Veils of Silk (40 page)

Lady Falkirk accepted her topi from Meera, then gazed at it blankly, as if unable to remember what to do with it. Then she donned the hat, gave her maid a vague, gentle smile, and crossed to her horse, where Zafir was waiting to help her mount. Meera frowned as she watched her mistress, then clucked her tongue and went to her own placid pony.

Zafir came to help her also, but instead of linking his hands together to make a step, as he had done with Lady Falkirk, he grasped Meera's waist and lifted her directly to the broad back of the pony. His gray eyes danced when Meera gave him a quelling look, but she smiled when he turned away to his own horse. Though he was an arrogant Pathan who was all too aware of his own handsomeness, she had to admit that she rather enjoyed his playful attentions. Not that she would ever ruin herself with such a man, but his teasing was pleasant after the unremitting hostility of Mohan's sons.

Meera's amusement faded as they began the day's journey. Lord Falkirk was riding beside his wife, but they didn't speak. They didn't even look at each other, yet emotions pulsed between them with such strength as to be almost visible. It was as if the lord and his lady were holding a gigantic, fragile glass ball between them, and both were terrified because the least slip would shatter it.

The sahib and memsahib had been like this for a day and a half, ever since the party had left Habibur's compound. Each was achingly polite and they watched each other with haunted eyes when it could be done discreetly. Meera sighed and shook her head in disapproval. It was not at all like the anger or sulking that would have resulted from a normal argument between spouses.

After they made camp that evening, she voiced her disquiet to Zafir. It was still light and the memsahib had decided to walk to the top of a nearby hill to investigate the ruins of an old fortress. Saying that it was not safe for her to go alone in this wild country, her husband had accompanied her since Zafir was not available as escort.

A few minutes after they disappeared from sight, the Pathan returned from watering the horses. Chores finished, he sat by the fire and lounged back against his saddle so he could watch Meera prepare the evening meal. Meera picked up an onion and began chopping it for the goat stew. With a gesture in the direction their employers had gone, she said, "Things are not going well with those two."

"Aye," Zafir agreed. "Women always bring a man trouble."

After dumping a handful of chopped onions into the stew-pot, Meera scowled at her companion. "If women are such trouble, why do men always pursue them?"

He grinned. "A real man likes trouble, and a woman is the next best thing to a good battle."

She snorted to hide her smile. "Then may the gods preserve women from men. Certainly the memsahib should have kept away from Falkirk Sahib. Yesterday when she was brushing her hair I heard her say to herself that she should never have married."

For a moment the Pathan's usual cheerful manner slipped, revealing concern, but he quickly masked an emotion that could be considered weak. "Don't forget that the man you are insulting saved your valueless hide, woman."

"So he did." She began slicing a carrot. "I'm not denying that the sahib is brave, but he's making the memsahib miserable."

"She is equally making him miserable. I served Cameron Sahib for years, in battle and out, and never saw him evil-tempered until he met his cat-eyed lady," Zafir commented. "Mind you, as a man I can see why he thinks her worth the trouble, but the English make things difficult for themselves. The women have too much freedom."

"Women need more freedom, not less," Meera retorted as she scooped up the sliced carrots and dropped them in the stew. "I suppose you think we should all be penned up like goats in a cage, the way Pathan women are."

"Our women have freedom and influence within the home, where it matters," Zafir said reasonably. "And outside, the veil protects them from the advances of strangers."

Meera knew that what she was doing was hazardous, like teasing a tiger, but she couldn't resist saying, "Women wouldn't need protection if men weren't such beasts."

"So we are," Zafir agreed. With one swift motion he sat up, caught Meera's left wrist, and pulled her across his lap.

She gasped as he kissed her. He was very strong, but it wasn't just his strength that kept her draped across him like a shawl. Though he was a barbarian, he knew a great deal about kissing. He was also in the full flower of manhood, not in the sunset of his years like Mohan had been.

Meera was unable to prevent herself from responding, but when he released her, for pride's sake she skittered out of his reach. "Fool!" She adjusted her disordered scarf over her head. "I should have put my chopping knife through you."

