Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  "I'm afraid not." She bit her lip. "I know this is an outrageous request, but I can think of no better solution."

  There was definitely a God, and He had a very strange sense of humor. Michael said carefully, "In other words, you'd like me to take part in a charade to deceive your grandfather."

  "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it? I hate the idea of deceit. Yet, to be blunt, the legacy would be welcome. Very welcome indeed." Her mouth twisted wryly. "To be even more blunt, my grandfather might approve of you more than Colin. I gather that the laird is looking for reliable hands in which to leave Skoal."

  And Colin Melbourne was not the steadiest of men. Remembering the signs of financial strain in Brussels, Michael could understand why this legacy was vitally important to her.

  Catherine continued, "It's not as if the deception will cause any harm. A woman can run an estate as well as a man, and I will learn whatever is necessary."

  He wondered if she feared that Melbourne would refuse to live such an isolated life. Or perhaps she could no longer accept her husband's infidelities and wanted to build a life of her own. Whatever her reasons, he could not ask. But there were other questions that must be answered. "The mere thought of telling a lie has tied you in knots. Are you a good enough actress to successfully pass me off as your husband?"

  She closed her eyes for the space of a dozen heartbeats. Then she opened them and said easily, "I'm an excellent actress, Colin. I can do whatever I need to do."

  She was serene Saint Catherine again, and her voice was so convincing when she called him by her husband's name that he felt chills. Were all women born deceivers? A good thing she was nothing like Caroline, or she would be dangerous.

  Perhaps she could carry off the charade, but could he? They would have to spend a great deal of time together. In public, they would have to mimic the physical and verbal intimacy of a long-married couple. In private, he must keep his distance. Feeling about her as he did, the combination would be sheer hell.

  Of course, she did not know how he felt about her. She also had the innocence of a long-married, monogamous woman. She had forgotten what unruly beasts men could be, if indeed she had ever known. Yet he could not say no. Not only because he had given her a carte blanche for help, but because he could not resist the opportunity to be with her. He was as much a fool as he had ever been. "Very well. You have yourself a temporary husband."

  She gave a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much. There is no one else I could trust to do this."

  Because her other male friends had more sense, Michael thought dourly. "If time is of the essence, shall we leave for Skoal tomorrow?"

  "If you can get away so quickly, that would be ideal." Her brow furrowed. "But don't you have social commitments?"

  He shrugged. "Nothing that can't be canceled."

  "Bless you, Michael! I don't know what I would do without you." She got to her feet. "I'll go back to Mr. Harwell's office and tell him we'll be going to Skoal. No doubt he'll have instructions for me. Also, he said he would advance me the money for travel expenses if I decided to go."

  "No need. I'll take care of the costs."

  "I can't possibly let you do that."

  "Why not? I'm your husband, after all," he said lightly. "Also, if your grandfather is the bullying sort, you will feel at a disadvantage if you have accepted his money." Growing up in the household of the Duke of Ashburton, Michael had become an expert on the politics of power and money.

  "I hadn't thought of that." She considered. "I would certainly rather be obligated to you than an unknown grandfather, but I will repay you as soon as I can."

  "Very well." Michael opened the salon door for her. "I'll take you to the solicitor."

  "That's not necessary."

  He arched his brows in the way he had used to intimidate young ensigns. "I expect my wife to obey my wishes."

  She laughed, looking years younger than when she had come in. "I shall strive to be more conformable, my dear."

  "Don't try too hard. I like you the way you are."

  For a long moment their gazes held. He wondered if she realized how dangerous this masquerade was. He had sworn to behave honorably where she was concerned, but he was only flesh and blood.

  She trusted him. He must remember that.

  * * *

  Feeling equal parts relief and guilt, Catherine climbed into Michael's curricle. Lying to Michael was despicable when he was helping her so much. Yet for the life of her, she could see no alternative. Even to Anne, she could not explain why remarriage was unthinkable. Neither could she chance the possibility that he might feel obligated to solve her problems by giving her his name. He deserved better; he deserved that lovely girl in the park with her shining hair and warm, intimate smile. He deserved a real woman, not a shameful fraud like Catherine Melbourne.

