Shattered Rainbows

  One thing was sure: Haldoran should be watched carefully.

  * * *

  When Catherine and Michael went into the castle, they came across the butler with a tea tray. Guessing it was for her grandfather, Catherine said, "Olson, may I visit the laird now?"

  "I shall inquire," the butler said grandly.

  After he left, Michael said, "Shall I go with you, or should I leave you to the lions while I take a bath before dinner?"

  She considered. "It might be better if I go alone. I suspect that an old rooster like my grandfather feels the need to crow and proclaim himself king of the hill if there's another male around."

  "A trait that runs in Penrose men."

  "I've never seen you do that kind of posturing."

  He gave her a wicked smile. "I don't have to."

  She laughed, but after he left, she realized it was not really a joke. Michael had the quiet confidence that didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

  Or did he? Remembering how he had looked when telling her of his father's recent death, she realized that his confidence lay in physical skills, at which he was a master. In the murkier areas of the emotions, he was less sure. She found the knowledge that he was vulnerable oddly endearing.

  Soon Olson returned. "His lordship will see you, ma'am."

  She followed him through the house to a sitting room that adjoined the laird's bedchamber. The butler gestured toward the French doors. Through the gauzy curtains, the outline of a wheelchair was visible. "His lordship is outside."

  She stepped through the doors onto a sunny balcony with a fine view over the island. Her arrival was watched by both her grandfather and a large brown hound. The dog looked rather more friendly. Not bothering with pleasantries, the laird growled, "Here to see if I'm ready to turn up my toes?"

  She smiled, less intimidated than she had been at their first meeting. "I'm pleased to see you, too, Grandfather." She settled in a straight-backed chair. "You're looking well today. Naturally I'm devastated by such signs of health, but I shall endeavor to hold up under the disappointment."

  His jaw dropped. Then he gave a reluctant smile. "You've a wicked tongue, girl."

  She grinned. "Who do you think I inherited that from?"

  "A very wicked tongue," he muttered, but there was amusement in his eyes. "What do you think of my island?"

  "There's an amazing amount of diversity for an area so small. Meadows, moors, wooded valleys. I was impressed at how nearly self-sufficient the island is."

  "And the people?"

  She turned her hand palm upward. "The ones I met were rather reserved, but that's only natural."

  "As well they should be. Feudalism is a damned fine system, but everything depends on the character of the overlord. They'll want to know you a good deal better before they trust you."

  "Speaking of feudalism, I was startled when we passed some men working on the road and Davin said every male over fifteen on the island owes the lord a fortnight of labor a year. I thought that sort of thing was abolished centuries ago."

  "Why shouldn't men work to maintain their own roads and harbor?" her grandfather said. "The island's customs originated for good reasons. Only the laird can have a dovecote because pigeons eat the grain in the fields, endangering the crops. I'm also the only one permitted to have a bitch." The hound rose and rested her head on the laird's knee. He ruffled her long ears. "If anyone could have a bitch, the island would be overrun with dogs in no time. You'll understand it all eventually."

  She tilted her head to one side. "Are you seriously considering me as your heir, or is your summons merely a game? After all, Clive is male and has known the island all his life. Surely he is the obvious choice."

  "Yes, but..." Her grandfather glanced away. "This is not Clive's primary home. He has many other claims on his time. I would rather leave Skoal to someone who will put it first."

  It was a good answer. Nonetheless, she sensed that the laird was not entirely comfortable with Lord Haldoran.

  Abruptly the laird said, "Tell me about your parents."

  She looked at him warily, not sure what he wanted to hear.

  He plucked at the blanket that lay over his lap. "I didn't dislike your mother, you know. She was a delightful girl. But I didn't want to see William marry an islander. Skoal is too inbred. It needs regular doses of new blood."

  That might explain why he had also opposed Harald's liaison with an island girl. "I can understand the need for new blood in theory, but my parents were very happy together," she said. "My mother loved following the drum. I suppose that's why it never occurred to me to do anything else."

