Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  "What about Melbourne?"

  Kenneth hesitated until Michael remarked, "There is something ominous in your silence."

  His friend studied his whiskey glass. "I don't know Melbourne well. He's a bluff cavalryman to the core. You know the sort—not unintelligent, but sees no reason to use his mind. Still, he's a good officer, from what I hear. Quite fearless."

  "In the cavalry, courage is common. It's judgment that's rare. Is he worthy of the admirable Catherine?"

  "I'm not in a position to say." Kenneth leaned over and scratched behind Louis's floppy ears. "She obviously thinks so. In Spain, she acquired the nickname Saint Catherine as much because of her virtue as for the nursing work she did. Half the men she meets fall in love with her, but she's never so much as looked at anyone other than her husband."

  That put Michael in his place; he was merely one of a large crowd. Still, he was glad to hear that she was as good as she was beautiful. Once he had not believed such women existed.

  He wondered what Kenneth wasn't saying, but enough questions had been asked. He lifted his friend's sketchbook from the desk. "May I?"

  "If you like."

  Michael smiled at the caricature Kenneth had been working on. "Clever the way you drew Bonaparte as a leering gargoyle. You should sell this to a print shop so it can be reproduced."

  Kenneth shrugged off the suggestion. He invariably dismissed compliments by saying that his talent was no more than a minor knack for drawing.

  Michael flipped through the pages of the sketchbook. After several architectural studies of a richly baroque guild hall, he found a drawing of Amy Melbourne and the Mowbry children playing. With a few swift lines, Kenneth had caught the fluid motions of a running game, plus the character of each child. It never ceased to amaze Michael that his friend's large hands could draw with such subtlety and grace.

  "This is a nice sketch of the children." As he turned the page, he added, "The first thing Molly said was that you were teaching them how to draw."

  Kenneth smiled a little. "Both girls are good students. Jamie isn't interested in anything that doesn't have four hooves, a mane, and a tail."

  After more sketches of the children and one of Anne Mowbry, Michael turned the page and found himself looking at Catherine Melbourne. His heart constricted at the image of her standing on a rocky shore, her expression otherworldly. A sea wind unfurled her dark hair like a banner and molded her classical tunic to the curves of her splendid figure.

  He studied the picture hungrily, in a way that would have been rude with the real woman. Trying to sound casual, he said, "A good drawing of Catherine. Is she meant to be a Greek goddess, or perhaps the legendary Siren whose songs lured men to their doom?"

  "The Siren." Kenneth frowned. "The picture isn't that good, though. Her features are so regular that she's difficult to draw. Also, there's a sort of haunted look in her eyes that I didn't manage to catch."

  Michael looked at the picture more carefully. "Actually, you did get some of that. What would haunt a beautiful woman?"

  "I have no idea," Kenneth replied. "In spite of her easy manners, Catherine doesn't reveal much of herself."

  There was definitely something his friend wasn't saying, for the very good reason that Catherine Melbourne's private life was none of Michael's business. Yet as he turned to the next page, he said offhandedly, "If you ever do a sketch of her you don't want, I'll be happy to take it off your hands."

  Kenneth gave him a sharp glance, but said only, "Take that one if you like. As I said, I wasn't satisfied with it."

  Michael removed the drawing, then continued paging through the sketchbook. He was a damned fool to ask for the picture of a woman who could never be part of his life. Yet when he was old and gray, if he lived that long, he would want to remember her face, and the way she had made him feel.

  * * *

  Wellington was right that the situation was a shambles. As soon as Michael appeared at headquarters the next morning, he was thrown a mountain of work involving supplies and equipment. As the duke said tartly, Major Kenyon might not be a quartermaster, but at least he knew what fighting men needed.

  The work required total concentration, and by the end of the day, Michael's intense reaction to Catherine Melbourne was no more than a hazy memory. He headed back to the house on the Rue de la Reine for dinner, thinking it would be good to see her again. She was a charming, lovely woman, but there was no reason for him to behave like a love-crazed juvenile. A second meeting would cure him of his budding obsession.