  Locking away her guilt, she relayed what she had learned about her parents and Skoal as Michael threaded his curricle through the heavy afternoon traffic.

  When she finished, he frowned. "Your grandfather sounds like a tyrant. A good thing you're not going there alone."

  She agreed. Spending so much time with Michael might be difficult, but she would feel safer with him beside her.

  He continued, "Since the lawyer and your grandfather have so much information on you and your family, you'd better tell me about Colin's background so I don't make any mistakes."

  Catherine thought a moment about what Michael would need to know. "Colin's father was an American loyalist who stayed with the British army after the revolution. His mother was also American, so he had no close English relatives. Growing up with the army meant there was no particular place he called home. He went to school at Rugby before joining the regiment. By the time I met him, his parents were dead." She felt a wave of sadness as she recounted the bare bones of Colin's life. Blinking back tears, she continued, "Though you don't really resemble each other, luckily you both fit the general description of being tall, brown-haired, and of military bearing."

  "That's a simple history to remember, and since British officers usually don't wear uniforms when off duty, I won't have to find myself dragoon finery overnight." Michael expertly guided the curricle between two stopped drays. "Are you taking Amy to Skoal? I presume your grandfather wants to meet the next generation."

  Catherine shook her head emphatically. "I won't take her into a situation that is so uncertain. The laird might be a complete monster. Besides, it wouldn't be right to ask her to participate in a deception."

  "Quite right. Deception is for adults," he said dryly. "Do you have someone to look after her? If not, I'm sure the Strathmores would be glad to have her as a guest."

  "No need. We're staying with the Mowbrys. Anne and Charles are living with his widowed mother, if you recall." She chuckled. "Amy is delighted to see Clancy and Louis the Lazy again."

  He smiled involuntarily. "I miss the beast myself. How is Charles?"

  She paused a moment, wondering if she dared ask for more help, and decided that for the sake of her friends, she would dare. "Charles has recovered well from his wounds, but he's having trouble finding work."

  "Many former soldiers are in similar straits." Michael's brows drew together thoughtfully. "As Duke of Candover, my friend Rafe owns an enormous range of estates and businesses. Just last night he mentioned that the gentleman who has been a sort of general manager for the last thirty years is nearing retirement. Rafe asked if I knew someone who could work with old Wilson and eventually take over. Besides intelligence, honesty, and efficiency, the position requires someone who knows how to command men, which is why Rafe thought a former officer would be a good choice. I think he and Charles would get on very well."

  "That sounds perfect! You are so good, Michael."

  He shrugged away her thanks. "Rafe will be glad to find someone of Charles's abilities. I'll tell him to expect Charles to call at Candover House within the next few days."

  They had reached their destination. Michael drew up and tos
sed a coin to a boy to hold the horses, then climbed down and helped Catherine from the carriage. She gave him a nervous smile. "The first act of the masquerade is about to begin."

  The mischievous light in his green eyes drew her in, making them partners against the world. "I'll say as little as possible," he promised. "That should keep me out of trouble."

  The meeting went smoothly. Mr. Harwell was delighted with Catherine's decision, and he obviously liked what he saw of her "husband." When they were safely in the curricle again, Catherine gave a sigh of relief. "That was a favorable omen, don't you think?"

  "So far, so good. Shall I take you home now?"

  Uneasily she realized she could not let him meet the Mowbrys. If anyone mentioned Colin's death, her deception would go up in flames and Michael would be understandably angry. Eventually he would learn that she had been widowed, but because of the way the government was hushing up the death, she should be able to obscure the actual date. Dear God, but she was walking a tightrope! "Well, almost home. It would be better if you leave me off a street or two away."

  "You don't want Anne and Charles to see us together?" He gave her a slanting glance. "If you're concerned about appearances, it will be difficult to manage this charade."

