Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  This time the voice was unmistakable. With a surge of the greatest fury he had known in a dozen years, Ross recklessly stepped forward and seized the edge of the veil, just below the eyes, then ripped downward, exposing Gul-i Sarahi's face.

  The impossible was true. His captor was no Targui, but his long-lost betraying wife, Juliet.

  Excerpt from

  Veils of Silk

  Book 3 of The Silk Trilogy

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  © 1992, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.

  It was nearly midnight when Ian finally reached the village of Nanda. There he was given instructions and a village youth to guide him to Kenneth Stephenson's camp. After passing through a series of moonlit fields, they came to the edge of a dense forest that spread as far as the eye could see.

  The young guide stopped and pointed into the woods. "Follow this track and you will come to Stephenson Sahib's camp. I would go with you but panthers hunt the paths at night."

  Ian didn't blame the boy; he wasn't keen on going through the forest alone himself, though the risk of wild beasts bothered him less than leaving the moonlit fields. However, he had learned that it was possible to bear darkness when he was in the open air, so he thanked the guide, then set his teeth and urged his tired horse into the forest. Very soon, his mission would be accomplished, and he could start for home.

  * * *

  Laura was given no time to mourn. She was still kneeling by her stepfather's bed when Padam said, "Miss Laura, the tiger is near. We can hear it growling in the forest, hunting for prey."

  For Laura, past and present had melded together, and the anguish she felt for Kenneth's death rekindled the shock and grief she had experienced when she lost her first father. Once more she was nine and alone and terrified, and it took time for Padam's voice to bring her back to the present. She wished he would go away. What did a tiger matter compared to the death of the only person in the world whom she had loved?

  Urgently Padam said, "Stephenson Sahib's spirit has departed, miss. It is time to be concerned with the living. All in the camp are in danger. Something must be done."

  Dully Laura realized that her stepfather's death meant she was in charge of two dozen people. The knowledge helped steady her grief-stricken mind; even so, she fumbled for words, though she had been speaking Urdu daily for years. "Build more fires around the edge of the camp. That will keep the tiger away."

  "There isn't enough fuel, memsahib, and gathering more would be dangerous," the bearer explained patiently. "A man-eater is usually an old tiger, perhaps injured, always unpredictable. You must be ready with the guns if it decides to attack."

  Guns? Laura opened her mouth to protest that her marksmanship was nonexistent. Kenneth had tried to teach her to shoot. She had managed to learn how to load and fire several kinds of weapons, but she had found the lessons so upsetting that her stepfather had discontinued them.

  Still, no one else would do better, for her minimal experience was more than any of the servants had. It was her responsibility to set aside her grief, even though she loathed and feared guns. She closed her mouth and got to her feet. With bitter humor, she recognized that she was about to Keep Up Standards with a vengeance.

  Kenneth had not been an avid hunter, but firearms were a necessary part of life in India. He had brought three weapons on tour: a pistol, a double-barreled shotgun, and a powerful rifle for big game. Her father's valet, Mahendar, brought out the guns, and one by one she loaded them with clumsy fingers. After showing Mahendar and Padam how to cock and aim, she put the pistol and rifle in their charge. The shotgun she kept herself, since she thought it would be the best weapon for frightening off a tiger.

  Laura led the way outside and gave orders for a second fire to be built fifty feet from the main cooking fire. There was enough fuel for two fires, and she thought that if the servants slept between them, they would feel safer.

  Though she dutifully went through the motions of securing the camp, she doubted that there was any real danger. Tigers seldom attacked humans, and even a man-eater was more likely to drag a solitary laborer from a field than to invade a busy camp. Still, tigers invoked panic far out of proportion to the risk, and Laura owed it to her servants to deal with their anxiety.

  She managed to keep her voice calm and her step steady, but inside she quivered with grief and fear. She had always refused to consider what she would do if her stepfather died; in India, where disease was swift and lethal, she had been as likely to die as he was. But now he was gone and her life would change utterly. She had lost not just her family, but her home and financial security. She wanted to collapse on the ground and wail like a child.

