Veils of Silk (14 page)

I don't know how Ian manages to maintain his spirits, but thank God for his laughter and good nature. We talk of almost everything, except politics, and learn much from each other. I now remember to call him a Scot, not an Englishman, and he uses my patronymic, as a decent Russian would. Can harmony between our two hostile, suspicious empires be far behind?

Laura smiled at Pyotr's ironic comment. Every night she read some of his journal before going to sleep. Her progress was slow, partly because it took time to translate her uncle's sparse, cramped words, more because she found the effort as emotionally draining as it was rewarding. The last time she had seen Pyotr she had been little more than a child, and his letters over the years had mostly been witty accounts of his travels. But through his journal she was coming to know him as a man, and that made her mourn his passing even more.

At the beginning, as her uncle told about his unexpected imprisonment and gradual loss of hope, his entries had been terse and infrequent. The pace picked up and the tone became lighter after Ian had been put in the Black Well. It was obvious that their companionship had been a vital support for both men.

She was learning as much about the major as about Pyotr. When first imprisoned, Ian had been able to laugh at adversity, and his physical and emotional strength had helped keep her uncle alive. But as the months dragged on, he had lost the ability to laugh. She hoped that someday he would find it again.

But she would never know if Ian Cameron would recover from his experiences, for tomorrow they would arrive back in Baipur. The day after, he would be gone from her life.

She sighed and decided that it was time to get to sleep. Turning to the next page of the Bible, she started to tuck in her bookmark. Then she stopped, her brows drawing together. Most of the entries were written in the margins in tiny, precise script, but this page had several lines sprawled across the printed text. There was something frenzied about the lettering. Moreover, the words were written in the almost illegible scrawl that marked Pyotr's handwriting toward the end of the journal, when his health had deteriorated.

It took time to puzzle out the words, and at the end she was still unsure if she had translated correctly. Her best guess was, "
May God have mercy on my soul, for in my cruel arrogance I set a fire that may destroy India. I pray that the Lord in His infinite wisdom will send a rain to quench it
."

She wondered if she should ask Ian if he knew what her uncle had meant by his ominous words. Then she shrugged and set the volume down. There was no point in bothering Ian with something that was probably a product of fever and depression. She doused the lantern, settled into her pillows, and drew the sheet up to her shoulders.

The week-long journey had been blessedly uneventful compared to the turbulent days in Nanda. The bullock carts kept the party to a slow pace, and as they ambled through the lush countryside, Ian had proved to be an agreeable traveling companion. Though he had no interest in Laura as a woman, he seemed to enjoy her company. Most of the time they rode side by side. Ian talked little, but when he did, his comments were always to the point and often amusing in a dry, acid-edged fashion.

When Laura needed it, he was also capable of quiet compassion. One night after they had made camp, she climbed alone to the top of a nearby hill to admire a spectacular sunset. As the sun dropped below the horizon in a flare of scarlet and gold, a wave of paralyzing grief engulfed her.

Never again would she share such sights with her stepfather. For Laura, beauty was diminished if it wasn't shared, and the pain of loss sent silent tears down her cheeks. She wept not just for Kenneth, but for Uncle Pyotr, for her splendid, outrageous mother, and for her first father, whose death was so painful that even now her mind refused to contemplate it.

Then a large hand wrapped around hers, the firm clasp drawing her back from despair. She knew that it was Ian without looking, and was profoundly grateful both for his company and for his stillness. As the color faded from the sky, he gave her his handkerchief, then escorted her back to the camp. Neither of them spoke of the incident; there was no need.

Just as Ian had an uncanny ability to sense Laura's moods, she was equally aware of his. Under his controlled facade he was full of darkness, and often he withdrew into some unreachable mental zone. She worried about how little he ate and slept. Evenings they talked until weariness sent Laura to bed, but Ian was always awake when she retired and when she rose the next morning. It was hard to see how he kept body and soul together.

Perhaps his insomnia was contagious, for she was also finding it difficult to sleep. She rolled over and punched the pillow with irritation. Though Ian did not find her attractive, the reverse was not true. As the days passed, her interest in him was increasing to near-infatuation. Not only did she crave his company, but the slightest accidental contact between them left her longing for more.

She despised her weakness. Knowing that there was a very real danger that she might do something that would embarrass them both horribly, she tried to keep her distance from him. She mounted and dismounted without his aid, became expert at passing cups without touching fingers, and no longer took his arm when they went exploring on foot. Luckily Ian didn't seem to notice that her behavior had changed; she would have been humiliated if he suspected how much she was attracted to him.

She knew that some of her interest was a result of simple proximity, for her low carnal nature made her susceptible to men. But Ian himself was the real problem; his combination of kindness and mystery acted on her like catnip on a tabby. She wanted to help him become the man he had been before suffering an ordeal that she could only dimly comprehend; she wanted to see him laugh, as Uncle Pyotr had seen him laugh.

