Shattered Rainbows (53 page)

She moaned, "Oh, Michael." Her legs locked around his waist, drawing him closer until his taut male flesh pressed against her with stark intimacy. She twisted her pelvis, trying to take him within her.

"Jesus! Not yet." Chest heaving with the effort of trying to restrain himself, he pulled away a little and braced his hands on the stone beside her shoulders. Then he hung above her and rocked his hips so that his engorged shaft rubbed up and down against exquisitely sensitive female folds. Rapturous, maddening. Heaven and hell merged into erotic torture. She writhed under the voluptuously carnal strokes, breathing in desperate sobs. Her hands moved convulsively up and down his arms, slipping frictionless over his water-slicked muscles.

When her whole body shivered on the verge of explosion, he drew back a little, touching her to guide himself. Under the feathery curls she was all hot, pliant yearning.

He entered her with one slow, possessive stroke. Silken heat enfolded him, the pleasure almost beyond bearing. She moaned and rolled her hips, triggering a fierce exchange of thrust and counterthrust. Water surged around their churning bodies. Then she cried out and her nails dug deep into his back.

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
.

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. "There don't seem to be 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 a 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."