Veils of Silk (9 page)

Instead of sleep, the laudanum sent Laura into a black paralysis laced by nightmare images of her stepfather. He stood before her with his familiar warm smile, but when she tried to touch him, he receded away, vanishing into the swirling darkness that had already claimed her mother and first father.

In fifteen years of nightmares, Laura had never succeeded in preventing her parents from leaving, yet it was not in her nature to stop trying. Surely if she said the right words, did the right thing, she could persuade Kenneth to stay. Yet time and again she failed. It occurred to her that perhaps she could follow him into the darkness. With immense effort, she forced her numb limbs to move and ran after his retreating figure, desperately calling, "Papa!" as she clawed through the barriers that came between them.

Then, with miraculous suddenness, she ran smack into her stepfather's solid frame. His arms went around her and finally she was safe. Weeping with joy, she clung to him. "Papa," she whispered, burrowing into his embrace. "Papa, I had such a horrible nightmare. I dreamed that you died."

A deep, unfamiliar voice penetrated the mists that surrounded her. "Miss Stephenson… Laura, wake up."

Dazedly she raised her head and found that it was not her stepfather holding her, but a stranger, a lean, harsh-faced man with a black patch over one eye. He would have been frightening if it weren't for the kindness in his voice. "You were sleepwalking," he said softly. "Are you awake now?"

Uncertainly she pushed away from the stranger's embrace and looked around. The dream barrier she had fought her way past must have been the tent flap, for she was now outdoors, standing barefoot a dozen feet from the smaller fire. Fifty feet away, by the larger fire, she saw the sleeping forms of the servants, and drowsy bullocks and horses were scattered about.

Piece by piece, her memory of the previous night returned, from her stepfather's death until the arrival of this capable stranger. Cameron, he had said his name was. Ian Cameron. Her gaze returned to the gaunt planes of his face. "So it wasn't a nightmare—my father really is gone."

"I'm afraid so. Come and have some tea. I just brewed another pot." He guided Laura to a folded blanket that had been laid by the fire. After she sat down, he poured a mug of tea, sugared it heavily, and pressed it into her hands. She drank automatically, scarcely noticing the scalding heat. In the east, the sky had a rosy tint. Soon this dreadful night would be over.

By the time she had drained the mug her haziness had cleared. It occurred to her that she should be embarrassed at sitting cross-legged in front of a total stranger, wearing only a light nightdress. Yet she was not uncomfortable, probably, because Ian Cameron was so matter-of-fact about the situation. Holding the mug out, she said, "Sorry to be such a nuisance."

He leaned over with the pot and poured her more tea. "Actually, you're holding up remarkably well. Most women would be having strong hysterics in these circumstances."

As she sipped the second mug, she examined her companion. Last night he had been terrifying when he exploded out of the darkness and overpowered her, and even now the eyepatch gave him a piratical air. Yet his stern features were well-formed, and in the glow of the fire his hair was burnished auburn. It was a surprisingly warm color for a man who had the wary, fine-strung alertness of a predator. Seeing the rifle that lay near his hand, she said, "You've been awake all night guarding the camp?"

He nodded. "I doubt it was necessary, but I knew people would rest better if there was a lookout."

Thinking that he carried himself like a soldier, she asked, "Are you in the army?"

He gave her a sharp glance. "I used to be a major in the 46th Native Infantry."

His expression did not encourage further questions, so she returned to drinking her tea. Her companion might have resigned his commission, but mentally she started thinking of him as Major Cameron; he was too forceful to think of as plain Mr. Cameron.

It was now light enough to distinguish colors, and the forest had become an arena of competitive bird choirs. The servants began stirring at the other fire, and soon the clearing filled with the scent of baking
chapatis
, an unleavened bread that was cooked on a griddle.

Ian took advantage of his companion's distraction to study her appearance, since the night before he had been unable to determine much except that she was a bit above average height. Now the dawn light revealed that her eyes were an unusual shade of clear light amber, almost the same color as her long straight hair. Though Laura did not have Georgina's vivid, cream-and-gold prettiness, her features were strong, and she had a contained quality that hinted at mysteries. It was an intriguing face, the sort one remembered long after mere prettiness was forgotten.

