Veils of Silk(41)

Ian's was fit for a maharajah, with a giant marble tub sunken in the floor and endless hot water. Laura's would be equally sumptuous.

Wanting nothing more than to be alone, Ian immediately dismissed the servants. Then he stripped off his clothing and lowered himself into the bath. He used none of the scented oils—he was too much a Scot to want to smell like a nosegay—but the hot water was wonderful. He didn't emerge until the bath began to cool, and by that time most of his headache was gone.

After drying himself, he donned the embroidered blue robe that had been provided. The folds fell around him as gently as a whisper. Indians had nothing to learn about sensuality.

Returning to the bedroom to await his new wife, he checked that the bedside lamp had enough oil to burn until morning, then went to a window and looked out at the lake.

Lotus plants floated on the dark water, their pale blossoms closed for the night. He felt like a lotus himself, suspended between past and future, darkness and light, despair and hope. And the key to light, hope, and the future was Laura.

He'd assumed she would be a long time in her bath, but she came sooner than he had expected. Turning at the sound of her footsteps, he watched her enter the room, his heart giving an odd lurch as she paused.

Her tawny hair had been brushed into a waterfall of polished bronze that spilled halfway to her waist, and she looked soft and heart-stoppingly lovely. She wore a long, European-style nightgown made of layers of translucent white silk that drifted around her like a cloud and revealed that her figure was even lusher than he had realized.

It was exactly the sort of garment a girl was supposed to wear on her wedding night, designed to arouse both desire and tenderness, He thought, for the thousandth time, of what he was depriving her. But it was too late for regrets. He could only pray that she was right in saying that she knew her own mind.

She smiled shyly. "What happens now?"

He tried to speak and couldn't. After clearing his throat, he tried again. "I'd like to hold you. Just hold you. If you don't object. Or we can talk."

He would not have been surprised if she had politely declined, for he was still unsure how far her dislike of touching went. Uneasily he realized that they hadn't even discussed the basic issue of whether they would share a bed or he should make up a separate pallet for himself.

Laura answered his question without a word, crossing the cool marble floor and walking straight into his arms. She smelled of jasmine and was soft, so soft. Ian drew her close with exquisite care, resting his chin on the top of her head as his hands slowly stroked down the graceful curves of her back. He whispered, "I thought that I would never hold a woman again."

She nestled closer. "You can hold me whenever you want."

Ian's tension dissolved like mist in the morning sun. He was physically aware of Laura in a way that he had never been with a mistress, for in the past passion had overpowered subtler perceptions.

Freed of the rude urgency of desire, he could savor the texture of fine-spun hair falling across the back of his hand, and the velvety feel of her nape. The warmth of her breasts compressed against him, the greater warmth of her loins; the arc of her ribs, the slight depression of her spine, the gentle flare of her hips. Lightly he kissed her hair, awed by the rediscovery of what a wondrous creature a woman was.

Feeling immensely protective, he bent over and lifted Laura in his arms. "Time to put you to bed. You must be tired."

After a quick inhalation, she relaxed in his grasp. "Not so tired that I couldn't walk, but this is a lovely way to travel."

He carried her to the canopied bed and pushed aside the mosquito curtain, then laid her on the cotton-filled mattress. Gently brushing the tawny hair from her cheek, he said, "Shall I join you, or would you prefer I make up a separate bed?"

"I would like very much for you to join me." She caught his hand and drew him down beside her. "You said we should have a real marriage in all ways but one. I'm sure that includes sharing a bed."

"Insomniacs aren't very restful bed companions." He pulled a light cover over them. "You're allowed to change your mind if I toss and turn so much that I ruin your sleep."

"I'll worry about that if it happens." She rolled onto her side and pressed the soft length of her body against him, one arm going across his chest as naturally as if she had lain with him a thousand times before.

He was touched by her willingness to accept her new situation. He had expected her to be much warier about physical closeness. "Pyotr Andreyovich claimed that in spite of the reputation Russians have for being tempestuous, there's a vast patience, a willingness to accept, at the center of the nation's character. You have that."