Shattered Rainbows fa-5 Read online

  He covered a yawn and lapsed into silence. In spite of the noise of the children and the wagons rumbling along the road that ran through the Namur Gate, he dozed off, his breath becoming slow and steady. There was a precious intimacy to the situation.

  Catherine, continued sewing. She was very good at concealing her feelings, and not even the most suspicious observer would suspect the quiet joy in her heart. Michael's presence fed a part of her soul that had been starving for years.

  Perhaps she should feel guilty about her improper feelings, but she didn't. No one would be hurt, and soon then-paths would diverge, probably forever. But when that happened, she would have the memory of a few golden hours to carry in her heart.

  She finished Amy's petticoat and folded it into her basket, then began darning Colin's socks. When she had done two, she allowed herself to study Michael's tanned right hand, which lay relaxed in the grass only two feet from her.

  The fingers were long and capable. A thin, long-healed saber scar curved across his palm and up the wrist.

  She experienced a nearly overpowering urge to lay her hand over his? To touch him, if only in the most superficial way. To feel the vivid life pulsing through his powerful body. What would it be like to lie alongside him, to feel his warm length against her?

  Face heated, she readied for another sock. She hoped that when she met Saint Peter, her life would be judged by her deeds, not her thoughts.

  After she finished her mending, she packed her scissors and thread away and leaned back against the trunk of the chestnut, watching Michael from under half-closed lids.

  Peace was shattered by piercing screams from the children and an anguished howl from Clancy. Catherine sat bolt upright, recognizing that it was not the sound of normal play. Simultaneously, Michael's eyes snapped open.

  Amy shouted, "Mama, come quickly!"

  Michael leaped up and grabbed her hand to help her. As soon as she was on her feet, they raced across the garden, her heart pounding with fear at what they might find.

  The children were by the stone fountain, where a dancing porpoise gushed water into a small pool. Catherine's heart spasmed as she saw the blood splashed across both girls. Blood was pouring.from a gash in Molly's scalp. Amy had taken off her sash and was valiantly trying to staunch the flow.

  Jamie stood a few feet away, his face ashen under his red hair as he watched his sister's wild sobbing. Clancy jumped around anxiously,getting in the way-and adding to the confusion with his sharp yips.

  Catherine dropped beside Molly and took over the job of trying to stop the bleeding. "Amy, what happened?"

  "Jamie shoved Molly and she fell against the fountain."

  "I didn't mean to!" Jamie gasped. His quick, shallow breaths began whistling eerily. Michael, who had "been calming the nervous dog, looked up sharply at the sound.

  Catherine ordered, "Amy, go get Anne:" As Amy ran to obey, Molly asked with ghoulish curiosity, "Am I going to die?"

  "Of course not," Catherine said briskly. "Head wounds bleed dreadfully, but this one isn't deep. You'll be fine in a few days. Any scar will be hidden by your hair."

  "I didn't mean it!" Jamie cried with anguish. Suddenly he bolted away, his limbs flailing frantically.

  Catherine's instinct was to follow, but she couldn't, not with Molly still bleeding in her arms. She gave Michael an agonized glance. To her relief, he was already going after the weeping child, but he was slowed by the necessity of untangling himself from Clancy and having to circle the fountain.

  Jamie tripped and went sprawling on the turf. The walled garden echoed with the sound of his hideous wheezing.

  Shocked out of thoughts of her own injury, Molly tried to stand up. "Jamie is having one of his attacks!"

  Catherine held the little girl still. "Don't worry, Colonel Kenyon will take care of your brother." She prayed that her words were the truth, for she herself did not know what to do.

  Before Michael could reach Jamie, the child regained enough breath to scramble to his feet. He began running again, his eyes wild with terror as he plunged through a thicket where an adult couldn't follow. He emerged on the other side and collapsed, struggling desperately for air. Even fifty yards away, Catherine could see that his face was a horrible bluish shade.

