Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  His thumb rubbed across a tiny nub of terrifying sensitivity. Heat spasmed through her with shocking suddenness. Writhing helplessly, she locked her arms around him. The fire swiftly burned out, leaving her limp. "Oh, my," she breathed. "Is that what you meant?"

  "Exactly so." He kissed her forehead. "Did you find it distressing?"

  She gave a choke of laughter. "It is rather upsetting to have one's body out of control, but I don't regret it. Now I understand why people bother." She also understood as never before Colin's selfishness in their marriage bed. With such urges driving him, no wonder he had seemed callous. It would be easy to lose oneself in lust.

  As she had lost herself in fear. "I'm horribly sorry that I lied to you," she blurted out. "I hated doing it, but I felt I had no choice. I didn't think I would ever be able to speak of what was wrong with me."

  "Forgiven and forgotten." Michael lay on his side and held her close with one arm. His velvet robe was soft on her hypersensitive skin. "Less and less do I believe you're abnormal. Apart from being abnormally wonderful, that is."

  "You make me feel so good." She rubbed her face against him like a cat. "Where did you learn such compassion?"

  He sighed, some of his happiness dimming. "By making truly abominable mistakes."

  "You said once that you loved—or were obsessed by—a married woman," she said hesitantly. "Was that one of them?"

  "The worst." He hated speaking of his criminal folly, but it was only fair when he had forced Catherine to reveal her deepest shame. "She was the wife of a close friend. Devastatingly beautiful and utterly unscrupulous, though I didn't learn that until years later. She betrayed every man who loved her. From sheer malice, she did her best to poison the friendship between her husband and me, and very nearly succeeded."

  His throat closed as he remembered the years of hell, and of the child Caro had been carrying when she died—the child that was probably his. The memory haunted him. "She said she feared her husband would kill her, and that I must avenge her if she died suddenly. Thinking she was exaggerating, I agreed. Then she died in a suspicious accident, and I was left with the choices of killing my friend, or breaking a vow made to the woman I loved."

  "How ghastly." She propped herself on her elbow, her face reflecting his own anguish. "But you didn't do it, did you?"

  "That was more from weakness than wisdom," he said painfully. "I ran away to war, half hoping I would be killed and never have to fulfill the vow I'd made. But eventually I had to come home. In my madness, I came within a hair's breadth of killing my friend. If it hadn't been for the generous spirit of the man I had betrayed, I would have ended by destroying both of us, and damning myself for eternity."

  "But you didn't." She gave him a kiss of aching sweetness, the silken fall of her hair gliding across his throat. "For that I will be eternally grateful. No one else could do for me what you have done, Michael. Thank you from the bottom of my soul."

  By giving Catherine the kindness and patience she had not received as a bride, he was being rewarded a thousandfold. What had he done to deserve such luck? He swore that she would never regret trusting him. "I still haven't finished that massage. Would you like more, or would you prefer to sleep?"

  She rolled onto her back and stretched with innocent provocation. "Finish the massage. I want to learn how, so I can give one to you."

  He was surprised to feel a stirring of arousal. His long years of celibacy, combined with his passionate attraction to Catherine, had guaranteed that he would recover swiftly.

  He retrieved the bottle of lotion and warmed some between his hands. Then he resumed what was a task of pure pleasure. In the firelight, her body was warm cream, her hair a dark glossy cloud around her face. His hands glided over her shoulders and arms, then down her torso and waist. Her eyes were closed, but she smiled dreamily when his fingertips traced the contours of her ribs. He took his time, repeating each stroke over and over, paying special attention to her magnificent breasts.

  She was no longer wary when he touched her below the waist. A good thing he was still wearing his robe so she did not realize that he had ceased to be as harmless as a chick.

  He sat by her feet and used a gentle, wringing motion on her legs. She made a muted, purring sound. Drawing her left leg up so that it bent at the knee, he circled her thigh with his hands. His lotioned hands slid effortlessly over her sleek skin.

