His brother's expression sobered. "Don't judge her too harshly, Ian. When the news came that you'd been executed—and it was a convincing report, not a vague rumor—Georgina was badly broken up. Because I was your brother, she spent hours talking about you whenever we met."
"Then she turned around and married the next man in line."
"She's the sort of female who needs a man."
Ian swallowed his first mouthful of brandy. As he had expected, it hit with the impact of a blow. He welcomed the effect; with luck, it would soon render him unconscious. "Chivalrous of you to defend her, but I'm not interested in being fair-minded just now."
David's brows drew together. He was fond of Georgina and didn't blame her for believing that her fiancée was dead. But she had married Phelps very quickly... and her haste had created the very devil of a situation for Ian. "If it's any comfort," he said at last, "you were widely and honestly mourned by everyone in Cambay, from Colonel Whitman to the lowliest sweeper."
"No, I can't say that it's much comfort," Ian said dryly as he reduced the mango to a pile of juicy pulp and reddish rind.
David studied his guest uneasily. He had grown up idolizing his older brother, utterly confident that Ian's endless strength and good nature were equal to anything. It was Ian who had taught David how to ride like a Bedouin, how to defend himself against larger boys, and how to sneak out of the house when they were supposed to be asleep.
But the man who had returned from Bokhara was almost a stranger. His thin face all harsh planes and angles, Ian looked much older than his thirty-two years. He hadn't once laughed, and his rare smile was a meaningless twist of the lips. Uncertainly David said, "Will you exchange to another regiment? I imagine that seeing Georgina and Gerry together all the time would be... difficult."
"An understatement." Ian stabbed a slice of mango with the tip of his knife and studied the juicy flesh as he considered the question. Abruptly he flipped the fruit to the plate uneaten. "I'm going to resign my commission. I have no idea what I'll do instead, but I've had enough of fighting Indians and playing the Great Game against the Russians. To hell with it all. Her Majesty's bloody empire will have to stand or fall without me."
The bitterness of his words momentarily silenced David. Then he realized that there was a piece of family news that was relevant to Ian's future. "Fortunate that you want to leave the army, because you're needed back in Scotland."
"Whatever for?" Ian asked, unimpressed. He pushed the plate of mango fragments away and drank more brandy.
"You're now the laird of Falkirk."
Ian's face went rigid. "How can that be?"
David sighed. "About a year ago, there was an accident. Uncle Andrew and both his sons were drowned on the loch. They were fishing when one of those vicious squalls blew up."
Ian shoved violently away from the table. "Bloody hell, all three of them killed at once? That's damnable."
As he paced across the room, his first reaction was shock and grief. It took time to grasp what the news meant to him personally. Falkirk was the Cameron family seat, but Ian's late father had been Andrew's younger brother, and Ian had never imagined that he might inherit the estate and title. He had been raised to make his own way in the world. Yet now, through a senseless tragedy, he was Lord Falkirk.
Realizing something else, he stopped pacing and looked narrowly at his brother. "With me reported dead, you were next in line to inherit."
"Yes and no." David leaned back in his chair. "Of course the lawyers notified me, but in the same post there was a letter from Mother ordering me not to start thinking I was Lord Falkirk, because you were still alive."
For a moment Ian's mood eased. "Did I mention that it was Mother who found Ross in Constantinople and bullied him into going to Bokhara?"
"I'm not surprised to hear it. She was determined to make the lawyers wait the full seven years before declaring you dead," David grinned. "She's become much more forceful over the years. Widowhood suits her."
Ian rubbed at his aching temple. "How much do you mind not inheriting Falkirk? In spite of Mother, you must have begun to think of it as yours."
"I wouldn't have minded being Lord Falkirk, drafty castle and all," David admitted a little wistfully. "But I'd rather have you alive. Besides, I'm not ready to leave India yet. I'll earn my own piece of Scotland in my own time."
At least his brother didn't hate him for having survived. Ian resumed his pacing, finally coming to a halt by a window. As he stared out at the dark velvet night, he tested the idea of returning to the land of his birth. As a diplomat, Ian's father had spent most of his life abroad, so Falkirk had been his children's British home. Ian had lived there as a small child, spent his school holidays exploring the wild hills and swimming in the beautiful, treacherous sea loch.