  Jamie was feebly trying to clamber to his feet when Michael rounded the thicket and scooped the boy up in his arms. "It's all right, Jamie," he said soothingly. "Molly isn't badly hurt"

  Though Michael's expression was grim, his voice was calm as he brought the child back to the fountain. "It was an accident. We know you didn't mean to injure your sister."

  Supporting Jamie in a sitting position, Michael pulled out his handkerchief and soaked it in the fountain. Then he patted the child's contorted face with cool water, all the while keeping up a stream of reassuring words. "You can breathe, Jamie, you've just forgotten how for a minute," he said softly. "Look in my eyes and remember how to breathe. S-1-o-w-l-y in. Relax. Then s-1-o-w-l-y out. Spell the words with me. B-r-e-a-t-h-e, space, i-n… Come on, you can do it."

  Catherine watched, mesmerized, as Jamie's lips began silently forming the letters along with Michael. Gradually his breathing evened out and color began to return to his face.

  By the time Anne ran from the house with Amy, Catherine had a crude bandage on Molly's head and Jamie was almost back to normal. Anne's face was so pale that faint, ghostly freckles showed on her cheekbones as she said, "Goodness, you two certainly get into a quantity of trouble."

  She knelt between her children and pulled them to her. Jamie burrowed against her side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Molly also snuggled as close as she could get.

  In the sudden silence, hoofbeats sounded clearly. A moment later, Charles Mowbry called from outside the stable, "Trouble?"

  "A little," Anne replied, relief on her face. "Molly cut her head and Jamie had an attack, but everything is fine now."

  As Catherine got to her feet, she saw Charles and Colin coming toward them, their scarlet coats brilliant against the grass. They had had a regimental drill today, she recalled.

  Charles arrived first, his expression under, control, except for his stark eyes. When he reached his family, he bent and lifted Jamie, hugging him tightly. "You all right, old man?"

  "I couldn't breathe, but Colonel Kenyon reminded me how," his son offered. "Then it was easy."

  "That was good of him," Charles said huskily. "Will you remember how to do it yourself next time?"

  Jamie nodded vigorously.

  Anne and Molly got to their feet. Charles smoothed his daughter's hair, careful not to disturb the blood-soaked bandage. "I know you don't like this dress, but wouldn't it be better to get rid of it by ripping rather than bleeding?"

  A smile lit her teary face. "Oh, Papa, you're so silly."

  Concealing a smile, Catherine wondered what the men in Charles's company would think if they heard that.

  "Time to get you two inside and cleaned up." Anne gave Catherine and Michael a heartfelt glance. "Thank you both for being here."

  As the Mowbrys headed to the house, Catherine put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "Amy was splendid, Colin. She tended to Molly's injury, then went to get Anne."

  "You're like me and your mother," he said approvingly.

  "A good soldier and a good nurse." He glanced at Catherine. "Can I take Amy for an ice as a reward for bravery?"

  It was really too close to dinner, but Amy had earned a treat, and she had seen little of her father lately. "Fine, but Amy, change your dress first. Have a maid put it in a bucket of cold water so the blood doesn't set."

  Amy nodded and bounced off with her father.

  Alone with Michael, Catherine sank onto the rim of the fountain and buried her face in her hands for a moment. "Please excuse me while I have hysterics."

  "I'll join you." Wearily he settled onto the fountain beside her. "It's always worst when the crisis is over, isn't it?"

  "I turn into quivering aspic every time
." She tried to laugh. "Family life requires nerves of steel."

  "Your husband was right, though. Amy behaved splendidly."

  "Isn't she amazing? I used to wonder if it was wrong to take her to the Peninsula, but she thrived on it." Catherine smiled wryly. "She's like her father that way. I'm more of a cowardly homebody myself."

  "You may think so," he said, warm affection in his voice, "but if I ever need nursing, I hope you're available."

  She glanced away before her eyes could reveal too much. "And you're a good man to have around during domestic disasters, of which we have had mote than our share lately. Fire, blood, asthma. Anne was right that the attacks are terrifying."..

