Shattered Rainbows

by Mary Jo Putney

  "No choice." Colin put sugar and milk in his coffee and took a deep swallow. "I have to get out to the regiment, then back here in time to take my wife to the Richmond ball."

  It was, after all, impossible to forget about Catherine. Michael said in a neutral voice, "She'll be glad you can attend."

  Colin made a face. "I dislike such functions, but it's too important to miss."

  "I'll see you there, then." Michael finished his own coffee and left the dining room. It was ironic that he wanted to despise Melbourne, yet for Catherine's sake he must hope that her husband was kind, decent, and reliable. Why did life have to be such a damned muddle of grays? Blacks and whites were easier.

  Outside, he looked up at the fair morning sky and rubbed his left shoulder. The storm was drawing nearer.

  * * *

  The footman intoned, "Captain and Mrs. Melbourne. Captain and Mrs. Mowbry."

  Catherine blinked as they stepped into the ballroom. The scene was dizzying, the light from the brilliant chandeliers reflecting from the richly colored draperies and rose-trellised wallpaper, then spilling through the open windows to the Rue de la Blanchisserie outside. Beside her, Anne murmured, "The air fairly burns with tension."

  "By this time, everyone in Brussels has heard of the three different dispatch riders that came galloping into the duke's headquarters this afternoon," Catherine replied. "Obviously something is happening. The question is what, and where?"

  The best guess was that Napoleon was invading Belgium. Even now, his army might be marching toward the capital. They would all know the truth soon enough. She glanced at her husband. He was strung as tightly as harp wire, almost quivering with anticipation of the action to come. He was never more alive than when in battle. Perhaps the pursuit and conquest of women was his way of capturing some of the same thrill in mundane life.

  After arranging later dances with Colin and Charles, she set herself to enjoying the ball. God only knew if there would ever be another such occasion. Every important diplomat, officer, and aristocrat in Brussels was present, so there was no shortage of partners. Catherine even discovered Wellington's surgeon, Dr. Hume, lurking in a corner. Since he was an old friend from the Peninsula, she coaxed him onto the floor.

  Expression martyred, Hume said, "I would do this only for you, Mrs. Melbourne, and only because you're such a fine nurse."

  "Liar," she said affectionately. "You're enjoying yourself."

  He laughed and agreed just before the figures of the dance separated them. When they came together again, he said, "Your friend Dr. Kinlock arrived in Brussels today."

  "Ian's here? How splendid! But I thought he'd left the army after two years in the Peninsula."

  Hume's eyes twinkled. "He went to Bart's Hospital in London, but he can't resist the prospect of a lovely assortment of wounds. Several other surgeons have come over with him."

  Catherine had to smile. "I should have guessed. You surgeons are such ghouls."

  "Aye, but useful ones." Hume's expression became sober. "We'll need every man who can wield a knife soon enough."

  It was another reminder of war in a night that was saturated with a sense of impending doom. As the evening advanced, Catherine noticed officers from more distantly placed regiments quietly slipping away. But the man she most wanted to see had not come. Even when she was dancing, she unobtrusively searched the room for Michael. He had planned to attend, but what if he had already left to join his men? She might never see him again.

  Lord Haldoran, the sporting gentleman who had decided against the army rather than go to Manchester, came to claim her for a dance. She still found him disquieting, and not only because of the predatory expression she had sometimes seen in his eyes. However, he had made no improper advances and his anecdotes were amusing, so she gave him a polite smile. Fanning her heated face, she said, "It's dreadfully warm in here. Would you mind if we sat this one out?"

  "I'd be glad to," Haldoran replied. "The servants are sprinkling water on the flowers to keep them from wilting. It's most unkind of the duchess not to do the same for her guests."

  Catherine chuckled as she seated herself on a chair near an open window. "Wellington should be here soon."

  "When the French may already be in Belgium?" Haldoran whisked two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing footman and presented one to Catherine before sitting down beside her. "Surely the duke should be in the field, with his army."

