"If you weren't an amateur, you would have." Michael backed onto the Neck, watching the other man like a hawk. The eyes would signal the moment and direction of an attack.
Haldoran scowled. "I wish I could take my time, but I'll have to kill you quickly so we can catch Catherine and her brat."
"You'll have to come through me to get them," Michael said flatly. "That may be harder than you think."
"Oh?" Light-footed and eyes gleaming, Haldoran stepped onto the Neck. "I defeated you before and you weren't exhausted then. I know damned well you were goading me when you claimed later you'd let me win. This time, there will be no question of my victory." He lunged with lightning swiftness.
Warned by the flicker of his opponent's eyes, Michael parried. Fatigue had dulled his reflexes, and he barely managed to block the blow in time.
Haldoran responded with a series of brutally powerful thrusts. The blade glittered blood red in the rising sun as he slashed forward, nearly breaking through his opponent's guard. As Michael retreated, Haldoran sneered, "That isn't much of a sword. Where did you find it?"
"In a smuggler's cave. It's a standard-issue naval weapon," Michael panted. "A real soldier doesn't need elaborate weapons."
Haldoran struck again. When Michael warded off the blow, he was aided by the gusty wind, which kept his opponent off balance for a moment. Michael took advantage of the brief respite to glance over his shoulder. Catherine and Amy had vanished. Profoundly relieved, he returned his attention to his enemy.
Exhaustion had dulled his wits, his speed, even his desire to survive. The only thing left was the steely core of skill forged in the hardest of schools. Endless drill and more skirmishes and battles than he could remember had taught him to strike, to parry, to lunge, even when his sword seemed too heavy to lift and his muscles trembled with strain.
They fought in grim silence, the ring of their weapons piercing the dark roar of the waves and the occasional cries of gulls. They were both sweating now. Though Haldoran was always on the verge of making a fatal thrust, he never quite succeeded. Somehow Michael's tired arm and leaden feet always managed to parry and withdraw before the other man could strike.
Michael found bleak satisfaction in his modest successes. He would not win this fight. Even if by some miracle he defeated Haldoran, he'd be shot by the waiting convicts. But every moment he endured gave Catherine and Amy more time to escape.
When he fell back another step, Haldoran snarled, "Stand, damn you! Fight like a gentleman, if you know how."
It was an enormous effort to answer, "All I can do is fight like a soldier—to win."
Enraged, Haldoran charged forward. The razor-sharp tip of the Saracen blade grazed Michael's forearm, slicing through the bulky jersey and probing for a vital spot. Hastily Michael retreated—and his right heel landed on open air. The Neck had tightened to its narrowest width, and completing the step would be fatal.
He twisted to the left like an acrobat. The movement saved him from going over the cliff, but he ended sprawling on the edge of the precipice.
Haldoran smiled with vicious satisfaction. "Say your prayers, Kenyon." He stabbed down toward Michael's throat.
Barely in time, Michael raised his sword to block his opponent's blow. The Saracen blade struck the naval sword with a ringing shriek and splintered the inferior metal. Most of the blade spun away, leaving him with a hilt and a ragged steel stub.
His mind accepted that the end had come, but his trained body was incapable of surrender. He grabbed a fistful of pebbles with his left hand and hurled them into his enemy's face. Haldoran swore and fell back, clawing at his eyes. As he did, Michael made a sweeping motion with his left leg. His ankle smashed into the other man's legs.
Haldoran fell sideways. Michael raised himself to his knees and struck his opponent's sword hand with the viciously edged stub of his own weapon, severing the tendons. Haldoran cried out as the sword fell from his grasp. For the first time, his face showed fear. Growling like an animal, he kicked the broken sword from Michael's grasp. Then he dived forward and locked his good hand on Michael's throat.
They began wrestling feverishly, rolling back and forth on the brink of the precipice. But the balance of power had shifted. Berserker wildness surged through Michael, carrying him beyond fatigue and fear to a place where action was all. Relentlessly he forced Haldoran back toward the cliff.
As their locked bodies teetered on the edge, Michael stared into his enemy's eyes, seeing the fear grow. He spat out, "Amateur!" Then he broke Haldoran's hold with a violent thrust that propelled the other man toward the edge.
