Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  Michael stared out the window into the night. Again, Kenneth was right. No outsider could really understand a marriage, and he had no right to interfere, even for well-intentioned reasons. God knew, his good intentions had led him to hell before.

  But this time was different. Was it, or was he merely demonstrating his dangerous talent for self-deception? Saint Michael, going off to slay all the wrong dragons.

  Behind him, Kenneth said softly, "She's married, Michael."

  "Do you think I'm not aware of that every moment?" he said tightly. He took several deep breaths before turning to his friend. "Don't worry—I'm not going to lay a finger on her, or on him, for that matter. I just wish for her sake that her husband was decent and honorable, like Charles Mowbry."

  "Maybe she's the sort of good woman who finds a wicked man irresistible," Kenneth said dryly. "I've never seen a hint that she regrets her choice of husband."

  Michael smiled humorlessly. "There's a poker by your fireplace. Do you want to hit me over the head with it, in case I haven't gotten the message yet?"

  "I'll refrain, unless I see you going after Melbourne with blood in your eye." Kenneth dipped his pen in the inkstand and absently sketched a tiny weasel in the margin of his letter. "Speaking of which, Melbourne has been amazingly polite to me the last few days."

  Michael sank into a chair. "My fault. He irritated me so much that I told him about your noble birth. Sorry."

  Kenneth's mouth tightened. "You've really got to do something about that temper."

  "I thought it was under control, but Colin Melbourne seems able to make mice feet of my good intentions."

  "Ah, well, it's amusing to watch him try to overcome past rudeness in the hopes that I might be useful to him someday. Little does he know what a waste of time that is."

  Needing to get his mind away from Catherine and her husband, Michael asked, "Have you and the other intelligence officers learned what Bonaparte is up to?"

  "Hell knows. Not being allowed to set a foot on French soil is damned limiting. I wish someone would declare war and make everything official. Do you have any good headquarters gossip?"

  "The duke doesn't share his thoughts with underlings, but it doesn't take a genius to see trouble on all sides." Michael frowned. "The Prussians are being difficult. Prince Blücher is sound, but many of his staff are suspicious of the British, which is why their headquarters are a good fifty miles from Brussels. It creates a serious weak point between the armies."

  "One which the emperor will be quick to exploit if he decides to invade Belgium."

  "Exactly. My personal opinion is that Napoleon will march north very soon. So many French veterans have flocked to fight under the imperial eagles again that Boney's army will probably be larger than Wellington's, as well as vastly more experienced."

  "The combined allied forces will greatly outnumber the French," Kenneth pointed out.

  Michael raised his brows sardonically. "Do you think Boney will give the Allies a chance to assemble into one great army? He's always preferred attack, and in his present situation audacity is his only hope. The longer he delays, the more time Wellington will have to whip this ragtag army into a real fighting force and to get his veterans back from America."

  "In any equal battle, I'd back Wellington over Napoleon hands down," Kenneth agreed. "But now the duke is in the damnable position of trying to make bricks without straw."

  "That was true on the Peninsula, too, and the duke never lost a battle." Michael smiled a little. "I'm about to become a handful of straw myself. I'm being breveted to lieutenant colonel and given a regiment of green troops with orders to make of them what I can."

  "It's a better use of your abilities than being a staff galloper. What's the regiment?"

  "A provisional outfit called the 105th. It's made up of a handful of experienced British regulars who are being thrown in to season a mix of green soldiers and half-trained militiamen. The duke hopes the veterans will provide enough starch to make the whole regiment effective."

  "You'll have your work cut out for you."

  "I don't have to teach them anything difficult, like skirmishing or scouting. All they'll have to do is stand in one place and shoot their muskets, preferably not at each other."

  "While cannonballs are tearing off the heads of their comrades, imperial guards are marching toward them to the beat of the death drums, and dragoons are charging on huge, iron-hooved horses. What could be simpler?" Kenneth said ironically.

  "Exactly. Nothing at all complicated about the business."

  Compared to restraining himself around Catherine, turning raw recruits into soldiers would be dead easy.

