Veils of Silk (18 page)

"You've a brother in India?"

"Yes, David's an officer in my old regiment." Ian made a wry face. "My earlier stay in Cambay was so brief that I didn't see any of my old friends. Frankly, I'd just as soon not have to face them all and answer the same questions over and over, but I did promise my brother."

"Then of course we'll go to Cambay," she said warmly. "Tell me about David, and about the rest of your family."

He smiled a little. "You want to find out about them while there's still time to change your mind?"

She chuckled. "Actually, since I have so few relatives of my own, I quite like the idea of marrying some."

With her encouragement, Ian spoke of his family and his childhood for the rest of the journey back to Baipur. It was the longest Laura had ever heard him talk. His mood was lighter and more relaxed now that she'd agreed to marry him. It was nice to feel that she had made a difference.

Listening, she began to develop a picture of Ian's early life. Raised abroad, he had a wider perspective than most Britons. His father, who had been knighted for his diplomatic services, had apparently been brilliant and difficult, while his mother sounded sweet but overwhelmed by all of the strong personalities in her family. As the oldest child, Ian had early developed the habit of looking out for others; becoming an army officer had been a natural progression.

She thought she'd like his two younger brothers, but his sister sounded alarming. Ian finished describing Juliet just as they reached the stables behind the Stephenson bungalow. As they dismounted, Laura said, "Let's see if I've gotten this right. Your sister is a redheaded Amazon who can outride most men, shoot the whiskers off a mountain goat, then put on an evening gown and reduce every man in sight to languishing sighs?"

He smiled. "That's not quite what I said."

"She sounds terrifying," Laura said gloomily as she handed her reins to the groom.

"Actually, I think you'll get along with her very well. Better than…"He stopped abruptly.

"Better than whom?" She took his arm, thinking that the era of keeping her distance was over, and good riddance.

After a pause, Ian said, "Better than most women would. You both have unconventional streaks. While it's more obvious in her case, I think you'll understand each other very well."

"I'm not at all unconventional," Laura protested. "I'm one of the most unremarkable of women."

As they entered the bungalow, he turned that too perceptive gaze on her. "That's not true. You really are something of an original. I wonder why it bothers you to admit it."

He'd been honest with her; she owed him honesty in return. With some difficulty, she said, "When I came to England, I didn't enjoy being a strange little Russian. At school, the other girls laughed at my accent and my peculiar slanty eyes. I couldn't change my eyes, but I did my best to become as much like everyone else as possible. I was much happier not being singled out."

"You can be a strange little Russian with me," Ian said. "I like that aspect of you. And I think your eyes are beautiful."

As his gaze met hers, Laura felt a glow of warmth that started in her heart
and gradually spread until it encompassed her whole being. Her stepfather had
loved her, but Ian was the first person to say that he actually liked the
Russian side of her. Perhaps that was why the Larissa Alexandrovna who still lived inside Laura Stephenson had instantly wanted to accept him.

To be grateful for his injury was unthinkable; if Laura could wave a wand to restore him, she would have done it in an instant, even though it would mean that they couldn't marry. But she couldn't change Ian any more than he could bring the late Lord Falkirk back to life. That being the case, she took her own advice and rejoiced in the fate that had brought them together.

For the next week, Laura was so busy that she had little time to grieve for her stepfather. The other Britons in Baipur accepted her betrothal with pleasure. Emily McKittrick observed that Ian was a bit overserious, but she had no doubt that he would make a splendid husband. Even Emery Walford sent Laura a short, awkward note wishing her happiness. Then he set off on a district tour of his own, so he needn't attend the wedding.

The Reverend James was notified and the wedding scheduled for the next week. Aided by the other two British women at the station, Laura spent the intervening time at the dreary task of dismantling the life she had lived in Baipur. Ian arranged for the transportation of the items Laura wanted to keep. Her trunks would be carted to Benares, floated down the Ganges on a barge, then shipped to Edinburgh from Calcutta. Even the tiger skin would be forwarded when it arrived from Nanda.

