Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  A key grated in the lock. Then the door swung open and a tall man entered with a branch of candles. Michael closed his eyes and threw his arm across his face to block the sudden light.

  Ashburton's clipped voice said, "Michael, are you ill?"

  The last thing he wanted was an ugly scene with his brother, but apparently it couldn't be avoided. Dryly he said, "I should have known that in the Duke of Ashburton's own town, there is no such thing as privacy."

  "Barlow sent a message to the Abbey saying you had arrived here looking like death and behaving strangely," his brother said with equal dryness. "Of course I was concerned."

  "Why?" Michael smiled mirthlessly. "I always behave strangely. The old duke pointed that out often."

  Ashburton muttered an exasperated curse under his breath. "Why the devil can't we have a civil conversation for a change? I've written you several times, and you've never replied."

  Michael drew a deep breath. Ashburton was right; he was behaving abominably. "My apologies," he said in a more moderate tone. "Frankly, I burned your letters without reading them because I didn't think we had anything to say to one another. But I suppose there must be legal matters relating to the old duke's death. If you have papers that need signing, bring them now or send them to me in Wales. I'll take care of them."

  A chair creaked, and a wisp of cigar smoke drifted across the room. "I'm not interested in any blasted legal papers. I merely wanted to talk to you. Will you sit up and look at me?"

  Michael would be damned if he would go to that much effort for an interloper, but he did lower his arm and open his eyes. Ashburton was sitting on the far side of the chamber and staring broodingly at the glowing tip of his cigar.

  Michael studied the other man's face. Though he preferred the family he had adopted at Eton, there was no denying the bond of blood. The Kenyon lineage showed in the hard planes of Ashburton's face, in the mahogany tones in his brown hair, in the shape of his long hands. Anyone would know they were kin.

  Ashburton looked up, his eyes narrowing as he got a clear view of his younger brother. "Christ, man, you look ill. Do you have a fever?" He stood and came to the bed to lay a palm on Michael's forehead.

  Michael knocked the hand away, irritated equally by the other man's presumption and the suffocating spirals of smoke. "I'm fine. Only filthy, unshaven, and tired from a long ride."

  "Liar." His brother gazed down, his brow furrowed. "I've seen corpses that look better than you."

  Michael coughed as smoke from Ashburton's cigar twisted into his face. He opened his mouth to tell his brother to put the damned thing out, and inhaled a choking mouthful of acrid smoke.

  With shattering suddenness, his lungs spasmed in a full-fledged asthma attack. He couldn't talk, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He doubled up convulsively as heat and suffocation enveloped him. His chest was being crushed, his lungs cramping as they struggled desperately for air.

  He tried to sit up so his lungs could expand more easily, but failed. He floundered, his fingers clawing the counterpane, as consciousness faded away. Somewhere beyond the bonds of itchy fire was the ability to breathe, but he couldn't find it. He was flooded with frantic fear, and fierce irony that after surviving years of war he was going to die in bed in the town where he had been born. There was a special horror to the fact that he was dying prostrate in front of the brother who had never been his friend.

  Then strong hands raised his helpless body and supported him in a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Accompanied by a murmur of soothing words, a soaking cloth washed over his face and throat again and again. The blessedly cool water damped the fire and dissolved the choking smoke.

  Panic receded, and with it the strangling constriction. A trickle of air seeped into his lungs. The fierce red pressure faded. He braced his palms on his knees and exhaled slowly. Inhaled. Exhaled. Again, more deeply.

  The darkness began to ebb, and he realized with dull wonder that he would survive.

  It was the first asthma attack he'd had since Caroline died. The worst since the one that had almost killed him when he learned of his mother's death. With grim humor, he reflected that women had a lethal effect on him.

  Catherine. The mere thought of her caused his lungs to clench again. But this time he was able to control his reaction and stave off another attack.

  When he had regained the rhythm of breathing, he opened his eyes. Most of his anger had been scoured away, leaving him limp as a rag but relatively sane.

