Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  "Would a woman marry a man she disliked because of guilt?" Michael said doubtfully. And would she say so many vile things?

  "As I said, that was only an example. There could be a thousand reasons. I've usually found that if behavior seems inexplicable, it's because I don't understand the other person's motives." Stephen sighed. "Or maybe she really is a harpy. I shouldn't have spoken. Never having met the woman, I'm in no position to have an opinion." He got to his feet. "Time to go. Do you want to come back to the Abbey? I'd like to have you."

  "Not tonight. I'm too tired. Perhaps tomorrow." Michael rubbed his aching eyes. "Ask Barlow to send up some hot water. I'll sleep better if I wash off the travel dirt."

  "A good idea. If I were a French soldier who saw you in your present state, I'd surrender on the spot."

  "A number of them did." After they both laughed, Michael added quietly, "Thank you for making the effort to bury the hatchet. I never would have thought to try."

  "I know. That's why I had to." Stephen's hand dropped briefly on his younger brother's shoulder. Then he left.

  Michael lay unmoving on the bed, his mind a jumble of confused thoughts, until the hot water was delivered. Washing and shaving were an effort, but did make him feel more human. He was returning his razor to his saddlebags when he came across the kaleidoscope. He lifted the silver tube to one eye. A crystalline star sparkled inside. Shattered rainbows. Splintered hopes. Broken dreams. He turned the tube and the colored glass shifted with a soft rattle to form a new design.

  His first kaleidoscope had provided comfort at earlier times in his life. After Caro's death, he had gazed into it for hours, trying to lose himself in the shifting, hypnotic shapes as he sought order in the chaos of his life.

  Unlike Stephen, he was not a good judge of character. He could not stop wanting Catherine even though she had deceived him again and again, then coldly rejected him for a better offer.

  He turned the kaleidoscope. The original figure dissolved into a shimmering, multicolored snowflake.

  Until tonight, he would have said he and his brother were doomed to a lifetime of barely veiled hostility. He had been wrong. If he could be so wrong about Stephen, could he also be wrong about Catherine?

  Basic character doesn't change.

  Another twist, and the rainbow fragments formed into flatter angles. He stared at the shape, unseeing, as new patterns formed in his mind, analyzing them with the same cold detachment he would have used on a problem of military tactics.

  Even when he had been most hopelessly besotted by Caroline, he had been aware of her character flaws. Though he did not discover the depths of her malice and deceit until years later, he had recognized her vanity and her petty deceptions, her selfishness and her need to always have the upper hand.

  Catherine was different. Though she had lied often and well, it had always been from necessity. She had been honest otherwise. And she had never, ever been cruel. Stephen was right: to an objective observer, her behavior at their horrendous last meeting had been strange to the point of being unbelievable.

  He had blindly accepted the premise that Catherine didn't really want him. Caro had made it easy for him to believe he was a fool where women were concerned. But perhaps he had accepted dismissal too quickly.

  Forget what Catherine had said; bury her brutal words and the pain that went with them. Think about her actions instead. What unknown factor would have convinced her to send him away?

  Not greed; a greedy woman would not sell her mother's pearls to provide for her faithless husband's bastard.

  A desire to placate the dying laird? Perhaps, but she had only known her grandfather a few days. Her loyalty to the laird should not be stronger than her loyalty to himself.

  Had she feared that being disowned by the laird would deprive Amy of the girl's rightful heritage? That was a real possibility. Michael would have provided for the girl's future as if she were his own daughter, but Catherine might not have realized that. Also, she had no idea of the extent of his wealth. If she had thought he had only the usual portion of a younger son, she might believe maternal duty demanded that she do whatever was necessary to secure Skoal for her daughter.

  Yet while such a motive made sense, it was still not enough to explain the cruelty of her behavior.

  He turned the kaleidoscope again. Could Catherine have been struck by mad lust for Haldoran? Highly unlikely. Her cousin's nature was essentially cold. He was no partner for a woman reveling in newfound sensuality, particularly one who already had a satisfactory bedmate.

