Veils of Silk (36 page)

"My feeling exactly," she said tartly.

The Pathan chuckled. Then he gestured toward the sky. "Look, little dove. A demon dies."

Meera looked up in time to see the flash of a shooting star. "A demon?"

"My people say that a shooting star shows that an angel has vanquished a demon in the endless struggle between good and evil," Zafir explained. "Perhaps that one marked your escape from evil today, for surely an angel aided you."

She cocked her head curiously. "I knew that Pathans were warriors, but not that they were poets."

"The two go together, for war is the greatest of poetry." His voice softened. "Sleep, little dove, and do not dream of fire."

Meera settled back in her blanket with a contented sigh. Tomorrow she would perform a devotion for Ganesha, to thank the blessed god for having interceded on her behalf.

The last thing she thought of before falling asleep again was the way the Pathan's gray eyes caught the firelight.

The household of Habibur the Pathan reminded Laura of nothing so much as a carnival. The enormous mud-brick compound consisted of rooms built around a central courtyard, and was home to several generations of related families. Laura didn't even try to puzzle out the interconnections of the residents. She couldn't speak to all of the women, for many spoke only Pashto, the Pathan language. But they were a friendly lot, and welcomed Laura and Meera into their midst. Laura's fair hair was a particular source of fascination. It was patted and stroked so often that within fifteen minutes all of the pins had fallen out and it was about her shoulders.

Laura didn't mind their curiosity. After several days of Ian's remoteness, it was pleasant to be among people who were enthusiastic. Nonetheless, the need for a familiar face kept her and Meera together at first. The young Hindu widow was now wearing a simple cotton sari; with her jewelry concealed, she looked the part of a humble servant. At first she was even shyer than Laura, but there were several other Hindu women present, and soon Meera was talking easily with them.

The whole inside of the compound, which included trees, a well, poultry, and three bullocks, was a purdah area where women could go unveiled because the only males allowed in were relatives. Outside the ten-foot high walls females were required to wear totally enveloping robes that made them look like swaddled ninepins, but at home they delighted in bright colors.

Though Ian was an honored guest, even he was not allowed in the compound. Instead, the men sat outside under the trees, smoking, talking, and feasting on roast goat. Inside the compound, the women enjoyed their own festivities.

Since Ian wasn't going to share Laura's bed even if they were together, she had no objection to spending the night in purdah. It was a surprise when Darra, Habibur's wife, gestured for her to follow, saying in broken Urdu, "Men sleep now. You go to husband in guest room."

As they went across the wide courtyard, Laura felt a spatter of unseasonable rain, which explained why the men's outside gathering was breaking up early. Just past the clay-built bread oven, Darra stopped in front of a wooden door that showed a crack of light at the bottom. "Husband." She gave Laura a broad, suggestive smile and patted her arm. "Fine tall ferengi," she added, using the general term for a European.

Laura made a deep curtsy to her hostess, then entered the guest room. The windowless chamber contained no furniture except a table with a flickering oil lamp and two of the web-strung beds called
charpoys
. Ian sat on the edge of one of the beds, wearing the loose sashed robe he slept in. When Laura entered the room, he glanced up from the map he was studying and gave her a brief smile. "What was purdah like?"

"Jollier than I expected." Laura's gaze was caught by the curling hair visible at the V-shaped opening of Ian's robe. It was an effort to wrench her eyes away. As she walked over to her baggage, she heard the sound of a bar being laid across the door on the courtyard side. Glancing back, she said with surprise, "Are they locking us in for the night?"

"Only in one direction. There are two doors and the other leads outside, so we could leave that way if we wanted." Ian gestured at the opposite wall, where the second door was almost hidden in shadow. "Visitors enter directly from the tamarind grove so that they needn't cross the purdah area."

Laura gazed at the locked door to the courtyard. "Pathans really take this separation business seriously, don't they?"

"They do indeed," Ian said. "A woman who accidentally allows an unrelated man to see her unveiled face will probably be killed by her husband because of her 'infidelity.' After he has dispatched the offending man, of course. Though Habibur welcomed me like the prodigal son, if I sullied the honor of any woman of the house, he would shoot me himself."

Laura winced. "That's as bad as suttee. Here I was thinking that the Pathan system was reasonable by comparison."

"It is in many ways, but honor is everything to them." He smiled without humor. "The British aren't much different."

"Why is Habibur living here, so far from his tribal lands?"