  The window was open, letting in the fresh night air, and the cigar was gone. His brother sat on the edge of the bed beside him, his face pale with strain. "Drink this," he ordered, placing a glass of water in Michael's hand.

  Michael obeyed, swallowing thirstily. The cool water washed away the bitter, vegetal aftertaste of cigar smoke. After he emptied the glass, he said in a rasping voice, "Thank you. But why did you bother? Letting me choke would have been a simple way of removing the blot on the family escutcheon."

  "If you don't drop the Shakespearean melodrama, I'm going to pour the rest of this pitcher of water on your head." The duke got to his feet and built the pillows up against the headboard so that Michael could rest against them, then stepped back. "When was the last time you ate?"

  Michael thought. "Yesterday morning."

  The duke tugged the bell pull. Within seconds, Barlow's voice called through the door, "Yes, your grace?"

  "Send up a tray of food, a pot of coffee, and a bottle of burgundy." Turning back to his brother, Ashburton said, "I thought you would have outgrown the asthma, like I did."

  "Mostly I have. That's only the second attack I've had in over fifteen years." Michael's brows drew together. "You had asthma, too? I don't think I knew that."

  "Not surprising, when you spent so little time at home. My asthma wasn't as bad as yours, but it was bad enough." His brother looked away, his expression rigid. "I'm sorry about the cigar. I wouldn't have smoked if I'd known it might kill you."

  Michael made a deprecatory gesture. He occasionally smoked himself, largely because it was a minor triumph to be able to do so. "You weren't to know. That attack was totally unexpected."

  Moving restlessly across the bedchamber, Ashburton said, "Was it? My asthma usually struck when I was badly upset. Given Father's wonderful deathbed performance, you have every right to be distressed."

  After all that had happened, it was a mild surprise to realize that the old duke had died only a fortnight before. "I accepted that reasonably well. This is different. Woman trouble." Such an easy, man-to-man answer. Much better than explaining that his heart had been neatly sliced out of his breast, taking with it most of his faith in himself.

  "I see," his brother said quietly. "I'm sorry."

  Wanting a change of topic, Michael said, "If you haven't any legal issues, why have you been writing me? As I said in London, I won't trouble you or the rest of the family. I'm no more keen on airing the Kenyon dirty linen than you are."

  "You know that Father's revelation was as much a surprise to me as to you?"

  "I guessed that from your reaction."

  The duke stared at the burning candles. "That day, I suddenly recognized what had happened," he said haltingly. "Because Father and his brother hated each other, he ensured that you and I would do the same."

  "You weren't alone in that. Claudia has no use for me, either." Michael's mouth twisted. "From what I know of family history, it's traditional for Kenyons to hate each other."

  "It's a tradition I don't like one damned bit. When I looked back, I saw how badly Father treated you. Constant criticism, contempt for everything you did, frequent whippings. You were the family scapegoat." Ashburton grimaced. "Being monsters like most children, Claudia and I sensed we could torment you with impunity. And we did."

  "That's an accurate analysis of my childhood, but what about it? The duke's revelation of my parentage explains his behavior." Michael's jaws clenched as he thought of the vicious beatings he had endured. "
I'm lucky he didn't kill me in a rage. He might have, if I'd been at the Abbey more." It had been the unspoken terror of his childhood.

  Instead of looking shocked, Ashburton said somberly, "It could have happened. I can't believe he would have deliberately tried to murder you, but he had a wicked temper."

  "Another trait that runs in the family."

  "Too true." Ashburton leaned against the mantel and folded his arms. "It wasn't until Father blamed you for your superior abilities that I realized how much resentment I felt. I was the heir and raised to have a high opinion of myself, yet my younger brother was as intelligent as I, a better rider, a better shot, a better athlete." A gleam of humor showed in his eyes. "I rather resented God for not arranging matters more suitably."

  Michael shrugged. "I don't know if my natural abilities were greater than yours, but I tried harder. I guess I thought that if I achieved enough, the duke would approve of me. I didn't know the cause was hopeless."

