Shattered Rainbows

  Shattered Rainbows

  Fallen Angels Series

  Book Five

  by

  Mary Jo Putney

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-185-0

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1996, 2012 by Mary Jo Putney. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Thank You.

  In honor of the

  healing power of friendship—

  and therefore to

  Alice, Suzl, Merril, and Bobby

  Prologue

  London June 1816

  She needed a husband, and she needed one fast.

  Choking back a hysterical laugh, Catherine Melbourne glanced over her shoulder at the building she had just left. The sight of the solicitor's office instantly sobered her.

  This was not a dream. In the last half hour, she had acquired a grandfather she'd never heard of, and the chance for a legacy that would make all the difference in the world. Instead of having to seek employment that would barely support her and Amy, there would be enough money to live in comfort. There was also an ancient home, an island, a heritage. Her daughter would have the future she deserved. There would be responsibilities as well, but that was all right. Catherine had been bearing heavy responsibilities all her life.

  There was only one problem. She must convince her newfound grandfather that she and her husband were worthy of being the next Lord and Lady of Skoal. She felt hysteria rising again, this time without laughter. What could she do?

  Her mouth tightened. It was perfectly obvious that she was going to lie. The time to admit that Colin had recently died had been in Mr. Harwell's office. But the solicitor had said bluntly that her grandfather would not consider Catherine as his sole heir. Torquil Penrose, the twenty-seventh Laird of Skoal, did not believe a woman worthy of ruling his island. She would have to find a man to play the role of her husband, and do the job well enough to persuade her dying grandfather to designate her as his heir. But who could she ask?

  The answer came immediately: Lord Michael Kenyon.

  He had been a good friend, with the vital qualification that he had never fancied himself in love with her. At their last meeting, he had also given her carte blanche to call on him if she ever needed help.

  She knew exactly where to find him. As a war hero and the son of a duke, he was mentioned regularly in the society news. Lord M—K—is in town for the Season as a guest of the Earl and Countess of S—. Lord M—K—was seen riding in the park with Miss F—. Lord M—K—escorted the lovely Lady A—to the opera. Catherine had read the notices compulsively.

  If Michael was willing to help, she would have to spend considerable time with him, which meant rigidly controlling her feelings. But she had managed that the previous spring in Brussels. She could do it again.

  Far worse was the fact that she would have to lie to him. Michael felt that he owed her a great debt. If he learned that she was a widow in dire financial straits, it was possible, even probable, that he would think the best assistance he could offer was marriage. The thought gave her a peculiar fluttering sensation somewhere under her ribs.

  But Michael would never accept the kind of marriage she had had with Colin. No normal man would. Nor could she reveal her horrible failing; the mere thought made her stomach knot. It would be simplest, and safest, to let him think Colin was still alive.

  It was a long walk to Mayfair. By the time she got there, she would have her lies ready.

  * * *

  After a day full of wretched shocks, Michael Kenyon walked into Strathmore House and was given a card by the butler. "There is a lady waiting to see you, my lord."

  Michael's immediate reaction was unprintable. Then he glanced at the card. Mrs. Colin Melbourne.

  Good God, Catherine. It only needed that. Yet the thought that she was here, under this roof, made him so impatient that he barely took time to ask where she was waiting. As soon as the butler replied, Michael strode to the small salon and swung the door open. "Catherine?"

  She was gazing out the window, but she turned as he entered. The simple style of her dark hair and her modest gray gown only emphasized her beauty.

  When they had parted, he had uttered a silent prayer that they would never meet again. He had spent considerable time and energy in the last year trying to forget her. Yet now that she was here, he didn't give a damn how much it would cost him later. Seeing her was like a breath of fresh air in a coal mine.

  She said uncertainly, "I'm sorry to bother you, Lord Michael."

  He spent a moment mastering himself, then crossed the room. "Are we on such formal terms, Catherine?" he said easily. "It's good to see you. You're as lovely as ever."

  He caught her hands, and for a precarious instant he feared he would do something unforgivable. The moment passed and he gave her a light kiss on the cheek. The kiss of a friend.

  Releasing her hands, he withdrew to a safe distance. "How is Amy?" Deliberately he forced himself to add, "And Colin?"

  Catherine smiled. "Amy is wonderful. You'd scarcely know her. I swear she's grown three inches since last spring. Colin—" she hesitated briefly, "is still in France."

  Her tone was neutral, as it always was when she referred to her husband. Michael admired her quiet dignity. "I'm forgetting my manners," he said. "Please, sit down. I'll ring for tea."

  She looked down at her clasped hands. Her profile had the sweet clarity of a Renaissance saint. "I'd better state my piece first. I need some rather unusual aid. You—you may want to throw me out when you hear what it is."

  "Never," he said quietly. "I owe you my life, Catherine. You can ask anything of me."

