Veils of Silk (6 page)

Nor was darkness the only fear he had acquired in prison. As his bare chest rose and fell in agitation, he forced himself to face the ugly facts he had been trying to deny since his rescue.

He was afraid of being alone, yet he found it difficult to endure the company of other people.

He was terrified of being confined against his will.

He was afraid to sleep because he feared his dreams.

He was a coward, a man sworn to honor's code who had betrayed himself more profoundly than anyone else could ever have betrayed him.

He was not the man who went to Bokhara, but a dry, broken husk who would never be the same again.

He feared death. Infinitely worse, he feared life.

One by one, he mentally ticked off his weaknesses, studying each one until it settled in his mind and made itself at home. But bitter as those truths were, they were not as painful as the final, brutal fact that he had desperately refused to accept. Even in the privacy of his own mind, it was almost impossible to say the words to himself, but finally he did.

He was impotent.

As Ian's nails dug crescent-shaped grooves in his palms, he rolled the syllables around in his mind. Impotent. A eunuch. Half a man. Never again would he know the basic human satisfactions of passion and physical closeness, never would he have a wife or child.

The knowledge seared like white-hot iron. There might be men of naturally monkish disposition who would scarcely notice the loss of their sexuality, but he was not one of them.

Looking back, he knew exactly when the damage had been done; during the worst of the beatings administered by the prison guards, he had been kicked savagely, and repeatedly, in the genitals. After that day he had never felt desire again.

At the time he had barely noticed, for hunger and despair had already extinguished passion. The question of whether he had been rendered a eunuch seemed academic, for women were no more than a distant memory and he had expected to die in Bokhara.

But he had survived, and the question of his virility became relevant again. When freedom and decent food didn't restore him, he had refused to believe that he might have suffered permanent damage. Instead, he convinced himself that being reunited with his fiancee would make him whole. Georgina would arouse him, for her ripe curves had enticed him from the first time they met.

When she had accepted his proposal, he had been impatient to teach her the pleasures of the flesh, for during their stolen moments of privacy she had proved to be an apt pupil. But because she was only nineteen, her parents had insisted on a long engagement. That was one reason he had been willing to go to Bokhara, for he had found it difficult to wait.

Throughout the years in Central Asia, his fiancee had occupied his thoughts, even after desire was no more than a memory. She became a symbol of everything he had loved and lost.

After his rescue, he had made his way back to Georgina in search of healing. Yet when he saw her, he felt not a single flicker of desire, even before he had discovered that she was married. Though she was as attractive as ever, sexually he might as well have been dead.

For a desperate moment he considered visiting the beautiful Indian girl who had been his mistress until he had fallen in love with Georgina. Leela was no inhibited English maid but a skilled courtesan, and their relationship had been passionate and mutually satisfying. Yet when he thought of her now, his body did not respond in the slightest. Not a twitch, not a tremor, even when he recalled precisely what they had done together.

He had a brief, horrifying vision of visiting Leela and failing utterly to perform. She was kind and would not laugh at what he had become; instead, she would pity him, which would be far worse.

Nor would he deceive himself with the hope that he was suffering from a temporary condition that would eventually heal, for he had had enough of self-delusion. It had been over three months since his escape from prison. But though his overall physical condition was much better, there had been no change in his sexual nature, not the slightest hint of improvement. The time had come to accept that the worst had happened, and that a vital part of his life was gone forever.

After working his way through to the final bleak conclusion, Ian released his breath in a ragged sigh. He had had quite enough merciless honesty for one night; what he craved now was cowardly surcease. He rolled to his feet, lifted the lamp, and returned to the darkened drawing room, where he found the brandy decanter in a cabinet. Recklessly he filled a glass almost to the brim and dropped into the nearest wicker armchair.

He was taking a deep swallow when the door to David's bedroom opened and his brother wandered in, half-dressed and blinking sleepily. In the last three years, David had developed an impressive set of muscles; just as well that he hadn't retaliated when Ian had hit him.

It occurred to Ian that since he would leave no heirs, it was likely that
David or a son of his would eventually inherit Falkirk. Finding some comfort in that thought, Ian tilted the glass toward his brother in an informal salute. "Sorry to have woken you, but I decided that I need to get seriously drunk."

David raised one hand to cover a yawn. "No matter. I'm a light sleeper."

