Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  Such speculations were nonsense. He had never seen a path except the one he had taken, which had led him to a warped love that had stained his soul. He got to his feet, feeling as drained as if he'd just fought a battle. Yet under the pain, he was proud that he and Catherine had forged something pure and honorable from what could have been sordid and wrong.

  Of course, her husband was a soldier on the brink of war....

  He shied away from the thought, appalled that it had even crossed his mind. It would be obscene to hope for the death of a fellow officer. It was also ridiculous to try to look beyond the next few weeks. When battle came, he was as likely to be killed as Melbourne. There were no certainties in life, love, or war.

  Except the fact that whether the rest of his life was measured in days or decades, he would never stop wanting Catherine.

  Chapter 8

  Catherine was dressing for dinner the next evening when Colin entered the bedroom. Instead of ringing for her maid, she asked, "Could you fasten the back of my gown?"

  "Of course." His fingers were deft and passionless. She was struck by the sheer strangeness of the way they inhabited the same house, the same marriage, yet never touched emotionally. Their relationship was woven of law, courtesy, convenience, and habit. They almost never fought, because each of them knew exactly how much—and how little—to expect of the other.

  After Catherine's gown was secured, Colin moved away and began changing his own clothing. He looked uncomfortable in a way that she recognized. She asked, "Is something wrong?"

  He shrugged. "Not really. But... well, I lost a hundred quid at whist last night."

  "Oh, Colin." She sank down into a chair. There was never enough money, and a hundred pounds was an enormous sum.

  "Don't look at me like that," he said defensively. "I actually did rather well. I was down three hundred before I won most of it back."

  She swallowed, trying not to think what they would have done if he had lost so much. "I suppose I should be grateful, but even a hundred pounds will cause problems."

  "You'll manage. You always do," he said carelessly. "It was worth losing a little. I was playing with several officers of the Household Guards—men from families with influence."

  "Influence may be useful for the future, but we must pay our share of the household expenses now."

  "Ask your friend Lord Michael for more—everyone knows the Kenyons are as rich as nabobs." Colin removed his stock and tossed it onto the bed. "The way he's been squiring you around, he obviously fancies you. Has he tried to bed you yet?"

  "Nonsense," she snapped. "Are you suggesting that I have behaved improperly?"

  "Of course not," he said with bitter amusement. "Who would know that better than I?"

  There was sudden, sharp tension as the room pulsed with all of the issues that divided them. Realizing she had overreacted to Colin's casual remark, Catherine said evenly, "Michael is pleasant, but he has escorted me from courtesy, not because he's trying to bed me." And if her words were not quite the whole truth, they were close enough.

  Accepting her statement at face value, Colin said, "See if you can turn him up sweet in whatever time is left in this billet. I've been doing some thinking about the future."

  Her brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

  "After Boney is defeated, the government will cut the army to a fraction of its present size. There's a good chance I'll be retired on half pay. It's time to start looking for another occupation, preferably a nice government post that pays well and leaves plenty of time for hunting." He pulled on a fresh shirt. "Getting such a position will require influence. Luckily, Brussels is teeming with aristocrats this spring. When you're hobnobbing with 'em, be extra charming to anyone who might be helpful when the time comes."

  "Very well." The idea did not enthrall her, but since their future would depend on Colin finding a decent post, she must do her part. "Are you going to be dining here?"

  "No, I'm meeting friends."

  She sighed. "Try not to lose any more money. I can make a shilling stretch until it squeaks, but I'm not a miracle worker."

  "There won't be any gaming tonight."

  Which meant he would be with one of his women. She wished him a pleasant evening and went downstairs. It was early and Kenneth was the only person in the salon. He was gazing out the window, his shoulders as broad as those of a blacksmith.

  "Good evening, Kenneth," she said lightly. "You've been as busy as Michael. I'm beginning to think the infantry works harder than the cavalry."

  He turned to her. "Of course. Everyone knows that."

