Cover image for Silk and secrets
Title:
Silk and secrets
Author:
Putney, Mary Jo.
Personal Author:
Edition:
[Large print edition].
Publication Information:
Rockland, MA : Wheeler Pub., [2001]

©1992
Physical Description:
527 pages ; 24 cm.
Language:
English
ISBN:
9781587241888
Format :
Book

Available:*

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Material Type
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Status
Anna M. Reinstein Library X Adult Large Print - Floating collection Floating Collection - Large Print
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Summary

Summary

Lord Ross Carlisle's danger-filled journeys through Central Asia over the past dozen years had brought him fame and fortune, and enough challenges to distract him from the memory of his beautiful young wife's betrayal. But, just as he is about to embark on his next adventure, Lord Carlisle receives two pieces of news that will change his life forever.First, he's informed of his half brother's death. And second, he learns that Ian, his brother-in-law, has been imprisoned by the powerful Amir of Bokhara. Ross risks one final adventure, a perilous and probably impossible mission to determine Ian's fate.Encountering his estranged wife, Juliet, in a desert stronghold along the way seems proof that fate has lately taken Ross in hand. Traveling together on a treacherous rescue mission, they face unknown perils. And as their passion begins to ignite, Juliet begins to fall captive to a love long denied....


Author Notes

Romance writer Mary Jo Putney was born in New York and graduated from Syracuse University with degrees in English literature and Industrial design. She served as the art editor of The New Internationalist magazine in London and worked as a designer in California before settling in Baltimore, Maryland in 1980 to run her own freelance graphic design business Her first novel was a traditional Regency romance, which sold in one week. Signet liked the novel so much that it offered Putney a three-book contract. In 1987 that first novel, The Diabolical Baron, was published. Since then, she has published more than twenty-nine books. Her books have been ranked on the national bestseller lists of the New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly. Most of her books have been historical romance. She has also begun writing fantasy romance and romantic fantasy. Putney has won the Romance Writers of America RITA Award twice, for Dancing on the Wind and The Rake and the Reformer and has been a RITA finalist nine times. She is on the Romance Writers of America Honor Roll for bestselling authors, and has been awarded two Romantic Times Career Achievement Awards and four Golden Leaf Awards. Her titles include: Dark Mirror, Dark Passage, No Longer a Gentleman, Never Less than a Lady, and Nowhere Near Respectable.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 1

Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in the Near East of the Great Game, this sequel to Putney's Silk and Shadows switches focus from Mikhal Khanauri and Sara St. James to the adventures of Sara's cousin Lord Ross Carlisle. Carlisle, now Marquess of Kilburn and heir to the duchy of Windermere, is headed for Bokhara (currently Uzbekistan) for word of the missing Ian Cameron, brother of Ross's young wife who ran away 12 years earlier. En route he is rescued from maurauding Turkomans by his long-lost bride, Juliet, rather improbably dressed as a Saharan Tuareg and the accepted leader of a small Persian fortress. The two embark for Bokhara together, fighting the desert, hostile factions and each other. Putney works hard to get her facts straight, perhaps a bit too hard: considering Ross and Juliet's long acquaintance with Islam, Juliet's observation--``Since alcohol is forbidden to Muslims, there is no problem with the servents drinking''--seems redundant. Yet Juliet is a spunky, happily flawed heroine and nice counterpoint to the godlike Ross. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Excerpts

Excerpts

Excerpt from Silk and Secrets Book Two: The Silk Trilogy by Mary Jo Putney © 1992, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc. Northeastern Persia April 1841 Ross lifted the waterskin from behind his saddle and sipped a small mouthful, just enough to cut the dust in his mouth, then slung it back in place. The high plateau of northeastern Persia was cold, dry, and desolate, though it was paradise compared to the Kara Kum desert, which they should reach in another day. In spite of Ross's best efforts at speed, over three months had passed since Jean Cameron had persuaded him to go to Bokhara. There had been a maddening fortnight in Constantinople while he prepared for the journey. He had already been well-supplied with everything he might need, from compasses and a spyglass to gift items like Arabic translations of Robinson Crusoe, and routine travel documents like passports had been no problem. The delays had lain in getting letters of introduction from influential Ottoman officials. Ambassador Canning had been very helpful