Reaching back to her childhood Bible study, Laura went to the last lines of the famous passage. "'A time to love, and a time to hate. A time of war, and a time of peace.' The dancing Siva means the same thing, doesn't it? Life's eternal cycle."
After Ian agreed, she continued, "I'll be glad when the 'time for peace' returns, not to mention the 'time for embracing,' but I'm rather enjoying this opportunity to see you in action. Not many women have the chance to see their husbands like this."
"Most women wouldn't want it," he said dryly. "This is quite a honeymoon I've brought you on. Ever since we met, your standard of living has been declining, until now you're living like a hill bandit. Wouldn't you have preferred Paris?"
She laughed. "Wherever you are is the right place, doushenka."
He rested his chin on the top of her head. "While I'd prefer knowing that you were safe in Bombay, I'll admit that I've rather enjoying this trek, too. I was only about five years old when my sister Juliet taught me never to underestimate the strength and determination of a female, but I'm still impressed by your stamina and good nature. Pyotr Andreyovich would be proud of you." He kissed her temple. "And so am I."
Laura was sure that his words were making her glow brighter than the fire. Perhaps it was not the time to make love, but that didn't mean there was no love present, for every day she loved Ian more, even if he could not love her back in the same way.
Perhaps Srinivasa had been right to say that there was no accidents and that she and Ian had been born to be together. He felt like the other half of her soul, and in a surge of optimism she saw their lives intertwined for decades to come.
The shiver she felt then must have been from cold.
Chapter 32
The warrior didn't know how long he had been stumbling through the mountains, for he had been out of his head for much of the time. In some ways delirium was better, for then there was no pain. But now his awareness cleared, and he saw that he had managed to make his way through most of the Shpola Pass.
Surely it was the hand of Allah that had kept him on the treacherous track when he could so easily have pitched into the abyss. Would it be blasphemy to hope Allah might also send some food? He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, but it had been days. Soon he would not have the strength to continue.
Yet continue he must, for much depended on him. He wavered to a halt and leaned against the cliff face. The pass was a haunted place and the wind wailed eerily, like the voices of doomed men.
Not far beyond the eastern end of the pass was his home, where there would be food and warmth and someone to bind his wounds. But the remaining distance might as well have been a thousand leagues, for all the chance he had of crossing it.
Then he heard the chinking sound of hooves echoing through the pass. For a moment panic surged through him, clearing his head. They had caught up with him and there would be too many to fight. But no, the sound came from ahead, not behind.
He listened carefully. The stony cliffs distorted sound, making it hard to judge how many horses were coming, but he decided that it was only a single traveler. Allah had not forsaken him, for soon he would have transportation as well as food and water.
It didn't occur to him that the approaching rider might be a friend, not after so many days when every man's hand had been turned against him. He retraced his steps to a spot where the trail was a little wider and a jagged boulder reared up to a height above a rider's head. Slowly, pain stabbing through his shoulder, he crawled onto the boulder and hunkered down so that he would be concealed from the rider's view.
Then he drew his knife and waited.
* * *
Laura decided that the Pathan guide hadn't been joking when he called the Shpola a marmot track. The pass wasn't much more than a steep-sided, winding slash in the rocky mountains. At best, the track was wide enough for two men to ride abreast. Usually it was narrower than that.
This section they were currently traversing consisted of a ledge clinging precariously to a cliffside. Far below tumbled a narrow river of violent, white water rapids. The way the wind whistled between the cliffs made her exceedingly grateful that she wouldn't be here during a storm, for it was all too easy to imagine being blown into the gorge. She kept most of her attention fixed on the track directly in front of her, though her sure-footed horse was doing most of the hard work.
But it wasn't only the obvious physical dangers that made the pass disquieting. It seemed a place of ill-omen. Laura rode with her rifle ready, though she doubted that it would be of much use against ghosts.
She glanced up for a moment, wanting a sight of Ian. If her husband was uneasy, it didn't show. He rode about thirty feet ahead of her, as calm as if he were showing off a new hack in a London park. She hoped that soon he would have enough information that they could turn back. She most emphatically did not want to spend the night in the pass.