  She smiled. "You're as bad as my father. He was in the infantry, you know."

  Kenneth looked horrified. "The devil you say! How come a nice lass like you married a dragoon?"

  "The usual reasons." She poured two glasses of sherry and joined him at the window. The sun was hidden behind the trees, but it gilded the clouds with ocher and crimson and turned Brussels' graceful church spires to dramatic silhouettes. "A lovely sky. At times like this, I wish I could paint."

  He sipped his sherry. "So do I."

  "You don't? I assumed you must, since you draw so well."

  He shrugged. "Drawing is a mere knack. Painting is quite another matter, one I know nothing about."

  She glanced at his stern profile. Something in his tone suggested that he regretted that, but an army on campaign would have presented few opportunities to learn, particularly in the years before he received a commission.

  Outside, the colors were fading and indigo clouds were gathering on the horizon. How quickly the night was falling. "It's not going to be much longer, is it?" she said softly.

  He knew exactly what she meant. "I'm afraid not. The emperor has sealed France's northern borders. There's not a stagecoach, fishing boat, or document getting across—except for the false information Napoleon's agents are merrily spreading, of course. They say the authorities don't expect the campaign to begin before July, but I think war could come at any time."

  "I have this sense that... that we're all living in a glass bubble that's about to shatter," she said intensely. "Everything seems larger than life. These last two months feel like a special time that won't come again."

  "All times are special, and none ever comes again," he said quietly.

  Yet it was human to try to hold back the night. On impulse, she asked, "Could you do a favor for me?"

  "Of course. What would you like?"

  "Could you do drawings of everyone in the household? Anne and Charles, Colin, the children. The dogs. You. Michael." Most of all, Michael. Seeing Kenneth's quizzical glance, she added quickly, "I'd pay you, of course."

  His brows rose. "Really, Catherine, you know better than that."

  She stared into her sherry glass. "I'm sorry. I suppose that sounded rather insulting, as if you were a tradesman."

  The lines around his eyes crinkled. "Actually, it was a compliment. This would be my first professional drawing commission, except that I can't accept it."

  "Of course not. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

  He cut off her apology with a quick gesture. "I didn't say I wouldn't make the sketches. In fact, I already have a number that would do, but you must take them as a gift."

  When she tried to thank him, he said, "No thanks are necessary. You and Anne have the gift of taking an assortment of misfit pieces and creating a home from them." He gazed out at the nearly dark sky. "It's been a long time since I've had a home. A very long time."

  His wistfulness made her lay her hand over his, a gesture that was as easy with him as it was complicated with Michael. "When you do the sketches, don't forget the self-portrait."

  "If I try to do one, the paper might spontaneously disintegrate," he said dryly.

  "As Molly would say, you're so silly."

  They both laughed. Removing her hand, she went on, "Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond's ball next week? It's supposed to be the grandest entertainment of the spring."
<
br />   He gave an elaborate shudder. "No, thank heaven, I'm not important enough to rate an invitation. I'll be at the duke's ball on the twenty-first, though. Since he's commemorating the Battle of Vitoria, he'll expect his officers to be there."

  She smiled teasingly. "I shall expect a dance with you."

  "Absolutely not. I am quite willing to give you my drawings or my life, but dancing is quite another matter."

  They laughed again. Turning from the window, she saw Michael standing in the doorway. When he saw her looking at him, he entered the room, his expression impenetrable. She ached to go to him and take his hands. Instead, she put on her Saint Catherine face and went to pour another sherry.

  It was easier to be a saint than a woman.

  * * *

  That evening Kenneth went through his drawings, selecting ones he thought Catherine would like. He was surprised at how many he had done. Only one or two more would be needed. He set aside several for Anne as well. There was one of the Mowbry family together in the garden that was really quite good.

  Idly he took his pencil and began sketching the lovers Tristram and Iseult. Tristram, the mighty warrior, and Iseult, the healer princess who was wed to Tristram's uncle. It had ended tragically, of course; it wouldn't be much of a legend if they'd settled into a cottage and she'd had nine children and he'd turned into a red-faced hunting squire.

