Authors: MARY JO PUTNEY
Angrily she drew the back of her hand across her stinging eyes, wiping away the tears. Then, feeling the need to breathe more deeply, she pulled her veil down, letting the wind touch her face for the first time in many hours.
“Do you want to abandon the journey?” she asked when her voice steadied. “If we are going to turn back, now is the time.”
“I’ve considered it,” Ross said slowly, “but while Abdul Wahab witnessed the execution, we still don’t know why Ian was killed. Such knowledge could be valuable for the government as well as your family, and the only way to learn the whole story is to go to Bokhara. Plus, it would mean a great deal to your mother if Ian’s body could be returned to Scotland for burial.”
“It would also mean a great deal to me.” Juliet wanted to say more, but her throat closed and she could not.
“Come. Let’s walk before we go back.” Putting a light hand on the back of her waist, he guided her toward the open desert.
As she began walking, she wondered if Ross was even aware that he was touching her. Probably not; the contact had the casual familiarity of an old friend, with nothing erotic about it. She could tell the difference from the night before, when there had been lucent passion between them.
For her, passion still burned, and all day she had been constantly, painfully aware of her husband’s nearness. But she sensed that he had turned off desire as thoroughly as if he had extinguished a lamp. That he could do so did not surprise her; it had been far more surprising that he had ever wanted her in the first place. She had not understood his interest when she was seventeen, and now she understood it even less. Yet because he was the only man who had ever made her feel truly desirable, the withdrawal of his regard left her bereft.
Thank God there was still some sympathy between them, even if it was only a pale shadow of what had bound them together in the past. For tonight, as she struggled with the vision of her brother’s death, she needed his kindness.
After several silent minutes, when the only sound was the faint crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the whisper of the wind, Ross said, “Do you ever miss Great Britain, Juliet?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted. “I miss the greenness. Strange to think that the British see rain not just as normal, but frequently as a nuisance. Here, water is a gift from God.”
He chuckled. “Here, sunshine and heat are considered normal and sometimes a nuisance. During a bad summer in England, those same things are considered a gift from God.”
She smiled a little. “That’s true, isn’t it? It is human nature to yearn for what is rare.” Then she fell silent again, wondering how much she could say without admitting more than she wanted to. “Much as I love Serevan, I will always be an alien in Persia. I did not fully realize the extent to which I was formed by European values until I began living in the middle of a foreign society. Oddly enough, I have less trouble dealing with the men than the women.”
“I assume that is because the way that you live—riding, carrying weapons, giving orders—is exclusively male behavior here. You have never lived a life as circumscribed as that of Eastern women, so you have less in common with them.”
“I never thought in those terms, but that is exactly the case.” Juliet gave a self-mocking smile. “At first I tried to change things. I wanted to liberate the women of Serevan, persuade them to go unveiled, to demand more respect.”
“From your tone, I gather that you met with little success.”
“None at all.” She sighed. “The women of Serevan were happier with their veils, their women’s quarters, their separate lives. Finally I gave up. Even Saleh’s wife, who is intelligent and wise, just listened, then tut-tutted and said that it sounded like an Englishwoman’s life is an uncomfortable one.”
“Culture is stronger than ideology,” Ross observed, “and most people are happier following the customs they were raised with. Born rebels like you are rare.”
“So it seems. But I regret having so little in common with the women here, because it limits friendship. I miss having female friends—in particular, I miss Sara.” Juliet stopped, realizing that she was getting too close to the dangerous ground of their mutual past.
Perhaps feeling the same, Ross changed the subject. “The fact that you can enjoy the company of women makes you very different from Lady Hester Stanhope. She despised her own sex and would have much preferred to be born male. As a man, she would have made a splendid general or politician.”
Juliet seized the new topic with enthusiasm. “That’s right, you visited Lady Hester. When did you go? What was she like?”
Ross hesitated. Apparently the years had not dimmed his wife’s innocent admiration for the self-styled “Queen of the Arabs,” and he did not want to disillusion her. “I visited Lady Hester six or seven years ago. She was witty and opinionated. Capricious. Admirable, but also rather pathetic.”
