Veils of Silk (35 page)

After their encounter with the mob, they followed the road to the northwest, not stopping until well after sunset. As Laura slid stiffly from her saddle, she noted that Ian had chosen a campsite that was protected on three sides.

Zafir helped the Indian girl from his mount, then set about collecting fuel and building a fire. With Ian tending the horses, Laura could deal with the young widow in relative privacy. After introducing herself and the men, Laura said, "Do you have any burns or other injuries, Meera?"

The girl examined the scorched silk of her sari, then said in an admirably even voice, "My leg is a little blistered, memsahib, but nothing more."

Laura went to her medical kit for a jar of salve. "This will help ease the pain." After handing over the salve, she began unpacking the food and utensils needed for dinner. "Though it's against the custom of your people to eat with those of other faiths, you are welcome to share what we have."

Meera raised her small chin. "Now I am out-caste, memsahib. I will eat whatever you grant me and be grateful for it."

When Laura set the griddle over the fire to heat for baking bread, Meera said, "Let me do that, memsahib. I told your husband I would be his slave, so it is right that I serve you."

Laura sat back on her heels and said doubtfully, "You should be resting after such a ghastly experience."

The girl gave a wry smile. "I am no frail lotus blossom, memsahib. Though my husband was wealthy and of high caste, my own birth was lower. I know how to cook and clean as well as any woman." As proof, she knelt and began mixing water with flour to make bread, her jewelry swaying incongruously in the firelight when she began expertly kneading the dough.

"It's good of you to help," Laura said, "but you won't want to be a servant forever. Can you return to your own family?"

Meera shook her head. "No. My eldest brother would be willing to accept me, I think, but Mohan's sons might make trouble for him if he did." She looked earnestly at Laura. "An English lady should not travel without a maid, mem-sahib. Allow me to serve you—I swear I will work very hard."

Laura bit her lip as she considered what to do with this resourceful young woman. "My husband and I will not be in India much longer. After a short visit to Dharjistan, we will go to Bombay. If you wish, you can work for me until we leave. With a reference, it won't be hard for you to find another position." She shook her head as she studied the slim, expensively dressed young woman. "But it will be a great comedown for you."

"Compared to death, memsahib," Meera observed, "being a lady's maid is not so bad."

Laura couldn't argue with that.

With Meera baking chapatis on the griddle and Laura cooking the pot of pilaf, dinner was ready by the time the men had finished their chores. After the meal, Laura persuaded the girl to tell them about her background, and how she had managed to escape from the pyre. When the young widow was finished, Laura added, "Meera will serve as my maid until we reach Bombay. Then she'll seek another position there."

Ian nodded approval. "Tomorrow we'll be passing through a town where we can pick up clothing and a pony for her to ride."

Meera ducked her head. In a choked voice, she said, "You are as generous as you are brave, sahib."

Ian looked mildly embarrassed. "I could hardly stand by and watch them drag you off to be burned alive."

Laura knew he was speaking the simple truth; she could not imagine Ian allowing such a crime to proceed. It must be tiring to always feel responsible for everyone. Laura herself had been another of his projects; perhaps he was wearying of the project and that was why he was pulling away.

As Ian banked the fire, he said, "Zafir, tomorrow evening we'll be near the compound of your Uncle Habibur. Do you think he'll be willing to put us up for the night?"

Zafir grinned. "If you come so close without visiting and Habibur finds out, he will swear a blood feud against you."

"It will be good to seethe old reprobate again." Ian gave a reminiscent smile. "When I visited on the way to Bokhara, it took me two days to recover from his hospitality."

"Think of how much more exhausting it is to be his nephew," Zafir said with deep feeling.

As the men drifted into a discussion of the colorful Habibur, Meera shyly approached Laura. "Memsahib, there is nothing that a humble creature such as I can do for your husband, so I must express my thanks to you." Deftly she removed from her neck a long chain made of filigreed gold wire in abstract floral patterns. "Please take this as a mark of my gratitude."

Laura's eyes widened as the beautifully wrought necklace shimmered in the firelight. "This is too valuable, Meera. You must keep your jewelry for your future. You will need it for a dowry should you decide to marry again."

"I have enough other jewelry to ensure my future." Meera's youthful face became sardonic. "I do not know if I will ever take another husband, memsahib, but if I do, it will be a man of a lower caste that does not require suttee." She laid the glittering, sinuous chain in Laura's hand. "As for the value of this—my life is worth a great deal, too."

Seeing that it was a question of honor, Laura said gravely, "Thank you. I shall cherish this necklace always."

Pleased, Meera went to make up a bed on the far side of the fire while Laura did the same on her side. Ian's manner had been so relaxed that she hoped he might lay his blankets within touching distance of her. To her disappointment, he said, "Though I doubt it's necessary, I think we should post a guard tonight. Zafir, I'll take the first watch."

