Thunder & Roses

by Mary Jo Putney

  He nodded. "I doubt it was necessary, but I knew people would rest better if there was a lookout."

  Thinking that he carried himself like a soldier, she asked, "Are you in the army?"

  He gave her a sharp glance. "I used to be a major in the 46th Native Infantry."

  His expression did not encourage further questions, so she returned to drinking her tea. Her companion might have resigned his commission, but mentally she started thinking of him as Major Cameron; he was too forceful to think of as plain Mr. Cameron.

  It was now light enough to distinguish colors, and the forest had become an arena of competitive bird choirs. The servants began stirring at the other fire, and soon the clearing filled with the scent of baking an unleavened bread that was cooked on a griddle.

  Ian took advantage of his companion's distraction to study her appearance, since the night before he had been unable to determine much except that she was a bit above average height. Now the dawn light revealed that her eyes were an unusual shade of clear light amber, almost the same color as her long straight hair. Though Laura did not have Georgina's vivid, cream-and-gold prettiness, her features were strong, and she had a contained quality that hinted at mysteries. It was an intriguing face, the sort one remembered long after mere prettiness was forgotten.

  His gaze drifted lower. Though she showed an unfeminine lack of fussiness about the unconventional circumstances, the figure revealed by her nightdress was very feminine indeed.

  He sighed, thinking that it was further proof of his incapacity that he could be so objective about a very attractive girl. He had never been a womanizer who tried to bed every female he met, but he had always had a masculine awareness of the women around him. He had not appreciated how much pleasure that awareness lent to life until it was gone.

  His gaze returned to his companion's still profile. She was indeed bearing up well, but it was apparent that paralyzing grief lay just beneath her calm surface. Regretting that he must increase her misery, he said, "Miss Stephenson, I'm afraid there are some decisions that only you can make."

  She looked directly at him. "What decisions?"

  He was intrigued to see that her amber eyes had an Oriental slant that was as attractive as it was exotic. "Do you want to take your father's body back to Baipur?" He hesitated before adding, "The weather is hot, and the trip will take days by bullock cart."

  As she understood what he was hinting at, her face tightened. "My father can be buried here. He loved all of India—it doesn't matter whether he rests in Nanda or Baipur." She ran distracted fingers through her hair, tangling it even further. "I must send a man to the village to Inform the headman of my father's death, and to ask about a burial site."

  "I've already done that," Ian said. "I imagine the headman himself will arrive soon to talk with you."

  The soft-footed cook came and set down a tray that held a platter of fresh chapatis and a bowl of dal, a mixture of spiced lentils. When Laura stared blankly at the tray, Ian said, "You'd better eat something. It's going to be a difficult day."

  Obediently she picked up a chapati, tore off a piece, and used the fragment to scoop up a mouthful of dal. After she had chewed and swallowed it, she said, vaguely surprised, "I'm hungry. I think I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

  Eventually Laura ate twice as much as Ian, though that was no great feat, given the state of his appetite. When they had finished, she said, "Your business with my father—is it something I can help you with? I... I know you must be eager to be on your way again."

  "I'm in no particular hurry," he said mildly. "If you wish, I can escort you back to Baipur."

  She blinked and looked away. "I would like that," she said in a low voice. "If you're sure you don't mind."

  "I'm sure." Though she would not have asked him to stay, Ian could see that she was grateful for the support of a countryman. Rather to his surprise, he realized that he actively wanted to assist her. He would have helped any woman in distress, but Laura Stephenson aroused his protective instincts. More than that, he felt a sense of affinity with her, even though the source of her pain was very different from his own.

  After composing herself, she said, "You still haven't told me why you came all the way to Nanda to find my father."

  "Actually, my primary goal was not your father," Ian said. "I'm looking for a Russian girl named Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian. I was told she was Kenneth Stephenson's stepdaughter. Do you have a stepsister by that name?"

  Her expression immediately became shuttered. "I am Larissa Alexandrovna, or I once was. What do you want of me?"

  Startled, Ian exclaimed, "You're Lara?"

  Her dark brows arched. "Indeed. Why is that surprising?"

  Ian shook his head, feeling a fool for having missed the obvious. "I'm sorry, I had it firmly in mind that Lara was a girl of thirteen or fourteen. I didn't expect a grown woman." If he hadn't assumed she was English, he would have known immediately, for she had Pyotr's high, dramatic Slavic cheekbones. Those slanted amber eyes attested to the centuries when Russia had been harried by the Golden Hordes of Central Asia. The inevitable mixing of the races had given rise to a Russian proverb Pyotr had sometimes used: "Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar." His niece was living proof of his words, for clearly her ancestors had included Mongol warriors; the expression she wore at that moment would do credit to Genghis Khan in a mistrustful mood.

  With more than a hint of hostility, she said, "I've been Laura Stephenson since I was ten. No one calls me Lara now."

  "But your uncle did."

  "My uncle?" Her hostility vanished and her face went suddenly pale. "You know my Uncle Pyotr?"

  "I'm afraid I'm the bearer of more bad news," Ian said gravely. "Colonel Kushutkin died in Bokhara last year."

