While Ian stretched his legs and took care of the horses, Laura read more of Pyotr's journal.
I5th January 1840. Ian and I almost came to blows this morning. The most ridiculous thing. I said he was giving me too much of the food, he said I was hallucinating, and we had the most tremendous row, with insults in at least five languages. Quite the wrong reason to fight—prisoners are supposed to accuse each other of taking too much of the food, not too little. But I know Ian has been giving me a larger share. I suppose he's afraid I'll die on him if he doesn't feed me up. Impertinent cub. But he's probably right.
17th January 1840. We were arguing over breakfast—or rather, I was trying to argue and Ian was ignoring me— when the world went berserk. No solidity anywhere, dust and pebbles raining down from the walls. Holy Mother, if you can't trust the earth, what can you trust? I was sure the stones were about to fall and crush us—one of the worst moments of my misspent life.
Don't know quite how it happened, but when the quake ended, Ian and I were kneeling in the middle of the cell with our arms clutched around each other, me bellowing prayers in Russian and Ian swearing in English. Such great brave officers. I felt like an idiot, but Ian sat back on his heels and began to laugh, and then I had to do the same. After that it isn't possible to be angry with each other anymore.
Laura smiled a bit mistily. The self-deprecating humor in Pyotr's journal couldn't disguise the terror of the earthquake, or the complicated, ever-strengthening bonds between the two men.
She glanced up to see Ian approaching. "Time to go, Lady Falkirk." As she rose, he added, "What were you smiling about?"
"I just read about an earthquake, when you both thought the walls were collapsing," she explained as she packed the Bible in her saddlebags. "Pyotr described how it resolved a period of strained relations between you."
"I don't recall that the incident did either Pyotr Andreyovich or me much credit," Ian said dryly, "but it's true that after that, we never again had problems getting along.
"Actually, I thought it was a rather sweet story." Accepting Ian's aid, she mounted her horse, then grinned down at him. "But do you know what most impressed Pyotr with the nobility of your character?"
Ian swung into his own saddle. "What was that?"
"The fact that you gave him the pouch of tobacco and clay pipe that you had on you when you were imprisoned. Pyotr was rapturous in his praises of your generosity."
Ian shrugged. "I seldom smoked and it was obvious that he would enjoy the tobacco more than I. He made it last for months. Of course, he could only use the pipe when there was a friendly guard who would light it for him."
"Giving it may have been a small thing for you, but it meant a great deal to him," she said as they set their horses in motion, the pack animal ambling along behind Ian.
Changing the subject, Ian said, "You need some practice shooting—this evening, if it's not too late when we stop. You probably won't be attacked by a tiger again, but you really ought to be better prepared than you were at Nanda.''
Laura made a face. "I don't like guns."
"This has nothing to do with liking them. It's a simple safety precaution."
"But it really isn't necessary," she argued. "Within a few weeks we'll be on our way back to Britain."
"Which means that there are several more weeks here in India," he said patiently. "Granted, we're unlikely to run into trouble, but you never can tell when you'll need to use a weapon. If something happens and you have to defend yourself, you should do it competently."
She gave him an unenthusiastic glance. "If I had been more competent, your head might have ended up mounted on the wall above someone's fireplace."
He smiled. "My first lesson will be on how to recognize a suitable target."
She sighed. Her husband had the expression men always wore when they were telling you what to do for your own good. But she was good at evasive maneuvers. Surely she could avoid a shooting lesson for the time it would take them to get to Bombay. She looked around for something interesting enough to justify a change of topic.
Ian had chosen this remote, seldom-traveled road because of the spectacular scenery. They were currently riding along a narrow, forested valley flanked by towering stone bluffs.
Laura's idle gaze followed the path of a kite, a common Indian bird of prey. As it approached the base of one of the cliffs, she expected it to sheer off, but instead it abruptly vanished. "That's odd," she said. "A kite flew right into that cliff."
Ian's gaze followed her pointing finger. "Perhaps there's a cave there," he suggested.