Taken aback, Juliet said, “How could such an incredible woman ever be pathetic? There has never been anyone like her.”
“That is certainly true.” Ross realized that he must be very careful of what he said; his wife had had enough bad news tonight, and she did not need more. “But when I visited, Lady Hester’s health was failing and she no longer left her fortress for any reason. For a woman who had been a splendid rider and a great traveler, that must have been difficult.”
A little shyly Juliet said, “When I decided to live at Serevan, I promised myself that I would try to live as Lady Hester did: to welcome all refugees, no matter what their tribe or creed—to protect those within my walls, never to send anyone away hungry.” Her voice became dreamy. “It still amazes me that a woman who was the niece of William Pitt, who had lived at the very center of British politics, could turn her back on society and create a kingdom of her own in Syria.”
“In a way, it makes perfect sense,” he said thoughtfully. “Lady Hester was born to rule, but what influence she had came from being the niece and hostess of the prime minister. After Pitt died, there was nothing left for her in England but obscurity, and she would have hated that. In the East, she could do exactly as she wished, and she had authority again.”
Wistfully Juliet said, “She was incredibly brave. Did you ever hear the story of how she became the first European woman ever to visit the ruins of Palmyra? She had the courage to put herself entirely under the protection of Bedouin raiders—” Abruptly Juliet cut off her monologue. “Sorry… of course you know all that. Please, tell me what it was like to meet her.”
“I had been in Cyprus, so I decided to go over to the Lebanon in the hopes that Lady Hester would see me. After all, it isn’t often that one has a chance to meet a living legend.”
They were some distance from the caravansary now, so by mutual consent they sat down in a patch of soft sand, with the lee of a hill protecting them from the wind. Ross continued, “While all visitors were offered hospitality, she often refused to see them personally. But I was fortunate—she remembered my father from her political days, so she decided to receive me.” He chuckled. “It was quite an experience. Though Lady Hester was nearly sixty, she still had enough vanity that she would entertain only after dark, since lamplight was more flattering. After her servants gave me an excellent dinner, she sent for me.”
“What did you talk about?” Juliet asked eagerly.
“I didn’t talk,” Ross said rather dryly. “My job was to listen. She spent the whole night describing her metaphysical theories. Though her overall health was not good, there was nothing wrong with her tongue. I wasn’t dismissed until dawn.”
“I had heard that Lady Hester was a great talker, and so intelligent that Pitt said she would never marry, for she would never find a man with more wit than she had,” Juliet observed. “What did she look like?”
“She was an impressive figure, a couple of inches taller even than you. She wore the robes of a Turkish pasha, and had a manner to match.” Casting his mind back, Ross described the more interesting aspects of Lady Hester and her fortress of Djoun, glad that he was able to distract Juliet from her grief over her brother. Juliet and Ian had been as close as Ross and Sara, and though they had not seen each other in years, Ian’s death must leave a bleak hole in her world.
As Ross talked, he kept a carefully casual eye on his wife’s listening profile. With the veil down, her face was a pale, pure cameo against the black velvet night. There was a bitter irony in the scene: here they were, alone together in a desert in a remote and exotic part of the world. It was exactly the kind of romantic episode they had once intended to share. Before Juliet had run away, they had been planning a lengthy journey into the Middle East. Illness in Ross’s family had forced a postponement, and Juliet had been upset at the delay. In fact, that was when they had their first arguments.
Now here they were a dozen years later, doing exactly what they had intended—but only up to a point. When they had planned their journey, they had always assumed that a scene such as this would end in passionate lovemaking. Yet now that their long-ago dream had been realized, they were so thoroughly estranged that romance was unthinkable.
Yet he was thinking about it. Knowing that if he did not move, he would be unable to stop himself from touching her, Ross stood abruptly and brushed the sand from his robes. “That is enough of Lady Hester for tonight.” His fingers balled into a fist as he restrained himself from offering his wife a hand. “It’s time to get some sleep. Dawn will come all too quickly.”