  "Any woman who has crisscrossed Spain with an army doesn't worry overly about propriety," she said lightly. "But the fewer people who know about this escapade, the better."

  "Which means no servants for either of us." He shook his head. "That part is easy, but do you have any idea how many potential complications you are setting up for the future?"

  Knowledge of the complications was knotting her stomach. Trying to sound calm, she said, "I've thought about it. All I can do is deal with the problems when they appear. That's another thing I learned in Spain—don't worry about tomorrow's crisis until you've solved today's." She offered a tentative smile. "And with your help, today's crisis has been overcome."

  "Intrepid woman." He returned her smile, his eyes warm. "It's a mad business, but I must say that I'm looking forward to our marriage."

  So was she. Too blasted much.

  * * *

  As soon as Michael stepped into Strathmore House, the butler announced that the earl wished to see him. Wondering what else would happen on this lunatic day, Michael went to his friend's study.

  Lucien got to his feet when Michael entered, saying gravely, "This letter arrived a little while ago."

  The paper was black-bordered. Understanding why his friend had wanted to hand it over in person, Michael broke the seal and scanned the message. "It's from Benfield," he said expressionlessly. "The Duke of Ashburton is dead. He must have given up the ghost very soon after I left his house."

  "I'm sorry," Lucien said quietly. "No matter how difficult the relationship, losing a parent has to be a blow."

  "The end of an era, certainly, but don't waste your sympathy on me." Michael stared at the scrawled lines. Benfield was a responsible fellow; he would make a good duke.

  Better than the bitter old man he was succeeding. He had even politely requested a meeting, saying they had matters to discuss.

  Unable to think of anything the two of them might say to each other, he touched the corner of the letter to a burning candle on the desk. The paper blackened, then burst into flame.

  I would have been your son if you had wanted me to be. His chest constricted as painful regret washed through him. If the old duke had wanted filial love and loyalty, he could have had them so easily. Michael had desperately wanted to love. Perhaps that was why later he had loved so unwisely.

  Before the flames could scorch his fingertips, he threw the burning scrap into the fireplace. "I'll be going out of town tomorrow, probably for a fortnight or so."

  "I presume the burial will be at Ashburton."

  "No doubt, but that's not where I'm going. Some other business has come up."

  "You're not attending your father's funeral?" Lucien could not keep shock from his voice, but then, he had loved his father.

  "My presence would be unwelcome." Not ready to explain, even to Luce, Michael watched the paper crumble to ash. With luck, it was the last connection he would ever have with the Kenyon family.

  He raised his head. Lucien had the worried expression Michael had seen before on his friends, though not in the last two years. He wanted to assure Luce that there was no need for concern, but he was too drained to find the right words. "I'm not expecting anything urgent, but if you should need to reach me, I'll be staying on the Isle of Skoal under the name Colin Melbourne."

  His friend's brows rose. "What are you up to? Deception is usually my specialty."

  "Merely a bit of dragonslaying." Michael halted, suddenly remembering his childhood nurse. Fanny had been a good-natured country girl, the closest thing he'd had to a mother. In her bedtime stories, she had combined Saint George and the Archangel Michael into one swashbuckling, heroic figure called Saint Michael.

  Michael would dream of slaying dragons, saving maidens, and performing other great feats. If he did that, surely he would win the approval of his father, and the hand of the most beautiful princess in the world.

  But his father was not his father, and the beautiful princess was married to another man. A pity that Fanny hadn't been educated enough to tell him about Don Quixote, who was the real model for Michael's life. Face set, he began describing a steam engine company he was considering for investment. Lucien tactfully accepted the change of subject, and there was no more discussion of the late, unlamented Duke of Ashburton.

  It wasn't until he went to bed that night that Michael realized how lucky he was. Helping Catherine was the perfect antidote to what would otherwise be a bleak time.

  I wanted another son. Instead, I got you.

