Shattered Rainbows fa-5

by Mary Jo Putney

  They ascended the steps and were admitted to a gleaming marble foyer by the butler, another tough-looking Londoner. Apparently Haldoran liked servants who could double as guards.

  Haldoran himself was descending the stairs. "Hello, Cousin Catherine, Captain Melbourne. What do you think of our island?"

  "Unique and very beautiful." Catherine gave her hat and riding crop to the butler. "Not rich, perhaps, but well cared for. I saw no signs of want among the people."

  "Everyone has a roof over his head, food in his belly, and shoes on his feet. That's more than can be said about most places on the mainland." He took her hand, holding it a moment longer than she liked, then ushered them into the morning room.

  Conversation over tea and cakes was as bland as talk could be, with Haldoran encouraging Catherine to discuss what she had seen. Michael spoke little. Strange, she thought, how he could dominate a room without saying a word.

  When they had finished eating, her cousin said, "Would you like a tour of Ragnarok? The views are exceptional."

  Deciding she really should use his name, she said, "I'd love to see it, Clive."

  Haldoran took them through the ground floor, talking amusingly about the house's history. Catherine enjoyed it more than she expected. Her cousin had excellent taste and a passion for collecting beautiful objects. The result was a treasure trove of polished furniture, Oriental carpeting, and fine art.

  The tour ended upstairs in the back corner of the house.

  As Haldoran swung the last door open, he said, "I think you'll find this interesting, Captain."

  Inside was a gallery with wide windows overlooking the sea. Catherine thought it merely another handsome chamber until she realized it was a weapons room. The walls were covered with elaborate displays of ancient swords, halberds, and dirks, with glass-fronted cabinets for favored items.

  Her mouth tightened as she looked around. Growing up with the army had given her no fondness for weapons. Quite the contrary. There was a strange dissonance between the brilliant sunshine washing through the windows and the metallic gleam of death on all sides.

  "I've never seen such a collection outside a Highland castle," Michael remarked. "You have weapons unlike any I've ever seen."

  Haldoran opened a cabinet and took out an unusual long pistol. There was sensuality in the way he stroked the brass barrel. "This has six chambers and is one of the first multishot guns ever made, almost two hundred years ago. Hard to load, terribly inaccurate, and prone to misfire, but interesting."

  Michael examined the pistol with professional thoroughness and made appropriate comments before handing it back.

  Haldoran returned the pistol to its cabinet. "I also have several superb swords. Are you familiar with Damascus steel?"

  "If I recall rightly, it's beaten and folded on itself many times, like French pastry," Michael replied. "They say that Damascene blades take a sharper edge than any European weapon."

  "They do." Haldoran pulled out a tinder box and lit a candle that stood on a cabinet. "Watch this."

  He removed an elegant curved sword from a case of similar weapons. Grasping the handle with both hands, he snapped his wrists and the blade sliced through the candle with wicked speed.

  Catherine gasped as the blade cut the wax so cleanly that the two pieces of the candle stayed together. The flame continued burning with scarcely a flicker. "That's incredible. I didn't know a sword could be so sharp."

  "I'm glad I never had to face a Frenchman with a blade like that," Michael added. "I wouldn't like to see what it would do to flesh and bone."

  "It's not a pretty sight." Haldoran set the scimitar back in its cabinet, then took an unusual object from another case. "Have you ever seen an Indian thrusting knife, Captain? Setting the handle at right angles to the blade gives it phenomenal stabbing power. It's said to be deadly in close fighting."

  As the men began discussing exotic daggers, Catherine drifted over to a window. There was something obscene about Clive's passion for weapons. She wondered if he would be so bloodthirsty if he'd ever fought in a real battle. War usually destroyed romantic-notions about violence.

  Since the house stood on a cliff, the gallery had a stunning view of the sea. Far below, water smashed relentlessly into the rocks. During her morning tour, she had seen several gentle beaches, but most of the island's perimeter was uncompromising stone. In the distance she could see the dark shape of Bone. Skull and Bone. Was this where she was to spend the rest of her life?