  "Not really. By coming here, he shows confidence and allays panic among the civilian population." She took a sip of the chilled, bubbly wine. "Also, with all of the top commanders at the ball, it will be easy for him to confer with them quietly."

  "A good point." Haldoran's brows drew together. "The emperor is known for striking with great speed. If he advances on Brussels, are you and Mrs. Mowbry planning to withdraw to Antwerp?"

  "My place is here. Besides, the question is moot. The duke will never permit Napoleon to reach the city."

  "He may not have a choice," Haldoran said, his expression sober. "You are a brave woman, Mrs. Melbourne, but will you expose your daughter to the hazards of an occupying army?"

  "The French are a civilized people," she said coolly. "They do not make war on children."

  "No doubt you are right, but I would not like to see harm befall you and Mrs. Mowbry and your families."

  "No more would I, Lord Haldoran." Catherine studied the tentlike draperies that fell in great swoops of gold and scarlet and black, and wished Haldoran would stop talking about her own secret fears. Though she didn't believe she was endangering her daughter, the uncertainty was enough to make any mother nervous.

  The music ended and Charles Mowbry approached to lead her into the next dance. She rose. "Thank you for indulging my fatigue, Lord Haldoran. Until next time?"

  He smiled and took her empty glass. "Until next time."

  Charles was not only one of Catherine's dearest friends, but an excellent dancer. Their cotillion was a pleasure. They had just finished when the air was pierced by the skirl of bagpipes. "Good God, those devils in skirts are coming!" Charles exclaimed.

  Catherine laughed with delight. "That sound always makes my blood stand up and salute." They turned to see soldiers from two Highland regiments marching into the ballroom, kilts swinging and feathered bonnets nodding to the wild song of the pipes.

  In a stroke of entertaining genius, the Duchess of Richmond had engaged the Highlanders to dance. The guests drew back to the sides of the room as the Scots began whirling and stamping through their traditional reels, strathspeys, and one stunning sword dance. The contrast of elegance and primitive splendor was one Catherine would never forget.

  Yet even in the eerie magic of the moment, her restless gaze never stopped seeking Michael.

  * * *

  Preparing his regiment to march kept Michael busy through a long day. It was late when he reached the Richmond ball. The room buzzed with excitement. An island of calm, Wellington was sitting on a sofa chatting amiably with one of his lady friends.

  Michael stopped a friend, an officer of the Household Guards who was about to leave the ball. "What has happened?"

  "The duke says the army will march in the morning," was the terse reply. "I'm on my way to my regiment now. Luck to you."

  Time was running out. Perhaps it was self-indulgent to come to the ball, but Michael had wanted to see Catherine one last time. He halted by a flower-twined pillar and scanned the crowd.

  She was not hard to find. Because her clothing budget and jewelry were modest, she dressed with relative simplicity, maintaining a stylish appearance by expertly changing the trimming of her few gowns. As a result, no one looked at Catherine Melbourne and remarked on the splendor of her costume or the sumptuousness of her ornaments. What they saw and remembered was her heart-stopping beauty.

  Tonight she wore ice-white satin and lustrous pearls that set off her dark glossy hair and flawless complexion to perfection. In a room full of brilliantly colored uniforms, she
stood out like an angel on loan from heaven.

  Colin stood next to her, a proprietary hand on her elbow. It was obvious from his smug expression that he was aware of how other men envied him for possessing the most beautiful woman in a room full of beautiful women.

  Face set, Michael began working his way through the crowded ballroom. After paying his respects to his hostess, he went to Catherine. Colin had moved away, but the Mowbrys had joined her.

  Her eyes lit as he approached. "I'm glad you could come, Michael. I thought perhaps you had already been called away."

  "I was delayed, but I would never miss such a splendid occasion." As the music began, he said, "May I have this dance with you, Anne, and the one after with you, Catherine?"

  Both women agreed, and Anne gave him her hand. There was strain in her eyes as he led her onto the floor, but years as an army wife had taught her control.

  As they took their places for a reel, he said, "You look very fine in that gown, Anne. This isn't too tiring?"