  Catherine had mentioned that the house custom was to gather for predinner sherry. After changing, Michael went down and found Anne Mowbry and a gentleman already in the drawing room.

  "I'm glad you could be here for dinner tonight, Michael." Anne turned her head, setting her auburn curls dancing. "This is my husband, Captain Charles Mowbry."

  Mowbry greeted him with a friendly handshake. "I've been admiring your horses, Major Kenyon. It doesn't seem fair that such first-rate mounts should be wasted on an infantry officer."

  Michael chuckled. "No doubt you're right, but I have a friend who's half Gypsy, and the horses he breeds are marvelous. I'm fortunate that he let me buy two. Usually he'll give them up only in return for a man's firstborn son."

  Mowbry glanced teasingly at his wife. "It would be worth trading Jamie for that chestnut, wouldn't it?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Don't ask me that today. After the trouble Jamie has been, I'm ready to consider any offers!"

  They all laughed. Soon they were chatting like old friends. Then Catherine Melbourne appeared in the doorway in a shimmering sea-green gown that emphasized her remarkable eyes. "Good evening, everyone," she said lightly.

  Michael glanced toward her, and his confident belief that he was immune to her beauty shattered into flinders. The best that could be said was that the shot-in-the-heart feeling he experienced was no longer a surprise.

  He studied Catherine as she crossed the room toward the others. Her appeal was beyond beauty and warmth, though she had those in abundance. Kenneth, with his artist's eye, had seen the haunted vulnerability beneath her dazzling surface, and now Michael could see it, too. Catherine was that most dangerous of creatures: a woman who aroused as much tenderness as desire.

  "Good evening." He had learned as a child how to conceal his emotions, and now he invoked a lifetime of self-control so that no one, especially not her, would suspect how he felt. "I'm thanking my lucky stars that I found this billet. It's the only one I've ever had that included a dog to sleep on my bed."

  Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "Interesting. If I were a dog, I should think twice about pestering you. Obviously Louis knew better. He already has you wrapped around his paw."

  While Michael wondered if he appeared that intimidating, the Mowbrys began offering Louis the Lazy stories. Clearly he was a dog who made an impression wherever he went.

  Kenneth was not returning to dine, but a few minutes later Colin Melbourne appeared. The man was very handsome, with the confidence created by a complete lack of self-doubt.

  Catherine went to her husband and took his arm. The two made a striking couple. "Colin, I want you to meet our newest resident."

  After the introduction, Melbourne said heartily, "Good to meet you, Lord Michael. As long as that room was empty, there was a risk someone unsuitable might be billeted here. Another so-called officer who was promoted from the ranks, for instance."

  The Mowbrys and Catherine shifted uncomfortably, but Michael's anger was tempered with relief. He had feared that he might dislike Melbourne for being Catherine's husband. Instead, he would be able to dislike the man for his blatant snobbery. No wonder Kenneth had been guarded in discussing him. Voice edged, Michael said, "Someone like Kenneth Wilding, for example?"

  Suddenly cautious, Melbourne said, "No slur intended. For a man of his class, Wilding does a good job of aping gentlemanly manners. Still, there's no substitute for breeding. As a son of the Duke of Ashburton, surely y
ou would agree."

  "I can't say that I've ever seen a strong correlation between breeding and character. After all, Kenneth had the poor taste to go to Harrow. One would have hoped for better from the only son of Lord Kimball." Michael downed the last of his sherry. "Still, even an old Etonian like me has to admit that Harrovians usually give the appearance of gentlemen."

  Melbourne's jaw dropped. Since Harrow was as prestigious as Eton, even a bluff cavalryman couldn't miss the sarcasm.

  Rallying, Melbourne said with disarming ruefulness, "Forgive me—I just made a bloody fool of myself, didn't I? I've never spoken with Wilding much, and I made the mistake of assuming he was no more than a jumped-up sergeant."

  It was well done, though Melbourne's charm did not quite outweigh his boorishness. Michael replied, "It probably appealed to Kenneth's antic sense of humor to let you keep your preconceptions."

