent.

  David chuckled. "I doubt that you could—I've grown quite a bit since the last time you tried—but let's not try to find out." He removed his scarlet jacket. "Better put this on, Laura. You don't want to catch a chill."

  As Ian took the garment, David continued, his voice amused, "It's a waste of breath telling any normal man not to gape at Laura—in her current water sprite mode, even a Hindu sadhu who has renounced all fleshly concerns would sit up and take notice."

  When David casually referred to "normal" men, Laura felt a faint hesitation in Ian's movements as he draped the jacket around her shoulders, but his voice was even when he said, "Please give my thanks to the colonel and his wife and explain why I can't do it in person. It's been a memorable evening."

  Which was, Laura decided as they made their watery way around the club, an understatement.

  * * *

  It wasn't until later that night, when Laura was comfortably curled up against Ian and almost asleep, that she was struck by a frightening realization that shocked her back to wakefulness. Earlier she had been so absorbed in the events of the evening—first socializing, then anger, then laughter and dancing—that she had not fully recognized the dangers of her behavior.

  Now she was horrified to realize that she, who had always cultivated calmness, had succumbed to rage and jealousy.

  Though pushing Ian into the water had not endangered him, her action had been only a hair's breadth away from uncontrolled violence. What was happening to her?

  She had believed that abstaining from physical passion would save her from the lethal excesses of her nature. But twice now, when Ian gave her the shooting lesson and tonight when she became infuriated about his former fiancée, she had utterly lost control. Obviously the passions of the heart were as volatile and hazardous as those of the body.

  She slid her arm around her sleeping husband, her face tightening. She could see only two possibilities: learn to control herself better, or leave Ian, for both of their sakes.

  And that was really no choice at all, because she could no longer imagine life without him.

  2nd May. A landmark day! I saw the sun again, and blinked like a mole at the brightness. Ian and I were removed from the Well, then separated. I was taken to the office of the prison warden, where a chamberlain and two mullahs waited. They promised me royal favor, a position as military advisor, a residence of my own, and a young wife "as graceful as a doe."

  In order to obtain these delights, all I need do is adm
it to spying for the tsar, convert to Islam, and swear fealty to Amir Nasrullah. Conversion would be the work of a moment: I need only say "There is no God but the one God, and Muhammed is his prophet," and I will be free. Not to mention clean, warm, and well-fed.

  I won't pretend that I didn't waver. Once I would have seized the offer with the hope of later escape, thinking that it didn't matter what religion I professed. But it does matter, if not to God, then to me. I'm dying. Of course all men are, but in my case, I know the time is marked in weeks or months, not years.

  And, by blessed St. Cyril, when the time comes I want to die knowing that I have not denied the faith I was raised in, the church my ancestors bled and died for. I want to go to an Orthodox heaven with gilded onion domes and incense and samovars, not a Muslim paradise filled with houris who regrow their virginity every night.

  I've never understood the charm of that—virgins take everything so seriously. Give me a woman who knows what she's doing, not that I could do anything with her in my present state, but I wouldn't mind having a pretty lady on my lap, where I could pat her knee and think of better days.

  I wonder what heaven is like, if it exists? I like to think of it as a great city with different quarters for every faith, but all within visiting distance of each other. While I may not want to reside in the Islamic heaven, I'd certainly want to be able to call on my Muslin friends and smoke a pipe or two. I expect that the paradise of the Roman Church will be right next to that of the Eastern Church, so there can be jolly joint festivals on the great saints' days. The Lutherans will have their own quarter—a cold and virtuous place, I expect, but worth a visit if only to drink their beer.

  Of course, heaven is a long shot after what I've done in my life, and the worst deed of all is what might occur after my death. My clever, wicked plan may destroy thousands—no, tens of thousands—of innocent people. It only needs the right spark to set a fire that will rage across India. And for what purpose but to replace the rule of one empire with that of another? I wish to God that I could undo what I have done, but that would be impossible even if I were not entombed in this cell. I can only pray that my damned scheme never reaches fruition.