Veils of Silk (43 page)

"It's a long way from Dharjistan to Baipur," Ian said. "Even if he had the time, visiting you might have endangered him."

"I have trouble remembering that he was England's enemy even though he was my uncle. Papa and I would both have loved seeing him." She sighed. "Ah, well, no point in brooding about it."

As she moved a tilting stack of papers, the top section slid to one side, revealing a packet of letters tied with a faded ribbon. "Love letters do you think?" She picked the packet up, then said with surprise, "Good heavens, these are letters I wrote to him. To think that Uncle Pyotr kept them all these years." She thumbed through the stack. "Some are from my mother, too. Lord, reading these will turn me into a watering pot."

Remembering that Pyotr had emphasized that Laura should study his legacy carefully, Ian said, "There's a couple of inches of disparity between the inside and the outside of the casket, so there could be secret papers concealed beneath a false bottom. Mind if I investigate?"

Without looking up, Laura said absently, "Be my guest."

The interior had been rather clumsily lined with a patterned Indian fabric that was much newer than the chest itself. Ian opened the penknife and carefully cut around the inside bottom, then tried to loosen the base. After several minutes of cautious prying, the bottom panel suddenly popped up, revealing a cavity packed with raw cotton wool.

Ian felt a twinge of disappointment. Still, though there were no secret plans, other things might be hidden here. He probed the fluffy white material with his fingertips and immediately located two small objects swathed in blue silk. He opened the first one, then gave a stunned whistle.

In the center of his palm lay a ruby as large as a walnut and as crimson as heart's blood. Impatiently he unwrapped the second object. This time he found a diamond as large as the ruby, with icy brilliance coruscating in its depths. "Laura, my dear," he said when he had caught his breath, "Pyotr did include something more exotic than papers."

She glanced up, her mind still in the letters, then gave a startled gasp. "Merciful heaven, are these what I think?"

"If you're thinking gemstones, the answer is yes," Ian replied. "Shall we see what else is tucked in here?"

After ten minutes of scrabbling through the cotton wool, an emperor's ransom in jewels lay glittering on the table. All of the stones were large and unmounted, and at least to Ian's untrained eye, they looked flawless. "How do you suppose Pyotr got these?" Laura asked in a hushed voice.

"In the course of his duties in Central Asia, he would have found occasional opportunities to make money," Ian said. "Once in Afghanistan I traded a pistol in return for a sizable ruby. The Afghan and I were both pleased with the bargain. I sold the stone and invested the proceeds, and over the years it's become a tidy little nest egg. Multiply that a few dozen times, and it's plausible that Pyotr could have built a sizable fortune, then converted it into jewels as the most portable form of wealth. Since India is the world's great treasure house of gems, he could buy them here for half what they'd sell for in Europe."

"I like that explanation," Laura decided. "Much nicer than thinking that my uncle robbed a temple."

Ian smiled a little and touched a huge sapphire with his forefinger. "He did say that if you came to Dharjistan, you'd find it worth the trouble."

Laura scooped a handful of jewels into her palm, watching the way the lamplight lit them into a gaudy rainbow of colors. "It's certainly an unexpected dowry."

"Instead of a dowry, it would also have made you a woman of independent means rather than a governess." Ian felt a deep pang when he looked at the jewels. He had been able to comfort himself with the thought that marriage had improved Laura's financial situation even though it had caused her distress in other ways. But now his support was a benefit she no longer needed; in fact, her fortune must be greater than his.

Laura glanced up at him, the depths of her Oriental eyes shimmering with sherry-colored light. "If it hadn't been for you,
doushenka
, I would never have known of this. The casket would have stayed in Rajiv Singh's treasure room indefinitely, and perhaps someday been discarded, jewels and all. Worse than that, with Pyotr's watch inside."

Her perception was so uncanny that he had a brief desire to duck for cover; one of these days, she might see all the way through to his greatest shame. Instead, he gave her a wry smile. "How do you manage to read my mind so well, Larishka?"

"It's a Russian talent," she said loftily. "Designed to strike terror into the hearts of more rational beings."

"Certainly you strike terror into my heart," he said, only half teasing. He picked up the largest topaz in the collection, an enormous square-cut gem that sparkled amber and gold, and held it below her throat. "Whatever you decide to do with the rest of the stones, this one must be made into a pendant for you. I'll pay for the setting and have earrings made to match."

