Startled, Ian exclaimed, "You're Lara?"
Her dark brows arched. "Indeed. Why is that surprising?"
Ian shook his head, feeling a fool for having missed the obvious. "I'm sorry, I had it firmly in mind that Lara was a girl of thirteen or fourteen. I didn't expect a grown woman." If he hadn't assumed she was English, he would have known immediately, for she had Pyotr's high, dramatic Slavic cheekbones. Those slanted amber eyes attested to the centuries when Russia had been harried by the Golden Hordes of Central Asia. The inevitable mixing of the races had given rise to a Russian proverb Pyotr had sometimes used: "Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar." His niece was living proof of his words, for clearly her ancestors had included Mongol warriors; the expression she wore at that moment would do credit to Genghis Khan in a mistrustful mood.
With more than a hint of hostility, she said, "I've been Laura Stephenson since I was ten. No one calls me Lara now."
"But your uncle did."
"My uncle?" Her hostility vanished and her face went suddenly pale. "You know my Uncle Pyotr?"
"I'm afraid I'm the bearer of more bad news," Ian said gravely. "Colonel Kushutkin died in Bokhara last year."
She closed her eyes and a spasm of grief crossed her face. "I was afraid something had happened to him," she said sorrowfully. "It had been so long since his last letter, and even longer since I saw him in person. I was only thirteen during his last visit to England."
Ian nodded, enlightened. "That must be why he talked of you as a much younger girl—it was the image he carried in his mind."
Her hands clenched convulsively. "My mother always said Pyotr's taste for adventure would lead to death in some wild, distant place."
"It did," Ian said, "but not before he had seen and done things most men only dream of. He told me once that only a poor-spirited coward would want to die in his own bed."
"How did you know him?"
"We were prisoners together in the Black Well of Bokhara." Ian's throat tightened. He hated speaking of what had happened there, but Lara had a right to know. "There are many Russian slaves in Bokhara, and the Foreign Office was worried that they would provide an excuse for the tsar to invade and annex the khanate. I was sent to Bokhara to ask the amir to release the slaves, which would remove a source of provocation. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of going to Kokand first, and the amir decided that meant I was a spy. He threw me into the Black Well, where Pyotr had been imprisoned for six months. We shared the cell for a year. In the end, he saved my life."
Laura gave Ian a searching look. "How?"
"The amir finally decided to execute me. When the guards came, I was feverish, out of my head. Pyotr Andreyovich insisted on going in my place." Ian stared into the fire, remembering. In the last moments before he was taken away, Pyotr had tried to tell Ian something, speaking with frantic urgency, but Ian was so delirious that he had understood only that his friend was going to die. He remembered nothing else. Ever since, he had had the frustrating sense that he had missed something vital, yet no matter how much he tried, he couldn't recall what. "Pyotr said that a quick execution was better than staying in the Black Well and dying slowly of the lung condition he had."
Her brows drew together. "Why did the guards accept him in your place?"
"Probably it never occurred to them that anyone would choose to be executed before his time," Ian replied. "It helped that Pyotr and I were about the same height, both skinny as scarecrows, and with beards covering most of our faces. His hair was darker than mine, but we were so filthy that the differences weren't obvious—especially not to men who thought that all ferengis, all Europeans, looked much the same."
Tears glinted in Laura's eyes. "So because you were younger and more likely to survive, Pyotr gave you a chance at life."
Yes, and it had been an excruciatingly difficult gift to accept. But that was not something that Pyotr's niece needed to know. "I heard later that your uncle died with great bravery. He stood straight and crossed himself, saying that he died a Christian. Then he commended his soul to God."
"Strange," she murmured. "I didn't know he was religious."
"Perhaps he wasn't earlier, but prison has a way of reducing life to its essentials." Ian had envied Pyotr his faith.
which had grown through the months until it became a beacon that warmed them both. Then Pyotr had died, and the light had died with him.
Visibly bracing herself, she asked, "How was he executed?"
More and more, Ian admired her. India polarized European women, making them either frail or strong. Laura was not frail. "Pyotr was beheaded," Ian replied. "It's unpleasant to think of, but quick and relatively painless. The amir considered himself humane when he changed from hanging to beheading."