with that, even though he thoroughly disapproved of Ross's mission. The fruits of their labors were now sewn into Ross's coat. He had letters from the sultan of the Ottoman Empire and the reis effendi, who was the minister of state for foreign affairs. Probably even more valuable were the introductions from the Sheik Islam, who was the highest Muslim mullah, or priest, in Constantinople. The letters were directed to a variety of influential men, including the amir and mullahs of Bokhara. Ross had enough experience of this part of the world to realize that such letters could save his life, but he had still been impatient during the length of time it had taken to acquire them. Finally he had been able to leave, taking a steamer along the Black Sea to Trebizond. From there he had set off overland, then been immobilized by blizzards for almost three weeks high in the Turkish mountains at Erzurum. The only bright spot was that a party of Uzbek merchants was among the other stranded travelers. Ross had used the delay to polish his knowledge of Uzbeki, for that was the principal language of Bokhara. Since his Persian was already fluent, Ross was now linguistically as well prepared as possible. After the snow had melted enough to resume traveling, it had taken another three weeks to reach Teheran, where he stayed at the British embassy and discussed the situation with Sir John McNeill, the ambassador. McNeill had heard enough rumors to be convinced that Ian Cameron was dead, but he also recounted a story about a high Bokharan official who had supposedly been executed, only to reappear after five years in the amir's prison. The only conclusion Ross could draw was that he would never learn the truth without going to Bokhara himself. After collecting more letters from the shah and his prime minister, Ross had hired two Persians, Murad and Allahdad, to act as guides and servants. The nearly six hundred miles between Teheran and Meshed had been covered without major incident. As a ferengi Ross always attracted considerable attention, but he was used to that. The word "ferengi" dated back to the Crusades. Originally just the Arabic pronunciation of Frank, in time the term had come to mean all Europeans, and over the years Ross had been called "ferengi" with every nuance from curiosity to insult. Now only five hundred miles remained until he reached his destination. The rest of the journey should take about a month, but it was the most dangerous part of the route, for they must cross the Kara Kum, the Black Sands, a desert with far too little water and far too many marauding Turkoman nomads. As Ross kept a wary eye on the tawny, broken hills around them, Allahdad slowed his mount so they were riding side by side. "We should have waited in Meshed for another caravan, Khilburn," he said with gloomy relish. "It is not safe for three men to ride alone. The Allamans, the Turkoman bandits, shall capture us." He spat on the ground. "They are mansellers, a disgrace to the faith. They shall sell Murad and I as slaves in Bokhara. You, perhaps, they will kill, for you are a ferengi." Ross suppressed a sigh; they had had this conversation a dozen times since leaving Meshed. "We shall overtake the caravan at Sarakhs, if not before then," he said firmly. "If raiders pursue us, we shall outrun them. Did I not buy us the finest horses in Teheran?" Allahdad examined the three mounts, plus the pack- horse Ross was leading. "They are fine beasts," he admitted with a gusty sigh. "But the Turkomans are born to the saddle. Unlike honest folk, they live only to plunder. We shall never escape them." As usual, Ross ended the discussion by saying, "They may not come. If they do, we shall fly. And if it is written that we shall be taken as slaves, so be it." "So be it," Allahdad echoed mournfully. * * * The chief of the fortress of Serevan was pacing the walls, watching the plains below with keen eyes, when the young shepherd arrived with news that he thought might be of interest. After bowing deeply, the youth said, "Gul-i Sarahi, this morning I saw three travelers going east on the Bir Bala road. They are alone, not part of a caravan." "They are fools to travel this land with so little strength," was the dispassionate answer. "And doubly fools to do it so close to the frontier." "You speak truly, Gul-i Sarahi," the shepherd agreed. "But there is a ferengi, a European, with them. Doubtless it is his foolishness that leads them." "Do you know exactly where they are?" "By now they must be nearing the small salt lake," the shepherd said. "This morning I heard from a friend of my cousin that his uncle saw a band of Turkomans yesterday." The chief frowned, then dismissed the shepherd with the silver coin the youth had been hoping for. For several minutes Gul-i Sarahi regarded the horizon thoughtfully. So there was a ferengi, and a stupid one, on the Bir Bala road. Something must be done about that. * * * As the terrain became rougher, Ross increased his alertness, for it would be easy for raiders to approach dangerously close. If, indeed, there were any Turkomans