Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  Exasperated, Laura burrowed into her blankets. The damned man had eluded her again. Just wait until they were sailing back to England, she said to herself, half joking and half serious. Even the best stateroom didn't have enough space for him to maintain much distance. Then he'd be at her mercy.

  But until then, the nights would be long and lonesome.

  * * *

  As Ian expected, his watch was quiet, undisturbed by anything but the sounds of nocturnal wildlife and the ache of his own frustration. Time and again his gaze went to Laura's shadowed form. Each time it took a major act of will to prevent himself from crossing the campsite and taking her in his arms.

  His motive was not only passion, compelling though that was. He was equally hungry for the easy, affectionate companionship that had grown between them.

  His body, which lacked subtlety, simply translated all the nuances of physical and emotional longing into rampaging lust.

  After they escaped from the mob, he had wanted to sweep Laura from her horse and cradle her until she no longer felt ready to "fall to pieces," as she put it. Unfortunately, soothing her nerves would have the opposite effect on his. As he had recognized in Hirsar, he couldn't trust himself where she was concerned, and the situation was getting worse, not better.

  It was easy to understand why men had been riveted by her at the ball in Cambay, for her unconscious sensuality was enough to drive men mad. Certainly Ian was becoming a little madder each day.

  If Laura were even a little flirtatious, she would be drawing men from five hundred miles around. He supposed he should be grateful that she was unaware of the effect she had; if she did, she would be even more dangerous than she was now.

  Needing a distraction, he began to clean his revolver. He would never be able to endure the present situation for the six months it would take to return to Scotland. That meant he must try to renegotiate his marriage contract before then. But when?

  After thought, he decided on Bombay. The city was civilized and had a large British population so Laura wouldn't be isolated as she was now. She could decide whether she was willing to have a true marriage based on how she felt, not because she thought she had no choice.

  Again he studied Laura, who was a pleasantly curving mound in the firelight. Yes, Bombay would do very well. Or rather, he should be able to restrain himself until then. Scotland was out of the question. As he reassembled his revolver, he began mentally calculating how many weeks before they arrived in Bombay.

  He refused to think about what the devil he would do if Laura was unwilling to change the terms of their marriage.

  * * *

  Meera curled up in her borrowed blankets, unable to believe her luck. She had been right to feel that it was not her karma to die so young. Perhaps that belief was why she had struggled so hard against death. The English sahib (Scottishness was a subtlety that Meera was never to grasp), had been splendid in his wrath when he drove back the mob that wanted to burn her, and the memsahib was a kind woman who would make a good mistress. Though the great bearded Pathan had alarmed her at first, his touch had been gentle. She had felt safe when he carried her away.

  She had known more kindness today than in all her years in her husband's house, save for the affection of Mohan himself. It was strange, she thought drowsily. The night before she had been a respectable wife with a rich, though dying, husband. Now she was a serving maid with only the possessions she carried on her body. Yet she was happier and more hopeful than she had ever been in her life. She fell asleep on that thought.

  Meera awoke to fire and sparks flaring up into the night. Terrified, she shot bolt upright and looked around wildly until she saw that the sparks were only the result of Zafir replenishing the campfire.

  The Pathan's head turned when she moved. Softly, so he wouldn't waken the sleeping sahib and memsahib on the other side of the fire, he said, "The fire frightens you, little dove?"

  She unclenched her fists. "I... I shall soon become accustomed again. I must, for one cannot live without fire." Curious, she asked, "Why do you call me little dove?"

  He smiled, his teeth white against his dark beard. "You are small and graceful like a dove, and you flew like one. But perhaps I should call you little falcon, for it took courage to escape the pyre. Never have I heard of a widow who did that."

  Like most Pathans, Zafir was taller and more fair-skinned than the people of the plains, with aquiline features that made him look fierce even when he smiled. Meera was glad he had been on her side. "I wasn't brave," she said honestly, "I was terrified."