Before Laura was quite ready for it, her wedding day arrived. Emily McKittrick, who had only sons, had entered into the preparations with enthusiasm, acting as unofficial mother-of-the-bride, organizing details, and expressing occasional regrets that the wedding would be such a small one.

With the help of her maid and Emily, Laura donned her best day dress, a high-necked ivory-colored gown with lace trim and swooping bell-shaped sleeves. Small white rosebuds from her garden were twined through her hair, and she carried a bouquet of brilliantly colored Indian blossoms. Both Laura's attendants assured her that she was as beautiful as a bride could be, a compliment that she took with a large dose of salt. What she did know was that she was as nervous as a bride was supposed to be.

Judge McKittrick had offered to give Laura away. As he led her down the aisle of the small Christian chapel, her heart was hammering so loudly that she was sure the spectators must hear it. As panic threatened to overwhelm her, Laura fiercely reminded herself that this marriage would be essentially different from that of her parents. She was not like her mother, nor was Ian like her father. She and Ian were levelheaded adults, and together they would build a safe, sane relationship.

But her unpersuaded heart banged even harder when she saw Ian waiting at the altar, tall and dark coated and stern. What on earth was she doing? In many ways, he was still a stranger. In fact, she only had his word for the fact that he was incapable of marital relations. What if she was the victim of a diabolical plan to lure her into matrimony?

For a moment Laura was on the verge of bolting. Her fingers curled into Judge McKittrick's arm like claws. Amusement in his voice, the judge bent his head and whispered, "Buck up, my girl. Every bride panics on her wedding day. My darling Emily fainted at the altar, though she claims it was because of the heat. Don't worry, you're getting yourself a fine man here."

As Laura realized that she was suffering from wedding-day hysteria, her mood swung from terror to a wild desire to giggle. Absurd to imagine that Ian would scheme to lure her into marriage; she wasn't interesting enough to warrant such extreme measures. Besides, her own perceptions had confirmed the truth of what he had revealed to her.

She was struggling to keep her face straight when the judge handed her into the keeping of her future husband. Glancing up, she saw that Ian's expression was strained. He must be as nervous as she. All perfectly normal, since marriage was one of life's most important steps. But Ian was her ally, not her enemy, and she wanted to be with him. Reaching out, she clasped his hand and together they turned to face the minister.

"Dearly beloved…"

As Reverend James intoned the familiar words, her tension eased. The only difficult moment was when the minister said, "First, it was ordained for the procreation of children…"

Laura involuntarily flinched. She had been to her share of weddings, but never consciously noted that phrase. She almost glanced up into Ian's face, and only her knowledge that doing so would be unpardonably cruel gave her the control to keep her gaze forward. She and Ian might not be able to procreate, but the same service had just said that marriage was a holy estate not to be undertaken only to satisfy men's
carnal lust. At least they were getting half of it right.

Then she was taking her vows. "I, Larissa Alexandrovna…" Not only was it her legal name, but Ian's acceptance of her heritage had made her want to marry under the name with which she had been christened.

It was Ian's turn next, and his faint Scots burr was more pronounced than usual. Then he slid the ring onto her finger. It was exactly what Laura had requested: a plain gold band, with no embellishment but their initials and the date etched inside.

Ian's deep voice was steady as he said, "… with my body I thee worship…" though his fingers tightened on hers. Laura felt another complicated pang. She had never recognized quite how earthy the wedding service was

"Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder." Laura felt a shiver of guilt when she heard the admonition. She would not be entering this marriage if she hadn't known that she could leave if she wanted to, but such a thought was dreadfully out of place on her wedding day.

Finally it was time for her new husband to kiss his bride. Ian's lips were firm and pleasant. As they touched hers, Laura realized with a small shock that they had never kissed before. Warmth flowed between them, easing her doubts. This might be a marriage like no other, but, by God, it was going to work. She would make sure of that.

With a sigh, Ian stretched out in the deep tub of hot water. After two years of living in filth, he never tired of bathing. And the relaxation the bath offered came none too soon, for if the week between engagement and marriage had been a strain, the wedding day had been even worse. Too many jolly congratulations, too many heartfelt good wishes, too many knowing smiles. Just plain too many people; the weight of their interest and concern had been overwhelming. The peace Ian had found traveling from Nanda in Laura's company had vanished almost as soon as they became engaged. More than once he had been tempted to suggest that they marry by the old Scottish custom of jumping over a sword. Then they could set off for Bombay immediately.