  Michael sorted through possibilities until he arrived at the most likely cause for Catherine's inexplicable behavior: fear. But what would she be afraid of?

  He tilted the kaleidoscope and a spiky, fragile star formed, bringing a sharp new awareness.

  Haldoran was his enemy.

  According to Catherine, her cousin had recognized Michael immediately. An honest man would have exposed them then. Concealing the knowledge marked Haldoran as a man with hidden motives. He was ruthless, and his hatred of losing might extend to Skoal. What better way to keep it than to force his beautiful cousin, the chosen heir, into marriage?

  Such a goal might be hard to achieve elsewhere, but in the small, feudal world of the island, it was possible. Haldoran had been listening when Catherine had told Michel to go. By the end of their interview, she had been almost frantic to drive Michael away. If Haldoran was holding a gun on her, it would explain everything.

  He lowered the kaleidoscope. Perhaps he was creating a mystery where none existed, perhaps not. The only way to be sure was to return to the island and speak to Catherine when Haldoran was not within earshot.

  If he was wrong, the worst she could do was slash his emotions to ribbons, reduce him to suicidal depression, or trigger another life-threatening asthma attack. His mouth twisted. He'd survived that desperation once, and he was willing to risk it again. Because if his deductions were correct, Catherine's life might be in grave danger.

  He wanted to leave immediately, but that would be madness in his present state of exhaustion. He must wait until morning.

  Mind racing, he dowsed the candles and settled back into bed. Rather than ride back to Cornwall, he would hire a chaise. It would be faster and less tiring, getting him to Penward by tomorrow evening. No, not Penward; the village was too closely connected to Skoal. It would be impossible to make a covert journey to the island from there. He must look for transport in one of the neighboring villages.

  Then he would go to the island. And this time, he would not be so easily dismissed.

  * * *

  The Duke of Ashburton frowned over the note from his younger brother. How typical of Michael to do something exhausting like bolt back to Skoal at the crack of dawn. It would have been pleasant to spend a little time together. Explore the dimensions of their new relationship.

  His frown deepened when he thought of what his brother might find in Skoal. No doubt the situation was harmless and Catherine Melbourne was merely a heartless slut. But there might be more dangerous game afoot. Stephen had met Lord Haldoran several times and had found the man disturbing. Dangerous, even. Perhaps he should go to Skoal himself. Michael was the expert at violence, but as a duke, Stephen knew quite a bit about throwing his weight around. Perhaps that would be useful.

  Decision made, he rang for his valet.

  * * *

  The crescent moon that faintly illuminated the beach made the shadows seem even blacker when Michael stepped ashore at Dane's Cove. He reached under the dark fisherman's jersey he wore and brought out a letter he'd written to Lucien, asking for an investigation if Michael disappeared. Though it wouldn't save his life, it might save Catherine, and it would ensure that Haldoran was punished. To his boatman, Caradoc, he said quietly, "If I don't return by dawn, go back without me, and send this letter to London right away."

  Caradoc nodded and tucked the letter away. A former Royal Navy boatswain, he not only knew the waters around Skoal, but
he had unquestionably accepted Michael's request for secrecy.

  Michael had set off by chaise early that morning. He'd found Caradoc in the village of Trenwyth, a few miles east of Penward. The boatman's mother, a famous local knitter, had also provided the wool jersey. The warm, flexible garment was better suited to a clandestine mission than the garb of a gentleman.

  Dressed in dark clothing and with lampblack smeared on his face, he silently went up the precarious cliff path. Fortunately he'd always had a feline ability to make his way through the night. Other, harder-to-describe senses informed him that the fair weather was about to change. There would be a major storm within the next day or so.

  It didn't take long to reach the castle. Since it was past midnight, the building was entirely dark.

  Deciding to try the direct approach, he went up the front steps and tried the doorknob. Locked. Interesting on an island where theft, criminals, and locked doors were unknown.

