"How interesting that there is a positive benefit," she said, intrigued. "What are the other effects of losing an eye?"
"Well, people stare more." He touched the eyepatch. "Asiatics have an almost mystical respect for vision—to lose an eye is to be incomplete and quite possibly wicked. Some of the natives make signs against the evil eye behind my back."
"I didn't know that," she said in a small voice. "I'm sorry, it was rude of me to ask."
"I'd rather be asked outright than have people try to avoid looking me in the face," he said, "I lost the eye as a result of a beating in prison and it was painful and a nuisance, to say the least. However, I was so grateful not to lose the other eye that I didn't spend much time cursing fate."
He fingered the eyepatch again. "I'm still adjusting to the differences. Oddly enough, though I haven't as wide a field of vision, the range has increased from what it was at first." He thought a moment more. "I had constant headaches at first, but they're decreasing. It is hard to judge depth and distance—sometimes I find myself pawing the ground like a pony because I can't tell if there's a step in front of me. And don't ask me to pour a drink unless you're feeling adventurous about the results. Still, it's getting easier all the time."
"There's at least one other benefit that you might not appreciate," Laura said lightly. "You look very dashing with an eyepatch. When you go into society, you'll have to fight off romantic young ladies."
His lighter mood vanished as if it had never existed. "I sincerely hope not.'' He got to his feet and lifted the shotgun and rifle. "Where do you want me to put these? Now that they're yours, you should probably keep them in your tent."
Though Laura accepted his change of topic, his dismissal of her comment didn't change her opinion: like it or not, the former major was fated to attract female admiration. How fortunate that Laura knew that marriage was not for her, or she might have been tempted to throw out some lures.
* * *
Ian spent a productive day acquainting himself with the water hole and the surrounding forest under the direction of Punwa, a taciturn woodsman from the village. It wasn't until they separated and Ian began walking from Nanda to the camp that it occurred to him that he felt better than he had in a long, long time. The demanding events of the last day and a half seemed to have temporarily freed him from the dark wheel of his own misery. He was still not his old self, for the shadows of melancholy had merely retreated a short distance, not vanished. Nonetheless, for the first time he could believe that a day would come when life would again be more pleasure than pain.
The hours he had spent in the forest had been healing. He had always loved nature, whether it was the desert, the jungle, or the beloved hills and coast of Scotland. Though not in most ways a patient man, he was capable of spending hours waiting for birds and animals to reveal themselves. But there had been little time to enjoy the natural world since his escape from Bokhara. He had spent the previous months in convalescence and travel, and there had been no opportunity to simply be still.
No, that wasn't true. There had been opportunity, but he had been incapable of enjoying anything.
Ian was skirting a pond outside Nanda when a dozen wild peafowl fluttered up. The metallic blues and greens of the males shimmered with impossible beauty. No wonder they occupied an important place in Hindu myth and legend; if India had a national bird, it was the peacock.
But dignity vanished when the creatures began to drink. Tails tilted whimsically to the sky when they bobbed forward to dip their beaks in the water, then dropped when the birds straightened up to swallow. The flock teetered back and forth like a collection of feathered seesaws. As Ian continued on his way, he found himself smiling. There hadn't been many smiles in his life lately.
Laura made him smile. As he resumed walking to the camp, he realized that she was the principal reason for his improved mood. He had talked more freely to her in the last day than to anyone since Pyotr had died. Perhaps it was because she was Pyotr's niece; Ian was intrigued by occasional gestures and turns of phrase that reminded him of her uncle. She also had some of Pyotr's character, for even in the depths of grief she was capable of humor and compassion.
Yet he suspected that the underlying reason he felt comfortable with Laura was because she, too, was suffering. Since his escape from Bokhara, Ian had learned the harsh truth behind the old proverb that misery loved company.
The only occasion when he had felt close to another person had been the night when his sister had wept on his shoulder, convinced that her marriage was over. Juliet's pain had drawn him out of himself to try to comfort her. He had even given some advice that, Juliet later informed him, had made it possible for her to heal the breach with her husband.
It had been much harder to be with her and Ross when they were radiantly happy. In fact, it was difficult for him to bear the company of anyone who was normal. But Laura's presence was soothing, for her pain and vulnerability were similar to his own.
He hoped that she decided to wait for him to accompany her back to Baipur. The journey would delay his departure for Scotland for several more weeks, but that was of no real importance. He wanted to assure himself that she was back among friends before he said good-bye.
Idly he wondered why she was so set against marriage; she did not have the manner of a woman who despised men. The most likely explanation was that she had suffered a broken heart. If so, perhaps she would be willing to accept a husband when she recovered. He hoped so; he disapproved of such a waste of womanly warmth and charm. Beyond that, he felt a responsibility for Pyotr's niece; he didn't like thinking of her living the gray life of a governess in another woman's house.
But it wouldn't come to that. Ian might be less than a man physically, but there was nothing wrong with his judgment. Laura was the sort of woman who would always attract men eager to love and protect her. She, at least, would not need to spend the rest of her life alone.
