Veils of Silk
Chapter 1
Baipur Station
North Central India
Nightmares again. Laura awoke gasping and sat up in bed, one flailing hand striking the muslin mosquito curtain that surrounded her. Shaking, she buried her face in her hands.
As her fear eased, she wryly reproached herself for becoming so upset when her nightmares were such old friends. They had begun when she was six years old, when she had first witnessed the savagery that could exist between men and women.
These days the nightmares were rare and usually occurred only when change was imminent. Unfortunately, the images had lost none of their vivid emotion. Fear, revulsion, and shame. Passion, disaster, death.
Wearily Laura brushed the tawny hair from her damp forehead. Most of the time she was a levelheaded woman of twenty-four, calm and collected to a fault. Yet in her nightmares she was always a frantic, terrified child, and no amount of maturity had changed that. She supposed she must content herself with being grateful that the bad dreams came only two or three times a year.
It seemed absurd to have nightmares when the change coming was one she welcomed. Tomorrow she and her stepfather would leave on a camping tour of the district, which was the most rewarding part of the yearly routine. Nonetheless, the prospect had woken her sleeping demons for one of their periodic assaults.
The air had cooled to a comfortable temperature and on the veranda the hanging wind bells tinkled faintly at a cat's-paw of wind. Laura lifted the mosquito curtain and swung her bare feet to the floor. Heedless of possible scorpions, she crossed to the window, where she saw the first light of dawn in the east. Good; that meant she didn't have to try to go back to sleep again.
Like many Britons in India, she and her stepfather were in the habit of taking early morning rides, before the heat of the day took hold. Soon he would rise and they would have tea and toast together. After their ride, he would attend to his duties as district collector and she would see to the myriad details necessary to close the house and prepare for their journey. It would be a busy, predictable day.
But for a moment, before turning to light the lamp, Laura savored the rippling notes of the wind bells and the other rich sounds and scents of the night. As the breeze caressed her face, the voluptuous darkness called to her. India's very nature was passion, and sometimes—too often—she longed to surrender to it. Unthinkingly she drew her hands down her body, her palms shaping her breasts and hips as she felt the warm pulse of flesh beneath the thin muslin shift.
Realizing what she was doing, she flushed and turned away from the dangerous sensuality of the night.
* * *
Laura was in the cookhouse selecting supplies when her father's bearer came to announce that the joint magistrate was paying a call. She wrinkled her nose—the last thing a woman packing for a trip needed was visitors—but said, "Thank you, Padam. Tell Mr. Walford that I'll join him directly."
She took the covered walkway that led from the cookhouse to the bungalow and went to her bedroom to check her appearance. As expected after hours of bustling, she looked as if she had been dragged through a bush backward, with tendrils of light brown hair rioting in all directions from the knot at the back of her head. That didn't bother her much, but her clinging, perspiration-damped gown did, for the last thing Emery Walford needed was provocation. She called her maid and changed to a shapeless white muslin dress, then went to greet her guest.
Shaded by trellises covered with flowering vines, the veranda was the most pleasant part of the bungalow. As soon as Laura appeared, the magistrate stood, six feet of shy, handsome young man. "Good afternoon, Laura," he said. "I know you must be busy, but I wanted to say good-bye before you left." He swallowed, then said unimaginatively, "It's very hot today."
"But soon the cool weather will begin, for six glorious months." Laura gestured for him to sit down, choosing a wickerwork chair a safe distance away for herself. Even so, she was uncomfortably aware of his yearning. Ever since she was fourteen, men had desired Laura; even with her eyes closed, she could sense the hot, wordless pressure of male hunger.
Lord only knew why so many men wanted her, for she was no beauty and certainly offered them no encouragement; nonetheless, the desire was almost always there. Most men's admiration was gentlemanly and not a problem, but Emery's blatant longing was embarrassing. That was a pity, for she liked his intelligence and sweet earnestness. They would have been better friends if he did not so obviously lust after her.
As tea and jelabi cakes were served, the young magistrate said, "Wouldn't it be better to wait until the cool weather begins before starting the tour? The heat is so enervating."