"So we are," Zafir agreed. With one swift motion he sat up, caught Meera's left wrist, and pulled her across his lap.
She gasped as he kissed her. He was very strong, but it wasn't just his strength that kept her draped across him like a shawl. Though he was a barbarian, he knew a great deal about kissing. He was also in the full flower of manhood, not in the sunset of his years like Mohan had been.
Meera was unable to prevent herself from responding, but when he released her, for pride's sake she skittered out of his reach. "Fool!" She adjusted her disordered scarf over her head. "I should have put my chopping knife through you."
"But you didn't, little dove." He gave her a lazy smile. "And you wouldn't."
"Try that again and I'll add a few pieces of Pathan to the stew," Meera retorted. When a gleam showed in Zafir's eyes, as if he were considering testing her threat, she hastily retreated to the other side of the fire and dug into a pouch for seasonings.
As she began grinding spices together, she vowed that the next time Zafir tried to kiss her, she would show him that she was not a weak slut who would roll onto her back for any arrogant rooster who showed interest in her.
Rather to her disappointment, he didn't try again.
* * *
They were about five miles from Manpur when a troop of cavalry came galloping down the road toward them, scattering pedestrians and bullock carts. Seeing Ian frown, Laura asked, "Is this trouble?"
"Shouldn't be," he said slowly. "I've never heard of Rajiv Singh bothering Europeans traveling through his state."
But Laura noticed that her husband had come sharply alert, ready for anything that might come. She herself was glad of a distraction, for the three days since they had left Habibur's compound had been sheer torture.
Daytime was difficult, for her awareness of Ian was a constant ache, but night was worse now that experience had transformed her vague longings into painful desire. She remembered every kiss and caress Ian had given her, and she wanted more.
Which was precisely why she must keep her distance. The fierceness of her yearning confirmed her resolution that they must stay apart, for it was frighteningly clear how quickly passion could get out of hand. A single night had filled her with dangerous, unstable emotions and desires, and more such nights would make her even more dangerous. Only God knew where that would end.
Much as physical separation hurt Laura, she suspected that it hurt Ian even more. It was hard to be sure. He was better at concealing his emotions than she was, and he had retreated behind an impenetrable wall of detachment. But he couldn't hide the force of his desire, which emanated from him with the intensity of a bonfire.
That was bad enough, but she had an unhappy suspicion that frustration was not his only problem. In spite of Laura's attempt to explain that the fault was hers, she guessed that Ian blamed himself alone for what had happened. It was bitterly unfair that he was tied to a woman incapable of being a wife to him.
In the darkest hours of the night, when her guilt was as sharp a pain as her desire, she considered telling her husband that he should seek physical satisfaction elsewhere. Yet the mere thought of Ian with another woman was enough to send Laura half out of her mind with jealousy.
If Ian had even once turned his desire toward Meera, Laura would have become a hissing virago. Fortunately he did not. It was his wife he watched. Again and again during the day she felt the pressure of his hooded gaze. Probably, she thought with depression, he was wondering what the devil he had done to merit the misfortune of marrying a crazy Russian.
No one had ever told Laura that marriage was like two people sharing a narrow single bed—one made of nettles. They couldn't spend the rest of their lives at such a pitch of tension. One way or another the situation must change, but she had no idea how. For her to leave Ian was unthinkable. The possibility that he might leave her was even worse.
Before her thoughts could go any further in such a profitless direction, the contingent of Dharjistani horsemen arrived, reining in their mounts with a flourish. The officer called out, "Do I have the honor of addressing Lord Falkirk?"
"You do, sir," Ian replied, showing no surprise at the question. News traveled quickly in this part of the world, and Ian's distinctive appearance made him easy to identify.
The officer salaamed gracefully. "I am Ahmed of the royal guard. Maharajah Rajiv Singh has heard of your coming and invites you to stay at his palace. You are going to Lahore?"
"No, our destination is Manpur," Ian said. "My wife has a small matter of business that pertains to the maharajah, if His Royal Highness will condescend to receive us."