  She closed her eyes and a spasm of grief crossed her face. "I was afraid something had happened to him," she said sorrowfully. "It had been so long since his last letter, and even longer since I saw him in person. I was only thirteen during his last visit to England."

  Ian nodded, enlightened. "That must be why he talked of you as a much younger girl—it was the image he carried in his mind."

  Her hands clenched convulsively. "My mother always said Pyotr's taste for adventure would lead to death in some wild, distant place."

  "It did," Ian said, "but not before he had seen and done things most men only dream of. He told me once that only a poor-spirited coward would want to die in his own bed."

  "How did you know him?"

  "We were prisoners together in the Black Well of Bokhara." Ian's throat tightened. He hated speaking of what had happened there, but Lara had a right to know. "There are many Russian slaves in Bokhara, and the Foreign Office was worried that they would provide an excuse for the tsar to invade and annex the khanate. I was sent to Bokhara to ask the amir to release the slaves, which would remove a source of provocation. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of going to Kokand first, and the amir decided that meant I was a spy. He threw me into the Black Well, where Pyotr had been imprisoned for six months. We shared the cell for a year. In the end, he saved my life."

  Laura gave Ian a searching look. "How?"

  "The amir finally decided to execute me. When the guards came, I was feverish, out of my head. Pyotr Andreyovich insisted on going in my place." Ian stared into the fire, remembering. In the last moments before he was taken away, Pyotr had tried to tell Ian something, speaking with frantic urgency, but Ian was so delirious that he had understood only that his friend was going to die. He remembered nothing else. Ever since, he had had the frustrating sense that he had missed something vital, yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn't recall what. "Pyotr said that a quick execution was better than staying in the Black Well and dying slowly of the lung condition he had."

  Her brows drew together. "Why did the guards accept him in your place?"

  "Probably it never occurred to them that anyone would choose to be executed before his time," Ian replied. "It helped that
Pyotr and I were about the same height, both skinny as scarecrows, and with beards covering most of our faces. His hair was darker than mine, but we were so filthy that the differences weren't obvious—especially not to men who thought that all ferengis, all Europeans, looked much the same."

  Tears glinted in Laura's eyes. "So because you were younger and more likely to survive, Pyotr gave you a chance at life."

  Yes, and it had been an excruciatingly difficult gift to accept. But that was not something that Pyotr's niece needed to know. "I heard later that your uncle died with great bravery. He stood straight and crossed himself, saying that he died a Christian. Then he commended his soul to God."

  "Strange," she murmured. "I didn't know he was religious."

  "Perhaps he wasn't earlier, but prison has a way of reducing life to its essentials." Ian had envied Pyotr his faith.

  which had grown through the months until it became a beacon that warmed them both. Then Pyotr had died, and the light had died with him.

  Visibly bracing herself, she asked, "How was he executed?"

  More and more, Ian admired her. India polarized European women, making them either frail or strong. Laura was not frail. "Pyotr was beheaded," Ian replied. "It's unpleasant to think of, but quick and relatively painless. The amir considered himself humane when he changed from hanging to beheading."

  "Forgive me if I'm not impressed by the amir's kindness," she said dryly. "But at least you managed to survive. Did the British government arrange for your release from prison?"

  "Hardly. They were quite willing to assume that I was dead," Ian said, not quite able to conceal his bitterness. "My sister and her husband came to Bokhara and rescued me from that damned hole by sheer bluster."

  Laura's eyes rounded. "Your ?"

  "Juliet is rather remarkable. If you like, I'll tell you the whole story later, but now I want to carry out Pyotr's last request." Ian leaned over to his baggage and extracted a small rectangular package, then handed it to Laura. "He asked me to see that you got this if I ever had the chance. Since I knew where your stepfather was stationed, I decided to deliver it in person."

  She unwrapped the waterproof covering to find a small Russian Bible. The volume was a work of art, with a cover of tooled leather and a hand-painted frontispiece that depicted the Virgin and Child in the distinctive style of the Orthodox Church. But the greatest value lay in the fact that every available inch of blank paper was covered with penciled words written in Russian.

  "It's Pyotr's prison journal," the major said. "He wanted you to have it."

  She thumbed through the Bible, aching inside at the knowledge that her only uncle had written these words, and now he was dead. "Have you read what he wrote?"

  Cameron shook his head. "I learned some spoken Russian from Pyotr, mostly curse words, but I don't read or write the language at all. Can you decipher it?"

  She stopped on a middle page and studied the Cyrillic script, which was so small as to be almost illegible. "My Russian is still fluent and I'm familiar with Uncle Pyotr's hand since he wrote me regularly, but this is almost like a code. He seems to have used abbreviations and left out words to save space." Brow furrowed, she slowly translated, think this says 'God be thanked, company has arrived. An Englishman, more's the pity, but better than nothing.' " She smiled, then bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry. I'm sure he didn't mean it as an insult."

  "You needn't apologize for Pyotr. I was equally unenthralled at finding myself sharing quarters with a Russian officer. But in time I realized that I could not have asked for a better companion in adversity.''