  She smiled and shook her auburn curls. "I shall bubble with energy for another six or eight weeks, until I become the size and shape of a carriage."

  They kept up an easy stream of talk as the pattern of the dance drew them together and apart. Yet as soon as he returned Anne to Charles, she forgot everything but her husband. Gazes locked, they moved together onto the floor. Michael uttered a silent prayer that Charles would survive the coming campaign; a love as strong and true as theirs deserved to last.

  He turned to Catherine and gave her a formal bow. "I believe this is my dance, my lady?"

  She smiled and swept a graceful curtsy. "It is, my lord."

  He did not realize that he had claimed a waltz until the first bars of music were played. He had deliberately avoided the intimacy of waltzing at previous functions, but tonight it seemed right, for this would likely be their last dance.

  She came into his arms as if they had waltzed a thousand times before. Together they flowed into the music, her eyes drifting half shut. She followed his lead as lightly as the angel he had thought her, yet he was intensely aware that she was a woman, a creature of the earth, not the heavens.

  Dark tendrils of hair clung damply to her temples as they circled the floor without speaking. The pulse in her slim throat was beating rapidly from exertion. He wanted to press his lips to it. The delicate curve of ear showing below her upswept hair was an invitation to dalliance, and the tantalizing swells of her breasts would haunt his dreams for as long as he lived.

  More than anything on earth, he wanted to sweep her into his arms and take her to the fairyland beyond the rainbow where they could be alone, and there would be no tormenting issues of war and honor. Instead, he had a bare handful of moments that were spilling away like cascading grains of sand.

  Too soon, the music came to an end. As he let her go, her long lashes swept upward. Her expression was stark. "Is it time for you to go?" she said huskily.

  "I'm afraid so." He looked away, fearing that his yearning must be showing. Across the room, Wellington caught his eye and gave a faint nod. Michael continued, "The duke wants to speak with me. By the time you return home, I will probably be gone."

  She caught her breath. "Please—be careful."

  "Don't worry—I'm cautious to a fault."

  She tried to smile. "Who knows? This may all be a false alarm and everyone will be back in our billet by next week."

  "Perhaps." He hesitated before adding, "But if my luck runs out, I have a favor to ask. In the top drawer of the dresser in my room, I've left letters to several of my closest friends. If I don't make it through the campaign, please post them for me."

  She bit her lip. Tears were sparkling in her aqua eyes, making them seem even larger. "If... if the worst happens, do you want me to write to your family?"

  "They will learn all they need to know from the casualty lists." He lifted her hand and kissed her gloved fingertips. "Good-bye, Catherine. God bless and keep you and your family."

  "Vaya con Dios." Her fingers tightened convulsively. Then she released his hand a fraction of an inch at a time.

  Wrenching his gaze from hers, he turned and crossed the ballroom. It was warming to know that she cared for him. The pleasure of that was not diminished by the knowledge that she also cared for Charles and Kenneth and other men. It was her capacity for caring that made her so special.

  Wellington had abandoned his sofa to talk to his officers one at a time. To Michael, he said tersely, "Napoleon has humbugged me, by God! The French have captured Charleroi."

  Jarred out of his reverie, Michael exclaimed, "Damnation! Charleroi isn't much more than thirty miles away."

  "It could have been worse," the duke said with a wintry smile. "The road from Charleroi to Brussels was virtually undefended. If it hadn't been for damned good luck and a first-rate show on by Prince Bernhard and his troops at Quatre-Bras, Marshal Ney could have marched straight into the city."

  As Michael swore under his breath, Wellington said, "Tell me, Kenyon, will those green troops of yours stand?"

  A fortnight before, Michael would not have known how to answer. Now he could say, "They may not be the fastest shots or the best at maneuvering, but put them in a line or square with veterans nearby and they will stand."

  "I hope to God you're right. We're going to need every soldier we've got." The duke rapped out several orders, then turned his gimlet gaze on the crowd to collect another officer.

  Before Michael left, his gaze sought out Catherine one last time. It was easy to find her with the ranks of guests thinning so rapidly. She was on the far side of the room with her husband, who was speaking excitedly. The Mowbrys joined them and both couples turned to leave.

