Shattered Rainbows fa-5

by Mary Jo Putney

  Uninterested in his master's alibi, Doyle jerked a thumb toward the cave. "What about them?"

  "We'll come back and continue the hunt when the storm blows over." Haldoran gave a last, smoldering glance at the place where his quarry had vanished. "I'll bring dogs. Even if they leave the cave at low tide, they won't get far."

  Chapter 36

  The laird had been drifting in murky currents for so long that it was hard to believe he had finally returned to the surface. He blinked several times to clear his vision, then decided that the continuing grayness was more outside than in. Dusk, maybe, or an oncoming storm.

  He did not try to move. It was enough to savor the knowledge that he was still among the living. Not that he feared death, for then he would join his wife and the others he had lost. But he wasn't ready for that yet. Not when there was so much to be done. He had learned a great deal while lying in bed like a log. People had assumed he couldn't hear, but he could, at least some of the time. He had learned important things that affected the future of the island. Treachery. Betrayal. If only he could put the pieces together… He shook his head in frustration.

  A quavering voice said, "Are you awake, my lord?"

  It was Fitzwilliam, his old valet. "Yes, and about time." The laird found that his mouth worked clumsily and the right side of his face was a little numb, but the words were clear enough. "Is my granddaughter here?"

  Fitzwilliam's eyes shifted. "Not at the moment, my lord. She was nursing you most devotedly, but she… she needed a rest."

  "Liar." The laird wanted to say waspishly that after fifty-seven years of close association, Fitzwilliam should know better than to try to deceive his master, but it was too much effort. He must save his strength for more important matters. "Clive?"

  "Lord Haldoran has stayed at the castle since your illness began, but he… he went out this morning. We haven't seen him all day. Shall I send to Ragnarok? He might be there."

  "No! Get Davin." The boy would know what to do. He always did. And Davin, at least, could be trusted.

  Cursing himself for his weakness, the laird drifted into sleep again.

  The cave was no more than a narrow tunnel for the first dozen feet Then it opened up. Cautiously Catherine straightened. There was very little light, but the echo of the waves implied that the chamber was very large. The ceiling vaulted at least twenty feet above her head, and the back of the cave disappeared into darkness. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she saw that the pool in which they stood was surrounded by higher ground. The incoming tide would not drown them.

  Since she was shaking violently from cold and exhaustion, Michael towed her from the pool with an arm around her waist. She stumbled against him as she climbed the embankment, sand crunching beneath her sopping boots, then sagged to her knees.

  He crouched beside her. "Are you all right, Catherine?"

  "N-nothing seriously wrong." She took advantage of his closeness to lean against him for a moment. His soaked jersey had the sharp, not unpleasant scent of wet wool.

  To her regret, he soon stood, saying, "We won another round. We'll be safe here until the tide falls again."

  "Safe," she repeated. "Such a beautiful word."

  He glanced at the high, shadowy walls. "There's a draft, so there must be a source of fresh air somewhere. That means we can build a fire from the driftwood."

  Though she wanted to help him gather wood, when she tried to stand, her body flatly refused to cooperate. Feeling as weak as a fever patient, she watched as he selected wood and laid a fire. A good thing she had been able to bring the tinderbox and that it was a water-resistant design.

  She rubbed her arms in a vain attempt to warm herself. Fishermen wore heavy jerseys like hers because wool could hold heat even when wet, but her body was too chilled to generate any warmth for the wool to hold.

  Michael struck a spark, then blew it into flame. Catherine was trying to summon the energy to walk to the fire when he came and scooped her up in his arms. She asked, "Don't you ever tire?"

  "Yes, but usually not until everything vital has been done." He set her on the coarse sand by the fire and added more wood. "Then I sleep for a day or two."

  Flames blazed up, and the lower walls of the cave began to shimmer with subtle rainbow colors. She gasped and closed her eyes, thinking she must be hallucinating. But when she opened her eyes again, the colors were still there.

  Michael glanced up and gave a low whistle of surprise. Lithely he rose and went down for a closer look. "The walls are covered with tiny sea creatures that are almost transparent. They shine like little rainbows when the light strikes them."