  She sighed. "You knew him far better than I did. To me, Pyotr was a magical figure, not quite real. He would swoop in every few years bearing gifts and telling tales, I remember one story about a great bear that traveled the ice fields of the north searching for the Pole Star. Instead, he found a princess named Lara. The next day, Pyotr was gone again." Remembering, she ran her palm over the gilded leather, wishing she could draw out the essence of her uncle. "Thank you for bringing me this. It helps a little to have something of his."

  The Scots burr in Cameron's voice became more pronounced. "I'm sorry he isn't here in person. If he hadn't sacrificed himself, perhaps he would be. Juliet and Ross would not have left Pyotr in prison if they had found him alive instead of me."

  Hearing the guilt and regret, Laura said, "But you told me Pyotr was very ill. He always had weak lungs, so he probably would not have survived the extra time in prison."

  "There's no way to be sure of that," Ian said tightly. "Neither he nor I were physicians. He might have been strong enough to last another six months."

  The pain in the major's voice made Laura feel a fleeting sense of kinship with him. Pyotr and Kenneth might be beyond grief now, but their survivors would be suffering for a long time. "You mustn't blame yourself for living," she said gently. "If you hadn't, I might never have known what happened to my uncle, nor had this to remember him by." It didn't go far enough, but she was too drained to manage more. "I'd better get dressed. As you said, it's going to be a difficult day."

  * * *

  In a hot climate, burials took place as soon as possible, and all too soon it was time to take Kenneth Stephenson to his final resting spot. His wrapped body was carried on a bamboo bed borne by eight men. In a Hindu family the pallbearers would be close relatives, but these were a mixture of Kenneth's most senior servants and volunteers from the village.

  Laura walked behind her stepfather's bier. Major Cameron was beside her, silent but quick to help when her steps faltered. Behind them followed the whole population of the village, the women wailing with grief at the loss of the man who had been not only the face of the British Sirkar, but their friend.

  The grave had already been dug and a sturdy wooden cross planted at the head. It was a peaceful place, shaded by a jacaranda tree and cooled by the breeze from the river. In spring, the air would be fragrant with blossoms. Laura watched numbly, her only goal to get through the burial without breaking down in public. This was one occasion when she might have discarded British calm for tempestuous Russian emotion, but over the years control had become second nature to her.

  With no clergyman or prepared service, there was an awkward moment of silence after the interment. Smoothly, before the interval grew too long, Major Cameron began to recite in English, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want..."

  Laura blinked back stinging tears, grateful that Cameron had chosen a psalm that Kenneth had loved rather than the somber burial service.

  After ending, "and shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever," Cameron added, "By a man's works we shall know him. Though I did not have the privilege of knowing Kenneth Stephenson in life, the love and honor shown today by those he served is the highest tribute a man can receive. May he rest in peace."

  The major repeated everything he had said in Urdu, the villagers nodding in approval. After the grave had been filled in, people pressed forward to lay garlands of marigolds on the earthen mound, many of the women openly weeping. As the major had observed, Kenneth Stephenson had been much loved.

  But no one would miss him as much as Laura. As she walked stiffly back to camp, she had never felt so alone in her life.

  Chapter 6

  After the funeral, Laura went straight to her tent, for only there could she allow herself to cry. Tears racked her as afternoon faded and night fell. She was shamed by the knowledge that she wept not only for her stepfather, but also from sorrow for the empty life that lay ahead of her. It was unlikely that she would ever again be so close to another person.

  Eventually her tears dried from sheer exhaustion. She managed to sleep for a few hours, only to wake again in the still hour before dawn. This time there was no disorientation; she knew exactly where she was and what had happened. Nothing would bring her stepfather back; it was time to face the rest of her life. Getting to her feet, she located by touch the robe and slippers that her maid always left by the bed.

  Ou
tside the air was pleasantly cool. The forest never slept, and she paused in the door of her tent to take stock. The scene was rather like the morning before, with the servants sleeping around the larger fire. In the distance a hyena howled.

  Much closer was Major Cameron, who sat cleaning a shotgun by the nearer fire. His figure was silhouetted against the light, giving an impression of dark, whipcord power. He was very unlike the civil service administrators Laura knew. Even the other army officers she had met could not match his air of taut, finely honed menace. She should have been wary, yet instead she was drawn to him, and not only because he had been kind to her. Something about the man made her feel safe, even though he was not a safe man.

  Hearing her movement, his head came up sharply. Laura held still until he identified her. "Don't you ever sleep, Major?" she asked as she approached the fire and sat in a camp chair.

  "Nowhere near enough. But since I'm insomniac anyhow, I might as well make use of it." He fixed a rag in the split end of the cleaning rod. "This gun should have been cleaned after being fired the night before last, but with so much going on, it got overlooked." As he lifted the barrel of the disassembled weapon, he added, "And call me Ian— I'm not a major anymore."

  "I thought that military titles followed a man around for the rest of his life." Laura saw that the shotgun was Kenneth's. She was glad the major had thought of it; her stepfather had always been meticulous in caring for equipment.

  "The army is behind me," Ian said tersely. "I've no desire to be defined by it for the rest of my life."