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years, David had developed an impressive set of muscles; just as well that he hadn't retaliated when Ian had hit him.
    It occurred to Ian that since he would leave no heirs, it was likely that
David or a son of his would eventually inherit Falkirk. Finding some comfort in that thought, Ian tilted the glass toward his brother in an informal salute. "Sorry to have woken you, but I decided that I need to get seriously drunk."
    David raised one hand to cover a yawn. "No matter. I'm a light sleeper."
    Not as light as Ian, who could not remember when he had last had a normal night's sleep. More to himself than to his brother, he said, "I've been very lucky. Miraculously saved from durance vile, inheriting a title and a comfortable fortune." His voice broke. "That being the case, why the hell am I so miserable?"
    David regarded him with grave blue eyes. "Having just lost the woman you love, I think you're entitled to be miserable."
    Ian let his head fall back against the chair as he pondered his brother's words. Did he love Georgina? Two years earlier he had certainly believed himself in love. He and Georgina had been perfectly matched, she had made him laugh, and he had wanted to bed her. He had also enjoyed winning her away from all her other suitors. She hadn't been a deep thinker, but then, neither had he. Perhaps that had been love; now, he really didn't know what he felt about her, beyond a lacerating sense of loss.
    He gulped another mouthful of brandy. "Georgina was wise to accept Gerry," he said dispassionately, "for the Ian Cameron she wanted to marry died in Bokhara."
    If she had still been single, she might have felt honor-bound to wed Ian, for a colonel's daughter knew her duty. But of course he could not have married her once he recognized his incapacity. Finishing the first glass of brandy, Ian leaned over and poured another, spilling some because it was hard to judge distances with only one eye.
    David crossed to the cabinet and lifted the decanter. "Mind if I join you in getting drunk?"
    Ian's fingers tightened around his glass. "As a matter of fact, I do mind. I'd really rather be alone."
    David's face became expressionless. "Very well." He started to leave, then swung back. "I know you're hurting, Ian, the pain radiates from you like heat from an oven. But in the nature of things, eventually you'll feel better—there are other women in the world, and I think you'll enjoy being the laird of Falkirk. Meanwhile…" he groped for an oblique way to express his fear, "don't do anything foolish, will you?"
    Jarred to find that David had sensed what he had not acknowledged even to himself, Ian said, "Don't worry. I'm a coward, but not that much of one." His lips curved into the mockery of a smile. "Besides, I haven't the right to throw away what Juliet and Ross risked their own lives to preserve."
    After studying his face, David nodded, satisfied, then went back to his bedroom, leaving Ian with the solitude he both craved and feared. Wearily he tucked the decanter in the crook of his arm, then picked up his brandy glass and lamp and retreated to his room. There, with workmanlike efficiency, he set out to drink himself into a stupor as quickly as possible.
    Before he could achieve his goal, a wave of violent nausea surged through him. Desperate for fresh air, he stumbled outside, barely making it across the veranda and into the garden before his outraged body purged itself of the brandy. Head spinning and gut churning, he fell on his knees by an oleander bush and retched until his stomach was empty.
    Too weak to stand, he buried his sweat-slick face in his hands, shaking and chilled in spite of the night's warmth. He hadn't expected brandy to be a long-term solution, but he had thought it would give a few hours of desperately needed oblivion. But apparently even that was to be denied him. His suffocating misery was the worst he had ever known, a pain of the mind more agonizing than any of the body.
    As Ian's hammering