Rowan shook his head. “He killed my father for our family’s land. He deserved his fate. His karma. He knew I would come, but he was a powerful man. I gave an offering to Maya and she told me to go with the next man I met. It was you, Colonel.”
“Shetold you?”
A knowing look came to Rowan’s brown eyes. “If you listen, the gods will speak to you.”
“I doubt that, Rowan. I’ve been beyond God’s hand for too long.”
“Listen. Ask Maya.”
The soft command hovered between them.
“I’m not a praying man,” Harry said carefully, “to my God let alone any others.”
Rowan shifted his weight. “Perhaps, sir, it issomething you should do. Every man must have a belief. How else does he understand his karma?” He bowed, rose, and withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him.
The silence in his wake was unsettling. The servant had been with Harry through two continents. He’d been quiet and unassuming, never asking anything, never challenging—until now.
Harry looked around the room, at the draperies and bed curtains, at the bare floor and the wardrobe. He was alone, and yet perhaps Rowan was right. Perhaps there was something more here. Something he didn’t understand.
But he did believe man controlled his own fate. His karma sprang from the decisions he made, the actions he took.
And Harry didn’t look to a Hindu deity for assistance.
No, he was a lone wolf. It was how he’d survived. How he wanted to be.
As for God? Harry and God had not been on good terms for a long time. The last time Harry put trust in the Unknown was on a battlefield at Vitoria when he’d charged French cannons. He’d gone alone, leaving orders that his men were not to follow him ... but they did.
One man could have made it across the field. Atroop of them were easy targets. Harry had survived. He and the mighty Ajax took the cannon—at a tremendous cost. His men had followed him. He’d prayed that day when he’d turned to see his men being mowed down by French guns, but there had been no God to answer his prayer. They had all died.
And strong spirits and laudanum had helped him face the disaster. He blamed himself. He’d been their commander. If he could have done it again, he would have been wiser. He would have understood the depth of their loyalty. Indeed, he was the one who had set the example of disobeying orders that they had used to follow him.
Harry rubbed his thigh where he had been wounded. He would have gladly given his leg if it would have saved the lives of those valiant men.
And Rowan spoke to him of karma . . .
Harry blew out the candle, slid beneath the sheets, and laid his head on the pillow.
Rowan had not come to him by chance. That was one thing Harry did believe.
Of course he dreamed of the battlefield. He couldn’t stop the dreams. They haunted him, except this time was different.
Shewas there.
Although he could not see her face, he knew it was she. She was a glorious creature, hovering above the field as he watched his men being slaughtered.
And Harry wanted her. He was hard and ready for her. He reached up, the French artillerymen he’d slain watching him with curious expressions, their faces white in death.
Just when Harry thought he could touch her she moved—no, floated—away from him, drifting to the plains beyond the battle.
She was swathed from head to toe in a great cloak that moved around her slender frame, the moon in her eyes. She had no hands, no feet, no face, and yet heknewher.
And there was fire now, all around them. The flames leaped to the heavens but he felt no heat or fear.
He heard her laugh, the sound seductive, inviting. This was not the sound of a witch. It was the song of an angel. Again he reached for her. His hands went right through her.
And then Harry wasn’t in the dream. He was in his bed and he sat up, puzzled. She pushed him back down upon the mattress. He could feel her, but could not see her.
She leaned forward. He sensed the movement as if his eyes were closed.
