Veils of Silk (34 page)

Trembling so hard that her jewelry jangled discordantly, Meera lay back on the piled wood and waited bleakly for the fire.

Laura would be glad to reach Manpur, the capital of Dharjistan, because traveling with a mute man was getting a little tedious. More than tedious; for the last several days, she'd had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong. Ian's gaze was brooding, almost angry, and he avoided even the most casual contact. Yet his courtesy was unflagging, and there was a kind of tenderness in his behavior, as if he were subtly apologizing for his difficult mood.

Since it was getting late, Laura brought her horse alongside Ian's. "Will we stay in another dak bungalow tonight?"

He shook his head. "No, we're almost out of British-controlled territory—there will be no more daks. Unless some dignitary in that town ahead insists that his life will be blighted if we don't honor him with our company, we'll camp out."

Chanting sounded in the distance. Ian listened a moment. "A funeral. Judging by the amount of noise the mourners are making, it's for an important man. There's a river to the right—they must be carrying the body to a burning
ghat
there."

Laura murmured, "Rest in peace."

While she wondered how to prolong this conversation, which was the longest that they'd had in days, Ian said, "Speaking of pyres, did you know that Pyotr Andreyovich burned Moscow down?"

"What?" Laura said incredulously.

"It's true. I'm sure you know the story of how Moscow was evacuated before Napoleon and his troops could occupy it?"

"Of course. Every Russian schoolchild knows that the residents and the army withdrew ahead of Bonaparte. On the very night the French occupied the city, a great fire struck. But I never heard that it had been set deliberately."

"I suspect that the governor of Moscow wasn't anxious to admit that he ordered the destruction of the greatest city in Russia," Ian said dryly. "Pyotr was one of a handful of young officers who hid and waited for the French to arrive. He said the deserted city was eerie, like a haunted dream. That night, after the French had taken possession, he and the others who had stayed set Moscow ablaze, running through the streets with torches. Since most of the buildings were wooden, virtually the whole city burned, except for the Kremlin."

"I had no idea," Laura said softly. "It must have been harrowing to be the instrument of destroying Moscow."

"Pyotr said that seeing the city go up in flames was like watching the funeral pyre of a nation. Yet afterward, Mother Russia arose from the ashes like a phoenix." Ian's glance was respectful. "You come of fierce people, Larishka. By having the courage to destroy everything that might aid the enemy, Russia brought down the greatest conqueror Europe had ever known. Britain was instrumental in administering the coup de grace to Napoleon, but it was the Russian campaign and the Russian winter that really broke him."

"I'm a little envious that you knew Uncle Pyotr so much better than I," she said wistfully.

"Prison is a wonderful place to learn to know another person in depth," Ian said, voice dry again. "Amazing how much detail one can recall when
there is nothing else to do."

He withdrew again, but the conversation had lifted Laura's mood. Yes, there would be better days ahead—and better nights.

After Meera took her place, Dhamo thrust his torch into the stacked wood. A wisp of smoke trickled lazily upward. Then the cotton ignited with a crackle of sparks and a surge of vicious heat. Her stepson began to circle the pyre, stabbing the torch in repeatedly. Clouds of smoke billowed into the air, incongruously scented with the spicy tang of burning sandalwood.

Meera's resignation lasted until the first yellow flame shot upward, fed by the oil-soaked cotton. The hem of her sari flared and pain blazed along her lower leg, shattering her numbness. She screamed and hurled herself frantically away from the flames. Unable to wait passively for an agonizing death, she scrambled down from the pyre, even though she expected that remorseless hands would seize her and hurl her back into the inferno.

But the billowing smoke provided unexpected cover. When her feet hit the ground, instinctively she darted toward the thinnest section of the surrounding crowd. As she blundered through the clouds of heavy, eye-stinging smoke, she crashed into a man who muttered a curse. A woman hissed at Meera for her rudeness, and a hand clutched at her wrist, but she broke away.

