Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  Her chaotic contractions triggered his own release. He gasped, feeling as if his whole self was pouring helplessly into her. The culmination was searing, desperate with savage uncertainties.

  Passion ebbed swiftly, but instead of repletion, he felt aching sorrow. Even now, when he was deep in her body, he could not escape the haunted echo in his mind. She is not for you.

  Chapter 37

  Though Michael's body pinned Catherine to the slanting stone, most of his weight was supported by the water that surrounded them. She savored his closeness and the blessed peace of fulfillment. She could have fallen asleep holding him, but all too soon he withdrew, leaving her empty.

  "I don't know if that was wise," he said huskily, "but it was certainly good. For a few moments, the rest of the world didn't exist."

  Though he brushed a kiss on her temple, she sensed that emotionally he was far away. She wanted to cling to him, to tell him how much she loved him, but she did not dare. Having grown up in the army, she recognized that Michael's formidable skills were focused on survival. Passion had been a pleasing diversion, but distracting him with agonizing personal issues would endanger them both. Forcing her voice to matter-of-factness, she said, "I'm ravenous. I wish we'd been able to bring a few of those apples."

  "I wasn't joking about catching a fish. There must be some in the main pool, since it connects to the sea. I'll see what I can find for supper." He straightened and ran his hand over his face, wiping away droplets of moisture. "If you'll wait here, I'll get my shirt for you to wear. It was fairly dry."

  She obeyed, content to drift in the warm water and watch him. He climbed from the pool and went to the fire. There he toweled himself briskly with the singlet he had worn under his shirt. His bare, beautifully proportioned body was godlike in its lithe power. Considering the scars, she supposed the god in question would be Mars. It still amazed her that a man who was supremely gifted in the violent arts of war could be so gentle.

  After he pulled on his drawers, he returned to the pool with his shirt. She took his proffered hand and reluctantly emerged from the water. Now that she had been so thoroughly warmed, both outside and in, the air no longer seemed cold.

  She used the singlet to sponge off most of the water before pulling his shirt over her head. The garment fell to her knees. When her head emerged from the voluminous linen folds, she saw that Michael was watching her with a dark, hooded gaze. Uneasily she wondered if he wished he had not succumbed to her brazen advance. Perhaps they should have talked rather than... doing what they did. Yet she could not be sorry. "How can you catch a fish without a hook or a line?"

  "It's time to use the tickling technique I learned from my Gypsy friend Nicholas. All you have to do is let your hand trail in the water, moving your fingers a little. When a fish comes to investigate, you grab him."

  She had to smile. "I'm sure that's harder than it sounds."

  "It takes patience and speed," he admitted. "But I've done it before, and hunger is a wonderful incentive."

  He went down to the tidal pool and lay down on a rock, then slid his arm into the water. She offered a fervent mental wish for his success as she went in search of fresh water. Soon she found a small spring that trickled down the cave wall and pooled in a stony basin before disappearing into the sand.

  She drank thirstily, then returned to the fire. She was sitting by the flames, plaiting her wet hair into a single braid, when Michael gave a crow of triumph. He leaped up and came toward her, a fine fat fish still thrashing in his hands. "I'll clean this if you'll figure out a way to cook it."

  She considered a moment. There weren't really many choices. "How about if I wrap it in seaweed and bake it in the coals?"

  "Sounds excellent."

  The cleaned fillets baked quickly, with delicious results. The fish could not have been fresher, and salt from the seaweed had steamed through the delicate flesh. Of course, Catherine was hungry enough to enjoy a rock-hard chunk of army biscuit.

  After the meal, she leaned back and linked her arms around her drawn-up knees. Taking advantage of the relaxed atmosphere, she asked, "What made you decide to return to Skoal?"

  He stared at the fire, the flickering flames casting a harsh light over his chiseled features. "My brother, mostly."

  She raised her brows. "The new duke? I thought you were barely on speaking terms."

