She could see in his face how much he did care. Afraid of what he might read in her own expression, she got to her feet and slipped away from him, drifting across the clearing.
Ironic that Ian thought she disliked physical intimacy when her real fear was that she would like it too much. The shattering of her family had taught her the appalling dangers of passion. Later, her one brief experience with carnal love had proved that she carried the same destructive seeds in her own nature. Only by refusing to let herself be drawn into passion's snare could she be sure of avoiding disaster.
It wasn't important that Ian was wrong about why she had decided not to marry. What did matter was that he was proposing a marriage that did not contain the one element that terrified her. Here was a chance to have companionship, security, someone to love—things she had thought forever out of her reach.
If she accepted him, she could fulfill her promise to her stepfather to take a husband while being true to her private vow to shun unruly lust. Her stepfather would have approved of Ian, for the two men were alike in many ways. Steady. Kind. Safe.
But the fact that such a marriage was possible did not mean that it would be devoid of difficulties. Laura's pacing had brought her to the stone wall, so she turned and regarded Ian in silence. He watched her with the same stillness as if she were a wild creature that he was trying to lure to his hand.
Ruefully she recognized that the analogy was uncomfortably correct. She already desired Ian, and surely desire would increase in the proximity of marriage. She could bear that in return for the pleasure of his company. But marrying him would be a leap into the unknown.
Yet how could she refuse a man she was already half in love with? As he had said, they were uniquely suited to each other. And she wanted him; dear God, how she wanted him.
Fiercely she reined in her emotions. Her rational side wanted more information before making such a momentous decision. Or perhaps her mind sought reasons to justify what her heart cried out for. "I know even less of your future plans than you know of mine, Ian. Where would we live? What will you do now that you're no longer in the army?"
"While I was in Bokhara, I inherited my uncle's estate on the Scottish coast, not far from Edinburgh. Managing that will keep me busy and provide a very decent income. You won't want for anything, and you'll have a respected position in society." After a moment, he added, "For what it's worth, there's a title. I'm the fourteenth Baron Falkirk."
Her brows arched incredulously. "So you're a lord, and you aren't happy about it. Why not?"
His face tightened. "I inherited because three men died. I can't be happy about that, even though I've always loved Falkirk. Inheriting is like a poisoned apple, lovely to contemplate, but bitter within. That's why I haven't started using the title. I haven't yet come to terms with the fact that it's mine."
"The deaths are a great tragedy, but you're not responsible," she said reasonably. "Someone had to inherit, so why not you? I'm sure that wherever your uncle is now, he's pleased that the family patrimony has gone to someone who will cherish it."
After a pause, he said, "You're right, of course. One of the things I like about you is your admirable common sense."
"If I had common sense," she said tartly, "I would not be considering your proposal."
"Then I must hope that sometimes you'll have sense, and other times you'll have none at all." He sighed. "As I said earlier, I want to be honest with you, Laura. I can provide for you in a material sense, but I've changed for the worse in more ways than one. Though I used to have an amiable disposition, I've been living in a black fog for months. On a bad day it takes every shred of will I have just to get out of bed. The good days aren't much better. Sometimes I feel like a dried husk that will blow away in the next strong wind."
He paused to consider, then shook his head. "That's not a very good description, but I don't know a better one. Lately—since I met you—the good days have outnumbered the bad, but I'll still probably be a moody and difficult husband."
She considered his words calmly, her slanted golden eyes thoughtful, then said simply, "Melancholia."
Startled, he said, "I've never been melancholic."
"You were never imprisoned and tortured before, either," she pointed out. "Melancholia is not uncommon, you know. My father's father suffered from terrible spells of it. He would stay in bed for days on end. When he did get up, he drifted about like a body searching for its lost soul.
"But always the darkness passed, and then no one could match his high spirits. In your case, the melancholy was surely brought on by your experiences. When it lifts, you may never suffer from it again."