  She went on to describe her family's life. Her father's high reputation among his fellow officers and men, her mother's ability to make a home anywhere. How Catherine had learned riding from her father and nursing from her mother; the way both of her parents had loved the sea. Now that Catherine had seen Skoal, she understood why.

  Her grandfather listened in silence, his gaze on the horizon. When she stopped speaking, he said, "A pity the boy was so stubborn. He didn't have to leave and never come back."

  Having met the laird, she could understand why her father had assumed he would be unwelcome. Tactfully she said, "Their world was each other and the army. I was glad they died at the same time." Her voice broke. "It... it would have been hard for one of them to go on alone."

  She blinked back tears, knowing they were grief not only for her parents, but for herself. She had wanted a marriage like her parents'. Indeed, she had assumed she would have it. That expectation made her failure all the more crushing.

  Her grandfather cleared his throat. "Your husband isn't what I expected. He seems steady."

  "Colin and I were very young when we married. I won't deny that he had a wild streak, but he has never failed in his duty to his family or his men." That was the truth. It was equally true when she went on, "If I were to become your heir, I promise that Colin would bring no harm to Skoal or its people."

  "Davin says he had sensible comments about how my land is farmed, and what changes might be good."

  "He has an impressive range of knowledge." Unlike Colin, Michael had grown up on a great estate, and apparently he had paid attention to how it was run. Wanting to get away from the subject of her husband, she went on, "Davin pointed out Bone and told its history. Is it really such an unlucky place?"

  "Its past speaks for itself. Besides Viking raids and plagues, Bone has always been popular with pirates and smugglers. Have Davin get a good boatman to take you over for a visit. The largest sea cave in the islands is at the west end." He smiled reminiscently. "It's quite unusual. There's even a hot spring inside. Be careful, though. The cave can only be reached at low tide. If you stay too long, you'll be trapped until the tide falls again."

  "Sounds interesting. I'm sure my husband would like to see it as well. I hope there's time to visit before we leave."

  Her grandfather drummed his fingers on the arm of the wheelchair. "How long do you mean to stay."

  "Perhaps a fortnight?" She gave a hesitant smile. "Unless you decide we're hopeless company and sling us out."

  "A fortnight isn't very long. You've much to learn here."

  More and more, it sounded as if he intended to designate her as his heir. Trying to conceal her pleasure, she said, "I'll study whatever you think necessary, but we can't stay indefinitely. Colin must return to duty."

  His heavy brows drew together. "You can stay without him."

  Her grandfather was lonely. It was a state she understood very well. "For now, my place is with my husband and daughter."

  He scowled. "What if you inherited and Melbourne decided he didn't want to live in such an isolated place? Would you stay with him and let Skoal rot?"

  She regarded him steadily. "If you make me your heir, I will put the island first. My duty to a whole community must come before my duty to my husband. But truly, you needn't worry that Colin will try to keep me away."

  "See that
you remember that." He leaned back in the wheelchair, his expression tired. "Get on with you, now."

  She rose, then impulsively bent and kissed his cheek.

  "Don't think you can turn me up sweet, girl," he growled. "I've been frightening everyone on this island for over fifty years, and I don't intend to stop now."

  She laughed. "Grandfather, any woman who has been barked at by the Duke of Wellington is very hard to frighten. Wouldn't it be easier to become friends than to try to terrorize me?"

  He stroked the hound, whose head still rested on his knee. "Dinner will be at six o'clock. See that you're on time."

  She took her leave and made her way to her room. She was proud of the fact that she only got lost twice. Remembering that Michael had intended to take a bath, she knocked before entering. His deep voice called, "Come in."

  She entered to find that he had finished bathing but was not yet fully dressed. His shirt hung loose over his pantaloons, the white linen emphasizing the power of his broad shoulders. Practically every inch of him was covered, so why was the effect so devastatingly intimate?

  He asked, "How did you get on with your grandfather?"