  "We weren't." Not raising his gaze from the fire, Michael described a long, exhausting ride, and how his brother had come to the inn at Great Ashburton to bridge a lifetime of conflict. The terse words said perhaps more than he had intended about his despairing state of mind when he had left the island.

  He finished by saying, "Stephen seems to think I was as likely fathered by the old duke as by brother Roderick, so that the whole issue of my legitimacy should be ignored. After all, we'll never know for sure, and it makes no real difference."

  "Your brother sounds like a wise man," she said quietly. "And a generous one. I'm so glad."

  "It was like meeting a stranger whom I had known all my life." Michael shook his head, then got to his feet. "I want to explore the cave further. When I was fishing, I noticed a branch cave over there. The way the light falls makes it almost invisible unless it's seen from the right angle."

  "Sounds interesting. I'll go with you."

  Both of them carrying crude torches, they went to investigate. The tide was at its crest, almost filling the narrow branch with water. However, by bending almost double they could wade along the shallow edge instead of having to swim.

  When the tunnel enlarged, Michael straightened and raised his torch. The chamber was much smaller than the main cave. He looked around. "Good God, we've found a smuggler's storehouse!"

  Catherine's eyes widened when she came forward to stand beside him. Dozens of small kegs were stacked on the higher ground. "Grandfather mentioned that the islands were a hotbed of smuggling during the war, but I'm surprised that these kegs were left in a cave which is a local landmark."

  "This section would be easy to overlook. Besides, it's doubtful if any islanders who discovered this would tell the authorities. Most communities protect their free traders." Michael examined the nearest kegs. "Usually smuggled goods would be transferred fairly quickly, but these appear to have been here for months, even years. Perhaps the smugglers' boat went down and this cargo has been waiting unclaimed."

  "I suppose it's French brandy?"

  "A small fortune's worth." He scanned the rest of the chamber, then caught his breath. "Look. Here's something far more valuable."

  Hearing the excitement in his voice, Catherine turned to see. Her heart jumped. Pulled up on the sand and half-hidden in the shadows was a medium-sized rowboat. "Merciful heaven! Do you suppose this could take us to Skoal?"

  "I certainly hope so." He circled the tidal pool for a closer look, Catherine right behind him. "The oars are here, there's a tin bucket for bailing, and the hull seems sound. Help me haul it down to the tidal pool."

  She shoved the end of her torch into the sand, then dragged on the gunwale opposite from Michael. The boat slid into the water with a splash.

  He waded in beside it. "I don't see any major leaks. We've just found our way to escape."

  Wanting to believe but doubtful, she asked, "Can a little boat like this manage the rocks and currents?"

  "In some ways, it will be easier than in a larger vessel. Certainly our chances will be better than if we tried to swim." He studied the entrance tunnel. "The storm will have passed by the time the tide drops enough to get this out of the cave. It will be dark then. Even if Haldoran is waiting in the bay, which I doubt, we'll have a good chance to evade him."

  Hoping he was right, she asked, "When do you think the storm will hit?"

  "It already has. It's raging outside now."

  She stared at him. "How do you know that?"

  He shrugged. "It's only a feeling. A kind of inner restlessness, for lack of a better word. The storm struck about an hour ago. Though it's
very intense, it will pass quickly."

  She still didn't understand, but was willing to take his word on it. "What's underneath the oar on your side?"

  He moved the oar, then inhaled sharply. "A sword." Reverently he lifted it from the bottom of the skiff. Light from the torch flashed along the blade. "It was greased to protect it from damp." He made an experimental cut. As weapon met warrior, the sword came alive with glittering, lethal life.

  Once more thinking of gods of war and the archangel who led the hosts of heaven, Catherine uttered fervent mental thanks. The voyage between the two islands would be dangerous, but now they had a chance. If anyone could turn a chance into a victory, it was Michael.

  * * *

  Amy had gone to the library to read, but when the storm hit she curled up in the window seat to watch. Ferocious wind and rain rattled the windowpanes. Far below her, waves smashed into the cliff, the spray flying upward to mingle with the raindrops.

