Veils of Silk (5 page)

Confused, Ian rolled over and blinked dazedly when he awoke. Then he remembered. Cambay. The disastrous meeting with Georgina. Finally, thank God, David. When they reached the bungalow, his brother had suggested that Ian rest and guided him to one of the bedrooms. Ian hadn't even bothered to undress before sprawling facedown on the bed. Within seconds he had fallen into exhausted unconsciousness.

Slanting rays of ruddy late-afternoon sunshine sifted through the shutters, but what day was it? Perhaps he had slept for a full twenty-four hours, as when he had arrived at Juliet's fortress after the wild flight across the Kara-Kum Desert. On both occasions, his rest had been more like coma than sleep.

He was still groggy with fatigue but doubted that he would sleep anymore, for the black mists still tormented him. Gravely he considered the image. Mists sounded too benign; the shadows were more like snarling black dogs that circled around him, obscuring his mind, snapping and slavering as they waited for the kill. Like wolves, perhaps?

Deciding that it would have been wiser to stick with mists, he got shakily to his feet and walked to the washstand. The mirror over the basin showed a filthy, bewhiskered visage that was enough to frighten anyone. Certainly it had frightened Georgina. Mouth tight, he turned away and opened the door to the bungalow's main room. David sat at the desk, writing a letter.

Ian asked, "How long was I asleep?"

His brother looked up. "Less than two hours. I didn't expect to see you until tomorrow morning."

No wonder Ian didn't feel rested.

David continued, "How about a bath? Then we can dine and you can tell me what's happened during the last two years."

The suggestion was a good one, for after shaving, bathing, and changing to fresh clothing, Ian felt as close to human as he was likely to get. By mutual agreement, neither of the brothers asked questions until they had eaten. Or rather, until David had eaten; Ian consumed only a few mouthfuls, then used his fork to push the remaining food around his plate.

When David finished, he signaled for the table to be cleared. "Care for some brandy?"

Ian considered the decanter. "I think I will, though it's probably a mistake—after two years in Islamic countries where there was no alcohol, a drink might put me flat on my back."

David filled two glasses and pushed one down the gleaming table. "Apart from exchanging to the 46th, not much has happened to me in the last couple of years. But how did you escape from Bokhara? It was reported that you were imprisoned shortly after arriving in the city, then executed about a year later."

Ian shrugged. "The report was half right—I was imprisoned but not executed—not quite. After a year and a half in the filthiest hole imaginable, I was rescued by Juliet and her long-lost husband. We escaped to Persia, and here I am."

David's brandy glass halted in midair halfway to his mouth. Incredulous, he said, "Our sister Juliet? And Ross Carlisle?"

After Ian had sketched in the details, David gave a soft whistle of amazement. "You were damned lucky."

"Indeed." Ian selected a mango and began carving it into slivers with the razor-sharp Persian dagger his sister had given him. "I remind myself of that all the time."

"So Juliet and Ross are together again," David said thoughtfully. "Why the devil did she run off in the first place? I never understood that. I know that Juliet has more than her share of Cameron impulsiveness, but leaving Ross after six months of marriage seemed like pure insanity."

"I don't know why she left—she didn't confide in me. But Ross is satisfied with her explanation. That's all that counts." Ian halted for a moment as he remembered the vivid closeness he had seen between his sister and her
husband. He was happy for them, but the memory made his own situation seem all the bleaker. Disgusted with his self-pity, he continued, "They'll be arriving back in England soon. Not only has Juliet turned into an adoring and more-or-less dutiful wife, she is well on her way to providing Ross with an heir."

David grinned. "Trust Juliet not to waste any time."

"Georgina didn't either."

His brother's expression sobered. "Don't judge her too harshly, Ian. When the news came that you'd been executed—and it was a convincing report, not just a vague rumor—Georgina was badly broken up. Because I was your brother, she spent hours talking about you whenever we met."

"Then she turned around and married the next man in line."

"She's the sort of female who needs a man."