  "They feel even worse, like iron bands around the lungs. The harder you try to breathe, the less air you take in. The worst part is the panic, which can destroy every shred of sanity and control you have. I remember doing exactly what Jamie, did-running till I dropped, then getting up and running again as soon as I could stagger to my feet." He grimaced. "How do Anne and Charles stand it? It must be ghastly to see your child struggling to breathe."

  "They do it because they have to, just as your parents did."

  "They were cut from different cloth," he said dryly. "In fact, most of my attacks were triggered by my father. When I had one in my mother's presence, she left me to the care of the nearest maid. The sight was too distressing for one of her delicate constitution." The planes of his face hardened. "If I hadn't been shipped off to Eton, I probably wouldn't have made it to my tenth birthday."

  Catherine winced. "I see why you never mention your family."

  "There isn't much to say." He trailed his fingers through the fountain, then flicked a few drops of water at Louis, who was snoozing at his feet again. "If my father had to choose between being God and being Duke of Ashburton, he would ask what the difference is. My mother died when I was thirteen. She and my father despised each other. Amazing that they produced three children, but I suppose they felt obliged to keep going until they had an heir and a spare. My sister, Claudia, is five years older than I. We scarcely know each other and prefer it that way. My brother Stephen is Marquess of Benfield and heir to the noble Ashburton title and extravagant Kenyon wealth. We know each other a little, which is rather more than either of us wants to."

  His expressionless words sent a shiver up her spine. She remembered what he had said about how he and his Fallen Angel friends had become a family because they had all needed one. With sudden passion, she wished she had the right to take him in her arms and make up for everything he had been denied.

  Instead, she said, "I've always regretted not having a brother or sister. Perhaps I was lucky."

  "If you like, you can borrow Claudia and Benfield. I guarantee that within two days you'll be thanking your lucky stars for being an only child."

  "How did you survive?" she asked quietly.

  "Sheer stubbornness."

  She rested her hand on his for a moment, trying to wordlessly convey her sympathy, and her admiration for the strength that had enabled him to endure. Instead of bitterness, he had learned compassion.

  He laid his other hand over hers, enfolding her fingers. They did not look at each other.

  She was acutely aware of the long length of his leg only inches, away from hers. It would be so natural to lean forward and press her lips to his cheek. He would turn and his mouth would meet hers…

  With horror, she recognized how close she had come to the fire. She lifted her hand away, knotting her fingers into a fist to prevent herself from caressing him. Her voice was distant in her own ears when she asked, "When did you outgrow the asthma?"

  There was a brittle pause before he said, "I don't know if one ever really does completely-I've, had several mild attacks as, an adult-but there were very few after the age of thirteen." His face tightened. "The worst one took place at Eton. That time I knew-absolutely knew-I was going to die."

  "What triggered it?"

  "A letter from my father." Michael rubbed his temple, as if he could erase the memory. "It informed me that my mother had died suddenly. There was a strong implication of… good riddance." He closed his eyes and took several deep, slow breaths. "The attack began' immediately and I collapsed, wheezing like a blown plow horse. There's something particularly horrible about dying fully conscious but helpless, unable to move. Luckily my friend Nicholas's room was next door and he heard me. He came and talked me through it, as I did with Jamie. The trick is to break through the victim's panic and get him to concentrate on breathing successfully."

  Surprised, she said, "Your friend must be about your age. Did he know what to do because he had asthma also?"

  Michael smiled a little. "There has always been something a little magical about Nicholas. He's half Gypsy and knowledgeable in their traditional ways of healing.- He taught us all how to whisper horses and tickle fish from a stream."

  Glad to see his expression ease, she said, "It sounds as if he has been a good friend to you."

  The words must have been a mistake, for Michael's clasped hands went rigid, the tendons showing in the wrists. "He has. Better than I have been to him." He shook his head. "Lord, why am I telling you all this?"

  She hoped it was because she was special to him. "Because you know I care, and that I will honor your confidence."