  * * *

  After dressing with extra care, Catherine went downstairs to go to the musicale. Michael was waiting for her in the foyer. The dark green Rifleman uniform fitted like a glove, and she'd never seen another man who looked so good in it. Trying not to stare, she said, "I'm looking forward to this evening. Except for events given by the duke, I've hardly been out in weeks."

  "It's my pleasure." He offered his arm, and a smile that started deep in his eyes. "You look very fine tonight."

  She took his arm and they went out to the carriage. Michael's long legs brushed hers as he folded himself into the cramped space. A slow burn of attraction began humming through her veins. This time she recognized it immediately. Familiarity made it less disquieting than the night in the kitchen. In fact, she found it possible to enjoy the sensuality since she knew her companion would not drop a hand on her thigh or try to force a kiss on her. Her desire was simply like a craving to eat fresh strawberries—real, but not dangerously powerful.

  Lady Trowbridge's town house was not large, and the receiving line was in the same salon where guests were talking and laughing before the music program. The high-ceilinged chamber shimmered with candles, flamboyantly costumed officers from half a dozen nations, and almost equally colorful ladies.

  "A brilliant scene," Michael remarked. "Brussels has gone mad for all things military."

  "Once peace returns, the army will go out of fashion again," Catherine said tartly. "There is nothing like danger to make everyone love a soldier."

  He gave her a glance of rueful understanding. "Yet when Napoleon is defeated, officers will be retired on half pay and common soldiers will be thrown back into civilian life with little to show for their service except scars."

  "Until the next war." Catherine studied the crowded salon more closely. "Perhaps it's my imagination, but the atmosphere seems strange tonight—a hectic kind of gaiety."

  "It's like this throughout fashionable Brussels, and the fever mounts with every day," Michael said quietly. "People are waltzing on the lip of the volcano. As in war, the possibility of danger heightens the intensity of living."

  "But the danger is an illusion," Catherine said, her voice edged. "If Napoleon were to approach Brussels, most of these glittering people will fly back to their safe homes in Britain. They won't stay to face the guns, or nurse the wounded, or search the battlefield for the bodies of their loved ones."

  "No," Michael said, his voice quieter yet. "Few people have the courage of you and the other women who follow the drum. You belong to an elite sisterhood, Catherine."

  She looked down at her gloved hands. "I'm proud of that, I suppose. Yet it's an honor I won't mind forgoing."

  Their turn had come to greet the hostess. Lady Trowbridge exclaimed, "How lovely to see you, Catherine. Your admirers will be in ecstasy. How do you manage to look so beautiful?" She gave Michael a droll glance. "Catherine is the only diamond of the first water I know who is genuinely liked by women as well as adored by men."

  "Please, Helen, spare my blushes," Catherine begged. "I am not such a paragon as all that."

  Lady Trowbridge rolled her eyes. "And modest as well! If I was not so fond of you, Catherine, I swear I would hate you. Be off, now. I shall see you later."

  Cheeks flushed, Catherine took Michael's arm and moved on. "Helen does r
ather exaggerate."

  "She seems to have spoken the truth," Michael said as several guests of both sexes started to move eagerly toward them. "It doesn't look as if I'll be needed until it's time to go home. Do you mind if I leave you?"

  "I'll be fine," she assured him. "Enjoy yourself."

  He inclined his head, then moved away. She sent a wistful glance after him. She wouldn't mind more of his company, but it was wise of him not to hover over her. That might have caused talk, even about "Saint Catherine." Society loved clay feet.

  Several of her officer friends arrived and swept her into a lively conversation. Soon she was enjoying herself thoroughly. Perhaps it was foolish not to come to functions like this alone, but when she had tried that, she had felt pathetic.

  A few minutes later, Lady Trowbridge approached with a man on her arm. "Catherine, do you know Lord Haldoran? He has just arrived from London. Lord Haldoran, Mrs. Melbourne."

  Haldoran was a handsome man of about forty with the powerful build of a sportsman. As Helen turned away, Catherine offered her hand. "Welcome to Brussels, Lord Haldoran."

