"One needn't understand to love," he said affectionately. "There's an intense Russian side of you that I'll never understand, but I don't love you any the less because of that."
"I'm not Russian—I'm a civilized Englishwoman." To prove it, she poured herself more tea and added a large dollop of milk. "I just happened to be born in Russia."
"And lived there until you were nine. No number of years in England will change that." Kenneth smiled. "When you look at me with those slanting gold eyes, you're the very image of your mother, and no one was more Russian than Tatyana."
"But I'm not like her," Laura said uneasily, "except on the outside."
He shook his head but didn't pursue the point. Catching Laura's gaze with his, he said, "If something happens to me, promise that you won't mourn too long, my dear, and that you'll seriously consider marriage."
Alarmed, Laura set down her teacup and stared at her stepfather. "This is a very strange conversation. Is there something you aren't telling me? Have you been feeling poorly?"
"No, nothing like that." He shrugged his shoulders. "It's just that a Brahmin priest once cast my horoscope and said that I'd die soon after my sixtieth birthday."
And his birthday had been the week before. Feeling as if an icy draft had touched her neck, she exclaimed, "That's nonsense, Father! How could a superstitious heathen know when you'll die?"
"Perhaps the priest was wrong. Then again, perhaps he was right. I've seen many things in India that are inexplicable in western terms," Kenneth said calmly. "I've also acquired some of the fatalism of the East, I think, for the thought of death doesn't bother me. I've taken stock of my life and on balance I'm satisfied with what I've done." He sighed. "But I worry about what will happen to you. I should have paid more attention to money matters, for I haven't much to leave you."
"You've given me everything that matters," she said in a low voice. "You needn't worry. I'll survive very well on my own."
"I know you can manage, but life is more than mere survival," he said gently. "It's also companionship, friendship, love. I worry that you'll choose to spend the rest of your life alone, and miss the chance to have so much more."
Laura bit her lip, unhappily aware that her stepfather had divined her aversion to marriage. It was not a subject she would discuss, even with him, for nothing would change her mind.
But she was willing to fib if an untruth would give him peace of mind. "Life is uncertain, especially in India—you could outlive me by twenty years." She gave an exaggerated shudder. "But I promise that if something happens to you, I'll look for a husband. A woman needs a man, if only to kill all the really big bugs. You know how much I hate centipedes."
Kenneth chuckled, his expression easing. "When you marry, I'm sure you'll find other uses for a husband besides killing bugs. When you haven't got me to fuss over, you'll find that you enjoy the company of young men."
Perhaps she would, but she still wouldn't marry. Not ever.
Chapter 2
Cambay Station
Northern India
In a fever to return to his regiment, Ian Cameron spent only two days in Bombay. After visiting his banker and a tailor, he bought the best available horse, rifle, and revolver, then set off on the long ride to Cambay. He didn't bother to send word ahead, for he would arrive almost as soon as a message would.
He rode northeast through the vast green plains that swept across India from the Arabian Sea to the Bay of Bengal, but he found little pleasure in the familiar scenes of cheerful people, gaudy temples, and patient water buffalo. During the endless months of darkness in the Black Well of Bokhara, he had believed that if he were set free, if he could once more stand in the sunlight, his life would return to normal.
Instead, the darkness of prison seemed to have entered his soul. Day and night—especially night—he was haunted by fears that the darkness was on the verge of engulfing him. Only Georgina could chase the shadows away, and the need to see her drove him at the fastest pace his horse could maintain.
He had little interest in food or rest. In fact, he preferred to avoid sleep because of his appalling dreams. Usually the nightmares were of the Black Well, and he woke up feeling suffocated and agonizingly alone.
Less often, he had mysterious, inexplicable dreams of fire—of a raging holocaust that blazed across the land, destroying everything in its path. Then he awoke shaking with anxiety, convinced that there was something he must do to stop the fire, but he could never remember what.
On the whole, it was better not to sleep.
The road to the cantonment of the 46th Native Infantry ran over a ridge. At the top he halted and stared hungrily at the plain below. Nothing appeared to have changed in the two years he had been gone. In the distance troops were drilling on the maidan, the parade ground, their crisp marching and turns stirring up a cloud of dust that floated down the wind. Closer to hand, barracks, supply depots, and bungalows were laid out with military precision along a sprawling grid of roads.