be so objective about a very attractive girl. He had never been a womanizer who tried to bed every female he met, but he had always had a masculine awareness of the women around him. He had not appreciated how much pleasure that awareness lent to life until it was gone.
His gaze returned to his companion's still profile. She was indeed bearing up well, but it was apparent that paralyzing grief lay just beneath her calm surface. Regretting that he must increase her misery, he said, "Miss Stephenson, I'm afraid there are some decisions that only you can make."
She looked directly at him. "What decisions?"
He was intrigued to see that her amber eyes had an Oriental slant that was as attractive as it was exotic. "Do you want to take your father's body back to Baipur?" He hesitated before adding, "The weather is hot, and the trip will take days by bullock cart."
As she understood what he was hinting at, her face tightened. "My father can be buried here. He loved all of India—it doesn't matter whether he rests in Nanda or Baipur." She ran distracted fingers through her hair, tangling it even further. "I must send a man to the village to inform the headman of my father's death, and to ask about a burial site."
"I've already done that," Ian said. "I imagine the headman himself will arrive soon to talk with you."
The soft-footed cook came and set down a tray that held a platter of fresh chapatis and a bowl of dal, a mixture of spiced lentils. When Laura stared blankly at the tray, Ian said, "You'd better eat something. It's going to be a difficult day."
Obediently she picked up a chapati, tore off a piece, and used the fragment to scoop up a mouthful of dal. After she had chewed and swallowed it, she said, vaguely surprised, "I'm hungry. I think I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
Eventually Laura ate twice as much as Ian, though that was no great feat, given the state of his appetite. When they had finished, she said, "Your business with my father—is it something I can help you with? I… I know you must be eager to be on your way again."
"I'm in no particular hurry," he said mildly. "If you wish, I can escort you back to Baipur."
She blinked and looked away. "I would like that," she said in a low voice. "If you're sure you don't mind."
"I'm sure." Though she would not have asked him to stay, Ian could see that she was grateful for the support of a countryman. Rather to his surprise, he realized that he actively wanted to assist her. He would have helped any woman in distress, but Laura Stephenson aroused his protective instincts. More than that, he felt a sense of affinity with her, even though the source of her pain was very different from his own.
After composing herself, she said, "You still haven't told me why you came all the way to Nanda to find my father."
"Actually, my primary goal was not your father," Ian said. "I'm looking for a
Russian girl named Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian. I was told she was Kenneth Stephenson's stepdaughter. Do you have a stepsister by that name?"
Her expression immediately became shuttered. "I am Larissa Alexandrovna, or I once was. What do you want of me?"
Startled, Ian exclaimed, "You're Lara?"
Her dark brows arched. "Indeed. Why is that surprising?"
Ian shook his head, feeling a fool for having missed the obvious. "I'm sorry, I had it firmly in mind that Lara was a girl of thirteen or fourteen. I didn't expect a grown woman." If he hadn't assumed she was English, he would have known immediately, for she had Pyotr's high, dramatic Slavic cheekbones. Those slanted amber eyes attested to the centuries when Russia had been harried by the Golden Hordes of Central Asia. The inevitable mixing of the races had given rise to a Russian proverb Pyotr had sometimes used: "Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar." His niece was living proof of his words, for clearly her ancestors had included Mongol warriors; the expression she wore at that moment would do credit to Genghis Khan
His gaze returned to his companion's still profile. She was indeed bearing up well, but it was apparent that paralyzing grief lay just beneath her calm surface. Regretting that he must increase her misery, he said, "Miss Stephenson, I'm afraid there are some decisions that only you can make."
She looked directly at him. "What decisions?"
He was intrigued to see that her amber eyes had an Oriental slant that was as attractive as it was exotic. "Do you want to take your father's body back to Baipur?" He hesitated before adding, "The weather is hot, and the trip will take days by bullock cart."
As she understood what he was hinting at, her face tightened. "My father can be buried here. He loved all of India—it doesn't matter whether he rests in Nanda or Baipur." She ran distracted fingers through her hair, tangling it even further. "I must send a man to the village to inform the headman of my father's death, and to ask about a burial site."
"I've already done that," Ian said. "I imagine the headman himself will arrive soon to talk with you."
The soft-footed cook came and set down a tray that held a platter of fresh chapatis and a bowl of dal, a mixture of spiced lentils. When Laura stared blankly at the tray, Ian said, "You'd better eat something. It's going to be a difficult day."
Obediently she picked up a chapati, tore off a piece, and used the fragment to scoop up a mouthful of dal. After she had chewed and swallowed it, she said, vaguely surprised, "I'm hungry. I think I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."
Eventually Laura ate twice as much as Ian, though that was no great feat, given the state of his appetite. When they had finished, she said, "Your business with my father—is it something I can help you with? I… I know you must be eager to be on your way again."
"I'm in no particular hurry," he said mildly. "If you wish, I can escort you back to Baipur."
She blinked and looked away. "I would like that," she said in a low voice. "If you're sure you don't mind."
"I'm sure." Though she would not have asked him to stay, Ian could see that she was grateful for the support of a countryman. Rather to his surprise, he realized that he actively wanted to assist her. He would have helped any woman in distress, but Laura Stephenson aroused his protective instincts. More than that, he felt a sense of affinity with her, even though the source of her pain was very different from his own.
After composing herself, she said, "You still haven't told me why you came all the way to Nanda to find my father."
"Actually, my primary goal was not your father," Ian said. "I'm looking for a
Russian girl named Larissa Alexandrovna Karelian. I was told she was Kenneth Stephenson's stepdaughter. Do you have a stepsister by that name?"
Her expression immediately became shuttered. "I am Larissa Alexandrovna, or I once was. What do you want of me?"
Startled, Ian exclaimed, "You're Lara?"
Her dark brows arched. "Indeed. Why is that surprising?"
Ian shook his head, feeling a fool for having missed the obvious. "I'm sorry, I had it firmly in mind that Lara was a girl of thirteen or fourteen. I didn't expect a grown woman." If he hadn't assumed she was English, he would have known immediately, for she had Pyotr's high, dramatic Slavic cheekbones. Those slanted amber eyes attested to the centuries when Russia had been harried by the Golden Hordes of Central Asia. The inevitable mixing of the races had given rise to a Russian proverb Pyotr had sometimes used: "Scratch a Russian and you'll find a Tartar." His niece was living proof of his words, for clearly her ancestors had included Mongol warriors; the expression she wore at that moment would do credit to Genghis Khan
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