  "Mrs. Melbourne." He bowed over her hand with practiced grace, and with an equally practiced meaningful squeeze.

  Knowing from experience that she must make her position clear immediately, she removed her hand and gave him her best frosty look. As he straightened, she saw that her message had been received and understood. For a moment, she thought that he was going to make a heavy-handed compliment. Instead, his languid expression changed to a stare that bordered on rudeness.

  Catherine said sweetly, "Is it so obvious that my gown has been remade several times?"

  He collected himself. "Forgive me, Mrs. Melbourne. A woman of your beauty could wear sackcloth and no man would notice. I was merely startled by your eyes. They are so unusual—neither blue nor green, and as transparent as gemstones."

  "I've heard that before, but since my parents' eyes were the same, I think of mine as nothing out of the common way."

  Something flickered across his face before he said gallantly, "Nothing about you could be common."

  "Nonsense," she said coolly. "I am merely an officer's wife who has followed the drum, learned to keep household when pay is months in arrears, and taught my daughter how to recognize the best chicken in a Spanish market."

  He smiled. "Fortunate husband, and fortunate daughter. Do you have other children?"

  "Only Amy." Preferring less personal conversation, she asked, "Are you in Brussels in the hopes of excitement, my lord?"

  "Naturally. War is the ultimate sport, don't you agree? As a lad I considered asking my father to buy me a commission in the 10th Hussars. The uniforms were very dashing and the hunting was excellent." He inhaled a pinch of snuff from an enameled box. "However, I changed my mind when the regiment was transferred from Brighton to Manchester. It is one thing to risk one's life for one's country, and quite another to be exiled to Lancashire."

  The flippant remark was in keeping for someone who had wanted to join the 10th Hussars, the most fashionable and expensive of cavalry regiments. Yet in spite of his banter, Haldoran was studying Catherine with disturbing intensity.

  "A pity you didn't join when the regiment was sent to the Peninsula," she said dryly. "I'm sure you would have found it grand sport to pursue creatures that could shoot back. So much more exciting than foxes."

  He laughed. "You're right. Hunting Frenchmen would have suited me right down to the ground."

  It was true that hunting had been a popular pastime in the Peninsula. Catherine knew for a fact that once Wellington had been conferring on horseback with a Spanish general when a pack of hounds went by after a hare. The duke had instantly turned and joined the pursuit. After the kill, he had returned to the amazed Spaniard and resumed speaking as if nothing had happened.

  Wellington, however, had earned his right to recreation. Lord Haldoran appeared to be the sort who had done nothing useful in his life, and done it very expensively.

  Across the room, Lady Trowbridge announced that the concert was about to begin in the opposite salon. Haldoran said, "Shall we find a seat together, Mrs. Melbourne?"

  "Thank you, but I've already arranged to sit with friends." She gave a wide, false smile. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

  He bowed. "I'm sure we shall meet again."

  Perhaps, but as she slipped into the crowd, she knew that she would not be sorry if that failed to happen.

  Chapter 7

  The spring weather was exceptionally fair, which added to the air of holiday that hung over Brussels. Catherine, however, liked the weather for more maternal reasons: it allowed the children to play outside. She was sitting under the chestnut tree in the back garden, mending and keeping an eye on her daughter and the young Mowbrys late one afternoon, when Michael Kenyon rode into the driveway. He was home early.

  Catherine watched as he dismounted and led his horse into the stable. He moved beautifully, without a single wasted motion. She felt one of the odd lurches of the heart that occurred whenever he appeared.

  In the past weeks, he had been her escort a dozen times. At balls, he would always claim a lively country dance—never a waltz—then keep out of her way until it was time to leave. Yet on the occasion when a drunken ensign had cornered her in an alcove and attempted to declare his love, Michael had appeared and removed the youth as firmly as an older brother would have.

  A pity that her feelings weren't quite sisterly.

  Michael came out of the stable and hesitated, then turned into the garden and walked toward her, his shako in his hand. The sun found glowing auburn highlights in his tangled brown hair. "Good afternoon, Catherine."