  Though it would be more ladylike to fear the storm, she found a certain satisfaction in the violence. For days she had been chafing in the ridiculously named Ragnarok. Lord Haldoran kept saying Mama was too busy nursing the laird to see her daughter, but Amy was increasingly impatient. She had been helping her mother in the sickroom for years. She would be a help, not a hindrance.

  The next time she saw Lord Haldoran, she would insist on being taken to her mother. Or maybe she wouldn't wait. He wasn't home much; she hadn't seen him since early the day before. Tomorrow morning, after the storm had passed, she would slip out on her own. The island wasn't very large. Surely she could find her way to the laird's residence.

  Not long after she made her resolution, the door to the library opened and Lord Haldoran entered. She swung her feet to the floor and went to him. "Good day, my lord." She bobbed a curtsy. "Can I go visit my mother now? If she is working so hard, she'll be glad to have my help."

  He shook his head, his expression grave. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Amy. Please sit down." He ushered her toward the sofa. "You're going to have to be brave, my dear."

  She jerked her elbow from his grasp and stared at him, paralyzed with fear. Those were almost the same words the colonel of the regiment had used when he came to break the news of Papa's death. "No," she whispered. "No."

  Pity in his voice, he said, "We don't know for sure, but probably last night your mother decided she needed a break from the sickroom. She must have gone for a walk on the cliffs, and... she didn't come back. We've searched the island, but she isn't here. None of the boatmen took her to the mainland. There were marks on the cliff top as if someone fell and tried to catch a hold to stop from going over the edge. This was found washed up in the bay below." He handed a sodden shawl to Amy.

  She gave a whimper of anguish. Her mother had bought the shawl in Brussels. The prices had been so reasonable there, though Mama had to be persuaded to buy something for herself.... "Mama can't be dead! She followed the drum her whole life. How could she fall off a silly cliff?"

  "It was misty and she was very tired," Haldoran said gently. "A slip on damp grass, a gust of wind... the island can be very dangerous to newcomers." He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  Amy froze. There was something wrong with the way he touched her. His hand was heavy, possessive. And in spite of what he said, she couldn't believe her mother could be so stupid as to fall off a cliff. She looked up at Lord Haldoran, wanting to protest further, then bit back the words. If there was something wrong, his lordship was part of it.

  "There, there, my dear." He tried to put his arms around her. "You mustn't worry, Amy. You're family. I promise that you will always be provided for."

  She shoved him away. "I'm going to my room. I... I need to be alone." She allowed her agonized tears to spill out.

  "Of course," he said in that same soft, solicitous, false voice. "Such a tragedy. Your mother was a wonderful woman. Just remember that I'll always take care of you."

  She bolted from the room, deliberately acting more like seven than eleven, and didn't stop until she reached her room two floors above. As she ran, she noticed one of his lordship's men following her. There were several of them, all tough and sullen and so similar that she called them the trolls. Unlike the common soldiers she'd known in the army, the trolls were silent and unfriendly. For the first time, she realized that one was always nearby. Guarding her?

  She slammed the door to the room and turned the key, locking out the world. Then she threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in her hands as she tried to stifle her sobs. After she succeeded, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

  She had never questioned Lord Haldoran's honesty. After all, he was a friend and cousin of her mother's. But he hadn't really been that close a friend, not like Colonel Kenyon or Captain Wilding. What if his lordship had lied about being sent by Mama? Aunt Anne had almost refused to let her go because his lordship didn't have a note.

  But why would Lord Haldoran bother to kidnap her? He didn't even like children.

  She thought hard. Maybe he wanted to force Mama into marriage, like in a Gothic romance. Real life wasn't supposed to be like that, but Mama was the most beautiful woman in the world. Men often became strange around her.

  Whatever the reason, one thing was clear. She must get away from that man and this house, and she must do it soon.

