Juliet felt foolish when she realized all the implications of her impulsive suggestion, such as her own family thinking her dead. But at least Ross was amused again.
She poured more coffee for them. "What are your plans now? Are you going back to Teheran? Not Herat, I hope. Afghanistan is even more than usually dangerous just now."
"Neither." He chose a flaky cardamom-flavored pastry from the plate and took a bite. "Delicious. You really have a fine kitchen here." He finished the pastry with a second bite. "My destination is Bokhara."
She stared. "I hope you're joking. That is the most dangerous place in Asia for Europeans. If you absolutely must travel farther into Central Asia, go to Kokand or Khiva, where you have a reasonably good chance of leaving again."
"Unfortunately, only Bokhara will do." He wiped his fingers on the napkin. "This is not a pleasure trip, Juliet. Have you heard that the amir is holding a British army officer prisoner?"
"I've heard rumors to that effect, but I've also heard that the officer was executed."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. I intend to learn the truth, then see if I can do something about it."
Juliet bit her lip. "It's the British government's place to act, not yours. You don't have any official status, do you?"
"None whatsoever—I am going as a private citizen."
"You're mad," she said flatly. "If you just march into the amir's palace and ask him to let the officer go, you'll end up imprisoned or dead yourself."
"You're undoubtedly right," Ross agreed. "However, I am still going to try. The officer's mother asked me to, and I found I could not refuse."
"Well, you should have," she snapped, appalled at how blithely he brushed aside the dangers. "This afternoon you said there was no point in your servants sacrificing their lives in a futile attempt to save you from the Turkomans. This is the same thing, only worse. At least the Turkomans would have only made slaves of the Persians. If you go to Bokhara, you're a dead man. The only question is whether you will be killed quickly or spend years rotting in the Black Well first. There is no point in taking that risk on behalf of a man who is already dead."
"The situations are not comparable," he said mildly. "It isn't clear if the British officer has been executed. If he is dead, perhaps I will be able to persuade the amir to release the major's body so I can return it to his family for burial."
"No doubt his family would appreciate that, but it isn't worth you risking your life."
His level gaze met hers. "Not even though the officer in question is your brother Ian?"
Juliet gasped as if she had been struck a physical blow. "Dear God, not Ian," she whispered.
Shaking, she buried her face in her hands. Perhaps this whole day was just a nightmare and she would wake in the morning to find her life at Serevan unchanged. Or better yet, the last dozen years had been a fever dream and she was still at Chapelgate, sleeping safe and warm in her husband's embrace.
"Oh, damnation," Ross said helplessly.
She heard him get up from his chair and come around the table. Gently he touched her hair, saying, "I'm sorry, Juliet. I shouldn't have told you like that."
Instinctively she turned toward him and he put his arms around her as she buried her face against his side. For a few moments, as she battled tears, she allowed herself to accept the dangerous comfort of his embrace. For so long she had hungered for a man's touch. For Ross's touch.
Finally she pulled away, though not so quickly that he would interpret her movement as rejection. "You needn't apologize," she said, her voice unsteady. "There is no way to break such news gently."
She drew the back of her hand across her eyes. "It's hard to believe Ian is gone. He was always so alive. I used to think that if anyone was going to be immortal, it would be Ian."
Ross retreated to his own chair. "While I don't want to give you false hope, there is a chance he's still alive."
"Do you honestly think so?"
He shrugged. "As I said, there is a chance. All the way from Constantinople, I've talked to anyone who claimed to have information. The results were inconclusive, mostly third- and fourth-hand reports. In Teheran I did meet a man who claimed to have witnessed the execution of a ferengi several months ago, but the description could have fitted almost any European."
"Even if that wasn't Ian, it doesn't mean my brother is still alive," she said bleakly. "He could have died in prison, or been executed since then. If by some remote chance you reach Bokhara and find Ian alive, there is no reason to suppose the amir will release him—or you."