Veils of Silk

by Mary Jo Putney

  Laura sat back on her heels and began to laugh. "Actually, Georgina isn't a bad sort, though Ian is far better off with me. But how could you be intimidated by a mere female? From what Ian has told me about your adventures, it's hard to imagine you concerned about another woman's opinion."

  As they both got to their feet, Juliet said dryly, "Only my brothers and my husband have ever appreciated my unusual talents. Most people merely think me hopelessly unladylike."

  The comment gave Laura instant insight into her sister-in-law's mind. Yes, they would be friends. "Your brothers and your husband," Laura remarked. "Isn't that enough?"

  Juliet smiled fondly. "Yes, it is."

  Ruefully Laura examined the wreckage of her flower arrangements. "Ian will be back soon, but now he's off with the bailiff. We thought you wouldn't arrive until after luncheon."

  "We rode ahead of the carriage," Juliet explained. "My fault. Today I was impatient to see Falkirk and Ian again."

  "No such thing, my love," a deep voice said from the doorway. "Today wasn't exceptional. You're always impatient."

  Laura looked up into the amused face of the handsomest man she had ever seen. Weakly she said, "Lord Kilburn, I presume?"

  "Ross to members of the family." He bowed. "Sorry to have disrupted your domestic arrangements. My mother always said that an early guest is among life's worst disasters."

  Juliet looked stricken. "I'm sorry, Laura. Having lived at Falkirk as a girl, I think of it as my family home, with no formality required. That's why I decided to go searching for you and Ian rather than waiting." She glanced apologetically at Ross, who smiled at his wife with startling intimacy.

  Laura watched in fascination. Did she and Ian gaze at each other like that, as if the two of them were alone in Eden?

  Very likely. Suppressing a grin, she said, "This is your family home, Juliet, and you must continue to treat it as such.

  Ian appeared in the doorway, his auburn hair windblown and his tanned face glowing with good health. "I saw the carriage in the distance and hurried back. I should have guessed you'd arrive early, Juliet."

  "Ian!" Juliet spun about and launched herself into the arms of her laughing brother. The two Camerons began talking simultaneously, their faces showing identical expressions of vivid happiness.

  "They're very alike, aren't they?" Laura said softly. "A remarkable capacity for joy."

  Ross nodded, deep satisfaction in his eyes. "After Bokhara I was afraid I'd never see Ian like this again. But now he looks like he's his old self."

  She smiled, "No. Better than that."

  * * *

  One of the modern additions to Falkirk Castle was a terrace in the back, protected from the winds and looking across the grounds to the sea. As Laura lazed in the sun, she said to her companions, "When Ian listed his assets and liabilities as a potential husband, he told me all about Falkirk's inconvenience and draftiness. Yet he never mentioned how beautiful it is here."

  Juliet's brows rose. "Did he really propose so coldbloodedly? I would have thought he'd have more savoir faire."

  Lady Sara Connery, who was Ross's cousin, smiled. "But it worked, since Laura thought his pluses outweighed his minuses."

  Eyes twinkling, Laura said, "Actually, a rational analysis of his proposal told me that I should turn him down."

  The other two women turned interested gazes on their hostess. "But...?" Juliet prompted.

  "I threw reason out the window and decided to grab Ian with both hands," Laura said. "I rather fancied him, you know."

  They all laughed. As Laura refilled her guests' teacups, she gave a smile of satisfaction. The house party was successful beyond her wildest dreams.

  Not that she could take much credit. What mattered was the quality of the guests, who were so full of love and happiness that there was plenty of both to spare, even for an Oriental-eyed Russian.

  Knowing that the others were connected by blood or long friendship, Laura had assumed that she would feel like something of an outsider, but that hadn't happened. Though gentle Lady Sara might be the daughter of a duke, she hadn't a trace of snobbery in her nature. And her husband Mikahl was utterly charming, rather in the manner of Kamala's black panther.