  Amy rose and went to the window. Gusts of wind and rain were rattling the panes, and it was a long way to the ground. However, she could make a rope from her bed-sheets. Luckily, the house was built in a style that included lots of ledges where she could rest if necessary. She would escape when the storm died down. Then she would find her way to the laird's house. Maybe her mother would be there.

  She closed her eyes, trying to block fresh tears. Please, Mama, be alive.

  Chapter 38

  They left the cave as soon as the tide dropped enough to get the boat through the entrance tunnel. Catherine and Michael lay flat in the boat while he pushed at the irregular roof to propel the vessel forward. They scraped against stone with every swell of water, but eventually they emerged into the pitch-black night.

  The back of her neck prickled as she sat up. She felt like a mouse emerging from a hole that was being watched by a hungry cat. But there were no shouts or shots. Haldoran and his men had either returned to Skoal or taken shelter for the night.

  As Michael had predicted, the storm had passed, but before he could set the oars in the locks, a wave struck them broadside. Inches of water splashed into the boat, saturating their recently dried clothing. Michael hastily began rowing. As the boat stabilized and moved away from the shore, he said, "Keep a good lookout. This bay is full of rocks."

  Catherine nodded and knelt in the bow to watch for low-lying hazards. With his back to the bow, Michael could not see what lay ahead, but she was acutely aware that she lacked his superior night vision. Scudding clouds covered most of the sky and she could see very little. She squinted. There was a paleness just ahead to the left, an irregularity that looked like foam. "Pull right. I think there's a reef on the left."

  "Right," he repeated. The boat angled to the side and a half dozen oar strokes took them by a partially submerged rock.

  The water ahead appeared clear, so Catherine spared a moment to turn and bail. Thank God the smugglers had left the bucket.

  As soon as they left the bay for the open ocean, conditions worsened. The storm had left huge waves in its wake, and they pushed ferociously at the small boat. She wondered grimly if Michael would be able to hold a course among the waves and currents. The chase on Bone had shown that he had a phenomenal sense of direction and a feeling for terrain, but this was water, a channel he had crossed only once, and that in the daylight. They might easily miss Skoal and become lost on the open sea.

  She cut off her thoughts. All she could do was watch and bail, and by God, she would do that well.

  * * *

  Amy dozed a little, leaving the window of her room partially open so she c
ould monitor the weather. The stillness after the storm awakened her. She had left a candle burning, and the mantel clock showed that it was almost two in the morning. Perfect. She padded to the window and looked out. There was still a brisk wind, but the rain had stopped. There was no sign of movement anywhere around Ragnarok.

  She peeled off her nightgown and donned the boy's clothing she had worn for long rides on the Peninsula. She'd brought the garments in case she went climbing on the cliffs in Skoal. The breeches were a little tight; she'd grown. But they would do.

  When she was dressed, she cautiously opened the door and peered into the corridor. As she expected, one of the trolls was dozing in the corridor a dozen feet away. To leave, she would have to step right over him. It would have to be the window.

  She relocked the door and retrieved the rope she had made from sheets. After tying one end around a bedpost, she threw the other end out the window. It just reached the ground.

  She climbed out the window and started down. The clawing wind made her swing from side to side across the cold granite facade. She'd never been afraid of riding, or of French troops, but she didn't like heights one bit. Determinedly she stared at the wall as she lowered herself. As long as she didn't look down, she would be all right.

  Then the sheet began to rip. As she felt the vibration in her hands, her heart spasmed. A fall from this height would kill her. She looked down. One of the ledges was several feet below.

  The last fibers of the sheet separated with a horrid rasping sound. Using all her tomboy strength, she jumped toward the narrow ledge, praying that she would be able to keep her footing when she landed.

  * * *

  The journey across the channel was a nightmare without end. Catherine's arms ached from bailing, and her eyes burned from the strain of her vigil. Luckily, a stiff wind was breaking up the clouds. The quarter moon appeared, the cool light revealing a small islet to the right. It was too far away to be a danger, but her gaze sharpened. Islets were often surrounded by vicious little companions. From the corner of her eye, she saw a boiling of water. "Hard left now!"