Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  Mrs. Tregaron looked worried again. "The laird believes husbands and wives should sleep together. He says separate bedrooms are unnatural."

  Catherine shared Michael's feelings, but dared not protest too strongly. If they had campaigned together on the Peninsula, they would be used to tight quarters. She gave her pretend husband a reassuring smile. "It will be all right, my dear. I don't mind being disturbed if it's by you."

  Relieved, Mrs. Tregaron led the way along the corridor and up a winding stairway. Over her shoulder, she said, "Your room is on the next floor, but if you follow these stairs to the top, you'll reach the battlements. The view is quite lovely."

  They followed her down another hall until she opened the door to a large bedroom with chestnut wainscoting and heavy Jacobean furniture. "Your luggage is here already. Since you brought no servants, I'll assign a maid to you, Mrs. Melbourne. It is the house custom to gather in the small salon before dinner. I'll send someone to show you the way a few minutes before eight-thirty. Is there anything else you would like?"

  "A bath would be heavenly."

  "I'll send hot water up directly."

  "I'd like a key for the room." Michael gave Catherine a melting look. "My wife and I don't like our privacy to be interrupted unexpectedly."

  Looking happily scandalized, the housekeeper said, "We don't use keys much on the island, but I'll try to find one."

  As soon as Mrs. Tregaron left, Catherine sank into a chair. "My grandfather obviously doesn't believe in giving people a chance to rest before important encounters. What do you think of him?"

  Michael shrugged. "A tyrant, partially redeemed by occasional flashes of humor and fairness." He prowled across the room to the window, his body taut and powerful. "He reminds me of the Duke of Ashburton, though not so cold, I think."

  "I think that under the acid tongue, he's lonely."

  "Not surprising, since he's probably bullied or alienated everyone he ever met. Power brings out the worst in many men," Michael said dryly. "If his heir hadn't died, he would never have summoned you here. He would have gone to his grave estranged from his only granddaughter."

  "Perhaps, but I still feel sorry for him." She pulled the pins from her hair and rubbed her tired temples. "It must be dreadful to be so weak after a lifetime of strength and power."

  "You're more generous than he deserves." Michael smiled affectionately. "Saint Catherine still."

  Her gaze dropped and her relief was replaced by unease. How the devil were they going to share a room and a bed?

  By confronting the issue head-on. "It's strange," she said honestly. "I was raised with the army. I've been surrounded by men all my life, and married for a dozen years. Yet I feel horribly awkward now."

  Michael's mouth quirked upward. "These are hardly normal circumstances—it would be surprising if we didn't feel strange. I'll sleep on the floor. Locking the door will prevent any chambermaids from discovering our guilty secret. We'll manage."

  "I don't want you to be uncomfortable." Catherine glanced uneasily at the huge canopied bed. "Surely the bed is large enough for two people."

  "I'd be far more uncomfortable in the bed." His gaze went over her, then slid away. "My intentions are honorable, but I'm only human, Catherine."

  She winced. She didn't want him to desire her; the situation was too complicated already. "The floor it is, then." Trying to put more emotional distance between them, she went on, "By the way, I've been curious. According to Anne Mowbry, the newspaper society notes implied that you came to London in search of a wife. Have you had any luck?"

  She wondered if he would mention the girl in the park, but he was too much a gentleman to discuss a lady behind her back. Coolly he said, "I'm a little surprised Anne reads such rubbish."

  Catherine smiled and tossed his words back at him. "She's only human—and so am I. Women are always interested in matchmaking. But you must hate knowing that strangers are speculating about your private affairs."

  "Indeed." He scanned the bedchamber. "At least there's a screen around the hip bath in the corner. It will offer some privacy for bathing and dressing. And this won't be for long. If the two of us continue speaking our minds, the laird will toss us out in a day or two."

  She laughed. "That would simplify matters, but I don't think it will happen. He seems to enjoy being challenged."

  "So he does." Michael gave her a level glance. "Though your grandfather is frail, he doesn't appear to be at death's door, as the solicitor implied. It won't be possible to maintain this masquerade indefinitely, you know. If you inherit and want to bring Colin here, you'll have to do some lively lying."