The officer's surprised glance went briefly to Laura. "Rajiv Singh will surely rejoice at the opportunity to receive you both. Permit us to escort you the rest of the way."
The horsemen divided, half staying in front and the other falling in behind Zafir and Meera. As milling hooves raised a cloud of dust, Ian muttered something under his breath. Only Laura was close enough to hear, and she said quietly, "What was that?"
"Nothing," he replied. "Just an old eastern proverb. 'Beware of the man who has no ax to grind.'"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugged. "Nothing much. Just that it's a bit surprising that a maharajah would go to so much effort to welcome unknown private travelers of no particular importance."
"You're a lord. Perhaps he thinks you have influence with the Sirkar. Or maybe he's just bored and wants company."
Ian gave her a sardonic glance but didn't answer. They rode the last few miles in silence.
* * *
Laura's eyes widened when they passed through the massive gates into the palace of Rajiv Singh. Outside, the land was flat and dusty, but within the high walls was a lush green pleasure garden that stretched as far as she could see. Gaudily colored birds sang in the trees and a cluster of tiny, elegant deer drifted by less than fifty yards away.
The palace itself, when they finally reached it, was even more impressive. Laura had been in the homes of wealthy natives, but this was luxury on a scale she had never imagined. Like most grand Indian architecture, the building was in the Islamic style that was a legacy of the Mughal rulers and was a symphony of white walls, slim towers, and graceful arches.
They were ceremoniously passed to a household official who bid them to follow him. The walk was a lengthy one that took them through a maze of courtyards, lofty chambers, and passages. The palace bustled with servants and courtiers, none of whom showed more than mild curiosity about the visitors.
As they walked, Laura wondered if once again she and Ian would be forced to share close quarters, as at Habibur's. She needn't have worried. They were given a whole suite of rooms on the second floor. Because the apartment was in a corner of the building, an abundance of windows gave it an airy, spacious feel.
The official bowed himself out of the reception chamber, which was the equivalent of an English drawing room. He took Zafir and Meera with him so they could be shown to their own quarters before returning to help their employers unpack.
As Laura took off her topi, she surveyed the embroidered hangings, cushioned couches, and exquisite Persian murals. "Queen Victoria wouldn't feel slighted at laying her royal head here."
"This is far more impressive than the royal palace at Kensington." Ian indicated a Moorish arch. "Shall we explore?"
Laura walked past him and found herself on a balcony that overlooked a quiet courtyard with a fountain in the middle and cooing doves in a tree. The scene was so charming that she impulsively leaned over the railing and cooed back. As soon as she heard herself, she stopped, embarrassed at her silliness.
"Were you cooing in Urdu?" Ian said with interest.
"In Russian," she said, blushing. "I always liked talking to the doves in the park when I was a child." At least her husband's expression was amused rather than contemptuous. It was the most relaxed he had appeared in days.
Looking as dignified as possible for a woman who had been caug
ht talking to a dove, she left the balcony and went to the first of the two arches in the end of the reception room.
She found an opulent bedroom, with a silk-covered bed large enough for four people. Laura hastily averted her eyes from the bed and went to the next arch, where she was grateful to find an identical bedroom. Though the two chambers connected through a doorway, at least she and Ian could sleep separately.
As she tossed her topi on the bed in the second room, Ian called, "I've found something I think you'll like."
Laura went to investigate and sighed rapturously at the sight of the incredible bath chamber. A tub that was easily six feet square was sunken into a floor of glazed ogee tiles, and stacks of thick towels and vials of perfumed oils sat ready for use.
"Oh, my," she said reverently as she looked up at the ceiling, where a translucent dome admitted gentle aqueous light. "Like a Turkish bagnio. This is positively sinful."
"Spoken like a good Scottish Presbyterian," Ian said. "Does that mean you won't bathe here for fear of imperiling your immortal soul?"
Laura grinned. "Not on your life. I'll meditate on my sins of sloth and gluttony while I'm immersed in steaming water.''
As she glanced back at the tub, a little maid entered from a service door hidden behind a screen in the corner. The girl bowed. "Would the memsahib like to bathe?"