  Melbourne's brow furrowed. "If he's actually the Honorable Kenneth Wilding, why did he enlist as a private?"

  Michael knew the answer, but it was none of the other man's business. He said only, "Kenneth likes a challenge. He was my sergeant when I was a raw subaltern. I was fortunate to have him. After he and his squad captured three times their number of Frenchmen, I recommended him for a field promotion." He set his glass on a table with an audible click. "I was amazed the army actually had the sense to make him an officer."

  His comment produced a lively discussion about the idiocies of the upper ranks of the army, a topic that occupied the group well into dinner. It was a pleasant meal, with excellent food and good conversation. Even Colin Melbourne wasn't bad company, though he'd obviously never had an original thought in his life.

  Yet when dinner was over, Michael could not recall a single bite he had eaten. What he remembered was Catherine's elegant profile, her rich laughter, the creamy smoothness of her skin.

  He resolved to dine out whenever possible.

  Chapter 5

  It was well past midnight when Michael opened the door to the kitchen. He stopped in his tracks. "Sorry, I didn't expect to find anyone here."

  Catherine Melbourne glanced up from the hearth where she was feeding the fire. "No reason why you should—all sane citizens are in bed." She rose and brushed off her hands. "The duke must be keeping you busy. You've been here a week, and I think I've only seen you once."

  It might be wiser to retreat, but it would also be unpardonably rude. Michael entered the kitchen. "Most evenings I've been showing the flag at entertainments given by the English fashionables who have come to Brussels in hopes of excitement."

  "I suspected as much. Wellington has always liked having his senior officers attend important social functions, and that must be particularly true now, when he doesn't want the civilians to become too alarmed over the military situation." She gave a teasing smile. "I'm sure you're much in demand to add your aristocratic luster to all of the routs and balls."

  Michael made a face. "I'm afraid so. But why haven't I seen you? Wellington is also fond of the company of attractive ladies, so I would think you and Anne and your husbands would be on the prime guest lists."

  "We're usually invited, but Colin is often... otherwise occupied." She lifted a wooden spoon and stirred a pot simmering on the hob. "When Anne and Charles attend, I usually go with them, but she has been feeling too tired for socializing, so I haven't been out lately. Except for the duke's own entertainments, of course. Everyone goes to them."

  Michael hesitated before making the offer that would be automatic and uncomplicated with any other woman. "If you need an escort, I would be honored to oblige."

  Her head came up quickly and she studied his expression. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she said, "Thank you. There are events I would enjoy, but I'd rather not go alone."

  "Fine. Tell my batman, Bradley, which functions you wish to attend and I'll be at your disposal." He covered a yawn with his hand. "Today, though, I rode to Ghent and back. I haven't eaten since breakfast, so I decided to raid the larder. Have you also come in search of a late meal?"

  She tossed her long braid over her shoulder as she straightened from the pot. Tendrils of glossy dark hair curled against her slim throat. "I couldn't sleep. I came down to heat some milk, but this soup smelled so good I changed my mind."

  The pale edge of a nightgown showed above her lightweight blue cotton robe. Though the garments covered her more thoroughly than a regular dress, the effect was distractingly intimate. Worse, the kitchen was lit only by two candles and the fire, and the shadowy darkness was rather like a bedroom....

  He looked away. "Is there a household protocol for late-night pantry theft?"

  "Not really—whatever you can find is fair prey. There's generally soup simmering on the hob. This one is a rather nice chicken and vegetable concoction." She gestured toward the pantry. "There are also cold meats, cheeses, and bread. Help yourself while I set a place for you."

  "You shouldn't be waiting on me."

  "Why not?" She went to a cupboard and removed heavy white servants' dishes. "I know my way around this kitchen, and I haven't had as hard a day as you."

  "I thought raising children is the hardest work there is."

  Her brows rose. "Men aren't supposed to know that."

  "A female once broke down and disclosed the secret to me."

  She eyed him thoughtfully. "I imagine that women are always telling you secrets."

  Preferring to keep the conversation impersonal, he took his candle into the pantry. "The local cheeses are wonderful, aren't they? And the breads, too."