  Not as much as Michael thought; she would merely tell the truth, that Colin had died suddenly. But it was true that the perils of her deception loomed much larger now that she was on the island. "That might not happen. My grandfather seems to prefer my cousin. I wonder what the mysterious Clive is like? Mr. Harwell said nothing critical, but I had the sense that he wasn't enthusiastic about the fellow."

  A knock heralded two maids with coppers of steaming water. Michael let them in, then said, "I think I'll go up to the battlements for some fresh air. I'll be back in half an hour or so. That will leave enough time for me to bathe before dinner."

  Catherine nodded, concealing her relief. The thought of being naked in the same room with Michael made her feel hot and confused, even though she would be safely behind the screen.

  Safe? There would be no safety until this charade was over.

  * * *

  Mrs. Tregaron was right about the view from the battlements, even at night. A few lights were visible, most clustered in the nearby village. Because the castle stood on the highest point of the island, Michael could see beyond the shadowy fields to limitless expanses of moon-kissed sea. The irregular liquid beat of waves murmured in the distance. There would be no place on the island out of sound of the ocean.

  The air on the battlements was blessedly cool, easing his tension. He sighed and braced his hands on the stone wall. A shared bedroom. Wonderful. It only needed that.

  Though Catherine might think her grandfather inclined to choose her cousin as heir, Michael disagreed. No man was proof against her warmth and intelligence, and the laird was already beginning to soften. She would receive her legacy, as long as her pretend husband did not antagonize her grandfather. He should not have snapped at the old man. Still, no damage had been done. The laird seemed to like a bit of spirit in those around him, though real opposition would probably infuriate him.

  He stared at the distant sea and tried not to think of Catherine washing herself in the hip bath. Soap sliding over her smooth, pale skin. Warm water trickling between her full breasts. His body tightened as his imagination pictured her in excruciating detail. Dear Lord, but it had been a long time since he had lain with a woman!

  Yet, in a sense, it didn't matter how much time had passed. Even if he had spent the spring bedding every courtesan in London, he still would crave Catherine with painful intensity.

  When half an hour had passed, he went down to their room. He found Catherine curled on her side on the bed, fast asleep. She had bathed and donned a blue evening gown, though her hair fell unbound over her shoulders. She looked exhausted. He would let her rest as long as possible.

  Fresh hot water was waiting by the tub. He bathed quickly and changed into evening clothing, then went to wake Catherine.

  Before he did, he studied her sleeping face. Nothing could make her bone structure less than exquisite, but there were shadows under her eyes. She must be weary of carrying all of the responsibility for her family. Colin wouldn't be much help.

  Michael's gaze drifted downward. The evening gown was modest, but it could not conceal the lushness of her figure. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts riveted him. And the alluring curve of ear visible beneath the dark silk of her hair...

  He took a slow breath. "Catherine, it's time to get up."

  She sighed and rolled onto her back, but didn't w
ake.

  He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and said more loudly, "Catherine, dinner will be served soon."

  "M-m-m." She smiled a little and turned her head sleepily into his hand, her eyes still closed. Her mouth pressed against his fingers. Her lips were warm and luxuriantly soft.

  Desire flared, hot, red, and blinding. He jerked his hand back as if he had been scalded. Dammit, remember that she's a married woman! Sharply he said, "Catherine, wake up! It's almost dinnertime."

  Her dark lashes swept upward. She stared at him with shock, and something that was almost fear in the depths of her eyes.

  Guessing that she was disoriented, he said, "We're in Skoal, and about to go for dinner with your alarming grandfather."

  Her eyes cleared and she pushed herself upright with one hand. "I only meant to lie down for a few minutes, but I went out like a drowned candle."

  "It's been a long day. Unfortunately, it isn't over yet."

  "My grandfather must think that putting us through our paces when we're exhausted will reveal our true natures. He's probably right." She slid from the bed and went for her hairbrush. With a few swift strokes, she untangled the dark, glossy mass. Then she twisted it into a knot on her nape. Simplicity merely emphasized the graceful line of her slim throat.

