"No. The Khyber is something like thirty-three miles long, and I suspect that the Shpola may be longer. Going the whole length and then back would take two or three days if the path is bad, and we can't afford that much time. We'll go into the pass far enough to make sure that it's what we're looking for, and to get an idea what conditions are like."
He unlashed his saddlebags and swung them from his horse. "If we're really lucky the pass will be closed by snow, but it's likely that the elevation is low enough so that it stays open through all but the worst winter storms. The Khyber is like that."
"Then what?" Laura asked as she unloaded her own horse.
"We head back into the Punjab and hope that soon we'll run into Company troops marching to relieve the fort at Jallalabad." He unhitched his saddle and removed it from the weary horse's back. "I'll identify myself, guide a company or so up here to insure that no Afghans will use this as the royal road to India, then you and I head to Bombay. As I said, a simple, not very dangerous mission. My favorite kind."
Laura shivered and hoped it was from cold, not a premonition that they wouldn't get through this so easily. After settling her horse for the night, she made a fire with the fuel Ian gathered, then prepared a simple supper of tea and chapatis wrapped around fried onions and melted goat cheese.
It wasn't half bad, she decided. Nothing like hunger to sharpen the appetite.
Night fell quickly, and so did the temperature. As they split the last of the tea between them, she began shivering in earnest. "After this, Falkirk is going to seem tropical."
"Come over here and I'll warm you up," Ian said.
She looked at him doubtfully. "Now? Here?"
He chuckled. "What a lewd mind you have. I was speaking literally, not euphemistically."
Laura circled the fire to where he was perched on a low rock. When she joined him, he turned her around so that she was sitting on the ground between his legs with her back tucked cozily against him. "Mmm, much more comfortable than the rock I was on." With a sigh of pleasure, she relaxed against his warm body. "You mentioned in Manpur that you had worked as a political officer. Exactly what does that mean?"
He finished his tea and set the tin cup down, then wrapped his arms around her waist. "Political officers work directly with the natives, both for liaison and to gather information on what people are thinking and doing. They're often drawn from the army. The best can pass for natives."
Laura gave a nod of understanding. "So with your Persian childhood and language skills, you were a natural for such work."
"In skills but not temperament," Ian said ruefully. "A lot of the work is essentially spying. Though I was rather good at it, I didn't fancy a life of full-time subterfuge. Whenever the head of the political service asked me to join permanently, I refused. But sometimes I found the life of an army officer—a few hours of drill and a lot of hours of sports, hunting, and gossip—a little tedious. That's why so many officers overindulge in drink or drugs.
"Not good. India tends to kill the overindulgent rather quickly. So whenever I became too restless, I would volunteer for some political work, which is how I ended up in the Black Well." His voice lightened. "Next time I feel restless, I'll go for a swim."
Intrigued by this new facet of her husband, she said, "I can't decide whether you're a naturally direct man with a devious bent, or a devious man with a streak of compulsive honesty."
He chuckled. "Some of both."
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching the small fire. As it subsided into embers, Laura rested her head back against Ian's shoulder. "This is the warmest I've been all day."
"It will go below freezing tonight," he said. "There's enough fuel to keep a small fire going, but we'd better sleep together for safety's sake."
When she stiffened, he said, "Just sleep." He tightened his arms around her but the embrace was protective rather than passionate. "You feel it, too, don't you? That under these conditions, with the threat of war hanging over India like the sword of Damocles, too much joy would be out of place."
"That's it exactly," she said, startled at how well he understood. "If I were personally threatened with death, I'd probably want to make love with you as often as possible in the time remaining. But this is different. With India on the verge of going up in flames around us, private passion seems selfish."
"'To everything, there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven,'" he quoted softly. " 'A time to kill, and a time to heal.' I forget the exact order, but 'a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing' are on the list."