in the vicinity; given the poverty of this frontier country, it hardly seemed worth a bandit's time. He glanced at the barren hills, thinking that there should be more signs of human habitation, then studied the track, which did not look as if it was used often. "Murad, how far is it to the next village?" "Perhaps two hours, Khilburn," the young Persian said uneasily. "If this is the true road. The winter has been hard and the hills do not look the same." Correctly interpreting the remark to mean that they were lost again, Ross almost groaned aloud. So much for Murad's assurances in Teheran that he knew every rock and shrub in eastern Persia. If Ross himself hadn't kept a sharp eye on his map and his compass, they would have been in Baghdad by now. Dryly he suggested, "Perhaps we should retrace our path until the hills begin to look familiar." Murad glanced back over his shoulder, offended at his master's lack of faith, then stared past Ross, his expression changing to one of genuine fear. "Allamans!" he shouted. "We must flee for our lives!" Both Ross and Allahdad turned in their saddles and saw that half a dozen riders in characteristic Turkoman garb had rounded a bend about a quarter of a mile behind them. As soon as the Turkomans saw that they were observed, they shouted and spurred their horses forward, one of them firing a wild shot. "Damnation!" Ross swore. "Ride!" The three men took off at full speed, Ross offering a fervent prayer that the track they were on wouldn't come to a dead end. If they had room, they should be able to outrun their pursuers, for he had chosen mounts that were large, fast, and well-fed. Turkoman horses were tough and had great stamina, but they were smaller, and at the end of the winter they should be feeling the effects of months of poor forage. And if speed didn't work, Ross had his rifle, though he would prefer not to shoot anyone, for both practical and humanitarian reasons. At first it seemed as if his strategy would save them, for the gap between the two groups of riders slowly began to widen. Then Ross's mount put one foot into an unseen animal burrow. The horse lurched, then pitched violently to the ground with a shriek of equine agony, pulling the pack horse with it. With the lightning responses developed during thirty years of riding, Ross lucked free of the saddle, flinging himself sideways so that he wouldn't be trapped under the falling horses. For a fraction of a second, too many things were happening at once. As Ross automatically tucked his body so that he would hit the ground rolling, Murad shouted and reined back for an instant, his expression stricken as he briefly considered coming to his employer's aid. Self- preservation won and Murad spurred his horse forward in renewed flight. Then Ross slammed into the rocky ground and all thought disappeared into bruised blackness. He recovered consciousness a few moments later to find himself lying on his back, all of the breath knocked out of him and pain stabbing through his left side, which had taken the brunt of the fall. The vibration of thundering hooves shook the ground and he looked up to see an appalling worm's-eye view of six horses stampeding down on him. His hat had fallen off, and at the sight of his bright gold hair a voice shouted, "Ferengi!" At the last possible instant before trampling Ross, the horses veered off, their dancing hooves throwing up a cloud of grit and dust as the riders formed a milling circle around him. The Turkomans' foot-high black sheepskin hats gave them a military appearance, rather like a squad of royal hussars. They had Mongolian blood in their ancestry, and the dark slitted eyes that stared down at their captive showed emotions ranging from curiosity to greed to flat-out malevolence. Ross forced his dazed mind to think and analyze, for they were all young men, and the young hold life more cheaply than the old. They might kill on impulse, without stopping for second thoughts. His rifle was still holstered on his horse, which lay twenty feet away, whimpering with pain, its right foreleg bent at an unnatural angle. The packhorse had scrambled to its feet and appeared to be unhurt. In a few moments the Turkomans would start plundering both horses, but for the moment Ross was the center of attention. As he pushed himself upright, one of the Turkomans snarled, "Russian swine!" and lashed out with his riding whip. Reflexively Ross raised his arm and managed to protect his face from the blow, though the force of it rocked him back and stung viciously through his heavy coat. As his assailant's mount pranced away, Ross scrambled to his feet. Fortunately the Turkoman language was similar enough to Uzbeki that he could both understand and reply. "Not Russian. British," he croaked through the dust in his throat. The whip-wielding rider spat. "Pah! The British are as bad as the Russians." "Worse, Dil Assa," another agreed. "Let us kill this ferengi spy now and send his ears to the British generals in Kabul." A third rider said, "Why kill him when we can sell him in Bokhara for a pretty price?" Dil