"I'd like that," Laura murmured, her gaze holding his. Eyes of gold and amber and sherry, deep enough to mesmerize a man. Lips full and soft and kissable—and wanting to be kissed.

Ian stared down at Laura, unable to look away. It had been premature to congratulate himself on his control. His wife was capable of riveting the attention of men from across a crowded room; this close, her intense sensuality was devastating.

Though her mind might think no, her body was shouting a resounding
yes
. If he kissed her, at first she would quiver, caught between yearning and dismay, but she would not withdraw. Instead her arms would creep slowly around his neck. Then passion would crackle out of control, hot, quick, and fierce as detonated gunpowder.

Simple and satisfying, right up to the point when lust was satisfied. Then she would despise both him and herself.

It would be simpler for Ian. He would despise only himself.

Why did doing the right think have to be so agonizingly difficult? It took all his discipline to step away and say evenly, "Putting the jewels back where they came from is probably safest for now." Wrenching his gaze from his wife, he began burying the bright gems in cotton. A pity that passion could not be as easily obliterated.

The vast plain outside Manpur churned with dust from the feet and hooves of the Dharjistani army, but those who watched the review from elephant back were above the worst of it. Ian's view of the exercises could not have been improved, since he shared the
howdah
of the Maharajah of Dharjistan.

Since arriving in Manpur, Ian had spent much of his time with Rajiv Singh, discussing every aspect of military science. In the process a genuine, if slightly wary, friendship had grown between the two men. Mutual respect and liking were tempered by a tacit acknowledgment that their values and loyalties might not always be
the same. As a result, their conversations were laced with verbal fencing that was half humorous and half serious.

Out on the plain, the last of the infantry regiments finished their maneuvers and marched away, to be succeeded by a battalion of lancers. Riding at full gallop, the lancers wheeled to their right, their lines dressed in perfect order, a huge cloud of dust rising behind them. The Royal British Household Cavalry could hot have done better. Ian said, "Magnificently trained, Your Highness."

"I thought you would be impressed." The maharajah glanced at him thoughtfully. "Do you think them the equal of your British native lancer companies?"

"They may well be," Ian replied. "Though I trust that question will never be put to the test."

"As I do," the maharajah said blandly. Nodding toward the plain, where camels were hauling light artillery pieces into position, he continued, "Drill is vital, for without discipline an army is just a rabble, easily broken by troops who can keep better order, who can stand fast without breaking under the worst assault. Your British Army has proved that again and again. Yet even so, the true test of a warrior is still courage, not drill."

"Perhaps, yet courage is not a simple thing that one either has or doesn't have," Ian said. "In my experience, I have found that a soldier will almost always prove equal to what is asked of him when he is well trained, well commanded, and surrounded by comrades whom he doesn't want to fail."

"I have also found that." Rajiv Singh frowned. "My army does not lack courage, training, or weapons, but it will be severely tested if my neighbors decide to march on Dharjistan. The Punjabi army is equally well trained and well armed. It is also, regrettably, much larger than my army, and spoiling for a fight."

The light artillery discharged into the empty plain, sixty cannon blasting so closely together that the effect was of one monstrous, deafening explosion. Four salvos were fired in a minute, and the last was only slightly more ragged than the first. The gunners had also learned their lessons well.

The cannon blasts temporarily numbed all listening ears, and Ian waited before replying to Rajiv Singh's last comment. "The treaty you signed with Britain assures that aid will be sent if Dharjistan is attacked."

"With so many British troops tied up in Afghanistan, your army is stretched very thin. Do you think there would be enough left to help me stop the Punjabis?"

"Yes," Ian said without hesitation. "Even if regiments have to be pulled from as far as Calcutta and Madras, Britain will honor its commitment to Dharjistan."

"Doubtless you are right." The Rajput's expression was sardonic. "But even if you are, I have a certain lack of enthusiasm for having British troops enter Dharjistan. It is all very fine when the tiger comes to defend you, but it could be difficult to persuade the tiger to leave later."

"I wish I could say that your fears are groundless, but you and I know better than that," Ian said ruefully. "There are certainly men in the Sirkar who would welcome an opportunity to annex Dharjistan. However, there are more who believe that a strong, independent state under your rule is British India's best defense against Afghanistan."

The maharajah raised his brows. "That's a remarkably frank admission for a Britisher. Don't you feel compelled to defend your government?"