Veils of Silk
The Silk Trilogy
Book Three
by
Mary Jo Putney
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Veils of Silk
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MARY JO PUTNEY is a graduate of Syracuse University with degrees in eighteenth-century literature and industrial design. A New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author, she has won numerous awards, including two RITA's from the Romance Writers of America and the Career Achievement Award for Historical Romance from Romantic Times. Though most of her books have been historical, she has also published three contemporary romances. Her growing list of Young Adult novels are published under M J Putney. Ms Putney resides in Maryland with her nearest and dearest, both two- and four-footed.
Visit her website at www.maryjoputney.com
Special Edition Excerpt
If you're new to Mary Jo Putney's work,
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Thunder and Roses,
book one in Mary Jo's award-winning
Fallen Angels.
Excerpt from
Thunder and Roses
Fallen Angels Series
Book One
by
Mary Jo Putney
Chapter 1
Wales, March 1814
They called him the Demon Earl, or sometimes Old Nick. Hushed voices whispered that he had seduced his grandfather's young wife, broken his grandfather's heart, and driven his own bride to her grave.
They said he could do anything.
Only the last claim interested Clare Morgan as her gaze followed the man racing his stallion down the valley as if all the fires of hell pursued him. Nicholas Davies, the Gypsy Earl of Aberdare, had finally come home, after four long years. Perhaps he would stay, but it was equally possible that he wo
uld be gone again tomorrow. Clare must act quickly.
Yet she lingered a little longer, knowing that he would never see her in the cluster of trees from which she watched. He rode bareback, flaunting his wizardry with horses, dressed in black except for the scarlet scarf knotted around his throat. He was too far away for her to see his face. She wondered if he had changed, then decided that the real question was not if, but how much. Whatever the truth behind the violent events that had driven him away, it had to have been searing.
Would he remember her? Probably not. He'd only seen her a handful of times, and she had been a child then. Not only had he been Viscount Tregar, but he was four years older than she, and older children seldom paid much attention to younger ones.
The reverse was not true.
As she walked back to the village of Penreith, she reviewed her pleas and arguments. One way or another, she must persuade the Demon Earl to help. No one else could make a difference.
* * *
For a few brief minutes, while his stallion blazed across the estate like a mad wind, Nicholas was able to lose himself in the exhilaration of pure speed. But reality closed in again when the ride ended and he returned to the house.
In his years abroad he had often dreamed of Aberdare, torn between yearning and fear of what he would find there. The twenty-four hours since his return had proved that his fears had been justified. He'd been a fool to think that four years away could obliterate the past. Every room of the house, every acre of the valley, held memories. Some were happy ones, but they had been overlaid by more recent events, tainting what he had once loved. Perhaps, in the furious moments before he died, the old earl had laid a curse on the valley so that his despised grandson would never again know happiness here.
Nicholas walked to the window of his bedroom and stared out. The valley was as beautiful as ever—wild in the heights, lushly cultivated lower down. The delicate greens of spring were beginning to show. Soon there would be daffodils. As a boy, he had helped the gardeners plant drifts of bulbs under the trees, getting thoroughly muddy in the process. His grandfather had seen it as further proof of Nicholas's low breeding.
He raised his eyes to the ruined castle that brooded over the valley. For centuries those immensely thick walls had been both fortress and home to the Davies family. More peaceful times had led Nicholas's great-great-grandfather to build the mansion considered suitable for one of Britain's wealthiest families.
Among many other advantages, the house had plenty of bedrooms. Nicholas had been grateful for that the previous day. He never considered using the state apartment that had been his grandfather's. Entering his own rooms proved to be a gut-wrenching experience, for it was impossible to see his old bed without imagining Caroline in it, her lush body naked and her eager arms beckoning. He had retreated immediately to a guest room that was safely anonymous, like an expensive hotel.
Yet even there, he slept poorly, haunted by bad dreams and worse memories. By morning, he had reached the harsh conclusion that he must sever all ties with Aberdare. He would never find peace of mind here, any more than he had in four years of constant, restless travel.
Might it be possible to break the entail so that the estate could be sold? He must ask his lawyer. The thought of selling made him ache with emptiness. It would be like cutting off an arm—yet if a limb was festering, there was no other choice.
Still, selling would not be wholly without compensations. It pleased Nicholas to know that getting rid of the place would give his grandfather the ghostly equivalent of apoplexy, wherever the hypocritical old bastard was now.
Abruptly he spun on his heel, stalked out of his bedroom, and headed downstairs to the library. How to live the rest of his life was a topic too dismal to contemplate, but he could certainly do something about the next few hours. With a little effort and a lot of brandy, they could be eliminated entirely.
* * *
Clare had never been inside Aberdare before. It was as grand as she had expected, but gloomy, with most of the furniture still concealed under holland covers. Four years of emptiness had made the place forlorn as well. The butler, Williams, was equally gloomy. He hadn't wanted to take Clare to the earl without first announcing her, but he had grown up in the village, so she was able to persuade him. He escorted her down a long corridor, then opened the door to the library. "Miss Clare Morgan to see you, my lord. She said her business is urgent."