Assa snarled, "Money is soon spent, but to kill an unbeliever will assure us of paradise." "But there are many of us," another objected. "Can we all go to paradise for killing only one infidel spy?" Before a full-scale theological debate could develop, Ross interjected, "I am not a spy. I am traveling to Bokhara to learn news of my brother. I have a letter from the Sheik Islam, commending all of the faithful to aid me on an errand of mercy." "The Sheik Islam is nothing to us," Dil Assa sneered. "We care only for the blessing of our khalifa." Having known that the Sheik Islam was a long shot, Ross was ready with a direct appeal to cupidity. "I am a lord among the ferengis. If you help me, you will be richly rewarded." "You are a British dog, and like a dog you shall die." As Dil Assa unslung his old matchlock rifle and pointed it at Ross, his companions burst into a babble of comments that was too quick for Ross to follow. Several appeared to favor preserving his life for possible gain, while others were vying for the privilege of killing the infidel. Ignoring the opinions of his fellows, Dil Assa cocked the hammer of his rifle and aimed the weapon at Ross, his eyes black and deadly. The hole in the end of the barrel loomed as large and lethal as the mouth of a cannon, and momentarily Ross was immobilized by the sight. After escaping random death in a dozen other lands, finally his luck had run out. There was no time for fear; instead, all he could think was that Jean Cameron's blithe optimism had been misplaced once more. Preferring to go down fighting rather than being shot like a pig in a pen, Ross made a futile dive toward Dil Assa. Once more the world exploded into the messy chaos of violence. The gun went off at deafeningly close range and simultaneously a whole volley of shots sounded, the ragged echoes booming back and forth between the stony hills. As the Turkoman horses began whinnying and rearing in a wild melee, Ross was struck in the shoulder. The impact spun him about, then knocked him down. As he fell, he was uncertain whether he had been shot or merely clipped by the flailing hoof of one of the horses. One of the Turkomans called out a warning and pointed at a nearby hill, where a group of a dozen horsemen were thundering down toward the track, firing rifles as they came. Ross managed to get to his feet again and darted over to his injured horse to retrieve his rifle and ammunition. After that, he intended to get on the packhorse and move as fast and far as possible, before he became trapped in the middle of a skirmish between the two bands of locals. Seeing the ferengi run, Dil Assa bellowed and reversed the discharged rifle so that he held the barrel in his hands. Then he rode straight at Ross, swinging the gun like a club. Once more Ross dodged, barely escaping a skull-cracking blow. Then suddenly the Turkomans were in retreat, fleeing before the newcomers. As the horses galloped by Ross, one sideswiped him and knocked him to the ground again. This time he did not quite black out, though his vision darkened around the edges. Dizzily he decided that he had not had quite such a bad day since the memorable occasion when he had met Mikahl in the Hindu Kush. He felt numb all over from the punishment he had taken, and was unable to decide whether he was mortally wounded or merely bruised and breathless. From where he lay he had a clear view of what was happening, and he saw the group of newcomers split, half going off in pursuit of the Turkomans, the others riding directly toward Ross. By their clothing, they were Persians, and with luck they would be less bloodthirsty than the Turkomans. Then, as the riders drew closer, Ross blinked in surprise, not believing the evidence of his eyes. What the bloody hell was a Tuareg warrior doing in Central Asia, three thousand miles from the Sahara? Tall, fierce, and proud, the Tuareg were legendary nomads of the deep desert; they were also the only Muslim tribe whose men veiled their faces and women did not. Ross knew the Tuareg well, for he had lived among them for months when he was traveling in North Africa, and it was incredible to see a Targui, as an individual was called, so far from his native land. As the horsemen galloped up, Ross wearily hauled himself to his feet. He was bruised all over, and bloody abrasions showed through rips in his clothing, but there appeared to be no major wounds or broken bones. He had gotten off rather lightly. At least, so far. The riders pulled up a short distance from Ross and they all stared at the foreigner. Ross stared back, his scrutiny confirming that the rider in the center wore the flowing black robes and veil characteristic of the Tuareg. The long blue-black veil, called a tagelmoust, was wound closely around the man's head and neck, leaving only a narrow slit over the eyes. The effect was ominous, to say the least. Besides the Targui, the group contained three Persians and two Uzbeks. It was an unusual mixture of tribes; perhaps they came from one of the Persian frontier forts and served the shah. Ross didn't sense