  "You give me more credit than I deserve." She looked up, her amazing aqua eyes piercing in their frame of dark lashes. "I'm afraid that... that I need a husband. A temporary husband."

  BOOK I

  The Road to Hell

  Chapter 1

  Salamanca, Spain

  June 1812

  The white-haired surgeon wiped his forehead wearily, leaving a smear of blood, as he studied the man on the crude operating table. "You certainly made a mess of yourself, Captain," the surgeon said with a distinct Scottish burr. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to block a charge of grapeshot with your chest?"

  "'Fraid not," Lord Michael Kenyon said in a strained whisper. "At Oxford, they teach the classics rather than practical matters. Maybe I should have gone to the new military college."

  "It will be a real challenge to see if I can pick all the
bits out," the surgeon said with macabre cheer. "Have some brandy. Then I'll get to work."

  An orderly held a bottle to Michael's lips. He forced himself to consume as much of the fiery liquid as possible. A pity there wasn't enough time or brandy to get seriously drunk.

  When Michael finished drinking, the surgeon slashed away the remnants of his patient's jacket and shirt. "You were amazingly lucky, Captain. If the French gunners had loaded the powder right, there wouldn't be enough pieces of you left to identify."

  There was an ugly sound of metal scraping on metal. Then the surgeon wrenched a ball from Michael's shoulder. The resultant blaze of agony made the whole world darken. Michael bit his lip until it bled. Before the surgeon could strike again, he asked haltingly, "The battle—is it won?"

  "I believe so. They say the French are haring away at full speed. Your lads have done it again." The surgeon began digging at the next buried fragment.

  It was a relief to surrender to the blackness.

  * * *

  Michael returned to awareness imperfectly, floating in a sea of agony that numbed his senses and hazed his vision. Every breath sent stiletto-sharp pains stabbing through his chest and lungs. He was lying on a straw pallet in the corner of a barn that had been commandeered for a field hospital. It was dark, and fretful pigeons cooed from the rafters, complaining about the invasion of their home.

  Judging by the mingled groans and labored breathing, the earthen floor must be covered almost elbow to elbow with wounded men. The scorching Spanish noonday heat had been replaced by the bitter cold of night. There was a scratchy blanket over his bandaged torso, but he didn't need it, for he was burning with the fever of infection, and a thirst worse than the pain.

  He thought of his home in Wales, and wondered if he would ever see the lush green hills again. Probably not; a surgeon had once told him only one man in three survived a serious wound.

  There was a certain peace in the prospect of dying. Not only would it bring surcease from pain, but he had, after all, come to Spain with the bitter knowledge that death would free him from an impossible dilemma. He had wanted to forget both Caroline, the woman he had loved more than honor, and the terrible promise he had made, never thinking he might be called upon to fulfill it.

  With vague curiosity, he wondered who would miss him. His army friends, of course, but they were used to such losses. Within a day, he would have become "poor old Kenyon," simply one more of the fallen. No one in his family would be sorry, unless from irritation at having to put aside their finery to wear mourning black. His father, the Duke of Ashburton, would utter a few pious platitudes about God's will, but he would be secretly pleased to be free of his despised younger son.

  If anyone would feel real grief at his passing, it would be his oldest friends, Lucien and Rafe. And there was Nicholas, of course, but he could not bear to think of Nicholas.

  His bleak thoughts were interrupted by a woman's voice, as cool and clear as a Welsh mountain spring. Strange to hear an English lady in such a place. She must be one of the intrepid officers' wives who chose to "follow the drum" accompanying their men through all the hardships and danger of campaign life.

  Softly she asked him, "Would you like water?"

  Unable to speak, he nodded assent. A firm arm raised his head so he could drink. She had the fresh thyme and lavender scent of the Spanish hills, discernible even through the stench of injury and death. The light was too dim to see her face, but his head was resting against a warm curve. If he could move, he would bury his face against her blessedly soft female body. Then he would be able to die in peace.

  His throat was too dry to swallow, and water spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin. She said matter-of-factly, "Sorry, I shouldn't have given you so much. Let's try again."

  She tilted her vessel so that only a few drops trickled between his cracked lips. He managed to swallow enough to ease the burning in his throat. Patiently she gave him more, a little at a time, until the excruciating thirst was gone.

  Able to speak again, he whispered, "Thank you, madame. I'm... most grateful."

  "You're very welcome." She lowered him to the straw, then rose and went to the neighboring pallet. After a moment, she said sorrowfully, "Vaya con Dios." Go with God. It was a Spanish farewell, even more appropriate for the dead than the living.

  After she moved away, Michael dozed again. He was vaguely aware when orderlies came and removed the body on the next pallet. Soon after, another casualty was laid in the space.

