Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "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 for 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 there'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 the 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 to 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 blinked 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.

  He inclined his head. "Mrs. Melbourne, I presume."

  She opened her mouth to reply, then paused, struck by his clear, blue-green eyes. They were the brilliant shade she had seen only in her parents and daughter. She offered her hand. "Yes. Seeing your eyes makes me understand why I was identified so easily by the solicitor in London and Captain Fitzwilliam."

  He smiled as he took her hand. "You'll grow accustomed to it. Half the people here have the island eyes. I'm Davin Penrose, constable of Skoal. I'll take you to the laird's home." He had a soft, rolling accent unlike any she'd ever heard.

  "Penrose," she said with interest. "Are you and I related?"

  "Almost everyone on Skoal is—there are only five family names in common usage. Penrose, Fitzwilliam, Tregaron, De Salle, and Olson."

  Names as diverse as the island's heritage, she noted. Taking Michael's elbow to bring him forward, she said, "Mr. Penrose, this is my husband, Captain Melbourne."

  It was the first time she had introduced Michael with Colin's name. It felt very strange.

  Unperturbed, Michael said, "A pleasure, Mr. Penrose. What does it mean to be constable?"

  "That's the Skoalan name for the laird's steward, though I have other duties as well." Davin shook hands, then gave orders for the luggage to be loaded. A few minutes later they were rumbling toward the sheer cliffs that surrounded the bay.

  Michael said, "There's a tunnel?"

  Davin nodded. "It was cut through the cliffs about fifty years ago by miners from Cornwall. This is the best bay on the island, but it was useless before the tunnel."

  Catherine glanced out and saw that the road climbed steeply until it disappeared into a dark opening in the cliff. The light diminished sharply
when they entered the crudely cut tunnel. The shaft was barely large enough for the carriage. "The ponies are strong to pull us uphill at such an angle."

  "They have to be," the constable replied. "The only horses belong to the laird. Everyone else uses oxen and ponies."

  They emerged into the light and the road leveled out. The few trees visible were stunted and twisted by the wind, but masses of gorse surrounded them. The yellow blossoms glowed golden in the setting sun.

  As they drove toward the center of the island, they passed scattered farms of rugged gray stone and carefully tended fields. Once they descended into a small valley lush with taller trees and a blue haze of wild hyacinths. Catherine's heart lifted. It would not be hard to love a place that looked like this.

  The sun had dropped below the horizon by the time they reached the laird's residence. The massive building was crowned with battlements and clearly had begun as a castle, though additions had been added later. Davin climbed from the carriage first and helped Catherine out.

  As she straightened her skirts, a middle-aged woman emerged from the house. "Hello, Mrs. Melbourne, Captain Melbourne. I'm the housekeeper, Mrs. Tregaron. Your baggage will be taken to your room, but the laird will see you right now."

  Michael said, "We've had a very long journey. My wife might prefer to refresh herself before meeting her grandfather."

  The housekeeper's brows drew together worriedly. "The laird was most particular that you come up right away."

  "It's all right." Catherine bit back Michael's name, which she had almost said aloud. "No doubt he's as curious about me as I am about him."

  He studied her face, then nodded. "As you wish."

  His concern for her was warming. She took his arm and they set off after Mrs. Tregaron. The house was a warren, with the jumble of furnishings characteristic of very old houses. Sheraton chairs sat next to carved Jacobean oak chests, and shabby tapestries hung next to paintings of stiff Elizabethans. Catherine glanced at one of the portraits and saw aqua eyes staring out at her.

  The route twisted and turned, but stayed on the ground floor. Finally they came to a heavy oak door. Mrs. Tregaron knocked, then swung the door open. "They're here, my lord."

  A deep voice said gruffly, "Send them in."

  Catherine raised her chin. The main act of the masquerade was about to begin.

  Chapter 21

  Intensely grateful that Michael was with her, Catherine entered her grandfather's bedchamber. A pair of lamps illuminated the stern features of the man propped against the pillows of the massive four-poster bed. She caught her breath, startled by the familiarity of the long, lined face under the thick silver hair. If her father had lived to such an age, he would have looked very like the laird.

  Her appearance appeared to be equally surprising. The old man's veined hands curled into the counterpane as he stared at her. "You've a look of your grandmother about you."

  "I'm sorry I never knew her, but I'm glad to be meeting you." She moved to the side of the bed and took his hand. The bones felt brittle under the thin skin, but his eyes still burned with will. His aqua island eyes. She squeezed his hand, then released it. "Grandfather, this is my husband, Colin Melbourne."

  Michael bowed respectfully. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."

  The laird's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure that's mutual. From what I've learned, you're an irresponsible rascal."

  "There's some truth to that," Michael said mildly. "A really responsible man would not have allowed his wife and child to campaign through Spain." He smiled at Catherine. "But I defy any man to resist my wife when she has made up her mind."

  The warmth in his voice when he said "my wife" made her throat ache. If only she were different...

  The laird asked, "Where is my great-granddaughter?"

  "Amy is with friends in London," Catherine replied.

  He scowled as he waved them to chairs near the bed. "You should have brought her."

  "The trip is long and tiring, and I didn't know what Skoal would be like."

  "It didn't have to be so tiring," he said acidly. "You came quick enough when you learned there was a legacy in the offing."