  "You certainly proved you had more than your share of Kenyon damn-your-eyes arrogance. No one could pierce your armor." Ashburton smiled faintly. "I also resented the way you disappeared for years at a time, spending holidays with your Eton friends instead of coming home. It was one thing for us to reject you, quite another for you to reject us. Besides, I suspected that you were having more fun than I."

  "You're wrong about my armor," Michael said with wary honesty. "It was pierced regularly and bloodily. That's why I avoided the Abbey as if it were a plague site. But what's the point of rehashing the past? I've done my best to forget it."

  "Because the past is part of what we are now and will be in the future," Ashburton replied gravely. "And because Father cheated me out of having a brother."

  "Bastard half-brother."

  "We don't know that."

  That startled a laugh from Michael. "You think the old duke made up his story? I doubt it. He had all the warm charm of a flint wall, but he didn't lie. It would have been beneath him."

  Ashburton made an impatient gesture. "Oh, I don't doubt there was an affair. That doesn't necessarily mean that Roderick was your father."

  Michael pointed out, "The duke said Mother admitted I was Roderick's child."

  "She might have said that out of sheer contrariness. She was probably sleeping with both of them and wasn't sure who had fathered you," Ashburton said with iron detachment.

  Both fascinated and repelled by the conversations, Michael asked, "What makes you say that?"

  His brother smiled cynically. "Father couldn't resist her. Even when they were fighting in public, they still slept together. That's why he resented her so much. He hated anyone having such power over him."

  "But the old duke said I have Roderick's green eyes."

  "That means nothing," Ashburton retorted. "Claudia's daughter has the same green eyes even though Claudia doesn't. There is no way to be sure who your father was, nor does it really matter. If you're not my full brother, you're my half-brother and first cousin. Either way, we have the same four grandparents, and you are my heir. No one else can ever fully understand what it was like to grow up in that house." He stopped, a muscle jerking in his cheek. "Though it may be too late for us to become real friends, at least we can stop being enemies."

  There was a knock at the door, which was fortunate because Michael didn't have the remotest idea what to say. Ashburton admitted Barlow and two servants bearing savory scented trays.

  As they laid out the food, Michael realized to his surprise that he was hungry, though he was still so debilitated that it took all his strength to rise and walk to the table. The Red Lion's best sliced beef, ham, and trimmings, washed down by good red wine, went a long way toward restoring him. Ashburton ate little, preferring to drink coffee.

  When Michael finished eating, he pushed back his chair and regarded his brother quizzically. "I really don't know you at all. Were you always reasonable?"

  "I don't know what I am myself," Ashburton said slowly. "Since Father's death, I've felt like a plant that's been put in the sun after a lifetime of trying to grow under a basket. I don't want to be like him, bullying everyone in sight simply because I'm a duke. It may sound sanctimonious, but I want to live a just life. That includes making amends for having treated you unfairly."

  Michael glanced away, moved but too accustomed to concealing his feelings around his family to reveal it. "It occurs to me that one reason we fought so much as boys was because we're alike in many ways. I hadn't realized how alike."

  "True. But we didn't always fight. Remember the time we slipped away from our tutor and went to the Ashburton fair?"

  "I remember." Michael smiled at the memory. They had played games with the villagers, eaten too much, and been children together rather than the Duke of Ashburton's antagonistic sons. They'd been flogged together when they went home, too.

  There had been other happy times as well. By turning his back on his childhood, Michael had buried the good as well as the bad. Stephen was right: the past was part of the present, and it was time to reclaim those lost years. The true source of poison had been the old duke. His uncle? His father? No matter; the man was dead. But his brother and sister were still alive. They had not been his friends, but neither had they been the enemy.

  He gazed into his wineglass. Most of his friends were quite different from himself. It might be pleasant to have a friend with a more similar temperament. He and Stephen should be old enough to control the infamous Kenyon temper. And if his brother had the courage to try to build a bridge between them, Michael could do no less.