  Tendrils of damp mahogany hair curled around his neck. Darker strands showed at the V-shaped opening of his shirt. She looked down and carefully peeled off her gloves. "Quite well. Under that gruff manner, he's rather sweet."

  Michael gave an eloquent snort.

  She smiled. "He approves of you, which surprises him."

  "It surprises me, too." Michael went to the mirror to tie his cravat. "I asked the footman who brought the hot water about the laird's health. The problem is his heart. He can walk, but he's easily exhausted and any kind of effort results in terrible attacks of chest pain."

  Her brows drew together. "Angina pains are very debilitating, but not necessarily life-threatening."

  "His continued existence might prove awkward," Michael said soberly.

  "I know. Yet I'd hate to lose him so soon after finding him. I rather like the old scoundrel." She sank into a chair. "Now that he's met you, I think I could come with Amy for a visit every year and say that my husband is too busy to accompany us."

  "With luck, that will work," Michael agreed.

  She locked her hands in her lap and wished she could trust her luck.

  Chapter 25

  "Would you like some more ale?" Catherine asked.

  "Yes, please." Michael opened his eyes a fraction so he could study his companion. He was sprawled on a blanket on the sand, as relaxed as a man could be. Except, of course, for the tension of being so close to Catherine. Lazily he admired the supple reflex of her body as she lifted a jug of ale chilling in a pool of seawater and poured a mugful. He sat up and took a long swallow. "It's nice to have an afternoon off from our labors."

  She chuckled. "Intensive study of the history, laws, and agriculture of Skoal are not what I expected of this visit. It's all interesting, though. The island is so self-sufficient." She gestured at the remnants of their meal. "Island cheese and herrings, eaten with fresh island bread, drunk with island ale, followed by island apples."

  "And carried in an island reed hamper. But they can't grow tea and coffee here."

  "A grave lack. I guess Skoal can't secede from the rest of the world after all." She drew up her legs and linked her arms around her knees. Under the fluttering blue hem of her muslin gown, her feet were bare. "I wish Amy were here. She loves the sea. It's in her blood, I think."

  He studied her exquisite profile. Ever since she had saved his life, he had become acutely aware of how often blood was used as a metaphor for connection and affinity. Perhaps the gift of life that joined them was the reason he felt so hopelessly connected to her, so aware of her every word and movement.

  A puff of breeze molded her gown to her body, clearly delineating the entrancing fullness of her breasts. He looked away when his body involuntarily responded. His gaze went over the beach, a crescent of sand sheltered by towering cliffs. It was a private, sunny place. Damnably romantic. "Davin was right that this is a good spot for a picnic. In fact, he's always right. Another saint—clear proof that he must be your cousin."

  She smiled. "That makes Davin sound boring, which he isn't. He and Glynis are both excellent company."

  Michael rested his mug of ale on his knee. The tide was coming in, the small waves splashing only a few feet away. "You've been on Skoal for a week now. If your grandfather leaves you the island, do you think you could be happy here? It's a narrow life compared to what you've known."

  "Yes, but it's also safe and comfortable. If it's offered, I can't afford to turn it down." She shrugged. "I don't know about happiness, but I can be content. That will be enough."

  Giving in to impulse, he asked the question that had been haunting him since she asked for his help. "What about Colin?"

  Her jaw tensed. "With Davin's help, I can run Skoal myself."

  Michael caught his breath, wondering if her words meant that she and her husband might separate permanently. If they were already estranged, it would explain why she was not worried about how to bring Colin here later. His heartbeat accelerated as he thought of the implications. Would it be dishonorable to court a woman whose marriage was over, even if the legal bonds had not been dissolved? In fact, he realized with another jolt, it was possible that the bonds could be severed. Divorce was very rare, and it took money and influential friends to obtain one. However, Michael had both, and he would spend every penny he had to free Catherine if that was what she wanted.

  The thought was stunning. Wondering if he was reading far too much into her words, Michael asked hesitantly, "Several times you've implied that Colin might not be part of your future. Are you considering leaving him?"