"But you didn't, little dove." He gave her a lazy smile. " And you wouldn't."

"Try that again and I'll add a few pieces of Pathan to the stew," Meera retorted. When a gleam showed in Zafir's eyes, as if he were considering testing her threat, she hastily retreated to the other side of the fire and dug into a pouch for seasonings. As she began grinding spices together, she vowed that the next time Zafir tried to kiss her, she would show him that she was not a weak slut who would roll onto her back for any arrogant rooster who showed interest in her.

Rather to her disappointment, he didn't try again.

They were about five miles from Manpur when a troop of cavalry came galloping down the road toward them, scattering pedestrians and bullock carts. Seeing Ian frown, Laura asked, "Is this trouble?"

"Shouldn't be," he said slowly. "I've never heard of Rajiv Singh bothering Europeans traveling through his state."

Nonetheless, Laura noticed that her husband had come sharply alert, ready for anything that might come. She herself was glad of a distraction, for the three days since they had left Habibur's compound had been sheer torture. Daytime was difficult, for her awareness of Ian was a constant ache, but night was worse now that experience had transformed her vague longings into painful desire. She remembered every kiss and caress Ian had given her, and she wanted more.

Which was precisely why she must keep her distance. The fierceness of her yearning confirmed her resolution that they must stay apart, for it was frighteningly clear how quickly passion could get out of hand. A single night had filled her with dangerous, unstable emotions and desires, and more such nights would make her even more dangerous. Only God knew where that would end.

Much as physical separation hurt Laura, she suspected that it hurt Ian even more. It was hard to be sure. He was better at concealing his emotions than she was, and he had retreated behind an impenetrable wall of detachment. Still, he couldn't hide the force of his desire, which emanated from him with the intensity of a bonfire. That was bad enough, but she had an unhappy suspicion that frustration was not his only problem. In spite of Laura's attempt to explain that the fault was hers, she guessed that Ian blamed himself alone for what had happened. It was bitterly unfair that he was tied to a woman incapable of being a wife to him. In the darkest hours of the night, when her guilt was as sharp a pain as her desire, she considered telling her husband that he should seek physical satisfaction elsewhere.

Yet the mere thought of Ian with another woman was enough to send Laura half out of her mind with jealousy. If Ian had even once turned his desire toward Meera, Laura would have become a hissing virago. Fortunately he did not. It was his wife he watched; again and again during the day she felt the pressure of his hooded gaze. Probably, she thought with depression, he was wondering what the devil he had done to merit the misfortune of marrying a crazy Russian.

No one had ever told Laura that marriage was like two people sharing a narrow single bed—one made of nettles. They couldn't spend the rest of their lives at such a pitch of tension. One way or another the situation must change, but she had no idea how. For her to leave Ian was unthinkable; the possibility that he might leave her was even worse.

Before her thoughts could go any further in such a profitless direction, the contingent of Dharjistani horsemen arrived, reining in their mounts with a flourish. The officer called out, "Do I have the honor of addressing Lord Falkirk?"

"You do, sir," Ian replied, showing no surprise at the question. News traveled quickly in this part of the world, and Ian's distinctive appearance made him easy to identify.

The officer salaamed gracefully. "I am Ahmed of the royal guard. Maharajah Rajiv Singh has heard of your coming and invites you to stay at his palace. You are going to Lahore?"

"No, our destination is Manpur," Ian said. "My wife has a small matter of business that pertains to the maharajah, if His Royal Highness will condescend to receive us."

The officer's surprised glance went briefly to Laura. "Rajiv Singh will surely rejoice at the opportunity to receive you both. Permit us to escort you the rest of the way."

The horsemen divided, half staying in front and the other tailing in behind Zafir and Meera. As milling hooves raised a cloud of dust, Ian muttered something under his breath. Only Laura was close enough to hear, and she said quietly, "What was that?"

"Nothing," he replied. "Just an old eastern proverb. 'Beware of the man who has no ax to grind.' "

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much. Just that it's a bit surprising that a maharajah would go to so much effort to welcome unknown private travelers of no particular importance."

