Shattered Rainbows (29 page)

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
.

"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 studied 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 of
the blend of Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, and Norman customs.' It is also one of the few feudal precincts left in Western Europe."

She rested her chin on her hand and admired the dramatic shadows that candlelight cast on Michael's face. 'What does that mean in practical terms?"

"I hope you like pigeon pie. The laird is the only one allowed to have a dovecote."

Catherine laughed. "That is the extent of feudal privilege? I'm disappointed."

He consulted the book. "Well, the laird pays feudal homage to the King of England, which is rare in these boring
modern days." He scanned the next pages. "No doubt here's more, but the author
prefers to wax enthusiastic over the spectacular cliffs and sea caves. I'll let you read
the details yourself."

"Thank you." His fingertips brushed hers as he passed he volume over. Her skin prickled with aliveness. The intimacy of this meal was exactly what she had feared when
she decided to ask him to help her. Too much closeness. Too much yearning.

She finished her wine in a swallow and got to her feet. "I'll retire now. It's been a long day."

He emptied his own glass. "Tomorrow will be even longer."

As they went upstairs, he held her arm in an easy, husbandly way. But if they were really wed, she would be used o his quiet courtesy and intense masculinity. She would not feel a giddiness more suitable to a girl of sixteen than a widow of twenty-eight.

They reached her bedchamber, and Michael unlocked the door. When he stepped back so she could enter, she looked into his eyes and knew she should not have had a second, glass of wine. Not that she was tipsy; merely relaxed. It would be simple, and friendly, to raise her face for a goodnight kiss. And, oh, how good it would be to have his arms around her.

Unhappily she recognized that desire was flowing through her like warm syrup, sweet and melting. Desire, her treacherous enemy. She swallowed hard. "By the way, I forgot to mention that Elspeth McLeod and Will Ferris have married. They're living in Lincolnshire and expecting their first child."

"I'm glad. They seemed well suited." Michael smiled down at her. "Elspeth was almost as intrepid as you."

The warmth of his admiration almost destroyed what sense she had left. Hastily she said, "Good night, Michael."

He touched a warning finger to her lips. "Don't use my real name," he said quietly. "I know it will be difficult, but you must think of me as Colin."

Hesitating, she said, "It will be easier to call you by some endearment." And such a term would safely express her secret longings. "Sleep well, my dear."

He put the room key in her hand. This time his touch did not tingle. It burned.

She swung the door shut and locked it, then sank onto; the bed. Her tongue touched her lips where his finger had made that feather light contact. Though she could conceal her love, it was far harder to suppress her sensual responses.

She clenched her hands and thought of the reasons why desire must be resisted.

Because Michael thought her an honorable married woman.

Because of that lovely girl in the park, who had made Michael laugh.

Most of all, because she herself could not endure the inevitable consequences of passion.

Such good reasons. Why couldn't they cool the fever in her blood as she tossed and turned throughout the night?

The small port of Penward was the gateway to Skoal. They drove directly to the waterfront, where half a dozen fishing boats were moored in the bay. Catherine climbed from the chaise gratefully, sore from two days of being jostled at high speed.

Together they approached the only person in sight, a sturdily built man who sat on a stone wall and puffed a clay pipe as he gazed out to sea. Michael said, "Excuse me, sir. We wish to go to Skoal. Do you know someone who could take us there?"

The man turned, his gaze passing over Michael and coming to rest on Catherine. "You'd be the laird's granddaughter."

She bunked in surprise. "How did you know that?"

"Island eyes," he said succinctly. "Word came from London this morning that you would be here soon. The laird sent me over to wait for you. You made good time." He got to his feet. "I'm George Fitzwilliam. I'll take you across."

Catherine and Michael exchanged a glance. The solicitor had wasted no time in notifying the laird. From now on, they would be under constant observation.

The baggage was transferred to Fitzwilliam's boat and the chaise dismissed. They set out across the choppy water. Shortly after the mainland disappeared behind them, the captain said, "Skoal," and gestured to the southwest.

Catherine studied the dark, jagged shape on the horizon. The sun was low in the sky, making it hard to see details. Slowly the island resolved into cliffs and hills. Seabirds wheeled above with slowly beating wings, their cries mournful in the empty sky. Occasionally one plunged arrow-straight into the sea after its prey.

They sailed partway around the island, close enough to see waves crashing against the base of the cliffs. The guidebook had been right about the spectacular scenery, but Skoal's first impression was forbidding. Catherine found it strange to think that this remote spot might become her home.

Michael's arm went around her. She didn't know if he was responding to the temperature or her nerves. Either way, she was grateful.

A break showed in the cliffs and the boat turned into it. She held her breath as they sailed between jagged pillars of rock. At night or
in a storm,
this would be a dangerous passage.

Inside was a small bay with three docks and several moored boats. As they approached the shore, an odd, low carriage pulled by a team of ponies rattled into view from behind two sheds. It halted and the door swung open. A tall, lean man with a weathered face climbed out and walked without haste to the dock where Fitzwilliam was mooring his boat.

Michael jumped to the dock, then turned and took Catherine's hand to help her from the bobbing boat. Releasing his clasp with reluctance, she turned to the newcomer. He was in his mid-thirties and dressed casually, more like a clerk than a gentleman, but he had a quiet air of authority.