SILK AND SECRETS (48 page)

Turning to the ravine, she shouted, a faint tremor in her voice, “Men of Bokhara! Your mission is over, for your officer, Yawer Shahid Mahmud, is dead and the ferengi is mortally wounded. If you withdraw now, we will permit you to take your weapons and depart in peace and honor. But if you continue fighting, you will be hunted down and killed like dogs.”

As she paused for breath, Ross felt an obscure satisfaction at hearing that he was mortally wounded, for it explained why he felt so strange, not quite connected to his body. There was no pain, merely numbness, an endless, drifting lassitude, as if he were a piece of flotsam drifting out on the tide of death.

Juliet continued, her words echoing from the stony ravine, “I am Guli Sarahi and my fortress, Serevan, is less than a farsakh away. Already my men will be on their way here, drawn by the sound of gunfire. You will have no chance against them.”

At first there was no reply. Then a voice bellowed from the other side of the gorge, “What of our dead?”

“Shahid was a brute and a bully, but he had the virtue of courage and he died while doing his duty,” Juliet called back. “If you leave peacefully, I swear that he and any other man who has fallen will be buried with honor and in accordance with Sunni custom.”

There was another pause, as if the survivors were conferring. Then the spokesman yelled, “How can we trust you? If you will show yourself, we will do likewise.”

Ross wanted to call out to her, “For God’s sake, Juliet, don’t trust them!” But he could neither speak nor move, just watch helplessly as she rose and stepped to the lip of the ledge.

Tall and proud, Juliet Cameron Carlisle, the Flower of the Desert and the Marchioness of Kilburn, raised her open hands above her head to show that she was weaponless. For a long, suspended moment, it seemed that the ravine held its breath. With her blazing hair and black robes whipping in the wind, she was like an ancient warrior goddess, offering peace but equally capable of dealing death to any who betrayed her trust.

Ross saw her in profile, and the image struck him with knife-edge clarity. She was a sight he would never forget for as long as he lived—which apparently would not be very long. The thought mobilized him, for if he was dying, he must tell her that he loved her. Strange how at the end of life so few things mattered; certainly not possessions or knowledge or pride. Only love.

In a voice that could not conceal shock at the identity of his opponent, the Bokharan spokesman shouted, “We accept your terms. One other man died, Meshedee Rajib by name. We shall leave his body on the track so that you may find and bury him.”

“It shall be done.” Juliet dropped one hand, leaving the other lifted as if in benediction. “You are brave warriors, and I wish you well on your journey to Bokhara. Go in peace.”

“And peace be upon you, lady.” Within moments, the clatter of horses’ hooves sounded from the far side of the ravine.

Ross wanted to seize the moment to tell Juliet all that he wished to say: that he could not regret loving her, in spite of all the pain their marriage had brought them both: even though it had led to this bleak hillside. With immense effort he stretched out his hand, trying to catch Juliet’s attention, but movement sent jagged pain shafting through his head and once more he fell into darkness.

He came around again when deft hands probed his aching body. Recognizing her touch, he opened his eyes and whispered, “Juliet,” not sure that he had made a sound until she turned to him, vivid joy on her face.

He tried to speak again, but she laid a finger over his lips.“ Hush, love, save your strength.”

He would have laughed if he had not been so dizzy.“ For what… should a dying man save his strength?”

“Oh, Lord, you heard what I told the Bokharan soldiers,” she said ruefully. “I only said that you were fatally wounded to persuade them to leave.” She leaned forward and brushed his forehead with a feather-light kiss. “You’re not dying, love. In fact, you were amazingly lucky. Shahid’s bullet grazed your skull and knocked you from your perch, but the bushes on the cliff slowed your fall and you landed on a fairly soft ledge. You’ll have a handsome collection of bruises, but nothing seems to be broken.”

It took a moment to reorient his jumbled thoughts toward continued existence. When he had, Ross asked, “Murad?”

“Ian says the bullet went right through his arm and the wound is clean. He banged his head when he fell from his horse, but he should be fine.”

Ross exhaled with relief. “We were fortunate.”