Exasperated, Laura burrowed into her blankets. The damned man had eluded her again. Just wait until they were sailing back to England, she said to herself, half joking and half serious. Even the best stateroom didn't have enough space for him to maintain much distance. Then he'd be at her mercy.

But until then, the nights would be long and lonesome.

* * *

As Ian expected, his watch was quiet, undisturbed by anything but the sounds of nocturnal wildlife and the ache of his own frustration. Time and again his gaze went to Laura's shadowed form. Each time it took a major act of will to prevent himself from crossing the campsite and taking her in his arms. His motive was not only passion, compelling though that was. He was equally hungry for the easy, affectionate companionship that had grown between them.

His body, which lacked subtlety, simply translated all the nuances of physical and emotional longing into rampaging lust.

After they escaped from the mob, he had wanted to sweep Laura from her horse and cradle her until she no longer felt ready to "fall to pieces," as she put it. Unfortunately, soothing her nerves would have the opposite effect on his. As he had recognized in Hirsar, he couldn't trust himself where she was concerned, and the situation was getting worse, not better.

It was easy to understand why men had been riveted by her at the ball in Cambay, for her unconscious sensuality was enough to drive men mad. Certainly Ian was becoming a little madder each day. If Laura were even a little flirtatious, she would be drawing men from five hundred miles around. He supposed he should be grateful that she was unaware of the effect she had; if she did, she would be even more dangerous than she was now.

Needing a distraction, he began to clean his revolver. He would never be able to endure the present situation for the six months it would take to return to Scotland. That meant he must try to renegotiate his marriage contract before then. But when? After a moment's thought, he decided on Bombay. The city was civilized and had a large British population, so Laura wouldn't be isolated as she was now. She could decide whether she was willing to have a true marriage based on how she felt, not because she thought she had no choice.

Again he studied Laura, who was a pleasantly curving mound in the firelight. Yes, Bombay would do very well-though perhaps it was more accurate to say that restraining himself until then might be possible. Scotland was out of the question. As he reassembled his revolver, he began mentally calculating how many weeks before they arrived in Bombay.

He refused to think about what the devil he would do if Laura was unwilling to change the terms of their marriage.

Meera curled up in her borrowed blankets, unable to believe her luck. She had
been right to feel that it was not her karma to die so young. Perhaps that
belief was why she had struggled so hard against death. The English sahib (Scottishness was a subtlety that Meera was never to grasp), had been splendid in his wrath when he drove back the mob that wanted to burn her, and the memsahib was a kind woman who would make a good mistress. Though the great bearded Pathan had alarmed her at first, his touch had been gentle. She had felt safe when he carried her away.

She had known more kindness today than in all her years in her husband's house, save for the affection of Mohan himself. It was strange, she thought drowsily. The night before she had been a respectable wife with a rich, though dying, husband. Now she was a serving maid with only the possessions she carried on her body. Yet she was happier and more hopeful than she had ever been in her life. She fell asleep on that thought.

Meera awoke to fire and sparks flaring up into the night. Terrified, she shot bolt upright and looked around wildly until she saw that the sparks were only the result of Zafir replenishing the campfire.

The Pathan's head turned when she moved. Softly, so he wouldn't waken the sleeping sahib and memsahib on the other side of the fire, he said, "The fire frightens you, little dove?"

She unclenched her fists. "I… I shall soon become accustomed again. I must, for one cannot live without fire." Then, curiously, she asked, "Why do you call me little dove?"

He smiled, his teeth white against his dark beard. "You are small and graceful like a dove, and you flew like one. But perhaps I should call you little falcon, for it took courage to escape the pyre. Never have I heard of a widow who did that."

Like most Pathans, Zafir was taller and more fair-skinned than the people of the plains, with aquiline features that made him look fierce even when he smiled. Meera was glad he had been on her side. "I wasn't brave," she said honestly, "I was terrified."

"Of course. You are only a woman," he said graciously. "But your fear became a source of strength rather than weakness. Go to sleep, little dove. None shall harm you now."

Before taking his advice, Meera said cautiously, "Does Falkirk Sahib really have the evil eye?"

"No." Zafir chuckled. "He doesn't need it. He has no fear, and he rides and shoots as well as a Pathan."

Daring to tease a little, she said, "I thought no one could match a Pathan warrior."

"The best of the British are very nearly our equals. That is why I am willing to serve the Sirkar. That, and because there is much to learn from them." With an abrupt change of subject, he asked, "Was your husband good to you?"

"Oh, yes. He gave me many jewels and treated me kindly. He said I was clever, so he had me taught Persian so I could read the great tales and poems to him," she said with pride.

"A woman of accomplishments," Zafir observed. "A great pity to waste such skills on a pyre."