  "I hope that's a good omen." No longer able to suppress her greatest fear, she asked tightly, "Do you think Haldoran will harm Amy if he goes back to Skoal tonight?"

  "No." Michael came back to the fire. "Even if he's serious about marrying her when she turns twelve, he would be a fool to molest her now. If you die, Amy is heir to Skoal, and he's seen enough of her to know she's a strong-minded young lady. If he wants to gain her cooperation and her inheritance, he'll have to win her trust. My guess is that he'll treat her like a princess. Lucien will have her safe well before her twelfth birthday."

  It sounded plausible. She prayed he was right. Not wanting to consider the alternative, she looked around, squinting into the darkness. "The laird said there is a natural hot spring in this cave."

  "Really?" Michael sat back on his heels. "That would be welcome. I'll see what I can find." He pulled a burning piece of driftwood from the fire and raised it above his head, swinging it in small circles to intensify the flame as he walked away. "I've always liked the stillness of being underground. That's one reason why mining interests me. The water-carved walls and rainbow reflections make this cave downright otherworldly."

  "The realm of Hades, I suppose," Catherine said, less enthusiastic about the location. "Look behind you. There seems to be steam rising over there, about halfway to the wall."

  Michael went to investigate. "There's a sizable pool here." He knelt and tested the water. "Ahh, lovely. This is the temperature of a pleasantly hot bath." He touched his tongue to his fingers. "And it's fresh water, not salt."

  Catherine rose and went to kneel beside him. The pool was roughly oval, about a dozen feet long and seven or eight feet wide. She scooped up a handful of water. The warm fluid spilled sensuously through her fingers.

  "Would you think me terribly vulgar if I took off my clothing and climbed in?"

  "I think that sounds very sensible." Michael stood. "While you get warm, I'll see if I can tickle a fish for our dinner."

  Though it was clear that he preferred to keep his distance, she laid a hesitant hand on his wrist. "Later. You must be almost as cold and tired as I. It wouldn't do for you to come down with lung fever, so warm yourself first."

  His muscles tensed under her palm, then relaxed. "Very well, but we should set our clothing to dry first. I'll improvise some racks. Just leave your things here on the edge."

  As she stripped off her jersey, he turned abruptly and moved away. For a moment he was silhouetted against the firelight, his broad shoulders and lean muscular frame a dark symbol of masculine power and grace. The sight mesmerized her. She wanted him, physically and emotionally, with a yearning that was almost unbearable. Perhaps passion would melt Michael's iron reserve and narrow the breach between them.

  Slowly she removed the rest of her clothing. Her gaze stayed on Michael as he collected fantastically twisted pieces of driftwood and shoved them into the sand by the fire. She wondered if she would have the courage to make an advance. Probably not, since rejection was likely to be his response. Nor was a subtler approach likely to work; she was too new to passion to be skilled at seduction.

  With a sigh, she released her hair and slid naked into the pool. The bottom was formed of water-smoothed stone, with an average depth of about four feet. At first the temperature was almost painful, but as her body warmed, the water became a silken caress.
She drifted across the pool. Heated water flowed intimately around her breasts and between her legs, bringing her flesh to life with profound sensuality.

  Though her desire did not go away, her tension faded to a manageable level. She exhaled with pleasure and propelled herself across the pool with a couple of lazy kicks. There was so much unsaid between her and Michael. Perhaps later they might resolve their differences. For now, she would simply accept the distance he had put between them.

  Michael did his best not to stare at Catherine when he came to collect her wet clothing, but his best wasn't very good. As she floated across the shadowed pool, she was as lovely as a sea nymph, her hair flowing around her shoulders in a gossamer cloud.

  She reached the far end of the pool and twisted lithely to change direction. His gaze slid over her supple curves, from the graceful arc of her spine, over her rounded hips, and down the shapely lengths of her legs. Once more he thought of the Siren Kenneth had drawn in Brussels, beckoning a man to ruin.