  A shadow among shadows, he circled the castle. Though he hadn't done any housebreaking since that amusing little episode with Lucien, he didn't think the castle would be difficult to enter. The real question was where to find Catherine. She could be in their old room, or—stomach-turning thought—she might be sharing a bed with Haldoran in Ragnarok. But if her grandfather was still critically ill, she was probably with the old man.

  Michael reached the back wall of the castle and studied the windows of the laird's rooms. A light glowed in the bedchamber. Hoping Catherine was there, he decided to enter by the sitting room so he could approach her without warning.

  A cherry tree grew near the balcony. The upper limbs would put him within jumping distance. He leaped and caught the lowest limb, the bark rough against his palms. Then he began to climb.

  Chapter 32

  Catherine always slept lightly when she was staying with a patient. A faint sound brought her awake quickly. She glanced toward her grandfather. The light of the night candle showed that he was making feeble, restless movements, so she rose from her pallet and went to his bedside.

  A physician had come from the mainland, examined the laird, and agreed that the problem seemed to be apoplexy. Impressed with Catherine's nursing experience, he had bled the patient again and returned to the mainland, leaving the sickroom in her charge. She had been grateful, both for the chance to care for her grandfather and because the task separated her from Haldoran.

  She checked her patient's pulse. A little faster than it had been. "I have the feeling that you're very close to waking, Grandfather," she murmured. "Can you hear me?"

  His fingers twitched, then went still. She found it encouraging that both sides of his body seemed to be working. That meant that the apoplexy might not have caused massive damage. She uttered a brief prayer that he would wake soon, and in reasonable control of his faculties.

  A barely audible creaking, like a floorboard, came from the sitting room. Her stomach knotted. Perhaps Clive was coming to check on her; he had moved into a room across the hall. Or maybe it was one of his horrible men. Day and night, one of them waited outside the laird's door. Since the laird's valet was ancient and infirm, Haldoran was in theory lending his servants to help in the sickroom. In practice, she was as much a prisoner as if she were locked in a dungeon.

  Another faint sound. She composed her features, glad she had lain down fully dressed instead of donning a nightgown.

  She opened the door to the sitting room. At first glance all was normal. Then a dark figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and powerful, it moved toward her with the supernatural silence of death. And most frightening of all, the creature had no face. She gave a soft, involuntary cry.

  A hard hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her voice. She shoved wildly at her assailant, feeling the solid weight of reality, not the chill of a phantom.

  With one lithe movement, he pinned her against the wall, immobilizing her with his weight. "Quiet!"

  She recognized the feel of his body even before she saw the green eyes blazing in the blackened face. Michael had returned.

  "I'll take my hand away if you promise not to scream," he whispered. "Nod if you agree."

  She nodded. He wore his menacing warrior's face, and she was not sure whether she was more afraid of him or for him. Nonetheless, her heart surged with involuntary pleasure in his presence.

  "Given your record, I'm a fool to take your word," he said in an iron voice as he released her. "Remember that I can silence you quickly enough if necessary."

  Wondering whether she dared tell him the truth or if she should try to send him away for his own safety, she asked warily, "Why are you here?"

  His icy gaze bored into hers. "To learn what's really going on. When I thought things through, I realized your behavior didn't make much sense. Was Haldoran threatening you?"

  If he had deduced that much, she would never be able to deceive him again. "Worse," she said starkly. "He has Amy."

  "Damnation!" He closed his eyes for an instant, his expression rigid. "How?"

  "On his trip to London, he called on the Mowbrys and told Anne I'd sent him to bring Amy to Skoal. Since he'd escorted them in Belgium, she saw no reason to doubt him." The defenses that had sustained her crumbled, leaving desolation. "Michael, I'm sorry, so sorry for what I did. I had no choice."

  Desperate for his support, she reached out to him. After a moment of hesitation, he took her into his arms. She was shaking all over. His wool jersey was warm and softly scratchy against her cheek, as comforting as he was.

  Yet even in the midst of her grief, she recognized that he was different, more guarded than he had been before. That was not surprising. Though his mind might accept that she had acted under coercion, his emotions had taken a battering that would not easily heal. But for a few moments, she basked in the illusion of safety.