  "The food is so good it's easy to understand why the French believe the country should be part of France. Would you like wine? There's a jug of very decent vin ordinaire here."

  "Sounds wonderful, though I warn you, two glasses and I'll fall asleep on the table."

  "If that happens, I'll tuck a blanket around you," she said serenely. "This is a very pragmatic household."

  By the time Michael emerged from the pantry, the pine table was set and steaming bowls of soup were in place. Kenneth was right—Catherine was an expert at keeping men happy and well fed. She would be a rare prize even if she weren't beautiful.

  As he started to slice the cheese, he heard a canine whimper. He glanced under the table and found Louis regarding him with mournful hound eyes. He grinned and tossed a small piece of cheese to the dog, who deftly snapped it out of the air. "For a beast called Louis the Lazy, he is remarkably good at turning up wherever people or food are found."

  Catherine laughed. "He's from an old French hunting breed called basset because they're so low. Like the French soldiers in the Peninsula, he's a first-rate forager. He and the kitchen cat are always competing for the best bits."

  A polite meow announced that a plump tabby had materialized beside Michael's chair. In the interests of fairness, he gave her a sliver of ham before applying himself to his meal.

  Silence reigned for the next minutes. Yet despite his consumption of an embarrassing amount of food, he was intensely aware of Catherine on the other side of the table. Even the movement of her throat when she swallowed was erotic. Yet paradoxically, her presence was restful. His mistress, Caroline, had been many things, but never restful.

  Noticing his bowl was empty, Catherine asked, "Would you like more soup?"

  "Please."

  She picked up the bowl and went to the fireplace, which was large enough to roast a calf. As she bent to the soup pot, her lush breasts swayed fluidly beneath the soft material of her robe. He went rigid, unable to look away.

  Louis lurched to his feet and followed her hopefully. "Go away, hound," she said firmly as she ladled soup into the bowl.

  Ignoring the order, Louis whined and reared up on his hind legs, banging his head into the bowl. It tilted and soup splashed onto the hearth. She jumped backward, then said severely, "You're due for a review lesson in manners, Louis." The dog hung his head with comical guilt.

  Michael smiled at the byplay. He was enjoying
himself more than at any of the glittering social events of the last week, and his attraction to Catherine was not getting out of hand.

  Catherine refilled the bowl and turned toward him. With all his attention on her face, it took him a moment to notice that flames were licking up the left side of her robe. His heart jerked with horror. Dear God, when she stepped back, her hem must have brushed the blazing coals!

  He sprang to his feet and whipped around the table. "Catherine, your robe is burning!"

  She looked down and gave a gasp of sheer terror. The bowl crashed to the floor and Louis bolted away, but Catherine didn't move. Paralyzed, she stared at the yellow-orange flames as they consumed the light fabric with ever-increasing hunger.

  In the seconds it took Michael to leap across the kitchen, the fire had flared almost to her elbow. He untied her sash with a yank and dragged her robe from her shoulders, almost knocking her from her feet. Steadying her with his left hand, he hurled the burning garment into the fireplace with his right. A fountain of sparks shot up the chimney.

  Ignoring his singed knuckles, he pulled her away from the hearth and turned her to face him. "Are you all right?"

  A stupid question; she was in shock, her face as white as her nightgown. Fearing she would collapse, he drew her into his arms. Her heart was hammering so hard he could feel it against his ribs, and she seemed barely aware of him.

  "You're safe, Catherine," he said sharply. "You're safe."

  She hid her face against his shoulder and began sobbing. He held her close and murmured words of comfort. Her dark silky braid slid seductively across the back of his hand. He was guiltily aware of every inch of her length pressed against him—and her rosewater scent, and the pressure of her soft breasts against his chest.

  This was as close to her as he would ever be. Yet he could not savor it because it was impossible to take real pleasure in her nearness when she was distraught.

  Her tears gradually faded, but she was still chilled and her breathing was quick and shallow. Gently he guided her into a chair. She buried her face in her hands, exposing the fragile curve of her nape.