"Yes, please." Laura turned to leave so the maid could arrange the bath. She almost collided with Ian, who was closer than she had realized.
He sucked in his breath and stepped back into the drawing room, his face rigid. He hadn't touched her in any way for three days, and now she knew why: proximity triggered a flash of sizzling heat between them.
She drifted back toward the balcony, not looking at Ian. To obliterate that moment of painful awareness, she asked, "What happens now that we're here?"
"We wait to be summoned by the maharajah. The chamberlain will pass on our request to see him." Ian surveyed their sumptuous surroundings without enthusiasm. "I hope Rajiv Singh will receive us before too many days have passed."
Though he didn't say so, Laura knew that he was thinking how stressful it would be for them to be together with nothing to occupy their time. As she went into her bedroom to prepare for her bath, she silently echoed Ian's hope that the maharajah would not delay long in summoning them.
* * *
Their hopes were fulfilled with startling speed. Laura had barely completed her bath when a chamberlain entered and announced that His Gracious Majesty Rajiv Singh, son of heaven and ruler of earth, was ready to receive his guests. There followed a frantic ten minutes while Meera helped Laura dress.
In honor of the occasion, Laura donned a conventional day dress, complete with corset. She hoped Rajiv Singh appreciated her efforts on his behalf.
Meera hastily coiled Laura's hair into a tawny knot at the back of her head. A picture of respectable British womanhood, Laura joined her husband in the drawing room, where he was patiently giving the chamberlain his full name, titles, and honors, for use in announcing him to the maharajah. He had also changed his clothing and looked as distinguished as a man with a rakish eye patch could.
As they left the apartment, Ian seemed his usual imperturbable self, but as Laura looked at him from the corner of her eye, she thought his expression was too controlled. Speaking under her breath in English, she said, "Aren't you glad that we'll be getting this over so quickly? You look dubious."
"I just have an overly suspicious mind," he murmured. "Amir Nasrullah of Bokhara was very affable when I first called on him. In fact, his hospitality was splendid right up to the moment he had me tossed into the Black Well."
Her brows knit in concern. As they went down the stairs, she said, "Is your intuition saying that something is wrong, or is this just natural caution?"
"The latter," he said without hesitation. "The situations are entirely different. Nasrullah was known to be mad and he hated all Europeans. In contrast, Rajiv Singh is one of the cleverest, sanest princes in India."
They spoke no more until they reached the vast chamber where the maharajah held audience. Called a durbar room, it glittered with crystal, gilding, and shining marble. Dozens of chattering, lavishly dressed courtiers lounged around the edges. Laura had the dizzy impression that there were more jewels present in this one room than could be found in all of England.
Amidst so much dazzle, she almost missed seeing a raised step ahead of them, for the diffuse light in the durbar room cast few shadows. Immediately she realized that if it was hard for her to see, it was probably impossible for Ian. She took a firm hold of his arm, as if she were nervous and wanted his support. Ignoring the fact that he stiffened when she touched him, she said under her breath, "A step upward, about two strides ahead."
With her warning, he was able to avoid stumbling. "Thanks," he murmured after they had both negotiated the step successfully.
Though there were no more steps, she kept hold of his arm until they reached the Persian carpet in front of the dais that held the throne. The chamberlain announced, "Ian Cameron, Lord Falkirk of Falkirk, fourteenth Baron Falkirk and seventh Baron Montieth, late of the 46th Native Infantry, and Lady Falkirk."
Ian bowed and Laura curtsied. Then she raised her head and looked at the maharajah. From across the room he had been just another glittering figure, but now her eyes widened. Though she had heard of Rajiv Singh's power and intelligence, no one had mentioned that he was handsome enough to earn any woman's admiration. Tall and fit, he was probably in his late thirties. Under a scarlet, bejeweled turban he had humorous dark eyes that studied his visitors with shrewd interest.
The maharajah said in flawless English, "Welcome to Dharjistan, Lord and Lady Falkirk. I understand that you wish to speak with me?"