  Throat tight, he scooped up her boots and other garments. After wringing out the excess water, he draped them across the driftwood by the fire. Steam began to rise gently.

  He smiled without humor, thinking that steam should be rising from him as well. They had barely escaped with their lives, and the danger was far from over. Yet all he could think of was Catherine. He craved her more intensely than food or drink or warmth. But everything was so damned tangled that it was impossible to simply take her into his arms and make love.

  If he had any sense, he would go fishing.

  However, Catherine had been right that he needed to get warm. That meant controlling himself. He had done so before, he could again now. lips compressed, he stripped and hung his clothing on the improvised racks, then unwound the rope that had been chafing against his torso.

  He crossed the cave to the pool. Catherine was on the opposite side, lounging back against an angled stone with her eyes closed and water to her chin. The faint golden wash of firelight illuminated the planes of her face and the pale contours of her upper body. He stared, entranced, at a glossy strand of hair that coiled sinuously over her shoulder and between her magnificent breasts. They were buoyant, as round and ripe as forbidden fruit. Below, her torso tapered into the shadowy water, which revealed only faint hints of narrow waist, womanly hips, and the dark triangle between her legs.

  Near paralysis, he forced himself to look away. When his breathing was steady, he slipped into the pool. The warm water was as sweet as sin.

  Sin seemed to be all he could think about.

  He settled onto a rock that allowed him to submerge all of his body except his head. The heated water was wonderful, soothing the bruises he had received earlier.

  Catherine's eyes opened lazily, the thick dark lashes sweeping upward like a raven's wing. "A good thing we must leave with the next tide, or I'd be tempted to spend the rest of my life soaking here."

  "It's like the hot springs in Bath," he agreed. "Fit for a Roman emperor."

  She uncoiled from her lounging position, her hair swirling and clinging to her slim neck. Then she bent forward and glided across the pool with a kick, settling beside him as lightly as a bird. "I want to look at that wound on your arm."

  "Really, it's nothing." Acutely aware of her nearness, he tried to edge away.

  Firmly she grasped his forearm and turned him so that his upper arm was illuminated. After gently examining the raw flesh, she said, "You're right, it's not much more than a graze. It won't even scar." Her fingers skimmed down his arm to the ragged mark left by one of his Waterloo wounds. "It's impressive that you've survived so much without becoming permanently crippled."

  She traced the thin hard line where his ribs had been sliced by a saber. The scar arced downward toward his groin, and her touch triggered a fierce jolt of arousal. Hoping his state was concealed in the shadowy water, he tried to move away again.

  Her hands came to rest on his waist so that he could not detach himself without using force. "You certainly got bruised fighting Haldoran and his men," she observed as her experienced gaze went over him. "It's amazing that you were able to move so quickly when we were haring around the island."

  He felt sweat on his brow, and knew it was not from the heated pool. When her palm began to skim down over the saturated hair of his chest, he caught her right wrist. "Catherine, don't. Being merely a man and not at all a saint, I can't help but respond when you touch me."

  The tendons in her wrist went rigid and the atmosphere changed, going from camaraderie to vivid physical awareness. She raised her gaze to his, her eyes smoky with desire. "I don't feel very saintly myself. Since we might not have a tomorrow, let us use well what time we have."

  Her left hand dipped beneath the surface, flattening against his groin as it glided slowly downward. Then her palm curled around his heated flesh and fire seared through him. His control shattered. Catching her around the waist, he lifted her from her feet and swept her across the pool. The water buoyed them both, giving every movement the weightless grace of dancing.

  He laid her along the angled stone and followed her down, covering her mouth with his. Her lips were damp and hotly welcoming. She made a rough, needy sound and her hands curled around his neck. The kiss deepened, became devouring as the terror of the day transmuted into pure sexual fire.

  Finally he broke away, panting. His gaze went over her entrancing Siren's body, more hinted at than seen in the dim light. Her moist throat shimmered faintly, betraying the frantic tempo of her heart. He kissed the pulse point, then licked downward over smooth, flawless skin. Her back arched and rosy nipples broke the surface. He captured one with his mouth, the tender flesh hardening instantly under his tongue.