His gaze drifted lower. Though she showed an unfeminine lack of fussiness about the unconventional circumstances, the figure revealed by her nightdress was very feminine indeed.

He sighed, thinking that it was further proof of his incapacity that he could be so objective about a very attractive girl. He had never been a womanizer who tried to bed every female he met, but he had always had a masculine awareness of the women around him. He had not appreciated how much pleasure that awareness lent to life until it was gone.

His gaze returned to his companion's still profile. She was indeed bearing up well, but it was apparent that paralyzing grief lay just beneath her calm surface. Regretting that he must increase her misery, he said, "Miss Stephenson, I'm afraid there are some decisions that only you can make."

She looked directly at him. "What decisions?"

He was intrigued to see that her amber eyes had an Oriental slant that was as attractive as it was exotic. "Do you want to take your father's body back to Baipur?" He hesitated before adding, "The weather is hot, and the trip will take days by bullock cart."

As she understood what he was hinting at, her face tightened. "My father can be buried here. He loved all of India—it doesn't matter whether he rests in Nanda or Baipur." She ran distracted fingers through her hair, tangling it even further. "I must send a man to the village to inform the headman of my father's death, and to ask about a burial site."

"I've already done that," Ian said. "I imagine the headman himself will arrive soon to talk with you."

The soft-footed cook came and set down a tray that held a platter of fresh chapatis and a bowl of dal, a mixture of spiced lentils. When Laura stared blankly at the tray, Ian said, "You'd better eat something. It's going to be a difficult day."

Obediently she picked up a chapati, tore off a piece, and used the fragment to scoop up a mouthful of dal. After she had chewed and swallowed it, she said, vaguely surprised, "I'm hungry. I think I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

Eventually Laura ate twice as much as Ian, though that was no great feat, given the state of his appetite. When they had finished, she said, "Your business with my father—is it something I can help you with? I… I know you must be eager to be on your way again."

"I'm in no particular hurry," he said mildly. "If you wish, I can escort you back to Baipur."

She blinked and looked away. "I would like that," she said in a low voice. "If you're sure you don't mind."

"I'm sure." Though she would not have asked him to stay, Ian could see that she was grateful for the support of a countryman. Rather to his surprise, he realized that he actively wanted to assist her. He would have helped any woman in distress, but Laura Stephenson aroused his protective instincts. More than that, he felt a sense of affinity with her, even though the source of her pain was very different from his own.

After composing herself, she said, "You still haven't told me why you came all the way to Nanda to find my father."

"Actually, my primary goal was not your father," Ian said. "I'm looking for a
Russian girl named Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian. I was told she was Kenneth Stephenson's stepdaughter. Do you have a stepsister by that name?"

Her expression immediately became shuttered. "I am Larissa Alexandrovna, or I once was. What do you want of me?"

Startled, Ian exclaimed, "You're Lara?"

Her dark brows arched. "Indeed. Why is that surprising?"

Ian shook his head, feeling a fool for having missed the obvious. "I'm sorry, I had it firmly in mind that Lara was a girl of thirteen or fourteen. I didn't expect a grown woman." If he hadn't assumed she was English, he would have known immediately, for she had Pyotr's high, dramatic Slavic cheekbones. Those slanted amber eyes attested to the centuries when Russia had been harried by the Golden Hordes of Central Asia. The inevitable mixing of the races had given rise to a Russian proverb Pyotr had sometimes used: "Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar." His niece was living proof of his words, for clearly her ancestors had included Mongol warriors; the expression she wore at that moment would do credit to Genghis Khan in a mistrustful mood.

With more than a hint of hostility, she said, "I've been Laura Stephenson since I was ten. No one calls me Lara now."

"But your uncle did."

"My uncle?" Her hostility vanished and her face went suddenly pale. "You know my Uncle Pyotr?"

"I'm afraid I'm the bearer of more bad news," Ian said gravely. "Colonel Kushutkin died in Bokhara last year."