Ian swallowed his first mouthful of brandy. As he had expected, it hit with the impact of a blow. He welcomed the effect; with luck, it would soon render him unconscious. "Chivalrous of you to defend her, but with all due respect, I'm not interested in being fair-minded just now."

David's brows drew together. He was fond of Georgina and didn't blame her for believing that her fiance was dead. But she
had
married Phelps very quickly… and her haste had created the very devil of a situation for Ian. "If it's any comfort," he said at last, "you were widely and honestly mourned by everyone in Cambay, from Colonel Whitman to the lowliest sweeper."

"No, I can't say that it's much comfort," Ian said dryly as he reduced the mango to a pile of juicy pulp and reddish rind.

David studied his guest uneasily. He had grown up idolizing his older brother, utterly confident that Ian's endless strength and good nature were equal to anything. It was Ian who had taught David how to ride like a Bedouin, how to defend himself against larger boys, and how to sneak out of the house when they were supposed to be asleep.

But the man who had returned from Bokhara was almost a stranger. His thin face all harsh planes and angles, Ian looked much older than his thirty-two years. He hadn't once laughed, and his rare smile was a meaningless twist of the lips. Uncertainly David said, "Will you exchange to another regiment? I imagine that seeing Georgina and Gerry together all the time would be… difficult."

"An understatement." Ian stabbed a slice of mango with the tip of his knife and studied the juicy flesh as he considered the question. Abruptly he flipped the fruit to the plate uneaten. "I'm going to resign my commission. I have no idea what I'll do instead, but I've had enough of fighting Indians and playing the Great Game against the Russians. To hell with it all. Her Majesty's bloody empire will have to stand or fall without me."

The bitterness of his words momentarily silenced David. Then he realized that there was a piece of family news that was relevant to Ian's future. "Fortunate that you want to leave the army, because you're needed back in Scotland."

"Whatever for?" Ian asked, unimpressed. He pushed the plate of mango fragments away and drank more brandy.

"You're now the laird of Falkirk."

Ian's face went rigid. "How can that be?"

David sighed. "About a year ago, there was an accident. Uncle Andrew and both his sons were drowned on the loch. They were fishing when one of those vicious squalls blew up."

Ian shoved violently away from the table. "Bloody hell, all three of them killed at once? That's damnable."

As he paced across the room, his first reaction was shock and grief, and it took time to grasp what the news meant to him personally. Falkirk was the Cameron family seat, but Ian's late father had been Andrew's younger brother, and Ian had never imagined that he might inherit the estate and title. He had been raised to make his own way in the world, yet now, through a senseless tragedy, he was Lord Falkirk.

Realizing something else, he stopped pacing and looked narrowly at his brother. "With me reported dead, you were next in line to inherit."

"Yes and no." David leaned back in his chair. "Of course the lawyers notified me, but in the same post there was a letter from Mother ordering me not to start thinking I was Lord Falkirk, because you were still alive."

For a moment Ian's mood eased. "Did I mention that it was Mother who found Ross in Constantinople and bullied him into going to Bokhara?"

"I'm not surprised to hear it. She was determined to make the lawyers wait the full seven years before declaring you dead." David grinned. "She's gotten much more forceful over the years. Widowhood seems to suit her."

Ian rubbed at his aching temple. "How much do you mind not inheriting Falkirk? In spite of Mother, you must have begun to think of it as yours."

"Oh, I wouldn't have minded being Lord Falkirk, drafty castle and all," David admitted a little wistfully. "But I'd rather have you alive. Besides, I'm not ready to leave India yet. I'll earn my own piece of Scotland in my own time."

At least his brother didn't hate him for having survived. Ian resumed his pacing, finally coming to a halt by a window. As he stared out at the dark velvet night, he tested the idea of returning to the land of his birth. As a diplomat, Ian's father had spent most of his life abroad, so Falkirk had been his children's British home. Ian had lived there as a small child, spent his school holidays exploring the wild hills and swimming in the beautiful, treacherous sea loch.

Scotland, the land of his fathers, cool and green, as familiar as his own bones. In his present state of turbulence, the idea of Falkirk shimmered like a distant beacon on a stormy night. Losing Georgina had left a huge hole in the middle of his spirit, but Falkirk could fill some of that emptiness. It gave him a place to go, and a reason to make the effort.