  "Of course. You are only a woman," he said graciously. "But your fear became a source of strength rather than weakness. Go to sleep, little dove. None shall harm you now."

  Before taking his advice, Meera said cautiously, "Does Falkirk Sahib really have the evil eye?"

  "No." Zafir chuckled. "He doesn't need it. He has no fear, and he rides and shoots as well as a Pathan."

  Daring to tease a little, she said, "I thought no one could match a Pathan warrior."

  "The best of the British are very nearly our equals. That is why I am willing to serve the Sirkar. That, and because there is much to learn from them." With an abrupt change of subject, he asked, "Was your husband good to you?"

  "Oh, yes. He gave me many jewels and treated me kindly. He said I was clever, so he had me taught Persian so I could read the great tales and poems to him," she said with pride.

  "A woman of accomplishments," Zafir observed. "A great pity to waste such skills on a pyre."

  "My feeling exactly," she said tartly.

  The Pathan chuckled. Then he gestured toward the sky. "Look, little dove. A demon dies."

  Meera looked up in time to see the flash of a shooting star. "A demon?"

  "My people say that a shooting star shows that an angel has vanquished a demon in the endless struggle between good and evil," Zafir explained. "Perhaps that one marked your escape from evil today, for surely an angel aided you."

  She cocked her head curiously. "I knew that Pathans were warriors, but not that they were poets."

  "The two go together, for war is the greatest of poetry." His voice softened. "Sleep, little dove, and do not dream of fire."

  Meera settled back in her blanket with a contented sigh. Tomorrow she would perform a devotion for Ganesha to thank the blessed god for having interceded on her behalf.

  The last thing she thought of before falling asleep again was the way the Pathan's gray eyes caught the firelight.

  * * *

  The household of Habibur the Pathan reminded Laura of nothing so much as a carnival. The enormous mud-brick compound consisted of rooms built around a central courtyard, and was home to several generations of related families.

  Laura didn't even try to puzzle out the interconnections of the residents. She couldn't speak to all of the women, for many spoke only Pashto, the Pathan language. But they were a friendly lot, and welcomed Laura and Meera into their midst.

  Laura's fair hair was a particular source of fascination. It was patted and stroked so often that within fifteen minutes all of the pins had fallen out and it was about her shoulders.

  Laura didn't mind their curiosity. After several days of Ian's remoteness, it was pleasant to be among people who were enthusiastic. Nonetheless, the need for a familiar face kept her and Meera together at first. The young Hindu widow was now wearing a simple cotton sari. With her jewelry hidden, she looked the part of a humble servant. At first she was even shyer than Laura, but there were several other Hindu women present, and soon Meera was talking easily with them.

  The whole inside of the compound, which included trees, a well, poultry, and three bullocks, was a purdah area where women could go unveiled because the only males allowed in were relatives. Outside the ten-foot high walls females were required to wear totally enveloping robes that made them look like swaddled ninepins, but at home they delighted in bright colors.

  Though Ian was an honored guest, even he was not allowe
d inside the compound. Instead, the men sat outside under the trees, smoking, talking, and feasting on roast goat. Inside the compound, the women enjoyed their own festivities.

  Since Ian wasn't going to share Laura's bed even if they were together, she had no objection to spending the night in purdah. It was a surprise when Darra, Habibur's wife, gestured for her to follow, saying in broken Urdu, "Men sleep now. You go to husband in guest room."

  As they went across the wide courtyard, Laura felt a spatter of unseasonable rain, which explained why the men's outside gathering was breaking up early. Just past the clay-built bread oven, Darra stopped in front of a wooden door that showed a crack of light at the bottom. "Husband."

  She gave Laura a broad, suggestive smile and patted her arm. "Fine tall ferengi," she added, using the general term for a European.

  Laura made a deep curtsy to her hostess, then entered the guest room. The windowless chamber contained no furniture except a table with a flickering oil lamp and two of the web-strung beds called charpoys. Ian sat on the edge of one of the beds, wearing the loose sashed robe he slept in. When Laura entered the room, he glanced up from the map he was studying and gave her a brief smile. "What was purdah like?"