  Behind her, Haldoran said, "What did you think of our noble constable, Catherine?"

  She turned and leaned back against the windowsill. "Davin? He seems to know everything about the island worth knowing, and the tenants like and respect him. I think my grandfather is fortunate to have such an employee."

  "I grant you he's competent, but that's not what I meant. Did you have no stronger feelings? No sense of kinship?"

  Annoyed, she asked, "What are you trying to say? I like Davin, but I hardly know the man. Why should I feel kinship?"

  Clive smiled maliciously. "Because good, sober Davin is your nearest relation-your only first cousin."

  "I thought my mother was an only child."

  "She was. Davin is on your father's side-Harald's bastard by an island girl."

  Catherine stared at him. "You mean he's the laird's grandson? If that's true, does my grandfather know?"

  "Oh, he knows. Everyone on the island knows. When Harald turned twenty-one, he announced that he wanted to marry his island sweetheart, from the peasant branch of the Penroses. The laird promptly packed him off on a Grand Tour, but it was too late-the chit was already pregnant. She managed to conceal the fact from everyone, even her family, almost to the end. Then she died in childbirth, calling for her lover. The infant was left for her parents to raise." Haldoran's eyes sparkled, as if he found the tale amusing. "Harald never really forgave his father when he returned and learned what had happened. He took an interest in Davin, and saw that he was properly educated, but of course the boy was still a bastard."

  Catherine's hand clenched on the windowsill behind her. No wonder Glynis and Alice Matthews had exchanged uneasy glances when discussing her relatives the night before. "In other words, if Davin were legitimate, he would be the next Laird of Skoal."

  "Yes, but one could hardly expect the laird to publicly acknowledge his son's bastard." Haldoran smiled with spurious kindness. "I thought you should know, since everyone else does."

  Michael, who had been listening quietly, said, "Do you think Davin resents my wife for being a possible heir?"

  "A little, perhaps, but he's too stolid to cause trouble. If you keep him as constable, he'll serve you well." Dropping the subject as abruptly as he had raised it, Haldoran went to a gun rack and removed a long rifle. "This is an American Kentucky rifle. It looks plain, but it's the most accurate gun I've ever used. Watch."

  He loaded the gun, then opened a window, admitting moist air and the sharp cries of wheeling gulls. His eyes narrowed with concentration as he aimed. When he fired, the discharge was deafening in the enclosed gallery. Catherine flinched as a distant seagull screamed, then dropped lifeless into the sea. The other gulls darted away, shrieking frantically.

  "Good shooting," Michael said coolly, "but I thought it was illegal to kill gulls on Skoal."

  "One more or less won't be missed." Haldoran turned, challenge in his eyes. "Of course, since you're a soldier, surely you are a better marksman than I."

  "Not necessarily. The job of an officer is to lead, not kill the enemy himself."

  "You are too modest. Go on, try this rifle. Skoal can spare another gull." Haldoran rammed another patch and ball down the barrel, then offered it to his guest.

  Michael hesitated a moment. Then his expression hardened and he accepted the gun. After surveying the scene outside the window, he said, "Not being an islander, I don't feel free to break the law. I'll take the shrub on that headland as a target. The top branch."

  Catheri
ne squinted, barely able to see the shrub. "Surely it's impossible to be accurate at this distance."

  The shrub was swaying in the wind, making the shot even more difficult. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Haldoran smile.

  Making it look easy, Michael sighted along the barrel of the Kentucky rifle and squeezed the trigger. Far out on the headland, the top branch of the shrub spun away and tumbled down the cliff into the sea.

  Haldoran's expression froze. "Well done," he said tightly. "That was superb marksmanship."

  "It's a good weapon," Michael said noncommittally as he handed it back.

  "Are you as good at fencing as shooting, Captain?" Haldoran said with an edge to his voice.

  Michael shrugged. "I know how to use a sword to defend myself, but I'm no expert."