“Very, but now it’s time to get the wounded back to Serevan. Do you think that if I help, you can get down to the horses?”

“We’ll see.” With Juliet’s considerable aid, Ross managed to sit upright. After that, everything became a chaotic blur of pain, confusion, and wavering consciousness. His clearest awareness was of being jogged along on a horse, which gave him a strong sense of
dejd vu.
Yes, this had happened before, when he was wounded while riding with Mikahl. He was getting bloody tired of being shot, then hauled around like a sack of potatoes.

He decided that it really would be easier to surrender to the blackness. So he did.

The next time Ross became conscious, his mind was very clear and he felt deeply rested. Apart from an ache in the side of his head, he felt fine. Experimentally he contracted, then relaxed muscles in various parts of his body, discovering that most were sore from his fall, but there was nothing seriously wrong. Opening his eyes, he found that the room was tinted with the soft, pure light of early morning. He guessed that he was at Serevan, and from the look of the superbly patterned antique rugs hanging on the whitewashed walls, it must be Juliet’s own bedroom.

That being the case, he was not surprised when he came to the belated realization that he was not alone in the bed. He turned his head and found that Juliet slept next to him, one hand tucked under his arm. She was an admirable sight to start the day, for she wore nothing but the gold chain that supported her wedding ring. In the pale dawn light her fair skin glowed with pearly luminescence and her hair looked dark, with only hints of auburn. Carefully he drew the sheet down to her waist so he could see more of her graceful curves. He definitely was not dying, not the way his body reacted to her nearness.

But what had been so clear when he thought he was on the brink of death was clear no longer. He did not doubt that he loved Juliet; that was a truth so immense that it was inarguable.

The problem was not love, but life. Danger had drawn them together again; without that bond, did they have a marriage? In Bokhara they had ignored their differences by tacit consent because they had needed each other so much. But against all the odds, they had survived, and now they must face the explosive unanswered questions of the past.

With a desire so great it was pain, Ross wanted Juliet to come back to England with him, to be his wife in truth as well as law. With any other woman he would have thought that joy and passion and affection would be enough to make a marriage worth keeping, but he feared, with deep, angry despair, that those would not be enough to keep Juliet by his side.

His hand unsteady, he stroked her hair. She must have visited the hammam, as she had planned, for the bright tresses fell across her shoulder in a shining silken torrent.

At his touch, Juliet’s eyes fluttered open and she gave him a smile of uncomplicated sweetness. Then she raised her hand to his face, her fingertips gliding over his lips and cheekbone, as if memorizing. She opened her mouth to speak, but he could not allow that, for talking would bring them face-to-face with the abyss of the future. Desperate to delay that moment, Ross covered her mouth with his, kissing her with all the power of his fears and yearning.

She made a small choked sound deep in her throat and responded with swift intensity, as if she too feared the end that was drawing near. Their tongues met and danced, their breath mingled, their arms twined. There was such vivid immediacy in her presence, such Tightness in the flare of desire between them, that it was impossible to believe this might be the last time.

He might never again know the soft warm pressure of skin on skin, like this. Or feel the pebbled velvet texture of her nipples with his tongue, like this. Or hear the rough eagerness of her breath when he caressed her moist, intimate flesh, probing and teasing, like
this,
until she pulsed with anticipation. He could not bear it if he was never again to hear her sharp, eager inhalation when he entered her heated body, like
this.

He tried to lose himself and his fears inside of her, wanting passion so blazing it would bind her to him forever. He tasted the anguish in her kiss, watching the vulnerability that shimmered across her face as she shuddered helplessly against him. He might never again know such union, the terrifying exultation of losing control, like this, oh, God, like
this…

After passion there had been stillness and fragile peace, the folding together of satisfied bodies as they drifted into sleep, but when they woke again there was a faint, uneasy distance between them. Wanting to fill the silence, Juliet murmured, “If the
hakim,
the doctor, knew I have allowed a wounded man to exert himself so, he would never forgive me.”