Haldoran grabbed at Michael, for support or to take them both to their deaths, but Michael chopped the other man's wrist with the edge of his hand. Fingers still scrabbling desperately, Haldoran pitched into space. He screamed all the way down, his terror reverberating from the cliffs and hills, until the sound ended with horrifying finality.
It was victory, of a sort. But as Michael lifted his head and saw the gun barrels aimed at him, he knew that the end had finally arrived.
At least he was dying for a reason. Live long, Catherine, and live well.
* * *
Catherine and her daughter took cover in the shrubbery when they reached the far end of the Neck. As they fell to their knees, gulping for breath, Catherine cautiously parted the branches so they could see what was happening. There had been no more gunshots. Was that a good sign, or did it mean that Michael had fallen?
She caught her breath as she saw Haldoran lunge at Michael with a sword. As Michael threw off the blow, Amy whispered, "Will Colonel Kenyon win?"
"I don't know. He's a wonderful fighter, but he's been performing superhuman feats for days. He's exhausted while Haldoran is fresh." Catherine flinched as her cousin's blade swept toward Michael's belly. Michael evaded the slash by a hair's breadth and fell back again. The duelists were halfway across the Neck, and two of Haldoran's men were advancing a safe distance behind, their guns ready.
Tears running unnoticed down her face, Catherine said painfully, "We must leave now. When the fight ends, Haldoran's men will come after us no matter who wins."
"I call them the trolls. They're awful." Amy made a face of disgust. "We can't abandon Colonel Kenyon, Mama."
"We have to, love, or his sacrifice will be wasted."
"I won't go," Amy said flatly. "You know how good I am at throwing things. I think I can hit the trolls from here."
Catherine stared at her daughter's face. There was a warrior light in Amy's eyes. She had never looked more like her father. And it was certainly true that her tomboy daughter had demonstrated a fine throwing arm when playing cricket.
As a mother, Catherine would do anything to preserve her child. Yet honor and loyalty mattered, too. A fatalistic calm descended on her. If they left without trying to save Michael, neither of them would be able to forgive herself. "Then let's gather some stones."
There was no shortage of rocks on Skoal. They collected a pile, then watched tensely as the duel continued. Catherine laid a warning hand on her daughter's arm. "If Michael is... is killed, we must run to the right, down this hill. There are enough bushes to cover us. With luck, Haldoran will think we followed the road."
Amy hefted one of the stones in her hand. "But if the colonel wins, we're ready for the trolls."
Catherine gave an anguished cry when Michael fell and his sword shattered. As the two men wrestled, there was a horrifying moment when it looked as if both would go over the edge. Then suddenly Haldoran was hurtling downward, tumbling through the air until he crashed into the pitiless, wave-tossed rocks below.
There was a moment of absolute stillness in which the only sound was the eternal wind and the crying gulls. Then Amy wound up and threw. Her stone flew swift and true to slam into Doyle's cheek. The man bellowed and his rifle jerked, the ball kicking up dirt a yard away from Michael.
Catherine hurled her own stone. It bounced once, then hit the knee of another troll who was level
ing his gun at Michael. Though the impact wasn't great, it was enough to spoil the fellow's aim. Michael crouched and began a laborious retreat toward Great Skoal, staying low to keep out of the path of the missiles.
The thundering wheels of a fast-moving vehicle sounded behind Catherine. Who on earth would be coming to Little Skoal at this hour, and at such a speed? She glanced over her shoulder and saw a wagon with half a dozen men careening toward the Neck. Then she looked back to see if Michael had reached safety.
The barrage of rocks had baffled and confused the three wounded men to the point where they were no longer a threat. Tougher and more determined, Doyle had dropped to the ground behind a large rock. The only thing visible from Catherine's position was his rifle barrel, which was swinging toward Michael. Dear God, after surviving so much, Michael couldn't be killed now, he couldn't.
The wagon stopped and a shot rang out, the report rolling across the hills. Doyle's rifle jerked. Then his body rolled out from behind the boulder, blood pouring from his skull.