  In another of the coincidences that persuaded Laura that there were no accidents, Mikahl turned out to be the "mountain prince" who had brought the helpful Afridi, Kuram, to England. Kuram was in the Company army again; recommendations from Ian and David had persuaded the authorities to overlook the "youthful transgression" that had caused him to leave the army in the first place.

  The infant sleeping in the cradle by Juliet woke and began making discontented noises. Lady Sara said, "It sounds like the Earl of Ambridge wants to be cuddled."

  Juliet scooped up her flaxen-haired son. "I hope this will appease him." She dropped a doting kiss on his tiny nose, then cradled him against her. "I have the alarming feeling that even though he has Ross's looks, he's inherited my temperament."

  "A grave deficiency," Sara said, her eyes dancing. She fed a cake to her own small daughter, eighteen-month-old Maria, who had inherited her father's dark hair and striking green eyes, and her mother's sweet smile.

  "Speaking of earls, my father has been angling to get Mikahl an earldom. Papa doesn't approve of the fact that his only granddaughter is a commoner. The only way to fix that is to get the queen to make Mikahl an earl." She gave a smile of private amusement. "On the grounds that he's foreign royalty, which means he's worthy of a British title."

  "What does Mikahl think about it?" Laura asked.

  "He just laughs. I think he finds the idea vastly amusing."

  Juliet leaned back, her son now smiling blissfully in her arms. "Ian is already in the House of Lords, and Ross will be when his father dies. Can you imagine what holy hell they'll raise if Mikahl joins them there?"

  Sara gave a peal of laughter. "What a wonderful thought! I'll tell Papa to go ahead with his string pulling. Since the queen admires Mikahl, she should be amenable."

  Maria gave a squeak of pleasure and tore down the patio steps. The three women looked after the child and saw that she was running to her father. The men had gone for a walk along the cliffs and now they were crossing the lawn to the patio, talking and laughing as their wives were doing.

  When Maria reached her father, Mikahl swooped her up in the air, kissed her rosy cheek, then tucked her under his arm.

  "What a splendid sight," Juliet said dreamily.

  Wondering what her sister-in-law meant, Laura studied the approaching men. Ian made some comment and the other two laughed, Ross briefly putting his hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder. Laura exhaled with delight. "I see what you mean—it would be hard to find three more striking men anywhere."

  "And such a fine set," Sara murmured. "Much the same height, but one dark, one blond, and one auburn to make them more interesting."

  "In purely abstract terms, I think Ross is probably most handsome," Laura said, attempting to be objective. It wasn't easy when her own husband was in view and he was surely the most attractive man in the world.

  Sara's gaze went to Ian. "Perhaps, but there's something about a soldier that make female hearts flutter."

  "What I would like to know," Juliet said thoughtfully, "is how a man like Mikahl, who looks exactly like Byron's dashing, dangerous Corsair, can at the same time look so completely natural with a giggling infant tucked under his arm."

  They all laughed again. A minute later, the men reached the patio, each of them gravitating to his wife.

  Laura reached up and caught Ian's hand. Softly she said, "Did I ever mention that the Brahmin priest said we were born to be together?"

  Ian gave her a warm, intimate smile. "I could have told you that."

  The End

  Excerpt from

  Silk and Shadows

  Book One

  The Silk Trilogy

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  © 1991, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.

&nbs
p; Prologue

  England, 1839

  He called himself Peregrine, the wanderer, and he came to London for revenge.

  It was dusk as the Kali drifted up the Thames, her goal a berth at the Isle of Dogs. The air was thick with the rank scents that occur where water meets land, and too many people live in too little space.

  Peregrine leaned against the foremast, watching the lights of London flicker on and listening to the water splashing softly under the bow. An onlooker would have thought him casual, but the relaxation in his lean figure was a product of years of discipline, a habit of pretense so long established as to be second nature. He had learned early that it was safer to let no one know the true state of his mind and heart; over the years he had become so adept at dissimulation that he himself did not always know how he felt.

