It was well after dark, and most people had drifted away to their beds when Juliet stood and murmured, "Join me for a walk."
A few minutes later, he also got to his feet and ambled away from the campground. As in Sarakhs, the caravansary was on the edge of town, and by the time he overtook Juliet, they were well into the desert. As they wound their way between moon-glazed sand dunes, he asked, "What have I gotten myself into?"
"Think of bozkashi as a cross between fox hunting and the battle of Waterloo," she said dryly.
He laughed. "That bad?"
"Worse. Since Dil Assa promised not to murder you, this is his best hope for putting you in the way of a fatal accident."
"I'm sure he wouldn't grieve if that happened," Ross agreed, "but I imagine that his main desire is to humiliate me as a salve for his wounded pride. Have you seen many bozkashi matches?"
"Only one. Everyone assumed I was a man, but I thought it wise not to press my luck by going to others. Turkoman women are not allowed to attend matches, so it might have been dangerous if I had been discovered." She stopped and plucked a pale flower that had blossomed after a brief shower the night before. "The men adore bozkashi. Even as we speak, the word is spreading across the desert. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, will come to watch tomorrow. It is a winter sport, and this will surely be the last match until autumn, for it is almost too hot to play."
"What are the rules?"
"There are none. There can be any number of players, from a dozen to hundreds, and it's every man for himself. My guess is that bozkashi began as war training for the conquering Mongol hordes. There is nothing the least bit subtle about the game—it's all brute strength and horsemanship." She gave him a doubtful glance. "You're an excellent rider, but you have seen what the Turkomans are like."
"All of them appear to have been born on horseback, and I doubt that they are burdened by any gentlemanly nonsense about fair play." Ross shrugged. "I don't feel the need to outdo them at their own game. If I can stay on my horse until the end, I'll consider that I've done my bit for British honor."
"Will you remember that tomorrow in the heat of the game?"
He smiled and picked another white blossom, then tucked it into a fold of Juliet's tagelmoust over her ear. "I'll remember. I've never been mad for playing games."
Primly ignoring what he had done with the flower, she said, "I thought you were some sort of athletic hero at Eton."
"Yes," he admitted. "At Eton one doesn't have much choice whether to play or not, but I was never mad for games."
"My father would have been shocked speechless at such sentiments," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "He had no respect for men who were uninterested in sporting activities."
Not yet ready to end these precious moments of private conversation, Ross sat down in the lee of a hill where they had a distant view over the winding Merv River. Casually he took Juliet's hand and tugged her down beside him. When she came without protest, he briefly considered retaining her hand before deciding it would be wiser not to.
If he were a single man and had just met Juliet, he would be doing his best to court her, for she was in most ways the same woman he had fallen in love with. But the fact that they were married and separated was an unbreachable barrier.
At least, he did not how to overcome the past, nor was he sure that it would be wise to try. The crucial quality she lacked was interest in him. That first innocent courtship, when they had not feared to show their hearts, had been a lifetime ago.
Still casual, he said, "Do you know, I think that is the first time I ever heard you say a word about what your father was like. I know that he served in several exotic diplomatic posts and that he died when you were sixteen, but apart from that, I know nothing. In fact, I don't believe I ever heard any other member of your family mention him."
Juliet sighed. A breeze was blowing across the dunes, and she pulled her veil down so the soft air could cool her face. "He was a difficult man. Having children was something he owed his name—he had little interest in his sons, and even less in his daughter. While he was admirable in many ways, he was also something of a bully. I suppose that a dozen years ago the memory was too raw for anyone in the family to talk about him easily. Enough time has passed to give me some perspective."
"How did you feel about him?"
She hesitated. "I desperately wanted him to be pleased with me, but because he was a bully, I fought with him constantly. All of us did, except poor Mother, who was caught between her husband and her children, as helpless as a new-fledged chick."