  She laughed a little when he did the right leg. "I feel like a lamb being basted so it can be baked for dinner."

  "Not a bad idea. I think I'll taste you a little now."

  He bent forward and licked the tender skin of her abdomen, drawing teasing circles around her navel with his tongue. Jarred from languor into vivid awareness, she exclaimed, "How can I be feeling like this again so soon?"

  "Some women have the ability to reach fulfillment several times in rapid succession. Perhaps it's nature's compensation for the fact that it takes females longer to get there in the first place." He exhaled his warm breath into the soft mat of hair between her thighs.

  Her fingers curled. "That feels very wicked."

  "It isn't," he said peaceably, "but I'll stop if you like."

  Her hand clenched on the folded blanket beneath her hips. "I... I think I'd rather be depraved. Sometimes I hated being Saint Catherine."

  He kissed the inside of her thigh, triggering ripples of reaction in the acutely sensitive places he had found earlier. His firm lips moved higher, higher, until his heated mouth touched her most secret places. She gasped with shock.

  His tongue stroked into the delicate feminine folds. The pleasure was indescribable, intense beyond any sensation she had ever known except pain. She whimpered, a long, drawn-out, racking sound. Dizzily she knew that after this night, she would never be the same. Sober Saint Catherine was gone forever, consumed by the flames of ecstasy. Yet even as she hovered on the edge of dissolution, she felt a queer hunger, a sense of incompleteness.

  His hand replaced his mouth, his fingers inflaming, teasing, sliding inside her. She gave an inchoate murmur of protest when he stopped. A moment later, he caressed her again, pressing inward with a new, blunt kind of pressure.

  It was another searing shock to realize what he was doing. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him. He had braced himself over her, a tremor in his broad shoulders and arms. Their gazes locked. There was a question in the depths of his eyes as he paused on the brink of full possession.

  Suppressing her memory of those other, horrible times, she gave a faint, fearful nod. Her breasts rose and fell frantically as she waited for agony.

  But when he pressed into her, there was no pain. Only a not-unpleasant stretching and a luscious, sliding friction as he advanced, a fraction of an inch at a time. When he had buried himself inside her, he panted, "Are you all right?"

  "Yes." Her eyes were wide and startled. "Yes."

  Her hips lifted against him gingerly. The sensation of him moving inside her brought stunning delight. This was what she had craved to fill her emptiness—this joining of two bodies to make them briefly one.

  Her face blazed with joy as she wrapped her arms around him, bringing the length of his body against hers. "Yes, yes, yes!"

  Her hips moved again, this time swift and hard so that he was driven more deeply. He locked his arms around her with a harsh groan and began thrusting uncontrollably. This time she was no prisoner, but his partner in madness. Heat was building, building, threatening to consume her soul. She clung to him as the one source of safety in a world gone mad.

  Fire blazed through her in glorious wildness, searing her with shattering force. He spilled himself inside her as she twisted against him, shuddering. This was true fulfillment, as far surpassing the simple physical release he had shown her as the sun surpassed a candle.

  She was his, he was hers. Her man, her love, her mate.

  * * *

  After the turbulence of their lovemaking, they both dozed. Michael woke when the fire burned out and coaxed a
drowsy Catherine into bed. She came willingly, and promptly twined herself around him, trying to get as close as humanly possible.

  He smiled and stroked her head. "That was worth waiting six years for."

  She blinked at him sleepily. "Six years?"

  "That's how long it's been since I've lain with a woman."

  She came awake, her eyes wide with surprise. "You've been celibate since that horrible affair with the married woman?"

  He nodded. "At first, I was an emotional shambles—far too crazed to be a fit bedmate for anyone. Celibacy was aided by the fact that I seem to have spent half the time since recovering from wounds, or fever, or being in the wilds of Spain, or some damned thing." He kissed her on the tip of the nose. "Also, I hadn't met anyone like you."

  "I'm glad it's been so long for you," she said softly. "That means that perhaps tonight has been a little special for you. I hope so, because it was miraculous for me."