Miracle of miracles, she managed to get through the ring of watchers before anyone realized who she was. As she bolted into a grove of trees, furious shouts began rising behind her. The sound grew until it was like the howling of jackals. Meera threw one quick glance back and saw that the men were overcoming their incredulity and starting to follow. But she had played with her brothers as a girl and could run with unfeminine speed. Soon it would be dark. If she could hide until then, she might win free.

Even if she became a beggar and starved, it would be a better end than what she was fleeing. Driven by fear and desperate hope, she lifted the hem of her charred sari and raced away from the burning ghat.

* * *

Laura glanced toward the river, where a plume of smoke marked the site where the funeral they had heard earlier must be reaching its culmination. She heard shouting but thought nothing of it until Ian suddenly reined in his horse and threw up a warning hand. "Do you hear that?" he said sharply. "Something's wrong."

Laura also stopped. Zafir, who had been a little behind, moved briskly forward to join the others so that the party was in a compact group. As the shouting rapidly drew nearer, someone exploded from the bushes about fifty feet ahead. Laura had only time to register that it was a running woman in a red sari before half a dozen howling men appeared close behind her.

As the fugitive stumbled into the road, she raised her head and saw Ian. Hatless and a dozen feet ahead of Laura and Zafir, he was easily identifiable as a European. Instantly the woman veered toward him, "Please, sahib!" she cried frantically. "Do not let them burn me!"

As more people poured into the road, Ian spurred his horse forward past the woman. When he was between her and her pursuers, he shouted, "What's going on here?"

Laura caught her breath, startled and a little unnerved by her husband's transformation from casual traveler to soldier. With his height and air of command, he effortlessly dominated his surroundings. The men in the crowd skidded to a confused stop in the middle of the road.

Ian was not the only one to change, for as Zafir eased his rifle from its holster, the Pathan's usual laughing expression vanished, leaving the fierce gaze of a mountain warrior. Deciding that she should contribute something, Laura pulled her own rifle from its holster and laid it across her lap, trying to look dangerous. Though she didn't cock the hammer, her regular target practice had improved her skill to the point where she might actually be of use if worse came to worst.

Having regained his composure, the man who had been leading the pursuers said belligerently, "Continue on your way, Englishman. This is no concern of yours."

Ian looked over his shoulder at the fugitive, who stood between Laura and Zafir. "Why were they chasing you?"

The length of sari that was usually draped over a woman's head had fallen away, showing that the fugitive was very young, hardly more than a girl. Voice shaking, she said, "My husband's family is forcing me to become suttee against my will, sahib."

Turning to. the group, Ian said harshly, "Is that true?"

The leader spat. "Meera, the sacrilegious slut, consented to suttee, then changed her mind. She has disgraced herself and the family by her cowardly flight. Only by returning to the pyre will honor be redeemed."

"Please, sahib, do not let them take me," Meera begged. "If you protect me, I will be your willing slave."

As the front edge of the crowd began inching forward, Ian set his horse into motion. It began prancing back and forth across the road with short, mincing steps, a masterly display of horsemanship that created an effective equine barrier between the girl and her pursuers. "You are breaking the law," he said, his harsh voice carrying to everyone present. "The Sirkar forbade suttee a dozen years ago."

A Brahmin priest worked his way to the front of the group. "Suttee is our ancient custom, Englishman," he said furiously. "Neither you nor your filthy Sirkar have the right to forbid it."

"And it is ancient English custom to hang men who burn women," Ian said with menacing cordiality. "By all means let us act according to our national customs."

"You are no longer in British India, Englishman," the leader snarled. "This is Rajputana—the Sirkar has no authority here. The woman consented to become suttee, and now she must burn. If you don't give her back to us, we will take her."

A voice from the back of the group shouted, "And if you don't hand her over now, that isn't all we'll take, Englishman!"

Laura sucked her breath in, chilled. A potent combination of religious fervor and hatred of the British was rapidly turning the crowd into a vicious, unpredictable mob. She swallowed hard, determined not to give in to her fear. Softly she said, "Zafir, take the girl up with you. We may need to run for it."