the hostility he had felt from the Turkomans; on the other hand, they didn't look especially friendly either, particularly not the Targui, who radiated intensity even through the enveloping folds of his veil. Subtle signs of deference within the band implied that the Targui was the leader, so Ross said in Tamahak, the Tuareg language, "For saving a humble traveler from the Turkomans, you have the deepest gratitude of my heart." The Targui's sudden stillness implied that he was startled to hear his own language, but with face covered and eyes shadowed, it was impossible to read his expression. After a moment he replied in fluent French, "Your Tamahak is good, monsieur, but I prefer to converse in French, if you know it." The veiled man spoke scarcely above a whisper, and it was impossible to tell from the light, husky sound if he was young or old. With cool deliberation he reloaded his rifle, a very modern British breechloader, then rested it casually across his saddlebow. Though the weapon was not pointing at Ross, there was a distinct sense that it could be aimed and fired quickly if necessary. "There were two other men with you. Where are they?" Unable to think of any purpose that would be served by silence, Ross replied, "They continued on when my horse fell." The Targui made a quick gesture and two of his men turned and cantered off in the direction of Ross's vanished servants. With noticeable dryness he said, "You should choose your men more carefully, monsieur. Their loyalty leaves much to be desired." "A horse carrying a double load could not have outrun the Turkomans. There is no wisdom in a meaningless sacrifice." "You are rational to a fault, monsieur." Losing interest in the subject, the Targui dismounted and crossed to Ross's injured horse, which was sprawled on its side, chest heaving and eyes glazed with pain. After a moment's study of the beast's fractured foreleg, he calmly raised his rifle, set it against the horse's skull, and pulled the trigger. As the gun boomed, the horse jerked spasmodically, then lay still. It took all of Ross's control not to recoil. It was necessary to destroy the injured animal, and Ross would have done so himself if he had had the opportunity, but there was something profoundly chilling about the Targui's dispassionate efficiency. Swiftly the veiled man reloaded once more, then swung around to face Ross. He was about five-foot-nine, an average height for his people, which made him tall for an Arab, though several inches shorter than Ross. His slight built and lithe movements implied that he was young, but his air of menace was ageless and timeless. "You are bleeding. Are you injured?" Ross realized that he had been rubbing his aching shoulder and immediately dropped his hand. "Nothing to signify." "You will come with us to Serevan." It was not a request. Dryly Ross said, "As your guest or your captive?" The way the Targui ignored the comment was answer enough. In Persian he gave an order to the smallest of his companions, a boy in his teens. The boy replied, "Aye, Gul-i Sarahi." After dismounting, he offered the reins of his horse to the ferengi. Ross nodded thanks, then glanced at the Targui. "Please allow me a moment to collect my saddle and bridle." After the veiled man gave an impatient nod, Ross stripped the harness from his dead horse. The saddle would probably be useful in the future; more to the point, a substantial amount of gold was concealed inside, which was why Ross preferred to lift it himself. He fastened the saddle to his pack animal, then mounted the loan horse while the boy climbed behind Gul-i Sarahi. Briefly Ross wondered at his captor's name, which did not seem Tuareg. Then he shrugged; there were so many better things to worry about. It appeared that he was not going to be killed out of hand, but he suspected that regaining his freedom would be expensive. Worse, arranging a ransom would take time, which was a far more precious commodity. As they rode east toward the frontier, the Persians surrounded Ross, eliminating any possibility of escape. He considered starting a conversation with the nearest men, but decided against it, for there might be some advantage in concealing his knowledge of the Persian language. Besides, when in doubt, he had always found it best to keep his mouth shut. The journey took about an hour, the track growing narrower and steeper until they were winding single file up a mountain. Near the top, the track swung around a tight turn, and suddenly a sprawling walled fortress loomed above them. Someone behind him announced, "Serevan." Ross drew his breath in, impressed, for this was no shabby village but an enormous compound reminiscent of a feudal castle. Sophisticated irrigation created lush fields and orchards in every bit of arable soil on the hillside and the valley below, and the laborers working in the spring-green fields looked strong and prosperous, unlike most of the villagers who lived in this hazardous, much-plundered border country. Like most construction in Central Asia, the massive walls and buildings of the fortress