  "Jollier than I expected." Laura's gaze was caught by the curling hair visible at the V-shaped opening of Ian's robe. It was an effort to wrench her eyes away. As she walked over to her baggage, she heard the sound of a bar being laid across the door on the courtyard side. Glancing back, she said with surprise, "Are they locking us in for the night?"

  "Only in one direction. There are two doors and the other leads outside, so we could leave that way if we wanted." Ian gestured at the opposite wall, where the second door was almost hidden in shadow. "Visitors enter directly from the tamarind grove so that they needn't cross the purdah area."

  Laura gazed at the locked door to the courtyard. "Pathans really take this separation business seriously, don't they?"

  "They do indeed," Ian said. "A woman who accidentally allows an unrelated man to see her unveiled face will probably be killed by her husband because of her 'infidelity.' After he has dispatched the offending man, of course. Though Habibur welcomed me like the prodigal son, if I sullied the honor of any woman of the house, he would shoot me himself.''

  Laura winced. "That's as bad as suttee. Here I was thinking that the Pathan system was reasonable by comparison."

  "It is in many ways, but honor is everything to them." He smiled without humor. "The British aren't much different."

  "Why is Habibur living here, so far from his tribal lands?"

  "Traditionally Pathans live by extorting money from travelers in return for safe passage through the mountains. Habibur, however, has a more commercial turn of mind," Ian explained. "He started a horse fair in the nearest town. Now it's a major livestock trading center for northern India. After he became successful, he moved his whole household down here. Some non-Pathans have been added, but everything is still run pretty much along tribal lines."

  Ian glanced back at the map and Laura took the opportunity to study his face, thinking that this was the first time they had been alone in days. In spite of the subtle strain visible in his expression, he looked very well, all lean, pantherish muscle. He would never be fat, but he had put on enough weight so that he no longer seemed too thin. Her gaze drifted to a charpoy. It was wide enough for two people if they didn't mind being close, which she certainly wouldn't.

  Before her brief hope had a chance to take root, Ian said, "Do you have a preference for one of the beds?"

  "Either will do." She suppressed her sigh. "How much longer until we reach Manpur?"

  "Barring the unforeseen, we'll be there in three days." He folded the map and returned it to his baggage, then straightened and surveyed the guest room without enthusiasm. "I'm half-tempted to sleep outside even if it is wet."

  Even a philosophical disposition has its limits, and Laura couldn't keep hurt from her voice when she said, "Is it that unpleasant to be around me?"

  Ian swung around and he took a step toward her before halting. "That isn't what I meant, Laura," he said tightly. "In Bokhara I developed a deep antipathy to windowless rooms. Even with a lamp lit, I feel as if the walls are closing in on me."

  Chastened, Laura bit her lip. "I see that I jumped to the wrong conclusion. But you've been so... so remote lately."

  "I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably. "That's me being difficult, not a reflection on you."

  The atmosphere between them was charged with unsaid words, and Laura knew that changing the subject would be the wise thing to do. Instead, Larissa Alexandrovna reared her imperious head and persuaded Laura to do what she had been longing to do for days.

  She walked up to Ian, stood on tiptoe, slid one hand around his neck so he couldn't escape, and kissed him. She intended to make it a brief goodnight kiss that would also wordlessly express how much she missed being with him, but as soon as their lips touched, intensity flared.

  Ian's arms encircled her and he drew her close, his mouth hard against hers. She sighed with pleasure and melted against him as fatigue and loneliness evaporated like mist in the morning.

  Chapter 20

  For a moment, Ian's logic and control went out the door, propelled by a virgin's kiss. Laura was so warm, so soft, so willing...

  But she was also an innocent who didn't understand the reaction she was provoking. A trusting young woman whose actions were based on the belief that he was incapable of doing what she feared.