  "Perhaps that is the reason." Not looking at her, he said quietly, "I'm glad to have met you, Catherine. When I think of Brussels in the future, I might forget the balls and the rumors and the frantic gaiety, but I will always remember you."

  The air between them seemed to thicken, becoming so palpable she feared he must be able to feel the beating of her heart. Haltingly she said, "Your friendship means a great deal to me, too."

  "Friendship and honor are perhaps the two most important things in life." He bent and picked a daisy from the grass. "Friendship so that we are not alone. Honor because what else does a man have left at the end of the day except his honor?"

  "What of love?" she asked softly.

  "Romantic love?" He shrugged. "I haven't the experience to comment."

  "You've never fallen in love?" she said skeptically.

  His voice lightened. "Well, when I was nine, my friend Lucien's sister proposed to me and I accepted with enthusiasm. Elinor was a quicksilver angel."

  Seeing the warmth in his eyes, she said, "Don't discount your feelings simply because you were young. Children can love with a kind of innocent purity that no adult can match."

  "Perhaps." He rolled the daisy between thumb and forefinger. "And because Elinor died two years later, the love between us was never tested."

  Nor had it had a chance to fade away naturally. Somewhere inside Michael, she suspected, there must still be the dream of finding a quicksilver angel. "If you loved like that once, you can again."

  His hand clenched spasmodically on the daisy, crushing it. There was a long silence before he said in a barely audible voice, "I once loved-or was obsessed by-a married woman. The affair destroyed friendship and honor both. I swore I would never do that again. Friendship is safer."

  For a man like Michael, failing to meet his own code of honor would have been devastating. Such a catastrophic mistake also explained why he had never said or done anything improper with her. Now she knew that he never would.

  "Honor is not the exclusive province of men," she said quietly. "A woman can have honor, too. Vows must be kept, responsibilities must be met." She got to her feet and looked down into his fathomless green eyes. "It is fortunate that honor and friendship can coincide."

  They looked at each other for a suspended moment as everything and nothing was said. Then she turned and walked toward the house, her steps steady so that no one would guess that her eyes were blurred with tears.

  Michael sat in the garden for a long time, his eyes unfocused, his breathing slow and deliberate. Sometimes it was convenient to have to pay close attention to the air moving in and out of his lungs, because the effort kept pain at bay, at least
for a little while.

  It was easy to be obsessed by Catherine. Not only was she beautiful, but she was truly admirable. His mother, sister, and Caroline combined could not have equaled a fraction of her warmth or her integrity. She was perfect in every way, except that she was unattainable. Married beyond redemption.

  Yet there was something real between them. Not love, but an acknowledgment that under other circumstances matters might have been very different.

  He wondered if there had been a different path he might have chosen when he was younger, one that would have led him to Catherine on the terrible day when she was orphaned. Like Colin, he would have been quick to offer his protection. Unlike Colin, he never would have turned from his wife to other women.

  Such speculations were nonsense. He had never seen a path except the one he had taken, which had led him to a warped love that had stained his soul. He got to his feet, feeling as drained as if he'd just fought a battle. Yet under the pain, he was proud that he and Catherine had forged something pure and honorable from what could have been sordid and wrong.

  Of course, her husband was a soldier on the brink of war…

  He shied away from the thought, appalled that it had even crossed his mind. It would be obscene to hope for the death of a fellow officer. It was also ridiculous to try to look beyond the next few weeks. When battle came, he was as likely to be killed as Melbourne. There were no certainties in life, love, or war.

  Except the fact that whether the rest of his life was measured in days or decades, he would never stop wanting Catherine.

  Chapter 8

  Catherine was dressing for dinner the next evening when Colin entered the bedroom. Instead of ringing for her maid, she asked, "Could you fasten the back of my gown?"

  "Of course." His fingers were deft and passionless. She was struck by the sheer strangeness of the way they inhabited the same house, the same marriage, yet never touched emotionally. Their relationship was woven of law, courtesy, convenience, and habit. They almost never fought, because each of them knew exactly how much-and how little-to expect of the other.