Page 64 of A Thousand Painted Hours

He shook his head. “Her husband is very powerful and wealthy, and while he may not love her, our families have made agreements. It would be an act of war to free her.”

“War?” I stopped. “War with whom? Doesn’t she have the right to make her own life?”

He tucked his hands behind him, and met my gaze squarely. “No.”

Rage edged my vision. “It is so unfair!” I spat.

“Yes.” He glanced around us pointedly. “Shall we take the air, Lady Turner?”

So many eyes watched our exchange curiously, and too much of myself spilled publicly. “Yes, please.”

He offered his arm once more. “Some things do not change,” he said mildly.

A small, pained laugh broke through my fury. “I suppose not.”

“I am glad, Elsie. Your fire is powerful.”

All at once, I was overcome. Overcome by the sheer fact that he was here, in England, after so long a time; overcome by his physical presence, by the particular scent of him, sandalwood and the hibiscus in his hair and some note I would have recognized anywhere as purely Tanveer.

My throat tightened, and I squeezed his arm, tears welling up like a waterfall from some hidden spring in my soul. I kept my head downuntil we cleared the portal of the doors to the wide terrace beyond. A pair of men chatted in low voices at one end, but we had our portion to ourselves, and walked to the balustrade without speaking. I struggled to control my absurd emotions, but they spilled wantonly.

Tanveer gave me his handkerchief.

“I apologize,” I whispered. “I did not expect to be so overcome by your presence.”

“Look at me, Elsie,” he said.

When I did, feeling embarrassed, still wiping my tears away, he said, “You are not alone,Mehram. The world is watching, and I am attempting to be discreet. But”—he shook his head—“there is an earthquake inside me.”

“I thought—” I cast about for the right words. “Time and distance would have cured me of ... all this.”

“Did you think so?”

“Didn’t you?”

“No.” In the low light of the gloaming, I spied the shine of emotion in his eyes. “I tried.”

The scent of roses and freshly mown grass filled the air, and a low sun hung gold above the horizon. Music drifted through the open doors, laced through the sound of conversation and laughter. Somewhere in a tree nearby, some birds sang in whistling conversation.

In Urdu, I said, “One small beauty is standing here in the twilight, looking up at you.”

He replied in the same tongue. “Your eyes shine like stars.” His fingers tightened. “Hai, Rabba,I have missed you so much.”

“I was so afraid we would feel awkward.”

His eyes crinkled. “Somehow I did not fear that.”

“Why?”

He glanced toward the open French doors, to the men still engrossed in their fierce conversation, and said, “Shall we explore the garden?”

“Yes.” I gripped his arm, and we swept across the lawns, to the rose gardens, and then past a hedge. I turned, intending to ask—

But he turned toward me at the same instant, and before I could speak, he wrapped me in a full embrace. My face pressed into his shoulder, his hands around my back, and I breathed in the shocking pleasure of his scent, something I could not have labeled, but knew instantly.

“I missed you,” he whispered in Hindustani, bending to press a kiss to the side of my neck. Dizzy, I held him close, returning the words in the same language, then English.

He whispered against my skin, “The world has color again.”