  "Hello." She reached into her basket and pulled out a torn petticoat of Amy's. "You look tired."

  "Commanding a raw new regiment is worse than digging ditches." He nodded toward the energetic game of hide and seek. "I heard the children and thought it would be pleasant to watch someone else do the running for a while."

  In the distance, Amy emerged stealthily from behind one rhododendron and slipped behind another. "She does that well," Michael said approvingly. "It wouldn't take much to turn your daughter into a first-rate skirmisher."

  "Don't tell her that! She's a dreadful tomboy—you should see her with a cricket ball. And she has had to be restrained from telling Wellington that women fought with the Spanish guerrillas, so why can't Englishwomen do the same?" Catherine began stitching a torn flounce. "How are your men shaping up?"

  "I have grave doubts whether they know which end of a musket the ball comes out."

  Catherine laughed. "Surely it's not that bad."

  "I exaggerate, but only slightly. I've been trying to convince them that the most dangerous thing soldiers can do in battle is break and run, so they're better off holding their ground. If they learn that, they may be of some use. Thank God for my sergeants. If it weren't for them, I would give up now."

  "I see you're still wearing your Rifleman uniform instead of infantry scarlet."

  "The official reason is that I haven't had time to visit a tailor." His eyes gleamed with humor. "But that's only an excuse. The truth is I don't want to give up my Rifle green."

  "A good thing the duke doesn't care an iota what his men wear. I swear, I've never seen two officers who were dressed exactly alike." She smiled reminiscently. "Remember how ragtag everyone looked after a few months on the Peninsula? One could tell a new man because his uniform could still be identified."

  Suddenly Jamie Mowbry exploded from the bushes and pointed a branch at Michael. "Bang, bang!"

  Because she was watching Michael, Catherine saw the instinctive response that in battle would have resulted in lethal action. It vanished as quickly as it had come and Michael collapsed dramatically on the grass. "I'm done for, lads. Take care of my horse Thor." He kicked a few times and lay still.

  Jamie charged over, Clancy at his heels and his branch triumphantly aloft. "I got you, I got you, you filthy frog!"

&nb
sp; As soon as the boy was within reach, Michael grabbed him and began tickling his ribs. "Who's got whom? Never trust an enemy to be as dead as he looks, Jamie."

  Flushed and shrieking with delight, the boy rolled around in the grass with his former prey. Catherine watched in amusement, surprised at how easily Michael had entered the child's world.

  The wrestling match ended when Amy raced up. "Hello, Colonel Kenyon." She tagged Jamie. "You're it now!" She dashed off with Jamie and Clancy at her heels.

  Michael stayed sprawled on the grass. "Lord, it feels good to lie down in the sun and not have to do anything for the next hour." He closed his eyes and unbuttoned his jacket.

  Catherine said, "The weather has been lovely, hasn't it? But I keep thinking that it is like the calm before the storm."

  "And black clouds are gathering just over the horizon."

  Michael's remark reduced them both to silence. For all they knew, Napoleon was already marching north to reclaim his empire.

  Louis the Lazy, who had been snoozing by Catherine, hauled himself onto his stubby legs and went to flop beside Michael. "I'm jealous," she said teasingly. "Louis is only willing to be my friend when you're not around."

  "Nonsense," Michael said without opening his eyes. "The contrary beast is trying to ruin my reputation. Since dogs and their owners are said to resemble each other, it will be assumed that I am as lazy and useless as he is. Tell him to go away."

  His order was undercut by the way he ruffled the dog's ears. Louis moaned with pleasure and rolled onto his back, holding his broad paws in the air.

  She laughed. "If that is how you command your troops, Colonel, the 105th is in trouble."

  Out of sight at the end of the garden, Molly squealed and Jamie shouted, "Got you!"

  Michael's eyes opened. "Jamie looked rather pale. Has he been ill?"

  "He suffers from asthma sometimes," Catherine replied. "Anne says the attacks are terrifying. He had a bad one yesterday. Apparently spring is the worst time for him."