  His tone made her feel like a greedy fortune hunter. Well, she was one. "I'll admit that the possibility is welcome, but I was also interested in meeting you. Since Mr. Harwell said your health was poor, it seemed best to come quickly."

  His heavy brows drew together threateningly. "Don't think that I'll automatically leave everything to you just because you have a pretty face. Your cousin Clive was born on the island, and he knows it well. Far better than you."

  She guessed that her grandfather was deliberately baiting her. "The decision must be yours, of course. The responsibility for so many lives should not be given lightly."

  "It won't be." His gaze went to Michael. "Much depends on you. I don't know if I'd trust my island to a soldier. My son William was mad to go into the army. He was selfish and disobedient. Unfit to rule a henhouse."

  Catherine's face tightened. "I wish you would not refer to my father like that. He and my mother were brave and generous and the best of parents."

  "I'll speak of them any way I please," the laird said harshly. "He was my son, until he ran off with that round-heeled farmer's daughter. Your mother set out to trap him and succeeded. Wrecked both of their lives."

  Coldly furious, Catherine said, "I can't prevent you speaking as you choose under your own roof, but I don't have to listen. I understand now why my father left and never spoke of the place again." She stood and stalked toward the door.

  "If you walk out of this room, you can say good-bye to being Lady of Skoal," the laird snapped.

  She hesitated for a moment, remembering her dire financial situation. Then she shook her head; she would never be able to deal with her grandfather if he was so malicious about her parents. "Some prices are too high." She glanced at Michael. "Come, my dear. I suppose it's too late to leave tonight, so we must try to find an islander who will take us in."

  The laird's voice rose. "Are you going to let your wife throw away a fortune, Melbourne? How the devil did you manage to command a company when you can't control your own wife?"

  "The decision is Catherine's," Michael said in a flinty tone. "I will not ask her to endure insults to her parents for the sake of an inheritance. We don't need you or your money—I am quite capable of supporting my family." He moved forward and put his hand at the back of her waist. The light touch helped counteract her fatigue and bitter disappointment.

  Before they could leave, her grandfather gave a crack of laughter. "Come back here, girl. I wanted to see what you'd do. You're a Penrose, all right. I'd not have thought well of you if you groveled for the sake of money."

  She said warily, "You won't speak ill of my parents?"

  "No more than they deserve. You can't deny that your mother was reckless to elope and follow the drum, or that William was stubborn, since you obviously take after both of them."

  She smiled a little and reclaimed her chair. "No, I can't deny it, though I'm usually considered quite reasonable."

  "Except in the defense of those you love," Michael said quietly. "Then you are a lioness."

  Their gazes caught and held. Her heartbeat accelerated. He was an excellent actor. Anyone watching would think he was a man who loved his wife deeply.

  The laird's voice ended the moment. "You've much to answer for, Melbourne. Twelve years of marriage and only one daughter to show for it? Surely you can do better than that."

  Catherine's face flamed, but Michael said calmly, "War does not create the best conditions for building a family. But even if we never have another child, I won't feel a failure. No man could ask more than a daughter with Amy's wit and courage."

  If Catherine had not loved him already, his statement would have won her heart. But it would be better to change the subject. "I know nothing about the Penrose family. Will you tell me about my relatives?"

  Her grandfather looked suddenly tired. "You
r grandmother died two years ago. She was a Devonshire girl, daughter of Lord Traynor, but she took to the island as if she were born here. My older son, Harald..."

  He stopped and swallowed, the movement of his Adam's apple visible in his thin throat. "Last autumn, he and his wife and only son were sailing. He knew the currents and shoals as well as any fishermen, but a squall came up and blew the boat onto the rocks. They drowned within sight of the island."

  She drew her breath in sharply. "I'm so sorry. I wish I'd had the chance to know them."

  "Why? Their deaths put you in line for a fortune." His gruffness was belied by the gleam of tears in his eyes.

  No wonder her grandfather's health had declined, when he had lost his whole family in such a short period of time. Gently she said, "I would rather have kinfolk than money."

  "Then you're a damned fool."

  Michael said pleasantly, "Do you try to antagonize everyone, Lord Skoal, or only relatives?"

  The laird's face reddened. "I see that you are impudent as well as irresponsible."

  "Like my wife, I do not enjoy hearing insults to those I care about," Michael retorted. "Catherine is the most selfless, caring person I've ever known. Even if you are incapable of love, she deserves your courtesy and respect."

  "You're a prickly pair." The old man's tone was sharp, but he did not seem displeased.

  Tired of verbal fencing, Catherine got to her feet. "We've been traveling for two days. For me, at least, a chance to rest and refresh myself would do wonders for my temper."

  "I've ordered dinner for eight-thirty. I want you to meet the important people on the island, including your cousin Clive." The laird gave an edged smile. "I'm sure you're anxious to meet the competition."

  "I'll look forward to it." She was surprised that the laird had the strength to sit at a table. Perhaps he was invigorated by the prospect of new people to hector.

  "Until later, Grandfather." She and Michael left the room.

  Mrs. Tregaron was waiting patiently in the corridor. "Would you like to go to your room now?"

  Michael glanced at Catherine, his expression opaque. "Two adjoining rooms would be preferable. I'm a restless sleeper, and I dislike disturbing my wife."