He was of the warrior caste of Rajputs and had the natural authority of a born leader of men. He also had the directness of a military man, and Ian responded with equal directness. "Yes, Your Highness. My wife is the niece of Colonel Pyotr Andreyovich Kushutkin, who claimed acquaintance with you."
The Rajput's face lit up as he transferred his gaze to Laura. ''Ah, you must be the one he called 'his little Lara'?"
"Yes, Your Highness, though I use the name Laura now."
"How is my old friend Pyotr Andreyovich?"
"I regret to say that he is dead."
Rajiv Singh sighed. "A great pity, but not a surprise. It was a dangerous trade your uncle plied." He regarded her with interest. "Pyotr Andreyovich said his young niece played chess very well. Are you as good as he was, Lady Falkirk?"
"Uncle Pyotr taught me," she said demurely.
A gleam showed in the maharajah's eyes. "That's a strong recommendation." His expression became thoughtful. "I had half forgotten, but your uncle left a small casket of personal effects here. Is that why you have come?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Laura replied. "Before his death, he wrote me a letter wherein he mentioned the casket, saying that he had left it with you."
"It will be delivered to your chambers as soon as it can be located." Rajiv Singh gave an engaging grin. "It's somewhere in the treasure room. Quite safe, but the place is cluttered, so some searching will be required."
His gaze returned to Ian. "You're a soldier, Lord Falkirk?"
"I resigned my commission when I inherited the title," Ian explained, "but before that I was in the army.''
"Very good. You should be interested in a troop review that I will be holding in a few days." The Rajput smiled. "I'm rather proud of my army. I hired the best officers in Europe to train it, and I've provided the finest weapons. With the Punjab in turmoil and the frontier tribes always a threat, I must be prepared. If you have suggestions for improvements in drill or equipment, I shall be glad to entertain them."
"Your Highness is most gracious," Ian said. "Though I have no special expertise beyond that of other officers, I would be honored to watch the troop review."
His face as eager as a boy's, the maharajah leaned forward in his massiv
e gilded throne. "Have you experience with artillery?" When Ian nodded, Rajiv Singh said, "I have been told that Russian cannon can fire twelve times a minute, but I have trouble believing that. Is such a rate possible?''
"Whoever said that exaggerated," Ian replied. "The best crews I've seen can only do about seven rounds a minute and for accuracy, four rounds a minute is better. Why waste one's fire?"
"Certainly the number of hits is more important than sheer speed," the Rajput said thoughtfully. "Do you think...?"
Laura's attention wandered as the conversation became technical. Then a richly dressed lady-in-waiting came forward and beckoned her to come up on the side of the dais. "Please to come, Lady Falkirk," she said haltingly.
It seemed rather bold to move so close to the maharajah, so Laura glanced at Ian. He had seen the interchange and nodded that it was all right, so Laura followed the lady-in-waiting up the steps and across the level surface of the dais, less than a dozen feet from the throne. Absorbed in his conversation with Ian, Rajiv Singh ignored her, and none of the heavily armed guards paid any attention at all.
It appeared that her guide intended to walk straight into the wall. Then Laura realized that what she had thought was a mural was actually an embroidered fabric panel that covered an opening about six feet wide. It was a purdah curtain, designed to protect a highborn Hindu lady from the stares of the vulgar. The material was so sheer that light and dark could be distinguished on the other side.
Without hesitation, the lady-in-waiting parted the curtain and walked through, then turned and again gestured for Laura to follow. Alive with curiosity, Laura stepped through the curtains, and found herself in another world.
Chapter 23
The small room behind the purdah curtain was decorated with a richness that would have made Aladdin's cave seem plain, and the air was redolent of a complex, haunting perfume that implied both innocence and age-old wisdom. Yet it was the woman sitting calmly on the cushioned divan who made Laura catch her breath in wonder. She must be the maharani, and she was the quintessence of eastern loveliness, with dusky skin and huge, dark almond eyes that seemed to see and understand everything. The tiny, starlike gems that spangled her white silk bodice and sari made her look like an Oriental version of the queen of fairyland.