  Chapter 20

  "There's a post chaise outside," Amy reported. She glanced over her shoulder. "Are you positive I can't come with you?"

  "Positive. I want to be sure this new grandfather deserves to meet my daughter." Catherine hugged Amy. "But if he behaves himself, just think—someday you may be the Lady of Skoal!"

  "It does sound rather grand," Amy admitted. "If you like the old gentleman, send for me and I'll come right away."

  "We'll see. I promise I won't be gone too long."

  Catherine went outside, accompanied by the whole family and both dogs. As the driver packed the baggage away, Anne said, "I wish you weren't traveling alone."

  "I'm not alone with a driver and a postboy. Besides, this is England, not Spain. I'll be safe." More guilt; now she was lying to her best friend. It was a relief to be on her way.

  Half an hour later, the chaise stopped at a busy coaching inn to collect Michael. After his baggage was stowed, he swung into the vehicle, saying, "If you don't mind traveling long hours, we should be at Skoal tomorrow evening."

  "I hope so. I'm very curious about this grandfather of mine." The chaise was spacious and very comfortable, but Michael was still too close for her peace of mind. She had forgotten the aura of leashed power that emanated from him.

  They spoke little, each of them absorbed in private thoughts. Though they were servantless, Michael's natural authority produced instant deference and the best available horses whenever they stopped. They made excellent time.

  Michael knew the road well, and Catherine found out why when they reached a village called Great Ashburton, in Wiltshire. It was market day, and the chaise slowed to a crawl as they went through the town square. Drowsily she asked, "Does this village have a connection with your family?"

  He looked unseeing out the window. "Ashburton Abbey, the family seat, is about two miles down that road we just passed."

  "Good heavens." She sat up, her sleepiness gone. "This is your home?"

  "I was born and raised here. My home is in Wales."

  Fascinated, she said, "You bought sweets at that shop?"

  "Mrs. Thomsen's. Yes."

  He was as terse as if confessing to murder. Since he didn't wish to discuss the past, she stud
ied the village and tried to imagine a young Michael dashing through the streets. It seemed to be a pleasant, prosperous community. Then she frowned. "There are black ribbons on many of the doors."

  "The Duke of Ashburton died yesterday."

  She stared at him, sure she must have misheard. "Your father died yesterday and you said nothing?"

  "There was nothing to say." He was still gazing out the window, face like granite.

  She remembered the time he had discussed his family in Brussels, and her heart ached for him. His hand was clenched on the seat between them. She rested her palm on the knotted fist. "I'm even more grateful that at a time like this, you have the generosity to help me."

  He did not look at her, but his hand turned and convulsively clasped hers. "On the contrary, it is I who should be grateful."

  Though neither of them spoke again, their hands stayed locked for a long time.

  * * *

  They traveled until it was full dark, then stopped at a coaching inn. There were two bedchambers available, for which Catherine was grateful. After refreshing themselves, they dined in a private parlor. They both relaxed under the influence of good food, good conversation, and a fine bottle of Bordeaux.

  When the last of the dishes had been cleared away, Michael produced a small book. "I stopped at Hatchard's and found a guidebook to the West Country that mentions the Isle of Skoal. Shall we find out what awaits us?"

  "Please. My ignorance is almost total."

  He thumbed through the pages to the correct entry. "The island is about two miles by three and is divided into Great Skoal and Little Skoal. They are almost two separate islands, connected only by a natural causeway called the Neck. The writer strongly suggests that visitors not attempt to cross the Neck at night, for fear of the 'awesome toothed rocks jutting from the sea more than two hundred feet below.'"

  She took a sip of wine, enjoying the sound of his deep voice. "I'll bear that in mind."

  "There are approximately five hundred residents, and more gulls than the writer wants to think about," he continued. "Fishing and farming are the main occupations. It has been inhabited since 'time immemorial,' and is 'noteworthy for the blend of Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, and Norman customs.' It is also one of the few feudal precincts left in Western Europe."