  A knock sounded and a shy voice called, "Sir, ma'am, I'm here to take you down to the salon."

  Michael said quietly, "Ready for the next act?"

  She raised her chin. "As ready as I'll ever be."

  He opened the door and ushered her out. Sharing the intimacy of a married couple with Catherine was proving even more difficult than he had expected.

  * * *

  Catherine took Michael's arm as they followed the parlor maid down through the house, but she kept her eyes cast downward. She was still unnerved by the moment when she had woken to find his face above hers. She had been drifting in a marvelous dream, where she was normal, Michael was her husband, and they were looking forward to the birth of their first child. For a paralyzed instant, the dream had carried over into reality. Then it vanished, leaving only anguished regret.

  The salon was in a newer section of the house. As Catherine and Michael entered, five pairs of curious eyes stared at them. The laird was in a wheelchair with a blanket tucked around his legs. Also present were Davin Penrose and a pretty blond who must be his wife, and an older couple.

  The laird accepted her greeting with a nod. "You've met the constable already. This is his wife, Glynis, and the Reverend and Mrs. Matthews." He gave a rusty chuckle. "Obviously Skoalan society doesn't glitter."

  "How fortunate. I've found that glitter doesn't wear nearly as well as good sense and a good heart." Catherine gave a warm smile to her grandfather's guests, most of whom were regarding her with a certain wariness.

  Determined to start on the right foot with people who might soon be her tenants and neighbors, Catherine accepted a glass of sherry and set out to put everyone at ease. Conversation flowed easily, but she wondered where her cousin Clive might be.

  The sherry glasses were empty when the door opened again. "Please excuse my lateness, Uncle Torquil," a smooth, familiar tenor voice said. "What is this surprise you promised me?"

  The hair had prickled on the back of Catherine's neck when she heard the voice. No, it couldn't possibly be...

  A gleam of malicious amusement showed in the laird's eyes. "It's about time, Clive. Come meet my granddaughter, Catherine, and her husband, Captain Melbourne."

  Catherine braced herself and turned to the newcomer. She had not mistaken the voice. Lord Haldoran, the languid, inscrutable gentleman who had flirted with her during the hectic spring in Brussels, was her own cousin.

  Chapter 22

  Catherine thought frantically as Haldoran crossed the room. Had he ever met Michael, who had escorted her so often in Belgium? Or Colin? She couldn't remember. But if he had, her deception would be exposed on the spot, and she had seen enough of her grandfather to know he would not be amused.

  She thought her heart would stop when an odd expression—shock?—flickered in Haldoran's eyes at the sight of Michael. It vanished so quickly that she might have imagined it. He said genially, "How delightful to meet you again, Mrs. Melbourne."

  He bowed to her, then offered his hand to Michael. "I believe I saw you with your wife at a number of those crushes in Brussels, but we were never properly introduced. I'm Haldoran."

  Catherine did her best to conceal her relief as the men shook hands. It was ironic that Michael's consideration in escorting her now reinforced their charade.

  The laird frowned. "You already know each other?"

  "We met in Belgium last spring," Catherine replied. "When it seemed that Brussels might be overrun by the French, Lord Haldoran very kindly conveyed my daughter and the family who shared our billet to Antwerp."

  "I'm glad you didn't turn tail and run," her grandfather said approvingly. "Being a woman is no excuse for cowardice."

  "Au contraire," Haldoran said with a hint of mockery. "Your granddaughter was known throughout the army for her bravery. She earned the nickname Saint Catherine for her nursing work."

  "I'd heard that," the laird said. "It made me think she might be strong enough to rule Skoal, even though she's female."

  Catherine disliked being spoken of as if she were not present. Luckily, Michael caught her grandfather's attention by saying, "From what I've read, the islanders trace their ancestry to the Vikings and Celts, whose women were known for courage and independence. With such blood in her veins, it's not surprising that Catherine dared the battlefields."