Lithely Juliet got to her feet. As they began walking back toward Sarakhs, she said, “What will you do when you return to England, Ross? Managing the family property may be necessary, but I imagine you’ll find it rather dull, and it certainly won’t be enough to absorb all your energy.”
Rather hesitantly he replied, “For years I’ve had an idea in the back of my mind to establish an institute for oriental studies, a place where Eastern and Western scholars can meet and exchange knowledge. I had intended to do it when I could no longer travel. Now that time has come, a little sooner than I expected.” He glanced sideways at his wife. With her long swinging stride, she kept up with him effortlessly. “Have you heard about the new railways that are being built in Europe?”
“I’ve read about them, but they sound like just a passing novelty. It’s hard to believe that people can—or want to—move so quickly. And surely the time and money involved in laying railroad tracks must be prohibitive.”
“It is expensive, but not prohibitive. Over the next few decades, railroads will change the world,” Ross predicted. “Someday soon, not only will there be railroads connecting every part of Europe, but also crossing the whole width of Asia and America. The world is getting smaller, and in the future it will be increasingly important for different peoples to learn to understand each other. In a small way, perhaps my institute can contribute to that.” He stopped, abashed, thinking that it was foolish of him to say so much about what was only a vague dream.
“It’s a wonderful idea,” Juliet said warmly, “and no one could do a better job of running such an institute. You’ve always been so good at talking with people from every walk of life, and at getting them to talk to each other.” She laughed softly. “Sometimes I used to find your ability to see all sides of a question exasperating, but that fair-mindedness is one of the best things about you. I’m glad you will be putting your talents to good use.”
Ross felt absurdly pleased at her approval; if there was one thing he remembered clearly about his wife, it was that she would never perjure herself by praising something she considered a bad idea. He glanced at her again. They were nearing the caravansary, and as he watched, she raised the tagelmoust and pulled it tightly around her lower face. By the gesture, she distanced herself from him, becoming once more the servant Jalal. They completed the walk in silence.
An oil lamp hung in the entry arch of the caravansary, but the courtyard was still, with only embers showing where fires had burned. Here and there a camel snorted or a man coughed, but no one else was still up; they had talked much longer than Ross had realized. Carefully they picked their way through the maze of sleeping bodies, both human and animal.
When they arrived back at their own cubicle, the door to the small room was open to the night air and the faint light was enough to show the interior. The back end of the cubicle was stacked with their supplies and baggage, leaving an area about seven feet deep and just wide enough to allow four men to roll out their mats side by side. Murad and Saleh were lying next to each other on the left side of the room, leaving the two places on the right for the absent members of the party. In fact, their sleeping rugs had been laid out in position for their return.
Taking it in at a glance, Ross muttered an oath under his breath. Why the devil couldn’t Saleh have managed matters so that the older man would be sleeping between Ross and Juliet? Simultaneously Ross and Juliet turned to look at each other. It was impossible to read any expression behind the tagelmoust, but he had no doubt that she was as dismayed as he was. The ease that had been between them vanished, replaced by palpable discomfort.
Well, there was nothing that could be done about it now, not without calling undesirable attention to their sleeping arrangements. Wordlessly Ross pulled the sheathed knife from his sash and laid it on his mat. Though it was unlikely that a caravansary would be robbed, through long habit he liked to keep a weapon near to hand, just in case. Then he lay down in the middle spot, leaving the wall position for Juliet. After wrapping his heavy wool blanket around him, he rolled onto his side, turning his back to where she would be lying.
Moving as quietly as he, Juliet also lay down and wrapped herself in her blanket, settling as far away from him as possible. Yet even though Ross was turned away, he was acutely, painfully aware of her nearness.
It had been hard enough the night before, when he knew that she was sleeping under the same roof; having her lying eighteen inches away was well nigh unbearable. Every sound she made, from the rustle of fabric to her nearly inaudible breathing, grated across his raw nerves like a saw-toothed blade.