But even though his nerves had stretched to near snapping point, for Laura's sake he had endured it. Every woman deserved a wedding day where she was the center of attention, and he would not deprive her of that. And it had been worth it, for she had been a luminous bride, her hand trembling, but her golden eyes glowing and her soft voice steady.

She had stayed close all day and her presence had enabled him to endure the wedding breakfast even though he was suffering from his worst headache in weeks. Finally the festivities were over and they had been driven in style to this luxurious pavilion where they were to spend their wedding night. The pavilion was owned by the wealthiest merchant in Baipur, who had given Laura the use of it in honor of his friend Kenneth Stephenson.

Ian and Laura had arrived at the pavilion just as the sun was setting among streamers of fiery light. Situated on the edge of a mirror-smooth little lake, it was an extremely romantic spot to spend a wedding night. Soft-footed servants had provided a supper, of which Ian had eaten nothing. Then the newlyweds had been ushered off to separate bathing rooms. Ian's was fit for a maharajah, with a giant marble tub sunken in the floor and endless hot water. Laura's would be equally sumptuous.

Wanting nothing more than to be alone, Ian had immediately dismissed the servants. Then he had stripped off his clothing and lowered himself into the bath. He used none of the scented oils—he was too much a Scot to want to smell like a nosegay—but the hot water was wonderful. He didn't emerge until the bath began to cool, and by that time most of his headache was gone.

After drying himself, he donned the embroidered blue robe that had been provided. The folds fell around him as gently as a whisper; Indians had nothing to learn about sensuality.

Returning to the bedroom to await his new wife, he checked that the bedside lamp had enough oil to burn until morning, then went to a window and looked out at the lake. Lotus plants floated on the dark water, their pale blossoms closed for the night. He felt like a lotus himself, suspended between past and future, darkness and light, despair and hope. And the key to light, hope, and the future was Laura.

He had thought that she would be a long time in her bath, but she came sooner
than he had expected. Turning at the sound of her footsteps, he watched her
enter the room, his heart giving an odd lurch as she paused. Her tawny hair had
been brushed into a waterfall of polished bronze that spilled halfway to her
waist, and she looked soft and heartstoppingly lovely. She wore a long, European-style nightgown made of layers of translucent white silk that drifted around her like a cloud and revealed that her figure was even lusher than he had realized.

It was exactly the sort of garment a girl was supposed to wear on her wedding night, designed to arouse both desire and tenderness. He thought, for the thousandth time, of what he was depriving her. But it was too late for regrets; he could only hope that she was right in saying that she knew her own mind.

She smiled shyly. "What happens now?"

He tried to speak and couldn't. After clearing his throat, he tried again. "I'd like to hold you. Just hold you. If you don't object. Or we can talk."

He would not have been surprised if she had politely declined, for he was still unsure how far her dislike of touching went. Uneasily he realized that they hadn't even discussed the basic issue of whether they would share a bed or he should make up a separate pallet for himself.

Laura answered his question without a word, crossing the cool marble floor and walking straight into his arms. She smelled of jasmine and was soft, so soft. Ian drew her close with exquisite care, resting his chin on the top of her head as his hands slowly stroked down the graceful curves of her back. He whispered, "I thought that I would never hold a woman again."

She nestled closer. "You can hold me whenever you want."

Ian's tension dissolved like mist in the morning sun. He was physically aware of Laura in a way that he had never been with a mistress, for in the past passion had overpowered subtler perceptions. Freed of the rude urgency of desire, he could savor the texture of fine-spun hair falling across the back of his hand, and the velvety feel of her nape; the warmth of her breasts compressed against him, the greater warmth of her loins; the arc of her ribs, the slight depression of her spine, the gentle flare of her hips. Lightly he kissed her hair, awed by the rediscovery of what a wondrous creature a woman was.