He turned and leaned against the window frame, arms folded across his chest. "I guess I'll be going back to Scotland."

"I hope you'll stay a few days before you start back," David said. "Lord knows when I'll see you again. It will be years before I'll be able to visit home."

Having decided to leave India, Ian would have liked nothing better than to do so immediately, but that was impossible. "Before I leave, I've an errand to perform in Baipur. When I'm done, I'll stop in Cambay on the way back to Bombay."

"What kind of errand?"

Ian thought of darkness and cold and despair, and the man who in worldly terms had been an enemy, but who had become as close as Ian's own shadow. "For a year I shared my cell with a Russian colonel, until he was executed. He kept a journal in a small Bible, and I promised that if possible, I'd send it to his closest relative, his niece. As of three or four years ago, the girl lived at Baipur. Since I'm this close, I'll take the journal in person rather than send it through official channels."

David's brows rose. "What on earth is a Russian girl doing living at an Indian district station?"

Ian cast his mind back to what Pyotr had said. During the monotonous months, they had learned much about each other's lives. "The child's mother was the colonel's younger sister, Tatyana, and her father was a Russian cavalry officer. After Tatyana's first husband died, she went to a Swiss spa to bury her grief. There she met a Company administrator called Kenneth Stephenson, who was on his way home to teach at the Company training college at Haileybury. They married and lived at Haileybury until Tatyana died five or six years ago."

"The Company must have loved having a Russian at the heart of their training college," David said, amused.

"According to Pyotr, his sister wasn't the least political, but she could charm any man in creation. At any rate, after she died, Stephenson asked to be assigned to India again. He was made district collector in Baipur, and his stepdaughter came out with him. Pyotr hadn't had any contact with his niece for some time, but there's a good chance she's still in Baipur."

"The political agent in Cambay will know," David said. "What's the girl's name, and how old is she?"

"Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian, but Pyotr always called her 'his little Lara,' " Ian replied, rolling the "r's" on his tongue. "He said she'd been an early baby and Larissa Alexandrovna seemed too long a name for such a tiny mite, so she became Lara. Since Pyotr had no children of his own, his niece was special to him." Ian thought again. "I don't know how old the girl is, but from the way Pyotr talked, she must be thirteen or fourteen. Old enough to have the journal, and to know how her uncle died."

To himself, Ian admitted that it would be simpler if the girl were no longer within reach. Then he could send the journal, with a brief explanation, to a Russian embassy. But he owed Pyotr too much to take the easy way out, so he must visit the child himself.

Hesitantly David said, "Do you have a headache? You keep rubbing your forehead."

Ian's hand dropped. "I've had headaches ever since I lost the eye, but
they've been diminishing. Maybe they'll stop altogether some day." Suddenly David's unspoken sympathy was more than Ian could bear, and he felt a crashing need to be alone. "If you'll excuse me, I'm ready to call it anight."

He walked to the table and finished the last of his brandy, then withdrew to his room with more speed than courtesy. There he stripped off his outer clothing and lay down on the bed clad only in a pair of lightweight drawers. But in spite of fatigue and brandy, sleep eluded him.

He had always assumed he would spend his life in the army, had never considered leaving until he heard himself say that he was going to resign his commission. Yet as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he had known he had no choice. Once the military life had suited him as water suited a fish, but no more.

Above his head, the huge fan called a
punkah
turned lazily, sending cooler air over his heated body. Outside on the veranda, a servant called a
punkah wallah
pulled the rope that caused the fan to rotate. Eventually the servant decided it was time for bed, and the long, fabric-covered blades of the punkah creaked to a halt, leaving the inside of the bungalow silent.

As the air went still, the yellow flame of the oil lamp lengthened. Ian found himself watching as if mesmerized. He had deliberately left the lamp lighted, for in Bokhara he had developed a distaste for darkness.

His lips tightened to a bloodless line. It was time, past time, to be honest. What he felt about darkness was nothing as mild as distaste; it was surging, irrational terror.