  "Tonight was equally special for me," he murmured. More so than he had words for. He continued petting her until she fell asleep again. It was amazing how completely she had been transformed. This was the passionate, loving woman Catherine was meant to be. He wanted to stay awake to savor the sweetness of it, but he was too tired.

  He drifted off, only to jolt awake, covered with sweat. She was not for him. Such joy was too good to last. Always in the past, his happiness had been crushed by some unexpected blow.

  Fiercely he told himself that such thoughts were mere superstition. What could come between him and Catherine now?

  But it was a long time before he slept again.

  Chapter 28

  Pearly morning light shafted through the window when Catherine woke to find her head resting on Michael's shoulder, and her arm draped over his chest. He was also awake. His eyes held a certain wariness, as if wondering what she would feel about the events of the previous night.

  She gave a slow smile. "That wasn't a dream, was it?"

  He relaxed and smiled back. "The realest experience of my life. No regrets?"

  "Nary a one." She made a face. "Except that I wish I'd realized sooner that I wasn't hopelessly flawed. It isn't going to be easy untangling the mess I've made by my deception."

  "It doesn't have to be done instantly. Wait a bit. One of us might have a burst of inspiration if we think about it for a few days," he suggested. "Speaking of messes, Kenneth wrote that Colin's death left you with a number of problems."

  "An understatement. When we married, we both had a little family money, but it's long gone now. I didn't know how bad things were until he died. Most of his creditors in the regiment were willing to overlook his gaming debts, but there were trademen's bills that had to paid before leaving France." She sighed. "Worst of all, he'd gotten one of his current mistresses, a housemaid, with child."

  Michael winced. "How wretched for everyone involved."

  Wretched did not begin to describe how she had felt when she had learned the news. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "Marie was a country girl with no idea what to do. I told her to go home to her parents and say she was newly widowed after a brief marriage. An inheritance would make her story more believable, so I sold my mother's pearls and gave her half the proceeds. With that as a dowry, she should be able to marry and raise the child properly."

  His brows rose. "You'll never get rid of the name Saint Catherine if you keep doing things like that."

  "I could hardly let the girl and her baby starve, could I? It was the least I could do for Colin's sake." A shadow of old guilt fell across her. "God knows I wasn't a good wife to him."

  "You must stop tormenting yourself, Catherine," Michael said quietly. "Now that I know the full story, I have great respect for the dignity you and Colin showed in a difficult situation. And though you were badly mismatched, your marriage produced Amy. Surely neither of you regretted that."

  He had found the perfect way to allay her self-reproach. "You're right. Colin truly loved Amy. She may have been the only person he did love." She gave Michael a slanting glance. "I promise I won't be boringly guilty again."

  He grinned. "You're never boring, even if you are a saint."

  An uneasy thought struck her. "One reason I didn't want to tell you about Colin's death was that I saw you driving a lovely young girl in the park. It was assumed that you were seeking a wife, and something about the way you two looked at each other made me think you had found one."

  "I took a variety of young ladies for drives, but I don't remember making calf's eyes at any. What did she look like?"

  "Tall and slender, with soft brown hair. Pretty and very intelligent-looking, though she seemed a little shy."

  "Kit," he said immediately. "My friend Lucien's wife. She and I are exceedingly fond of each other, in a strictly nonromantic way. You'll like her, too."

  She felt a warm glow at the way he was assuming she would be part of his life in the future. Even more, she felt relief. That pretty girl was Michael's friend, not his beloved. She drew her hand over his shoulder, enjoying the feel of hard muscles beneath smooth skin. "She looked very likable."

  His smile faded. "There's something I must tell you."

  Concerned by the note in his voice, she said, "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. Whatever it is won't make any difference to me."

  "Not even the fact that I'm a bastard?" he said ironically.

  It took a moment for her to understand. "So the Duke of Ashburton wasn't your real father. From what you say about him, I'm not sorry. He sounded dreadful."