  But tonight he had no doubts about the nature of his emotions. This bland, civilized English darkness concealed his enemy, and that knowledge burned triumphant in his veins. He had waited a quarter of a century for this moment, when the time was right to extract a slow and exquisitely painful blood price for what he had suffered.

  The flame of hatred had been fired when he was a boy of ten, and over the years he had tended it with black, bitter care. Waiting and preparing for his revenge had been a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. He had wandered the face of the earth, acquiring wealth in many ways, honing mind and body until he was a more deadly weapon than any knife or rifle, learning how to survive and prosper in any land, among any people. Every skill, every golden coin, every sharpening of wit and hand, had been treasured as another step toward his ultimate goal.

  And now all his preparations had led to this: London, called the greatest city on earth, with its wealth and squalor, snobbery and noble ideals.

  He left the routine of docking and regulations to his captain, preferring silence and the voluptuous ecstasy of anticipation. From a distance he had already begun to spin his web about his prey. Now he would weave the final threads himself, learning the best and subtlest torments to apply. Peregrine wanted his enemy to know why he was being destroyed; he wanted to be close enough to see fear and fury grow, and to glory in the ultimate destruction.

  When they had cleared customs, Peregrine sent a message to Lord Ross Carlisle, who was important to his plans. Then he waited. The man known as Peregrine—warrior, wanderer, rich beyond avarice, hero to a mysterious people who lived beyond the bounds of British law—was good at waiting. But very soon, the time for waiting would be over.

  Chapter 1

  The message reached Lord Ross Carlisle quickly, and he boarded the Kali within two hours. As the tall, rangy Englishman swung onto the ship's deck and into the pool of lantern light, Peregrine watched from a vantage point in the shadows.

  It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and he wondered how strong the bonds of friendship would prove to be here in England. It was one thing for the younger son of a duke to fraternize with an adventurer of dubious background in the wilds of Asia, quite another to introduce such a man to his own circle. The two men could hardly have come from more different backgrounds, but in spite of that, there had been surprising harmony of mind and humor between them.

  Even near death in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, Lord Ross had been unmistakably an English aristocrat. Now, gilded by lamplight and wearing garments whose price would feed a Kafir family for a decade, he looked like what he was: a man born to the ruling :lass of the greatest empire the world had ever known, with all the assurance of his kind.

  Peregrine pushed himself away from the mast and stepped forward into the circle of light. "I'm glad my message found you at home, Ross. Good of you to come so quickly."

  The two men's gazes met, exactly level. Lord Ross's eyes were brown, an unexpected contrast to his blond lair. There had always been competition as well as friendship between them, and the undercurrents of this meeting would not be simple ones.

  "I had to see if it was really you, Mikahl." The Englishman offered his hand. "I never really thought I'd see you in London."

  "I said I would come, Ross. You should not have doubted me." In spite of the wariness in the atmosphere, Peregrine gripped the other man's hand hard, surprised at how much pleasure he felt at this reunion. "Have you dined?"

  "Yes, but I'd welcome a glass of that superlative brandy you always seemed to have."

  "We stopped in France especially to replenish my stock." Peregrine led the way below decks. As they entered the sumptuous owner's cabin, he glanced speculatively at his companion. Lord Ross was the very image of the languid English aristocrat; had he really changed so much?

  Giving way to mischievous impulse, Peregrine decided to find out. Without warning, he spun on his heel, driving his right elbow at the other man's midriff with a force that could have felled a half-grown bullock. It should have been a crippling blow, but it wasn't.

  With lightning swiftness, Ross grabbed Peregrine's arm before the elbow could connect. Then he bent and twisted, hurling his host halfway across the cabin with one smooth, continuous motion.

  As he crashed down on his right shoulder, Peregrine automatically tucked his body and rolled, coming to rest on his back by one of the paneled bulkheads. In a serious fight he would have ricocheted back into action, but this time he lay still on the carpeted deck and caught his breath. "I'm glad to see that civilization hasn't made you soft." Then he grinned, feeling as if the two years' separation had just vanished. "You didn't learn that throw from me."