  Softly he said, "Several weeks ago, I met a charming young American lady in London. She described an Indian custom that involved the chiefs of warring tribes burying their stone hatchets as a treaty of peace. Shall we do the same?"

  "I trust you mean that figuratively." Ashburton gave a wry smile. "As a soldier, you've probably acquired all sorts of weapons, but I only have my Manton pistols. I'd hate to bury those."

  "Figuratively will do very well." Hesitantly Michael extended his hand. "I've had enough of fighting, Stephen."

  His brother took his hand in a warm, hard clasp, the long Kenyon fingers a mirror of Michael's own. Though the handshake ended quickly, it gave Michael a sense of peace. In one of the blackest nights of his life, a flower of hope had bloomed.

  "It's a long way off, but consider spending Christmas at the Abbey," Stephen said, sounding almost shy. "I'd like to have you. And since you're the heir, it would be good if you made an appearance now and then."

  "Thank you for asking. I'll think about it. I'm not sure I could face the entire clan at once." Michael shrugged. "As for being heir, that's only until you have a son."

  His brother sighed. "That may never happen. Louisa and I have been married eight years, and there's no sign of offspring yet. Which makes it all the more important that you marry. You mentioned woman trouble. Nothing too serious, I hope?"

  Michael's temporary calm vanished. "Not serious—catastrophic. Becoming obsessed by destructive women may be another family trait. I had thought the lady in question and I were going to marry, but I... I misunderstood her intentions."

  "Care to talk about it?"

  "It's a long story."

  "I have as much time as you need," Stephen said softly.

  Michael realized that he had a powerful desire to tell somebody what had happened. And—strange thought—his brother was the right person to tell.

  He poured more burgundy, then sprawled on the bed, piling pillows to prop himself against the headboard. Not looking at his brother, he said, "I didn't really meet Catherine until Brussels, but I first saw her in Spain, in a field hospital..."

  Chapter 31

  After describing how Catherine had held a dying youth through the night, Michael moved to Belgium. The universal esteem in which she was held; the frustrations of honorable behavior when living under the same roof; how she had saved his life. Though he didn't speak of his feelings, it was impossible to keep emotion from his
voice. More than once he had to stop, covering his weakness by sipping wine. His brother listened intently, without interruptions.

  Then he explained how Catherine had asked him to impersonate her husband, and his shock at discovering her deceit. He sketched in everything, in fact, except her fear of sexual intimacy and the brief, passionate interlude when it had seemed that everything was going to be all right. That he could not speak of. He ended by saying expressionlessly, "I thought we had an understanding, but obviously I misjudged her feelings. I should have stuck with war. Much simpler and less painful than women."

  After a long moment of silence, Stephen said, "Perhaps."

  Hearing the reservation in his brother's voice, Michael asked, "What are you thinking?"

  "I probably shouldn't comment. I don't want you to dig up that war hatchet and bury it between my shoulder blades."

  "Comment away." Michael ran restless fingers through his hair. "I still don't understand how I could have been so wrong."

  "Actually, that's what struck me," his brother said slowly. "Being heir to a dukedom makes one a good judge of character, since so many people flatter to gain favor. One thing I learned is that basic character doesn't change. I have trouble believing that a woman who was so giving could become a greedy harpy in a matter of hours. Either the warmth was false, or the greed."

  "Not the warmth. There were too many instances over too much time for it to be pretense." A haunting voice filled his mind—Catherine singing lullabies to a dying boy, or perhaps to himself. He swallowed hard. "Unfortunately, the talent for deceit was also quite genuine, as was the greed."

  "Perhaps some other factor came into play, one you're unaware of." Stephen rubbed his chin as he thought. "For example, perhaps the illness of Lord Skoal triggered an attack of conscience and Catherine confessed that she'd lied about her husband. I've met the laird, and he's a crusty old devil. He might have said he'd forgive her if she would marry her cousin, and she agreed from guilt."

  "Would a woman marry a man she disliked because of guilt?" Michael said doubtfully. And would she say so many vile things?