  His breath coming with great effort, Michael went out into the warm night. She was not for him, he reminded himself bleakly. She would never be for him.

  * * *

  Michael glanced across his horse's back. "Bradley, did you pack my greatcoat? It was in the back hallway."

  The batman flushed. "No, sir. I'll go get it."

  Michael bit off an oath. Though the boy wasn't as well organized as an officer's servant should be, he tried hard. "Be quick about it. We need to be off."

  As Bradley left the stable, Colin Melbourne entered. Michael said, "Are you and Charles heading out to your regiment now?"

  Melbourne nodded, his eyes shining. "You heard that Boney is at Charleroi? By God, we'll see some excitement now!"

  "I don't doubt it." Michael was about to lead his horse out when he saw that Melbourne was saddling a nondescript cavalry hack rather than Caesar, his usual mount. Casually he said, "You're going to lead Caesar to keep him fresh?"

  "No, I'm leaving him here. I'll ride Uno and keep Duo for reserve." Melbourne indicated a bay gelding as unimpressive as the one he was saddling.

  Michael stared at him. "You're not riding your best horse into battle?"

  "I don't want to risk him," Melbourne replied. "Besides the fact that I'm devilishly fond of the beast, if he were to be killed, the amount paid by the government compensation fund wouldn't begin to cover his value."

  "For God's sake, man, it's folly to try to save a few pounds at the risk of your life!" Michael exclaimed. "In battle, a horse's stamina can be the difference between surviving and being speared like a rabbit."

  "It may seem like only a few pounds to you," the other man said tartly. "Not all of us have your financial resources."

  Michael bit back an oath. Melbourne was acting like an idiot and deserved whatever he would get. Yet for Catherine's sake, Michael must try to prevent the other man's folly. "If money is the issue, take Thor." He stroked the chestnut's sleek neck. "His stamina is outstanding, and I've given him cavalry training so he'll be able to do whatever is needed."

  Melbourne's jaw dropped. "I can't possibly take your horse. You'll need him yourself." He gazed at Thor longingly. "If he were killed, I'd never be able to replace him."

  "A horse isn't as critical in the infantry
as the cavalry. My other mount will do well enough. I hope Thor comes through safely, but if not, I'll settle for whatever you receive in compensation." Michael unbuckled his saddle. "If all goes well, you can return him to me in Paris. If I don't come through, he's yours."

  "You make it impossible to refuse." Melbourne smiled boyishly. "You're a good fellow, Kenyon."

  As Michael transferred his gear to his second horse, Bryn, he wondered if Melbourne would be so cheerful if he knew how Michael felt about Catherine. Probably he wouldn't care, since his wife's fidelity was beyond question.

  Michael collected his servants and rode into the night. For honor's sake, he had done what he could to help Catherine's husband survive. All else was in God's hands.

  Chapter 10

  Catherine packed her husband's personal belongings while Colin readied his horses. All too soon, she, her husband, and the Mowbrys were in the stable yard. Two torches illuminated ten saddled horses, two servants for each of the officers, and Catherine's groom, Everett, who had come down to help.

  Charles had just come from kissing his sleepy children good-bye and his expression was strained. Anne went straight into his arms. They held each other tightly, neither of them speaking. Catherine envied her friends their closeness even as she grieved for their distress. It would be worth the pain to have such love.

  Turning to her husband, Catherine said, "Are you sure you don't want to see Amy?"

  "No need to disturb her." Colin had the bright, impervious expression that meant he was thinking about the action that lay ahead. "It won't be long until you'll both be joining me."

  She blinked back the tears that threatened, knowing that Colin would hate it if she became weepy. Yet it was impossible to live with a man for a dozen years and not care about him. In an ideal world, perhaps it would have been Michael she had met and married, leaving Colin free to chase foxes, women, and the French without the responsibilities of a family. But that hadn't happened. In the real world, she and Colin had wed, and in spite of being grievously mismatched, they each in their own way had honored their marriage. She whispered, "Take care, Colin."