  Catherine watched uneasily. There was some kind of unspoken competition going on between the men, with Haldoran trying to engage and Michael resisting. What the devil was her cousin trying to prove? Not liking it, she said, "We should be leaving now. Thank you so much for inviting us, Clive."

  "You mustn't rush off, Catherine." He went to another cabinet and removed two matching cavalry sabers. "I want to see another example of your husband's skill." He took one saber by the blade and tossed it hilt first to Michael, who pulled it deftly from the air.

  Haldoran raised the other saber in a mocking salute. "En garde, Captain." With no further warning, he lunged forward in a lethal attack.

  Chapter 24

  Catherine's heart almost stopped when Haldoran thrust his saber toward Michael's chest. Before she could cry out, Michael had parried the other man's blade.

  "Are you mad, Clive?" she cried. "It's insane to fence with unprotected blades."

  "Nonsense." Her cousin struck again. There was a piercing metallic shriek as sword slid along sword. "This is merely sport. No injury will be done. Will it, Captain?"

  "As harmless as playing charades," Michael said with ironic humor. He blocked another blow. "What sportsman could resist?"

  "Glad you agree." Clive punctuated his words with teasing jabs to test his opponent's skill. "But the finest sport is hunting in the Shires. Have you ever done that?"

  "I've never had that privilege, but good hunting can be found elsewhere." Michael gracelessly warded off the other man's saber. "I've had splendid runs in Spain with local greyhounds."

  "That sounds rustic but amusing." Haldoran advanced and there was a noisy clash of blow and counterblow. Conversation flagged, replaced by harsh breathing as they fought up and down the center of the gallery. Clive was a first-rate swordsman, quick to take advantage of any weakness. Michael was slower, his moves almost awkward by comparison.

  Catherine watched in suffocated silence. Though her cousin claimed this was sport, if Michael failed to defend himself well enough he might end up seriously wounded, or worse. It took time to recognize that he was deliberately holding back. His offensive blows might be ineffective, yet somehow his sword was always positioned to protect him from his opponent's blade. Though he retreated again and again, he was never cornered. It was a performance of consummate skill. Only someone who knew him well would guess what he was doing.

  The fight ended when Haldoran suddenly broke through his opponent's guard. Catherine gasped when she saw the blade stabbing for Michael's throat At the last possible instant, Michael jerked his saber up to ward off the blow. Clive's blade bounced and skidded downward. The tip grazed the side of Michael's wrist, leaving a trail of scarlet.

  "My dear fellow, I'm so sorry." Haldoran stepped back, the point of his sword dropping. "I didn't mean to draw blood, but in the pleasure of engaging a worthy opponent, I forgot myself." His apology was belied by the triumph in his eyes.

  "No harm done. It's a mere scratch." Michael set his saber on a cabinet and pulled out his handkerchief.

  Heart pounding, Catherine swept across the gallery and inspected the damage. Luckily, it was as minor as Michael claimed. She bound his handkerchief around the shallow cut. When she had finished, she gave Haldoran a furious glance. "You have appalling ideas of sport, cousin."

  "It won't happen again," he promised. "Next time, we can use the blunted foils. But it was a rare treat to cross swords with a skilled fighter. Once again you were unduly modest about your ability, Captain."

  "I've merely learned to do what needs to be done." Michael tugged his sleeve over his bandaged wrist. "Thank you for an entertaining visit, Haldoran,"

  "The pleasure was mine. Society on the island is often rather flat." Clive sighed with what seemed to be genuine regret. "Unfortunately, tomorrow I'm going to London for a few days. I hope you're still here when I return."

  "Do hurry back," Catherine said with a bright, false smile. The longer he stayed away, the happier she would be.

  They collected their horses and set off along the track toward Great Skoal. She held her tongue until they were walking their horses across the Neck. Then she said icily, "Why the devil did you allow that to happen?"

  "Allow? One doesn't have a choice when attacked by a man with a saber."

  She gave him an exasperated glance. "You could have ended it sooner. You're a better swordsman than Haldoran, but you pretended otherwise."

