Determination was in Laura's very marrow. Ian was her husband—hers—and she would never leave him. To hell with pride. Rather than walk away, she would spend the rest of her life trying to win the depth of love she craved.
Perhaps she would fail, but if so, by God, she would fail like a Russian—without surrender.
* * *
The next morning, Laura woke when Ian shifted his arm from under her head. She opened her eyes to find him regarding her gravely. She thought she glimpsed darkness there as well, but he veiled it instantly. "Sorry to have woken you," he said, "but my shoulder is numb."
She began massaging the afflicted area, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles. "You do make a lovely pillow, though."
"You're good at that." He smiled lazily. "In fact, you're getting all of my blood stirring."
His expression made it clear what he meant, and for a moment Laura was willing to begin her next lesson in the pursuit of karma. But her reflections of the previous night were still vivid and before she had time to evaluate the wisdom of her question, she asked, "What happened to you in Bokhara that haunts you so, Ian?"
His eye color shifted from its usual warm blue-gray to a cool, steely shade like winter water. Impassively he said, "Between what I've said and Pyotr's journal, you should have a general idea of what the Black Well was like."
"Yes, but the details elude me." Remembering what Srinivasa had said, she continued, "I keep thinking that something happened that you can't forgive yourself for— something that made you feel like such a failure that it's like a river of ice in your soul."
Remembering the part of her uncle's journal that had raised the most questions, she said hesitantly, "Perhaps it was during that time when you were taken from the Well for days and beaten so badly?"
Her words struck home, triggering a reaction that he couldn't conceal, though he tried. For a moment Laura thought that he was going get up and walk out. Then his expression solidified into a mask of ironic detachment. "Whatever happened to that demure, well-behaved young female whom I proposed to, whose greatest goal was to be a ladylike nonentity?"
"She married a man who encouraged her to give her Russian nature free rein," Laura said, unrepentant.
"You took my advice with a vengeance," he said dryly.
"So I did, and I find that I'm much better at being emotional than I ever was at being stoic." She propped the pillows behind her and sat up against them. "I'm not asking from idle curiosity, doushenka. One by one, I've admitted my dark secrets, and the results have been all to the good. But I am still missing some vital key to what made you what you are. If you can bear to talk about it, perhaps some of the darkness might dissipate."
He pushed up the pillows as she had and leaned against them. Then he lifted his eye patch from where he had dropped it on the bedside table the night before. Laura suspected it was no accident that he was putting the eye patch on again, like a knight donning armor.
"What happened was in some ways so trivial it hardly seems worth mentioning," he said slowly. "Nor is speaking of it isn't likely to help. Some things can't be mended after they're broken, Larishka."
"Perhaps, but how can you be sure if this is one of them?"
He folded his hands behind his head and stared at the opposite wall. Laura began to think that she shouldn't have raised the subject, at least not when they had just reached a new level of understanding.
She had given up expecting an answer when he said, "Bokhara is considered a holy city, and there's a strong vein of religious fanaticism there. Several times I was told that if I would turn Muslim, I would be released and given a position in the amir's army." Ian's sardonic gaze went to Laura. "The offer usually included a plump, rosy wife or two. Don't know how I managed to resist. Pure Scots bloody-mindedness, I suppose.
"The first few times, the subject was dropped after I declined, but on this particular occasion, they decided not to take no for an answer. When I again refused to convert, three guards began beating me under the direction of one of the Bokharan ministers, a weasly fellow called Rahmin who was the amir's chief hatchet man. I kept saying no, and they kept beating."
He pulled his hands from behind his head and laid them on the counterpane, his fingers moving restlessly. "I was rather flattered that they thought three guards were needed— with my hands tied behind my back I really wasn't much of a challenge. My right eye was destroyed, my left damaged to the point that I could barely see at all, some ribs were cracked. They took special pleasure in kicking me in the genitals. That's why it was easy to believe later that the damage was permanent."