“I couldn’t have been too badly wounded or such exertions wouldn’t have been possible.” Gingerly Ross explored the bandage on his head, wincing a little. “This will be sore for a while, and I seem to have used up most of the day’s ration of energy, but even so, I’ll be happy to tell the
hakim
that your treatment was miraculously effective.”

His expression sobered and he reached out to touch the ring suspended around her neck. Sure that he was on the verge of saying something about the future, Juliet pretended not to see the gesture. With a cowardly desire to postpone the inevitable, she slipped out of the bed and said with forced brightness, “You must be hungry. Shall I have breakfast sent in? The melons are wonderful now, particularly after a week of dry desert food. Or there is just about anything else you might want. Except kippers, of course. Or oatmeal, but who would want oatmeal?”

“Juliet,” he said gently. “You’re babbling.”

“I know.” She ran a distracted hand through her hair and forced herself to slow down. “Having been away so long, there is much to be done today, particularly since Saleh has also been gone and won’t be back for another ten days or so. I have to speak with the farm overseer, and the chief servants, and dozens of other things.” All of which was true, but hardly the reason she was so nervous.

He gave her an ironic smile that said he knew exactly what was bothering her. “Then perhaps you had better get to work. For the time being, I’m inclined to take advantage of my invalid status to spend the day as lazily as possible. A few more hours of sleep should give me the energy to go to the hammam, after which I can sleep some more.”

“That sounds like an excellent program.” She bent over and gave him a swift kiss, then made her escape. But she knew that the hour of reckoning had only been delayed.

Ross spent the day almost as lazily as he had threatened; apart from the visit to the bathhouse, the most active thing he did was seek out his two travel companions. Ian still slept as his ravaged body tried to compensate for all of the punishment it had suffered in the past year.

Murad, however, was in high good spirits. Ross found him sitting in the shade of an arbor in the garden, sipping iced melon sherbet and trying to flirt with a giggling young female servant. On seeing his employer, Murad looked up with a grin. “And so our great adventure ends. Perhaps I will give up the work of a guide and become a storyteller instead, earning my living by spinning tales of the legendary Khilburn.”

Ross had to smile. “At least it will be safer work than daring the Turkomans.” He sat down and accepted a goblet of the melon sherbet. “I will be leaving for Teheran very soon, I think, perhaps as early as tomorrow. I would be happy to have your guidance there, but it might be better if you stay until your arm has healed.”

“I shall return with you,” Murad decided. “My arm is not so bad, and I will be glad to see my own home again. But will Lady Khilburn be ready to leave so quickly? Surely she will have much packing to do. At least, my mother would if she were setting off for another land.”

Ross sipped his sherbet and watched the garden with unfocused eyes. “I doubt that she’ll be going with me. We must… discuss the issue, but I think she will choose to stay in Serevan, which has been her home for so many years.”

After a confused silence Murad said, “But you seem so… together. I thought you would want her to stay with you.”

“I do, but I don’t think the feeling is mutual.”

“But she is your wife!” Murad said, scandalized. “A wife’s place is with her husband. You must order her to accompany you.”

“Orders won’t work, for Lady Khilburn has a mind of her own,” Ross said dryly. “Surely you noticed. And our customs grant women a fair amount of choice.”

After another, even longer silence, the young Persian said flatly, “I do not understand.”

“Neither do I, Murad. Neither do I.” Perhaps, Ross thought tiredly, if he did understand Juliet, it would make a difference. But probably not.

The hour of reckoning came that night, after dinner. Juliet had managed to keep busy and out of sight all day. Several times she checked on Ian, but he still slept and she didn’t have the heart to wake him.

That evening, she and Ross had dined with Saleh’s lively family, which meant there was no private talk between them, but far too soon it was time to retire to bed. She could hardly exile her husband to another bedroom when she wanted his company above all things. No, more than that she wanted the simplicity they had known in Bokhara, when there was only the present, with no past or future.

Without looking at Ross, Juliet changed into an embroidered green silk caftan. Then she perched on the divan and began brushing her hair while she tried to think of a safe, neutral topic. Perhaps, like Scheherazade, she could postpone disaster indefinitely by talking of other subjects that would fend off the discussion she wanted to avoid.