  Cravat and hair no longer impeccable, Ross laughed out loud, his face boyish. "I decided that if you really did come to England, I'd best be prepared, you old devil." He extended his hand to help his host up. "Pax?"

  "Pax," Peregrine agreed as he took Ross's hand and vaulted to his feet. He was pleased to find that the bonds of friendship still held, and not just because the other man would be useful. "When you came on board, you looked so much like an English gentleman that I wondered if you had forgotten the Hindu Kush."

  "If I looked like an English gentleman, you looked like an oriental pasha who couldn't decide whether to welcome me or have me thrown in your dungeon." Ross examined the cabin, which was a blend of Eastern and Western luxury. The oak desk was certainly European, but the thick carpet was one of Persia's finest, and two benches were padded and covered with velvet, then heaped with embroidered pillows like Turkish divans. A suitable setting for a man of the East who had chosen to move into a larger world.

  Ross settled on one of the divans and crossed his elegantly booted legs. He still had trouble believing that his enigmatic friend was in England, for like the falcon he was named for, Peregrine had seemed a creature of the wild places. Yet oddly, though he wore loose Asiatic robes and his black hair was longer than an Englishman's, he did not look out of place. As he opened a cabinet and brought out a decanter of brandy, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who would be at home anywhere.

  "On shipboard, it would be the brig, not the dungeon." Peregrine poured generous amounts of brandy into two cut-glass goblets. "But since we have broken bread and shared salt, the laws of hospitality are inviolable."

  Ross accepted a goblet with murmured thanks, then cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. "You've been practicing your English. There's still a trace of accent, but you now speak as fluently as a native Briton."

  "I'm glad you approve." As Peregrine sprawled on another padded bench at right angles to his guest, he gave a faint, sardonic smile. "I've a fancy to become a lion of English society. What do you think of my chances of success?"

  Ross almost choked on his brandy. "Why on earth would you want to play such social games?" he asked, surprised out of his usual tact. "Lord knows that most British aristocrats are a boring lot. It doesn't seem at all your style."

  "Does that mean you do not wish to introduce me to your friends and family?"

  Ross's eyes narrowed at the barb lurking in the other man's deep voice. "You know better than that, Mikahl. I owe you
a considerable debt, and if you are fool enough to wish to enter what is called 'society,' I will do what I can to assist. Winning superficial social acceptance requires only money and an introduction, and you will have both. Just bear in mind that no matter what you do, you will always be seen as an outsider."

  "No society totally accepts a man not born into it," Peregrine agreed. "However, I do not seek to be clasped to the provincial bosoms of the British aristocracy. It will be enough to be tolerated as an exotic and amusing pet."

  "Heaven help anyone who thinks you are domesticated," Ross said, amused. "But I can't imagine why you wish to waste your time on people who think Paris is the edge of the world."

  "To see if I can do it, perhaps?" Peregrine tilted his head back and drained his goblet. "In truth, society as such does not interest me. But while I am in England, I intend to," he paused, seeking the right phrase, "to settle an old score."

  "Whoever he is, I shouldn't like to be in his position," Ross murmured. "Is he anyone I might know?"

  "Quite possibly."

  Peregrine visibly weighed whether to say more, a catlike gleam in his vivid green eyes. In spite of his fluent English and a breadth of knowledge that a Cambridge scholar could envy, his expressions and gestures subtly marked him as foreign. Ross suspected that he would never truly understand how the other man's mind worked; it was one reason that Peregrine was such a stimulating companion.

  At length Peregrine said, "Given the tangled relationships of the British upper classes, the man I am interested in might be your third cousin or godmother's son or some such. If so, I will not burden you with any more knowledge, but I ask that you not interfere in my quest for justice."

  Unwilling to commit himself without knowing more, Ross asked, "What is the man's name?"

  "Charles Weldon. The Honorable"—there was a slight, ironic emphasis on the title—"Charles Weldon. I imagine you have heard of him, even if you are not personally acquainted. He is one of London's most prominent businessmen."