  After an astonished moment, he fell back on the pillow, laughing. "That's all you have to say about the great scandal of my existence? Don't you want to know if my father was a footman or a lusty stable boy?"

  Hearing the brittleness in his amusement, she said quietly, "I don't care who or what your father was. I do care how the situation affected you. Did the Duke of Ashburton know?"

  Every trace of humor vanished from Michael's face. "He knew, all right. I was the result of an affair between the duchess and Ashburton's younger brother. For the sake of pride, the duke exiled his brother and let the world think I was his own son. He didn't tell me the truth until he was on his deathbed."

  "Lord, that was just before we came down here! No wonder you looked so strained when we went through Great Ashburton." Catherine laid her hand on his forearm. "So you were the innocent victim of the sort of ghastly situation that tears families apart. It explains why the duke treated you so coldly."

  "It was upsetting to learn the truth, but in a strange way, liberating. I don't need the duke's family."

  She leaned forward and kissed him with all the love in her heart. Then she smiled wickedly. "It's too early for breakfast. Care to use the time making up for those six years of celibacy?"

  He drew her into his arms. "We both have a lot to make up for. I'm looking forward to it immensely."

  So was she. Saints in heaven, so was she.

  * * *

  The next two days were paradise. As she dressed on the third morning, Catherine wondered if anyone had noticed the change in her relationship with Michael. Oh, the two of them didn't touch each other in public, or sneak off to their bedroom in the middle of the day—though they had been tempted. But she had a permanent cat-in-the-cream-pot smile, and it was impossible to control what was in their eyes when they exchanged glances.

  They had not talked of the future; Michael had not said that he loved her, nor made a formal offer of marriage. As she had suspected, under his intensely capable surface there was a great deal of vulnerability, the result of never having received enough love. That must be why she had seen an uncertain, this-is-too-good-to-be-true expression in his eyes. Well, she felt the same way. In fact, she hadn't gotten around to saying how much she loved him, either. No words were strong enough.

  Eventually they must be more practical, but she expected no problems. Though Amy might be startled to acquire a stepfather so soon, she had always liked Michael.
Everything would be fine.

  She smiled into the mirror as she brushed her hair. The biggest question in her mind was whether she and Michael should marry right away, or wait until a full year after Colin's death. The latter would be more proper, but she didn't want to delay. Also, if the natural consequence of passionate lovemaking occurred, they might have to marry in haste. She wouldn't mind.

  Michael's image appeared in the mirror next to hers as he bent and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot below her ear. Sighing with delight, she leaned back against him. "Do we have to watch people gather seaweed to fertilize the fields, or one of Davin's other jolly amusements? I'd rather spend the day here ravishing you. Tearing off your clothing. Pinning you ruthlessly to the floor and devouring you with kisses."

  "Sounds wonderful." He gently rubbed her chin with his knuckles. "You grow less saintly by the day. But not so much that you will shirk your duty."

  Alas, he was right. Catherine got to her feet. "Very well, I'll ravish you tonight. You can spend the day worrying about the violence I shall wreak on your helpless body."

  He studied her with a scorching thoroughness that made her toes curl. "I'll spend the day thinking about it, though I can't promise that I'll be worrying."

  He took her arm, and they went down to the breakfast parlor. When they walked in, her grandfather looked up from his plate testily. "For a pair that have been married a dozen years, you certainly are smelling of April and May."

  She kissed his cheek. Though he still used the wheelchair, he was noticeably more vigorous than when they had arrived. "It's the marvelous sea air, Grandfather." She gave Michael a private smile. "It makes us feel that we're just wed."

  The laird spread butter on a slice of toast. "Clive's back from London. I want to speak with the two of you this morning."

  Michael asked, "Am I specifically excluded?"

  "Yes. You'll find out what I have to say soon enough."

  Catherine stared at her coddled eggs. Surely the meeting was about the laird's choice of heir. The practical questions she had been avoiding would have to be answered, and soon.