  When the fires were steady and the servants had begun to settle down, Laura beckoned to the three grooms. "Come, we must move the animals closer. They are in more danger than we are."

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. "Don't worry, I'll guard you." Laura tried to sound cool and confident. "Padam, stay here with the pistol. Mahendar, bring the rifle and come with me."

  Laura made a show of cocking the shotgun, then led the way through the cluster of tents. Behind her the youngest groom carried a torch. Their shadows swayed wildly as the small group walked to the edge of the clearing where the horses and bullocks were tethered. The animals were nervous and hard to handle, and the grooms had their hands full soothing their charges so the beasts could be led to a safer spot near the center of the camp.

  Laura took the rifle from Mahendar so that he could help the other men. Then she chose a position between the line of animals and the forest and waited, shotgun in hand, the rifle lying ready at her feet. Again she reminded herself that no animal was likely to attack the camp, but this close to the forest it was harder to maintain her calm.

  The tropical night pulsed with life, mysterious and dangerous. Shifting shadows looked like crouching beasts that vanished when she looked directly at them. In the distance jackals howled, and once the distinctive cough of a panther sounded from a spot that was shockingly near. She jumped and tightened her grip on the shotgun, but there was nothing to be seen in the teasing shadows. After wiping sweaty palms on her skirt, Laura raised the barrel of her weapon again and trained it at the forest darkness.

  When trouble came, it was fast and incoherent. Two feline roars shattered the silence, so close that she half expected to feel claws sink into her flesh. A shrill whinny sounded behind her, and she glanced back to see a pony rear and jerk its reins free from the groom who was trying to calm it. Eyes rolling, the pony bolted, setting off a chorus of frightened bellows and whinnies from the other animals. The youngest groom shouted, "The tiger comes!" and pointed at the forest beyond Laura.

  As Laura spun around, she heard rustling in the undergrowth. In sudden panic she fired one barrel of the shotgun at the sound. She had forgotten to brace herself for the recoil, and the gun jerked, sending the shot high as the stock kicked bruisingly into her shoulder. Acrid smoke stung her eyes and her deafened ears rang, but she gripped her gun more tightly and discharged the second barrel, this time aiming lower.

  Irrationally convinced that an enraged tiger was about to burst out of the forest, she dropped the shotgun and grabbed the rifle that lay on the grassy turf by her feet. The weapon had the power to fell an elephant; as her finger curled around the trigger, she prayed that if the tiger attacked, her aim would be good enough to stop it.

  * * *

  Imprisonment had sharpened Ian's senses, and he smelled and heard Stephenson's camp long before he saw it. But as he drew close enough to identify individual noises and odors, he pulled his horse to a stop so he could listen more closely.

  Something was wrong. It was past midnight and the camp should be quiet, but instead it was wide awake. More than that, he detected the subtle aroma of fear, a scent as unmistakable as it was indescribable.

  He frowned. This was a safe, settled part of India, and it was unlikely that bandits would have attacked. Still, he had been a soldier f
or too many years to ride heedlessly into an unknown situation. He dismounted and led his horse away from the path, moving silently over the soft leaf mold.

  As he neared the campsite, he heard sharp human voices speaking Urdu and the grunts and whickers of agitated animals. He tethered his horse, then cautiously approached the perimeter of the camp, his bolstered revolver ready to hand.

  The boundary where forest met clearing was marked by thick undergrowth, which provided convenient cover. Stopping behind a large bush, he peered into the clearing. A churning group of men and bullocks blocked his view of the tents, but the layout confirmed that this was the camp of a British official.

  His gaze went to the single guttering torch, which illuminated a youth who was trying to coax a nervous pony toward the tents. Other shadowy human shapes were moving about, but before Ian could study them, all hell broke loose. Two feline roars, one bass and one tenor, sounded from the shrubbery to his right. As the blood-chilling sounds split the night air, the pony whinnied shrilly and broke free, bullocks began bellowing, and someone shrieked that the tiger was coming.

  Startled by the racket, the jungle cats bolted away through the undergrowth, passing less than a dozen feet from Ian. An instant later a shotgun blasted after them. As pellets shredded leaves and slammed into tree trunks around him, he cursed and dived to the ground, rolling to get out of the field of fire.