  "You're interested in history?" Not waiting for a reply, the laird began expounding his opinions about early Britain while Michael listened with apparent interest.

  Catherine gave Haldoran a quizzical glance. "I haven't gotten over my surprise at finding you here. Did you know last spring that we were cousins?"

  "I knew you must be of Skoalan descent, perhaps William's daughter, but I wasn't sure, so I thought it better not to speak." He accepted a glass of sherry. "However, when I returned to London I visited Edmund Harwell and said I'd met a charming officer's wife with island eyes. He confirmed your identity."

  She remembered how disconcerted he had seemed the first time they met. Island eyes again. Had he concealed their kinship because of discretion, or because he did not want to alert a possible rival for Skoal? The uneasiness she had always felt with him intensified. Under his amiability, she sensed a kind of disdain, as if he felt superior to the mere mortals around him.

  A footman entered to announce dinner. Davin Penrose unobtrusively stepped behind the wheelchair and pushed the laird into the dining room. As steward, he must work with her grandfather constantly, which would require tact as well as competence. The more Catherine saw of him, the better she liked him. She also liked his blond wife, Glynis, whose droll sense of humor was reminiscent of Anne Mowbry's.

  "Catherine, sit at the other end of the table," her grandfather ordered. "Melbourne, you sit next to me."

  She silently obeyed, realizing that he was giving her the position of hostess. Haldoran was seated on her right. She gave him a quick glance, wondering if he resented the laird's mark of favor. She couldn't read through his polished surface. As the first course was served, she said quietly, "My grandfather seems to want to set us against each other. I'm sorry."

  His brows arched. "Well, we are in competition, aren't we? Only one of us can inherit Skoal."

  She gave him a level look. "Before three days ago, I'd scarcely heard of the place. It must seem unfair to you that I have appeared from nowhere with a claim to what you must have believed would be yours."

  He shrugged. "My expectations were not long-standing. Until last year, I assumed Harald would inherit. I must admit that the sheer feudal whimsy of being Laird of Skoal appeals to me, but that is offset by the dreary responsibilities that go with the title. The island is also hopeless for serious hunting. I shan't repine if Uncle Torquil prefers
you."

  It was a persuasive disclaimer. She wished she believed it. She swallowed a spoonful of lobster soup. "Exactly how are you and I related?"

  "My grandfather was younger brother to your great-grandfather," he explained. "The island has few opportunities for younger sons, so my grandfather embarked on a very profitable career as a privateer. He used Skoal as a base during his active years, then retired to an estate in Hampshire and became so respectable that he was made a baron. However, he also kept a house on the island. I was born here and I visit regularly."

  "So you are also a Penrose, and you know the island well." She finished her soup, feeling somewhat revived by the food.

  He gave her another wide, unreadable smile. "Since we are cousins, you must call me Clive."

  She nodded vaguely, though she really did not wish to be on terms of intimacy with her newfound cousin.

  The Reverend Matthews, who was sitting on her other side, asked if she had ever met the Duke of Wellington. Everyone was interested in the hero of Europe, so the duke provided a safe, neutral topic for general conversation.

  Catherine was eating a sliver of poached sole when Haldoran drawled, "Speaking of dukes, Melbourne, I understand that Lord Michael Kenyon, younger brother of the new Duke of Ashburton, was billeted with you in Brussels. I've some acquaintance with the duke. What is Lord Michael like?"

  She choked on her fish. It seemed impossible that the question was innocent. Perhaps Haldoran was toying with her, waiting for the best moment to expose her deceit. Her helpless gaze went to her partner in crime.

  Michael calmly broke a piece of bread. "Kenyon was a rather quiet fellow. Since he was busy with a new command, we didn't see much of him."

  Haldoran said, "Quiet? I'd had the impression from his brother that Lord Michael was a rake, the family disgrace."

  Michael's fingers tightened around the stem of his wineglass, but he kept his voice even. "Perhaps he was. I really couldn't say." He smiled at the vicar. "After all, the traditional choices for younger sons are the church or the army. I assume that the saints go for the church."