Finally he allowed his gaze to go to Colonel Whitman's spacious bungalow. It was late afternoon, so Georgina should be home, dressing for dinner. If not—well, she wouldn't be far away. Within the next hour or two, she would be in his arms, and then the long nightmare would finally be over.
Impatiently he rode down into the bustling streets, where a scattering of soldiers and civilians were going about their usual business. Curious eyes followed his progress and once or twice he thought he heard his name spoken incredulously, but he didn't stop to talk. There would be time for that later.
When he reached his destination, he dismounted and tethered his horse, then took the bungalow steps two at a time. It would be more considerate to find a place to stay so he could clean up and send a message to inform Georgina of his arrival. But his mother always said that no one died of good news, and he didn't want to wait a moment longer than necessary to see his fiancée.
Ian's knock was answered by the colonel's bearer, Ahmed, who performed the functions of a butler. Unfazed by the visitor's travel-worn appearance, he said politely, "May I help you, sahib?"
"Don't you recognize me, Ahmed?" Ian said, removing his topi, the wide-brimmed pith hat that all Europeans wore to protect themselves from the blazing Indian sun.
The bearer's jaw dropped. "Major Cameron?"
"In the flesh. A little older and probably no wiser, but basically sound. Is Miss Georgina in?"
Ahmed said, "She is in the garden room, sahib, but..."
Ian cut off the rest of the bearer's sentence. "Don't announce me—I want to surprise her." Then he strode through the bungalow's main room, heart hammering at the knowledge that salvation was just a few feet away.
The garden room was an agreeably shaded section of the veranda that overlooked Mrs. Whitman's spectacular flower beds. And there, like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, was Georgina. She hadn't heard Ian's footsteps, so he paused in the doorway to savor the sight of her perched on the wicker sofa, intently working on her embroidery.
Over the months of his captivity her image had blurred in his mind. Now he marveled that he could ever have forgotten her delicate features, the angle of her head, the way her bright ringlets shone like spun gold. In her flowing pink gown, she was sweet and clean and utterly feminine, everything he had longed for during the black months of imprisonment.
To see her was to feel that sanity was within his grasp. Softly he said, "Georgina?"
She looked up, then gasped and dropped her embroidery hoop. Her expression was more than surprised. She was horror-struck.
Her reaction made Ian painfully aware of what a sight he must present: bone-thin, dust-covered, wearing a too-loose uniform and a piratical black eye patch. He'd been a fool to come straight here. Georgina might not even recognize him. Striving for lightness, he said, "I admit that I look like a bandit, but surely I haven't changed out of recognition."
"Ian!" She started to rise, then swooned back onto the sofa.
Cursing himself for a thousand kinds of idiot, Ian went to the sofa and adjusted her crumpled figure so that she was lying comfortably with her feet a little higher than her head. She was perfumed and soft and round, exactly as a woman should be.
Her pale gold lashes fluttered open and she stared at him as he knelt beside her. "Ian." She raised an uncertain hand to his cheek. "Merciful heaven, it really is you."
He started to reply, then stopped, feeling as if he had just been stabbed in the stomach. The hand Georgina had raised was her left, and on the third finger she wore a gold band.
He caught her hand and stared at the ring. It was a wedding ring, it couldn't be anything else, and it was paired with a diamond engagement ring that was not the one he had given her.
His vision blurred, going black around the edges. He dropped her hand and stood up, still not quite believing. Then he realized that some of Georgina's roundness was a result of being in the middle months of pregnancy. In a grating voice that he didn't recognize as his own, he said, "I had hoped that absence would make the heart grow fonder, but obviously for you out of sight was out of mind. Is the lucky man anyone I know?"
"Gerry Phelps," she faltered, pressing a hand to her throat.
Of course. The Honorable Gerald Phelps, who had been Ian's friend and rival since they were cadets together at the military academy at Addiscombe, and who had been the most determined of Georgina's other suitors. Ian's face twisted. "I should have guessed. Gerry always wanted you. Why didn't you accept him in the first place instead of pretending to be in love with me?"
Her light voice breaking, Georgina cried, "I wasn't pretending, Ian, but they said you were dead! I cried for a week when the news came."