  The gun thundered again, and this time the shot came closer. Ian crouched behind a tree and studied the darkened clearing. The torch had been dropped or burned out, and all he could see were horses and bullocks rearing and tugging at their tethers, their solid forms silhouetted against the campfires. The only man he could discern was less than twenty feet away, and a flicker of light along the barrel showed that the damned fool was raising a rifle and aiming it directly at Ian.

  Apparently the gunman was trying to protect the camp from some imagined danger, and Ian had wandered into the middle by accident. Under the circumstances retreat would be the better part of wisdom, but he had always preferred offense to defense. He was also royally irritated at being shot at. That being the case, no sooner had Ian seen the movement of the rifle than he broke from cover and dashed toward the gunman, keeping low.

  After two swift steps, he launched himself in a flat dive.

  His shoulder caught the man squarely and they both crashed to the ground, with Ian landing on top. As they fell, he wrestled the rifle away, the weapon discharging deafeningly into the air.

  The skirmish was over almost before it began. Only then, as Ian used one arm to pin his opponent to the grassy turf, did he discover that the slim form beneath him belonged not to a gun but a gun

  "Bloody hell!" he swore as he hastily rolled away. The clearing was too dark to distinguish details, but clearly the woman was European, with a pale face and a cascade of light-colored hair. Judging by her lush curves, she was too old to be Pyotr's niece Lara; perhaps Stephenson had remarried and this was his second wife. Speaking in English, Ian said, "Sorry to have knocked you down. Are you all right?"

  "You're English," she said stupidly as she raised herself to a sitting position.

  "Scottish, actually." He sat back on his heels. "I do hope that you don't intend to revive the old English custom of using Scots for target practice."

  "I... I thought you were a tiger," she faltered.

  "You should have looked more closely," he said dryly. "I lack two more feet, a tail, and quite a lot of stripes." Glancing up, he saw that several natives had been drawn by her scream, but when they heard English speech, they stopped a dozen feet away.

  Ian stood and grasped her hand, easily lifting her to her feet. "Thank God you're a dreadful shot." He released her fingers, which were icy cold. "Why were you blasting away? No tiger would attack a camp this size."

  "Th... there's a man-eater in the neighborhood," she said in a husky, uneven voice. "We were shifting the animals away from the forest when one of the men thought he saw a tiger. I heard roaring and something moved in the undergrowth, so I fired."

  "Having had a front row seat, my best guess is that a curious panther and a caracal were investigating the camp," Ian said. "Their paths crossed, so they tried to outroar each other. When you started shooting, they wisely took off."

  "A caracal?" she repeated.

  Beginning to wonder if the woman was drunk or dim-witted, Ian said impatiently, "Surely you've heard of caracals. They're rather like overgrown house cats with long tufted ears." He handed her rifle back. "The next time you use this, remember that the first law of hunting is never to shoot at something you can't see clearly. You didn't manage to kill anyone, but next time you might not be so lucky."

  "I'm s... sorry," she said, her voice on the verge of tears.

  Embarrassed by her reaction, Ian said, "No harm done." Glancing around, he found that apparently every Indian in the camp had come to watch, but there were no other Europeans; not the collector, and not young Lara. "Where's Kenneth Stephenson? I need to talk to him."

  "You... you can't." Her voice broke.

  Trying to control his irritation, Ian said, "This is his camp, isn't it?"

  "M... my father's dead." She bent her head and ran distracted fingers through her wild hair. "He... he died of cholera. A few minutes ago. Perhaps an hour."

  "Dear God," Ian said softly, feeling like a clumsy idiot. No wonder the young woman was disoriented; with her father barely dead, it was amazing that she could string a coherent sentence together. She had even attempted to defend the camp against possible danger, and while the results had been incompetent, he gave her full marks for gallantry. "You're Laura Stephenson?"

  She nodded, swaying a little.

  Ian stepped forward to take her trembling arm. "You need to lie down."