  He did not realize what he was doing until the picture was done. Then he saw that the tormented warrior wore Michael's face, and the dark-haired princess in his arms had the haunted sweetness of Catherine Melbourne.

  He gave a soft whistle. So that was how the wind was blowing. It wasn't the first time his drawings had revealed something he had not consciously recognized. Damnation, hadn't Michael suffered enough? Or Catherine, for that matter, paying endlessly for the foolish marriage made when she was sixteen.

  Having learned to his bitter cost that happiness was fleeting, he would throw morality to the winds and seize what joy he could if he were in love. He would like to believe Michael and Catherine were doing exactly that, but they were both too damned noble. They were probably concealing their feelings from each other, perhaps even from themselves.

  He tossed the drawing into the fireplace and held a candle to the edge until the paper flared. As he watched the picture crumble into ash, he hoped they would get their reward in heaven, for it wasn't likely to happen on earth.

  * * *

  The day before the Duchess of Richmond's ball, Michael and Kenneth attended a dinner to welcome several officers of the 95th who had just arrived from America. Inevitably, the conversation turned to Peninsular days. It was a good evening, but Michael said dryly as he and Kenneth rode home, "There is nothing like distance to make bad food, bad wine, and bad housing look romantic."

  "The real romance is that we were young, and we survived." Kenneth chuckled. "Lord, remember the time we held the Rifles anniversary banquet on the bank of the Bidassoa?"

  "Sitting with our legs in trenches and using the turf as both table and chair is not the sort of thing one forgets."

  They turned into the Rue de la Reine, moving at a quiet walk. As he dismounted and opened the gate, Michael said slowly, "There's a bad storm coming in the next few days."

  Kenneth looked at him sharply. "Literal or metaphorical?"

  "Perhaps both." Michael unconsciously rubbed his left shoulder, which ached before major changes in the weather. "It's going to be an almighty thunderstorm. That may be all—but remember how often storms hit before battles on the Peninsula?"

  Kenneth nodded. "Wellington weather. It was uncanny. Perhaps you should tell the duke."

  Michael laughed. "He'd throw me out of his office. He's a man who deals in facts, not fancies."

  "No doubt he's right—but I'll tell my batman to make sure my kit is ready to go in case we have to move out quickly."

  "I intend to do the same."

  They led their horses into the stable. A lamp was lit inside, and its light showed Colin Melbourne sprawled in a pile of hay, snoring heavily. His mount, still saddled and bridled, was standing nearby, looking bored. Kenneth knelt and examined the sleeping man. "Drunk as a lord," he reported.

  "I beg your pardon?" Michael said icily.

  Kenneth grinned. "Very well, he's as drunk as some lords. I've never seen you that far gone."

  "No, and you never will."

  "Give the man his due, though. He was able to stay in the saddle long enough to get home. A credit to the cavalry."

  After bedding down his own horse, Michael did the same for Melbourne's mount. No sense in the beast suffering because its master had overindulged. When he finished, Kenneth hauled their drunken companion to his feet.

  Colin came alive, asking blearily, "Am I home yet?"

  "Almost. All you have to do is walk to the house."

  "The bloody infantry to the rescue. You fellows do have your uses." Colin took a step and almost pitched to the floor.

  Kenneth grabbed him barely in time. "Give me a hand, Michael. It's going to take both of us to get him inside."

  "We could leave him here," Michael suggested. "The night is mild, and the condition he's in, he won't mind."

  "Catherine might worry if she's expecting him home tonight."

  Since that was undoubtedly true, Michael pulled Melbourne's right arm over his shoulders. There was a heavy scent of perfume underlying the smell of port. The bastard had been with a woman.

  He tried not to think of the fact that this drunken dolt was Catherine's husband. That he had the right to caress her, to possess her with his own promiscuous body...