  Her eyes squeezed shut. "Don't ask me about Colin," she whispered. "Please don't."

  The wall of control he had erected with such painstaking care cracked. "Catherine." He laid his hand on her shoulder. Her skin was warm under the sun-baked muslin. "Catherine."

  She drew an uneven breath, her lips trembling. Unable to bear the sight of her unhappiness, he slid his arm around her shoulders. With his other hand, he stroked her hair. Tears glimmered between her closed lids. Tenderly he kissed the fragile skin, tasting salt amid the prickliness of her lashes.

  She made a choked sound in her throat and twisted, not away, but toward him. Her breasts compressed against his ribs and her arms circled his waist. He brushed back dark, gossamer strands of windblown hair and traced the delicate whorls of her ear with his tongue. She exhaled roughly, her full lips parting. She was unbearably alluring, a vulnerable Siren. He bent his head and covered her mouth with his.

  She tasted of apples and ale, tangy and luscious. Her eyes remained closed, as if to deny the impropriety of this embrace, but her mouth answered his, hot and needy.

  His heart began hammering, the clamor in his blood drowning reason. He pressed her back, the coarse sand crunching underneath the blanket. He had dreamed of her like this, her yielding body beneath his, the hard beat of her pulse visible under the pale skin of her throat. His hand shook as he cupped her breast. Soft, voluptuous, womanly.

  Her dress was secured with a button on each shoulder. He unfastened them with clumsy fingers. Then he pulled down her bodice and the petticoat beneath, baring her breasts. Hoarsely he murmured, "You are beautiful, so beautiful."

  He drew a velvet nub of nipple into his mouth. It hardened instantly, wickedly sweet. He wanted to suckle her essence into himself, to absorb the warmth and femaleness that he had craved all of his life.

  She moaned and arched against him. He cradled her breasts and held them together, then rubbed his face between the warm, satiny curves, feeling the pounding of her heart. Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking through again and again.

  He no longer gave a damn about marriage, husbands, wives. This was mating, savage and impossible to deny. In a just world, she would be his, protected by his strength and caring.

  When had justic
e been part of his life? He would make her his own, now and forever.

  His palm moved downward over the lithe curves of her torso, coming to rest on the mound at the junction of her thighs. Beneath the flimsy fabric was heat and the promise of musky welcome. As he caressed her, she became utterly still.

  Her eyes snapped open and she cried out, "Oh, God, what am I doing?" Frantically she scrambled away from him, one hand holding her loose bodice over her breasts.

  Taut and aching, he reached out to draw her back. "Catherine...?"

  She jerked away from his hand as if it were a serpent.

  The stark fear in her sea-colored eyes shocked him back to sanity with the abruptness of ice water. Bloody hell, what had he been doing?

  Breaking the most solemn vow he had ever made to himself.

  "Christ, I'm sorry. So damned sorry." He buried his face in his hands. His whole body trembled, and not only from the frustration that burned viciously through his veins. "I didn't mean that to happen. I swear it."

  Voice shaking, she said, "Neither did I. I'm sorry, Michael. The fault was mine."

  It was true that she had not resisted. Quite the contrary. But he had taken advantage of her misery, the grief she felt about her marriage. Though he had not done so deliberately, it was still wrong. Sweet Jesus, would he never learn? He thought he had learned from past mistakes, but obviously not.

  Escape from the island would be the wisest course. However, that would leave Catherine with difficult explanations and might endanger her future security. They must find a way to cobble up the ragged tears in their relationship.

  He raised his head. She had refastened her dress and seemed poised to flee. An incoming wave slapped over his bare feet. He stood and rolled his trousers to his knees, then extended his hand to her. "Walk with me. Splashing along the beach should help clear our scrambled wits."

  His matter-of-fact tone had the desired effect. Catherine stood and shyly gave him one hand, using the other to catch up her skirts. Her ankles were slim and shapely. He looked away and led her along the beach. Low waves broke on the sand and ran hissing forward to drench their feet, then retreated.