  Head bent, she made a small choked sound, and her weight sagged against him. As he slid his arm around her waist to hold her upright, he said, "Incidentally, my name is Ian Cameron."

  Head still bent and face obscured by hair, she said, " Wh... why are you here?"

  "My business can wait till tomorrow." Switching to Urdu, Ian said to the ring of servants, "Which of you is Miss Stephenson's maid?"

  A graceful young woman stepped forward. "I am, sahib."

  "Take your mistress to her tent and put her to bed. If there's laudanum, give her some so she'll sleep."

  The girl glanced uneasily at the circling forest. Correctly interpreting her disquiet, Ian said, "Don't worry, I guarantee you'll be safe for the rest of the night."

  The maid responded to the authority in his voice and came forward to lead her dazed mistress away. Ian had rallied soldiers in the midst of ambush, so it wasn't difficult to restore the confidence of a camp of demoralized servants.

  But as he gave orders, collected Stephenson's guns, reloaded, and retrieved his weary horse, he wondered what the devil had become of little Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian.

  Chapter 5

  Instead of sleep, the laudanum sent Laura into a black paralysis laced by nightmare images of her stepfather. He stood before her with his familiar warm smile, but when she tried to touch him, he receded away, vanishing into the swirling darkness that had already claimed her mother and first father.

  In fifteen years of nightmares, Laura had never succeeded in preventing her parents from leaving, yet it was not in her nature to stop trying. Surely if she said the right words, did the right thing, she could persuade Kenneth to stay. Yet time and again she failed. It occurred to her that perhaps she could follow him into the darkness. With immense effort, she forced her numb limbs to move and ran after his retreating figure, desperately calling, "Papa!" as she clawed through the barriers that came between them.

  Then, with miraculous suddenness, she ran smack into her stepfather's solid frame. His arms went around her and finally she was safe. Weeping with joy, she clung to him. "Papa," she whispered, burrowing into his embrace. "Papa, I had such a horrible nightmare. I dreamed that you died."

  A deep, unfamiliar
voice penetrated the mists that surrounded her. "Miss Stephenson... Laura, wake up."

  Dazedly she raised her head and found that it was not her stepfather holding her, but a stranger, a lean, harsh-faced man with a black patch over one eye. He would have been frightening if it weren't for the kindness in his voice. "You were sleepwalking," he said softly. "Are you awake now?"

  Uncertainly she pushed away from the stranger's embrace and looked around. The dream barrier she had fought her way past must have been the tent flap, for she was now outdoors, standing barefoot a dozen feet from the smaller fire. Fifty feet away, by the larger fire, she saw the sleeping forms of the servants, and drowsy bullocks and horses were scattered about.

  Piece by piece, her memory of the previous night returned, from her stepfather's death until the arrival of this capable stranger. Cameron, he had said his name was. Ian Cameron. Her gaze returned to the gaunt planes of his face. "So it wasn't a nightmare—my father really is gone."

  "I'm afraid so. Come and have some tea. I just brewed another pot." He guided Laura to a folded blanket that had been laid by the fire. After she sat down, he poured a mug of tea, sugared it heavily, and pressed it into her hands. She drank automatically, scarcely noticing the scalding heat. In the east, the sky had a rosy tint. Soon this dreadful night would be over.

  By the time she had drained the mug her haziness had cleared. It occurred to her that she should be embarrassed at sitting cross-legged in front of a total stranger, wearing only a light nightdress. Yet she was not uncomfortable, probably because Ian Cameron was so matter-of-fact about the situation. Holding the mug out, she said, "Sorry to be such a nuisance."

  He leaned over with the pot and poured her more tea. "Actually, you're holding up remarkably well. Most women would be having strong hysterics in these circumstances."

  As she sipped the second mug, she examined her companion. Last night he had been terrifying when he exploded out of the darkness and overpowered her, and even now the eyepatch gave him a piratical air. Yet his stern features were well-formed, and in the glow of the fire his hair was burnished auburn. It was a surprisingly warm color for a man who had the wary, fine-strung alertness of a predator. Seeing the rifle that lay near his hand, she said, "You've been awake all night guarding the camp?"