  Gritting his teeth, he took his share of Colin's substantial weight and supported the man through the stable doors. Revived slightly by the fresh air, Colin turned his head and blinked at Michael. "It's the aristocratic colonel. Much obliged to you."

  "No need," Michael said tersely. "I'd do the same for anyone."

  "No," Colin corrected him. "You're doing it for Catherine 'cause you're in love with her."

  Michael went rigid.

  "Everyone's in love with her," Colin said drunkenly. "The Honorable Sergeant Kenneth, the faithful Charles Mowbry, the damned duke himself dotes on her. Everyone loves her because she's perfect." He belched. "Do you know how hard it is to live with a woman who's perfect?"

  Kenneth snapped, "That's enough, Melbourne!"

  Relentlessly Colin continued, "I'll bet your noble lordship would like nothing better than to roll Catherine into the hay and make a cuckold of me."

  Michael stopped in his tracks, his fists knotting with fury. "For Christ's sake, man, shut up! You insult your wife by suggesting such a thing."

  "Oh, I know she wouldn't go," Colin assured him. "It's not for nothing they call her Saint Catherine. Know why the original Saint Catherine was made a saint? Because the silly bitch—"

  Before he could finish the sentence, Kenneth pivoted and gave Colin a short, sharp punch to the jaw.

  As the man's dead weight sagged between them, Kenneth said dryly, "I thought I had better do that before you murdered him."

  Kenneth saw too damned much. Grimly Michael continued his part of the job of hauling Melbourne inside and up the stairs to his bedroom. When they got there, Kenneth rapped on the door.

  A minute passed before Catherine opened it. Her dark hair was loose over her shoulders and she wore a hastily tied robe that revealed too much of the nightgown beneath it. She looked soft and slumberous and infinitely beddable. Michael dropped his gaze, blood throbbing in his temples.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "Don't worry, Colin isn't hurt," Kenneth said reassuringly. "A bit drunk, and I think he bruised his chin falling in the stable, but nothing serious."

  She stood back, holding the door open. "Bring him in and lay him on the bed, please."

  As they carried Colin into the room, Michael saw her nostrils flare slightly as the scent of alcohol and perfume wafted toward her. In that moment, he realized that Kenneth had
been right: Catherine knew about her husband's other women, but whatever his failings, she accepted them with dignity. Michael admired her even as he wanted to beat Colin to a bloody pulp.

  They tilted Melbourne onto the bed and Kenneth pulled off his boots. "Can you manage the rest, Catherine?"

  "Oh, yes. This isn't the first time." She sighed, then said with forced good humor, "Luckily, it doesn't happen often. Thank you for bringing him up."

  Her words were for both of them, but she did not look directly at Michael. Ever since that day in the garden, they had avoided meeting each other's gazes.

  The men said good night, then left the room and walked silently toward the other wing. Privately Michael acknowledged that his fury had not been merely because Melbourne's comments had been crude, vulgar, and unbefitting a gentleman.

  The really upsetting part was that everything the bastard had said was true.

  Chapter 9

  Early the next morning, Michael was finishing a quick breakfast when Colin entered the dining room. Since no one else was there, it was impossible to ignore the man.

  Colin headed straight for the coffeepot. "I have no memory of it, but my wife says that you and Wilding brought me in last night. Thank you."

  Glad the other man didn't remember, Michael replied, "Your horse deserves most of the credit for getting you home."

  "Caesar is the cleverest mount I've ever had." Colin poured a cup of steaming coffee with an unsteady hand. "My head feels as if it was hit by a spent cannonball, and I deserve every ache. At my age I should know better than to drink beer, brandy, and wine punch the same night."

  His expression was so ruefully amused that Michael could not help smiling back. He was struck by the uncomfortable realization that if Colin were not married to Catherine, Michael would like him well enough. At least, he would have been tolerant of the other man's failings. Trying to treat Colin as if Catherine didn't exist, he said pleasantly, "It sounds like a wicked combination. You're lucky to be moving this morning."