  The new arrival was delirious, mumbling over and over, "Mam, Mam, where are you?" His voice revealed that he was very young and terribly afraid.

  Michael tried to block out the wrenching pleas. He was unsuccessful, but the steadily weakening words showed that the boy was unlikely to last much longer. Poor devil.

  Another voice sounded from the foot of Michael's pallet. It was the Scottish surgeon saying, "Bring Mrs. Melbourne."

  "You sent her home yourself, Dr. Kinlock," an orderly said doubtfully. "She was fair done up."

  "She'll not forgive us if she learns that boy died like this. Go get her."

  An indefinable time later, Michael heard the soft, distinctively feminine rustle of petticoats. He opened his eyes to see the silhouette of a woman picking her way through the barn. Beside her was the doctor, carrying a lantern.

  "His name is Jem," the surgeon said in a low voice. "He's from somewhere in East Anglia. Suffolk, I think. The poor lad is gutshot and won't last much longer."

  The woman nodded. Though Michael's vision was still blurred, he thought she had the dark hair and oval face of a Spaniard. Yet her voice was that of the lady who had brought water. "Jem, lad, is that you?"

  The boy's monotonous calling for his mother stopped. With a quaver of desperate relief, he said, "Oh, Mam, Mam, I'm so glad you're here."

  "I'm sorry it took so long, Jemmie." She knelt beside the boy's pallet, then bent and kissed his cheek.

  "I knew you'd come." Jem reached clumsily for her hand. "I'm not afraid now that you're here. Please... stay with me."

  She took his hand in hers. "Don't worry, lad. I won't leave you alone."

  The surgeon hung the lantern from a nail above the boy's pallet, then withdrew. The woman—Mrs. Melbourne—sat in the straw against the wall and drew Jem's head onto her lap. He gave a deep sigh of contentment when she stroked his hair. She began to sing a gentle lullaby. Her voice never faltered, though tears glinted on her cheeks as Jem's life slowly ebbed away.

  Michael closed his eyes, feeling better than before. Mrs. Melbourne's warmth and generous spirit were a reminder of all that was good and true. As long as earthly angels like her existed, life might be worth living.

  He drifted into sleep, her soft voice warming him like a candle defying the darkness.

  * * *

  The sun was inching above the horizon when Jem drew his last, labored breath, then became still. Catherine laid him back in the straw with a grief beyond tears. He was so young.

  Her cramped legs almost failed when she got to her feet. As she leaned against the rough stone wall and waited for her muscles to recover, she glanced at the man on her left. His blanket had slipped, exposing the stained bandages swathing his broad chest.

  The air was still chilly, so she leaned down and drew the blanket up to his shoulders again. Then she laid her hand on his forehead. To her surprise, the fever had broken. When she had given him water, she would not have given a ha'penny for his chances. But he was a tall, powerful-looking fellow; perhaps he had the strength to survive his wounds. She hoped so.

  Wearily she made her way toward the door. During her years following the drum, she had learned a great deal about nursing and more than a little surgery, but she had never become inured to the sight of suffering.

  The austere landscape was peaceful after the deafening clamor of the day before. By the time she reached her tent, much of her tension was gone. Her husband, Colin, had not yet returned from duty, but her groom, Bat
es, was sleeping outside, guarding the captain's womenfolk.

  Tired to the bone, she ducked inside the tent. Amy's dark head popped up from her blankets. With the nonchalance of an old campaigner, she asked, "Is it time to march, Mama?"

  "No, poppet." Catherine kissed her daughter's forehead. After the horrors of the field hospital, it was heaven to hug the child's healthy young body. "I expect we'll stay here today. There's always much to be done after a battle."

  Amy regarded her sternly. "You need to sleep. Turn around so I can untie your gown."

  Catherine smiled as she obeyed. Her qualms about taking her daughter on campaign were countered by the knowledge that the life had produced this miracle of a child: resilient, wise, and capable far beyond her years.

  Before Amy could undo the stained gown, hoofbeats sounded outside, followed by the jingle of harness and the staccato sound of her husband's voice. A moment later, Colin barreled into the tent. He had a cavalry officer's energetic personality, and one was always aware when he was in the vicinity.

  " 'Morning, ladies." He ruffled Amy's hair carelessly. "Did you hear about the cavalry charge yesterday, Catherine?"

  Not waiting for an answer, he dug the roast leg of a skinny chicken from the hamper and took a bite. "It was the prettiest maneuver I've ever been in. We went roaring at the French like thunder and swept them from the field. Not only did we take thousands of prisoners and dozens of guns, but two eagles were captured! There was never anything like it."

  The gilded French regimental standards called eagles were patterned after those of imperial Rome, and capturing two was a stunning feat. "I heard," Catherine replied. "Our men were magnificent." And she had spent the night tending the price of victory.