Zafir lowered his rifle and snapped his fingers to get Meera's attention. When she turned, he extended one hand. The sight of his fiercely bearded visage made her hesitate until he smiled. "Come, little dove. You are safe now."

Reassured, the girl grasped the Pathan's hand and he swung her up behind him. With a metallic clatter of jeweled chains, she settled sideways and wrapped shaking arms around his waist.

Laura had been watching Meera, but she snapped her attention back to the crowd when someone roared, "English swine!"

The first shout triggered a roar of similar epithets. As fury rent the dusky sky, Laura saw a man at the right of the crowd scoop a jagged chunk of sandstone from the ground and wind up to throw at Ian. Terrified, because the attacker was on his blind side, she shouted, "Ian, look out—to your right!"

Ian spun and saw the missile launched at him. Cobra-swift, he whipped his revolver from the holster and fired without seeming to aim. The sandstone shattered and fragments showered on the crowd, provoking howls of dismay. He shifted his aim and shot again. The second bullet struck between the feet of the leader and sent up a whirlwind of dust and gravel. The man blanched and jumped backward, belligerence vanished.

As the crack of the reports echoed across the plain, Ian raised one hand and ripped off his eyepatch, exposing the blind eye. "If you do not value your lives, at least have a care for your souls." Slowly he scanned the group, glowering at each man in turn. When he was done, he continued in a voice that cut like a lash, "Anyone who tries to injure the widow Meera shall have an eternity of time in which to regret it."

A pall of horror settled over the group, and everyone gaped at Ian as if he were the devil incarnate. The silence was so profound that the jingling of a bridle rang like a church bell. At first Laura didn't understand. Then she remembered what Ian had told her soon after they met. To the superstitious, a blind eye was an evil eye, with the power to inflict curses. Already men at the back of the crowd were fading away, faces ashen.

Ian said quietly in English, "Time for us to be on our way. Laura, circle around the crowd to the left."

She nodded and set her horse to scrambling up the sloping embankment. Zafir, Meera, and the packhorse followed. Ian came last, holding his revolver ready as they rode around the group, then returned to the road a safe distance ahead.

When they were in the clear, Ian ordered, "We'll put a few more miles behind us before we camp for the night."

They set the horses into a fast canter. Zafir led the Way, the Indian girl clinging like a limpet. Ian moved forward until he was riding even with Laura. "How are your nerves holding up?"

Laura was not surprised to see that he had already managed to replace his eyepatch and looked as calm as if he were riding across an English meadow. "Reaction has set in and I feel ready to fall to pieces, but basically I'm fine," she said in a voice that was less steady than she would have liked. "Do you think they'll try to follow?"

"Most unlikely. I've always suspected that much of the reason for suttee is to get rid of inconvenient women," he said cynically. "Now that the family has gotten rid of this one, there is no real reason to hunt her down, especially if they believe that they'll incur a curse in the process."

"That was very cleverly done," she said admiringly. "But weren't you at least a little anxious?"

He shrugged. "None of them had guns, so there was no danger."

They had had rocks and had been willing to use them, but Laura didn't bother to point that out. Obviously quelling a near-riot was all in a day's work for her husband. Lightly she said, "I was surprised that you didn't correct that fellow when he called you an Englishman."

Ian grinned. "Even a pigheaded Scot knows that sometimes one must avoid being distracted by side issues."

His auburn hair shone like dark fire in the setting sun, and altogether he was irresistibly attractive. If they had been standing rather than riding, Laura knew that she would walk up and kiss him whether he was willing or not.

Needing to change the direction of her thoughts, she said, "I'm ready to concede that you had a point about learning to be a decent shot."

"Of course I was right," he said, voice bland but expression mischievous. "Does this mean I can now expect perfect wifely obedience in all things?"

"No," she said cheerfully. "But I will work harder on my marksmanship."

His laughter was almost as good as a kiss. Almost.