She closed her eyes and a spasm of grief crossed her face. "I was afraid
something had happened to him," she said sorrowfully. "It had been so long since
his last letter, and even longer since I saw him in person. I was only thirteen during his last visit to England."

Ian nodded, enlightened. "That must be why he talked of you as a much younger girl—it was the image he carried in his mind."

Her hands clenched convulsively. "My mother always said Pyotr's taste for adventure would lead to death in some wild, distant place."

"It did," Ian said, "but not before he had seen and done things most men only dream of. He told me once that only a poor-spirited coward would want to die in his own bed."

"How did you know him?"

"We were prisoners together in the Black Well of Bokhara." Ian's throat tightened. He hated speaking of what had happened there, but Lara had a right to know. "There are many Russian slaves in Bokhara, and the Foreign Office was worried that they would provide an excuse for the tsar to invade and annex the khanate. I was sent to Bokhara to ask the amir to release the slaves, which would remove a source of provocation. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of going to Kokand first, and the amir decided that meant I was a spy. He threw me into the Black Well, where Pyotr had been imprisoned for six months. We shared the cell for a year. In the end, he saved my life."

Laura gave Ian a searching look. "How?"

"The amir finally decided to execute me. When the guards came, I was feverish, out of my head. Pyotr
Andreyovich insisted on going in my place." Ian stared into the fire, remembering. In the last moments before he was taken away, Pyotr had tried to tell Ian something, speaking with frantic urgency, but Ian was so delirious that he had understood only that his friend was going to die. He remembered nothing else. Ever since, he had had the frustrating sense that he had missed something vital, yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn't recall what. "Pyotr said that a quick execution was better than staying in the Black Well and dying slowly of the lung condition he had:"

Her brows drew together. "Why did the guards accept him in your place?"

"Probably it never occurred to them that anyone would choose to be executed before his time," Ian replied. "It helped that Pyotr and I were about the same height, both skinny as scarecrows, and with beards covering most of our faces. His hair was darker than mine, but we were so filthy that the differences weren't obvious—especially not to men who thought that all
ferengis
, all Europeans, looked much the same."

Tears glinted in Laura's eyes. "So because you were younger and more likely to survive, Pyotr gave you a chance at life."

Yes, and it had been an excruciatingly difficult gift to accept. But that was not something that Pyotr's niece needed to know. "I heard later that your uncle died with great bravery. He stood straight and crossed himself, saying that he died a Christian. Then he commended his soul to God."

"Strange," she murmured. "I didn't know he was religious."

 "Perhaps he wasn't earlier, but prison has a way of reducing life to its essentials." Ian had envied Pyotr his faith, which had grown through the months until it became a beacon that warmed them both. Then Pyotr had died, and the light had died with him.

Visibly bracing herself, she asked, "How was he executed?"

More and more, Ian admired her. India polarized European women, making them either frail or strong. Laura was not frail. "Pyotr was beheaded," Ian replied. "It's unpleasant to think of, but quick and relatively painless. The amir considered himself humane when he changed from hanging to beheading."

"Forgive me if I'm not impressed by the amir's kindness," she said dryly. "But at least you managed to survive. Did the British government arrange for your release from prison?"

"Hardly. They were quite willing to assume that I was dead," Ian said, not quite able to conceal his bitterness. "My sister and her husband came to Bokhara and rescued me from that damned hole by sheer bluster."

Laura's eyes rounded. "Your
sister
!"

"Juliet is rather remarkable. If you like, I'll tell you the whole story later, but now I want to carry out Pyotr's last request." Ian leaned over to his baggage and extracted a small rectangular package, then handed it to Laura. "He asked me to see that you got this if I ever had the chance. Since I knew where your stepfather was stationed, I decided to deliver it in person."

She unwrapped the waterproof covering to find a small Russian Bible. The volume was a work of art, with a cover of tooled leather and a hand-painted frontispiece that depicted the Virgin and Child in the distinctive style of the Orthodox Church. But the greatest value lay in the fact that every available inch of blank paper was covered with penciled words written in Russian.