were made of plaster- coated mud bricks, and they glowed pale gold in the afternoon sun. As the party rode through the gate into the compound, Ross noted that the buildings seemed quite old, but they had been repaired within the last few years. There were many abandoned ancient strongholds in this part of the world, and probably Serevan had been one until recently. Gul-i Sarahi raised a hand and the troop pulled to a halt in front of the palace that was the heart of the compound. As the Targui dismounted, boys skipped over from the stables to collect the horses, and a gray-bearded man came out of the palace. For a moment Gul-i Sarahi conferred with the newcomer, who appeared to be an Uzbek. Then the Targui turned and ordered, "Come." Ross obeyed, the rest of the riders trailing inside after him. The palace had a feeling of great age but was well- kept, with whitewashed walls and handsome tile floors. Gul-i Sarahi led the group into a large reception room furnished with traditional Eastern simplicity. Cushioned divans lined the white walls, and rich bright carpets lay on the floor. As the men formed a loose circle around the stranger, the Targui studied Ross. He had brought his riding whip in, and he drew the leather thong through narrow, long- fingered hands. In his husky, whispering voice he said, "The Turkomans are mansellers. Did they wish to make a slave of you?" "They were divided between that and killing me out of hand. A wasteful lot," Ross drawled in his best cool English style. There was a volatile atmosphere in the room, and being unsure what he was up against, Ross followed the basic rule of not showing fear, much as if his captors were a pack of dogs that would turn vicious if they sensed terror. "I carry letters of introduction from the shah and several honored mullahs, and am worth more alive than dead." "I should think you would be worth a great deal, monsieur." Gul-i Sarahi began pacing around Ross with catlike grace. Abruptly he said, "Take off your coat and shirt." There could be several possible reasons for such a request, and all of them made Ross uneasy. He considered refusing, but decided that would be foolish; though he was the largest man in the room, he was outnumbered six to one and his captors would probably be very rough about enforcing their leader's orders. Feeling like a slave being forced to strip in front of a potential buyer, he peeled off his battered garments and dropped them on the floor. There was a murmur of interest from the watchers as Ross bared his torso. He was unsure whether they were impressed by the pallor of his English skin, the flamboyant bruises and lacerations he had acquired earlier, or the vicious scars left by a bullet that had almost killed him a year and a half earlier. Probably all three. Gul-i Sarahi stopped in front of Ross, posture intent. Once again Ross cursed the tagelmoust, which made it impossible to interpret his captor's expression. With delicate precision the Targui used the handle of his riding whip to trace around the ugly, puckered scar left where the bullet exited. That mark and the entrance wound on Ross's back had faded over time, but they were still dramatic. Then Gul-i Sarahi skimmed the handle over the bruised and abraded areas on his captive's chest and arms. There was an odd gentleness about the gesture that Ross found more disquieting than brutality would have been. Softly the veiled man circled behind Ross and touched the other scar. As the swinging leather thong brushed Ross's ribs, he felt his skin crawl with distaste. Given the strange undercurrents of the situation, he did not know whether to expect a caress or a sudden slash of the whip; either seemed equally possible, and equally distasteful. Lightly he said, "Sorry about the scars--they might lower my value a bit if you decide to sell me." Sharply Gul-i Sarahi said, "To the right buyer you would still be worth a pretty penny, ferengi." Ross went rigid with shock. In his irritation, the Targui had abandoned whispering for a normal speaking level, and the husky voice was hauntingly familiar. Familiar, and more stunning that anything else that had happened today. Telling himself that what he imagined was impossible, Ross spun around and stared at his captor. The height was about right, as were the light build and supple, gliding movements. He tried to see the shadowed eyes through the slit in the tagelmoust. Were they black, like the eyes of most Tuareg, or a changeable gray that could shift from clear quartz to smoke? Mockingly Gul-i Sarahi said, "What is wrong, ferengi--have you seen a ghost?" This time the voice was unmistakable. With a surge of the greatest fury he had known in a dozen years, Ross recklessly stepped forward and seized the edge of the veil, just below the eyes, then ripped downward, exposing Gul-i Sarahi's face. The impossible was true. His captor was no Targui, but his long-lost betraying wife, Juliet. Excerpted from Silk and Secrets by Mary Jo Putney All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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