  When she regained a measure of control, she said starkly, "It was Haldoran who killed Colin, not the Bonapartists."

  "The bastard." Michael released her, his expression deadly. "So he's been planning this for some time."

  "He said that if I didn't obey, he would kill you. And... and he made a point of saying that the island's legal marriage age is twelve, and Amy will be twelve next year."

  Michael swore again. "Killing is too good for him. We must get Amy away immediately. Is she in the castle?"

  "She's at Ragnarok. We haven't been able to talk, but Haldoran took me there yesterday and let me watch her walk in the garden. She's guarded whenever she leaves her room."

  "Is she unharmed?"

  "Yes. She doesn't know anything is wrong yet. He told her I was too busy nursing the laird to see her, and that she must be a good soldier and follow orders. But soon she'll start to become suspicious." Catherine swallowed. "I'm terrified that when she realizes she's a captive, she might do something reckless. She's like her father—utterly without fear."

  "We'll have her before that happens," Michael promised.

  Catherine rubbed her forehead, trying to think amid the tempest of her emotions. "Haldoran is sleeping in a room across the hall. He has four convicts working for him. I think two are here in the castle, one just outside the door. Thank heaven he didn't hear me cry out."

  Michael glanced at the bed. "How is the laird?"

  "A little better, I think, but still unconscious."

  "No help there." He frowned. "If you leave him, will he be in any danger from Haldoran?"

  It had occurred to Catherine how easily her grandfather could be smothered with a pillow. "I don't think so," she said, her voice troubled. "There's no advantage to killing him while I'm alive and the heir—but I don't know what Clive will do. I think he's half mad."

  "Not mad. Evil." Michael ushered her toward the balcony. "It's time we were away."

  The hall door opened and Haldoran swaggered into the room with a wolfish smile. Behind him were Doyle and another convict, both carrying shotguns. "Neither of you is going anywhere," Haldoran said curtly. "You shouldn't have given that charming little s
queal of surprise when your lover arrived, Catherine, and the two of you shouldn't have wasted time talking."

  Before Haldoran could say more, Michael sprang into action, hurling himself toward the intruders. At the same time, he shoved Catherine to one side so that she fell behind the sofa.

  She was knocked breathless. For an instant she lay gasping, braced for the blast of a gun. It didn't come. Instead, there were sounds of smashing furniture.

  Guessing that Haldoran didn't want to shoot for fear of waking the sleeping servants, she peered around the end of the sofa. Michael's swift assault had been effective, and Haldoran and Doyle lay stunned on the floor. Michael was now engaged in a ferocious struggle with the other convict. As she watched, he wrested the gun away and swung the stock in an arc. It smashed into the man's jaw with an ugly sound of breaking bone.

  Haldoran leaped up and grabbed the poker from the fireplace. Catherine bolted from behind the sofa, crying, "Look out!"

  Michael was pivoting and raising the shotgun when Haldoran cracked the poker against his skull. He crumpled to the floor, the gun falling beside him.

  Catherine was gathering herself for a desperate assault when Haldoran snatched the shotgun and wheeled on her. A vicious bruise was forming on his jaw where he'd been struck. "Don't try it, cousin. I'll blow you to pieces and tell the servants that your jealous husband shot you before we killed him. And if they don't believe me, I'll kill them, too."

  She halted, knowing it would take very little to trigger lethal violence. In the tense silence, Michael groaned and shifted, on the verge of consciousness.

  Haldoran snapped to Doyle, "Tie him up. It would be too messy to kill him here, so we'll have to take him to the cliffs. A rock on the skull and a few weeks in the water will take care of him nicely." His gaze raked Catherine.

  "Shall I kill you with your lover, or gamble that you'll behave when he is dead?"

  Though her face was expressionless, her mind was raging. If she hadn't cried out when she first saw Michael... if they had left immediately instead of talking... if she had warned him about Haldoran an instant sooner...