Not as light as Ian, who could not remember when he had last had a normal night's sleep. More to himself than to his brother, he said, "I've been very lucky. Miraculously saved from durance vile, inheriting a title and a comfortable fortune." His voice broke. "That being the case, why the hell am I so miserable?"

David regarded him with grave blue eyes. "Having just lost the woman you love, I think you're entitled to be miserable."

Ian let his head fall back against the chair as he pondered his brother's words. Did he love Georgina? Two years earlier he had certainly believed himself in love. He and Georgina had been perfectly matched, she had made him laugh, and he had wanted to bed her. He had also enjoyed winning her away from all her other suitors. She hadn't been a deep thinker, but then, neither had he. Perhaps that had been love; now, he really didn't know what he felt about her, beyond a lacerating sense of loss.

He gulped another mouthful of brandy. "Georgina was wise to accept Gerry," he said dispassionately, "for the Ian Cameron she wanted to marry died in Bokhara."

If she had still been single, she might have felt honor-bound to wed Ian, for a colonel's daughter knew her duty. But of course he could not have married her once he recognized his incapacity. Finishing the first glass of brandy, Ian leaned over and poured another, spilling some because it was hard to judge distances with only one eye.

David crossed to the cabinet and lifted the decanter. "Mind if I join you in getting drunk?"

Ian's fingers tightened around his glass. "As a matter of fact, I do mind. I'd really rather be alone."

David's face became expressionless. "Very well." He started to leave, then swung back. "I know you're hurting, Ian, the pain radiates from you like heat from an oven. But in the nature of things, eventually you'll feel better—there are other women in the world, and I think you'll enjoy being the laird of Falkirk. Meanwhile…" he groped for an oblique way to express his fear, "don't do anything foolish, will you?"

Jarred to find that David had sensed what he had not acknowledged even to himself, Ian said, "Don't worry. I'm a coward, but not that much of one." His lips curved into the mockery of a smile. "Besides, I haven't the right to throw away what Juliet and Ross risked their own lives to preserve."

After studying his face, David nodded, satisfied, then went back to his bedroom, leaving Ian with the solitude he both craved and feared. Wearily he tucked the decanter in the crook of his arm, then picked up his brandy glass and lamp and retreated to his room. There, with workmanlike efficiency, he set out to drink himself into a stupor as quickly as possible.

Before he could achieve his goal, a wave of violent nausea surged through him. Desperate for fresh air, he stumbled outside, barely making it across the veranda and into the garden before his outraged body purged itself of the brandy. Head spinning and gut churning, he fell on his knees by an oleander bush and retched until his stomach was empty.

Too weak to stand, he buried his sweat-slick face in his hands, shaking and chilled in spite of the night's warmth. He hadn't expected brandy to be a long-term solution, but he had thought it would give a few hours of desperately needed oblivion. But apparently even that was to be denied him. His suffocating misery was the worst he had ever known, a pain of the mind more agonizing than any of the body.

As Ian's hammering heart slowed to normal, he faced one last ominous truth: he couldn't go on this way. He had told David that he wouldn't do anything foolish and he meant it, for he had caused his family enough grief.

But the world was a dangerous place for a man who found life excruciating. In spite of his best intentions, he was doomed unless he found something—or someone—to take his mind off his own despair.

The British administration building was the largest edifice in Baipur, with a Union Jack hanging limply from a pole in front and a crowd of the inevitable petitioners and gawkers lolling about the veranda. All watched with interest as Ian dismounted. One stepped forward to take his horse while another went inside to announce that an unknown Englishman had arrived.

By the time Ian reached the top of the steps, a sturdily built Briton of middle years had come out to greet him. "Good afternoon. I'm George McKittrick, senior judge here." He offered a hand and a smile. "What brings you to Baipur?"

Ian had discarded his uniform along with his commission and had not yet gotten used to identifying himself as Lord Falkirk, so he said tersely, "My name's Ian Cameron, and I'm looking for Kenneth Stephenson. Is he here now?"

McKittrick led the way inside. "Sorry, but he's touring the eastern part of the district. Won't be back for weeks."

So the hunt wasn't over yet. "My business is actually with his stepdaughter, Larissa, or perhaps she's called Lara," Ian said. "Do you know if she's with him?"

McKittrick's brows drew together. "Lara? He has a daughter, Laura. I suppose she could be his stepdaughter, though neither of them ever said as much. And yes, she went with him."