"Traditionally Pathans live by extorting money from travelers in return for safe passage through the mountains. Habibur, however, has a more commercial turn of mind," Ian explained. "He started a horse fair in the nearest town. Now it's a major livestock trading center for northern India. After he became successful, he moved his whole household down here. Some non-Pathans have been added, but everything is still run pretty much along tribal lines."

Ian glanced back at the map and Laura took the opportunity to study his face, thinking that this was the first time they had been alone in days. In spite of the subtle strain visible in his expression, he looked very well, all lean, pantherish muscle. He would never be fat, but he had put on enough weight so that he no longer seemed too thin. Her gaze drifted to a charpoy. It was wide enough for two people if they didn't mind being close, which she certainly wouldn't.

Before her brief hope had a chance to take root, Ian said, "Do you have a preference for one of the beds?"

"Either will do." She suppressed her sigh. "How much longer until we reach Manpur?"

"Barring the unforeseen, we'll be there in three days." He folded the map and returned it to his baggage, then straightened and surveyed the guest room without enthusiasm. "I'm half-tempted to sleep outside even if it is wet."

Even a philosophical disposition has its limits, and Laura couldn't keep hurt from her voice when she said, "Is it that unpleasant to be around me?"

Ian swung around and he took a step toward her before halting. "That isn't what I meant, Laura," he said tightly. "In Bokhara I developed a deep antipathy to windowless rooms. Even with a lamp lit, I feel as if the walls are closing in on me."

Chastened, Laura-bit her lip. "I see that I jumped to the wrong conclusion. But you've been so… so remote lately."

"I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably. "That's me being difficult, not a reflection on you."

The atmosphere between them was charged with unsaid words, and Laura knew that changing the subject would be the wise thing to do. Instead, Larissa Alexandrovna reared her imperious head and persuaded Laura to do what she had been longing to do for days. She walked up to Ian, stood on tiptoe, slid one hand around his neck so he couldn't escape, and kissed him.

She intended to make it a brief goodnight kiss that would also wordlessly express how much she missed being with him, but as soon as their lips touched, intensity flared. Ian's arms encircled her and he drew her close, his mouth hard against hers. She sighed with pleasure and melted against him. And fatigue and loneliness evaporated like mist in the morning.

For a moment, Ian's logic and control went out the door, propelled by a virgin's kiss. Laura was so warm, so soft, so willing… But she was also an innocent who didn't understand the reaction she was provoking—a trusting young woman whose actions were based on the belief that he was incapable of doing what she feared.

Ian broke the kiss but couldn't bear to release her quite yet. He stroked her back with one hand and rested his cheek against her temple. When he could trust his voice, he said, "Too much traveling is a strain on the disposition. I know that sometimes I'm like a bear with a sore paw, but don't ever think it's your fault. I hope you can be tolerant of my shortcomings. I don't want you to regret having married me."

She chuckled a little, as he had hoped she would. "I don't regret it, though I won't be sorry when your paw heals. I won't be sorry to reach Bombay, either. Once we're on a ship, I won't have to unpack again for weeks."

He gave a wry laugh and released her. "I'll be glad to reach Bombay, too." There, God willing, he would be able to persuade her of the advantages of a real marriage. But in the meantime, he must—
must—
keep his distance.

He realized that this was the first time they had stayed in a place where Laura had no privacy to undress and don her nightgown. Knowing that doing the gentlemanly thing was also
the best way to maintain his sanity, he said, "If you're ready to change and go to bed, I'll move this table and lamp to the corner so the light will disturb you less during the night."

Keeping the table level so the lamp wouldn't tip, he lifted it over his bed and placed it by the wall. Then he knelt by his baggage and began unpacking his soap and razor for use in the morning. Behind him, Laura took advantage of his turned back to remove her riding clothes.

Though Ian's hands were busy with shaving equipment, his imagination was running rampant about what his wife looked like without her layers of cotton and leather. Nonetheless, it was pure accident that when he lifted his shaving mirror to set it on the table, the mirror caught a reflection of Laura removing her divided riding skirt. With a wiggle she pushed it over her hips, then stepped out, neatly folded the garment, and laid it on top of her saddlebags.

Ian froze, eyes riveted on the mirror in his hand as she unbuttoned her white linen shirt. Luckily Laura was standing with her back to him so she didn't notice that he had been transformed into a statue. Though it was perfectly legal to watch his wife undress, he felt absurdly guilty. Not, however, guilty enough to stop.