Then a large hand wrapped around hers, the firm clasp drawing her back from despair. She knew that it was Ian without looking, and was profoundly grateful both for his company and for his stillness. As the color faded from the sky, he gave her his handkerchief, then escorted her back to the camp. Neither of them spoke of the incident. There was no need.
Just as Ian had an uncanny ability to sense Laura's moods, she was equally aware of his. Under his controlled facade he was full of darkness, and often he withdrew into some unreachable mental zone. She worried about how little he ate and slept. Evenings they talked until weariness sent Laura to bed, but Ian was always awake when she retired and when she rose the next morning. It was hard to see how he kept body and soul together.
Perhaps his insomnia was contagious, for she was also finding it difficult to sleep. She rolled over and punched the pillow with irritation. Though Ian did not find her attractive, the reverse was not true. As the days passed, her interest in him was increasing to near-infatuation. Not only did she crave his company, but the slightest accidental contact between them left her longing for more.
She despised her weakness. Knowing there was a very real danger that she might do something that would embarrass them both horribly, she tried to keep her distance from him. She mounted and dismounted without his aid, became expert at passing cups without touching fingers, and no longer took his arm when they went exploring on foot.
Luckily Ian didn't seem to notice that her behavior had changed. She would have been humiliated if he suspected how much she was attracted to him.
She knew that some of her interest was a result of simple proximity, for her low carnal nature made her susceptible to men. But Ian himself was the real problem; his combination of kindness and mystery acted on her like catnip on a tabby. She wanted to help him become the man he had been before suffering an ordeal that she could only dimly comprehend; she wanted to see him laugh, as Uncle Pyotr had seen him laugh.
In a burst of vulgarity, she faced the dangerous truth: she wanted him to bed her.
She spent a moment contemplating his image in her mind's eye. He wasn't precisely handsome, for that was a description better suited to tame men who belonged in drawing rooms.
She was sure Ian could hold his own in formal society, but he had a larger-than-life quality that belonged more to the world of heroic adventures. If a princess needed rescuing or a dragon needed slaying, she couldn't think of a better man for the task. Though she was no princess, he had done an admirable job with the tiger. She watched him whenever possible, admiring his strength, the smooth, controlled quality of his movements...
She found herself flushing. There really was far too much of her mother in her.
Sighing, she rolled over again, trying to convince herself that she was grateful that her association with Ian would soon be over. When he was gone, she would become a well-behaved Englishwoman again. If she tended her infatuation carefully, it might save her from making a fool of herself over another man for years to come.
The thought was not much comfort.
Tired from a day of riding, she finally dozed off, only to have her slumber disturbed by a choking sound outside her tent. She came awake instantly, thinking it might be a leopard. The noise was repeated, and she realized it came from a human throat. After donning her robe and slippers, she went outside to investigate.
There she discovered that the sounds emanated from the tent next to hers, which Ian was using because rain had driven him from his preferred spot under the open sky. Seeing that there was a light inside, Laura scratched on the canvas door panel. "Ian, are you all right?"
There was no answer, so she set maidenly modesty aside, opened the flap, and ducked into the tent. The dim light showed Ian sprawled on the cot, his face haggard, his torso bare and shining with sweat. She was bemused to see that even in bed he wore his black leather eye patch.
His condition was terrifyingly reminiscent of her stepfather's last illness. Swiftly she crossed the tent and put one hand on his forehead, but his temperature was normal.
Ian flinched from her touch and his eye opened. For an instant, she saw a frantic light in the blue depths. Then he recognized her and instantly shuttered his expression.
"I heard strange sounds and thought you might be ill, especially since the lamp was lit," Laura explained soothingly. Removing her hand, she added, "You don't seem feverish."
The skin over his cheekbones tightened. "I'm not. It was nothing, just a bad dream. Endless dark, suffocation, dread, pain, cowardice. And fire. Mustn't forget fire." He shuddered. "All the usual things."
His gaze went to the oil lamp on the table. "Spending several months in total darkness increased my affection for light. That's why I sleep with a lamp or candle when I'm indoors."