  "You guessed that? I'm not as good an actor as I thought." Michael's mouth curved in a humorless smile. "Your cousin is skilled with weapons, but he is an amateur, not a professional. Unfortunately, he does not like to lose. After I made the mistake of outshooting him, he was bound and determined to prove he could best me at something. The sooner I let him win, the sooner we could go."

  "Letting him preserve his pride could have resulted in you being badly injured," she snapped.

  His brows rose. "I think this is the first time I've seen you angry. I didn't know saints could lose their tempers."

  "I never claimed to be a saint, and I have no patience with a man who blithely allows himself to be used as a pincushion."

  "There was no danger of that." He gave her a slow, intimate smile. "You're being unreasonable. I rather like it."

  The tenderness in his eyes disarmed her temper. He was right; she was overreacting to the incident. If she wasn't careful, she might realize how deeply her feelings were engaged.

  She released her breath in a slow exhalation. "I couldn't bear it if you were hurt while helping me. I feel guilty enough about enlisting you in this mad scheme of mine."

  "Don't waste your time on guilt," Michael said with a hint of bitterness. "It doesn't accomplish a damned thing."

  They had reached the end of the causeway. He linked his hands together to help her into her saddle.

  When she was back on her horse, Catherine said gravely, "Be careful around Haldoran. He's a strange man. I must be grateful for the way he helped us in Brussels, but I can't like him."

  "I'm not fond of him myself. I've met similar would-be heroes in the army. They rarely lasted long." Michael mounted his horse. "You needn't worry that your cousin will provoke me into a fight. There's no one like an old soldier when it comes to avoiding unnecessary battles."

  She smiled, her fears allayed.

  Unfortunately, his own were not. During that impromptu duel, he had sensed that Haldoran would not have minded causing a lethal "accident." But why would the other man want to kill?

  It could be from sheer bloody-mindedness, of which Haldoran had more than his share. But there might be another motive. Michael had noticed a hungry possessiveness in Clive's eyes when he gazed at his beautiful cousin. Could desire have created a secret wish to see Catherine's alleged husband dead? Perhaps.

  One thing was sure: Haldoran should be watched carefully.

  When Catherine and Michael went into the castle, they came across the butler with a tea tray. Guessing it was for her grandfather, Catherine said, "Olson, may I visit the laird now?"

  "I shall inquire," the butler said grandly.

  After he left, Michael said, "Shall I go with you, or should I leave you to the lions while I take a bath before dinner
?"

  She considered. "It might be better if I go alone. I suspect that an old rooster like my grandfather feels the need to crow and proclaim himself king of the hill if there's another male around."

  "A trait that runs in Penrose men."

  "I've never seen you do that kind of posturing."

  He gave her a wicked smile. "I don't have to."

  She laughed, but after he left, she realized it was not really a joke. Michael had the quiet confidence that didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

  Or did he? Remembering how he had looked when telling her of his father's recent death, she realized that his confidence lay in physical skills, at which he was a master. In the murkier areas of the emotions, he was less sure. She found the knowledge that he was vulnerable oddly endearing.

  Soon Olson returned. "His lordship will see you, ma'am."

  She followed him through the house to a sitting room that adjoined the laird's bedchamber. The butler gestured toward the French doors. Through the gauzy curtains, the outline of a wheelchair was visible. "His lordship is outside."

  She stepped through the doors onto a sunny balcony with a fine view over the island. Her arrival was watched by both her grandfather and a large brown hound. The dog looked rather more friendly. Not bothering with pleasantries, the laird growled, "Here to see if I'm ready to turn up my toes?"

  She smiled, less intimidated than she had been at their first meeting. "I'm pleased to see you, too, Grandfather." She settled in a straight-backed chair. "You're looking well today. Naturally I'm devastated by such signs of health, but I shall endeavor to hold up under the disappointment."

  His jaw dropped. Then he gave a reluctant smile. "You've a wicked tongue, girl."

  She grinned. "Who do you think I inherited that from?"

  "A very wicked tongue," he muttered, but there was amusement in his eyes. "What do you think of my island?"