  Ian broke the kiss but couldn't bear to release her quite yet. He stroked her back with one hand and rested his cheek against her temple. When he could trust his voice, he said, "Too much traveling is a strain on the disposition. I know that sometimes I'm like a bear with a sore paw, but don't ever think it's your fault. I hope you can be tolerant of my shortcomings. I don't want you to regret having married me."

  She chuckled a little, as he had hoped she would. "I don't regret it, though I won't be sorry when your paw heals. I won't be sorry to reach Bombay, either. Once we're on a ship, I won't have to unpack again for weeks."

  He gave a wry laugh and released her. "I'll be glad to reach Bombay, too." There, God willing, he would be able to persuade her of the advantages of a real marriage. But in the meantime, he must—must—keep his distance.

  He realized that this was the first time they had stayed in a place where Laura had no privacy to undress and don her nightgown. Knowing that doing the gentlemanly thing was also the best way to maintain his sanity, he said, "If you're ready to change and go to bed, I'll move this table and lamp to the corner so the light will disturb you less during the night."

  Keeping the table level so the lamp wouldn't tip, he lifted it over his bed and placed it by the wall. Then he knelt by his baggage and began unpacking his soap and razor for use in the morning. Behind him, Laura took advantage of his turned back to remove her riding clothes.

  Though Ian's hands were busy with shaving equipment, his imagination was running rampant about what his wife looked like without her layers of cotton and leather. Nonetheless, it was pure accident that when he lifted his shaving mirror to set it on the table, the mirror caught a reflection of Laura removing her divided riding skirt. With a wiggle she pushed it over her hips, then stepped out, neatly folded the garment, and laid it on top of her saddlebags.

  Ian froze, eyes riveted on the mirror in his hand as she unbuttoned her white linen shirt. Luckily Laura was standing with her back to him so she didn't notice that he had been transformed into a statue. Though it was perfectly legal to watch his wife undress, he felt absurdly guilty. Not, however, guilty enough to stop.

  He had wondered what she wore under her unorthodox riding costume. It proved to be a pair of lightweight, knee-length drawers and a sleeveless chemise that came to the top of her hips. Both garments were trimmed with dainty white embroidery. Before removing them, she bent over and rolled off her stockings, revealing her shapely ankles and calves. She was moving with brisk e
fficiency, and he had to suppress an outrageous urge to tell her to slow down so he would have more time to savor the sight of her graceful, scantily clad figure.

  His mouth dried as she lithely swept the chemise up over her head, revealing creamy skin and the long, lovely arc of her spine. For an instant he caught a glimpse of a round breast as she folded the chemise, then laid it on her other garments. His fingers clenched the mirror so hard that the edges scored ridges on his fingers.

  Finally she untied the ribbon that secured her drawers and slipped them off, revealing the beautiful curves of her hips. Round, womanly hips, perfectly designed by nature to incite male desire.

  Ian felt himself hardening and knew he would pay for this with a night's torment. Yet even so, he could not make himself set the mirror on the table, or even move his hand a fraction to tilt the glass to a different, safer angle.

  When she stepped to one side to pick up her nightgown, he tracked her with the mirror, shifting it to keep her in his sight until she dropped the gown over her head. For a moment he stayed absolutely still, fighting the impulse to cross the room and remove the damned gown. The impulse vanished when Laura finished fastening the small buttons that closed the garment, then turned back to the center of the room. Hastily he set the mirror on the table, then bent over and blindly searched for his comb.

  Innocent of the fact that Ian had been watching her as if she were the holy grail, Laura sat down on her charpoy and began brushing out her tawny hair. As she untangled a knot, she said, "Can Zafir be trusted around Meera?"

  His thoughts entirely elsewhere, Ian said unintelligently, "What do you mean?"

  "Meera's a widow and not of his race and religion," Laura said patiently. "Under the circumstances, he might consider her fair game for seduction. I've noticed how he looks at her. It isn't hard to tell what's on his mind."

  Ian had to smile. "Male minds are often easy to read when there's an attractive female in the vicinity. I gather that you're appointing yourself Meera's chaperone?"