A deep voice shouted, "If you others want to live to see another dawn, throw down your weapons!"
Almost beyond shock, Catherine looked up to see Davin Penrose standing in the wagon. A curl of smoke rose from the rifle in his hands. She had not realized how commanding the constable could be. How much like their mutual grandfather.
"Thank God," she whispered. "Oh, thank God." Shakily she stood and walked from the shrubbery, Amy beside her. "Michael?"
He lurched to his feet and walked the last steps from the Neck to Great Skoal. In spite of being damp, rumpled, and unshaven, he was the most beautiful sight imaginable. She embraced him, tears of relief in her eyes. He was alive. Alive.
"We did it." He hugged her back for a moment, then released her. "We took on the Napoleon of Skoal and won."
"Not we. You." She tilted her head back. There was so much she wanted to say that she didn't know where to begin.
The moment to speak ended when their rescuers approached. Most of the Skoalans went to collect Haldoran's remaining men, but Davin and another man came to the battered band of fugitives. The second fellow, a tall, fashionably dressed stranger, said, "What happened to your arm, Michael?"
Bemused, Michael looked down at a crimson-drenched sleeve. "Haldoran cut deeper than I thought when he slashed my jersey. His blade was so sharp I didn't notice." His brows came together. "What the devil are you doing here, Stephen?"
Stephen. Catherine studied him with interest. With that name and face, he had to be Michael's brother.
The duke said, "Your rather cryptic note made me decide to see what was happening here." He regarded the bloody sleeve uneasily. "Shouldn't you do something about that?"
"If you'll contribute your cravat, I'll bandage it," Catherine said to the duke.
Wordlessly he unwound the snowy length of linen and gave it to her. For what seemed like the thousandth time, she started to bandage Michael.
He gave a tired smile. "Stephen, allow me to introduce Catherine and Amy Melbourne. Nurse extraordinaire and champion hurler, respectively. That's an amazing arm you have, Amy. Your father would be proud of you."
The girl smiled with pleasure.
Catherine tied off the bandage. "I've never been so happy to see anyone in my life, Davin. How did you know to come here at such a fortunate time?"
"The laird overheard a good deal when he was semiconscious," the constable explained. "Early this morning, he woke up enough to tell me what he thought was going on."
"He's that much better? Thank heaven!" Catherine draped an arm around Amy's shoulders.
Davin gave Michael a cool glance. "The laird said you're not Colin Melbourne. If this fellow is your brother, I assume your name is Ashburton."
"I'm Michael Kenyon. Ashburton is Stephen's title."
Davin's expression blanked. "As in the Duke of Ashburton?"
"Yes," the duke admitted. "But you needn't look like that. I scarcely ever bite."
Michael sighed and ran a hand through his rumpled hair. "I'm sorry about the deception, Davin. For what it's worth, the military experience is real. Catherine and I are friends from the army, which is why she asked me to accompany her to Skoal."
Before Catherine could say more, the duke said, "Instead of standing about talking, we should drive these exhausted folk back to the castle before it starts to rain again. The laird will be anxious to know what happened."
"An excellent notion," Michael muttered. He was weaving on his feet. Catherine wanted to go to him, but it was Stephen's hand that steadied his brother and helped him into the wagon.
On the ride back to the castle, Michael lay flat on the planks, his face gray and his eyes closed. Almost equally tired, Catherine sat against the side of the wagon, hugging Amy close. Quietly she told her daughter everything that had happened, including the fact that Haldoran had murdered Colin.
Amy took the news stony-faced. Her only comment was, "I wish I'd killed Lord Haldoran myself." Then she cuddled against her mother for the rest of the trip.
Catherine settled back with a sigh. Against all the odds, they had been spared. Yet underneath her relief was a rueful wish that she didn't have to face her grandfather.
Chapter 40
The laird was propped up against the pillows, looking much like his old self, when the rescued party was ushered in. "So you were in time, Davin. Well done." His gaze went to the duke. "What the devil are you doing here, Ashburton?"
"Just passing by," the duke murmured, amusement in his eyes. "Pretend I'm a fly on the wall."