  Her knees separated and he moved between them, cradling her buttocks while he suckled her. With her lower body supported by the water, she began moving her legs up and down restlessly, caressing his hips with her inner thighs. The heated water lent a liquid sensuality to every touch. He breathed, "You are more beautiful than I ever dreamed a woman could be." He moved his mouth to her other breast and tugged at the nipple with his lips.

  She moaned, "Oh, Michael." Her legs locked around his waist, drawing him closer until his taut male flesh pressed against her with stark intimacy. She twisted her pelvis, trying to take him within her.

  "Jesus! Not yet." Chest heaving with the effort of trying to restrain himself, he pulled away a little and braced his hands on the stone beside her shoulders. Then he hung above her and rocked his hips so that his engorged shaft rubbed up and down against exquisitely sensitive female folds. Rapturous, maddening. Heaven and hell merged into erotic torture. She writhed under the voluptuously carnal strokes, breathing in desperate sobs. Her hands moved convulsively up and down his arms, slipping frictionless over his water-slicked muscles.

  When her whole body shivered on the verge of explosion, he drew back a little, touching her to guide himself. Under the feathery curls she was all hot, pliant yearning.

  He entered her with one slow, possessive stroke. Silken heat enfolded him, the pleasure almost beyond bearing. She moaned and rolled her hips, triggering a fierce exchange of thrust and counterthrust. Water surged around their churning bodies. Then she cried out and her nails dug deep into his back.

  Her chaotic contractions triggered his own release. He gasped, feeling as if his whole self was pouring helplessly into her. The culmination was searing, desperate with savage uncertainties.

  Passion ebbed swiftly, but instead of repletion, he felt aching sorrow. Even now, when he was deep in her body, he could not escape the haunted echo in his mind. She is not for you.

  Chapter 37

  Though Michael's body pinned Catherine to the slanting stone, most of his weight was supported by the water that surrounded them. She savored his closeness and the blessed peace of fulfillment. She could have fallen asleep holding him, but all too soon he withdrew, leaving her empty.

  "I don't know if that was wise," he said huskily, "but
it was certainly good. For a few moments, the rest of the world didn't exist."

  Though he brushed a kiss on her temple, she sensed that emotionally he was far away. She wanted to cling to him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she did not dare. Having grown up in the army, she recognized that Michael's formidable skills were focused on survival. Passion had been a pleasing diversion, but distracting him with agonizing personal issues would endanger them both. Forcing her voice to matter-of-factness, she said, "I'm ravenous. I wish we'd been able to bring a few of those apples."

  "I wasn't joking about catching a fish. There must be some in the main pool, since it connects to the sea. I'll see what I can find for supper." He straightened and ran his hand over his face, wiping away droplets of moisture. "If you'll wait here, I'll get my shirt for you to wear. It was fairly dry."

  She obeyed, content to drift in the warm water and watch him. He climbed from the pool and went to the fire. There he toweled himself briskly with the singlet he had worn under his shirt. His bare, beautifully proportioned body was godlike in its lithe power. Considering the scars, she supposed the god in question would be Mars. It still amazed her that a man who was supremely gifted in the violent arts of war could be so gentle.

  After he pulled on his drawers, he returned to the pool with his shirt. She took his proffered hand and reluctantly emerged from the water. Now that she had been so thoroughly warmed, both outside and in, the air no longer seemed cold.

  She used the singlet to sponge off most of the water before pulling his shirt over her head. The garment fell to her knees. When her head emerged from the voluminous linen folds, she saw that Michael was watching her with a dark, hooded gaze. Uneasily she wondered if he wished he had not succumbed to her brazen advance. Perhaps they should have talked rather than… doing what they did. Yet she could not be sorry. "How can you catch a fish without a hook or a line?"

  "It's time to use the tickling technique I learned from my Gypsy friend Nicholas. All you have to do is let your hand trail in the water, moving your fingers a little. When a fish comes to investigate, you grab him."