In a burst of vulgarity, she faced the dangerous truth: she wanted him to bed her.

She spent a moment contemplating his image in her mind's eye. He wasn't precisely handsome, for that was a description better suited to tame men who belonged in drawing rooms. Though she was sure that Ian could hold his own in formal society, he had a larger-than-life quality that belonged more to the world of heroic adventures. If a princess needed rescuing or a dragon needed slaying, she couldn't think of a better man for the task. Though she was no princess, he had done an admirable job with the tiger. She watched him whenever possible, admiring his strength, the smooth, controlled quality of his movements…

She found herself flushing. There really was far too much of her mother in her. Sighing, she rolled over again, trying to convince herself that she was grateful that her association with Ian would soon be over. When he was gone, she would become a well-behaved Englishwoman again. If she tended her infatuation carefully, it might save her from making a fool of herself over another man for years to come.

The thought was not much comfort.

Nonetheless, tired from a day of riding, she finally dozed off, only to have her slumber disturbed by a choking sound outside her tent. She came awake instantly, thinking it might be a leopard. The noise was repeated, and she realized that it came from a human throat. After donning her robe and slippers, she went outside to investigate.

There she discovered that the sounds emanated from the tent next to hers, which Ian was using because rain had driven him from his preferred spot under the open sky. Seeing that there was a light inside, Laura scratched on the canvas door panel. "Ian, are you all right?"

There was no answer, so she set maidenly modesty aside, opened the flap, and ducked into the tent. The dim light showed Ian sprawled on the cot, his face haggard, his torso bare and shining with sweat. She was bemused to see that even in bed he wore his black leather eyepatch.

His condition was terrifyingly reminiscent of her stepfather's last illness. Swiftly she crossed the tent and put one hand on his forehead, but his temperature was normal. Ian flinched from her touch and his eye opened. For an instant, she saw a frantic light in the blue depths. Then he recognized her and instantly shuttered his expression.

"I heard strange sounds and thought you might be ill, especially since the lamp was lit," Laura explained soothingly. Removing her hand, she added, "You don't seem feverish."

The skin over his cheekbones tightened. "I'm not. It was nothing, just a bad dream. Endless dark, suffocation, dread, pain, cowardice. And fire. Mustn't forget fire." He shuddered. "All the usual things." His gaze went to the oil lamp on the table. "Spending several months in total darkness increased my affection for light. That's why I sleep with a lamp or candle when I'm indoors."

Laura guessed that Ian was still shaken by his nightmare, or he would not have said so much. Briefly she wondered at the coincidence of his mentioning fire, since she had just read that strange entry in Pyotr's journal. Perhaps later she would talk to Ian about that. Then she set the thought aside; far more important was Ian's state of mind right now.

Perching on the edge of his cot, she took hold of his wrist. His whole body vibrated with tension, and, as she expected, his pulse was hammering. "Care to tell me more? I'm something of an expert on bad dreams."

He exhaled raggedly. "In prison I welcomed sleep, for it was the only way of escape. I dreamed of my childhood in Scotland and Persia, of my family, my friends. The hard part was waking to reality, which was more beastly than any nightmare could be, particularly after Pyotr Andreyovich was taken." He ran shaky fingers through his hair, which sweat had darkened from auburn to chestnut. "Ironic. Now that I'm free, I dream of captivity. Of death and decay and betrayal…" His voice trailed off.

"I see why you prefer not to sleep," Laura said briskly. "But the nightmares will abate in time."

He gave her a sardonic glance. "Have yours? You did say that you are an expert on bad dreams."

She hesitated, unable to give him glib reassurances. "I don't have them very often now."

"I suppose that's something to look forward to," he murmured, unimpressed. His gaze narrowed. "What haunts your nights, Larissa Alexandrovna?"

She drew in a sharp breath, for his use of the patronymic hit uncomfortably close to the Russian setting of her nightmares. "Nothing very interesting," she said evasively. "Just some of the less pleasant memories of my childhood."

Ian accepted that. They might be friends, but that didn't mean they were close enough to share nightmares.

Changing the subject, he said, "It belatedly occurs to me that an unmarried girl should not be sitting on a man's bed. Not unless social custom has liberalized considerably in the last couple of years."

Laura became uncomfortably aware of the impropriety of their situation. Her glance fell to Ian's bare chest, with its mat of dark hair and taut, well-defined muscles, then darted away. She sensed no carnal thoughts from him, but suddenly her own emotions were scalding. Hands clenching nervously, she got to her feet. "I imagine that London is as rigid as ever, but one of the wonderful things about being in the Indian countryside is that the rules are more relaxed here. Propriety can take a back seat to common sense. You're not going to assault me just because we're alone in your tent, and I'm not going to have an attack of vapors just because your shirt is off."