Taking the duke at his word, the laird listened intently as Davin gave a terse description of events. When the constable finished, Catherine said hesitantly, "I don't know if I'm welcome here, Grandfather, but I'm glad you're so much improved." She drew Amy forward. "This is your great-granddaughter, Amy."
The laird scowled at the girl. "Wearing breeches like your disgraceful mother. You look like her, too. Are you equally pigheaded?"
Amy raised her chin. "Worse."
"Then I expect we'll get along. Come here, both of you."
Overwhelmed with relief, Catherine went to her grandfather's bedside and kissed him. "I'm truly sorry for deceiving you."
The laird patted her hand awkwardly, then studied Amy's face. After giving a nod of approval, his gaze went to Michael, who was leaning wearily against the wall. "Since you're not Colin Melbourne, who the hell are you?"
"Michael Kenyon, formerly of the 95th Rifles."
"He's also Colonel Kenyon of the 105th," Amy added, wanting to be sure the importance of that wasn't missed.
"And my only brother," the duke volunteered.
The laird's shaggy brows rose before he retorted, "I don't care if he's a bloody major-general. Lord Michael has compromised my granddaughter."
Michael's gaze flicked to Catherine and away. "Yes."
She hated to think that all of the kindness they had shared could be reduced to the damning word "compromised." Coolly she said. "I'm a twenty-eight-year-old widow, not a girl from the schoolroom, Grandfather. Any fault is entirely mine. Mr. Harwell said you wouldn't leave Skoal to a single woman. Since Colin was recently dead, I asked Michael to masquerade as my husband. He was extremely reluctant to enter into such a deception, but I begged him to help. His behavior has always been honorable."
"I was less reluctant than Catherine implies," Michael said dispassionately. "When she saved my life after Waterloo, I gave her carte blanche to ask anything of me."
There was nothing remotely loverlike in the statement. She wondered what was in his mind.
The laird sighed. "Harwell was right—I didn't want to leave Skoal to a single woman. However, now that I've met you, I know you'll take good care of the island." He smiled sourly. "Besides, I've no other choice, now that Clive is dead. I was never comfortable with the idea of him as laird. I should have listened to my instincts." He looked at Amy. "Someday you might be the Lady of Skoal, if your mother doesn't have a son. You'll need that stub
bornness then."
Catherine gasped, stunned that her grandfather was willing to make her his heir in spite of all that had happened. Even if Michael didn't want her, she and Amy would have independence, a comfortable income, and an honorable position in the world.
She looked out the window at the wild, windswept beauty of the island. Lady of Skoal. She had lied and deceived to achieve this goal, yet her victory tasted like ashes. It was time to make amends. Other widows managed to care for their children without inheriting an island, and she could do the same.
She looked at her grandfather again. "Haldoran told me that Davin is Harald's son. That's true, isn't it?"
Dead silence dropped over the room and Davin's face went rigid. The laird took a deep breath. "Yes, it's true. It's an open secret on the island."
"Then you do have another choice." She moistened her dry lips. "Davin should be the next laird. He knows and loves every inch of the island. It is he who is the true heir to the ancient traditions of Skoal. It would be wrong for me to take that away from him." She looked at her daughter. "I think Amy would agree with me." Amy gave a silent nod.
Her grandfather's fists clenched on the counterpane. "I considered him, but dammit, Davin is a bastard."
"You take great pride in the island's Viking past, Lord Skoal," Michael said unexpectedly. "The customs of the Northmen were different from those of Southern Europe. William the Conqueror was of Nordic stock. His parents weren't married, which is why he was also called William the Bastard. Yet he was a great warrior and king." His eyes narrowed. "Why should the twenty-seventh Laird of Skoal refrain from doing what he knows is right because of petty English customs?"
Catherine silently applauded. Michael was living proof that dubious parentage was no measure of a man's worth.
The duke added, "It might even be possible to arrange for Mr. Penrose to receive the title. The Prince Regent owes me a favor or two."
The laird drummed his fingers on the bed as the silence stretched. Finally he gave a rasping chuckle. "Maybe you're right. Very well, Davin it is. He's already bred sons to follow him, and I won't have to worry about whether he'll decide to move to some more fashionable place."
Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series Page 37