Taking a firm grip on her courage, Clare walked past Williams into the library, not wanting to give the earl time to refuse her. If she failed today, she wouldn't get another chance.
The earl stood by a window, staring out across the valley. His coat had been tossed over a chair, and his shirt-sleeved informality gave him a rakish air. Odd that he had been known as Old Nick; even now, he was scarcely thirty.
As the door closed behind Williams, the earl turned, his forbidding gaze going right to Clare. Though not unusually tall, he radiated power. She remembered that even at the age when most lads were gawky, he had moved with absolute physical mastery.
On the surface, he seemed much the same. If anything, he was even more handsome than he had been four years ago. She would not have thought that possible. But he had indeed changed; she saw it in his eyes. Once they had brimmed with teasing laughter that invited others to laugh with him. Now they were as impenetrable as polished Welsh flint. The duels and flagrant affairs and public scandals had left their mark.
As she hesitated, wondering if she should speak first, he asked, "Are you related to Reverend Thomas Morgan?"
"His daughter. I'm the schoolmistress in Penreith."
His bored gaze flicked over her. "That's right, sometimes he had a grubby brat in tow."
Stung, she retorted, "I wasn't half as grubby as you were."
"Probably not," he agreed, a faint smile in his eyes. "I was a disgrace. During lessons, your father often referred to you as a model of saintly decorum. I hated you sight unseen."
It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. Hoping that it would irritate him, Clare said sweetly, "And to me, he said that you were the cleverest boy he had ever taught, and that you had a good heart in spite of your wildness."
"Your father's judgment leaves much to be desired," the earl said, his momentary levity vanishing. "As the preacher's daughter, I assume you are seeking funds for some boring, worthy cause. Apply to my steward in the future rather than bothering me. Good day, Miss Morgan."
He was starting to turn away when she said quickly, "What I wish to discuss is not a matter for your steward."
His mobile lips twisted. "But you do want something, don't you? Everyone does."
He strolled to a decanter-covered cabinet and refilled a glass that he had been carrying. "Whatever it is, you won't get it from me. Noblesse oblige was my grandfather's province. Kindly leave while the atmosphere is still civil."
She realized uneasily that he was well on his way to being drunk. Well, she had dealt with drunks before. "Lord Aberdare, people in Penreith are suffering, and you are the only man in a position to make a difference. It will cost you very little in time or money..."
"I don't care how little is involved," he said forcefully. "I don't want anything to do with the village, or the people who live in it! Is that clear? Now get the hell out."
Clare felt her stubbornness rising. "I am not asking for your help, my lord, I am demanding it," she snapped. "Shall I explain now, or should I wait until you're sober?"
He regarded her with amazement. "If anyone here is drunk, it would appear to be you. If you think your sex will protect you from physical force, you're wrong. Will you go quietly, or am I going to have to carry you out?" He moved toward her with purposeful strides, his white, open-throated shirt emphasizing the intimidating breadth of his shoulders.
Resisting the impulse to back away, Clare reached into the pocket of her cloak and pulled out the small book that was her only hope. Opening the volume to the handwritten inscription, she held it up for him to see. "Do you
remember this?"
The message was a simple one. Reverend Morgan—I hope that some day I will be able to repay all you have done for me. Affectionately, Nicholas Davies.
The schoolboy scrawl stopped the earl as if he had been struck. His wintry gaze shifted from the book to Clare's face. "You play to win, don't you? However, you're holding the wrong hand. Any obligation I might feel would be toward your father. If he wants favors, he should ask for them in person."
"He can't," she said baldly. "He died two years ago."
After an awkward silence, the earl said, "I'm sorry, Miss Morgan. Your father was probably the only truly good man I've ever known."
"Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel..."
Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl's charity, Nicholas interrupted her. "Spare me. I know that my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower orders, but that holds no appeal for me."
"At least he took his responsibilities seriously," she retorted. "You haven't done a thing for the estate or the village since you inherited."
"A record I have every intention of maintaining." He finished his drink and set the glass down with a clink. "Neither your father's good example nor the old earl's moralizing succeeded in transforming me into a gentleman. I don't give a damn about anyone or anything, and I prefer it that way."
She stared at him, shocked. "How can you say such a thing? No one is that callous."
"Ah, Miss Morgan, your innocence is touching." He leaned against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his broad chest, looking as diabolical as his nickname. "You had better leave before I shatter any more of your illusions."
"Don't you care that your neighbors are suffering?"
"In a word, no. The Bible says that the poor will always be with us, and if Jesus couldn't change that, I certainly can't." He gave her a mocking smile. "With the possible exception of your father, I've never met a man of conspicuous charity who didn't have base motives. Most who make a show of generosity do it because they crave the gratitude of their inferiors and the satisfactions of self-righteousness. At least I, in my honest selfishness, am not a hypocrite."