"You're a lord. Perhaps he thinks you have influence with the Sirkar. Or maybe he's just bored and wants company."

Ian gave her a sardonic glance but didn't answer. They rode the last few miles in silence.

Laura's eyes widened when they passed through the massive gates into the palace of Rajiv Singh. Outside, the land was flat and dusty, but within the high walls was a lush green pleasure garden that stretched as far as she could see. Gaudily colored birds sang in the trees and a cluster of tiny, elegant deer drifted by less than fifty yards away.

The palace itself, when they finally reached it, was even more impressive. Laura had been in the homes of wealthy natives, but this was luxury on a scale she had never imagined. Like most grand Indian architecture, the building was in the Islamic style that was a legacy of the Mughal rulers and was a symphony of white walls, slim towers, and graceful arches.

They were ceremoniously passed to a household official who bid them to follow him. The walk was a lengthy one that took them through a maze of courtyards, lofty chambers, and passages. The palace bustled with servants and courtiers, none of whom showed more than mild curiosity about the visitors.

As they walked, Laura wondered if once again she and Ian would be forced to share close quarters, as at Habibur's. She needn't have worried. They were given a whole suite of rooms on the second floor. Because the apartment was in a corner of the building, an abundance of windows gave it an airy, spacious feel.

The official bowed himself out of the reception chamber, which was the equivalent of an English drawing room. He took Zafir and Meera with him so they could be shown to their own quarters before returning to help their employers unpack.

As Laura took off her topi, she surveyed the embroidered hangings, cushioned couches, and exquisite Persian murals. "Queen Victoria wouldn't feel slighted at laying her royal head here."

"This is far more impressive than the royal palace at Kensington." Ian indicated a Moorish arch. "Shall we explore?"

Laura walked past him and found herself on a balcony that overlooked a quiet courtyard with a fountain in the middle and cooing doves in a tree. The scene was so charming that she impulsively leaned over the railing and cooed back. As soon as she heard herself, she stopped, embarrassed at her silliness.

"Were you cooing in Urdu?" Ian said with interest.

"In Russian," she said, blushing. "I always liked talking to the doves in the park when I was a child." At least her husband's expression was amused rather than contemptuous. It was the most relaxed he had appeared in days.

Looking as dignified as possible for a woman who had been caught talking to a dove, she left the balcony and went to the first of the two arches in the end of the reception room. She found an opulent bedroom, with a silk-covered bed large enough for four people. Laura hastily averted her eyes from the bed and went to the next arch, where she was grateful to find an identical bedroom. Though the two chambers connected through a doorway, at least she and Ian could sleep separately.

As she tossed her topi on the bed in the second room, Ian called, "I've found something I think you'll like."

Laura went to investigate and sighed rapturously at the sight of the incredible bath chamber. A tub that was easily six feet square was sunken into a floor of glazed ogee tiles, and stacks of thick towels and vials of perfumed oils sat ready for use. "Oh, my," she said reverently as she looked up at the ceiling, where a translucent dome admitted gentle aqueous light. "Like a Turkish bagnio. This is positively sinful."

"Spoken like a good Scottish Presbyterian," Ian said. "Does that mean you won't bathe here for fear of imperiling your immortal soul?"

Laura grinned. "Not on your life. I'll meditate on my sins of sloth and gluttony while I'm immersed in steaming water."

As she glanced back at the tub, a little maid entered from a service door hidden behind a screen in the corner. The girl bowed. "Would the memsahib like to bathe?"

"Yes, please." Laura turned to leave so the maid could arrange the bath. She almost collided with Ian, who was closer than she had realized. He sucked in his breath and stepped back into the drawing room, his face rigid. He hadn't touched her in any way for three days, and now she knew why: proximity triggered a flash of sizzling heat between them.

She drifted back toward the balcony, not looking at Ian. To obliterate that moment of painful awareness, she asked, "What happens now that we're here?"

"We wait to be summoned by the maharajah. The chamberlain will pass on our request to see him." Ian surveyed their sumptuous surroundings without enthusiasm. "I hope Rajiv Singh will receive us before too many days have passed."